Rosalind looked back, entranced as always by his handsomeness. Vidal had a dusky complexion she appreciated, darkened by generations of intermarriage with the Moors in bygone centuries, and tanned by the blistering Spanish sun. His hair and beard were dark brown and perfectly trimmed, his eyes the color of the sweetest chocolate.
Vidal regarded her without comment for so long, she began to feel self-conscious. Of course, he’s staring. My emaciated frame and dead white skin are not likely to appeal to a man with a taste for lush dark beauties. The urge to hide from his certain disappointment overwhelmed her, and she attempted to curl herself into a ball.
“No, querida, don’t,” he urged. “Why are you shy now?”
“I’m afraid,” she replied, the corners of her eyes pinching.
“Of this? It isn’t
