Page 88 of The Truth About Myths
"What can you possibly do?"
Isabel vaulted to her feet. Her legs couldn't stay still, and she trotted around the circular tower. Alfonso had what he wanted. He didn't need her anymore.
She stopped abruptly. "The marriage, the united crowns... It was all a bid to gain military support. But Alfonso earned it anyway. I must convince him to change his plans. I have to."
When the first powder kegs of war were ignited, opinions flared, bursting out of control. Monarchs retreated into corners from where the best diplomats couldn't rescue them. Isabel had no such restrictions. Her brother's words resounded in her mind. Like the queen in a chess game, she could move wherever she wanted.
Tia Antonia pursed her lips. "I don't know, I—"
Isabel grabbed the housekeeper's arm, assuming her most regal expression. "Listen to me. My country, my mother's legacy, and my brother's throne are at risk. And that is not the worst. Think about the people who live at the border. They will be the first to suffer if there is a war."
The housekeeper frowned and took a step back. "But—"
"This is all my fault." Isabel dropped her mask, allowing her face to show all she felt. “I have to make it right. Please."
The housekeeper's mouth gaped. "I don't remember the last time afidalgoasked me please… but a princess?" She cast a furtive look at the door. "I can arrange a coach, and my son can escort you. But the key… Master Henrique doesn’t let me hold it."
Isabel gave a curt nod. Tia Antonia was right. Henrique guarded it like a hellhound. But she couldn’t allow a meddlesome, irresistible rake to jeopardize her plans. Whatever it took, she would get that key.
He stored it carefully in his waistcoat pocket every time he insinuated himself here. She needed a fail-proof strategy. She touched the pillows scattered above the bed. Why not put him to sleep? Wouldn't it be a fair turnabout? Isabel eyed the housekeeper sideways. While willing to help her escape, Isabel doubted she would approve of drugging her master.
Her glance circled the tower and landed on the fireplace. She could make the room so hot he would want to strip. No. What if she dropped water on his waistcoat? But then, he might leave to change, and she would lose her chance.
Isabel eyed the bed, and her cheeks flushed. If she could make him sleep by her side again… "I'll get it. Just ready everything for my leave."
She would not have to starve after all.
Chapter 34
"The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it."- Oscar Wilde
Henriqueclimbedthestepsto the tower, ignoring the suits of armor’s silent reproach. His ancestors had the right to it. He had tried to be reasonable with Isabel, and where had it led him? Enough of such dysfunctional dynamics—good rake versus intransigent, morally stubborn princess. Henrique would march inside her bedchamber and demand her to eat. He would not give her a chance to work her wiles. He would lay down the rules.
Isabel understood rules. She lived by them.
Who was he fooling? He, a rule-maker? A rule-breaker—that was more likely. Ignoring the corruptive thought, he balanced the dinner tray on one hand so he could knock. What was he doing? Politeness would be his enemy tonight. He rolled the key, entered the room, relocked the door, and stored it in his pocket.
The air inside the tower was heavy with vapor and the scent of camellias.
The copper tub was empty, and so were the pillows strewed in front of the hearth. Where was she? Heart speeding, he gazed at the window. Impossible.
The bed curtains opened to reveal one shapely leg and then the next.
Cloth whispered over her torso, and then she stood, a vision in silk. Her hair was wet, dripping over the robe. Why wasn't she dressed? He mentally kicked himself for not returning her clothes. To better deal with Isabel, he should have been born a simpleton. The lack of a corset would make laying down the rules much more difficult.
She sauntered closer, pulling her hair atop her shoulder. In the soft glow of the setting sun, Isabel's hair unfurled, a cocoa cascade, each strand sighing and swaying in a sensual symphony. Henrique's gaze lingered, his longing finally unleashed.
Would he ever get used to seeing her glorious hair undone? If he were king, he would create only one law—forbid Isabel from painful chignons. The silk clung to her. By sheer willpower, he avoided checking the volume of her breasts. He gazed instead at her lips. They were soft, and when she perceived his regard, a shy tongue came out to wet them. That pink tip, less than an inch of tissue and membrane, got him harder than the tower's flagstones.
Henrique locked his jaw. He was in control. He laid down the rules. Not her.
Moving languidly to the chaise, her gaze brushed over his three-piece suit, and she fluttered her eyelids.
If he didn't know her better, he would think she flirted with him. What was her strategy? "Do you have something in your eyes?"
Her lips pursed into a pretty moue. "It's a side effect of being confined."
He set the tray on the table with an authoritative clink. "Your hair is dripping."
