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“Will people think less of us because we were married in my church?”

“People will not know. Only you and I will know in our hearts that we are married. The English service is just to make it legal, nothing more.”

“How long will it take to get a special license?”

“It depends on the archbishop. A day or two I expect,” he said, reaching into the basket to open the wine and pour her a glass. “Let us toast to our marriage and the fact that even near death cannot separate us.”

She clinked her glass before saying, “I was not near death, but even if heaven came to call for me, I would refuse to go.”

“Good, because I expect to wake up next to you for a very long time.” He kissed her softly on the lips and then more ardently when she opened her mouth to him. He tasted of wine and love, and Elena never wanted to stop kissing him. She wanted him desperately, but Tomas had refused to touch her while her wound mended. Now that the stitches were out and she was near enough to healed, she grabbed his hand and placed it on her heaving breast. Thomas lifted his head.

“Are you sure?”

“Y-es,” she said in English, and Thomas needed no further urging. His clever hands made light work of the bodice of her gown, pulling it down to palm her breasts while kissing her neck. Then he kissed a trail down her collarbone to her breast, pulling his hot mouth over her nipple. Gasping with pleasure, she dug her fingers into his hair and held him to her. When she thought she could take no more, he moved to her other breast, and the world around her faded. There was only him.

When he had finished with her breasts, he slipped his hand between her legs, finding the core of her ready for him. He urged her to straddle his hips, her skirts a froth of black around them. When he finally entered her, she flung her head back as he thrust into her wanton body. She pushed her hips against his as his lips again found her breasts, and they rocked together in a rhythm that had become their own. His deep moans harmonized with her higher ones, and when she came apart, the only thing that came out of her mouth was his name.

“My God, Elena, every time we make love it is like a thunderbolt strikes me.”

“I just love you inside me,” she confessed before she kissed him. “I am yours forever.”

“As I am yours.”

“I think we have spilled the wine,” she said with a laugh.

“There is more in the bottle.” He found their glasses on the floor and refilled them, and then they set about discovering what else was in the basket.

*

It was dark by the time they reached their hotel in Cadiz. It had not changed since when he had been there last, all those months ago. He made his way through the dark and narrow streets to a small establishment hidden in a back alley in El Populo, an ancient part of the city. When he entered, everyone stopped to look at him.

“As I live and breathe, is that you, Captain?” asked a familiar voice. The bartender, Charles, rang a small bell that would summon the man Thomas needed to talk to.

“Contrary to what you may have heard, I am very much alive.”

Charles extended a hand over the bar. “So I see, and glad I am to be able to shake your hand, my friend.”

Thomas shook the man’s hand and nodded at the others who were now surrounding him. They were full of questions, but he put them off with smiles and shakes of his head.

A tall man in his late fifties came through a door at the back behind the bar and stopped short when he saw Thomas. He studied him closely and, satisfied that he was indeed Thomas, he came forward and hugged him.

“Come with me,” he said. “We have much to talk about.”

“We do indeed.” Thomas followed him back behind the bar and through the doorway, up the small set of stairs and into a parlor-like room. A sofa sat on one side and two tall wing chairs faced the fire—a very English arrangement of furniture. On a small table sat a bottle of brandy and two glasses. His friend poured and offered a glass to Thomas.

“I have to say I am glad for once my intelligence was wrong.”

“What did your intelligence say?”

“That you had been captured and killed by some French agents. They sent your finger to Stafford as proof.”

“You can live without a finger,” Thomas replied, holding up his hand.

“So you can. Tell me, what happened?”

“I would say someone tipped them off. They captured me and took me to a fort up in Malaga. There they tortured and tried to kill me.”

“How did you escape?”