The Spanish Bride by Georgette Heyer Page A

face.
    The sweetest little face Kincaid had ever seen was thus revealed. It was woefully pale, and of a fairness of skin more English than Spanish. The eyes, under rather strongly marked brows, were large, dilated a little with lingering terror, but of a soft brilliance which dazzled Kincaid into thinking that he beheld a beauty. But she was not strictly beautiful. Her little nose was not classic; her mouth was too large, and with a full underlip rather firmly supporting the upper, in a way which gave a great deal of character to the face, and some impression of stubbornness. This was borne out by a decided chin, rounded, to be sure, but no weakling’s chin, as Kincaid saw at a glance.
    He felt his heart melt within him; his ready tongue faltered; he could think of nothing to say, and looked helplessly towards Harry.
    Then he was startled, for Harry was not looking at him, but at the girl, still leaning against her sister’s shoulder. Kincaid saw to his amazement that he was perfectly white under his tan, with a queer, set look in his face, that made him seem suddenly much older, almost a stranger.
    The girl looked back at him. The fright was fading from her eyes; the glimmer of a smile crept into them, just a hint of mischief in it.
    ‘What is your name?’ Harry said. Kincaid did not know that voice; it did not sound like Harry’s.
    ‘Juana,’ the girl answered, like a sigh.
    ‘Juana!’ Harry repeated it, lingering a little over its gentle syllables. ‘How old are you?’ he asked, softly, as though by the lowering of his voice he sought to exclude her sister, and Kincaid.
    ‘I am now more than fourteen, señor,’ she said. ‘Fourteen!’
    Kincaid reflected that southern girls ripened quickly. He had supposed Juana to be seventeen; she had the figure of a girl verging on womanhood. He wished that it was on him that her gaze rested so steadfastly, but he saw that Harry filled her vision. His inches and his charm had never stood him in less stead. She was not aware of him.
    Harry was looking at the trickle of blood upon her neck. Kincaid saw his lower lip quiver. He put out one of his thin, strong hands. It shook slightly as he touched Juana’s little torn ear. ‘They hurt you—querida!’
    The endearment slipped unconsciously from his tongue. She replied simply: ‘Yes. It is nothing, however,’
    ‘God damn them!’ Harry said, in English, and under his breath, ‘God damn their souls to hell!’
    She sat up, disengaging herself from the sister’s embrace. The fright had quite disappeared; a delicate colour had come into her cheeks; her mouth began to tilt at the corners. It gave her an enchanting look, but it was decidedly mischievous: not a doubt of that, thought Kincaid, silently adoring the pretty creature.
    ‘Please, I do not understand English,’ Juana said.
    ‘I will teach you,’ Harry answered, in a lover’s voice, smiling down into her eyes. ‘
    Will you let me take care of you, mi pobrecita?’
    She nodded trustfully. ‘Toda mi vida!’ he said, as though recording a vow.
    Good God, where is this leading us? thought Kincaid, catching the low-spoken words. All my life indeed! Harry, take care!
    Juana seemed to think the promise quite natural. She gave back Harry’s smile with such a beaming look in her own dark eyes that Kincaid was not surprised to see Harry lift her hand to his lips.
    ‘I do not know your name, señor?’ Juana suggested hopefully. ‘Harry Smith,’ he replied, holding her hand between both of his.
    She repeated it hesitantly. ‘Harry?’ she said, trilling it, and shaking her head at her own pronunciation.
    ‘Enrique,’ he translated.
    That pleased her; her whole face quickened with sudden laughter. ‘I like it better so!’ ‘Señor!’ the sister intervened. ‘May I count upon your protection for this fatherless child?’ Harry replied, without taking his eyes from Juana’s face: ‘She stays with me. You need have no fear. I will arrange