Spanish Serenade (21 page)

The nipple tightened under his circling, smoothing tongue. Her breast swelled toward that ravishing caress. The tingling pleasure spread through her in waves. Her heartbeat quickened, throbbing in her chest. The lower part of her body grew suffused and heavy. Then she felt the first shock of his intimate touch.

Her abdomen muscles contracted in spasms and she caught her breath, but did not move, did not draw away. Inside she could sense the unleashing of incalculable impulses. She wanted him, wanted to know what it was to make love with this man. Had she fooled herself with her reasons and causes and sacrifices? Did it matter?

His shoulders under her clasping hands were wide and strong, the muscles supple as they glided with his movements. The aura of power he carried with him, unquenchable even in injury, surrounded her. It affected her with an odd weakness, a languor that urged her toward a surrender of inescapable completeness. There was more than the loss of her virginity at stake, and well she knew it.

She was not the kind to forget, neither was she the kind for half measures. Whispering his name, she touched his face. As he took her lips once more, she gave herself in fervent and silent offering, a gift without encumbrance.

Tenderly marauding, Refugio explored the curves and hollows of her body, always returning to the seat of her utmost delight. She drew her hand down his chest, touching the flat nipple of one pap tentatively with just her fingertips. His rib cage swelled with his indrawn breath, and he adjusted his position to allow greater access. She spread her fingers wide, feeling the strong beat of his heart, the bands of muscle that encased his ribs, skipping lightly over his bandaging to the flat expanse of his waist. Greatly daring, equally dexterous, she unfastened his underbreeches.

He skimmed from the hampering garment, tossing it aside. As he drew her to him once more, he spread his hand over her hip, drawing her against his hard length.

She was beguiled, and suffused with moist, pulsating heat. But she was not quite without concern. She whispered against his neck, a catch in her voice. “Is it — will it be all right?”

“It will be glorious,” he said with shivers of laughter in his voice. “It will stupendous, a bright reflection of heaven, but it won't be all right, ever.”

“I mean — can you . . .?”

“Who can say? But I must try, or else give you leave to take my guts for leading strings for the idiot I must become, and bid you be a gentle keeper—”

“There is no danger,” she said.

“And yet,” he went on as if she had not spoken, his voice low and not quite controlled, “bid me cease, and I will. I promise I will.”

She did not doubt it. “It's I who need a gentle keeper,” she said.

“Why,” he said, “when I am here?”

And he was gentle. He was also firm and springing and resilient. There was hardly an instant of pain at his entry, and it was eased by myriad caresses and the free flowing of beatitude. She held her pent breath while the core of her dissolved, coalescing around him. She drew him to her with a hand at his waist, pulling him deep and deep and deep and even deeper, as if there was no end to her depths.

He whispered her name, brushing her eyelids with his lips, then he lifted himself higher above her, preparing for the deepest plunge.

It came, and she cried out his name. In rising and falling tumult he gathered her close and swept her with him into rapture. With tightly closed eyes she reveled in the closeness of the union, felt the mounting ecstasy of it vibrating through her, recognized her own sensual joy in his desire for her. There was no fastness left unbreached. She gave herself without stint, enclosing him in vibrant heat. So intense was the ecstasy that the sudden spiraling pinnacle of it caught her by surprise. She cried out again, and his hold tensed while he filled her, prolonging the pleasure to the edge of infinity.

Then, dynamic and elemental, they soared, locked together in promised grandeur. Vivid with perception, they plumbed sensation and found it immense enough to fill the world. There was only the two of them, unclothed, splendid in their communion, unheeding, unneeding, sufficient in their glory.

Pilar felt the rise of tears. In the midst of their liquid heat he plunged into her once more, twice, then gathered her to him, holding the bond as he rolled to his side and was still, deathly still.

Their chests heaved, their hearts thudded together in double time. The ship under them seemed to plunge with them in remembered rhythm, rocking them in soothing reassurance. Refugio, his hand unsteady, brushed her hair from her face so she could breathe more easily. She clenched and unclenched her hand on his arm. Then slowly, by minute degrees, they began to subside.

Concern shifted inside Pilar. With a small exclamation she lifted her hand, reaching to press it to his brow as if testing for fever. He closed his fingers about hers and brought them to his lips. His mouth warm against them, he said, “I'm as peaceful as a twice-shriven monk and blithesome as a petted puppy, with good reason. And you, cara?”

“The same,” she said, her lips curving in a hidden smile.

“Then sleep while I watch for a change.”

She did as she was bid, and did not wake until Enrique came pounding on the door and shouting about breakfast.

They arrived in Havana on the island of Santiago de Cuba some three weeks later. The remainder of the crossing had been without incident and blessed with unusually fair weather. Under the endless parade of sunny skies and days of brisk salt-laden winds, Refugio, had made rapid improvement. He had abandoned his near catatonic state without apparent effort and with little explanation. His manner casual and his dress neat and even lordly, he had sauntered into the salon in mid-afternoon of the day following his night with Pilar.

“My dear count!” Doña Luisa said, rising to her feet and hastening to take his arm. “Welcome, welcome, how we have missed you! Tell us, if you please, to what we owe this miraculous recovery?”

“Why, what else except sea air and the solicitude of friends, and that sovereign remedy for all ills of the flesh, the care of a beautiful woman.”

“You were certainly in my prayers,” the widow said, “but I fear you flatter me.”

“Not at all,” he answered, and as he bowed, turned his gaze to exchange a long and faintly smiling glance with Pilar.

He entertained the company with stories of cunning and wit, with music from his guitar and soft songs that flowed in endless succession far into the evening. If the unaccustomed exertion tired him or pained his wound, there was no sign. The following morning he changed his bandaging himself, then spent the hours before noon strolling the deck with Doña Luisa on one arm and the merchant's young wife on the other. By the end of the week he was exercising with swords with his men on deck while entertaining the watchers with caustic quips.

His temper had not mended with his body. There were times when nothing seemed to suit him. On such occasions his words and phrases had an edge that sliced to the bone. Small things irritated him beyond bearing: a sloppily fastened line, the way the cook had with beans, the scent of Doña Luisa's handkerchief as she flapped it in his face, the sight of Pilar playing at cards with Charro and Enrique. He could not be satisfied until he had tied the line again, decreased the amount of grease in the beans, thrown the widow's handkerchief overboard, and broken up the card party with a spate of orders that sent Charro to one end of the ship and Enrique to the other. The result was that there were long hours when both passengers and crew left him alone. That, at least, suited him.

A certain amount of restlessness was natural for a man like Refugio, one used to action and broad spaces, not only cooped up on a vessel at sea, but haunted by fear for his brother. There was also the specter of his failed duties, the strain of the masquerade, and the constant arch comments and calls upon his person and his patience of Doña Luisa. Another reason, Pilar thought, was the headaches which remained with him. She learned to recognize their symptoms, the heavy-lidded eyes, the tightness at the corners of his mouth. She learned also that it was possible to withstand both his cold manner and his cutting words. All she had to do was ignore them, she found; there was seldom anger behind them, and they were never personal. At least with her.

His followers realized that she had less to fear from him than others; still, they rallied around her, deflecting as many of his barbed comments as possible. Sometimes they even protested at what they felt to be his cavalier treatment. They meant to help, but Pilar thought it only made matters worse. He accused her, in his more savage moods, of beguiling them. It smacked of jealousy, these comments. She would have liked to believe it. It would have been so much more satisfactory than supposing they stemmed from mere irritation of the nerves.

Sometimes at night she massaged his temples and the taut muscles of the back of his neck; it seemed to help. He swore it made it better, also, to have her sleeping beside him. Once when he had made her angry by some comment about her propensity for the company of Charro, she had moved her blankets back to the corner of the cabin. By the time he returned from a late téte-à-tête with the widow, she had finally managed to drop into restless slumber. She was awakened, however, by a sudden jolt as she was lifted against his chest. Carrying her to the bed, he sat down with her in his arms and set himself to cajole her with honeyed words and beguiling caresses until she joined him once more on the mattress.

Afterward, as he lay holding her in the hard circle of his arms, he said, “Count Gonzalvo was a wise man.”

“Was he? How so?” Somnolent with content, she smoothed the dark, curling hair on his chest with one finger to keep it from tickling her nose.

“He kept his Venus safe, and his own mind at ease.”

“But what of her?”

“He worshiped her, or so they say, and provided everything she could desire for her amusement.”

“Is that supposed to be enough?”

He bent his head, trying to see her face. “Do you think it's not?”

“To be loved and left free seems better.” She kept her eyes lowered, refusing to meet his gaze.

“What, no purdah for you, no harem with high walls? Have you no desire for safety?”

“If I did, I wouldn't be here. I would be in the convent where my stepfather wanted me.”

“True.”

“Besides, if women can't keep men in towers, why should men be allowed the privilege of keeping women there?”

“Why, indeed? Would you like to keep a man in a tower?”

A smile curled her lips. “It sounds dangerous to me, though there is a certain appeal.”

“You would, then,” he said, his voice low and deep. “Shall we go in search of a tower and keep each other there?”

She raised her eyes to meet his then, expecting to see the light of laughter. Instead she saw herself reflected in their gray darkness. There was also a line between his brows, one etched by pain. She lifted her fingers to smooth it, then trailed them down the contour of his cheek to the rigid turn of his jaw. He reached to catch her fingers, carrying them to his lips.

“No?” he said, his breath soft and warm against their sensitive tips. “Then I will make a wall of kisses around you and let it keep us safe for now, if not forever.”

It was a task she was willing to aid.

Pilar didn't know whether Refugio was also sharing the bed of the widow. She didn't think so, but not caring to be proven wrong, didn't ask. She liked to think that he must lack the strength, and certainly the inclination, after leaving her bed. She was aware, however, that this was not necessarily so.

In any case, she had no right to complain. She had thrown herself at him, after all. Regardless of her reasons, this could not be denied. He owed her no fidelity, even if the safety of them all did not dictate his continued acquiescence to the wishes of the widow.

There was no question of love between her and El Leon. Of course there was not. Their union was based on proximity and a virulent attraction of the senses. And self-protection; she must not forget that. If she ever allowed herself to think otherwise, she had only to recall what Isabel had said — that Refugio would never involve himself with a woman for whom he cared deeply. There was comfort, in an odd way, in that memory, since his attendance upon Doña Luisa could be viewed in the same light.

Havana was stifling. The sun had a yellow-white, metallic glare as it reflected from the shore-bound waves, the shelving beaches, the hard green fronds of the palm trees. The deck of the
Celestina
soaked up the heat and sent it radiating upward around the party of government officials, the representative of the custom house, the harbor master, tax collector, notary, and a petty clerk, who came aboard as soon as the ship had dropped anchor.

There was a moment when Pilar, watching the men stride along the deck toward where she stood with Refugio and the captain, felt the brush of alarm. It faded as the officials came to a halt with stiff bows and the round of presentations and obsequies began.

Refugio was polite but distant, as became a supposed aristocrat with vast holdings in Spain. The officials were deferential; their welcomes, particularly to Pilar, were fulsome. No one tried to stop Refugio as he turned from them with languid inattention and strolled away with Pilar on his arm.

If he had thought to avoid people, however, he soon discovered his error. It was not every day that a grandee arrived in sleepy Havana-town, and news of it quickly spread. By nightfall a dozen invitations had been delivered offering everything from breakfast with a wealthy planter known to have five daughters of marriageable age to a ride about the island with the governor. The breakfast could be graciously declined without suspicion, but not so the ride. Returning from it some time later, Refugio pronounced it pleasant enough. It had resulted in yet another invitation, however. This one was to a masked ball at the governor's palace.