Whit moved, stepping in front of the stack, effectively blocking my view. “What the bloody hell are you doing?” he whisper-shouted. “I could have hurt you.”
Silver light cut across his face, the sharp lines of his cheekbones and jaw, the furious set to his shoulders. I had no idea he had any interest in the sciences. It seemed incongruous with the Whit I knew, the former soldier, a roguish brawler who drank too much. This was a side of himself he kept hidden away—but then I remembered how he’d spoken of gunpowder. A simple chemical explosion. Curiosity burned in my gut, questions rose in my throat. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to remember the reason I had come.
“I have to talk to you.”
“It couldn’t have waited until morning?”
“No, I couldn’t risk you talking to my uncle about tonight. You’re oddly honorable when you want to be.”
“The hell I am.”
I brushed aside his comment with an impatient flick of my hand. “Who did you think I was? Why the extreme reaction?”
“That was extreme?” He let out a low, harsh laugh. “You’re absolutely right. I should have invited a stranger in disguise for a spot of tea in the middle of the night. How dare I defend myself?”
It was more than that. I felt the tension racking his brawny frame. He’d been half-furious, half-afraid. Something had put him on edge. He’d been expecting an attack, for someone to creep into his room in the middle of the night.
“What happened?” I asked quietly.
Whit stiffened.
“It’s obvious something did.”
“Why don’t you want your uncle to find out?” he asked abruptly.
“What makes you think he can be trusted?”
“Because he saved my life, Olivera.”
“What?” I asked, forgetting to whisper.
Whit threw me a furious look and quickly stood and went to the entrance. He shifted the curtain aside an inch and peered outside. After a moment he let the fabric drop and then sat on the ground, staring at me warily.
“I’m not leaving until you explain what happened.”
“I can make you leave.”
“You won’t touch me again.”
Whit wrenched his gaze from mine, his lips pressed flat. Finally, he spoke in a low volume, every word yanked out of him as if without his permission. “It was right after I was kicked out of the military. The things I saw . . .” His voice trailed off and he shuddered. After a beat he began again. “I’d sunk low, spent more time drunk than sober, and I’d backed myself into a corner. Ricardo got me out and has stood with me ever since. Satisfied?”
It wasn’t the whole picture, but I’d learned enough to understand the reason behind Whit’s unwavering loyalty to my uncle. He was in Tío Ricardo’s debt. Instead of answering his question I said, “Swear to me that you won’t tell my uncle.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Dame un dia mas.”
“One more day,” Whit repeated. “Why?”
“Whit.”
“Mr. Hayes,” he corrected. “I told you to observe proper etiquette. I’m not used to being the one who has to remember the rules, and it’s really starting to annoy me.”
I scrambled forward, onto my hands and knees and crawled toward him. He remained motionless, alert and wary. Our faces were inches apart. “You can’t just pretend that you don’t feel it. What exists between us.”
“Listen, there’s nothing—”
I leaned forward and pressed my lips against his. Shock reverberated through me. Whit didn’t kiss me back, but he didn’t pull away either. We froze, and for a fleeting moment I wondered if it was because he didn’t want to break the connection. Slowly, I brushed my mouth against his, and I felt him soften imperceptibly. A subtle shift in his weight, his lips relaxing under mine, moving with infinite care against my mouth for one single breath. His tongue touched mine, gentle. I pressed harder—Whit stiffened and then moved away.
His breathing was harsh, his words hoarse. “Like I’ve said, Se?orita Olivera.” He kept his expression flat and guarded. “There’s nothing between us. There can never be.”
I sat back on my heels, breathing hard. The taste of him still in my mouth.
“I’m getting married.”
I blinked. “What?”
“I have a betrothed,” he said in a cool voice, his fists clenched tight against his thighs.
The word landed in a thud between us. Betrothed.
My cheeks warmed as I stood, turning, and scrambling toward the opening, desperate to create distance between us. Miles would been preferable, but I’d settle for my room. I’d made a terrible mistake, how could I have been so silly as to—
“Se?orita Olivera,” he whispered.
I stopped, my hand curled around the itchy fabric of the curtain.
“I’ll keep your secret for one more day,” he said. “After that, if you don’t tell him you know exactly where he ought to dig, then I will.”
Whit
Bloody hell.
Capítulo Veintiuno
I fled into my room, my heart beating erratically against my chest. I frowned into the darkness. The flame from the candle had gone out, the moonlight barely illuminating the small rectangular space. I stepped inside, my blood rioting from what had just happened. Whit had a betrothed. He was getting married. I couldn’t believe it, didn’t want to believe it or imagine the woman he would one day call wife.
A dark shape moved in the corner of the room.
I froze, my scream trapped at the back of my throat. A voice whispered, soft and familiar. A voice I thought I’d never hear again. The sound reached me in a murmured hush, urgent, a subtle note of panic puncturing every word. Goosebumps flared up and down my arms.
“Sit down, Inez.”
My knees gave out.
I slumped onto the worn rug, the rough fabric scratching my skin. The shape moved forward, and the outline of a body covered in dark clothing became clearer as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. There was the sound of a match being struck and then a flame appeared, flickering and unsure.
She calmly lit the candle, but her hand shook, and then she closed the curtain and sat down beside me. I couldn’t make sense of who I was seeing, even as hope bloomed deep in my chest. Slowly, she reached forward and touched my damp cheek. I hadn’t known I was crying. Silent tears dripped onto my clothing. I moved forward, and her arms wrapped around me in a tight embrace. My body trembled uncontrollably, and she made a low hum, trying to soothe me.
“Mamá.” I pulled away, impatiently wiping my face with my sleeve. “Mamita.”
Her scent enveloped me, and it was so familiar, a sob climbed up my throat.
“Sssshh,” she said. “It’s all right. I’m here.”
I could barely speak. “Am I dreaming?”
She raised an index finger to her lips. I could barely hear her words. “Softer. Whitford is a light sleeper.”
I blinked at her in confusion, and then I looked over her shoulder, expecting to see my father. But she had come alone. I gripped her arms, hard, my heart understanding before my mind did. My mother was alive.