by Tina Donahue
“I want no one except you to dust my study. I trust your abilities.”
Beatriz rolled her eyes. “Were your other servants so horrible that you find my service good in comparison?”
“Not at all. I find you perfect in every way. Lovelier than the dawn, brighter than the sun, more enchanting than a moonlit night. Was that your question?”
She blushed prettily. “No. Are you expecting trouble?” She gestured to his weapons.
“I always carry my dagger and sword with me whenever I leave the castle. A habit I learned when I left my father’s estate at seven and became a page.”
“So young?”
“I had no choice.”
She made a face. “Why? Did your father force you out? Is he a brute?”
“Practical. Do you know anything about Spain’s current laws of primogeniture?”
Beatriz opened her mouth only to close it. She smoothed her hair and pushed strands behind her ear before she shook her head.
Tomás wasn’t certain what to make of her delayed response. If she didn’t know, why not admit it readily? No need for shame, especially when the law affected nobles and affluent merchants, rather than villagers who lived simply. He considered her background, the details still not fitting. Nothing about her was unrefined or lacking. She was exceptional in every way. Too bad he couldn’t tell her so, and everything else in his heart, without running her off. “According to the law, the first born inherits everything, leaving the others to scramble for a living. Women can join an order or marry well. Men can become priests or fight for the Crown to earn their wealth. As the youngest of six brothers with little chance to ever inherit, I became a warrior to build my future.”
She frowned at the lush surroundings, vineyards, fields, and orchards extending to the horizon. “You risked your life repeatedly and without thought for this estate?”
He considered his land quite beautiful. “I had no wish to become a priest.”
“You could have died. Were you ever hurt?”
Numerous times. He’d often boasted to señoritas about his battles, loving the fire in their eyes at his bloody tales.
Beatriz searched his face, her complexion paler than usual, expression pained.
He shrugged. “I have a few scars.”
She regarded his chest, thighs, and groin, lingering there the most. His shaft stiffened, sac tightening from the intense heat pouring through him.
She glanced up. “Were you afraid?”
He patted his horse’s mane. His gelding exhaled at the unexpected attention. “At times.” He lifted his shoulders, feeling foolish for admitting any weakness. “Not even the bravest warrior looks forward to death.”
Her eyes rounded. “How close did you come? How many times?”
During every battle with swords clashing, arrows sailing, arquebuses firing. “If a man stopped and considered such things before a conflict, fear would kill him. A soldier blinds himself to everything except doing what he must.”
“For this?” She gestured at his estate.
“Not entirely. Mainly for the Crown. Every warrior has a duty to protect Spain, just as El Cid had. You find his tale quite rousing.”
“In a book written after he survived, not when he was young enough to risk death.” She shook her head. “Your eldest brother should have shared his inheritance with you and your other siblings.”
Tomás tried to imagine such a thing and couldn’t. “He has yet to receive all the properties. Papá is very much alive.”
“Do you resent him?”
“My father?”
“No. Your brother. For having everything given to him when you had to risk your life for years.”
“I hardly faced death every day. My men and I had some free moments to enjoy ourselves.” Tomás stopped short of telling her about the women and drinking between battles. He did smile, though, liking her spirited defense on his behalf. “I never envied Enrique, my eldest brother. He was as caught up in the situation as the rest of us were. As a boy, he wanted to be a warrior. Instead, our father forced him to learn numerous languages and nearly every subject on earth. While the rest of us rode or swam, he was stuck in a room with his books. Papá hounded him relentlessly, never giving him a moment’s peace or the simple joy of being idle. He learned to accept his fate. We all did. You do what you must.”
“Or change things. Men only care about property and wealth, gaining favor with the Crown, ruling others. People never matter to them, only things.”
“Are you including me in your judgment?”
Her features slackened. “No. Never. I was talking about… You must find me awful for saying what I had.”
Not at all. She reminded him of Sancha and Isabella, intelligent and spirited women who hardly cared about convention. He recalled Fernando’s initial complaints about Isabella’s independence, her determination to do what she wanted whether he approved or not. Fernando wouldn’t have fallen in love with a lesser woman. Certainly not foolish señoritas like Ines, Zita, and the others. The same with Enrique. Sancha loved him but he didn’t rule her. She would never have allowed such a thing. They stood shoulder to shoulder, respecting each other’s wishes and beliefs. “No.”
“No, what?”
“You asked if I found you awful. I could never think of you in anyway except dazzling.”
She got a faraway look in her eyes, somewhat dreamy but also marred with unease.
He guessed what she thought. “As a friend.” Hardly all he wanted, but he was determined to be as positive about their arrangement as possible. “As such, I must point out how noisy your belly is.”
She pressed her growling stomach.
“No good. You need to eat.” He inclined his head to the right. “We can share our first meal together over there.”
* * * *
Beatriz adored the secluded location, the hillside view spectacular. The valley stretched beneath them, endless wheat fields undulating in the wind. A large section was green, a small portion golden and ready for harvest, the lighter color seeming to advance before her eyes.
After Tomás tethered the horses to cork trees, he carried the basket to a clearing for their first meal together. He’d spoken with confidence that they’d do this again.
Perhaps they would, but their shared days would never last. He’d either ask her more questions about her parents and she’d reveal the truth, or he’d tire of their friendship, want more, and seek other women.
Sadness tightened her throat. She pushed the feeling aside, not wanting anything to ruin this day. During these few moments, he belonged to her.
He spread a soft brown blanket over the grass and secured the corners with rocks. Once he’d placed the basket in the center, he put his weapons to the side. The breeze pushed his shirt against his broad, muscular chest. He was more stirring than El Cid and certainly more handsome.
He offered his hand.
She accepted his help readily, her earlier aches disappearing beneath delight.
They sat side by side, arms touching, wildflowers in purple, blue, and white surrounding them, the basket in front like a longed for gift they both wanted to open.
Beatriz could barely keep still. “What did you bring?”
“I have no idea. Cook packed this. I did tell her not to include the carcass Leonor gutted yesterday while you scrubbed the floor. Cook said you kept frowning at the thing.”
Beatriz laughed and bumped his arm. “You two discussed me. Wait. You made light of me.”
“I did. She frowned quite a bit. Ah, look here.” He tore through the basket. “We have cold pork, chicken, cheese, boiled eggs, olives, oranges, bread, and wine.”
With each word, he’d removed the food and placed containers in her arms.
Struggling not to drop any, she pressed the dishes against her breasts. “Such a feast. What do you intend to eat?”
He winked.
Immeasurable pleasure
coursed through her with his gesture, far different from Rufio’s. She’d sensed an undercurrent of cruelty in his playfulness. Not Tomás’s. Though large and powerful, he was unmistakably gentle too.
After relieving her of the food and spreading the containers before them, he slipped his hand beneath her chin.
Her scalp tingled.
He leaned in and brushed a small slice of pork over her lips. “Eat.”
She tongued the meat into her mouth, licking his fingers as she did so. Whether the fare was flavorful or not, she had no idea. Tasting him was what mattered.
He stroked her throat.
Her lids slid down.
“Good?”
She’d never had a more enchanting meal. “Sí. You now.” She eased a sliver of chicken between his lips.
He chewed and swallowed, and then he wrapped his hand around hers and licked her fingers quite slowly, lingering on each. “Wonderful. Cook knows how to roast a bird.” He sucked her forefinger.
She tried to catch her breath but couldn’t, resigned to overwhelming dizziness as long as he was near. “Should we see how well she prepared the other items?”
“We must, or risk hurting her feelings.”
“I could never be so cruel.”
“Nor I.”
They feasted, washing down the fare with sweet wine before returning for more, their attention on each other, nothing else. His locks were almost white in the sun, a delightful contrast to his bronze skin and dark eyebrows.
She kept fighting an urge to stroke his lips and smooth back his windblown hair, repeatedly lifting her hand, then pausing at what she was about to do. Rather than touch him, she brushed her skirt even though she’d swept crumbs away earlier. He was the same, reaching for her tresses only to stop and push back his hair instead.
Once their food had run out, she couldn’t have eaten another bite, her appetite sated, but not her desire. She was taut with need.
Tomás cleared his throat. “Had enough?”
Never. She would always desire him. “My belly should be quiet for the rest of the day. You?”
“Filled to bursting.” He sagged to the blanket, arm pillowing his head, and took her in.
A pulse beat hard in Beatriz’s throat. Surely, he could see her desire, as great as his, his features flooded with yearning, eyes hooded.
She’d never faced a moment such as this with another friend. Lightheaded, she tried to control herself. “Would you like me to read to you now?”
“If you want.”
What she wanted had nothing to do with El Cid’s tale. She opened the book to the page where they left off. Her hands trembled, her hunger for him spiking again, growing unruly. She cleared her throat and began to read, not hearing anything she said. Blood kept rushing in her ears, her pulse pounding loudly.
Somehow, she reached the end of the page and turned to the next.
Tomás captured a tress.
His touch registered in her core. Stoically, she resumed reading. He wound her lock around his fingers. Pretending not to notice, she pressed on.
So did he, winding her hair around his hand, easing her closer.
She dropped the book and fit her mouth to his.
Growling, he drove his fingers through her hair.
Only death would pull her away.
With his face cradled in her hands, she drew her thumbs over his bristly cheeks and parted her lips to his, demanding he fill her.
Tomás speared his tongue inside. She suckled him greedily, her mouth pressed so firmly to his, her teeth dug into her bottom lip. She suffered the pain without complaint, angling her head to the right and left, trying to get closer, unable to do so.
He made an uncivilized noise, slightly feral, decidedly base.
Excitement made her hot. Yearning made her weak.
He rolled them over. She squealed.
Once on top, he muffled whatever sounds she made with his impassioned kiss. She rested her leg on his and held him tightly so he couldn’t get away. He cupped her breast as he had in his study, though bolder now, squeezing, dragging his thumb over her nipple.
A pleasant ache registered between her thighs.
He ground his hips against hers, his shaft thick, hard, insistent, everything she required and couldn’t have.
Unsettled, she released him and pulled her mouth free before they lay together and she brought him scandal or shame. Tears stung her eyes.
Concern tightened his features. “You have nothing to fear.”
“We have everything to fear.”
“No. Listen to me. I would never compromise your virginity. I promise you.”
She didn’t understand. “What then? We kiss as we have been until we drive ourselves mad?”
“Hardly.” His shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.
She frowned. “Are you making fun of me?”
“Never.” He grew serious. “We can enjoy each other without regret.”
Only if they were married.
Her hope soared and crashed as quickly. He could never wed her. Even if he were reckless enough to suggest such a thing, she wasn’t free to wed him. Surely, he meant something else. “What are you talking about?”
“If I touch you with naught but my lips, tongue, and hands, nothing untoward will happen.” He rested his palm on her mound.
Heat shot to her face, though not from shame. Exquisite feelings barreled through her, overwhelming need she hadn’t known until now. Longing so rich she couldn’t imagine how she’d survived without it. “What a genius you are. I want to do the same with you.” She touched his rigid shaft.
Tomás trembled. “Of course—wait. You do know what this involves, no?”
“You pleasure me with your hands, mouth, and tongue and I do the same to you. I had no idea such a thing was possible.”
“Most women refuse to allow such things.”
“I consider them fools.”
“Remove your clothes.” He tugged her to a sitting position and pulled up his shirt.
“Wait.”
“Why?”
She glanced over both shoulders. “What if someone comes upon us?”
“No one will. All the servants’ tasks keep them far from this spot. Nuncio knows better than to approach, unless he wants me to toss him off the hill.” Tomás wiggled his eyebrows. “This is what friends do for each other.”
Beatriz giggled, not caring how foolish she sounded. No one could hear or see how she behaved. The Church and society would certainly condemn her for the coming pleasure, calling her vulgar. She had too little time to spend with Tomás to worry about decency. Her future held naught but loneliness. For these few moments, she wanted him to desire, pleasure, and love her beyond belief.
After pulling off her shoes, stockings, and tunic, she set to work on the endless laces on her gown.
Tomás piled boots and clothes nearby.
She stilled at his male beauty. Smooth bronze skin taut with youth, his muscles superbly defined. His biceps spoke of a man who’d known hard physical labor for years on end. His tiny nipples were dark brown, resembling newly tilled earth, a faint scar near the right one, another on his firm belly below his navel.
Wanting to touch every part of him and not knowing where to begin, she simply gaped.
He rested his hand on her thigh. “Are you pleased?”
His rigid member jutted from a thatch of brown curls, the crown plump and reddened with passion, the shaft thick with lust. Veins traveled up the magnificent column, each so prominent she wanted to touch and lick them.
She nodded. “Exceedingly pleased.”
“Good. Do the rest of your clothes come off, or do I only guess at your beauty?”
Laughing, she plucked her laces. “Can you help me with the rest of these?”
Together, they pulled the gown and chemise off, baring her to him.
Pleasure radiated from Tomás, widening his smile
, quickening his breath. Her nipples constricted at his arousal. More moisture bathed the folds between her legs, proving how much she wanted this.
No other man had seen her naked. She’d always imagined feeling timid, shamed, repulsed at the prospect.
Not with Tomás. Her desire for him made her bold. She melted into his arms and kissed him first, slipping her tongue into his mouth. He groaned and suckled her greedily.
They sagged to the blanket, Tomás on top, his hand sweeping over her nudity, Beatriz touching his, their musk mingling and scenting the air. She traced the small scar near his nipple, circled his navel, and stroked the thick thatch on his groin.
On a wild growl, he tore his mouth from hers. Before she could ask why, he slipped down and latched on to her nipple, suckling and tonguing the tip. Heat and desire sped through her, astonishing in its power. She’d never experienced such passion and excitement, or being so sensitive to touch.
He fastened his mouth on her other nipple, running his tongue over the rosy halo, lapping the tip lazily before he returned to the first one. Breathless, she pushed her fingers through his hair, soft as she’d hoped, and kept him to her.
He suckled hard, which she liked, and slipped his hand down her torso. She quivered. When he reached the dark curls between her legs, she parted her thighs, inviting him to explore.
A low groan poured from him, signaling what sounded like pleasure. He cupped her mound possessively and stroked her small nub, outrageously susceptible to his touch.
A lifetime of carnal sin wouldn’t have prepared Beatriz for the feeling he’d generated within her… sweet tension that nagged and teased, unlike anything she’d believed possible. Unable to resist, she alternately pushed into him, then tried to pull away when the delight grew too intense.
He settled the matter by ending their kiss and crawling between her legs. “Bend your knees and push your hips up.”
Her cheeks stung, again from elation not embarrassment.
The moment she lifted her buttocks he slipped his hands beneath them and settled his mouth on her folds, tonguing them, her opening, and erect nub.
Reckless with need, she pushed closer.
Her wantonness seemed to excite him further. He suckled her kernel, ran his fingers down the furrow between her cheeks, and stroked her tightest opening.
