Free Don't Bargain with the Devil by Sabrina Jeffries Page A

road. There was none. But she now knew the horrors they’d faced in the British army’s mad dash to reach the coast ahead of the French.
     
“The mountains of Ancares get very cold in January. The snow lay thick that year.” An edge had entered his voice, but when she glanced at him, his expression was bland. “Or so I heard.”
     
And the dead had littered the road. “If you’re from León, you are Spanish,” she said, eager to change the subject. “Why did you imply otherwise?”
     
“Because I’m Galician. We’re an entirely different people, though Spain has…appropriated us, shall we say.”
     
“How can there be snow in Spain?” Miss Pierce put in. “Isn’t it hot there?”
     
“It depends on what part you’re in. Where I come from, it’s hot in summer, cold in winter. On one side are the mountains, on the other high plains. It’s green but dry.” A palpable yearning for home filtered into his voice. “At present it’s spring. The cherries are in bloom there as well, and the grapevines are flourishing. The skies are clear and blue, and the days warm enough to doze in the courtyard.”
     
Lucy caught her breath at his wistful tone. Why build his pleasure garden in England when he so clearly missed Spain?
     
Perhaps it had to do with being Galician. “What makes Galicians different from Spaniards?”
     
“We are descended from the Celts. Our ancient pallozas are much like the Celtic roundhouses in old Britain, and we play the gaita, which is exactly like the bagpipes your countrymen play.”
     
Lucy stopped drawing. “What do you mean, my countrymen?”
     
His gaze bored into her. “You are Scottish, are you not?”
     
“But how—”
     
“Your accent. I hear the burr of Scottish r’s in it.”
     
A little shiver coursed along her flesh. Amazing that he should have heard it buried beneath the layers of her years abroad in an English regiment. “Not too much of a burr, I should think. But yes, Papa is Scottish.”
     
“Even without the accent, I would have guessed you were Scottish.” He paused. “Or perhaps even Spanish.”
     
A tingle of wariness vibrated along her spine. How did he know about her Spanish blood?
     
He couldn’t possibly. Unless he’d been talking to people about her. But why would he? And why did the calculated look in his eyes make her think of medieval renditions of Lucifer enticing an innocent?
     
Lucy shook herself. Now she was just being silly. “Why on earth would you guess I’m Spanish?” she said lightly as she forced herself to continue drawing.
     
“You have their fiery temperament.”
     
She sighed. Was “hot-blooded hoyden” branded on her brow, for pity’s sake? “Fiery temperaments are said to abound among the Irish and the Moors, too. You can’t guess a person’s lineage from her temperament.”
     
“It was only an observation.”
     
“An unjust one,” she shot back, unnerved by his perception. She couldn’t believe he’d just guessed at her lineage and gotten it right. “Is this another of your conjuring talents, to be able to detect a person’s origins?”
     
“Actually, it is.”
     
“Can you guess where I’m from?” piped up Miss Pierce.
     
“Wales, possibly,” he answered. “And Miss Dalton is certainly from the south of England, though I cannot narrow it more than that.”
     
He was right on both counts. Perhaps he could guess lineage. If so, she shouldn’t blame him for using his ability.
     
Diego relaxed as he saw the suspicion subside on Lucy’s face. He had nearly given himself away with that comment about the Spanish. Her startled expression had made it clear that she not only knew of her Spanish blood but was surprised a stranger should be aware of it. Certainly no one in Edinburgh had mentioned it when he and Gaspar had asked about her and her “father.”
     
Then again, no one in Edinburgh had been all that eager to speak to them. The Scottish were suspicious of everyone.
     
“How did you guess I’m from Wales?” Miss Pierce exclaimed, bringing his attention back to his