by Shirl Henke
He watched the cultivated fields grow fewer as the jungle encroached closer, seeming to draw him toward a dark silken web, ready to embrace him. Shaking off the fanciful image, he studied the crops being tended. Sugar cane and rice were important exports in the lands to the west of Santo Domingo, but these fields grew manioc and maize. Benjamin had described the native bread staples to him. The idea of becoming a planter and stockman flitted across his mind. The Torres hato was said to be very large and prosperous. He wondered how the Tainos laboring in their fields would react to one of their own blood as the master commanding them.
“I get ahead of myself. Most likely I shall end up in Mexico, plying my old trade.” He turned Peligro into the dark rustling mystery of the jungle and felt the horse shy slightly. Patting his neck and murmuring soothing reassurances, he rode farther, observing close up the incredible beauty of the flowers and towering majesty of the trees. “Tis like a cathedral bedecked for a great feast day.”
A small clearing materialized and along with it another handful of Indians, hoeing the soft reddish soil. A small stream curled lazily around the exposed roots of a huge gnarled tree. Reining in Peligro, he dismounted and allowed the horse to drink. The Tainos in the nearby field stopped working and began to whisper among themselves, gesturing to the tall horseman. With a cold smile on his face, Rigo strolled leisurely toward them, making what he hoped was a peaceful sign with his upraised palm. “Do you speak Castilian?” he asked.
One fellow, obviously bolder than his companions, stepped forward and bowed. His straight inky hair was coarser than Rigo's and fell well below his shoulders. Flinging it back, the youth replied, “Yes. I am called Gaona. How may I serve your lordship?” Both older men nodded as all three took in his splendid clothing and nervously eyed Peligro.
“I require nothing but a drink for my horse and myself.” One of the older men immediately seized a calabash and dipped it in the stream to draw water for Rigo. Taking the offering gratefully, he drank and then said, “I am called Rodrigo de Las Casas, although here on Española I imagine my sire's name is more familiar, Torres. I am Navaro Torres—and yes, in answer to your unspoken question, I am half Taino.”
The three men exchanged looks of incredulity and began to chatter among themselves in a strange, soft dialect. Then they all three threw themselves to the ground and did obeisance as if he were a Moorish potentate!
Chapter Fourteen
“You are the great Guacanagari's nephew, son to his sister Aliyah,” the young spokesman said in an awestruck voice, kneeling before Rigo.
Looking at the pitiful gaggle of worshippers, Rigo did not know whether to laugh at the irony of it or storm off in disgust for their craven servility. He had seen enough of such at the Spanish court of Carlos and thought the king a pathetic, horsefaced Hapsburg with a terrible speech impediment. Chuckling mirthlessly, he replied, “My brother told me I was the son of a royal princess, but I did not expect such worship. Stand up. I am not your king nor any man's ruler.”
“But you are the son of the Golden Man, Don Aaron, and the Princess Aliyah. The only cacique left alive on all of Quisqueya is Guacanagari. You are his heir.”
“I am no man's heir,” Rigo replied bitterly, reaching down to jerk the youth to his feet. He whistled to Peligro and handed the calabash back to the boy, eager to be quit of their primitive adulation. Small wonder the Spanish butchered them. They were sheep! But he was damned if he felt called to be their shepherd.
He turned toward the big black, who approached obediently. A sudden snarl caused him to whirl just as a huge hound leaped for his throat. The Tainos fell back, shrieking with terror as Rigo dropped to the ground, locked in mortal combat with the mastiff. He had instinctively raised his arm across his throat to ward off the fatal attack. After years with the Imperial Army, Rigo was quite familiar with the way war hounds were trained to down an enemy and rip out his throat. He could feel the gnashing and tearing of the mastiffs powerful teeth, caught in the heavy velvet sleeve of his doublet. It was too late to free his sword. He quickly rolled with the hound, which allowed him time to slip his dirk from its sheath. He slashed into the hound's unprotected underbelly with all the strength he could muster.
With a howl of agony the mastiff released his hold on Rigo's doublet and he rolled free. Again the dog lunged at him, trailing entrails and blood in his death wake, eager to take his victim with him to the grave. From a kneeling position, Rigo braced and raised his arm, but this time when the dog clamped, he was able to lift the arm, baring the hound's throat for a quick killing slash. With a gurgle, it slid lifelessly to the blood-soaked earth and lay with its eyes staring unseeingly across the clearing.
Rigo flexed his arm, feeling the ache of bruised muscles, but mercifully little other damage. He stood up and looked at the three Indians who were still partially hidden behind the massive tree roots. The sound of horses' hooves approaching tore his attention from the wretched primitives and he quickly drew his sword, cursing because the hound's owner would be upon him before he could mount Peligro to make an even contest.
A tall, barrel-chested man dressed in an elegant red velvet doublet reined in his horse, a splendid gray as handsomely outfitted as his owner. The stranger wore a carefully groomed beard, a shade darker than his sandy brown hair. He spared the gutted hound scarcely a glance, then spoke to Rigo. “My apologies for Basco. I hope he has done you no permanent injury. He slipped his chain at the inn while I was quenching my thirst. I have been pursuing him ever since I found him escaped.”
“He was a war hound. Why do you have such here on Española?'' Rigo asked, still unwilling to sheath the sword as two retainers of the nobleman rode up behind him, their faces unreadable.
The caballero smiled broadly, revealing a magnificent expanse of white teeth. “Forgive my lack of manners. I am Don Esteban Elzoro, a planter from the interior, where such hounds are used to keep slaves at their tasks.” He glanced scornfully at the cowering Indians, then turned his ice-green eyes on Rigo.
“The dog attacked me because he was trained to smell out Taino blood, even diluted with Spanish. Yes, Don Esteban, I am a half-caste, the by-blow of Aaron Torres. Perhaps you know my sire?” Why did it attack me and not the pure-blooded Indians?
Elzoro quickly dismounted and walked up to Rigo. “A thousand pardons indeed are in order, for Don Aaron is a neighbor and friend of mine. We use the same factor to sell our goods in the capital. You are his son by Guacanagari's sister, the boy he, er, lost in infancy.”
“I was called Navaro, but my foster parents in Seville named me Rodrigo. Rodrigo de Las Cases. Perhaps you also know my foster brother Bartolome, who caused quite a stir at the royal court a few years back defending the Tainos from Spanish rapacity.” Rigo smiled chillingly.
Elzoro scowled. “Yes, I know the man. He and his fellow friars will create chaos if they free the primitives from honest toil. Next they will want the blackamoors freed as well, and there will be no one to work the land.”
“No one but Spaniards?” Rigo's face was impassive now. If this fellow was his father's friend, so much for Bartolome's theory about Aaron Torres wanting his half-caste son to inherit! “I, too, apologize—for killing the hound. I was a soldier under Pescara and know how costly they are to train. Perhaps I can repay you for the loss?”
Elzoro waved his hand negligently. “Nay. Tis of no import. I have dozens more. Does your father know you are here?”
“The virreina has been so kind as to offer us hospitality until he is notified,” Rigo replied, wondering what Elzoro's reaction to the Colon name would be.
“Ah, yes, our illustrious viceroy-in-absentia's lady. You said 'us'—have you family with you from Spain?”
“Only my wife and she is French.”
“A Spanish soldier wed to a Frenchwoman. How extraordinary. I shall look forward to meeting her one day soon.” With that he remounted the gray and disappeared into the thickening jungle without a backward glance.
As he r
ode back to town, Rigo replayed the scene in his mind, wondering if the dog had been deliberately set on him. It would have been simple enough to catch his scent when he stopped in the plaza, perhaps even to pilfer some small item he touched in the marketplace.
Esteban Elzoro was his father's friend, a fellow planter who used war hounds to kill runaway slaves. Such ruthless men would think nothing of having him murdered by that means. He brooded over the safety of Miriam if he left her with the Torres family. Surely they would welcome Benjamin's former betrothed, one of their faith and blood. But tainted by your touch. The jungle seemed to mock him.
* * * *
Miriam felt surprisingly refreshed by her rest. While the servants filled the tub with hot water, she stood by the arched windows, gazing out at the river. Maria had sent a sweet girl of mixed blood named Rosa to help her with her toilette. Miriam sank gratefully into the water and allowed the maid to wash her hair with an exotic, sweet-smelling fruit soap. After her hair was rinsed and wrapped in a towel, she dismissed the girl. “Please, that will be all. I wish to soak for a while. The salt from shipboard bathing seems to have sunk into my very bones. I will ring for you to dress me later.”
Closing her eyes, she lay her head back on the tub's rim and tried to relax. Rigo had been gone for hours. Thoughts of him, his sinuous, swarthy body entwined with that of a sleek, beautiful prostitute, came unbidden. “He does not want me, only his child. What shall I do?” She placed her hands on her rounded belly as if the babe within could answer her anguished question. Sighing, she rose from the tub carefully and reached for a length of towel.
Rigo entered the room silently and stood transfixed, watching his wife's tall, slender body bathed in the afternoon's soft golden light. The swell of her belly and fullness of her breasts made her figure lushly enticing. She finished toweling her body, then loosed the glory of her hair from its turban and began to rub it dry until it shone like polished bronze. He ached with wanting her.
Why not? There was time before the evening meal and he had bathed and changed his shredded, filthy clothes belowstairs so as not to frighten her. Suddenly, as if sensing his presence, she turned toward him, using the towel as a pitiful shield for her nakedness. Her hair fell like a mantle about her shoulders, but the linen could cover only her belly and thighs. Long, slim legs stretched beneath the toweling. He followed their shapely curves to her delicate ankles, then retraced the enticing contours back up to her face, now flaming.
“The towel is inadequate to cover your bounty. I would see all of you. Remove it,” he whispered hoarsely as he began to shed his doublet, tossing it on a chair. He stalked closer.
Miriam backed up a step, then realized how foolish it was. “You startled me. How long have you been watching?”
A slight smile curved his lips. “Long enough,” he replied as he reached for the towel and threw it atop his doublet.
“I am misshapen and would not have you look on me this way, Rigo.” She forced herself to stand erect even though it caused her swollen breasts and belly to protrude more.
“I do not find you in any way deficient. When first I met you, you caviled about your thinness. Now you think yourself fat.”
“You have remedied the former complaint with great ease,” she snapped.
The smile erased itself from his face. “With great pleasure—a pleasure you formerly shared with me—or was it all a sham, Miriam?”
Her face flamed as she met his harsh, mocking expression. “Will you leave me no pride, no honor, nothing?”
“Ah yes, you are a lady, born to a great house—entitled by the purity of your blood to have pride and honor. I, of course, being a bastard and a savage, am entitled to none but that which I wrest with my blade.” He reached out and grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulling her against him. “And now, wife, I choose to use my blade...on you.”
Miriam's palms pressed against his sheer linen tunic as he lowered his mouth and kissed her. Her head was immobilized by his hand, tangled in her hair, pulling painfully against her tender scalp. An involuntary whimper of pain escaped from her mouth into his. Immediately, he released his punishing grip on her hair and rained soft, exquisitely tender kisses across her cheeks, brow and temples, then gently lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed.
Miriam lay bemused as he discarded his boots, peeled off his hose and pulled his tunic over his head with one careless yank. Shaking his ebony hair from his face, he looked down at her, desire blazing like the sun on his bronzed face. Silently she sat up and embraced him. He took her in his arms and they sank into the soft mattress, arms and legs entwined, kissing and running their hands greedily over each other's heated flesh.
“I would not harm you or the babe,” he murmured as he rolled her atop him. “Take me into you...as much as you can without discomfort.” He lifted her hips and positioned her atop his hard, straining staff. Sweat beaded his upper lip as he held himself under iron control, gazing with narrowed eyes at her heavy, pink-tipped breasts from his vantage point below, fighting the urge to impale her and thrust long and hard up into the sweetness of her flesh.
Miriam felt his tortured longing and her body answered his as she sank slowly, experimentally downward, enveloping him in this strange new position. A heady sense of power overcame her as she took all of him inside her, deeply, fully, feeling the involuntary spasm as his hips gently arched. She raised her hips, then lowered them slowly, and the heat grew more intense. She began to move in a steady, even rhythm, resting her weight on her palms, which were buried in the curly black hair of his hard chest. Her breasts hung suspended, aching for his touch.
Rigo released her hips and took one rounded globe in each hand, cupping them, then gently squeezing until she made a small incoherent cry and increased the tempo of her ride. The pleasure was pagan, so wild, so tumultuous as she felt the wet, gliding glory of his body buried deeply in her. Her hips lifted, almost freeing him, then lowered, once more imprisoning him.
Rigo raised his head and pulled her shoulders lower to suckle on her breasts. She went wild with rapture and felt the dizzying heights of release, soaring, convulsed in awe-filled ecstasy. He arched and stiffened beneath her, spilling his seed high against her heavy womb, adding to the shattering pleasure with a pulsing, sweet afterglow. Miriam collapsed on his chest, snuggling against his hard body while he held her possessively.
Slowly, ever so gently, he raised her off him and lay her beside him on the wide bed. He nuzzled her neck with firm, warm lips and then murmured low against her throat, “You are unharmed...and well pleasured, I trust?”
It was not really a question. Her cries of release were clearly ones he knew well from many nights of loving. “I am both, Rigo,” she replied simply, then could not resist adding, “I did not know it could be done thus, with the woman above...”
He stroked her hair softly. “There are an infinite variety of ways to give and receive pleasure. As long as tis safe for you and the babe, I will show you many new wonders, Miriam.”
Her eyes widened in amazed embarrassment. How many ways could there be? “Doubtless a rogue such as you has practiced them all.”
“Doubtless,” he echoed. “You will tell me when tis no longer safe for you to make love?”
Miriam could sense genuine concern in his voice, and it moved her deeply. How can he care for me yet wish to leave me and set out for Mexico? “There is no reason a woman with child who is in good health cannot make love up until the day of her delivery—if her husband can bear the sight of her fat body and possesses ingenuity enough to find ways to couple.” The moment she had added the last words, she wished to call them back. Such bawdy boldness! Anything to keep him near me for as long as I can!
Rigo chuckled and leaned over to kiss the tip of her nose. “I possess infinite ingenuity, wife.” Wife. How natural the word sounded. How wondrous it would be to keep her by his side forever. Like all the dreams of his childhood, surely this one, too, would be taken from him. He slid from the bed an
d reached out his hand to help her do likewise. “The hour is late and the virreina will be holding the evening meal for us.”
As they dressed, Rigo mulled over mentioning the attack by Elzoro's hound and his suspicions about Aaron's involvement. He decided against it, reasoning that such would only frighten her. He possessed no real proof, only a lifetime of bitterness to sharpen his instincts.
When he turned to her and saw the soft pink samite gown she wore, he suddenly remembered the shell necklace. It was but a trinket, yet it would look so lovely about her slender throat and match the delicate hues of the glistening silken cloth's iridescent sheen.
“Tis a strange coincidence you chose that gown, for I have bought you a small gift that would match it.” He dug through the discarded clothes on the chair and extended a small package.
Miriam watched as he approached her. If she did not know the arrogant mercenary better, she would have sworn he was actually shy about offering her the gift. Her gray eyes turned a sparkling silver in the evening candlelight as she extended her open palm. “I love surprises, Rigo.”
“Tis but a silly trinket I saw in the market. Made by the primitives.” He placed the packet in her hand and then watched as she unwrapped it with an exclamation of delight.
“I have never seen its like. What wondrous colors—look you, how the pinks and roses glow in the light. So delicate.”
“They are only shells taken from the coast. Your trousseau from Isaac Torres includes precious gems of all hues,” he said gruffly as she held it up about her neck and looked in the mirror at her reflection.
“Please, fasten it for me.” When he complied, she asked, “Does it bother you that your father's family dowered me? That my own would not?”
“I did not wed you for money, Miriam. Such material and political matches are for the upper classes, not for men like me, who seldom marry at all.”
“Then did you wed me out of duty and bring me to your detested family's home only to salve your guilty conscience?” Her fingers flew to her lips the moment she said the words. I do not want to know the answer. Please, Rigo, please! She turned from him and fled for the door.
