Midnight Rider. Diana Palmer

so controlled most of the time,” she said, underscoring the words “most of the time.”

      Something moved in his face, something indefinable. “Any man is capable of strong passion. Even me.”

      The way he was looking at her made her heart skip. Unwelcome thoughts came into her mind, only to be banished immediately. They were too disturbing to entertain. She looked away and asked, “Are you coming to the ball?”

      “If I’m invited,” he said easily.

      Her eyebrows arched. “Why wouldn’t you be? You’re one of the upper class that my father so envies.”

      His laughter was cold. “Me? I’m a half-breed, don’t you remember?” He shifted in the saddle. “My grandmother can’t make a match for me in Spain because my wife died under mysterious circumstances and I’m staring poverty in the face. In my own way, I have as few opportunities for marriage as you do.”

      She hadn’t thought of it that way. “You’re titled.”

      “Of course,” he conceded. “But only in Spain, and I have no plans to live there.” He was looking at her, but now his mind was working on the problem of bankruptcy, which was staring him in the face. His late father had made a fortune, but his profligate mother had thrown it away. She had drained the financial resources of the ranch, and since he’d come of age Eduardo had been hard-pressed to keep it solvent. Only his mother’s marriage to some minor millionaire in New York had stopped her from bleeding the ranch dry. She had forfeited her inheritance the day she remarried, but the damage had already been done.

      Eduardo stared down at Bernadette and wheels turned in his mind. Her father was rich. He wanted a titled son-in-law. Eduardo was upper class, despite his mixed ancestry. Perhaps... Bernadette sighed heavily, smothering another cough. “At least you’ll never have to worry about being married for your father’s money.”

      “And this idea of marrying a title and a respected name has no appeal at all for you?” he asked slowly.

      “None,” she said honestly. She grimaced. “I’m so tired of being on display, like a bargain that my father’s offering for sale!” she said, drawing in a long, labored breath. She coughed suddenly, aware of a renewed tightness in her chest. She hadn’t realized how long she’d been among her flowers, with their potent quantities of pollen. “I have to go in,” she said as the cough came again. “The flowers smell wonderful, but they bother my lungs when I spend too much time with them.”

      He scowled. “Then why are you out here?”

      She coughed once again. “The house...my father has men repainting the ballroom. The paint bothers me.”

      “Then going inside the front of the house is hardly a solution, is it?”

      She tried to clear her throat enough to answer him, but thick mucus was all but choking her.

      Eduardo threw his cigar down and swung gracefully out of the saddle. Seconds later, he lifted her into his arms.

      “Eduardo!” she cried, shocked at the unaccustomed familiarity, the strength and hard warmth of those arms around her. She could see his eyes far too closely, feel his warm breath at her temple, touch, if she wished, the hard, cruel curve of his beautiful mouth....

      “Calmarte,” he murmured softly, searching her taut face. “I mean only to take you in through the kitchen to the conservatory. There are no blooming plants there to cause you discomfort.” He shook her gently. “Put your arms around my neck, Bernadette. Don’t lie like a log against me.”

      She shivered and obeyed him, secretly all but swooning at the pure joy of being so close to him. He smelled of leather and exotic cologne, a secret, intimate smell that wasn’t noticeable at a distance. Oddly, it didn’t disturb her lungs as some scents did.

      She laid her cheek gingerly against his shoulder and closed her eyes with a tiny sigh that she hoped he wouldn’t hear. It was all of heaven to be carried by him. She hadn’t dreamed of such an unexpected pleasure coming to her out of the blue.

      His strong, hard arms seemed to contract for an instant. Then, all too soon, they reached the kitchen. He put her down, opened the door and coaxed her through it. Maria was in the kitchen making a chicken dish for the midday meal. She glanced up, flustered, to see their landed neighbor inside her own kitchen, with his hat respectfully in his hand.

      “Señor Conde! What an honor!” Maria gasped.

      “I am only Mr. Ramirez, Maria,” he said with an affectionate smile.

      She made a gesture. “You are el conde to me. My son continues to please you with his work, I hope?”

      “Your son is a master with unbroken horses,” he said in rare praise. “I am fortunate to have him at the rancho.”

      “He is equally fortunate to serve you, Señor Conde.”

      Obviously, Eduardo thought, he wasn’t destined to have much luck in persuading Maria to stop using his title.

      Bernadette tried to smile, but the cough came back, worse than ever.

      “Ay, ay, ay,” Maria said, shaking her head. “Again, it is the flowers, and I fuss and fuss but you will not listen!”

      “Strong coffee, Maria, black and strong,” Eduardo instructed. “You will bring it to the conservatory, yes? And then inform Señor Barron that I am here?”

      “But of course! He is in the barn with a new foal, but he will return shortly.”

      “Then I will find him myself, once I have made Bernadette comfortable. I am pressed for time.” He took Bernadette’s arm and propelled her down the long, tiled hall to a sunny room where green plants, but no flowering ones, grew in profusion and a water garden flourished in its glassed-in confines.

      She sat down with her face in her hands, struggling to breathe.

      He muttered something and knelt before her, his hands capturing hers. “Breathe slowly, Bernadette. Slowly.” His hands pressed hers firmly. “Try not to panic. It will pass, as it always does.”

      She tried, but it was an effort. Her tired eyes met his and she was surprised again at the concern there. How very odd that her enemy seemed at times like her best friend. And how much more odd that he seemed to know exactly what to do for her asthma. She said it aloud without thinking.

      “Yes, we do fight sometimes, don’t we?” he murmured, searching her face. “But the wounds always heal.”

      “Not all of them.”

      His eyebrows lifted.

      “You say harsh things when you’re angry,” she reminded him, averting her eyes.

      “And what have I said, most recently, that piques you?”

      She shifted restlessly, unwilling to recall the blistering lecture she’d received from him after her unfortunate ride with Charles.

      He tilted her face back to his. “Tell me.”

      “You can’t remember?” she asked mutinously.

      “I said that you had no judgment about men,” he recalled. “And that it was just as well that...” His mouth closed abruptly.

      “I see that you do remember,” she muttered irritably, avoiding his dark, unblinking gaze.

      “Bernadette,” he began softly, pressing her hands more gently, and choosing his words very carefully, calculatingly, “didn’t you realize that the words were more frustration than accusation? I barely arrived in time to save you from that lout, and I was upset.”

      “It was cruel.”

      “And untrue,” he added. “Come on, look at me.”

      She did, still mutinous and resentful.

      He leaned forward, his breath warm