Return to Paradise (Torres Family Saga)

by Shirl Henke

  Guacanagari looked troubled but another frenzied hound's cry echoed from the compound. “Bring me a dart from your blow pipe,” he instructed one of his sons.

  As she approached the big oak gate of the compound, Miriam prayed she would be in time. If Rigo is dead, I would know. Surely, I would know.

  The guard looked down at the lone woman who rode up so boldly. He recognized her as the half-caste's wife. Before he could do more than gape, she commanded crisply, “Open the gate. I would speak with Don Esteban. Move swiftly! He will be angry if you keep me waiting out here.”

  She prayed her voice was bold and authoritative enough. Within a few moments that seemed an eternity, she was admitted to the huge fortification. A guard assisted her in dismounting, then began to lead her to the grand-looking house in the center of the compound. She turned in the direction of the large, crudely fashioned frame with its flat, palm-thatched roof. “Do not play with me. I know my husband is there. I will see him now. Tell Don Esteban he had best pray Rigo is still alive.”

  Elzoro stood at the side of his arena, watching Miriam Torres's determined argument with his guard. “First I can capture none of them. Now I have a surplus of Aaron's family.” He cursed softly and considered how to handle this most delicate situation, then strolled from the shade into the yard. “What an unexpected surprise, my lady. I assume you have read the purloined ledgers,” he said, switching now from Castilian to Provencal. “That is most regrettable.”

  Miriam smiled coldly and replied in the French dialect, “Yes, it is. Regrettable for you. If you harm me or allow your pirates to harm Benjamin you know your life is forfeit.”

  “Ah, but that protection does not extend to your husband,” he said as he bowed before her, reaching out to take her hand and salute it.

  “It does now,” Miriam hissed as she raised her hand for his kiss and tangled it in his hair while her other hand flashed the scalpel to his throat. “Move, breathe, struggle with me and I will at least nick you, if not sever the large vein in your neck. All twill take is a tiny nick, for you see, that greenish film on the blade is Caribee poison.”

  “Hold!” Elzoro called out to his startled men. They froze in their tracks. “Now what would you do? I am momentarily, at least, at your disposal, my lady.”

  “Take me to Rigo.” She kept the scalpel poised at the side of his throat even after relinquishing her hold on his hair. Taking his arm in hers, she walked beside him, toward the covered arena.

  “Your half-caste is quite an impressive fighter, my dear. He has killed three of my best hounds. Tis a good thing you are not squeamish as are most of your sex. I would hate for that deadly little tool to slip.”

  “As you well know, I am a trained surgeon—good at bloodletting when the occasion warrants it.” Miriam almost loosed her hold on Elzoro when she saw Rigo in the bottom of the pit. The floor of the hellish arena was slick with blood and viscera from the dead hounds. Rigo was covered in blood and his clothing was shredded. Yet he was still standing.

  “Get him out of there,” she commanded. Please do not let my voice break!

  Rigo looked up, rubbing the torn remnant of his tunic sleeve across his eyes to wipe away the salty sting of blood and sweat. Miriam was here, commanding Elzoro! He must be dreaming—or dead. But he knew the crack of that voice, so precise and cool, as cutting as her surgeon's tools.

  Yarros threw down the plank, now itself slicked with blood from the slaughter. Rigo had attacked the last dog on the plank, which Yarros had then laughingly pulled up, causing him and the hound to roll off.

  Now he climbed cautiously, frantic to get to Miriam, yet slipping with every step. One dog had torn into his left arm and another had badly slashed his leg. He was prepared for the next one to take him down when Elzoro had signaled a halt and quit the arena. He finally scrambled from the board without dropping his dirk.

  Then he saw the glint of her scalpel at the renegade's throat and swore. “God's bones, woman, now you will die as well as me!”

  “As you can see, we are still very much alive, my lord. But Don Esteban will not be for long if he moves precipitously and the Caribee poison mingles with his blood.”

  As quickly as he could, Rigo struggled to her side. “Whatever possessed you to come here alone? Tis a miracle the guards did not rape or kill you on sight!” he rasped harshly as he seized the renegade's sword. “This is madness.”

  “Yes, tis all madness,” she echoed softly. “But you see, husband, Etienne Reynard will never dare to harm me. He is in the employ of my father.”

  At his look of shocked incredulity, she nodded. “After you and Benjamin departed, I read all the documents Fray Bartolome sent.”

  “And now your brothers are prisoners of my men, half-caste. I think tis time we strike a bargain. Lady Miriam is right. Her father would be sore displeased if harm was to befall her. He is not a man to have as an enemy, as well you should know.”

  “Before we make any bargain, renegade, I want my wife safely away from here. Miriam, wipe the poison from that implement before it can be turned against you.” Rigo tightened his hold on the stocky Elzoro and held his sword across the man's throat.

  She lowered the scalpel but made no move to cleanse it of its deadly coating. “I have never made a mistake in surgery,” she said tightly. The horror of the past day pressed in on her much like Elzoro's brutal cutthroats, milling and murmuring, eager to pounce. How could they make it through these dangerous men to freedom?

  The guard on the wall of the compound watched the patron's soldiers crowd around his arena. He had heard the screaming of the hounds and knew the entertainment must be a fine spectacle. “Cursed luck to draw duty on the walls this morning,” he muttered. Suddenly he heard the muffled sound of feet racing toward him. Before he could turn and raise his cumbersome arquebus, a huge gray wolf flew ten feet in the air, cleared the wall cleanly, and crashed into him. They fell from the wide stone walkway to the ground below, but the guard felt nothing. His neck was broken on impact as the wolf landed atop his crumpled body.

  All around the compound gunfire boomed, men screamed and cursed, and the clanging of steel resounded as the stronghold came under attack. A tall, russet-haired youth had entered the same break in the wall as Rigo and now slipped toward the front gate, sword in hand. Two guards saw him and came running across the yard. The wolf was on one almost instantaneously while Bartolome dealt a swift taste of steel to the other. Within a moment he was struggling with the cumbersome levers that opened the gates. Then, with a creak, the massive oak doors swung wide and several dozen Torres horsemen thundered in while Guacanagari's Tainos swarmed over the walls.

  Hearing the sounds of attack, Rigo tightened his hold on EIzoro. “Twould seem my uncle has made a foolish decision. Quickly, Miriam,” he said, shoving the renegade forward.

  Before she could move alongside of them, two slavering hounds were loosened by the fleeing guards. Miriam raised her scalpel and held it in front of her as one leapt. She caught its neck at one side with the scalpel before the dog's body slammed into her, sending her weapon flying. But opening the hound's vein was sufficient to save her life. With a yelp of surprise it collapsed atop her as they fell to the ground. She rolled away in time to see Rigo dispatching the other dog.

  Elzoro was nowhere in sight. She searched frantically for the scalpel, the only weapon with which she was proficient. As she crawled across the ground toward it, Elzoro appeared behind Rigo with one of the dead hound's leashes in his hand, ready to garrote him. She cried a warning and he turned, leaving his sword still imbedded in the hound.

  Elzoro's men had run from the arena to engage the invaders. When Miriam saw Benjamin's bright head in the courtyard with his sword flashing, she realized why Guacanagari had attacked. The brigands were outnumbered by the combined forces of the Torres hato.

  Elzoro and Rigo faced each other, the planter using the leather leash like a whip while Rigo had the small blade freed from his belt. They circled each other,
intent on ending the contest begun so many months ago in the jungle outside Santo Domingo.

  “Now, Vincente, loose the hounds,” Elzoro commanded.

  Miriam gasped, clutching her scalpel, as Yarros suddenly appeared with three large dogs straining at their leashes. He stood in front of the pit by the plank.

  “Patron, if I loose them, they might kill you or the lady.”

  “Loose them! He stinks like an Indian. They will kill him,” Elzoro snarled, dodging Rigo's blade and flailing at him with the doubled up leather leash.

  Yarros released the hounds, but they were conditioned to run down the plank into the pit, and did so in a mad dash. The big renegade cursed and yelled as they milled around the remains of the other dogs Rigo had killed, the bloodlust of all the carnage driving them into such a frenzy that they failed to heed his commands.

  Rigo saw Miriam approach Yarros from the corner of his eye and froze. Elzoro took instant advantage, using the leash to snap a cutting blow to his wrist, knocking the knife from his hand.

  “Now, you Indian cur, let me feed you to my dogs. They are hungry for a taste of Taino blood!”

  He lunged, but Rigo seized the leather strap and twisted it away, throwing the renegade off balance. They fell to the earthen floor, rolling nearer the edge of the pit as they punched and gouged.

  Yarros was almost within reach of them when Miriam struck, using the scalpel to cleanly slice across the right side of his neck. He made a gurgling sound as he turned toward her, his hand slapping against his throat, coming away red with gore. The brutish giant's eyes widened in amazed horror, round, black, soulless. Then he slowly crumpled, not from the poison, which was now rubbed off the scalpel. She had cut through the large vein in his neck. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Rigo's momentary lapse had almost enabled Elzoro to force him over the edge into the pit. Seeing Miriam was safe renewed his concentration. He rolled away from his foe, rising, fists clenched as they had been so often in the streets of Seville. The Frenchman, raised in luxury and taught to fight with gentlemen's weapons, was not used to unarmed combat. In spite of his greater weight, his barrel-chested, muscular body proved no advantage against his slim opponent. For every blow he landed, Rigo pummeled him with three, all delivered with uncanny accuracy, breaking his nose and driving the wind from his lungs when a booted foot connected with his stomach.

  “You fight like a gutter rat,” Reynard wheezed in rage.

  “Perhaps tis because I grew up in a gutter.” Rigo was tiring; the torn muscles and blood loss from his battles with the hounds were taking their toll. His left arm and right leg both felt ready to give out. I must end this quickly. He backed near the pit, goading Elzoro to come at him. “You let an Indian best you, renegade? Weak, womanish French fop!”

  With a snarled oath Reynard lunged, hands out, grasping for Rigo's throat, intent on taking them both to the ground where his superior weight would count for more. Yet when he lunged he came away with only ragged bits of tunic as Rigo fell aside. The renegade's own momentum propelled him forward and his opponent's foot tripped him, plunging him over the edge into the yawning jaws of death.

  Miriam watched in horror as Elzoro leapt at Rigo, nearly carrying them both to the pit below. When Rigo fell to the ground at the edge, she raced to his side. The sounds of the renegade's screams and the dogs vicious snarls filled the air.

  Rigo embraced her, blocking her view of the hideous carnage below by holding her head against his chest. Within a few moments Elzoro's struggle was over. The low snarls of the dogs tearing his flesh was drowned out by the din of battle that raged around the compound.

  “What madness made you risk your life to save mine?”

  “The same madness that brought me to that summer kitchen in Marseilles and made me stay when I knew twas not your brother but you. I cannot live without you.”

  He crushed her against him, breathing in the jasmine scent of her hair. “I love you, Miriam.”

  She raised tear-filled eyes and stroked his bloodied face. “And my father would see you dead for it. We must stop him. I fear he has gone mad...or he is a man I never knew at all.”

  “I suspect Uncle Isaac will best know how to deal with Judah Toulon.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Benjamin ducked a quill-worked basket that bounced harmlessly off the wall. “Rani, be reasonable—” Another missile, this time a not-so-harmless clay pitcher, whizzed by his head, its sharp shards splattering all around him, leaving a fine powdery dust in his hair. “Damnation! Will you listen or must I throw you over my knee and paddle that pretty little rump?”

  “Why not lock me in yon chest this time instead of merely this room? I might conveniently suffocate as Piero wanted and thus end your dilemma of what to do with me!”

  She hoisted a small potted fern to hurl at him, but before she could deliver it, he crashed through the broken pottery, baskets, and pillows that littered the floor of the small upstairs room in the Torres house. Seizing her with both hands, he tossed her onto the bed and quickly followed her down, lying atop her kicking, writhing body.

  “I locked you in here to protect you. Look what happened when last you set out after a dangerous man. I shudder to think what Brienne might have done to you if his tastes had run differently.”

  “I was never in danger. I told him I was your betrothed, worth a fine ransom. I lied.”

  “No, you did not lie, little one. You are worth the whole earth to me and you are the woman I will wed,” he murmured against her throat, his lips warm, soft, persuasive.

  Rani grew suddenly still, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he spoke the soft words. “You...you would wed me? What will your family say? Surely they—”

  “They will come to love you as I do. And you do believe that I love you, do you not, Rani? I have crossed the ocean-sea to find you and I would not have you change for me.”

  “Oh, Benjamin, how long I have waited to hear those words,” she sobbed, raining small, swift kisses all across his face.

  “There is one thing, however.”

  She stopped kissing him.

  “You must promise never again to steal.”

  “Twill be fearfully boring,” she said with a pout in her voice.

  “Twill keep you safe from harm—just as my having you held here while I went after Rigo and Miriam kept you safe.”

  “You are certain that you no longer love Miriam?” she asked, a hint of uneasiness in her voice.

  He sat up and looked down at her small, heart-shaped face with all the vulnerability and uncertainty revealed in those luminous golden eyes. “I love Miriam as I do Serafìna and Lani. You have seen how she and Rigo deal together. Is it not the same with us?”

  The breath she had held now floated free from her chest. “Even though I am no lady but a Romni wench who keeps a wolf?”

  “Even so. And Vero is not only your wolf. On that long ship's crossing he also became my wolf,” he said arrogantly, bending down to kiss her.

  “We shall see about that,” she murmured, returning the kiss with fervor.

  A knock sounded abruptly at the door and a servant's voice deferentially announced that hot bath water was awaiting Don Benjamin. His blue eyes twinkled, then smoldered as he ran one hand down her arm, sliding the filthy, loose boy's tunic from one golden shoulder. “What say you, shall we once again engage in mutual bathing? As I recall, you liked it well enough the first time.”

  “Aye, Benjamin, I liked it well enough indeed...at the end of the bath,” she replied, sitting up and pulling the tunic back over her breast. “Tell the servants to fetch a great deal of water.” She wrinkled her nose. “You reek from blood, mud and sweat,” she added with a dainty moue.

  He roared with laughter as he called for the water bearers to enter.

  After a large round wooden tub had been placed in the center of the floor and filled to the brim with warm water, the servants departed, leaving Benjamin and Rani alone. Both were filthy from their
long ordeal, yet exhilarated to have the frightening adventure end in a safe reunion.

  “Now you look much the waif you did when first I met you, not the grand lady of Olivia's creation. Although I must admit, you did look stunning dripping in rubies and crimson samite.”

  “I would prefer to be stunning in nothing but skin,” she said saucily.

  Benjamin took a long black curl and twisted it about his hand, drawing her nearer, then began to peel the loose tunic from her, baring her small, perfect breasts. “You are my golden treasure.” he murmured. His mouth traced a soft wet pattern from her throat to one chocolate nipple. His tongue teased it until she arched and gasped; then he moved on to its twin, eliciting the same response.

  Peeling down the tunic until it bunched at her waist, he cupped her breasts in his hands, letting his lips taste the warm velvet of her skin. Then he roughly unfastened Piero's tight hose and slid them and the tunic to the floor. “Into the tub with you, water sprite.”

  “Not until I have the same pleasure undressing you,” she replied, running skillful hands up his chest, tugging at the torn and stained remnants of his shirt until she had pulled it away. “You are hurt,” she murmured, her fingertips brushing lightly over cuts and bruises.

  “They are but small hurts.”

  She began to lave them with her tongue, kissing a trail from one to the other.

  “Ah, but they do feel better with your tending,” he groaned as she continued, while her hands unlaced his hose and began to peel them down. When his hardened staff sprang free of its tight confinement, she seized upon it with clever fingers, eliciting a sharp intake of breath. Quickly he kicked away the last remnants of clothing and then waited to see what she would do.

  With a saucy smile, she guided him toward the tub, her hand never relinquishing its hold on his phallus. “Now, we are going to do here—in privacy—what I wished to do that day in your uncle's fountain.”