The Alvares Bride. Sandra Marton

it around her shoulders. She tried to shrug it off but he lifted her hair free of the collar—the water had ruined the curls that had been swept up high on her head. He drew the lapels together and held the jacket closed.

      “I don’t need your jacket. I don’t need anything from you.”

      “You are cold.”

      “I am wet,” Carin snapped, “and if you try very, very hard, you might just be able to figure out the reason.”

      “You were drunk.”

      “And?”

      “And, now you are not.”

      “Wonderful. Is that some special Brazilian method used to deal with hangovers? Didn’t you ever hear of black coffee?”

      “I suggested coffee, but you declined it.”

      “And so you d-d-decided to take th-things into your own hands.”

      He frowned. “Your teeth are chattering.”

      “So wou-would yours, if s-someone dropped you in a f-fountain.”

      “Come.” He reached for her; she drew back.

      “I’m n-not going anyplace w-with you.”

      She lifted her chin and glared at him. Rafe thought about arguing, thought better of it, sighed and hoisted her into his arms again.

      “Hey!” Her voice rose as he started back through the gardens. “Do you have a d-death w-wish? I told you, my family w-will…”

      “They will visit you in the hospital,” he said grimly, “if you don’t behave yourself and get out of those wet clothes and into a hot shower.”

      “That I’m soaked to the skin isn’t your pr-problem, dammit, it’s your f-fault!”

      “You’re also sober, or haven’t you considered that?”

      “I can’t be sober. I mean, assuming I were drunk, which I wasn’t, how could I be sober five minutes later?”

      “Cold water. There are times, if one is fortunate, it has that effect.”

      “How would you know?”

      “A man knows these things.” Especially if he’d ever had one drink too many, trying to prove himself in a backwater bar on the Amazon, Rafe thought, and shuddered. “Put your arms around my neck, please, Senhora Brewster.”

      “I’ll do no such thing.”

      Rafe sighed, debated the wisdom of tossing her over his shoulder and, once again, decided against it.

      “Is there an entrance to the house that will permit us to avoid the other guests? Unless, of course, you prefer a dramatic entrance. It might be quite effective, considering the exit you made.”

      “That’s your story, senhor, but you were the one who made the scene.”

      “The bartender might not agree.”

      “What bar…” she began to say, and then he heard her catch her breath. He knew it was all coming back to her and that once it had, she would be crushed. “Oh. That bartender.” She cleared her throat. “I—I remember now.”

      “Indeed?”

      “Yes. At least, I remember some of…Tell me the truth. Did I—was I—” She cleared her throat again. “I made an ass of myself, didn’t I?”

      Rafe hesitated. She had, but what was the point in telling her that? “You were—how do you say it—you were a bit high-spirited.”

      “In other words,” she said in a small voice, “the answer is ‘yes.’”

      “People forget,” he said briskly.

      “They’re not likely to forget a woman who has to be carried off like a—a bad joke.”

      Rafe decided to take pity on her. “What they will remember,” he said, “is that a man was so taken with your beauty that he could not bear sharing you with others.”

      “That’s very generous. If I didn’t know the truth, I might almost believe you.”

      “It is the story I will tell tomorrow, if I am asked.”

      “That’s more than generous, senhor, it’s gallant. And yes, there’s a back door. It’s just past those shrubs.”

      The door opened at a touch. It led into an enormous pantry, which was empty.

      “You can put me down,” Carin said.

      Rafe thought about it. He could. But, he reminded himself, it was his fault she was wet and cold. How could he abandon her now?

      “I will see you to your room, senhora. Just tell me where it is.”

      She told him, and he made his way quickly to the service stairs and to the second floor.

      “That door,” she said, “the one on the left.”

      Carin reached out and opened the door; Rafe elbowed it closed behind them. Her bedroom smelled faintly of her perfume.

      “You can put me down now.”

      He nodded. “Of course,” he replied…but he didn’t. He didn’t. He stood in the darkness, holding her in his arms, wondering how she could smell like jasmine and roses after being dropped in a pool of water and wondering, too, why his arms were tightening around her even as he told himself to put her on her feet.

      “Senhor.” She drew a breath, then let it out. It stroked his skin like silk. “I—I think I owe you an apology.”

      “I accept.” He smiled. “But only if you call me Rafe.”

      Carin laughed. “You were supposed to say that an apology wasn’t necessary.”

      “But it is. You called me many names tonight and, truly, I only deserved some of them.”

      She laughed again, leaned back in the curve of his arm and looked into his face.

      “All right. I’m sorry. Honestly, I am.”

      Deus, she was lovely. And charming, now that she was sober. But she needed to undress, and to get warm and dry. He could help her with all of that, he thought, and felt his body quicken again.

      Carefully, he set her on her feet. “You must get out of your wet clothing, Carin, and take a hot shower.”

      “I know.” She hesitated. “Rafe? I—I wouldn’t want you to think…I mean, really, it was good of you to come to my rescue, but—” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I just want you to know that I don’t usually drink like that.”

      He nodded. He’d already come to that conclusion. “I am certain that is the case.”

      “In fact, I’ve never done anything like it before. It’s just that—that…” She fell silent. She owed this stranger no explanation yet, somehow, she wanted to offer one, but what could she say that wouldn’t make her look even more pathetic? “Never mind.” She smiled, held out her hand. “Thank you for everything.”

      He nodded, took her hand in his. She’d been on the verge of telling him what had happened that had made her want to forget. That was, after all, why people drank. To forget. To heal pain and yes, despite her smile, he could see pain in her eyes. Who had hurt her? A man? If that were true, he deserved to be beaten. This woman was too fragile, too beautiful…

      Rafe drew away his hand and stepped back.

      “I am glad I was there to be of service,” he said politely. “And now, you must get warm. Shall I ask one of the servants to bring you some hot soup?”

      “No. No, I’ll be fine.” She slipped his jacket off her shoulders. “Do you want to take your jacket, or shall I wait and have