Forgotten Daughter Read online

  But his words kept echoing in her mind. I think you are a woman who would rather die before you’d give up on anything. So Annabelle didn’t give up. She grimly kept trying. She didn’t want to prove him wrong. Stefano’s regard had become important to her, as had the hope he’d given her for a different kind of life, a life of fearless passion and joy.

  But by the time they took a lunch break, Annabelle’s whole body was shaking with exhaustion. The white-hot sun beat down upon them as Stefano took the rope from her. “I’ll take the colt back to the paddock.”

  Annabelle exhaled, nearly crying with relief.

  “We’re done?”

  But Stefano barked a laugh. “The day has barely started, querida. But the color in your face suits you.” He smiled down at her. “I think you’re starting to understand what it means to feel alive.”

  Agony flooded through her. “I don’t …” she whispered, then swallowed. “I can’t …”

  He looked down at her. “You can.”

  They sat down at a table beneath a shady tree to eat the sandwiches from Mrs. Gutierrez, but lunch was over all too quickly. It was all Annabelle could do to hold back her tears when they went back to work. As the afternoon wore on, her body ached and her head throbbed from dehydration and heat exhaustion. She could see why he’d wanted her to wear jeans. Her designer pantsuit was dirty and ripped, her black glossy heels impossibly muddy and scuffed.

  Surely they’d be done soon, she told herself desperately. Surely they couldn’t do this much longer. Could they?

  The sun beat down on them, growing hotter by the minute. And the more exhausted Annabelle felt, the less the foals seemed inclined to obey her. Her hair was a mess, her clothes covered with sweat and grime and her pale skin was turning pink in the sun.

  Worst of all: she knew with sickening certainty that the makeup covering her scar was starting to melt.

  When Stefano brought out yet another new yearling to train, she wanted to scream.

  “See this mare?” he said softly. “You wouldn’t know it, but she was beaten by her first owner. I have trained her for months, to help her learn not to be afraid.” He thrust the mare’s rope into her hands. “Hold tightly to the rope.”

  Looking up at Stefano, Annabelle imagined she saw pity in his eyes. A hard lump rose in her throat as she choked out, “I’m meant to be like the horse, right?”

  He frowned. “What?”

  “Come on. The poor old horse who was once beaten and afraid. She’s me. You’re winning my trust, taming me as you did her. That bit about making me fearless—it’s a trick! It’s all a trick!”

  “I’m trying to help you!”

  “I don’t believe you!” she cried. Part of her knew she was being unfair but as she felt tears rise behind her eyes, she was beyond being reasonable. “Are you torturing me for your own amusement? To finally get me into bed?”

  His eyebrows lowered. “You’re tortured?”

  “I don’t need your pity!” She felt vulnerable and raw. “I’m not going to fall for you. I’m not. You can just … forget it!”

  With a choked sob, she dropped the horse’s rope as she covered her face with her hands.

  “Don’t drop the rope!” he said tersely, but it was too late. As soon as the mare was free, the animal immediately took off at a run, the rope flying behind her in the wind.

  Stefano chased the horse down, caught the rope, soothed her with his touch and soft words, then led her out of the pen. When he finally came back to Annabelle, she could see the grim line of his body, the way he clenched his hands at his sides.

  “I’ve saddled your horse. Go back to the house.”

  He was sending her away? “Fine,” she said over the lump in her throat.

  He came closer, his jaw set, his voice hard. “I was trying to help you, you know,” he said. “I was trying to be unselfish for once in my damned life. But have it your way. Go back to your solitary, lonely world. Enjoy being alone and closed off from the world.”

  She flinched. She’d gotten what she wanted—she’d driven him away. He’d given up on her. Just what she expected. She drove everyone away sooner or later.

  “Fine,” she repeated. She rubbed her aching temple, then wiped away tears with an angry fist as she turned away.

  “What happened to your face?” he demanded harshly behind her.

  Annabelle froze.

  She realized she must have rubbed off the last of her makeup. Now, to top everything else, he’d seen her scar. He knew how vulnerable and ugly she really was.

  “It’s nothing,” she said. She quickened her pace, desperate to get away.

  She heard him come up swiftly behind her. “Stop,” he said roughly. “Let me see your face!”

  Annabelle wanted to collapse on the ground and sob. He’d given her the kiss of a lifetime. For the space of a few hours, she’d almost thought they were friends. Now … this is all he would remember of her. The ugly scarred monster.

  Slowly, Annabelle turned.

  “Oh, my God,” he breathed, coming closer. “What happened to you?”

  Beneath the merciless sun, she lifted her bangs, turning her face upward so he could see the deep red scar stretching down her face.

  “Are you satisfied?” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “This is who I really am. A monster. Why did you have to give me hope I might ever be more than this?”

  Stefano stared down at her, his expression a mask of shock. Annabelle looked up at his wide, dark eyes and saw horror and disgust.

  With a choked sob, Annabelle turned and ran blindly, streaking over the wooden fence toward the forest.

  This is who I really am.

  Her choked, tear-sodden words still echoed in Stefano’s ears as he stared after her, overwhelmed by the vision of her ruined, lovely face. The ugly red line had slithered down her forehead and cheek like a poisonous snake. A monster.

  His heart pounded in his throat. What had happened to her? Had she gotten the scar by accident? Or by the hand of man?

  With a sob, Annabelle had turned and run.

  With an intake of breath, Stefano ran after her. But this time, she was faster than he’d ever expected. She didn’t want to be caught. Grimly, he crashed through the underbrush and into the forest. He saw Annabelle just ahead, her long blond hair streaming behind her. His stride was longer, his legs were faster, his stamina greater. He caught up with her on the other edge of the forest, pushing her into the bright, open meadow beyond.

  “Let me go!” she cried.

  “No,” he said, tightening his grip on her wrists.

  Annabelle struggled and kicked as he pushed her past the trees into the vivid field of red poppies. Shackling her wrists with his large hands, he looked down at her.

  She looked half-wild. Her cheeks were flushed, her chignon gone as her blond hair fell in waves down her shoulders. Her pant leg was ripped, her ivory jacket dirty with splattered mud.

  From this close, he could see every detail of the jagged scarlet line slashing down her beautiful face. But that wasn’t what disturbed him the most. It was what was beneath the scar: the anguish in Annabelle’s trembling face.

  “What do you want?” she cried. “Why do you keep trying to hurt me?” “I’m not! I want to help you!”

  “You can’t.” She shook her head as tears streamed down her sunburned face. “No one can.”

  Amid the waving flowers, she looked so beautiful that his heart turned over in his chest. He took a deep breath. “How did you get your scar?”

  She looked up at him with big eyes, like pools of gray after rain.

  “Please.” His hands gentled their hold. “Tell me.”

  “It hurts too much,” she whispered. “It’s better to be numb.”

  “No,” he said urgently. Looking down at her, he put his hands on her shoulders. “Pain is how you know you’re alive,” he said, searching her gaze. “If you are too afraid to feel pain, you’ll never know joy.” Annabelle turned toward the green mou
ntains jutting into the wide blue sky. With a deep breath, she looked back at him.

  “You think I’m hard and distant and cold.” She shook her head, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I wasn’t always like that. My father had eight children by five different women. He hated all of us. He drove each of our mothers away, by force, death or insanity. But we children couldn’t leave.” Blinking fast, she looked down at her hands. “He hit my brothers for the slightest excuse. But not me, never me. I looked too much like my mother, you see. I thought I was lucky. And then …”

  Swallowing, she looked away. “At fourteen I decided it would be fun to sneak away to a party, dressed in a low-cut shirt to see if any of the village boys might notice me.”

  Stefano set his jaw. “And did they?”

  Annabelle sank to her knees abruptly, sitting in the field of red poppies and purple flowers. Her eyes stared blindly at the blue sky.

  “My brother sent me home early from the party to protect me. But I found my father drunk, just returned from an unsatisfactory day of hunting.” She blinked. “He was furious when he saw me. He screamed at me as he raised his whip. ‘You whore,’ he said, ‘no boy will ever look at you again!’”

  Stefano felt a sickening rage inside that nearly turned his vision to black. But she was looking up at him through her lashes, nervously waiting for his reaction. Clenching his hands into fists, he forced himself to sit down beside her amid the flowers.

  “Go on,” he said tersely.

  She exhaled. “My brother saved me,” she said. “Jacob knocked my father aside and pulled the whip out of his hand. My father fell and hit his head on the bottom stair. He died almost at once. And we were glad,” she said dully. “We were all of us glad.”

  “I’m sorry,” Stefano said in a low voice. His hands were still clenched, wanting to punch someone long dead.

  “Now you know.” Annabelle looked down at her own hands, and for the first time he saw that the tiny red lines he’d thought were scratches were actually scars. “Now you know how ugly I really am inside.”

  Stefano stared down at her.

  “Ugly?” A warm breeze ran through the meadow, causing the flowers around them to dance softly in waves of red and purple. Fiercely, he grabbed her by the shoulders. “You are not ugly. You are beautiful and strong. Far stronger than the past actions of a coward like your father.”

  She looked away. Blinking back tears, she whispered, “You were right about what you said. I like being behind a camera. It makes me feel … like I’m invisible. So after living alone for years at Wolfe Manor, I went to university to study photography. But my most trusted mentor, the one I thought was my friend, turned on me after my first success. He was twice my age, but tried to seduce me. When I refused him, he called me a monster. He said no one would ever love a scarred woman like me. He said he’d only tried to seduce me out of pity.”

  Stefano sucked in his breath. “Was that Patrick Arbuthnot?”

  She looked away, not meeting his eyes. That was answer enough.

  “I met him once, did I tell you?” Stefano said flatly. “The man came to my charity event a few years ago. When I refused to sell him a horse he wanted, he bragged about being your first lover. I think he was trying to impress me.” He set his jaw. “Say the word and I’ll go hurt him for you.”

  Annabelle gave a surprised laugh, then shook her head tearfully. “He was thirty years older than I was, and weighed over twenty stone. He died last year of a heart attack while in bed with a Ukrainian model.” She took a deep breath. “But still. What he said about me was true. No one can ever truly love a scarred monster like me.”

  Stefano cursed in Spanish, so loudly and fluidly that her eyes went wide. “You are beautiful. Talented. Lovely and kind. I’ve never wanted any woman as badly as I want you, Annabelle,” he said harshly. “I’ve been tortured with wanting you.”

  He saw her blink, heard her ragged intake of breath. “You really think I’m still beautiful?” she whispered. “Even like this?”

  He took a shuddering breath. Reaching forward, he traced her scar with his fingertip. “This is only a small part of you. You are more than this. You are also this,” he said, lightly running his fingertips down her soft, unblemished cheek. “And this,” he said, stroking her long, creamy neck. He moved his hand to her sensitive lower lip, unable to look away from her pink, full mouth. “And this.”

  He felt her tremble beneath his touch. He wanted to kiss her so badly he couldn’t bear it. But he forced himself not to do what every cell in his body screamed to do.

  He’d given his word not to kiss her. So dropping his hand, he turned away.

  Then, like a miracle, he felt her soft hand on his cheek, turning him back to her. He had a brief vision of her eyes, shining like a summer mist.

  And she kissed him.

  He felt the tremble of her mouth as her lips parted. He felt the softness of her skin. Dios mío. His body shook as he kissed her back ferociously, with all his pent-up need.

  A gasp came from low in his throat. He needed more of her. All of her. He’d never wanted any woman like this. Feeling her slender body against his own, wrapping his arms around her, was like embracing pure fire.

  With a shuddering intake of breath, he wrapped his arms around her. “I want you, Annabelle,” he breathed. “I think I’ll die if I don’t have you.”

  Her gray eyes shone at him with trust and desire. Placing her hands on his cheeks, Annabelle kissed him with sweet, trembling passion. He tasted her tongue in his mouth and gasped.

  Roughly, he pulled her down against him. Kissing her with every ounce of force he possessed, he rolled her beneath his body, laying her down amid the waves of purple and red flowers.

  Now. He could wait no longer. Now.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AS STEFANO PRESSED HER back into the flowers, Annabelle felt the cool damp earth beneath her ripped suit, felt the warmth of his hard body over hers. She’d fallen into a dream.

  When he’d told her she was beautiful, when she’d seen the truth shining in his handsome face, she hadn’t been able to stop herself from kissing him. Now, she felt his hands move over her skin, caressing her sunburned face. Poppies blew against them, red and purple petals tangling and twisting in her hair.

  He kissed her so deeply that she didn’t know where he ended and she began. His lips moved against hers, his fingertips lightly stroking down her neck, beneath her bare collarbone. His tongue flicked inside her mouth, teasing hers like a sensual whirlwind. A tingle of sensation flooded her body. Her nipples tightened as she gasped, clinging to him. His calloused hands moved downward, stopping at the edge of her neckline. She held her breath, waiting for him to reach beneath her silk camisole. Instead, after a pause, his hands moved over the linen jacket, cupping her high, firm breasts.

  Electricity ricocheted down her body, jagged and raw. Her breasts felt heavy, straining against the camisole, her nipples pebbling to tight aching points.

  With a shuddering breath, he pulled away to look at her.

  “You think you’re not beautiful, Annabelle? You think you’re not lovable?” he whispered. “Let me show you.”

  His hands cupped her breasts before he moved the weight of his body against her, kissing her so long and hard that she felt lost in her own fiercely answering need.

  Annabelle looked up at his face. Above him she could see the wide blue sky as the wind fluttered purple flowers and red poppies down upon them. He was so handsome, so impossibly handsome, with his tanned skin and lean, muscular body. Tendrils of chin-length black hair had escaped the leather tie at the base of his neck and hung down around his face, giving him the look of an eighteenth-century pirate.

  His dark eyes were hungry for plunder. For her.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind Annabelle knew that giving her virginity to a Spanish playboy would do worse than break her heart—it would destroy her. But she couldn’t push him away. Not now. She needed his warmth, his light, his touch. S
he needed to feel. She needed to live.

  Stefano stroked her face with the pads of his thumbs, making her shiver in the hot sun. He cupped her face, looking down at her amid the flowers. “Never hate your scar. It is a badge of honor. It is beautiful.”

  She choked out a disbelieving laugh.

  “Sí,” he insisted. “It reveals your strength and courage, a far greater beauty than flawless skin. I would kiss your every scar if I could.”

  Annabelle’s heart pounded in her throat. Could her scar really be something to be proud of, rather than something to hide?

  She swallowed, licking her lips. Trembling at her own boldness, she lifted her hair to reveal a scar on the base of her neck.

  “I have one here,” she whispered.

  He smiled at her. Then, lowering his head, he kissed her neck.

  She felt his lips against the scar, leaving a trail of hot and passionate kisses down her neck to the crook of her shoulder. Prickles spread down her body like wildfire, crackling with need, burning through her like a dry forest.

  When he drew back, she shyly pulled off her ripped linen jacket, revealing the white silk camisole beneath. She pointed at a long, jagged scar along the length of her right upper arm.

  “And here.”

  Taking her slender arm in his rough hands, Stefano slowly kissed up her scar. She felt his lips caress her skin, felt his slick tongue along her puckered flesh as he nibbled her with the edge of his teeth.

  Again, he drew back. His dark eyes devoured her, as if only the barest thread of will held Stefano back from ripping off her clothes and making love to her amid the flowers.

  Annabelle should have been afraid. Terrified.

  Instead, she felt strangely fearless, like the fourteen-year-old girl she’d once been. The girl who wasn’t afraid to pursue what she wanted most.

  She pulled the neckline of her silken camisole down to reveal a single extra inch of skin.

  “Here.”

  Slowly, so slowly, he kissed the long-faded scar that stretched along the top of her naked breast. She nearly gasped at the new waves of pleasure, of tension and need. No man had ever done so much to her.