Paradise & More (Torres Family Saga) (25 page)

      
When they were alone in the dimly lit hallway, Magdalena turned to Bartolome. “Do you really plan to ask Diego Torres to help you pacify the primitives of the interior?”

      
He shrugged. “From what I have learned, the man is a good friend of Cristobal's ally, Guacanagari. We need his help, Magdalena.” He paused and a sad, gentle smile touched his rough face. “In spite of his cruel words, you love him still, do you not?”

      
Magdalena felt hot words of denial catch in her throat and when she looked into his shrewd, pale blue eyes, she knew protest was useless. “It matters not what I feel, Bartolome. Diego, or Aaron, as he prefers to be called, has made his feelings on our match abundantly plain.”

      
“After all the rigors and risks of escaping the court and a convent, I thought you more of a fighter, Magdalena.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when her expression became angry. “Now, rest easy. I will not drag him bound before you. Only give the matter time.”

      
“Aye, time. Something that may quickly run out. I am not a sheltered, convent-reared girl, Bartolome. Life has dealt me more than a few blows. I know there will be dissention among the men over me. Mayhap I must return to Seville and hope her majesty will forget me and let drop the convent threat if I do not again attend court.”

      
“You cannot hide yourself in the country, Magdalena. The queen is as famous for her memory as your father is for his ambition. You must needs be a bride of Christ or a bride of some mortal man—and soon, if you would choose him yourself.”

      
Magdalena nodded in resignation. Bartolome was right, she thought, bidding him good-night at the door to her room. Once inside, she had taken only one step toward her bed when she felt the steely grip of a strong arm about her arms and waist while the other hand clamped over her mouth. Even before he spoke, Magdalena knew Aaron's touch.

      
He whispered low. “Now, my pretty fluttering bird, return my father's ring and I will allow you to spend many nights to come with your adoring gaggle of ganders below. How practiced at flirting you have become—or were ever so and did but hide it from me.”

      
She tried to shake her head, but the cruel grip of his calloused fingers held her immobile.

      
“I will release you, but you must not scream else I will be forced to deal with you as I did in Seville. Besides, think of how it will look when all your suitors find you thus compromised. Will you be quiet?”

      
This time he allowed her to nod, then eased his hand from her mouth, although his tight grip about her body did not loosen. She had no breath to cry out. His hand wandered across her shoulder and bosom, bared by the low, square-cut neckline of her gown. Frissons of passion tingled through her body. When he chuckled low, she knew he felt the tautening of her nipples through the sheer layers of silk. But her own shame was mollified by the unmistakable proof of his desire, pressing ever harder into her back.

      
“Now, let me remove my ring from the ugly bauble which holds it and I will leave you to sleep in peace,” he whispered silkily. His hand opened the locket and extracted the pomander.

      
She stiffened in outrage. “You have no right!”

      
“This is my father's ring. As the only surviving son of Benjamin Torres, who else should have it? A scheming girl who stole it from a man she had foully murdered?”

      
“That is a monstrous lie! I loved Benjamin. Never would I have harmed him.” She felt the wracking sobs steal up and fought to suppress them.

      
Aaron could sense how she struggled to control her rage. Good God, could she possibly be telling the truth? He had every reason to doubt, none to believe—but for that instinct deep in his gut that had plagued him ever since he first touched her. Seville seemed a lifetime ago. Unwillingly, he gentled his hold and turned her to face him.

      
The moonlight silvered her pale skin to a pearly sheen, light and delicate against his darkly bronzed body. Tears trailed silently down her cheeks, but she made no sound and would not meet his eyes. “What am I to do with you, Magdalena?” he whispered in perplexity.

      
Her eyes, lustrous with the tears, opened wide and clashed with his as she tilted her chin up proudly. “Obviously not wed me. Benjamin was mistaken in that. Take his ring and go, Aaron.”

      
“So, you cry off. Men like Margarite, even that milksop Diego Colon, will become rich and return to Castile covered in glory. With new suitors, you no longer need me.”

      
“I want no man,” she gritted, pushing him away ineffectually. His bare chest was hard as Toledo steel. “Better the convent.”

      
He touched her temple and traced a path down her lovely cheekbone to the pulse that leaped in her throat. “You are too passionate and full of life for the cold walls of a convent. Whence came such a notion?”

      
“From the queen,” she said, suddenly overcome with the desire to wound him as he had her. “When I caught King Fernando's eye, she misliked it as much as I did. I was to be dowered to the Dominican sisters. I enlisted Bartolomé's aid to escape to the Indies. Even marriage to you was preferable to cold stone walls in Madrid! But now I have changed my mind. The cloister looks more promising!”

      
To her mortification, instead of growing angry, he began to chuckle. “Ah, lady, you are ever leaping from one boiling kettle to another. Watch you do not burn that lovely little rump,” he said, holding her closely to him by lifting her buttocks in his hands.

      
She wriggled to get free of his disturbing touch. “Let me go, else I will scream—your neck and my reputation be damned!”

      
“Consorting with Fernando Trastamara has already sealed your reputation in the Spains. Beware lest you also lose it in Española.” With that he lifted her in his arms and his mouth descended in a searing exploration. His tongue rimmed her lips, until she opened them, then it darted inside and retreated. His own lips ground against hers fiercely. All breath, all reason deserted her as she spiraled downward in the whirlpool of passion. Her body turned to hot liquid, pouring itself into his as her hands held his bare shoulders and her nails sank into his muscles.

      
As quickly as it began, it ended. Aaron broke free of her with a muffled oath and shoved her, dazed and panting, against the door, like a rabbit run to ground and then merely wounded by a cruelly playful predator. Before she could gather her wits, he vanished out the large open window and melted into the dense black shadows along the wall. In a moment she heard the pounding of hoofbeats and knew he had escaped, taking with him his father's ring.

      
She sank onto the bed, numb and dry-eyed now. “Twas his to take. I can do no more, Benjamin,” she whispered on the silent night air.

      
Now that it was emptied of its treasure, Magdalena could not bear the ugly weight of the locket. She prayed Bartolome would not suspect that Aaron had reclaimed the ring.

      
The next morning, vowing to find a place in the new colony, she dressed in the coolest gown she owned, copying the fashion of the women of the settlement who wore neither surcoats nor under-tunics, merely simple loose gowns of linen or cotton. The heat of Española left her bereft of vanity. She braided her long thick hair into a fat plait and tied it with a bit of ribbon, her only ornament. Slipping from the governor's residence, she headed for the hospital to talk with the physician in charge. Diego Alvarez Chanca was reputed to be reclusive but a man of some learning.

      
The hospital turned out to be no more than a rude thatched hovel, scarcely better than a moderately prosperous peasant's cottage in Andalusia. She eyed it from across the plaza, which was crowded with large numbers of people. A Galician fisherman hawked fresh crabs and lobsters, caught at dawn that day. Smelling them in the intense heat, Magdalena doubted the veracity of his claim. Two Tainos, brown skin gleaming with sweat, bartered in sign language with a merchant from Huelva to obtain several strings of beads in return for a copper arm band.

      
One dealer in cheap red cotton cloth had a Taino female enthralled with his product and was quoting her a price for it with graphic gestures. A scraggly whore from the Barcelona waterfront advertised her wares, sauntering from one group of lounging soldiers to another. Several Indian women sat impassively behind piles of yams and papayas, willing to take cheap trinkets in return for the food. Pigs squealed and chickens squawked, running wild across the crowded plaza, adding both noise and excrement to the chaotic and aromatic scene.

      
The smell of
cassava
bread, the coarse dry cakes made of shredded manioc root, assailed her nostrils. She disliked its acid taste and crumbly consistency, but it was the substitute for wheat bread on Española. Magdalena dodged a pair of hounds in furious pursuit of a fluttering chicken and moved closer to watch a woman shove
cassava
cakes into the hot coals with a crude wooden paddle.

      
A pair of soldiers, roughly dressed in loose linen tunics and leather hose walked up to her. One, with matted dark hair of some unidentifiable color, seized her braid roughly and pulled her into his arms. She nearly gagged at the foulness of his breath. His companion smiled, revealing the stumps of rotted brown teeth in a badly pock-marked face.

      
“What have we here, Yañez, a new arrival from Castile? Look at the hair. They say the queen has red hair like this,” her captor said to his friend.

      
Yañez weaved slightly to the left and then took another pull at the wineskin he was holding in a dirt-encrusted paw. “Let us ask her price for servicing us both—but let her get no grand ideas. She is no queen.”

      
“But I am of her court, you mangy cur. Release me lest the admiral's brother cut off your filthy hands. You could not heft that wineskin with bloody stumps.”

      
Yañez took a step backward, his wine-fogged brain dimly registering the lisping accent of an educated noblewoman, but her captor would not so easily relinquish his prize.

      
“She is but a whore as are all who come on the ships from Cadiz and Palos,” he reassured his friend, running one hand crudely across her breast.

      
Magdalena reacted with instinctive loathing, kicking at his shin with her pointy-toed slipper. When he loosened his hold with an oath of surprise, she shoved him off balance and reached frantically to her girdle for her dagger.

      
Yañez, by now clear of his stupor, saw the blade flash and backed off, but his compatriot Alfredo again attempted to seize her, snarling, “Can you not disarm a small wench?”

      
She whirled and slashed out with her weapon. Alfredo's blood oozed through the filth of what had once been a white linen tunic sleeve. This galvanized Yañez who wrapped one arm about her, pinning her arms to her sides and immobilizing her knife hand for an instant. In that instant she kicked back at his legs and thrashed, throwing him off balance so they both fell to the dusty red earth in a heap with her on top. Alfredo was on her just as Yañez loosed his hold, but again she wielded her knife, this time opening a slash across his chest before he disarmed her.

      
By now a crowd had gathered to watch the sport. Several of the settlement whores cheered her on while two Palos sailors made bets on which of Margarite's soldiers would have her first.

      
Suddenly a cry went up from the edge of the crowd and Bartolome Colon came thundering through the press, knocking aside men and women alike. His sword was drawn but the look on his florid face could have killed without its aid.

      
Alfredo leaped away from Magdalena, holding his bloody arm against his slashed chest, trembling with a mixture of fury and fear. Magdalena rolled away from Yañez's foul stench, struggling for breath as Bartolome called for two of the guards from the governor's house to throw the men in jail.

      
“Dona Magdalena, your sense of adventure will be your undoing. You were to wait for me. I warned you of how rough this place is.”

      
As he assisted her up, the two soldiers were hauled off at sword point. She spared them not another glance, but looked down at her ruined gown, now wrinkled, torn, and covered with dust and blood. As she made a vain attempt to smooth it and then her wildly tangled hair, which had come unplaited, a stranger's voice caused her to raise her head with a snap.

      
“It would seem, Bartolome, that I can leave neither of my brothers in charge of Ysabel while I am away, lest there be a riot over a comely wench.”

      
Magdalena stared at the tall, thin man with graying red hair and piercing blue eyes, alight with mirth. The admiral had returned.

Chapter Thirteen

      
Magdalena stood outside the door to the audience chamber, her nerves stretched to the breaking point. She had bathed, washed her hair and brushed it dry, then dressed it with a beautiful pearl snood. She had chosen a rather old-fashioned gown of brown silk with a high neckline, showing only a frilly ruffle of white linen under-tunic at the throat. She hoped Bartolome would think she wore her locket and the missing ring beneath it.

      
She had rehearsed her speech for the admiral, begging his permission to remain on Española. Magdalena wanted to speak of Aaron not at all, but feared Bartolome might already have berated her lover to his old commander. If Cristobal Colon was a loyal friend of his marshal, he might quickly decide to evict her from his domain—back to Seville and the convent. Taking a deep breath for courage, she tapped on the door, and that strong clear voice commanded her to enter.