Page 117 of Bride By Mistake
Luke stiffened. She was toying with him. Incredible. She had no fear he would denounce her.
Did that mean themarquésknew who his wife really was?
“Isabella, we’re leaving,” he snapped.
“What?But Luke—”
“Now!”
“No. It’s the height of incivility—”
In English, he said, “It’s her, the person I told you about.”
“What person? What are you talking about?”
“The one who did this.” He touched his shoulder.
Her eyes widened. “La Cuch—?”
“Don’t say it,” he cut her off sharply, keeping a wary eye on themarquésandmarquésa.“Donotsay the name,” he repeated, still speaking English. “There is danger here, and you must get away.”
It took her a moment to absorb what he was telling her. “It was this woman who did that frightful thing to you? I cannot credit it.” But though she was incredulous, he could see she believed him. She stared at themarquésain horror. “But we must tell themarq—”
“No! He knows. Now do as I tell you and get up and leave the table, quietly and quickly.”
She shook her head. “You’re wrong. I’ve known him all my life and he is a man of honor. He cannot possibly have knowingly married La Cuchilla.”
Damn! She’d said it. Now the fat was really in the fire.
“La Cuchilla?” themarquésexclaimed. “What is this about La Cuchilla?” He rose to his feet, his brow furrowed with confusion. Or was it apparent confusion? Luke wondered.
In two strides Luke was beside his wife. He pulled her to her feet and pushed her behind him. “We’re leaving now,” he told themarqués.“Don’t try to stop us.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear fellow,” themarquéssaid, holding up his hands pacifically, “but I have no idea what you’re talking about. What’s all this about La Cuchilla?”
Luke glanced from the man to his wife and back again. Was it an ingenuous effort to lull him into a sense of safety? Could the man really not know? No, a Spanish patriot who’d commanded a guerrilla force would surely know La Cuchilla. And that being so, he’d have every reason to kill anyone who knew it.
“Isabella, come,” Luke said, taking her arm and keeping himself between her and themarqués.
But Isabella was having none of his protection. She stepped forward and said to themarqués, “My husband recognizes your wife, Tío Raul. Themarquésawas once a French agent known as La Cuchilla. She tortured young men for pleasure.”
Themarquésstared, then shook his head. “No, no, my dear, that cannot be right. I’ve heard of La Cuchilla, of course—who in these parts has not? But she died several years ago.”
“Died?”
“She was caught and hanged by patriots. A well-deserved death for a witch and a traitor.”
“Then they hanged the wrong woman,” Luke said grimly. “Because the real La Cuchilla is sitting there, at your side.”
Themarquéslooked at his wife.
She gave him a look of faint bewilderment. “The poor young gentleman is mistaken, of course, my dear. Perhaps his ordeals in the war have left him… confused. Or perhaps he has me mixed up with another woman.”
Themarqués, relieved, nodded. “Yes, that must be it.”
“He isnotconfused,” Isabella insisted. “If he says you are La Cuchilla, then you are.”
“Isabella!” themarquésexclaimed. “My wife cannot possibly be—”
