'She wants to know where you are.'
Did Llorente not think Court could understand? Of course he didn't. Court was an ignorant Scot. 'I can speak Catalan,' he snapped under his breath. Then, dismissing Llorente, Court raised her hand to his lips to reassure her.
'T'estimo, Courtland,' she sighed.
Llorente said in a dumbfounded tone, 'Then you know that for some ungodly reason she just told you she loves you.'
When he heard Ethan's men arriving near dawn, Court rose from his chair. Of course he hadn't slept—he'd taken every minute he could with her after Llorente hesitantly left them last night.
Court lightly touched her cheek, glad at least that her color was back and her skin was warm.
He wanted to kiss her and tell her how much he didn't want to leave, but if she woke and asked him what was happening, how could he answer?
I broke your brother's face last night; we're going to Andorra to stamp out anyone who would hurt you; and afterward, because I took your innocence, you'll be forced to Castile. We won't see each other again, though I'd intended to marry you.
If the Rechazados didn't kill him…
When he brushed her hair from her face, the bruise at her temple stood out starkly. He flinched and a coldness settled over him…enabling him to walk away. 'Is tu mo gràdh thar gach nì,' he murmured to her before he clenched his hands and left. I love you above all things.
Downstairs, he found Ethan preparing for war—Court had expected no less—with Hugh directing the packing of supplies. Both left him with nothing to work on.
So to gain strength for what he was about to do—abandon Anna—he stole into the study and retrieved the book. He'd never voluntarily touched it before, and hated the feeling of it now, but he wanted to read it, and curse it to hell where it belonged. He'd just turned to their page when Llorente walked in.
The timing. Court was really beginning to hate him.
'Ethan told me I'd find you here.'
'Did he, then?'
'MacCarrick, I've thought about this all night, and I want you to marry Annalía before we go.'
This was unexpected, but still…'No.'
'For some inexplicable reason, she loves you, and she won't want to go to Castile. As much as it grieves me to even consider you, I must.'
'No.'
'Do you think this is easy for me? I'm a proud man and I despise you—the very idea of being related to you pains me. Remembering the prestigious suits I smugly turned down only to be asking you now appalls me. But I will swallow my pride to see her happy.'
Maybe he didn't hate Llorente. Had to admire the man's doggedness. Broke his nose last night and Llorente was asking him to marry his sister the next morning. For her. Must be difficult as hell.
'She has her own fortune.'
Court's jaw clenched, and he gave him the look his comment deserved.
Llorente appeared surprised. 'I apologize if I offended, but you are a mercenary.'
The man wasn't going to give up until Court hit him again, which he could no longer do. He would give his explanation, and if Llorente scoffed, then he'd have tried.
'See this book? This is why I will no' marry her.' He opened it to the last page and stabbed his finger against it.
Llorente advanced to the table, skimmed over the lines, then faced him with an expression of astonishment. 'You believe you're cursed?'
Court sank back in his chair. 'The things it says have all come to pass.'
'Like what?' he asked, his tone almost amused.
'It says that none of us will have children and none of us ever have.'
'Your brothers believe this, too?'
'Aye.'
'Then it's a bloody good thing you can't have children, because lunacy obviously runs in your family. My God, my Andorran grandmother wasn't this superstitious.'
He looked disgusted and Court couldn't blame him. Court had looked the same way until they'd found their father dead.
'And your father? I suppose his thread was cut?'
'Within a day of our reading the lines.'
But Llorente was hardly listening to him. 'This is why you didn't marry her before we arrived?' He snatched up the book, as if to hurl it. He froze, slowly turning his face to his outstretched hand. He placed the book down as though it were as delicate as eggshell. Then crossed himself. 'Return to the page.'
When Court leaned forward and did, Llorente read again, his expression growing more furious. 'There's blood there.'
'A warring clan stole the book hoping to cripple us. There was a battle to get it back.'
'You don't know what it says? Have you tried to wash it—?'
'The blood will no' be lifted.'
Llorente shook his head. 'But what it says could be heartening.'
Court let out a breath. 'Or it could be worse.'
Llorente's eyes narrowed. 'Yesterday. Do you think that was…?'
'Do I believe Anna was crawling through an assassin's blood in the gutter last night because of my fate? Maybe, maybe no'. But I will no' risk the scarcest chance.' Whenever that image of Anna arose in his mind, he struggled to replace it with an image of the future he would ensure she had. He saw her safe in warm Spain, among her own people, with golden-skinned children playing about her skirts. 'She will be free of them and free of me.'
Llorente glared at the book, read it again. His face was tight when he turned to him. 'Then you must swear it.'
Court hesitated, then finally nodded. 'Aye, my word. Let me finish my tasks first, and I'll never have to see her again.'
Chapter Thirty-four
'These are eggs?' Olivia asked Annalía again as she poked at them on her plate. Eggs shouldn't move as these did. She leaned down to peer at them at eye level. 'They don't look like eggs.'
Olivia glanced up to see the chit put her hand over her mouth. Her face was turning green again. If Annalía didn't eat something soon and keep it down, Olivia might have to do something drastic.
She could just see herself confessing to Aleix that Annalía grew ill on her watch. For some reason before he'd gone, Aleix had taken Olivia aside—not Ethan, not Erskine, not a stranger from the street—and asked her to take care of Annalía. She'd stared at him for long moments, wondering what he really was asking her, wondering if he was jesting, then realized he actually expected her to protect his sister. 'How have you been living off this stuff?' Olivia pushed her breakfast tray away. 'I haven't tasted a single spice since we got to Britain.'
Annalía sat at the headboard of her bed, still in her dressing gown, knees drawn to her chest. 'MacCarrick often sent out for food for me. He always knew what I liked.' And there went the bottom lip trembling.
Olivia smiled pleasantly. 'After I marry your brother, I will have the kitchen stocked with spices. Expensive ones.' She picked up a book from the stack she'd plundered from the library downstairs, licked her thumb, and flipped through with desultory flicks of her wrist. 'And we'll get a Spanish chef who knows how to use them. And who will sing opera.'
Annalía's eyes narrowed. 'I know what you're doing. Even as my mind refuses to believe it. Every time
