If You Dare (5 page)

Court nodded, extremely impressed. That was exactly what had happened. He nearly smiled remembering the satisfaction of splitting the Spaniard's lips, of the blood he'd spat for at least an hour afterward. . . .

“You have a history of it as demonstrated by the scars covering you. I'd heard that your people live in bands—”

“Clans,” he grated. “They're called clans.”

She shrugged. “And that these
clans
fight with each other constantly because you are a bloodthirsty people more concerned with warring than with culture or refinement.” He noticed she'd begun pressing one finger after another against her crossed arms as she ticked off points. “You are mannerless. Your halfhearted gratitude to me for saving your life bespeaks a sense of entitlement—”

“It bespeaks lack of practice in being beholden.”

She raised her eyebrows in an expression that said if he continued to talk, she would cease. “You look like a black-guard. Except when you are angry. Then you look like a brute that could readily kill me. Your insulting me that first day was hurtful and uncalled for. I've heard it's that way with your people—a complete lack of delicacy. There's little thought behind your eyes. . . .”

“I've heard enough,” he snapped when she appeared to be just gathering steam. Many held these misimpressions, and he and his men played on them with the stories they spread, but to hear them voiced back to him by an Andorran? . . . Scots were a thousand times prouder and more accomplished than these medieval crag-of-a-country people cut off from the changing world.

She blinked as if taken aback by his seething tone, then
turned to walk out, tossing over her shoulder, “Indeed, your vocation may be the least of your failings.”

Damn it, I wasn't finished talking to you. . . .

Though the movement pained him, he reached out and grabbed her wrist. She gave a startled cry, snatching her hand from his. It flew to her mouth, but he still heard her hiss in Catalan,
“Bèstia,”
before she dashed out the doorway.

Court knew Catalan fairly well, and he definitely knew the word for beast; he'd been called it the first day his cadre had arrived and had heard it in whispers daily thereafter.

She had to try the key several times before getting it into the lock. He'd shaken her. Unfortunately, Court knew he
looked
like a beast. He'd studied his reflection this morning, imagining how this woman might see him.

And winced.

The vessels in both eyes had exploded, so the whites were red. The right side of his face was still mottled black and blue, and his normally squared jaw looked even more so with the swelling and with a week's worth of beard highlighting it. She was highborn to her toes—she'd probably never seen a man in this condition before.

Just now, when she'd peered at him as she might at something on the bottom of her boot, he'd
felt
like a barbarian, like the animal she'd called him. He was beginning to despise her condescending tone and her sharp looks of disgust, even as he struggled to comprehend why he could possibly mind enough to be bothered by either.

•  •  •

Today had been the first time Annalía had faced the Scot with the definite knowledge that he was a mercenary.

Before Vitale had confirmed her fears, she'd hoped MacCarrick wasn't a killer for hire because she'd felt some small, minute—piddling, really—spark of curiosity about the intractable man. But no longer.

During their meeting this afternoon, she had focused on the injuries still marring his face, reminding herself that it didn't matter if he and Pascal had had a falling-out—the evidence of their history was glaring. MacCarrick's every day here was a risk and it was one she refused to take to help a boorish, pawing mercenary like him. As soon as he was able, she'd demand he leave her home. . . .

“Mademoiselle,” Vitale called from the doorway behind her, interrupting her thoughts.

How long had she been ambling mindlessly through the house? She turned, dismayed to see the sun setting behind him.

When Vitale met her, he was crushing his hat in his hands. “The boy from the village has brought a letter for you.”

“Is it from Aleix?” she asked, heart in her throat. “It is not. But it might contain information about Master Llorente.”

As he pulled it from his vest pocket, she murmured absently, “Please get the boy a nice dinner and a soft bed.” No reason under heaven excused bad manners.

“I've already seen to it.” He handed over the letter, his face drawn.

She nodded and turned for the study, walking with a stiff spine and unhurried steps, but once Vitale was out of sight, she sprinted down the hallway, sliding on the rugs. Tripping inside the room, heart thudding, she nearly ripped open the paper before she got there.

Impertinent Vitale followed her in, which meant he'd heard her running, but she couldn't be bothered with that now. Her brother hadn't written in weeks, and waiting for word had been unbearable. He was the only family left to her since her father's death, and Aleix had been more of a father than Llorente had ever been prepared to be.

She didn't care what men said—waiting for someone to
return from battle
had
to be much, much worse than the battle itself.

Her nerves were taut.

At the old oak desk, she shoved back the leather chair and lit a candle, chasing away the growing darkness. Then, letter opener in hand, she flipped over the missive.

The room spun. She stared blankly at the sender's name—General Reynaldo Pascal.

Instead of tearing it open, she now cut it slowly. She had to scan parts of it several times because her hands shook so wildly—and because she could scarcely believe the content.

“What does it say?” Vitale asked anxiously.

By the time she reached Pascal's arrogant signature, bile had risen in her throat. Her hands went limp, and the letter fluttered to the top of the desk, nearly catching the candle flame. In a daze, she sank into the chair.

Vitale snatched up the letter as if to read, even though he'd refused to learn how to. “Tell me what it says!”

She hardly recognized her own deadened voice when she related, “Pascal defeated Aleix's men more than a week ago, capturing them all. Aleix is imprisoned, his life in the general's hands. There is only one thing that can convince Pascal to spare him.”

Vitale sat back into the oversized chair opposite her, looking very small and weary. “He wanted to wed you before. Is he demanding to now?”

She nodded. “I just don't understand how he found out who I am.” When Pascal had asked for her hand, she'd feared he'd discovered she was the last female descendant of the House of Castile, but Aleix had assured her the general had probably become infatuated after he'd seen her at a village festival. Now, looking back, she realized Aleix had always known and had tried to spare her worry. In the back of her mind she wondered what else he had spared her. . . .

“Maybe some of the villagers remember when your mother came here, and they told Pascal.”

She nodded, lost in thought. Her mother, Elisabet Tristán, had been banished from Castile, Spain, to the mountain cage of Andorra, married sight unseen to Llorente, the wealthiest count there. Elisabet, the daughter of a princess, had been given to the much older man and exiled into a land that might as well have been an island, so isolated was it. Because she'd let passion guide her.

It ultimately destroyed her as well.

“Mademoiselle?”

She glanced up. “Of course, that must be it, the villagers. I'd just believed we'd been so circumspect, remaining here, avoiding that connection.” She and Aleix had never drawn attention to themselves and had forgone any of the benefits their positions might afford, partly because they shunned that kind of life. Yet Annalía's isolation wasn't only to avoid notice. Fearing she would be like her mother, Llorente had kept her secluded as much as possible—in fact, only Aleix had persuaded Llorente to send her to school instead of a convent.

“The rumors that Pascal plans to take Spain must be true.” Vitale shook his head slowly. “The damned fools have allowed an army to build up right on their border because no one cares about tiny Andorra.”

“I thought he wanted to take control over Queen Isabella like the other generals who have, but that's not it. Think about it—if he wants me, then he doesn't want to simply control the queen.”

“You think he wants to replace her?”

She nodded. “He probably plans to use me to control Aleix, setting him up as a figurehead of some sort.”

Vitale frowned. “But you've told me your house has no claim to that throne.”

“Well, no real one. At least not in the last hundred years. But Isabella's hated.
Mare de Déu,
if she thinks we are exerting . . .” She put her hand to her neck, for once not to check her choker.

She stood to pace. Ever since she could remember, she'd always paced when upset. Her prickly Andorran nanny had complained of her wearing thin a rug when she was only five. She recalled that a few years after her father had caught her. He'd been so angry, so . . .
disappointed
in her. “People pace because they have no control,” he'd said, his voice laced with iron. “Will you be one of them? Or will you be a Llorente?”

The memory made her drop down into the chair as though pushed, but without the soothing rhythm—the pacing forth and then the always dependable back—despair set in. Fighting tears, she stared at the paper and the broad, scratching strokes of ink within. She couldn't think of all this now. All she wanted to know was if Aleix was hurt. Was her courageous big brother fearful at all?

“Vitale,” she murmured. She was about to cry, and it would pain her for him to see it.

He knew her so well, he didn't ask, just reached forward to squeeze her hand over the desk. “We will talk tomorrow. Ring the bell up here if you need anything.”

She waited until she could be sure he wouldn't come back and then when she finally blinked her eyes, two fat tears spilled over, followed by more. After several minutes of struggling, she gave in and put her head in her hands.

“What's in that letter, lass?”

Annalía raised her face, astonished to see her patient up and
roaming freely.
She frantically dashed at her eyes, mortified that he'd seen her like this.
No one
saw Annalía Llorente crying. This was far too personal. How had he escaped?

“Tell me what makes you cry so.”

He sounded angry that she cried. Not disappointed or disgusted but angry. She frowned.
How puzzling.
His eyes were focused on the letter as though he would kill it. Focused on the letter. . . . She caught it on the candle flame and tossed the burning page into the empty fireplace.

He gave her one tight nod at the action as though she'd impressed him. “That's the only thing that could prevent me from reading it.”

“Obviously manners and respect for privacy hold no sway over you.” She was still drying tears, trying not to shudder with embarrassment. “How did you get out?”

“Picked the lock. Now what did it say?”

“It's none of your business,” she said tartly. Her face was finally dry, but now felt tight. “Please leave me alone.”

His expression hadn't changed. He had the same expectant look as if he'd just asked the question again and she
would
answer.

“It doesn't concern you,” she felt constrained to say again. And it didn't concern him. Not for certain, at least. But what if the Highlanders were the ones who had defeated her brother's men? What if this one was responsible in some way?

And she'd saved him.

She had to get away. Shooting to her feet, she grabbed her skirt and swished around the desk. When he saw her approaching and didn't step aside, she decided she must forgo manners as well and barrel right past him.

He blocked her exit, putting a stiff arm in front of her.

Fury snapped hot within her. “Stop this, this instant, and let me pass!”

He looked unmoved, his watchful gaze flickering over her face, studying her as if learning her reaction. “What's upset you?”

“Let me go or I will scream.”

He bent his arm and leaned into it, looming closer to her.

“And who'll come to your rescue? Vitale? I've noticed there are no other men about who are younger than he is.”

She'd feared he would come to this conclusion, and he was absolutely right. All of the ranch hands had followed Aleix.
And were now captured or dead.
Her hand rose to her lips as the thought arose.

Studying, watching her. She cast it down.

“I asked nicely,” he grated. “My patience wears thin.”

His
patience? “As does your welcome!”

“I want you to tell me.”

“Why would you even care?” For the life of her, she couldn't imagine.

“Maybe I doona like to see a pretty lady cry.”

Utter frustration robbed her energy. “And what would you do about it?” she asked in a deadened voice. “Solve my problems? Slay my dragons?”

His brows drew together as if he'd just realized he shouldn't, in fact, care.

She gave him a disgusted look in return. “What you should be concerned about is leaving my home and removing the threat you pose to everyone here.” She feinted left and ducked under his right arm.

As she hastened away, he called, “You're bonny when you're angry, Anna.”

At his mocking use of her given name, she stumbled, shocked to the core.

Back in her room, after locking her door, she stood thrumming with indignation. She would have thought that this heinous encounter, coupled with the crushing news, would have made her weep beyond measure.