Tempted By Innocence

“I owe you an apology,” he said. “I should have made myself known to you in the confessional this afternoon. I’m sorry I did not.”

Heat flooded her face. Her gaze fled from his direct appraisal.

He took her hand in a gentle gesture of reassurance. The contact burned her skin, so that she almost gasped at the touch. “I considered it, you know, not wanting to hear your secrets, but…well…” Celeste felt rather than heard his sigh. “You had seen me as few others have.”

At the hint of amusement she thought she heard, her eyes darted back to his face. The corners of his lips twitched, and she knew he laughed inwardly at himself.

She suddenly wanted to taste those lips, those handsome lips. He would taste so good. Almost she could taste him now. His manly fragrance was all around her. She inhaled it with every breath. He would taste like that smell, that warm and erotic smell, like soap and sandalwood and male, clean and elusive.

Celeste breathed in deeply and forced her gaze away from that slight smile. The lace on her sleeve became suddenly fascinating. It was quite intricately wrought, with such painstaking handiwork…

Diego waited for her to speak. She sensed his rapt attention on her face, felt his amusement slowly change to concern. His thumb began to stroke her knuckle, an unconscious act of comfort on his part, but to Celeste an eroticism almost unbearably intimate. She pulled her hand away from beneath his, and felt his frown deepen into a scowl.

“You are angry with me?” he asked.

She shook her head, not quite trusting her voice.

“You feel betrayed, then?”

She drew in a deep breath, regretting it immediately when his gaze fell to her breasts as if she bade him there. He caught himself and looked away quickly, but not before she’d seen the blue gaze deepen to the darker azure of desire.

“Nay, not betrayed by you,” she said. “You did only that which was required to preserve your dignity and my own. If I have been betrayed, then it was by my own wicked thoughts. I did not know you were sworn to God. I would never have… I would not… Oh, sweet merciful Jesus! To know I felt such things…and for a priest!”

She buried her face in her hands.

There was silence. It stretched between them, long and rife with tension.

She lowered her hands, but could not meet Diego’s gaze.

“I have sinned against God and against you. Please forgive me, Padre.”

He did not answer immediately, but startled her by rising from the pew abruptly. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll be back. Wait.”

He was gone only a short while. When he returned, Celeste saw that he was no longer in his robe, but dressed as any ordinary man in the simple fustian tunic of a common labourer, the garment loosely belted over hose and boots of soft leather.

The clothing was coarse, but clean. Simple, but attractive on him. It made his shoulders appear broad, his hips narrow, his legs long and powerful. His hair was casually rumpled, palest gold where the tropical sun had kissed it, more honeyed where it lay against his collar. His skin was dark, his teeth startlingly white against the bronzed glow of his face. He was cleanshaven and his chin had a cleft.

He was so handsome it hurt.

She almost wished he’d put the robe back on, so she could think of him as a priest and not be so aware of him as a man.

He took his place once again in the pew and smiled at her. “There now. Let’s forget for the moment that I’m a priest. Could you and I not talk more freely if I were merely Diego Castillo?”

She nodded.

He turned so that his body faced hers. “Then, as Diego Castillo, I must be completely honest with you. What happened between us at the river…that was an uncommon thing for me. Not your rescue, my lady. I don’t mean that. I speak of the emotion which passed between us, and of the carnal feeling that accompanied it.”

Celeste’s face grew warm, not from the embarrassment which should have met his words, but from the provocative memory of his beautiful body.

Diego saw her face redden and immediately halted. “I’m sorry. I am too bold.” He drew in a ragged breath and raked lean fingers through his hair. “Yet I know of no other way to make this right. Will you give me leave to speak forthrightly? My in tentions in doing so are honourable.”

“I doubt them not.”

Diego’s gaze found hers, intense and beautiful. “You freely confessed your sins. As Padre Diego, I was denied the opportunity to do the same. But please understand this, Lady Celeste. If you sinned in that moment on the riverbank, you were not alone in it. I reacted purely as a man. My thoughts towards you were wicked and impure. I wanted—”

He broke off and looked away, the muscle in his jaw tightening. “You wished to lie with me as I would have lain with you?”

Diego closed his eyes. “Yes. Forgive me. I repent such thoughts.” He opened his eyes and met her gaze. “I do repent them.”

Celeste nodded.

In truth, she repented nothing. Not one moment could she regret; it had been a wondrous thing. But she understood Diego’s need to do so.

She also saw that they must put that moment of pure lust behind them if she were to accomplish her other aims. Should Diego think for one minute that passion could flare between them again, he would never board a ship bound for Spain and spend weeks of sailing time in her near presence.

She smiled, meeting his anxious expression with gentleness. “I cannot claim to be a scholar of the Holy Word as you are,” she said softly, “yet I know that carnal temptation is not sin until consummated. We were created man and woman, Don Diego, and our bodies whispered this obvious truth to us in a moment of weakness. But naught came of it, so let us not consider it again.”

Diego studied her for a moment, his intelligent gaze taking on a new admiration.

He lifted her hand to his lips. Celeste tried not to shiver visibly beneath the onslaught of fresh desire. “You are as wise as you are beautiful, señorita, and I am in deep gratitude of your kindness towards this humble priest.” He lowered her hand, though Celeste continued to feel the warm brush of his lips across her skin.

There was a brief silence. Celeste studied the ornate carvings behind the altar, acutely aware of Diego’s large body beside her, and of his thoughtful expression.

She was startled by low laughter.

“Forgive me,” Diego said with an amused lifting of one eyebrow. “But it occurs to me that perhaps I am taking myself far too seriously. I don’t believe you came to this isle for the express purpose of falling into a river so that I might rescue you.”

She smiled. “No. I did not plan that.”

He stroked his chin and feigned a serious look. “No? A pity. Such a startling introduction, and, alas, none can take credit for it!”

At her answering laughter, Diego abandoned his sombre expression and grinned. “You did, however, come to this island in search of Diego Castillo. Tell me why.”

Celeste’s stomach did an urgent roll. She’d come to the moment of decision. Success or failure would be met in a matter of moments.

“I came to ask you to return to Seville with me.”

Diego’s face registered momentary surprise, quickly contained and changed to a certain wariness that she sensed rather than saw. “Return to Seville? Why?”

She’d prepared for this. She’d practised a speech. But where was it now?

“Because I need you.”

It was a pitiful argument, and she should have expected a snort of disdain or disbelief. Instead, his expression softened the slightest bit. “You need me, señorita? Ah, and I am such a heartless beast if I can refuse your winsome face. Please explain.”

“Your brother and I were to make a marriage of alliance, arranged on behalf of the Kings of Spain and England by Cardinal Cisneros himself.”

“And have you met my brother?”

“Yes, but only briefly, just before our betrothal ceremony. He was at sea during most of the three months I lived with his parents—your parents—prior to that time. I cannot claim to be well acquainted with him. He was taken before we had further opportunity to learn of one another.”

“Taken by whom?”

“No one knows for certain. There are several factions in Spain who resist the efforts of your king to establish friendly relations with England. They are growing stronger, gaining strength all the time. The fear is that their constant agitation will ultimately lead to war.”

Diego frowned. “The situation is a grave one, then.”

“It is, indeed. Your father is anxious that these criminals should not appear victorious. They would gain further support from the people. For now, his gold has bought secrecy. Few are aware that Damian has been taken and the proposed alliance delayed, but the secret cannot be held indefinitely.”

Celeste met Diego’s gaze. “We need you. If you return to Spain and play your brother’s part, the intent of Damian’s abductors will be foiled. It’s even possible the charade may secure Damian’s release. If the marriage is accomplished, with you standing proxy, they will no longer have reason to hold him.”

“This is why my father sent you?” Diego’s scowl did not bode well. Celeste wanted to plead with him, already hurting over the rejection she anticipated.

“Yes,” she said. “He feared the dangers, but I begged him to let me come. My desire to wed is great. I trusted the outcome to no other.”

Diego’s gaze sharpened. “What does this marriage mean to you?”

She drew in her breath. She hadn’t expected this question.

Everything. This marriage meant everything.

But how could she explain? The story had begun so long ago, and had grown so convoluted. Even she didn’t understand all the intricacies and intrigues of it.

Her father had been a kinsman of King Henry. In younger days the two men had shared deep affection and similar notions of what was best for the country, but gradually their ideas had diverged, until finally they had been in sharp disagreement.

Those who were kind and thoughtful of Celeste and her younger brother, Jacob, called the carriage accident that had taken their parents’ lives a tragic misfortune. Those less respectful bandied about the words murder and traitor—though in her heart, Celeste would always believe her father had acted on his highest principles, heedless of possible consequences.

That belief had enabled her to endure the subtle ostracism of society. Believing that had led her to stand over the newly turned earth of her parents’ graves and vow that she would somehow restore the honour of her family, for Jacob’s sake. For Jacob, and for his earldom, and for the name Rochester, which he would always carry, she hadn’t protested when King Henry had made Thomas Rochester’s orphaned children his own wards. Later, when an alliance had been proposed, she’d sensed how dear it was to King Henry’s heart, and for Jacob’s sake she had agreed.

Certainly she didn’t want marriage for herself. Her father had left her half of his great wealth, so she would ordinarily have been in a position to choose for herself the ultimate course of her life. She could have remained unmarried, and probably would have done so. But there was Jacob, and the doctors said…

The doctors. So many doctors. And all in general agreement as to the cause and cure of Jacob’s malady.

Her brother had not spoken one word since his parents had died.

Time had passed, the grief had dissipated, but his tongue had not been loosened. Jacob, with his sweet angelic face and golden halo of tousled curls, still remained locked in his own world, unable to find his way out.

The doctors were convinced he needed the kind of life he’d known before the accident. He needed beauty, and peace, and the love of a family to free him of his fear and insecurity.

Celeste had hoped marriage to Damian Castillo might be the means to provide those things.

But now Damian was gone and she needed Diego. Without his help there would be no marriage and no family and no secure, happy life for Jacob.

Diego watched her face, awaiting her response.

“This marriage means everything to me,” she said simply.

His eyes narrowed. “Is it money?” he asked. “Do you lack wealth and seek marriage for that reason? Because if it is—”

She cut him off with a low growl. “No. That is not my reason.” She drew in a deep breath. “Will you help me?”

Everything in Diego recoiled at the simple question. Everything about this felt wrong to him. But Celeste’s eyes were so anguished, so dark with secrets she would not share with him. He couldn’t explain why, but he was reluctant to hurt her with blunt refusal.

He gently turned aside her question with one of his own. “What is my brother’s appearance now?”

Celeste’s face grew hopeful, and he could have cursed at himself for his carelessness.

“His hair is short, not long as yours is. Where you’re clean-shaven, he wears a full beard and moustache. His clothing is ostentatious, costly and elaborately embroidered, and he favours the codpiece, after the English fashion.”

“He would.”

Diego was silent for a while, his mind churning and yet feeling strangely numb. “My father knows I hate deception.”

His hands clenched and he made a harsh sound. “But he also knows I owe a debt. Dear Lord God, he knew I’d have to do this.”

Celeste looked relieved. “You’ll return with me?”

Diego turned, studying her face. Did she not understand? Did she not care? What he was being asked to do went against all he knew, all he felt. And he felt too much in this moment, too much pain, too much guilt, too much desire.

Celeste did not meet his gaze; he wondered what was in her thoughts. What did she want? What did she feel?

As if to connect to the mystery that lay behind her veiled eyes, Diego took her hand. The contact was so potent it burned him, a sweet living hell, her fingertips trembling against his.

“I know not what is best,” he whispered. “I don’t want Damian to have you. Not you.”

Their eyes met. Diego couldn’t look away. Her lips were close. He could almost taste her breath. He watched in helpless fascination as her lips parted. Her tongue flicked out to moisten them.

“You don’t?”

“Nay,” he said softly. “I don’t.”

She waited for more, but he could say no more. How could he tell her what he knew—that it would be a savagery to put an innocent like her into the lair of the wolf? Damian would take her without mercy, use her up, bend her to his will by deceit or by force, whichever served best. He would show no concern for her.

Even without words, Celeste must have discerned his thoughts. Her eyes filled with tears.

Diego was surprised by the feeling that came over him then, a fierce protectiveness, something primitive and feral.

Her eyes—so warm, dark as night, dark as the secrets of a man’s soul. He stared down into them, feeling a decade of anger rip him apart like a wolf’s claws.

He gave in to his darkness, drew her into the pain. He pulled her across the pew and into his arms. He kissed her.

Her mouth was as sweet as he had known it would be, as tender and hungry and eager. As innocent as Eden and as wicked as sin, all at the same time, and worth every moment of the guilt he knew he’d feel.

He tasted her long and deep before he finally pulled away, his body throbbing with what he’d done.

He stared at her, consumed by darkness and guilt, willing his breath to come again, and wishing he wore his robe still, so he could hide the effect of his desire.

He ran his fingers through his hair and looked away, towards the silver crucifix which adorned the wall above the altar. “I’m sorry,” he said, without looking at her. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Then he stood and walked out.

Chapter Four

In his dream he was a man, and not a priest. Diego looked down and the robe was gone. He felt for the heavy weight of the crucifix. Gone, too. He saw his bare feet, his wiggling toes against cool leaves, then his knees and thighs, and realized with delight that he was naked.

The water he entered was still and cool, but she was there, her skin warm against his. She slid against him and his breath caught. “Celeste,” he said. “Don’t. It will only make matters more difficult.” He closed his eyes, already aware of the tingling heat of his loins.

She was a water nymph, a spirit as free as time, as warm as earth. She was a fairy with coppery locks that wrapped around him and pulled his body against hers.

Then he kissed her, tasted the carnal innocence of her mouth and groaned. “I want you, Celeste. I want you,” he said against her wet lips, and felt his manhood push aside the water, push aside the flesh, push into her tight, hot sheath…

Diego awoke just as his body betrayed him.

He closed his eyes and let the forceful spasms subside, let his breathing return to normal and his tense muscles relax again.

It had been a dream. Just a dream.

He groaned, feeling shame even though he knew it was irrational. Feeling he’d betrayed his priestly vows.

Even though a priest was a man.

That was the problem. He was a man—a virile, healthy specimen, with all a man’s innate drive to pursue, to conquer, to mate. A man who’d kissed his brother’s betrothed for reasons he couldn’t begin to understand, and who had liked it enough to want more. God help him, he did want more.

Diego smoothed his hands down the front of his robe and sighed. It was good to feel like a true servant of the Lord again. The events of the previous day, the disturbing dreams of the preceding night—what were they compared to the coarse, familiar feel of this robe? Especially when, like today, he had work to do—important, satisfying, soul-cleansing work.

The family of Juan Carlos awaited him in their tiny peasant hut on the far ridge overlooking the valley. His prayers were urgently needed; Juan Carlos was desperately ill. Diego also had coin from the poor box to relieve the hunger of the wife and four small children. Beyond prayer and food, he could do no more. Miracles were still the realm of God.

But when he stood before their dwelling he found there was more he could do. The small garden Juan Carlos had planted was neglected and sadly overgrown. Not only that, but the family’s lone milk goat helped herself to it freely, her eager mouth nipping the tender tops off of whatever poor, struggling plants remained.

This was charity he could do. He set to work clearing the weeds from the small plot. This was charity to benefit their most urgent needs—aye, and his own as well. The hard labour would drive the sinful folly of the previous day from his mind.

Here, sweating in the escalating heat, he could even imagine that the raw desires of yesterday had been but a strange aberration. His life would now return to normal, with his days spent in service to the people of Ricardo’s encomienda and in the prayers and study that strengthened the soul.

It was peaceful, his life, if somewhat predictable, with time measured from Mass to Mass and from each holy day to the next—and if in his inmost being he sometimes found himself longing for something more, he reminded himself that he’d chosen this course for his life, no one but he. He concentrated on its rewards, like the gratitude he’d seen in the face of Juan Carlos’s wife, and the timid smiles of admiration on the faces of their dark-eyed children. Or the satisfaction he’d felt as he’d left them, looking back at the neat rows of plants, cleared now of strangling weeds and surrounded by a fence he’d contrived of sapling poles lashed together with vines.

By the time he left them it was well past midday. He was tired from his labours, and hungry. He’d grown hot and dripped with sweat.

Plunging into the river would go a long way towards refreshment, even without soap or towel, and he headed for it.

It helped his body feel cooler, but also brought to mind the disturbing images he’d worked all morning to set aside. Celeste, warm and womanly in his arms. Celeste the water nymph, her ripe curves sliding provocatively against his own. Celeste the innocent, her lips moist and pliant beneath his kiss.

He left the river with a growl of frustration, shaking wetness from his hair. A large, flat rock nearby usually held his towel, but today he’d have to let his skin dry by sun and wind. Even out of the water, his thoughts had no respite, for as he looked down at himself, sprawled naked upon hard stone, he saw again the admiration in Celeste’s face when her eyes had traced his form.

What madness had seized him? It was insanity, most surely, and he’d come too far to let himself be waylaid by it.

It helped to think of this as a moral test. Lust had been his downfall before. Now it was being presented to him again. His faith was being tested, his resolve tried by the carnality of his flesh. When he thought of that, he was strengthened in his determination to subdue his impulses and conquer his own baseness.

It was only when he thought of Celeste that the whole image fell apart. She was not the brazen temptress it demanded. She was, instead, refreshingly innocent, with scarcely any knowledge of what occurred between a man and woman. A virgin just awakening to the beauty of her own sexuality.

Awakened by him.

And, because he had absolutely no idea what to do about that, he climbed down from the rock, donned his still-damp robe and his sandals, and headed for his tranquil cell. Spending his afternoon in prayer might quiet the confusion and provide the way out of this maze.

Padre Francisco came in the late afternoon. Diego heard his sandalled feet shuffling against the stone floor and raised his eyes from his books just as the elder priest slipped into the seat beside him.

“I knew I’d find you here,” Francisco said.

Diego studied his face. The man had aged, but his grey eyes were as gentle as always. “Aye, a priest should spend time before the altar of God,” he answered. “I learned much from you, Padre.”

“You must have, Diego. I was rather surprised to see the priestly garment upon you last night. I didn’t know.”

“No more surprised than I was at seeing you and Barto. It was rather a shock to have my past so suddenly become my present.”

Francisco chuckled. He gestured with a slight wave of his hand. “You look good. Healthy.” He motioned towards the book Diego held. “Studying, I see. That’s good. Don Ricardo says you’ve been a fine priest.”

Diego shrugged. “Ricardo’s a good man and a faithful friend. He makes sure I have all I need. This land is primitive, but there are many opportunities to serve. The native people here knew nothing of the Lord Jesus, and nothing of Spanish ways. Sad to say, they’ve suffered at the hands of some of our countrymen. The friars and priests here try to mitigate the evil. Perhaps it’s helped. I hope so. I long to give something of value back to the world.”

Francisco was quiet for a moment. “Is that why you entered the priesthood? Do you serve God to undo the deeds of the past?”

“What do you mean?”

Francisco studied the younger man’s face. His expression was compassionate. “Diego, my son. For ten long years you’ve wandered in the wilderness.”

The words—so quiet, so gently spoken. Yet they sliced Diego’s heart. He closed his eyes.

“All the service you render, all the masses you say, all the good you do… It won’t bring her back.”

“I know, Padre,” Diego answered, his voice sounding odd. He raised a hand to cover his eyes.

There was a long silence. Francisco leaned near, his voice not much more than a whisper. “Diego, listen to me. All have sinned. All men fall far, far short of God’s standard. And we can’t any of us make it up by our deeds.”

“I know. I preach this to the people. I know these things.” Diego drew a deep breath and looked away. “I know them.”