Page 87 of The Truth About Myths
"After you left the garden, I returned to my room. Rafaela was inside and willing, but I sent her away. She craves more passion from her marriage than the dutiful Canastra wants to provide… That night, she decided to—"
"Stick her tongue up your throat?" A sob escaped her chest, her eyes green pools of disdain and hurt. "Why didn't you let her?
He held her face. "Because after my tongue was inside you, it was ruined for every other taste."
Isabel gasped, and the hand she barricaded against him became limp. Henrique meshed their lips. She stiffened for only a second, and then her shoulders relaxed, and she was pliant in his arms. He deepened the kiss, and his heart pistoned out of control. A roar of relief and longing unfurled in his chest, and he pressed her closer. The kiss had no finesse, no delicacy, his tongue sweeping inside her mouth, clashing with her teeth.
He was conscious of the four-poster looming behind them. The pillows and soft coverlet exerted a magnetic attraction. Isabel was under his roof, using his bedrobe, involved in his arms. His, his, his. The possessive pronoun beat with his heart, unfurled through his veins, and pooled in his cock. He had half a mind to shut the door with both of them here and send the key flying through the window.
When she broke away, they were both panting.
"You must release me. It is not too late to return."
Henrique shook his head, his heartbeat ringing in his ears. After he confessed, after the kiss, she still wanted to leave?
She placed her chilled hands over his cheeks. "Don't you understand? I must speak with Alfonso."
His muscles tightened painfully, and he clenched his teeth. The hurt he felt when Alfonso kissed her lips burned in his stomach and spread to his chest. "You will never see that milksop again." His voice came out harsh and loud, and he pushed her away from him.
They eyed each other, again from different sides of the battlefield.
She lifted her chin. "Then you will watch me starve."
"As you wish, Your Highness." He grabbed the tray, sloshing juice from the jar, and strode to the exit.
Outside the room, he slumped against the closed door, the metal bars biting into his back. His breathing had yet to calm down. What devious hold did she have over him that she could explode his temper?
He had a headache from lack of sleep, his shoulders had more knots than a sailor's rope, and a damn hard-on would soon leave his balls blue. What the bloody hell was he supposed to do? He could not release her, but he could not endanger her health. What a rotten hero's homecoming.
Isabel lay on her bed, her lips tingling. The air crackled with promise and tension, not unlike the sea before a storm. She threw the gauntlet, hadn't she? She should be appalled. She was utterly at the mercy of a rake, now a rampant rake, but instead of dread, she felt a thrill of anticipation.
The desire glittering in his eyes... And then the rigidness of his shoulders and heat radiating from his body. Being well-versed in diplomacy, she wouldn't be far from the mark if she assumed the phase for innuendos and petty competitions had ended.
Animal nature. She hated it. Hated that it ruled over her morals, her upbringing, and her duties. Hated it brought her to her knees and transformed her into a creature of senses. And most of all, she hated that it was not unique to her. That every living thing felt the same.
Isabel rose from the bed. The sudden movement made her lightheaded, and her tummy growled. Princessing on an empty stomach was a hardship.
Perhaps her plan to starve had been too harsh. But what else could she do? Henrique had set guard outside her door, aware of her first attempt to co-opt his staff. She could not stay here forever. If Canastra threatened Portugal's independence, eliminating her from the scene might not be enough to curb his intentions. Her brother should be alerted immediately.
The door swung open, and Isabel straightened, dreading another confrontation with Henrique or a food tray. Either would damage her resolve. Instead, Tia Antonia sauntered inside.
The housekeeper removed something from her skirts.
Isabel perked up. "A Spanish newspaper?"
"Hush. I sent a lad across the border."
The headline occupied most of the first page:'Long live Spain's true king.'
For several heartbeats, she stared at Alfonso's pleasant smile. The newspaper made it all too real. The breath bursting in and out of her chest felt wrong, solid. Bringing the sheet closer, her clammy hands shaking, she scanned the news.
'General Espartero proclaimed Alfonso de Bourbon as Spain's true king. Fearing the army, the Duke of Aosta fled to his brother's court in Italy. Except for the Carlists’ troops in the north, all the country regiments supported the general's manifesto. The young Alfonso XII waits in Salamanca, where the Asturias Frigate will take him to Madrid.'
Alfonso had gotten what he wanted. He would cross the Ebro back to his throne.
And after he arrived there, nothing could stop him. He had already gained the Guardia Civil, and with the army's support, his power would be unparalleled. Isabel's legs gave out beneath her at the enormity of the implications. Alfonso had given her his word only the day before. Visions of a barren land razed by war floated through her mind, and she flinched.
Isabel lowered the paper. "Salamanca is not far. I must go there."
