Spanish Lullaby Read Free Page B

crushed whatever feelings she had for him. Destroyed her love, shattered her future, and even severed a lifelong friendship.
    It was over. For four years their romance had been ashes, every last spark dead.
    Juliet turned with the intention of going back to bed. At that moment, he began to sing again, in the same lilting mesmerizing voice, the words barely a whisper, the sound drifting on the night breeze. Damn him to hell, did he think she could sleep with that racket?
    On this wing of the house, the balcony off the set of bedrooms ran the entire length. Without thinking she jerked open the French doors and stormed outside. A figure leaned against the stone rail, limed by the moonlight, the gleam of raven hair unmistakable even if it didn't take great deductive powers to know the source of the song.
    The man was half-naked.
    She didn't expect that. Unfortunately, he'd heard her emerge from her bedroom and straightened, going silent. They stood there, half the long length of the balcony between them, and simply stared at each other. Then he said in a very ordinary voice, “I'm sorry. Did I disturb you, Jules?"
    The nickname did not help her composure. “Quite naturally not every evening is there a man singing on the balcony by my bedroom.” Her voice was not quite even and she cleared her throat.
    "What? No serenades from your prospective bridegroom? How unimaginative of him."
    "Frederick is a gentleman...” Her voice trailed off as she took an involuntary step forward so she could see better, her gaze riveted on his bare upper body.
    Dear God, he'd lied to her.
    A bold-faced, blatant lie.
    "Carlos.” His name was barely a whisper as she took in the number of scars. One, two, three, four ... the one bisecting his left shoulder was at least five inches long, silvery and jagged in the moonlight. There was another, lower, just above the top of his breeches beneath his ribs, and on his upper right arm an angry red mark that could only have come from a bullet. Even to her inexperienced eye she could tell it was not yet healed. “You said you stayed at the back of the line."
    His smile was humorless. “A jest. I was a colonel, Juliet. We lead the men, not follow them."
    "You've been wounded."
    "A few times. It happens in war for your information."
    "You never told us ... your letters..."
    His brows elevated. “And worry my mother? I think not. No matter what you think of me—and it clearly isn't much—you know I would never cause her pain or distress if possible."
    "What if you had been killed?” Juliet realized her hands were shaking in a shameful way and she dropped them to her sides, willing a calm she couldn't quite seem to summon. “Did you ever once ... just once, think of that? Of how we would feel here, helpless and worried, not knowing if each day you even got up in the morning, if you breathed, if you lay in some foreign grave?"
    "If I were buried in Spain, it would not be a foreign grave, Jules."
    She was going to cry. The stinging behind her eyes horrified her, made her swallow hard and desperately seek control. “You were raised here. At Chedwick."
    "My title is Spanish. My name ... this.” He lifted his hand and touched his face, a faint sardonic smile curving his mouth. “I know you can't understand, but it is part of me, and part of why I joined the war. The British were there fighting for another country because they knew if Bonaparte wasn't stopped, England could be next. Imagine a man who belongs to both places, who owes allegiance to two countries, not lifting a finger to aid the cause. My conscience could not allow me to stay here and do nothing, even if it meant leaving you. Had I died there, the cost could not be greater to me, but I would do the same thing again."
    The impassioned speech made her lose the inner battle and scalding tears poured down her cheeks, her vision suddenly blurred. He was the one who didn't understand. It was selfish, but the day he'd told her he was sailing first thing