by Tina Donahue
At any other time, she would have rather died than obligate herself to him. Unfortunately, pride had no place here. “Please.”
“After you work here awhile, buckets of water and animal carcasses will give you no trouble at all. You should see Leonor. She can carry nearly as much as I can.”
Besotted, the girl smiled at him.
Ignoring Leonor, Rufio jumped off the table and lifted the bucket as easily as he would a feather, even swinging the thing back and forth, sloshing water everywhere. “Where do you want this?”
On his head would have been nice. No, wait. Nuncio’s. He’d caused this. “By the blood on the floor.” Obviously.
Rufio gave her a lewd grin, followed by a wink, and settled the bucket where she’d asked.
“Gracias.”
“Let me know what else you need.” He came as close as possible and took her in possessively, lingering on her breasts and mouth despite the others here. “I can make things easy for you.”
Or impossible if she dared cross him. Not knowing what to say, she simply nodded.
He left the room whistling.
She scrubbed Leonor’s messes for what seemed like days, sensing the girl was deliberately careless in her work, dropping guts on the floor because Rufio hadn’t given her his undivided attention.
If Beatriz hadn’t been so tired, she would have begged Leonor to wed Rufio quickly and keep him busy for always.
Once she’d finished cleaning the floor, her other duties waited. Countless pots, pans, and dishes needed washing. She had barely started on the pile when Señora Cisneros hurried into the room. “Beatriz.”
What now? There were fields to plow, another castle to build? She leaned against the counter. “Sí?”
The woman motioned her over. Beatriz was too sore to move swiftly.
During the wait, Señora Cisneros twisted her mouth, which made her mustache more prominent. “Did you hurt your feet?”
“No. I can stand and work all night if you need me.”
“Go to your bed and rest. Tomorrow, you get new tasks.”
What? No. Tomorrow was her day off. She only had one a week, the same as everyone else, and needed the time to wash her things and prepare for more dreadful labor in this horrible kitchen. Unless the new tasks were somewhere else…somewhere worse, like the stable. “What will I be doing now?”
“Tomorrow will be soon enough for you to find out.”
“Have I done such a poor job here?” Fearing the unknown more, Beatriz didn’t want to leave the hellish place.
Señora Cisneros patted her arm. “You did nearly as good as Yolanda.”
Beatriz hung her head. Yolanda was only twelve years old. “Give me time. I can do better.”
“Not here. Go. Now.”
She backed away as quickly as she could and climbed the steps to the servant quarters with the vitality of the near dead. Upon reaching her narrow mattress, she wanted to curl into a ball and cry over what she’d lost because of her papá, a cruel, selfish man who’d never given her a moment’s consideration. To him, she’d always been nothing but property to do with as he desired.
She hadn’t been able to live that way and had run instead.
Now, she was on her own with no friends, family, money, or time for sorrow and regret. She’d have to endure and survive whatever new torment Nuncio had devised to keep her away from Tomás. How foolish her attraction must have seemed to Nuncio who knew, as she did, there would be no happy ending for her.
The brief moments she’d shared with Tomás, teasing, smiling, laughing, and kissing were all she had left now.
She recalled those wonderful times as she washed her clothes and hung them to dry. Given her aching muscles, the task took twice as long as usual, depleting her remaining energy. At last, she dropped onto her bed and fell into an exhausted sleep.
* * * *
Beatriz frowned at a hand on her arm, shaking her quite rudely. She rolled away and hugged the edge of her mattress.
“Wake up, please.” Yolanda shook Beatriz again.
She rubbed her eyes and looked over. Despite Yolanda’s rough touch, she was lovelier than an angel with big brown eyes, black hair, and a complexion rivaling the finest cream. In a few years, she’d transform from a skinny child into a beautiful woman. Right now, though, she was dressed in livery for work rather than a nightgown for bed. Alarm shot through Beatriz. “Did I oversleep?”
Heaven help her if she was late for the torture Nuncio had planned for today.
“No. You must get dressed and go to the stable.”
She’d guessed correctly that her new task was shoveling manure. With all the will she possessed, Beatriz pushed to a sitting position. Light haloed around the wooden screen over the window. “Is it well past dawn?”
“Nearly midday. You must hurry.” Yolanda backed away. “Make certain to wear your own clothes, not your livery.”
Of course. Nuncio wanted her to soil her garments. Beatriz would never have guessed he could be so cruel, but was determined to do exactly what he wished.
“Wait.” She held out her hand to Yolanda.
When she returned, Beatriz hugged her. “Make certain to ask Rufio to lift anything heavy for you.”
“For me? He would surely laugh in my face. Calls me brat rather than my name and never once looks my way or answers any question I may have. Just as well. I can carry most pigs already and I have yet to reach thirteen. Someday, I hope to lift a fully grown hog.”
She patted Yolanda’s back. “Until the day comes, please ask for help, even if it has to be from him.”
“Not likely it will make a difference. He only wants to do things for you.” Giggling, she ran from the room.
With no other choice, Beatriz prepared for her day, wearing her chemise, a simple blue gown, and yellow tunic she’d stolen before coming here. The only clothing she had left in the world. Along with her freedom. Nothing was more important than ruling her life, living the destiny she sought.
Matters could be worse than now, and had been in the city.
She left the castle from the side entrance, not wanting to run into Rufio in the kitchen. Once outside, she braced herself for the señoritas’ gay laughter, them surrounding and touching Tomás with privilege she’d never have.
The lawn was eerily quiet save for crying birds, the breeze rustling leaves, cattle bellowing in the distance.
The guests must have been amusing themselves in the parlor.
She took another route to the stable so she wouldn’t have to pass the windows and witness Tomás playing checkers or chess with a young woman. Or worse, them reading to him from El Cid’s tale.
They’d better not. The story belonged to her and to him, no one else. No matter how irrational, she needed to keep the fantasy alive.
Legs sore and heart heavy, she lumbered across the grounds, wishing her life were different on such a glorious day. The air was a soft caress, heated and sweet smelling from the surrounding gardens. The sun made everything seem clean and bright. Flowers she couldn’t identify raised their blossoms to the brilliant rays, the orange and red petals wiggling in the breeze. She picked a bloom, smiling at its pleasant fragrance. After rubbing the scent on her neck, to help her withstand the manure stench, she tucked the crushed blossom inside her sleeve. She needed to keep something pleasant from this day.
The stable, imposing and Moorish in design, had an enormous arched entrance. The doors were open. Columns supported the domed roof. Individual stalls sported carved doors, the dark wood gleaming. She counted thirty stalls on one side, sixty in all. Cleaning fifteen would most likely take the entire day.
She forged ahead and stopped at the entrance. Horses nickered or neighed, announcing her presence to no one in particular. There wasn’t one stable hand around to tell her what to do, leaving her to figure it out on her own.
She wanted to run but entered the cool, shady stable. A door creaked to the lef
t. She whirled.
Tomás left the stall.
Her breath spilled out.
He wore a long linen shirt, dark hose, and a leather belt, along with ankle boots. No doublet or robe. His muscular calves and thighs called to everything female within her. His wind-tousled hair begged her to ease those silky, blond waves off his forehead. He smiled and offered his hand.
Beatriz rushed to him, her pulse pounding crazily. She didn’t understand what was happening. This was too wonderful. Surely, she’d died and gone to heaven.
His palm was warm and dry against hers, skin calloused from warfare and physical activity, his touch gentle. He kissed her knuckles, his lips unbearably soft, breath hot. “Buenas tardes.”
She opened her mouth but couldn’t speak.
“You wonder what this is about.”
She nodded, hoping he’d explain.
“Today, neither of us works.” He played with her fingers. “We get to know each other.”
In what way? She didn’t think he meant in the usual carnal sense. Tenderness, not lust, filled his eyes. “Why?”
“I want us to be friends.”
“What?”
“Friends. After we ride to our destination—wait, you do ride, no?”
She did, or rather had at one time, and nodded.
He beamed. “Once we reach this spot I know of, we can enjoy our meal and read about El Cid’s triumphs.” He gestured to a basket, the book on top.
Theirs alone, no one else’s.
He leaned in. “I have to warn you of something.”
Nothing he could say would worry her at this point, unless he told her the señoritas would join them. “What?”
“El Cid has nothing on me. My adventures will dazzle you with the force of a star shooting across the sky, the crash of thunder above your head, the wail of the wind trying to blow in a door.” He wagged his finger. “Mind you, what I say is no mere boast.”
Beatriz didn’t believe she could ever like another man more. She was in far too much danger of laughing, weeping, and throwing her arms around him. Controlling herself, she ran her thumb over his. “Someone should write several epic poems about you. Volumes and volumes.” She paused and stopped stroking him, wary of a matter that still concerned. “Perhaps the señoritas can manage such a feat.”
“I sent them on their way this morning as you slept, leaving the task of an epic poem for you. I have writing materials packed with the other items. Wait. You can write, no?”
She nodded readily, loving him for getting rid of the other women. One might someday be his wife, though not now. These moments were theirs.
Tomás squeezed her hand lightly. “Come.” He led her to another stall, the mare inside already saddled. “We need to begin our day.”
Chapter 4
Everything was perfect, the mild breeze fluttering Tomás’s hair and Beatriz’s skirt, just as he’d envisioned. Sun bathed them in its golden glow, clouds nowhere in sight. Past the wide clearing, cork, mulberry, olive trees, bushes, and flowers, cultivated or wild, perfumed the air with scents only nature could create.
He’d never been happier to be alive or with any other woman. Beatriz’s eyes sparkled. The same pleasure coursed through him, though he wasn’t completely content. Although she hadn’t worn her livery, she’d pushed her hair beneath her servant’s cap, hiding the lovely tresses from him. “What happens if you unbraid your hair?”
She stopped studying his thigh and looked up, her cheeks rosy with embarrassment or excitement, perhaps both. “What?”
“If you were to take off your cap and loosen your hair, what would happen?”
She considered his question, then matched his playful smile. “Shall we see?”
“We should. Would you like me to hold your reins as you tend to things?”
“I can manage both.”
She held her reins in one hand and pulled off her cap with the other.
He reached for the hat.
“I have this.” After pushing the cap into her sleeve, she removed the pins holding her braid and offered them to him.
The small wooden pieces were simple in design, nothing like the ivory and jeweled pins noblewomen wore. He found these more precious than ones studded with pearls or diamonds, wanting to lift them to his nose to see if they bore her scent. He controlled himself, lest she think him odd.
She uncoiled her dark hair and worked her fingers nimbly through the braid until she’d loosened the tresses. They framed her face, making her complexion even paler, the ends cascading to her waist. Thick, shiny waves he longed to touch and smell.
She held out her hand. “My pins, please.”
“I have them.” He slipped the items into his pouch. “I promise to protect the pins with my life.”
She regarded the sheathed dagger and arming sword hanging from his belt.
“Ignore the weapons. They mean nothing. Who taught you to ride so well?” She seemed born to a horse, the same as him, easily riding astride rather than sidesaddle. Good thing. He hadn’t had one to offer.
She looked past him, brow furrowed in thought or dismay. “He did.”
“Who?”
She tensed, fists clenched. “My papá.”
Her dislike for the man surprised him. Their relationship must have been awful for her to harbor such resentment after his death.
Tomás wanted to know more but could hardly pry. He needed her happy and at peace. “Have you had recent news of your mamá? Is she still feeling well?”
Beatriz lifted her face to a bird flying past. “She is.”
He nodded, wanting her to look at him rather than the bird or anything else. “Does your mother grow ill with the same malady each time or something new? I only ask because I may be able to find a remedy for her. I was near death when a potion saved me.”
“What? Oh no, you nearly died?”
Her concern surprised and pleased him, proving how much she cared. Not that she should. He shouldn’t either but couldn’t help himself. He hungered for the smallest information about her, wanted only to please, and couldn’t have been more thrilled to be at her side. “I recovered fully.” He threw out his arms to prove how robust he was, his weight the same as before he’d fallen ill.
Her lovely features tensed. “Did you have the fever?”
“And a cough so ghastly I could scarcely breathe. I was at the fortaleza then. My men sent for the sacerdote to anoint me as no one expected I would live.”
Beatriz clutched her throat. “Has the cough returned?”
“Not at all. No need to fret.” Grateful for her worry, he smiled softly. “Once my…ah…that is, the physician arrived and ministered to me, I slowly grew better.”
“What was in the cure he gave you?”
Tomás had no idea, recalling nothing more than how awful the potions had tasted. Sancha had risked her life to save him, and he’d nearly said her name to Beatriz, revealing how Sancha healed in secret. If the Inquisition ever found out…
He didn’t want to consider such a thing. “I recall little of my illness. However, I will ask about the ingredients if your mamá should ever need the remedy. Had you planned to visit her today? Do you usually do so during the times you have free?”
He’d hoped to surprise Beatriz with this ride and their meal, not keep her from her daughterly duties.
She stroked her horse’s mane even though the mare needed no comfort. The ride was uneventful and quite leisurely, his gelding and her mount ambling along, enjoying themselves as much as he was.
“I visit when I can.” She lifted her shoulders. “Not often.”
“Because you lack a horse?” If Beatriz had come from a village, as stated, and he sorely wanted to believe her on the matter, then surely the community was one he owned and under his protection. “Is your mamá’s home far?”
“Too far for me to walk to easily or readily.”
“If you need to visit or whe
n you care to do so, let me know. I can provide a horse or my carriage if you prefer.”
Her smile looked more pained than appreciative.
“What have I said?”
“Nothing. I was picturing Señor Nuncio’s face if I were to ride from the castle on your fine Arabian or in your carriage, the guards chasing after me, swords drawn, arrows flying at his request.”
Tomás laughed. “No need to worry about them or him. Nuncio and I had a talk. Beginning tomorrow, you return to dusting my study and your original duties. His meddling and the kitchen are in the past.”
She gave him a sidelong glance. “Señora Cisneros said I performed nearly as well there as Yolanda, who has yet to turn thirteen.”
He’d already heard the same. Señora Cisneros had seemed eager to get Beatriz out of the kitchen. “Did you hurt yourself while you were there? Show me your hands.” He pushed up in his saddle and craned his neck to get a better look at them.
“I am quite well.” She hid her fingers within her sleeves. “May I ask you something?”
“No need. I have no doubt you were as extraordinary in the kitchen as you are riding a horse even with your hands buried in your clothes as they are now.”
She laughed quietly. “I could barely lift a bucket of water.”
“Did you break your fingers trying?”
Beatriz pressed her face to her shoulder, her newest laughter muted.
Tomás smiled. “Come, show me your injuries.”
“I have none.” She displayed one hand, then the other. Outside of a small cut on a knuckle and her skin being slightly pink, she was well on the road to recovery.
“What was your question?”
“Yolanda is still a child. Might you find less difficult work for her? If not, I would rather stay in the kitchen to help her out.”
And neglect the dust in his study, along with their time together to read and talk? Never. “The moment we return, Señora Cisneros and I will have a word about Yolanda.”
“Gracias. May I ask something else?”
