Spanish Serenade by Jennifer Blake Read Free Book Online Page B

had been little in his manner to suggest he was attracted to her, much less that he meant to keep her against her will. She was no more than a means to an end to him, a way of striking at Don Esteban while gaining the wherewithal to keep his band of men alive. If there was some plan in which she played a part, forming behind the opaque gray of his eyes, it had nothing to do with her as a woman. The girl Isabel had upset herself for no reason, none whatever.
    Pilar told herself these things, and yet it almost seemed that Refugio intended to prove her wrong. He drew up a chair for her next to his own and, going to one knee, ladled out a bowl of soup for her and passed it to her with his own hands. The smile he gave her, as her hands brushed his upon the crude earthenware bowl, held a sudden concentrated warmth that was disturbing. Before she began to eat, he reached out and unfastened her cape, drawing it from her shoulders. Then taking off his own cloak, which had begun to steam in the heat of the fire, he hung them both side by side on pegs set into the stones of the great chimney.
    Isabel choked on her soup. Baltasar thumped her on the back, but she thrust her bowl into his rough hands and jumped to her feet. Her eyes filled with hurt tears, she whirled from them all to plunge behind the curtain of one of the alcoves.
    The men looked at one another, then away again. Refugio, for all the attention he paid, might not have noticed. He ladled soup into a bowl for himself with apparent unconcern. Still, as a stifled sob was heard, he checked. The knuckles of his hand tightened to whiteness, then relaxed once more. Face impassive, he finished filling his bowl and sat down to eat.
    Pilars' appetite had fled. She swallowed a few mouthfuls of the savory concoction in her bowl, but used the piece of earthenware mainly to warm her hands. She was still shaken now and then by a shiver of combined chill and tension, but suppressed each one with valiant effort. Rainwater oozed slowly from the hem of her skirt, soaking into the earthen floor around her feet.
    She felt Refugio's gaze on her from time to time but refused to look at him, staring instead either into her soup or else at the pulsing red heart of the fire. Her nerves leaped when he got suddenly to his feet, but he only swung away and disappeared into the alcove on the opposite side of the fireplace from the one where Isabel had disappeared. He returned a moment later, however, and in his hand was a man's dressing gown of quilted velvet.
    “Here,” he said abruptly, holding it out to her. “Take off your wet things and put this on.”
    She looked at the dressing gown in his hand, then slowly lifted her gaze to his face.
    His expression did not alter, and yet soft weariness crept into his voice. “Not publicly, unless that's your whim.”
    “No,” she said, her voice husky. “I . . . thank you.”
    “We'll leave you while you change.” He sent a look toward his men that brought them hastily to their feet.
    “There's no need; I can go in there.” She gestured toward the alcove he had just left.
    “You'll find it warmer before the fire. But I make you free of the bed you'll find behind the curtain. I'll have no need of it, since it will be late when we return.”
    Pilar stared at him, heeding the unspoken reassurance he was extending even as he gave her other news. Finally, she said, “I thought you were going to rest.”
    “I have rested. We have rested.”
    “But surely—”
    “Don Esteban's recovery interests me greatly. Don't fret. I'll leave Baltasar to watch over you. And if you are disturbed by my return, I will forfeit the silver.”
    Did he mean that he intended to disturb her so little he had no fear of having to give up his hard-won payment? Or was it that, if he decided to join her in his bed later, he would renounce his claim to the contents of the chest in return for her favors? By the time she had, with great irritability for the effort, concluded he