Spanish Serenade by Jennifer Blake Page A

extinguished inside; to take her life was only a small added sin. You, I think, are made of stronger stuff. You would never permit yourself to love an unsuitable man, never allow your spirit to be violated along with your body.”
    “Is that what you think of me?”
    “It is, though it's not possible to be sure. Shall we see?”
    He had moved nearer again as he spoke. There was no warning of what he meant to do, no prelude to his last words. He stopped speaking, and abruptly she was whirling, falling. The breath was jarred from her as she struck the ground, though the stony earth was cushioned by a long, hard form. Strong arms closed around her and she was rolled to her back. His mouth descended on hers, its molded firmness seeking, burning its imprint into her memory. White beat flared in Pilar's mind. She made a convulsive movement, as if she would break free, then forced herself to stillness by an act of stringent will. She would not give him the satisfaction of overcoming her resistance, would not encourage him in his experiment by even a fraction of response.
    And yet his kiss was tantalizing as its pressure eased. His lips upon hers were warm and smooth, subtly inviting. The touch of his tongue on the tender surfaces of her own mouth was sweet, its invasion one of infinite grace rather than demand. Pilar felt the surge of the blood in her veins, heard it begin to pound in her head. Her lower body grew heated and heavy. Her breasts, pressed against the hard planes of his chest, tingled with exquisite sensitivity, so that it seemed she could feel the weave of the rough peasant's shirt he still wore and the interlocking bands of the muscles that lay underneath. His thighs were rigid against her own. His weight was constricting so that she felt incredibly vulnerable, as if somewhere deep inside there was a place where she was defenseless, where if touched just so she might be enticed to yield.
    Alarm, silent but strident, swept through her. She drew a deep, gasping breath and pushed him violently away from her. He let her go. In the same movement he rose to one knee, bracing his forearm across it as he hovered above her where she supported herself on one elbow. He gave a short, breathless laugh. “You see?” he said. “Stalwart and inviolate inside yourself. How could it be otherwise?”
    It was a long moment before she could trust the steadiness of her voice enough to speak, before she could force her mind to function. She wanted to roll away from him, but refused to give him the satisfaction of that retreat. “How indeed?” she answered finally in husky tones. “There must be another reason, then, for this display. If it's the price to be paid for daring to pity you, I must tell you it's too high.”
    “On the contrary, it's wonderfully low, a decision taken in deliberation. Unlike some, I have no desire for a branded hostage.”
    “I'm not your hostage.”
    “Aren't you?” He reached to catch her hands. Rising in a single swift movement, he pulled her to her feet with such force that she was catapulted into his arms. Holding her palms pressed against his chest, he said, “Tell me, how long do you think it will take me to exchange you for my brother?”
    If he returned her to Don Esteban, there was little doubt that her stepfather would kill her. With the blood slowly congealing in her veins, she whispered, “You — You wouldn't.”
    “You don't deny that I could. Does that mean you accept that I hold you, or only that you perceive me as capable of any iniquity?”
    Anger stirred at having the knowledge of her position forced upon her with such unremitting intention. “Neither. It's only that I had not thought you would surrender so tamely to Don Esteban's manipulations.”
    “It's a question of a life. My brother's.”
    “And what of mine?”
    “The choice, I admit, is difficult. Tell me why I should preserve you instead of the fruit of my mother's womb, a sibling who venerates and trusts me, and who