Return to Paradise (Torres Family Saga)

by Shirl Henke

  RETURN TO PARADISE

  By

  SHIRL HENKE

  Originally published by Leisure Books

  Copyright 1992 by Shirl Henke

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without the written permission of the author.

  Other electronic works by Shirl Henke:

  A FIRE IN THE BLOOD

  “Billie Jo and the Valentine Crow”

  The Blackthorne Trilogy:

  LOVE A REBEL…LOVE A ROGUE

  WICKED ANGEL

  WANTON ANGEL

  The House of Torres Saga:

  PARADISE & MORE

  RETURN TO PARADISE

  Prologue

  La Chateau Oublieux, August, 1524

  The comtesse raised one milky white arm and traced his saber scar with her long tapered fingers. It was a casual, elegant gesture, yet Rigo knew it betrayed more curiosity than was her jaded wont. He arched one heavy black brow in sardonic amusement as he watched her compare their flesh, hers so softly pale, his so exotically dark. “Still you speculate about my ancestry,” he said with a trace of bitter humor in his voice.

  Louise of Saint Gilles shrugged her shoulders in Gallic dismissal, knowing the movement raised her large, luminously white breasts provocatively. “Tis no matter that you are dark for a Castilian, but rather that the Moorish strain in your blood gives you away as an enemy to France.”

  Rodrigo de Las Casas laughed aloud. “Since when does a Provencal worry about loyalty to France? Charles of Bourbon sold himself to my emperor and now declares that he is Count of Provence to sweeten the bargain.”

  Louise made a moue of distaste. “One never knows when the winds of politics will shift. Today your Spanish emperor holds sway, tomorrow perhaps King Francois will retake Provence. I only worry for your safety, beloved,” she whispered, draping one plump, pearly thigh languorously across his lean dark hips.

  Rigo gave a feral growl at her invitation and rolled their entwined bodies across her bed to plunge into her wet, eager flesh for another surfeit of pleasure. He could feel her long nails dig into his back as she arched hungrily beneath him.

  Louise gazed up at his dark countenance with passion-glazed eyes. She had always been aroused by the contrast in their coloring. The first time he had undressed her and run his swarthy hands over her pale skin, she had nearly swooned with the forbidden excitement. He was the enemy, a mercenary in the pay of King Charles of Spain, but also the most exotically striking man she had ever seen.

  Louise was entranced by his classically sculpted features, framed by shoulder-length blue-black hair. His tall, lean frame was sinewy with the muscles of a man born to horse and weaponry. Louise gloried in his scars, symbols of the hard, dangerous life he led, so unlike Henri's. Poor dear Henri, her pale, fat little husband, was in Aix feting the conquering Imperial Army. She gave a feline smile of anticipation as she pulled on Rigo's thick, straight hair, drawing him down to devour his mouth in a harsh kiss. I, too, am honoring the victors.

  Later, as Louise slept, Rigo untangled himself from her lush curves and rose to dress. He pushed the heavy red brocade bed curtains back impatiently, then placed his bare feet firmly on the thick Turkish carpet. Saint Gilles provided handsomely for his lady, Rigo thought with grim amusement. The lavish wall hangings, intricately carved teak tables and jewel-encrusted wall sconces attested not only to the Comte's wealth, but to the Provencal trade with the Moslems of North Africa.

  Having appeased his long sexual abstinence, he began to dress, finding no exotic allure in her milky flesh. Over the years he had bedded too many beautiful noblewomen, French and Flemish, English and Spanish, all possessing pale skin and a marked absence of morals. As a callow boy of fourteen he had been seduced by the wife of an Argonese duke. Life had taught him that the same alien blood that forever closed to him the doors of political and economic advancement opened the doors to women's bed chambers. The duchess had been twice his age and very inventive in the arts of love. He proved an apt pupil over the years.

  Hearing the rustling whisper of fine linen when he donned his under tunic, Louise awakened and peered at him with heavy-lidded eyes. He had left the satin coverlet undisturbed when he rose, but now she let it fall artlessly to her waist as she sat up. Unable to restrain a note of petulance in her voice, she said, “You need not depart so soon. Henri will not return for at least another three days.”

  “Henri is not the only man needed in Aix. Pescara awaits my report and I have dallied long enough in the countryside, Louise,” Rigo replied soothingly. Always he hated the leave-taking. Were all women so pettishly intent on holding a man until they did the dismissing?

  “Ah yes, Pescara, that little Italian fop you spy for,” she said in silky insult. When her remarks caused not even a twitch of irritation as he continued dressing, she changed tactics. “Please, the marquis has no need of you until the army leaves Aix. Bourbon enjoys the adulation of the city and he, not Pescara, is in command of the army.”

  Rigo snorted in disgust. “More's the pity. That little Italian fop, as you so charmingly call him, is ten times the soldier your puffed-up Frenchman will ever be.”

  Louise sensed that she could not sway him, yet refused to relinquish her lover so easily. He was such a splendid barbarian. “I do not want to discuss military matters or politics or the men who decide such things. You know I have been lonely these past months since we met in Naples. I thought never to see you again and then you arrive at my gates, bold as one of your Moorish ancestors.”

  He smiled with his lips but not his eyes. “Tis you who says I am of Moorish blood. I never have.”

  She knelt at the edge of the bed and placed one white hand against his swarthy cheek, then ran her nails lightly down his throat and buried her fingers in the thick black hair curling at the opening of his linen shirt. “And what Spaniard as dark as you could claim aught else?”

  His eyes darkened in pain, which he quickly suppressed. “Yes, what Spaniard could,” he echoed expres-sionlessly.

  “Does it yet disturb you so much?”

  “My inferior blood has kept me from advancement where my bastard blood would not have done. Many a capable soldier has risen to high rank and won land and titles, even if born on the wrong side of the blanket. But only if his parents possessed limpieza de sangre.” He spoke in the Provencal dialect, all but for the words “purity of blood,” which somehow required Castilian.

  “The Spanish are such barbarians,” Louise cooed, trying to soothe and seduce him. “I have told you the sorry tale of my life, wed to a fat, stupid boy when I was but twelve years old. Yet you have revealed almost nothing of yourself.” She twined her arms about his neck and rubbed her large breasts provocatively against his chest.

  Firmly disengaging her arms, he replied, “There is little to tell. You see me as I am. A mercenary in the pay of the Imperial Army. I grew to manhood on the plains of Andalusia and was first blooded serving old King Fernando in the conquest of Navarre. By the age of eighteen I had already learned I had no hope of earning my way but by my sword. I was raised by a pious family whose eldest son took Holy Orders, a vocation denied me because of my bastardry, even as my mixed blood kept me from studying law or medicine.”

  Louise let out a small trill of laughter. “You, a priest! Or a healer.” She appeared to consider. “Well, perhaps a lawyer, but only if women were allowed to sit in judgment!”

  “Born to wealth and position, you may easily jest about such matters,” he said tightly as he turned away from her and resumed dressing.

  “I meant no offense, Rodrigo. For all your fine, s
ad words about being illegitimate and of mixed blood, you have the devil's own temper. Hot Moorish blood, yes,” she purred.

  “Not Moorish, for they are civilized far beyond the comprehension of Europeans. I am a savage scorned even by the barbarous Spanish—my mother was a primitive from the Indies, too mean and insignificant for my proud Castilian father to wed. God curse his soul, whoever he may be!”

  Louise looked astonished for an instant, a most unusual expression for the sophisticated comtesse. Her hazel eyes grew round and her cheeks pinkened with a flush of renewed excitement. She tossed her long, tangled mane of amber hair over her shoulder and twisted one curl nervously in her fingers. Studying the methodical way in which he was donning the light armor of his profession, she said with a sigh, “Now I have made you angry with me. I care not a fig if your mother was chief wife of the Caliph of Bagdad or an Indian slave from the New World. I want you, Rigo. Do not leave me with such rancor between us. When can you return?”

  Rodrigo de Las Casas turned to face the beautiful blonde woman kneeling so pleadingly on the bed. She was right. If only women, not men, held the reins of social advancement in their hands, he would prosper indeed, but such a dishonorable thought gave him no comfort at all. If he could not prove himself on the battlefield, he would not dance attendance on unfaithful wives to secure his future. With a cynical smile he said, “The army marches south to lay siege to Marseilles. If all of Provence falls under the Imperial yoke, mayhap I shall return, Louise...if you are yet certain my savage blood does not frighten you.”

  “You may frighten me at times, Rigo, but tis the kind of fear a woman comes to relish...like rare sweetmeats from hot foreign climes,” she added with a breathless chuckle as he scowled darkly.

  * * * *

  Benjamin Torres combed his fingers through his long gold hair, plastered to his head in the driving summer rain, then quickly grabbed for the oilskin-wrapped bundle of books in danger of tumbling from the pitching boat. Two stout gromets rowed against the pitiless wind that was driving the small boat farther out into the Golfe du Lion, away from the dim lights flickering on the Provencal coastline.

  “Some mission of mercy this has turned out to be,” he muttered beneath the howl of the wind and roar of the waves swamping the tiny boat. The fat caravel he had sailed on from Genoa bound for Marseilles had gone down seemingly hours ago, all its desperately needed cargo of food, gunpowder and weapons lost to the angry sea. The only items salvaged were a few medical supplies and the equipment that the young Jewish physician had carried onto the ship's boat. Now it seemed both the remnants of the cargo and even his own skills were to be lost as well.

  “I see fire—a campfire on the beach!” the boatswain cried out over the din.

  Several of the seamen cursed as one Genoese said, “They will be Imperials, ready to cut our throats. We have been blown too far north of Marseilles to reach Frenchmen.”

  “Tis dry land and a fire. I care not what army holds it,” another replied, renewing his rowing with vigor.

  “You, Physician, can you speak anything but the Latin and Greek from your books?” the Genoese boatswain asked in his Ligurian dialect.

  Benjamin smiled in spite of the danger. “My family was from Seville. If you say nothing of my being Jewish, perhaps I can deceive the Spanish soldiers into believing I am a loyal subject of King Carlos on my way home to Malaga, blown off course in the storm.”

  The boat had finally been turned, catching a strong current that drew them nearer the beaches. If only they could get past the jagged rocks jutting out like the enormous gray fingers of Poseidon.

  Benjamin prayed for deliverance, not only from the sea and the rocks, but from the Imperial Army as well. In his medical books were inscriptions written in the Ladino dialect of the Sephardim, the Jews expelled from Spain by King Carlos' grandparents in 1492. He fervently hoped these soldiers were as illiterate as the general lot, not educated as his father Aaron.

  The rocks loomed nearer, then the boat was literally pitched past them by a giant wave, one boatswain was thrown into the frothing waters, as were several of the gromets. Benjamin held tightly to his precious medical gear as another powerful wave crashed against him. Then all went black...

  * * * *

  He awakened with a splitting headache, made worse by the insistent shaking being given his bruised body. A small thin man with a brushy red beard was attempting to awaken him, jabbering rapidly in some dialect that Benjamin could not understand. Should he attempt Castilian or Provencal? Listening to the words over the dazed pounding in his head, Torres decided the language was some form of German. The man was dressed in the coarse woolen hose and quilted armor of a foot soldier, probably an artilleryman. Benjamin Torres was a guest of the Imperial Army of the Emperor Carlos V. He chose Castilian. “Where are we? Have any of the other men shipwrecked with me been saved?”

  The little man replied in a badly mangled version of that language. “A few, yes,” he replied holding up three fingers. “They no broken. They say you doctor. We have wounded. You come? Help?”

  “My bags—they had instruments, medicines—were they lost?” Benjamin asked as he sat up and looked around. He was sheltered in a crude tent of oiled skins, lying on a lumpy pallet of moldy-smelling damp wool, probably lice infested. After a rapid inventory of his extremities, he decided to attempt standing up, as it seemed he was not seriously injured.

  Before the small German could answer his questions, another man shoved open the tent flap, bringing with him the harsh salt tang of ocean wind. “Your bags, physician, if so you be,” the thickset older soldier said, handing Benjamin his precious belongings. He had the dark eyes and rounded face of an Argonese and spoke far clearer Castilian.

  Benjamin accepted his satchels, grateful they were intact. “Yes, I am a physician. Who requires care? Take me to them.”

  “General Pescara's best field officer is the first you must see. Don Francisco says he has taken some shot in his side and the bleeding is fierce,” the grizzled veteran replied as he led the younger man from the tent.

  The beaches were littered with crude lean-tos and other shelters. Campfires flickered in the dim gray light of dawn. The sea was once again glassy calm, as if the previous night's storm had never occurred. Benjamin treaded his way past the rough men huddled around their fires, breaking their fast with meager rations of hard biscuits and watered sour wine. His stomach growled but he ignored it. Burly, blond Lutherans from the Baltic Sea sat beside uneasy black-haired Sicilians. Fair-skinned Castilian hidalgos haughtily ignored both Imperial allies as they ate.

  “Where are we?” Torres asked his guide.

  “Look you up the coast,” the Spanish soldier replied. “Beyond the low hills lies the great seaport of Marseilles. We have battered and scarred its stone walls with our cannon, yet the city remains secure as long as supplies come to her from the sea,” he added bitterly.

  Benjamin realized that if the Imperial troops learned his was one such supply ship sent out through neutral Genoa, his life would be forfeit. He made no reply. Worse yet, his family lay within the walls of the besieged city. They were doubtless frantic with worry for him, as he was for them. “My ship was bound for Malaga. We were indeed blown far off course,” he said grimly. So near, yet so far from deliverance.

  “Where is this commander of yours? I see many men who could use my care,” he finally felt bold to ask as they walked up the gentle slope of a hillside toward a small wooden hut with several guards in front of it. The hard-looking Spaniards parted as the Argonese led the physician inside.

  Benjamin let his eyes adjust to the dim light as he heard fluent cursing in Castilian. Recalling some of his father's more remarkable oaths, he decided the commander must be a native of Seville to have acquired the same unique idiom. “Bring a lighted torch,” Benjamin ordered. “I can see naught.” As he approached the low pallet he saw the man lying on it, a large red ooze soaking through his heavy tunic. His armor had been removed and the inj
ury bound crudely. The man lay still, his breathing labored, his face turned away from Benjamin.

  Some subconscious instinct made Torres pause before he opened his bag with a loud click of the latch. The man was swarthy as the Argonese, perhaps more so, yet his features—slim, straight nose, high forehead and bold jawline—were classically chiseled. And disturbingly familiar.

  The Argonese, who obviously had never before seen Pescara's favorite young officer, now stared in gape-jawed amazement, first down at the wounded soldier, then up at the physician kneeling over him. Just then the wounded man let out another oath and his eyes snapped open.

  Two identical pairs of brilliant blue eyes fastened each on the other. “Like unto a mirror held up to me, bathed in light...while I am caste in darkness,” Rodrigo said in a rasping voice.

  The man lying before Benjamin had his face, the full arched eyebrows and wide sensuous lips, the square jaw with its cleft chin, but above all the eyes, bright blue Torres eyes!

  “You are golden and I am black. Think you it signifies our morals...or our fates?” Rigo asked, stifling a wince of pain as Benjamin began to remove the bloody bandage with trembling hands.

  “I know not your morals nor can I read our fates, but I do know your name.” Benjamin felt the injured man tense as those unsettling light eyes in that dark face searched his own expression silently. “You are Navaro Torres, my brother!”

  Chapter One

  The wounded man let out an oath and grabbed Benjamin's jerkin with surprising strength. “Navaro?” he rasped. “Why do you call me that?”

  “Twas the name your mother gave you,” Benjamin replied.

  “I can scarce believe our sire would speak of his by-blows to his lady wife or legitimate son.”