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Elena stared at the open doors of her wardrobe, but her mind was not truly focused on the gowns. Instead, her thoughts were consumed by the handsome stranger down the hall. She had to take the upper hand, and quickly. Her nerves had nearly been her undoing that morning. She’d felt it and so had Alejandro. She had to be careful. It was too late to back out. The game was firmly in motion.

A messenger from Don Alicante’s pazo in the hills had already come to ask for an audience. She’d hoped for a little more time, but word must have traveled swiftly indeed if it had already reached him. Now, she could not delay—it would look unnatural to be reluctant to meet. Two days was all the time she could buy—two days to subtly fill in the gaps of Alejandro’s memory. She was just starting to realize the depth of the risk she took.

Elena reached for a gown at the back of the wardrobe and held it against her, shaking out the wrinkles it had acquired with lack of use. The deep-blue silk felt smooth beneath her hands. She had not worn this gown for nine years, not since the early days of her marriage to Alejandro when she’d thought they could build a life together. The neckline was cut low, the bodice tapered to a tight waist and a full skirt. She’d loved this gown. She’d purchased it in Santiago de Compostela when she’d bought her trousseau, but there’d been little cause to wear it in the following years. Tonight it seemed there was cause again.

Her body reacted of its own accord at the thought of what was to come. Heat pooled in her belly at memories of the morning, of the feeling of his hands on her. She had thought to make this his seduction but it had proven to be the opposite. This was not a man to be led. She would have to be cautious. But her body didn’t want to be careful. Her body wanted to capitulate entirely.

Outside the window of her chambers, the sun was beginning its descent. The moment was drawing near. Elena washed and dressed quickly, allowing Anna to help her with the gown’s fastenings and to pull up her heavy hair into a becoming style that left her neck exposed.

Then Elena left her room for the pazo’s dining room, a room that had seen little use since Alejandro had left a year ago. Tonight, the room shone with candlelight and the little luxuries of the pazo were displayed at their best. The table was arranged with her grandmother’s china placed on the lace-trimmed tablecloth. Two goblets of prized, colored Venetian glass sat at each place. Candles glowed from heavy silver candelabras, the ones she used only at Christmas and other special occasions. Elena sighed. The servants had outdone themselves. The sight of the room was a potent reminder of all the hopes pinned on the stranger, on the man they believed to be Alejandro.

“My lady,” Alejandro emerged from the shadows of the big room and came to stand before her dressed in black formal clothing. He looked magnificent in the candlelight. The short jacket he wore emphasized the broadness of his shoulders and the leanness of his waist. The trousers encased long legs. His dark hair was pulled back with a silk ribbon, looking sleek and clean.

He came to her and took her hand, bending over it gallantly and lifting her knuckles to his lips for a kiss as if she were a grand lady. Indeed, he was all courtly grace, holding out her chair and waiting for her to be seated before taking his own place at the table. He gestured to the two footmen to remove the covers and begin serving. Then, when their plates were full, he dismissed them just as easily.

Ah, this one had plenty of manners, Elena noted, sipping wine from her glass. Clearly he was no common sailor washed up on shore—he was a man of some gentle breeding. Yet not so much, she noticed, that he was put off by the hearty nature of the meal.

Unlike Don Alicante, she did not give herself airs and serve course after course of luxurious dishes prepared by a trained chef. Her table was graced with paella full of fresh shrimp and bacalao sold in the village fish market that day. Crusty brown loaves of bread lay sliced on a pewter tray with pale butter made in the pazo’s creamery.

“I saw my chambers today,” he said, refilling her glass. He shook his head. “I didn’t remember anything. Nothing seemed familiar.”

Elena was swamped with guilt. Of course he wouldn’t. “Don’t worry. Tomorrow we’ll tour the estate. That might help your memory come back.” She had to play along with his attempts to recall his memories, make it seem as if her suggestions were made in order to help him, but in reality they were only helping her. Touring the estate would give her a chance to explain Alejandro’s past to him, to give him a false identity and to fill in the gaps left by his real identity.

“I would like that. Have things gone well? How have you managed? I expect it has been difficult.”

Elena nodded. “We’ve done well enough. I don’t think you’ll have any complaints.” She launched into a recitation of the harvests and the vineyards.

After awhile, he smiled. “We’ve done better than ‘well enough,’ it seems."

Elena basked in his praise. Her husband would never have admitted as much. To his thinking a woman hadn’t the mind for the business of running a pazo. But she’d shouldered the enormous burden without question, unwilling to let the estate falter in Alejandro’s absence. It was all she had.

But suddenly she realized that she didn’t have it anymore. “I suppose you’ll want the reins of the estate back soon enough,” Elena said hesitantly. In the beginning, she hadn’t thought beyond thwarting Don Alicante. But now, as she listed the accomplishments of the past year, she was struck with a new worry. This man would want to assume control of the pazo. He would assume it was his right to do so and she would be unable to stop him. It was a husband’s prerogative to control property, just as it was a husband’s right to control his wife.

Running the pazo took considerable energy and while it might not be something she thoroughly enjoyed, she’d come to take pride in the fact that she could do it. Truth be told, she’d come to enjoy being an independent woman. She liked the power that came with her freedom, from answering to no man. If the hard work of running the pazo was the price for that heady elixir, she would gladly pay. But when she stared at the handsome man across the table, that equation started to shift. No matter how hard she worked now, he would have the power over the pazo—and over her.

Elena took a large swallow of wine. Would she really be willing to put the pazo and her own freedom in this man’s hands? In her gamble to win her freedom from Don Alicante, she’d hastily chained herself to an unknown man and given him an identity that gave him extraordinary power over her, if he chose to use it. Her only hope lay in convincing him not to.

The servants had left them alone for the meal, but now they reappeared to clear the dishes. One of them brought in a decanter of clear liquid and a tiny glass along with two slices of fruit tart.

Alone again, Elena gestured to the decanter. “Will you have some orujo? It used to be your favorite.”

He smiled and gave a short laugh. “Thank you for the prompt. I regret that there is so much that I’ve forgotten. It strikes me as the height of irony that I can remember to pull a lady’s chair out for her but I can’t remember my favorite foods or my own name.” He poured some of the liquid into the tiny glass, tossed it back and immediately sputtered, reaching for his napkin. “Good lord, I can’t believe I like that stuff!” he ground out once he recovered from the shock.

Elena stifled a laugh. “It’s made from anis.”

“It’s horrible, is what it is.” He laughed with Elena. “Perhaps it’s an acquired taste and I shall have to reacquaint myself with it. But not tonight.” He put his napkin aside and rose from the table.

“Tonight, I only want to reacquaint myself with my wife.” He held out a hand to her, “If you’re willing, of course. A year apart is a long time. Perhaps you need time to get used to me again?”

This was the moment of truth. Elena did not hesitate. She put her hand in his and said, “I am willing.”