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“Joseph?” said Tom. “Is that another name for Napoleon?”
“Joseph was his brother,” Arthur replied. “He was made King of Spain.” And had been very unpopular with his subjects, he recalled then.
“A false king imposed on the country by a supposed ‘emperor,’” said Señora Alvarez.
There was fire, Arthur thought. Her dark eyes burned. Her lovely lips were pressed tight. He found himself wanting a real talk with her, to learn her history, her opinions, what inspired her prickly facade. “True,” he said.
“He has fled to America, where he lives off the jewels he stole from Spain.” She made a sound likepfft, coldly derisive. A flutter of fingers accompanied it.
“I didn’t know that,” he replied.
“It is said.” She bit into one of Tom’s sandwiches with elegant ferocity.
Silence returned to their group. Arthur searched for a topic to keep the conversation flowing. “You speak English very well,” he said to her.
She shrugged. “One must learn, since the English do not.”
It was true. Few of his countrymen bothered to acquire other tongues. But Tom said, “No es verdad.”
Señora Alvarez smiled at him. The effect was glorious, stunning. Arthur was reduced to wordless admiration.
“Most English people,” she corrected. “You are unusual.”
“I am that,” replied the lad with a grin. “Tendrás una tarta?” He offered her a pastry, and she accepted it with regal grace.
How in heaven’s name had she ended up here? Arthur marveled and sipped from his cup and reassembled his aplomb. “Good cider,” he said to Tom.
“Friend of mine brings it in from Kent to sell,” the lad replied.
“Everyone you meet is afriend,” said Señora Alvarez. “You should take more care.”
Arthur thought she looked sidelong at him as she said it. But that made no sense.
Tom shook his head. “Not everyone. I’ve met some bad ’uns. But not too many.”
“You can tell the difference?” Teresa asked. She did worry about that.
“Long’s I can remember,” Tom answered with a grin.
It was a sad admission, but Tom’s cheerful expression was irresistible. Teresa smiled back and then turned to discover that Macklin was smiling as well. Unguarded, Teresa met that smile head-on and was shaken by an inner tremor. The man was handsome at all times, but when he smiled, the effect was multiplied tenfold. More, something in his eyes seemed so benign, as if he was the soul of honor. No doubt he knew this and used the appearance to his advantage.
He and young Tom made quite the contrast, Teresa thought. Tom was a good boy, but he looked what he was, an inexperienced stripling whose lanky frame was as yet…untenanted. Despite his adventurous life, he had yet to accumulate the experiences that would define him. Macklin, on the other hand, looked thoroughly inhabited. His blue-gray eyes promised histories to recount and depths to plumb. Not to mention the prowess of his athletic body. He was unquestionably attractive. Teresa found herself wondering about his…notearl-ess, which would be an ugly word in any case.Countess…That was it, though why the English called them that when they had no counts she couldn’t imagine.
She pulled herself sharply back. Macklin was a snare, a deceit, designed to beguile before he struck. She didnotneed to learn that lesson again. Teresa rose. “I must go back to my work.”
“You haven’t finished your tart,” said Tom.
His tone suggested that he was teasing her, though she didn’t understand exactly how. She sometimes missed a nuance in her second, or really third, language. Teresa gathered all her dignity and rose. “I will take it with me.”
“You don’t want to get paint on it,” the lad said. “I reckon that’d be bad for you.”
“I will take care.” Teresa made it a mild reproach. Of course she wouldn’t sully her food. One of the other painters sometimes held a brush between his teeth. She never would. She picked up her pastry and walked away with a sense of making a lucky escape, and also of eyes fixed on her back as she moved.
Arthur followed her progress with an appreciative gaze. He supposed she was past thirty, but that only meant she had the lushness of maturity along with the lithe grace of youth. He couldn’t remember when he’d encountered a more intriguing woman.
“I’ll take another of those if you don’t want ’em,” Tom said.
Arthur turned back to find the lad indicating the tarts. He waved permission.
