Page 21 of The Truth About Myths
She shifted closer and sighed long and deep. "You were not too late."
Henrique snorted. "Luis shouldn't have trusted me to—"
She placed her fingertips on his lips. Henrique froze.
"The king would have been proud of you."
She removed her fingertips, her gaze softening. Henrique needed no affirmations, but her praise was port wine-sweet and appeased the worry inside his chest better than alcohol. Did Hercules feel the same when he defeated the Lion? As if to prove him right, the constellation of Leo, named after the hero’s first task, winked at him from its place in the sky.
They leaned their backs on the wall, gazing at the valiant effort clouds made to cover the moon. Still, the silvery disk prevailed, bathing tomatoes, cucumbers, ripe melons, and a lonesome grapevine in a soft glow. A dog howled in the distance. Somewhere in the hotel, a door opened and closed. If someone had told him he would end this day seated on the grass, posterior soaked, knuckles bloodied, drinking with the princess, he would have the fellow interned.
He fingered her tiara. "Is there a protocol? A princess must not be seen in public without her crown? So no one forgets your status?"
"It keepsmefrom forgetting it." Her voice became frail and transparent.
Henrique didn't like the bleakness in her eyes and changed the subject. "What did you do with… What was her name?"
"Carlota. I helped her clean her bruises. She is resting in Sophie's bedroom."
"Good."
"She trained to be a ballerina. The monster lured her from Theater San Carlos with an offer of marriage."
Certainly, she would show some disdain for the woman's profession. Though many ladies in the theater led respectable lives, most people thought they earned their livelihood not on the stage but on their backs.
Henrique studied her. "What will she do now?"
She shrugged, her hands fiddling with the grass. "For ages, Sophie has been asking me for an assistant. She complains about how I rip my gown's trains, and she barely has time to sew them with all her other duties. I offered Carlota the position."
Had he heard her correctly? She would employ Carlota, the ballerina with a shady past? His theory of a moralist prude who hated her sex had just been ruled out. Had he misjudged her? Instead of disdaining women, she wanted to protect them—an armorless Dom Quixote. God save them both.
She leaned forward, her eyes searching his. "Why do men hit women?"
He sustained her gaze, cursing the drunkard for exposing her to violence, and yet, he sensed her question had a deeper root. Isabel de Orleans had a lousy view of males. "Not every man uses his fists. Some prefer a subtler seduction."
She tilted her head to the side. "Is there a difference?"
He was tempted to show just how different it could be. His fingers tingled to touch the slanted corners of her eyes and the little dimple she had on her left cheek. To brush the tears and kiss the corner of her lips until her gaze lit up with lust, and they forgot what happened. He settled for tucking a strand of silky hair behind her ear.
Her breath caught, and she gazed at him, a question in her lovely green eyes.
Henrique drank the port. He shouldn't entertain unchaste thoughts of his friend's sister. "So, my valiant Dom Quixote, how many more women will you take in until we arrive in Comillas?"
"How much space do we have?" Isabel smiled, unleashing a chain reaction. It sparkled her eyes, glowed her cheeks, glistened her lips.
Henrique brushed his chest, staring at her face. Isabel's smile was one of those events a man caught once in life—discovering a new species, a total sun eclipse, or losing one’s innocence. She had smiled for the first time, and he understood why she reserved it for special occasions—it must be a political decision, magnanimous and charitable—to guard males’ hearts.
With reluctance, he stood up and offered his hand. "Come, Your Highness., For the safety of the other men in this hotel, I must bid you retire."
She placed her palm atop his. "Call me Isabel."
He stilled, her hand grasped in his. "I will do nothing of the sort."
Her eyes widened, no doubt startled to have her words flung back at her.
He grinned. "I'll call you Isa."
Chapter 8
