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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 Randal grew 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
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Prologue
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.”
He turned to Celeste and bowed. “I almost regret, little English señorita, that I deprive you of both your lover and your wedding.”
As if in a dream, Alejandro saw the sword being raised behind his son’s back.
He pushed his chair forward before he thought, his hands jerking at the wheels, his callused palms hissing against smooth wood. Men rushed towards him like a wave, their features a blurred turning of hard lines and bared teeth, their words lost in the explosion and flash of pain behind his eyes, and he was falling, tumbling into darkness…
Chapter One
Don Alejandro Castillo had wicked eyes. Pirate eyes. They were blue, like the Mediterranean, and intense, like the Spanish sun. They could skewer a soul on the keen edge of a cutlass.
In real life, those eyes always softened when they looked at Celeste Rochester, but in her dreams the night before they had not.
“Don’t fail me, palomita. Find my son,” he’d said, his eyes dark with intensity. “Find Diego and bring him home to me.”
“I will,” she promised, knowing how great was the need. She sincerely meant and sincerely believed every word.
Such was the power of the dream.
It was harder to have such faith in herself now, released from the night’s magic and staring across a smooth expanse of blue sea towards the isle of San Juan Bautista in the Spanish Indies.
This was her destination. Somewhere on that island was the man she sought. Diego Castillo, her betrothed’s identical twin.
A shadow fell across her and she looked up. “Barto,” she breathed, her hand involuntarily moving to her chest in surprise.
Her companion bowed slightly. “I frightened you. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”
Celeste smiled at him. He was a bit frightening—or at least he had been when she’d first met him. She supposed his fearsome aspect was the point, however, since this old friend of Alejandro Castillo had been charged with her protection.
Celeste never doubted Barto’s ability, not after having seen him. He was African, a Moor converted to Morisco, a man black of skin and firm of muscle and probably the largest person Celeste had ever seen in her nineteen years. His voice thundered; his arms and thighs fairly strained the seams of his clothing. He handled a variety of weapons with the ease of long practice. Yet, for all his great size, Barto’s face usually held a pleasant, almost amused expression whenever he looked at her.
He turned that expression towards her now as his hands rested lightly on the ship’s wooden rail. “Are you all right, señorita? There is a scowl between your brows that gives me pause. I almost feared to break into your reverie.”
She smiled at his gentle humour. “As if you’d have aught to fear from me, Señor Gigante.”
She nodded towards the isle they could see in the distance. “I confess to feeling anxious. Tomorrow we will go ashore and, God willing, we shall find Diego Castillo. I worry that he won’t be easily convinced of our need. I worry that I won’t be successful.”
Barto turned to face her, taking both her hands into his and raising them, one at a time, to his lips. “Ah, señorita,” he said softly as he lowered them again. “If I were you, I’d be far more worried that I would be.”
Celeste hardly slept that night, so nervous was she over the task she faced the following day. Instead, she slipped quietly on to the deck and listened to the crew from the shadows as they laughed over their games. She would write down snippets of their conversations in the journal she kept for her six-year-old brother, Jacob. She felt guilty about her months away from him, and writing had become her way to share all she’d seen since leaving England for Spain four months before.
She’d already sent him one book filled with the daily stuff of her life. It contained her early days with Alejandro and Anne Castillo, pleasant days for her, as they’d awaited the return of her betrothed from sailing aboard one of the vessels with which his family’s fortune was made.
Now she walked the decks of La Angelina and wrote of far more adventurous things, wanting Jacob to experience with her the taste of lemons and salt seaspray, each glorious sunrise with its chant of morning prayers, and the mournful song of the guitarra beneath a dark sky full of stars.
She didn’t write of her fears when the fresh morning dawned. Instead, Celeste tried to ignore her emotions as they rowed in towards the first Spanish settlement on the isle.
Caparra. Even the settlement’s name sounded exotic, the Rs rolling deliciously against her teeth like waves rolled against its beaches of white sand.
Captain Jones had smiled when she’d said as much. “Nay, señorita,” he’d said with a shake of his head. “You must harbour no romantic illusions about this place, even if the name is a hopeful one, for it means blossoming. This isle is fair, to be sure, but the living conditions are primitive. The settlers are men of adventure, busy mining the wealth of this land. They are second sons, my lady.”
He’d noted Celeste’s puzzled expression. “Second sons. The younger sons of the hidalgo. Unable to inherit the fortunes of their fathers, they strike out to achieve their dreams by whatever means necessary. And some of those means have been brutal. Nay, señorita. This land holds promise, but for now little comfort.”
Celeste had seen that for herself once they entered the settlement. The buildings were wooden, with roofs of thatch, even the miserable building that advertised itself as the inn and tavern, where they now headed to make enquiries.
As they waited outside for the Captain to conduct their business, Celeste looked about with growing discouragement. Everything was dirty and in poor repair. Roads were few and of thick, dark mud, rutted from the hooves of horses and wheels of carts. The sparse shops had the same tired aspect as the rest of the settlement. Celeste could only imagine how poor their selection of merchandise must be.
Only one building was constructed of stone and stood out from the rest. “The home of the Governor,” Barto said, leaning close. “Governor Ponce de León had it built well, for he anticipated problems with Diego Colón, son of the Admiral. They both laid claim to the title of governor.”
“Has there been trouble?” Celeste asked.
“Aye, a bit, though the Crown kept violence from erupting by choosing Ponce de León over Colón. But the ill will lingers between the two men yet, or so I hear.” Barto made a sweeping gesture and faced her with a sardonic grin. “And all for this nondescript mudhole where the mosquitoes will either kill you or make you wish for death.”
Padre Francisco joined in, his lean, ascetic face animated. “Ah, but the mud glitters here, Barto, don’t forget that. The promise of gold has made many an old friend into an enemy.” He shrugged. “Though that promise, too, has proved a disappointment. Little gold has been found, despite the blood spilled for it.”
Celeste nodded, wondering about Diego Castillo and his reasons for coming to this land. It couldn’t have been the desire for gold, not with all his parents’ great wealth. But he’d come. Why?
She had far too many questions about Diego Castillo. It had seemed odd that she’d lived among the Castillo family for months and had never heard of this twin brother until Damian’s abduction. Even then, his parents had seemed strangely reluctant to talk about this mysterious twin.
Ten years. He’d been gone for ten years. What kind of man would not return to his family once in ten long years? She feared the answer to that question.
The Captain soon returned with good news. “The Saviour has seen fit to bless us today, my friends,” he said. “One within knew our man. Diego Castillo lives on an encomienda nearby. You can find your way there before nightfall.” A look of pleasant surprise passed between Barto and Francisco.
Celeste nodded, tension strumming through her gut. He was here. She’d found him. Even before sunset of this very day she might have met Diego Castillo and explained her need. She prayed he’d be willing to help, already half afraid that he would not. And yet she had to convince him. There was so much at stake. She’d try anything, promise anything. Almost anything.
The narrow streets of Caparra were primitive, but Celeste soon realized things could be worse. The rutted courses of mud which passed into the countryside made even the puddled streets of the town seem decent by comparison.
Now the cart had stuck again. This was the third time they’d halted to push the cumbersome vehicle out of sucking mud. Celeste climbed out with a groan of frustration, lifting her skirts nearly to her knees without care for propriety. Padre Francisco took up the reins while Barto eased his way through the muck to put his strong shoulder to the back of the conveyance. “Hettie,” Celeste said, turning to her maid. “While the men push the cart out, I need to relieve myself. There in the forest. Nay, don’t climb down. You’ll soil your skirts. I won’t go far.”
Hettie nodded. “Be careful, love. And hurry. It shouldn’t take long to get the wheels on solid ground again.”
Celeste entered the gloom of the trees with trepidation. This island was so lush that she expected to find herself in a tangle of underbrush. Surprisingly, the trees grew tall and the forest floor was passable. She sought out a sheltered place to answer nature’s call, then looked around at the beauty, so different from the forests of England, even more vastly different from the dry plains that surrounded Seville. Curious, she eased farther into the wood, smiling at the coolness, enjoying the heady fragrance of vividly coloured tropical flowers. She breathed in deeply, comforted by the scent of vegetation, of rich, moist earth and…water?
She moved forward and soon heard the roar. Moments later she stood on an outcropping of rock, looking down at a froth of rapids below. She sighed with disappointment. She’d wanted to cool her skin, wash her face. But the water was too far down and much too rapid.
She held her place for a moment, mesmerized. As she turned away an exquisite blossom nearby caught her eye, vibrant pink with streaks of peachy orange. She thought of Jacob. He loved flowers. He’d often picked bouquets of daffodils for their mother.
Jacob needed beauty. The physicians had said so. He could have it if she pressed this unusual bloom for him. Maybe she could reach it. It grew on a vine only slightly above her head. She swiped at it without success.
She tucked her lower lip between her teeth and tried again. Her fingertips grazed the delicate blossom, but it remained stubbornly out of reach. She jumped, then jumped again, realizing just as she snared her prize that the earth beneath her feet had shifted, carrying her towards the edge of the cliff on a rolling wave of pebbles. The blossom was crushed, then lost in a nightmare of blurred motion. She sought anything to grasp—vines, roots…nothing! There was no solid earth beneath her feet, only the tumbling of slippery rock and the edge, the very thinnest edge, of the cliff overlooking the water.
She fell in slow motion, her arms winding like fragile windmills, her body tipping forward even as her mind screamed. No! Oh, dear God, no!
She saw water beneath her before she plunged into the soundless depths of it. For a moment she hung within it, then rose again into sound and air. Down, up again, constantly shoved between the deep green-blue of the river, the green forest, the blue sky.
The current caught in the heaviness of her skirts. She was hurled forward into white froth, then dragged below into dark silence.
She bobbed up, gasping. Stones slammed against her ankles and her elbows, and scraped roughly against the tender pads of her fingertips. She screamed as she was flung towards a huge boulder. Somehow she managed to avoid it. She was sucked backwards into the eerie silence of water, then just as quickly rushed forward towards turbulence again, helpless to stop herself from hurtling downriver.
I will die and no one will know. Oh, God, don’t let me die.
Then, as if God had truly heard the petition, someone was there, someone of flesh and blood with strong arms. Someone made of warm muscle and sinew. Those arms lifted her, pulling her through the noiseless depths and through the froth, pulling her up into air and light and sound. Masculine arms closed tightly about her.
They reached the bank, dripping. Celeste could only cling to him, burying her face into the throbbing pulse of his neck—shaken, trembling, aware now of a thousand chaotic sensations. The tendrils of her hair clinging to his skin. The prickling of scraped places. The heavy breathing that meant she lived. And the breath of her rescuer, hot and harsh against her neck.
He spoke to her in Spanish, in between gulps of air. “Está bien?” he asked.
She could not answer, not yet.
He shifted her slightly in his arms so he could see her face. “Está bien?” he repeated, the tone more worried, more forceful.
“I’m sorry,” she said, gasping. “I don’t speak much Spanish.”
“Are you all right?” he asked, in her English tongue, the enunciation clear but accented in a heavy, sensual way that made something burn within her. Or maybe it was the voice. So deep. So rich with concern.
“Aye, I’m fine,” she managed to say between gulps of air. She pushed her hair out of her eyes.
Celeste wasn’t sure what she noticed first, whether it was the rigid planes of his jaw or the clear blue-green of his eyes—eyes that could have been made of river and sky and trees. Eyes filled with a kindness that made her ache, that seemed somehow familiar, though she couldn’t recall when she’d ever seen eyes so warm before.
Or perhaps it was his hair, tawny gold and so long it touched his shoulders, or his warm breath against her wet lips. Maybe it was the strength of the arms that cradled her, the thudding of his heart, the firmness of his muscle against her body… She wasn’t sure which impression struck her first and most vividly—or if all of them were there simultaneously…as if, in the aftermath of surviving, she could only sense and feel and exult.
It made no sense, the emotion that flooded her. She wanted to reach up and twine her fingers into his long hair, to pull his lips to hers and taste him, to hear him moan inside her mouth and to feel his lean body press itself against hers. It made no sense, what she felt for this man who seemed familiar but wasn’t. No sense at all, but yet…it was there.
She made no move, said nothing.
She only let herself breathe and feel his breathing, too, until finally the strong rhythm of lifeblood ebbed and she could speak without gulping at air. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t swim well.”
“Certainly not in all these clothes.”
He’d not meant the words to be provocative, but, cradled as she was in his arms, his chest bare and warm against her cheek, she felt such strange stirrings. She couldn’t contain the heat which speared her, beginning a burn in the pit of her stomach and igniting a fire that flamed in her cheeks.
As soon as he’d said the words, lust bolted through Diego. He hadn’t meant to conjure the image of her as a forest nymph, sliding naked against his skin in sensuous water, but that image had somehow been there, full-blown. Dear God, what had he done?
He looked down at her—a girl, he’d thought her at first, for she was quite petite. But, no, she was a woman. An ethereal woodland fairy with rounded curves outlined by wet, clinging garments. A fantasy, with delicate features and long, long tendrils of coppery hair. With eyes large and dark and warm as earth. She was glorious, and he couldn’t halt the desire that savaged him. He hadn’t expected it, hadn’t needed it or wanted it, but it had come.