Bridge of Fire, page 8
He stood gazing at her, the angry look slowly fading from his eyes. “You fool.” He replaced the dagger. “Did you think I would force you?”
She took a step back, still defiant. “How could you treat me in such a manner?”
“I could ask the same of you. You promise to meet me, and then, because you see me talking to another woman, you come to God knows what conclusion without giving me a chance to speak for myself. And now you still rush to conclusions without hearing me out. I warned you once before that I come easy to bad temper.”
“And what of me? I am not as quick to take offense as you, perhaps. But I have feelings, too.”
A tic pulsed in his cheek. “It seems we are both in error,” he muttered. Turning from her, he walked back to the table, lifted the wine flagon, and drank from it. After a long silence—still with his back to her—he said, “It grieves me that we must quarrel.”
“Oh, Miguel,” she said softly, “it is not of my choosing, either.”
He turned and held out his arms. She went quickly into his embrace, laying her head on his chest. He pressed his lips to her hair. “Kiss me, then, and say I’m forgiven.”
She looked up at him, her thick lashes suddenly moist with tears.
“You were never more beautiful,” he whispered.
She touched his cheek with a tentative finger, then as his mouth moved to her temple, and then to the small pulse that beat in her throat, she circled his neck with one arm, bringing his lips to her mouth.
With her head on his shoulder, he led her to the bed.
He was deliberate, slow, infinitely patient, undressing her with skilled, unfaltering hands, the old Miguel, the one she knew, bringing her gradually to sensual hunger again. I do love him, she thought, her body responding in joy to his touch, her soul flying out to meet his impassioned words of love. “Miguel!” she heard herself exclaim, calling to him, a cry that was lost in the fever of their mutual excitement. Again and again he brought her to the brink, and then when she felt she could not endure the sweet torture another moment, his shuddering body sent her spinning into a rapturous, convulsive climax.
Afterward he held her again, idly stroking her hair.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, breaking a long, euphoric silence.
“Yes.”
Suddenly she thought of home. If she were there now, her family would be sitting down to their evening meal. Papá, at the head of the table, would intone a small prayer before the servants came in with the food. There would be chatter and laughter and the gleam of candlelight on china. In the courtyard just beyond the dining room, José, the footman, would take up his guitar, and the soft strumming of a familiar tune would make them pause a moment in their conversation.
The picture in her mind filled her with a sudden, inexplicable longing. She couldn’t understand why she should think of home with this queer pain under her heart when she was in the arms of her lover. But she did. Perhaps it was because she would be urged in another moment to leave it, to go away forever.
“Of what are you thinking, sweet?” Miguel withdrew his hand from her tangled hair and turned her face so that he could look into her eyes.
“Of home,” she answered truthfully. “Miguel, my parents—by now they should have missed me. They will have raised a hue and cry. People will be searching for me, the servants, friends, neighbors, the constabulary.”
“Their discomfort will be temporary. In four days I will have a friend deliver a note saying that you have gone away with me. By that time we should have sailed for the Philippines.”
“As your mistress. Can you imagine what terrible pain it will cause my father and mother? They will feel dishonored, shamed. They will not be able to hold up their heads in public. I beg of you to return me while we can make up some plausible excuse for my absence.”
“Return you? And what of the hurt it would cause me? If you love me, you would not consider such a possibility.”
He got out of bed and drew on his breeches. The sight of his naked torso, burned to a golden bronze by tropical suns, reminded her only too eloquently that minutes before, she had lain against him, felt the moving corded muscles of shoulders and back in gripping hands that wanted to hold on forever.
She loved him, but she loved her parents, too. Why did God give her such hard choices?
“I must leave you for a short while, Francisca. I go now to barter for another horse to replace a lame one.” He shrugged into his shirt, fastening the neck band. “In the morning we travel to Veracruz. I would prefer not to carry you aboard ship over my shoulder like a sack of meal. It’s up to you.”
Carelessly slinging his coat across his back, he turned and left the room.
Chapter VII
Supper was brought by an angular-cheeked Indian woman with black obsidian eyes. Her look as she set the tray down on the chest was one of scorn. Already, Francisca thought, I’m considered Miguel’s doxy. His kept whore. Even this indio feels it unnecessary to show respect. And how can I expect anything but disdain, sly looks, and ribald asides from the men downstairs, the one with the ribbons and furbelows and the one with the neckerchief of a seaman?
She ate little of the meal, picking at the roasted rabbit and yams, nibbling at the coarse-grained bread. Her mind played with the thought of escape. She wondered if Miguel had taken the two men downstairs with him. If so, as near as she could guess, she and the Indian woman were alone in the house. She had no idea how far out of the city they were, but if she could manage to get free, she felt sure she could find her way back.
Did she really want to run? Never, she thought, had a woman a more compelling, passionate captor. If she fled, would he come after her? Or would he feel a second pursuit was not worth the effort? It was useless to ask, “How much does he love me?” Love could not be measured. He wanted her; of that she was certain. But was wanting the same as love? And what of the women he had known before? Had he wanted them in the same way, too? When she was with him, when she lay replete in his arms, her head nestled on his chest, listening to the strong beat of his heart, she did not doubt his love. It was only when he was away that she began to question, to speculate.
The door behind her opened, and thinking it was the Indian woman come to fetch the tray, Francisca said, “I’ve finished.”
However, when she turned, she saw that it wasn’t the Indian woman, but the dandy from belowstairs.
“Permit me,” he said, removing his plumed hat and giving her a low, sweeping bow, “but I fear our host did not introduce us.” He wore an obvious wig of shoulder length, elaborately-curled hair that was a shade darker than his waxed mustache and pointed beard. The wig and the lace-fringed petticoat breeches added to his dandified appearance.
“I am called Don Carlos here in New Spain.”
Francisca nodded politely, wondering what he wanted, why he had come. There was something about his manner, something faintly sly about his smile, that she did not like, that made her uneasy.
“And your name?” he inquired with the same smile.
Francisca hesitated. “Your pardon, but I wish to remain anonymous.”
“As you wish. But a lovely lady like yourself does not need a name. La Belle Señora will do. May I sit?” He indicated the one other chair in the room.
“Is there need for it? I am not receiving company. Furthermore, if there is any communication you wish to make with me, I must ask you to do it through Don Miguel.”
He looked her up and down. “So you are still playing the proper lady, eh?” he sneered, discarding his polite manner.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she answered stiffly.
He tossed his hat on the empty chair. Then he unbuckled the velvet baldric which held his sword, carefully placing them on the window ledge. “A pity Don Miguel had to leave.
But then, he was never very good about sharing his women; that is, not until he was done with them. Perhaps that is why he left, eh? Is he done with you?”
Francisca rose to her feet. “I must ask you to go. At once!”
“Go, before I have given you a chance to see what a skilled lover I can be? Come, let us have a tumble. You will not regret it.”
“Get out!”
“Perhaps you wish to hear the ring of my money.” He withdrew a pouch from inside his coat and extracted several gold coins, tossing them on the table.
Francisca scooped up the minted gold and flung it in his face. Then, with all the dignity she could muster, she walked past him to the door.
Quick as a cat, he slid between her and the wooden panel. “Don’t run away, ma chérie. I was destined to possess you. And if you require a little urging, so be it.”
He clamped hard fingers on her wrist, swinging her away from the door, catching her other arm as she flailed out at him. He was strong, stronger than she had supposed from his effeminate garb, and her writhing body, held tightly against his chest, felt as though it had been caught in a steel trap. He freed her wrist and, with his hand, brought her face around, bringing his mouth down in a sour-tasting kiss.
Her hand caught at his wig, and she gave it a hard jerk. He let go with an oath. And in that moment, as he struggled between vanity and lust, she rushed to the door again.
Lust won. He reached her in two strides, yanking at the back of her gown, ripping it. As she tottered back, his arm hooked around her throat and he dragged her, half choking, to the bed. Forcing her down upon it, he straddled her, pinioning her arms above her head. She went rigid, panting and gasping, her breasts heaving. Then, gathering strength, she brought her knees up, catching him in the groin. He raised his arm to strike her just as the door slammed open, crashing against the wall.
Don Carlos turned his head, an oath dying on his lips. The next instant he was lifted from Francisca and thrown, bodily across the room.
“Get on your feet, turd, and tell me how you wish to die.” Miguel’s face was livid, his nostrils pinched with anger.
Don Carlos eased himself up, using the wall as a prop. “I swear, Don Miguel, she invited me in. No sooner had you gone but—”
“Bare hands, dagger, or sword? Be quick or I shall run you through, skewer you like a weasel.”
Don Carlos slid along the wall and, when he reached the window, grabbed his sword.
“That’s better,” Miguel challenged. “Fight like a man.” Don Carlos, wetting his lips, slowly unsheathed his weapon. Then, before Miguel could remove his own sword, Carlos lunged at him, catching his collar on the tip, tearing it from his neck.
“Son of a whore!” the dandy cried, his voice shrill with bravado. “Come ahead and kill me, you swine!”
If he had thought to enrage Miguel, he was wrong. Miguel was too cool a swordsman to be taunted into reckless play. He stood his ground, poised, his steady gaze following Carlos as he danced on his toes, feinting, drawing back, moving around Miguel in a slow circle. Suddenly Miguel thrust. There was a clash of steel on steel. The men sprang apart, both wary, both seeking an opening. Carlos lunged, aiming for Miguel’s heart, only to meet Miguel’s weapon crossed protectively against his chest. Carlos withdrew, another lunge, another withdrawal. Their heavy panting mingled with the ring of steel and the creak of floorboards as their booted feet stamped and pivoted.
Francisca, watching on her knees from the bed, held her hands tightly clasped at her breast. This was not for show, not a game, but a mortal battle. If Don Carlos won…But she would not let herself think of that.
Then suddenly Carlos’s slashing sword caught Miguel’s, knocking it from his hand. It clattered to the floor, but instead of returning it to Miguel, as any honorable opponent would have done, Carlos came at Miguel, meaning to finish him off. Miguel, stepping sideways and back, withdrew his dagger. Now the fight was uneven, for Carlos had the length of the sword to keep Miguel at bay. The dandy was grinning now, sure of his victory, when suddenly Miguel, ducking under Carlos’s sword arm, plunged the dagger into Carlos’s chest.
He went down with a look of astonishment on his face, blood bubbling from his mouth. A few moments later he was dead.
Miguel turned to Francisca. “Did he harm you?”
“No, no. Oh, Miguel”—her voice trembled—“if you hadn’t come…”
“Let’s not think of it, sweet.” He knelt and pulled the dagger from Carlos, wiping it on the fallen man’s petticoat breeches.
Still kneeling, he crossed himself. “I suppose I should commend his soul to God. But this one will go to the devil. I don’t enjoy killing a man, but in truth, him I could kill twice over. Renegade Frenchman. No one will miss him.”
Miguel rose and went to the door. When he opened it, Gaspar was waiting outside. “Listening at keyholes again, eh? Take this offal and get rid of it. Bury it or throw it to the vultures.”
After Gaspar had dragged the corpse from the room, Miguel came and sat beside Francisca, taking her in his arms. “I hadn’t meant this to happen. I had been gone but a few miles when I realized I shouldn’t trust Carlos. He was seeking passage on my ship to Cuba, a stranger to me. I couldn’t be too sure of Gaspar, who is one of my crewmen, either. I should have realized he would be poor protection for you. It was all my fault. Will you ever be able to forgive me?”
She nodded mutely, nestling close in his arms, trying to warm her chilled, still-trembling body.
He helped her into bed, bringing the covers up, tucking them in. “Go to sleep, dove. I will stay here and watch over you.”
* * *
Miguel, leaning on an elbow, looked down at her as she slept. How beautiful she was! Her dusky lashes rested above the soft curve of her cheeks in twin arcs that hid the dark, luminous eyes he found so enchanting. She lay on her back, one white, rounded arm flung above her head across a cloud of black hair. The coverlet had slipped to reveal a milk-white shoulder and the firm globe of a breast. The nipple was now quiescent. He resisted the urge to take it in his mouth and feel it harden against his tongue. He wanted to gather her up, hold her, fit the curves of her hips into his loins, feel the hot warmth of her eager anticipation, the way she joined him in the rising crescendo of their lovemaking, hear the little cries she made as he drove her to greater and greater heights.
But he let her sleep on, poor, tired little dove. He had been awake for hours, thinking, and toward dawn had come to a decision. He loved her. Yes, she had done something he had never thought possible: she had given him a belief in love. He could not bear to be parted from her, yet he understood how proud she was, that to be at his side as his mistress would embarrass and shame her. No, she was too well-bred for that. Though not of the nobility, she was the product of a long line of old Christians who traced their family tree to the time before the Moors. Women of good family were known to be taken by the king as mistresses, but Miguel doubted someone like Francisca would even consent to that dubious honor.
She stirred, muttering his name. He kissed her gently, and she opened her eyes. For a few moments there was bafflement in their brown depths, then she recognized him and smiled, an irresolute smile not quite sure of itself.
“I did not hear you come to bed,” she said. “Have I slept that soundly?”
“Yes. Would you like to break your fast? The indio makes a passable fried cake.”
“I should go home, Miguel.”
“We will talk of that later,” he said firmly, but with a smile. “Fried cakes, then?”
“Very well. But first, is it possible for me to have a bath?”
“A bath?” He looked at her in surprise. One took a bath only on grand occasions. “I suppose I could arrange it.”
While Francisca lay in bed, a keg was brought up, and later, much later, the Indian woman toiled in with buckets of hot water. She dumped them into the keg, and when Francisca indicated in sign language she wished a towel and soap, the stolid woman’s visage seemed to brighten. Some ancestral Mayan memory must have stirred in her brain, for she seemed to understand the rite of cleanliness better than her Spanish conquerors did.
Francisca, her heavy black hair pinned to the top of her head, was splashing about when Miguel came into the room again.
“You mustn’t!” Francisca shouted, turning bright red. Sleeping with a man stark naked was one thing, but to have him see her naked in her bath was another. “Go away!” she ordered.
Smiling, he sauntered over to the bed and sat down, watching her. “I can’t decide whether you are more beautiful in a keg of water or between my legs.”
“Why must you be so crude?”
He laughed, not the sinister laugh of the night before, but a laugh of mirth and enjoyment. “It’s rather late to speak of crudeness, is it not?”
She turned her back on him, ignoring him, hoping he would soon become bored and leave. To her chagrin, he remained. But she went on with her bath, pretending to be alone, though she was conscious of his eyes upon her. She had finished soaping and rinsing, the water had grown tepid, then cold, and yet he stayed on. Finally, shivering, she got shakily to her feet.
“Ah, Susanna rises from the pool,” he paraphrased from the old biblical tale. He rose and, coming across the room, lifted her streaming body from the keg. “Let me be your servant.”
He toweled her briskly, moving down her breasts, across her back, down her thorax and abdomen. Francisca’s skin tingled, her cheeks taking on a pink glow. Kneeling, he drew the towel between her thighs, his movements slower now, teasing. A slow heat rose from Francisca’s loins. “I must get dressed,” she heard herself murmur.
To her surprise—and disappointment—he let her go. But when she reached the bed, where her clothes lay, he came up from behind and whirled her around.
“You are much too tempting.” He crushed her to his hard chest, burying his face in her neck. “You smell of jasmine, of the Garden of Eden.”
The ivory buttons of his coat dug into her flesh, and Francisca, taking an involuntary step back, threw Miguel off balance, and they both fell on the bed, half on it, their legs dangling on the floor. Laughing, Miguel undid his breeches and, rising over her, spread her flanks. He watched her face as he moved within her, the velvety moistness enclosing his sheath, saw the little frown between her eyes, saw the dew of rapture appear on her forehead. “Do you love me?” he whispered, clasping her tighter, wrapping himself around her as her legs came up to embrace him. “Are we one now as truly as man and wife?”
