Kresley Cole - If You Dare

"I thought he wanted to take control over Queen Isabella like the other generals who have, but that's not it. Think about it—if he wants me, then he doesn't want to simply control the queen."

"You think he wants to replace her?"

She nodded. "He probably plans to use me to control Aleix, setting him up as a figurehead of some sort."

Vitale frowned. "But you've told me your house has no claim to that throne."

"Well, no real one. At least not in the last hundred years. But Isabella's hated. Mare de Déu, if she thinks we are exerting…" She put her hand to her neck, for once not to check her choker.

She stood to pace. Ever since she could remember, she'd always paced when upset. Her prickly Andorran nanny had complained of her wearing thin a rug when she was only five. She recalled that a few years after her father had caught her. He'd been so angry, so…disappointed in her. "People pace because they have no control," he'd said, his voice laced with iron. "Will you be one of them? Or will you be a Llorente?"

The memory made her drop down into the chair as though pushed, but without the soothing rhythm—the pacing forth and then the always dependable back—despair set in. Fighting tears, she stared at the paper and the broad, scratching strokes of ink within. She couldn't think of all this now. All she wanted to know was if Aleix was hurt. Was her courageous big brother fearful at all?

"Vitale," she murmured. She was about to cry, and it would pain her for him to see it.

He knew her so well, he didn't ask, just reached forward to squeeze her hand over the desk. "We will talk tomorrow. Ring the bell up here if you need anything."

She waited until she could be sure he wouldn't come back and then when she finally blinked her eyes, two fat tears spilled over, followed by more. After several minutes of struggling, she gave in and put her head in her hands.

"What's in that letter, lass?"

Annalía raised her face, astonished to see her patient up and roaming freely. She frantically dashed at her eyes, mortified that he'd seen her like this. No one saw Annalía Llorente crying. This was far too personal. How had he escaped?

"Tell me what makes you cry so."

He sounded angry that she cried. Not disappointed or disgusted but angry. She frowned. How puzzling. His eyes were focused on the letter as though he would kill it. Focused on the letter…. She caught it on the candle flame and tossed the burning page into the empty fireplace.

He gave her one tight nod at the action as though she'd impressed him. "That's the only thing that could prevent me from reading it."

"Obviously manners and respect for privacy hold no sway over you." She was still drying tears, trying not to shudder with embarrassment. "How did you get out?"

"Picked the lock. Now what did it say?"

"It's none of your business," she said tartly. Her face was finally dry, but now felt tight. "Please leave me alone."

His expression hadn't changed. He had the same expectant look as if he'd just asked the question again and she would answer.

"It doesn't concern you," she felt constrained to say again. And it didn't concern him. Not for certain, at least. But what if the Highlanders were the ones who had defeated her brother's men? What if this one was responsible in some way?

And she'd saved him.

She had to get away. Shooting to her feet, she grabbed her skirt and swished around the desk. When he saw her approaching and didn't step aside, she decided she must forgo manners as well and barrel right past him.

He blocked her exit, putting a stiff arm in front of her.

Fury snapped hot within her. "Stop this, this instant, and let me pass!"

He looked unmoved, his watchful gaze flickering over her face, studying her as if learning her reaction. "What's upset you?"

"Let me go or I will scream."

He bent his arm and leaned into it, looming closer to her. "And who'll come to your rescue? Vitale? I've noticed there are no other men about who are younger than he is."

She'd feared he would come to this conclusion, and he was absolutely right. All of the ranch hands had followed Aleix. And were now captured or dead. Her hand rose to her lips as the thought arose.

Studying, watching her. She cast it down.

"I asked nicely," he grated. "My patience wears thin."

His patience? "As does your welcome!"

"I want you to tell me."

"Why would you even care?" For the life of her, she couldn't imagine.

"Maybe I doona like to see a pretty lady cry."

Utter frustration robbed her energy. "And what would you do about it?" she asked in a deadened voice. "Solve my problems? Slay my dragons?"

His brows drew together as if he'd just realized he shouldn't, in fact, care.

She gave him a disgusted look in return. "What you should be concerned about is leaving my home and removing the threat you pose to everyone here." She feinted left and ducked under his right arm.

As she hastened away, he called, "You're bonny when you're angry, Anna."

At his mocking use of her given name, she stumbled, shocked to the core.

Back in her room, after locking her door, she stood thrumming with indignation. She would have thought that this heinous encounter, coupled with the crushing news, would have made her weep beyond measure.

Strangely, the anger invigorated her. The Highlander might have seen her cry, but she'd never again give him the satisfaction of seeing her weakness—no eyes swollen from tears or face wan from pacing until the moon set.

When she cast him from her home tomorrow like the morning rubbish, she'd look like the princesses her foremothers were.

Court lay in bed staring at the ceiling, more restless than he could ever remember being. Now that he'd sent word to his crew, he was stuck waiting, a task hard for a patient man and impossible to tolerate for Court. Worse, he waited with an old man he'd like to toss from the window and with a mysterious woman he wanted to tie up so she couldn't flee until he'd actually finished questioning her.

What in the hell had been in that letter and why had she been crying?

Court didn't like mysteries. To him, they had a taunting aspect, as if their mere existence accused him of not working hard enough to solve them.

He was used to doing as he pleased, and right now what would please him would be learning more about the secretive Annalía. She'd most likely be asleep, but her room could tell him much.

Rising from bed, he dressed, then ran his hand under his mattress to grab the ivory knitting needle he'd found in a drawer. His own lock hadn't withstood it, and hers shouldn't prove any different.

He strode down the landing, checking doors until he found one locked. When he stuck the needle point into the keyhole and pressed to the side, the corner of his lips curled at the click. Creaking open the door, he entered the room and approached her bed. The night had just a hint of breeze, with a growing moon shedding light inside.

He found her lying on her front with a thin sheet stretched across her back and her hair spilling across her pillow. Stunning. Thick, glossy curls shone in the moonlight, fascinating him, as did the feeling that arose when he realized, when he knew in his gut, he was the only man to have seen it loose and free. He had the urge to touch it, to smell it, but he forced himself to turn from her and investigate the room.

All of her belongings were stored with an obsessive neatness, and the ornamentations, like everything about her, were incredibly feminine. Lace predominated, but her bookshelf was like a man's: mathematics, botany, astronomy, and studies in four different languages. He spied another text beside her bed, this one on the Greek language.

An ornate display cabinet, polished until it reflected like a mirror, was the center point of the room and housed a porcelain collection arranged on glass shelves. He could see why Annalía might be unconsciously attracted to the pieces. They were bright and striking but fragile, which was exactly how she appeared. They were also unmistakably expensive.