Lyn Randal - Tempted By Innocence

Praise for Lyn Randal

WARRIOR OR WIFE

‘…a highly sensuous tale of courage and enduring love set in the splendour of ancient Rome. Lyn Randal’s WARRIOR OR WIFE is an absolute must-read for those who love gladiators!’

—Award-winning author Lyn Stone

‘A stunning debut… From the blood lust of the gladiatorial arena to the silken sheets of a Roman senator’s couch, Lyn Randal’s story weaves a powerful and ancient magic.’

—RITA ®Award winner and bestselling author Gayle Wilson

The priest before her was Diego Castillo.

He was also the naked stranger who’d rescued her from the river, the man whose warm eyes and warm skin had awakened her to passion. The one whose voice made her insides quiver with sensual feeling. The one she’d heard in the confessional chamber.

And the one who’d also heard her. All about her.

Lyn Randalgrew up on a farm in rural Mississippi, where long, hot summers away from school and friends meant entertaining herself with books and her own imagination. Now, years later, she lives on a farm in rural Alabama, where long, hot summers mean entertaining herself with—you guessed it!—more books and an even bigger imagination. She considers herself rather fortunate that her husband, two children, two cats and one dog have all become quite accustomed to her strange writing habits, hardly noticing that she mutters odd lines of dialogue while doing household chores or disappears to take over the computer for hours on end, sometimes even managing to avoid huge mountains of laundry in the process.

Lyn especially enjoys the research that goes into writing historical novels, and she loves hearing from her readers. Contact her by visiting her website: www.lynrandal.com

Another book from Lyn Randal:

WARRIOR OR WIFE

Author Note

Of all the stories I’ve written, this one you’re holding in your hands is my very favourite. Its theme of sacrificial love resonates very deeply in my soul, though I didn’t know when I began the story that this would become so important. As Diego taught it to Celeste, he was also teaching it to me.

In addition, it was incredibly challenging to write a hero who was a priest, sworn to celibacy, and to have him face true-to-life temptation without being corrupted. There was a very fine line there, but Diego turned out to be a wonderful and noble man, whose story involved me so completely that I actually cried as I wrote a couple of the scenes in the latter part of the book. I’m not prone to such tears, so I knew this story was tapping into a rich and deep emotional vein, and I suspected that what moved me would be enjoyable to readers as well.

Please do let me know if this story touches you as profoundly as it touched me.

Blessings.

Lyn Randal

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Seville, Spain

May 17, 1517

Alejandro Castillo knew this thing he did was shameful, that it was a travesty and an outrage. Worse, he realized the others knew it, too, from the looks cast towards him as he sat in his special box in the Castillo family chapel.

Some of those looks were pitying glances, forgiving him even as they whispered his guilt. But others were hot with censure, and he deserved it. He was Judas Iscariot, leading an innocent to the slaughter.

He didn’t look anywhere but forward, not even when his wife squeezed his hand. If he looked around, Anne’s green eyes would be his undoing.

She, of all the others, knew the struggle he’d endured, how hard he’d tried to quiet the voices of his royal ancestors. She understood that he wanted to do the right thing for his sweet palomita , too—for Celeste, the little English dove who’d be betrothed to his son Damian this day—and how he despaired that he couldn’t avoid sacrificing her.

He stared straight ahead. The lawyers droned on, clarifying the points of the betrothal, detailing the financial aspects of Celeste’s dowry and the gifts of both the English and Spanish kings. Occasionally they asked him questions. Alejandro answered in a voice so flat he was amazed it was his own.

It was almost unmanly, the way he felt. He wished he were able to stride to the front and rip the gaudy clothes from his son’s back, snatch that horrible ring from the girl’s hand, proclaim everything a mistake.

But his kinsman the Spanish King, and Celeste’s kinsman the English King, had decided upon alliance. And kings made no mistakes.

Alejandro thought of past sins and the judgement of God. Maybe his withered legs and acts of penance had not been enough. Maybe he must now suffer this guilt to expiate the blood that stained his soul.

Alejandro stared straight ahead and tried to find comfort in the familiar smell of ancient stone and burning wax. He would make it up to her. He damn well would do that. Celeste would bear his family’s noble name.

Small comfort, that, but maybe soon there’d be a child with her dark eyes and copper curls, with her fiery spirit and affectionate heart. And he, Alejandro Castillo, would make sure that whatever his son Damian might do, the young wife and child would never need a single thing.

Only when he thought of that could he endure the scene before him—the rigidity of Celeste’s delicate shoulders, the shaking of her fingertips when she reached for the quill, the way her eyes looked—too wide, too dark, too solemn.

Padre Francisco had scarcely pronounced the official words of betrothal when the chapel doors were flung open with a loud crack, startling Alejandro from his uneasy thoughts.

Midday sun flooded the dim sanctuary, harsh and hurtful. Men rushed in—large men, burly men, a cadre of men whose faces were partially covered and who brandished weapons towards the startled people sitting motionless in carved pews.

“Don’t move, any of you!” shouted one who strode to the front. “We’re here to prevent this damnable alliance with that filth-ridden vermin who calls himself King of England! There are still men in Spain— men , I tell you—who’d rather slit their own throats than ally with ill-begotten English refuse!”

Alejandro heard Anne’s gasp, and knew her eyes flashed fire to hear her English countrymen so defamed. He looked around and gave her a warning frown, knowing it would help but little.

He wheeled his chair forward, ignoring the swords which immediately swung in his direction. “What is your purpose here?” he demanded.

The leader laughed, a grating and unpleasant sound, and moved towards Damian. Another minute and the tip of the brigand’s sword pressed into the richly brocaded vest his son wore. Damian winced at the pain, his eyes narrowing.

Alejandro knew fear then.

“What would you do?” he asked again.

The man gestured. Damian was surrounded by men with weapons. Their leader lowered his sword. His lips twisted; one brow lifted above eyes that mocked. “I’m doing what I must.”