Chapter 8
“Dios Mio. Perhaps he’s half horse.” Rafael chuckled as Hero raced over across the terrace, paws slipping and sliding on the flagstones, and jumped up with an enthusiastic greeting that left a trail of mud on his biscuit-colored breeches.
“Surely a normal canine couldn’t grow that much in six days! ”
“Down, boy,” chided Kyra, her voice a bit breathless from hurrying to catch hold of the dog’s collar. “I’m so sorry. He’s really been quite good about learning his manners, however . . .” She brushed a lock of hair from her flushed cheek. “However, he’s very happy to see you.”
Rafael couldn’t help but wonder whether Hero’s owner had similar sentiments, but the poke of her chip straw bonnet hid her eyes. “Well, I am very happy to see him, too,” he answered. “He looks and feels like he’s put on a stone since last week.”
A smile flickered on her lips. “That’s because he eats like a horse, even if he’s all dog.”
“At least he no longer resembles a sewer rat.” The dog’s curling grey fur was surprisingly silky against his palm.
“Papa thinks he’s some sort of mixed breed hunting hound—perhaps part Scottish deerhound and part long-haired pointer.”
Rafael carefully extricated his hand from Hero’s overexuberant embrace. “I can believe it. He has very strong jaws.”
“Oh, fie, Hero! Behave yourself!” scolded Kyra. “That’s a very shabby way to treat your rescuer. His Lordship’s fingers are not breakfast treats.”
Sitting back on his haunches, the hound flattened his ears and looked as contrite as a blissfully happy animal could manage.
“I think we may excuse his table manners for the moment,” said he dryly. “Given his previous hardscrabble existence, we cannot blame him for kicking up his heels a bit.”
“He does seem to have taken to country life with great enthusiasm. Papa’s kennel master mixed a poultice for his hind leg and the cut is almost healed.
You ought to see him frolic over the grounds.
” The sparkle in her eyes grew as animated as the hound’s thumping tail.
“Chasing rabbits, splashing after swans in the river.” A low laugh.
“Digging up several of the head gardener’s freshly planted rose bushes. ”
Rafael wagged a stern finger. “We shall have to train you to obey some basic commands, amigo. A proper gentleman must master polite behavior if he wishes to be a welcome guest. Now pay attention.”
Hero sat up and cocked his head.
“Come.”
The dog obediently trotted over . . .
“You see, this will be easy. He is a very smart?—”
And promptly piddled on his boot.
Kyra dissolved in a fit of giggles.
Giving a mock grimace of horror to stifle his own mirth, Rafael uttered a few choice words in Spanish at the dog, and was rewarded with a canine grin before Hero bounded away to nose around in the nearby flowerbeds.
“I see we shall have to instigate a more disciplined training regimen for the beast.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “But for the moment, let us allow him the freedom to frolic a little. He deserves it.”
He watched the gold-flecked sparkles of sunlight play along the curl of her lashes. “Yes, frolicking is important.”
She didn’t respond right away. For an instant it seemed as if a shadow passed over her face, but then she turned and it was gone.
“I didn’t stop by this morning merely to ruin yet another item of your wardrobe.” Her mouth twitched as she shot a quick glance at his befouled boot. “I wanted to give you this.”
Rafael accepted the small paper-wrapped package.
“As payment,” she added softly. “My father has always taught me that an honorable person does not delay in discharging a debt.”
“You are not in my debt,” he said softly. If anything, he owed her more than he could express for helping him to climb out from the darkest depths of despair.
Kyra and chocolate. They had reminded him that life, with all its bitter pain and heartache, was still sublimely sweet.
“We agreed to exchange tokens of friendship,” he added.
“Call it what you will.” Her taut whisper was nearly swallowed in the breeze. “We made a bargain, and I wish to fulfill my obligation.”
Friendship implied a certain degree of intimacy, and clearly she was intent on keeping a distance from men, despite the fleeting moments that drew them together.
Sensing her skittishness, Rafael said nothing further—yet he couldn’t help but utter a silent oath at the cad who had shattered her trust.
Shattered her innocence.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
The ribbon slipped free and the paper fell away, revealing a watercolor painting encased in a simple wood frame.
In contrast to the uncertainty etched on every delicate curve and contour of her face, the brushstrokes were rendered with a deft confidence that captures the orchid and all its nuanced hues to perfection.
Or perhaps it was even better than perfection, he mused.
The exquisite details, the luminous colors, the subtle shadings—in her hands, pigment and paper were magically transformed into a stunning work of art.
Kyra finally ventured to break the silence between them. “If you don’t like it, I can do another one.”
“It’s marvelous,” replied Rafael.
The rigid set of her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.
“Truly marvelous. You have a very special talent.”
Another flicker of a shadow.
Praise, he noted, seemed to make her uncomfortable. Shrugging it off, she quickly changed the subject. “And what of you? Have you delved into your market basket and begun any new cacao creations yet?”
“I had just begun laying out all the ingredients in the kitchens and was going to send word to the manor asking if you cared to join me for a cooking session this morning.”
“That would be lovely. Last night I started sketching the cacao pods I purchased at the market, and I confess that the luscious colors and fragrance made me think about your Grandmother’s recipes.
” The corners of her mouth twitched upward.
“Which led me to brew up a late night treat of hot chocolate.”
“I’ve copied out some far more intriguing recipes than frothed milk and powdered cacao. What say you we give them a try?”
At Kyra’s nod, Rafael turned and whistled for Hero. “I’ve a nice meaty bone, which should keep him out of trouble.”
As for his own wayward thoughts . . .
He couldn’t stop recalling her halting apology for kissing him. Damnation! He didn’t want apologies. He wanted her to enjoy their budding friendship as much as he did.
No guilt, no shadows of recrimination. Over the last several weeks, he had come to realize that remaining imprisoned by the past only allowed Darkness yet another victory over Hope and Joy.
Jack would not have wished that.
Nor, he guessed, would Kyra’s sister.
Kyra’s laugh drew him from his inner reveries. “Trouble!” she repeated as the dog bounded across the terrace, beheading a swath of potted geraniums with his wagging tail. “I fear our four-footed friend has a knack for getting into trouble.”
“And I have a knack for getting him out of trouble, so we are well matched.” Rafael offered his arm. “Shall we go in?”
The colors and scents were a feast for the senses.
Kyra paused for a moment, drinking it all in, before following Rafael to the large worktable set in the center of the kitchen.
After settling Hero in a corner by the stove, happily gnawing on the promised bone, he took up a fine-tooth grater and began shaving nutmeg into a bowl.
“What can I do to help?” she asked.
Her question seemed to take him by surprise. “You can chop these.” He passed over a small dish of shelled walnuts, along with a cleaver. “Have a care—the blade is very sharp.”
She liked that he didn’t assume she was a helpless widget, who had never lifted a finger to do some ordinary task. It made her feel . . .
No, she wasn’t going to spoil the pleasant interlude by brooding.
Taking up the cleaver, she set to work. “How small do you wish the pieces?”
“Those are perfect.” Rafael looked up through his dark lashes. “You did not tell me you were an experienced cook.”
“I’m not. But I often make infusions and tisanes from the herbs and healing plants I collect in the forests. So I’ve learned to wield a knife and a mortar and pestle.”
“A lady of many talents,” he said. “Here, since you so adept with kitchen implements, kindly cut up this orange and squeeze out three measures of juice into the glass by your side.
They worked together at the chopping block in companionable silence for a short interlude, then Rafael took down a copper sauce pan from the overhanging rack and moved to the stove.
As she minced a piece of peeled ginger, she watched him mix a chunk of creamy butter with a cupful of pungent sugar from Barbados and put it on the hob to heat.
He added the tiny seeds from a pod of vanilla and began stirring.
In several moments the room was filled with a mouth-watering fragrance.
“What are you making?’
“A caramel confection. First, I melt the sugar and butter and cook it over a low heat until it turns a rich golden brown. Then I’ll add the chopped walnuts and let it cool to a toffee-like consistency.
Lastly, I—that is, we, assuming you would like to help—will form small balls of the mixture and dip them in melted chocolate. ”
“That sounds absolutely heavenly.”
“There is a reason the Aztecs called chocolate the food of the Gods.” He dipped his finger in the simmering sugar, and turning to the table extended his hand. “Here, would you like to try a taste now?”
Perhaps it was the combination of moist heat, heady scents and softly flickering sunlight spilling through the leaded windows that created the irresistible enchantment. Whatever the unseen force, Kyra found herself powerless to resist. She leaned in and flicked out her tongue.
“Mmmm.” Closing her eyes, she sighed as she savored the seductive sweetness. A buttery warmth seemed to melt through her limbs, and all at once she felt light as a feather, floating on a sun-kissed tropical breeze.
Oh, wouldn’t it be heavenly to always feel so free! Unweighted by careless mistakes . . .
A light touch of his fingertip to her lower lip brought her out of her reverie. “You must finish the rest. It’s too delicious to waste a drop.”
Her lids flew open and at the sight of his oh-so sensuous mouth close to hers, Kyra recoiled.
Rafael leaned back, his smile pinching to a look of dismay. A spark of emotion flashed for an instant, turning his smoky blue gaze to a hard-edged sapphirine glitter. Anger? Or hurt? The smoldering look that lingered was impossible for her to decipher.
He muttered something in Spanish, then switched to English. “Am I so very repulsive or threatening?” he demanded. “Whenever I get close, you pull away as if . . . as if I have sprouted horns and cloven hooves.”
She drew in a ragged breath, searching her benumbed brain for words to explain.
“Not all men are devils,” he added softly.
“It’s not you,” stammered Kyra. “It’s me.”
“You?”
“Yes, me!” She backed up another step. “You are good and honorable, and far too kind to me. I . . . I don’t deserve it.”
Rafael’s expression softened. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that, querida?”
“Because you don’t know the truth.” A harsh exhale. “Oh, I don’t doubt that you’ve heard the rumors—all the rumors.”
“Si, I have heard them. People have vicious tongues.
“Trust me, they are too kind by half.”
“Lady Kyra?—”
“Truly they are. I?—”
A sudden commotion in the entrance hall cut her off. A door slammed followed by a shout.
“Uncle Aubrey!” Rafael spun around and nearly tripped over Hero, who had been roused by their heated exchange. “He’s been looking a little unwell of late.” Dodging the gamboling dog, he raced past the pantries and down the corridor.
Kyra threw down her paring knife and ran after him, followed by Hero tagging along at her heels.
The wall sconces flickered wildly, casting dark-fingered shadows across the wainscoting. The noises grew louder—a jumble of voices as housekeeper and butler tried to talk at once.
Fearful that the earl had indeed been stricken ill, Kyra quickened her pace. Word was that he had been suffering from a weak constitution, but she feared the true cause of his ailment was not entirely physical.
Could one pass away from a broken heart?
Turning the corner, she nearly collided with Rafael, who had stopped short in archway. His whole body had gone rigid, as if carved out of steel.
Or ice. He looked frozen in place.
A clench seized her chest, making it hard to breath, and the voices of the servants seemed to fade to a faraway mumble. Still, she made herself duck around him to see what had happened.
Her gaze swept over the checkered tiles, but instead of finding a body, she saw only a pair of the very worn and very dusty boots.
The housekeeper burst into tears.
Kyra raised her eyes. Ragged buckskins, none too clean, a tattered coat, whose broad-shouldered bulk only accentuated the painfully thin limbs of the scarecrow wearing it, unkempt hair in dire need of a trim, a topaz twinkle beneath dark wing-shaped brows . . .
Of all the gentlemen she had met, only one had eyes that exact hue of Baltic amber. Jack.
“Dear God in Heaven,” she whispered.
“Nay, just a mere mortal, though I daresay I’m only a shade of my former self,” replied a familiar voice. “Even so, I was expecting a rather more welcoming homecoming.”