Spanish Serenade

by Jennifer Blake

  It was only practical to obey. She sank her teeth into her lower lip as muscles, cramped for hours in her unnatural position, relaxed. A tremor, totally involuntary, ran along her thighs.

  His arm tightened at her waist. “To mortify the flesh for the sake of an idea is the act of a fanatic. Are you sure you shouldn't be a nun, counting beads while kneeling on beans and thinking of glory? It isn't too late to repent of this momentary madness.”

  “Oh, I think it is,” she answered. “Anyway, I don't repent.”

  “Then forget pride and lean on me. I promise I'll not take advantage of it.”

  “I never thought you would,” she said, turning her head slightly as if to look at him, though she could not see him in the darkness. She could not think how he followed the track ahead of them, unless he could see in the dark or else knew it as a peasant knew his tiny piece of land.

  “Didn't you? Possibly it's true you have no vocation.”

  “What do you mean?” she demanded.

  “Nuns shouldn't lie.”

  She was silent a moment, then said, “Are you always so quick to accuse?”

  “You think me unjust?”

  “There could be other reasons for keeping some distance between us.”

  “Such as?”

  “A disinclination to burden you.”

  “You are all consideration.”

  Stung by the dryness of his tone, she went on, “Or it might be the lingering smell of sheep.”

  Somewhere nearby, Pilar heard the snort of a muffled laugh.

  “I make you my apologies,” Refugio said, “but some things are inescapable.”

  The sound of his voice, matter-of-fact, even shaded with humor, was oddly calming. She put her arm along his, which was clamped around her, easing back a degree more against him as she agreed. “So it seems.”

  “Precisely. Sleep if you can.”

  She gave a faint nod.

  She did not sleep, however, did not feel even the slightest drowsiness. She was still painfully alert and on edge when they rode into the yard of a small stone house built into a hillside.

  Yellow lamplight spilled out as the door was opened, shafting through the swirling mist of rain, outlining the shape of a young woman. The older man of the group, Baltasar, called out to the woman and she answered, though both kept their voices low. Refugio swung from the saddle, then reached to catch Pilar's waist, lifting her down. She slid into his arms, gripping his shoulders with convulsive fingers until the cramps eased from her legs. She thought of asking where he had taken her, but was too doubtful of a satisfactory answer, and too weary and miserably wet to make the effort.

  Refugio turned her toward the doorway. The other woman, young and with anxious eyes, stepped back to let her pass inside. There was a call from outside for Refugio. He released Pilar and moved back into the yard again.

  “I'm Isabel,” the young woman said to Pilar in soft, hesitant tones. “You must be worn to the bone. Come to the fire and dry yourself.”

  Gratitude for the consideration behind the offer welled up inside Pilar. She moved toward the blaze on the blackened stone hearth that took up the back wall of the one-room house, holding out her hands to the warmth. Over her shoulder she gave her name and murmured her appreciation.

  “I have some soup,” Isabel said. She closed the open door and moved with light steps to swing a caldron over the fireplace flames. The soup sloshed over, sizzling on the coals. Isabel seemed not to notice. Giving Pilar a glance from the corners of her eyes, she went on, “It will be hot soon.”

  “That sounds wonderful.” Pilar was ravenous, she realized, though she had not known it until that moment. The two women smiled at each other, though with constraint. Isabel was slight of figure and attractive in a piquant, gamine fashion without being actually pretty. Her hair was a soft, dark brown cloud caught back with a worn ribbon just behind her ears, and her eyes, the color of spring grass, were tilted at the corners. With her quick, impulsive movements and tentative manner, she seemed somehow kittenish and vulnerable.

  The stone house, perhaps once a shepherd's hut, was older and larger than it appeared from the outside. Though there was only one main room, there were curtained alcoves on either side of the fireplace which seemed to serve as sleeping quarters. The floor of earth was packed to stone hardness by generations of feet. The ceiling was black with the smoke of countless fires, and from the exposed rafters hung strings of dried onions and garlic and also small hams dry-cured, with the pig's hair still upon them. The smells of these things hung in the air, blending with the aroma of ham and bean soup. The furnishings were meager, only a table in the center of the room under a hanging lantern and a pair of crude, handmade bench seats on either side of the fireplace.

  Isabel stirred the soup with an iron ladle. The two women did not speak again, though Isabel's gaze, wide and speculative, returned more than once to Pilar.

  Behind them the door sprang open again to crash against the wall. Isabel gave a cry and swung around. Pilar turned from the fire to see Refugio striding inside carrying the brass-bound chest holding the endowment to the convent. He set it down on the rough, handmade table and flung back the lid, then tipped the chest so that the contents spilled across the tabletop. With his hands braced on either side, he stared across the room at Pilar.

  The chest was three-quarters empty. The coins it contained were not gold at all, but thinnest silver.

  “Pledges are cheap,” Refugio said, his eyes glittering as he stared at her above the chest, “and I should have been warned, considering that I knew from where you came, Pilar Sandoval y Serna. Still, if this is the recompense you promised, it may be I prefer to exact my own.”

  3

  “I DIDN’T KNOW! I swear I didn't know.”

  Pilar moved slowly to face Refugio across the center table. She spoke the truth, yet felt as guilty as if she had deliberately set out to cheat the brigand leader. She should have known, she thought, should have guessed that the generosity of Don Esteban's offer was not in his nature. No doubt he had meant to present the meager endowment to the mother superior of the convent in private, representing himself as acting for Pilar's dead mother to remove all blame from himself. Pilar would naturally have been left in ignorance of his parsimony until it was too late.

  “I might believe you if there was moonlight and a dark garden,” Refugio said, “but unfortunately for you, there's neither.”

  “Why should I lie? There was never a chance that I would have the gold for my own.”

  “But the promise of it was such a powerful incentive, or so you seemed to think.”

  The words had a slicing edge of sarcasm under the accusation. His face, enameled blue and yellow by the flickering firelight, was like an image carved in bronze, impenetrable, unrelenting. Rainwater trickled from his hair, tracking slowly down the frown lines between his eyes.

  Pilar moistened her lips. The followers of El Leon — Enrique, Charro, and Baltasar, who had entered the hut behind him — avoided her gaze, staring at the floor, at the ceiling, everywhere except at her and their leader. They eased around the two of them there at the table, heading toward the fire, where they held their hands to the flames and pretended great interest in the warming soup. The only person who watched them was Isabel, whose eyes were wide and staring in her pale face. Pilar's voice was strained as she spoke. “It would have been stupid to promise something that I could not supply.”

  “Yes, unless you didn't expect to be found out until you were safely with your aunt.”

  “I wouldn't stoop to so base a trick!”

  “You are of Don Esteban's house. Why should you not?”

  “And you are a noble outcast to whom gold is an insult,” she returned with heat. “Why should you care so much?”

  “Though your charms are considerable, I did not risk the lives of the men who ride with me for their sake, nor for a few paltry pieces of silver. We require gold for horses, for food and shelter, and for the bribes
which can, at carefully chosen times, unlock prison doors.”

  “I'm sorry if you were disappointed, but I tell you I had nothing to do with it! There's nothing, not a single thing, that I can do to change what happened.”

  He watched her for a long instant. When he spoke, his words were edged with feathery quiet. “Perhaps there's something I can do.”

  Isabel took a step forward. “Refugio,” she whispered, “don't.”

  The leader of the brigands did not even look at the other girl. “I wonder,” he said to Pilar, “what your aunt would pay to have you delivered to her, healthy, happy, and, oh yes, untouched?”

  Pilar could feel her heart jarring inside her chest. “You mean to hold me for ransom? How sordid.”

  “Isn't it? And ignoble. But I never pretended to be otherwise. It's you who took me for a figure of tragedy, a righter of wrongs.”

  Isabel's face turned red and tears rose to shimmer in her eyes. “Oh, Refugio, don't say such things,” she cried in dismay. “Why are you doing this? Why?”

  Pilar, distracted by the other girl's distress, spoke baldly to the man in front of her. “Apparently I made a mistake. As for my aunt, I have no idea what she will or will not do for my sake. You will have to ask her.”

  “My next objective, I assure you.”

  He broke off as Isabel moved closer to clutch his arm with white-tipped fingers, drawing his attention. The girl spoke on a quick, indrawn breath. “You're doing this because you want this woman here. You want her, instead of me.”

  Refugio looked at the other girl and not a muscle moved in his face, nor was there a trace of emotion on the silvery surface of his eyes. Holding her piteous, beseeching gaze, he spoke a single word over his shoulder. “Baltasar?”

  The older man was already moving to Isabel, putting his arm around her. “Come away, my love,” he murmured. “It will be all right.”

  “Oh, Baltasar,” Isabel said as she spun around and caught the big man's shoulders in a convulsive grip. “Make him stop. Refugio doesn't care about the gold; he'll only give it away. It's her, I know it is. He'll do something terrible because of her.”

  “Hush,” was the only reply as the burly outlaw turned her and walked her back toward the fire. “Hush now.”

  Refugio, swung with deliberation back toward Pilar. She met his gaze without flinching, but could see nothing except her own reflection in its wintry surface.

  He said, “You were, I believe, anxious to be united with your aunt. That is now my dearest desire. Isn't it wonderful how these things work themselves out?”

  She had not realized she was holding her breath until she heard his brisk tone. It was an effort to control the rise and fall of her chest without being obvious. Her voice was tight as she agreed, “Yes, isn't it?”

  “I would tell you it's my sole desire — but that would be to assume you are concerned. You are not, of course.” There was a grating edge of mockery in his voice.

  “No,” Pilar said.

  He pushed away from the table. “I thought not. You had better eat something and try to sleep. We ride for Cordoba at mid-morning.”

  “Morning! But I thought—”

  He swung back on her so quickly that the hem of his wet cloak made a pattern of water droplets on the floor. “Yes? You thought?”

  “Haven't things changed? Aren't you . . . anxious to see my aunt, to arrange matters?”

  “It will wait.”

  His attitude of barely contained impatience shaded with menace grated on her nerves, but she refused to be cowed. “I couldn't sleep. I would as soon ride on.”

  “Into possible danger from your stepfather's hirelings?”

  “It seems no less dangerous here to me.”

  Light seeped into his eyes, making them shine with cool amusement. “You are concerned, then.”

  “It seems to me that that's what you want,” she said tightly. “I don't know you well, hardly at all in fact, but I'm beginning to think that you usually have a reason for what you do. That being so, I have a right to be wary until I discover what you intend toward me.”

  “In light of what Isabel just said?”

  She lifted her chin, her eyes steady on his. “And your own threats, yes.”

  “And do you think,” he said pleasantly as he rounded the end of the table and moved toward her, “that your wariness would stop me if I decided to approach you?”

  It was a test of nerve, that slow advance. She would not move, Pilar thought, as he came nearer and nearer, walking with the long-limbed grace of perfect physical condition and muscles oiled with constant effort. She didn't care if he walked over her, she would not move. Her mind sought here and there for an answer to the question he had asked. She could not find one, but no matter, she would not move. Behind her, the clink of dishes stopped. Isabel's soft murmurs of distress died away. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the light drumming of the rain overhead.

  Pilar had little defense against the bandit leader. She could fight, but given his superior strength, he would overpower her in short order. She was surrounded by his friends and companions, men trained to do his bidding without question and who, equally without question, would stand aside while he took his chosen pleasures. Of her own free will she had placed herself in the power of El Leon. It would take an extraordinary combination of wit and luck to escape from the lair of this lion, unless he chose to let her go.

  He stopped in front of her, standing so close that the ragged edges of his cloak swung against her damp skirts. He reached out his hand to cup the tender curve of her check in his strong, long-fingered hand. She flinched, a movement instantly stilled as she felt the heat of his touch, the hard ridges of the calluses that lined his palm and toughened his fingertips, and the jolting sensation of that deliberate contact. She drew a quick breath, her lips parting with the intake. His gaze narrowed upon their smooth surfaces and delicate curves, and he brushed his thumb across them in a movement of gentle and absorbed exploration that left them tingling. She shivered, her jaw trembling a little under his hold, while she lowered her lashes to hide her startled confusion.

  He released her with an abrupt gesture, lowering his hand to his side. When he spoke, his voice was low and derisive. “Vigilant and valiant, and wet to the skin — what makes you think I'm so desperate for a bedmate that I would take one who is wild-eyed with aversion and has chattering teeth? Or that I have so little acumen as to lower the value of a hostage by a quick tumble?”

  She swallowed hard, so chilled inside herself that she felt the ripple of gooseflesh at the removal of his warm caress. “Then the things you said were merely to frighten me.”

  “To encourage quick and clear answers to pertinent questions. I admit it was crude.”

  “But successful. Or should I worry that what you're saying now is yet another effort, one to make me biddable while you and your men rest?”

  “Would you prefer it that way?”

  “I would prefer that you abide by our agreement without detours and threats.” She had begun to tremble in every muscle from purest reaction, and hid her knotted fists among the folds of her skirts in the attempt to hide it.

  “There was nothing in our agreement that said I had to die for you, señorita. That's leaving aside the question of the vanished gold. You keep your bargains, and you'll find that I keep mine.”

  “There are some things we can't control.”

  He stood looking down at her for a long moment before he swung away. “Or escape,” he said in tight acceptance. “I believe we are in agreement on that. But come to the fire. If you mean to count these uncontrollable and inescapable things, let us at least do it in comfort.”

  His tone did not encourage either refusal or delay. If he were resigned to taking no more than the silver for the service he had performed for her, he gave no outward sign. He had himself arranged their close quarters of the next few hours, and had also proposed that he face her aunt. What else was there?

  There
was the accusation Isabel had made, that Refugio had brought her to the stone hut for his own purpose. But no, Pilar could not believe it. There had been little in his manner to suggest he was attracted to her, much less that he meant to keep her against her will. She was no more than a means to an end to him, a way of striking at Don Esteban while gaining the wherewithal to keep his band of men alive. If there was some plan in which she played a part, forming behind the opaque gray of his eyes, it had nothing to do with her as a woman. The girl Isabel had upset herself for no reason, none whatever.

  Pilar told herself these things, and yet it almost seemed that Refugio intended to prove her wrong. He drew up a chair for her next to his own and, going to one knee, ladled out a bowl of soup for her and passed it to her with his own hands. The smile he gave her, as her hands brushed his upon the crude earthenware bowl, held a sudden concentrated warmth that was disturbing. Before she began to eat, he reached out and unfastened her cape, drawing it from her shoulders. Then taking off his own cloak, which had begun to steam in the heat of the fire, he hung them both side by side on pegs set into the stones of the great chimney.

  Isabel choked on her soup. Baltasar thumped her on the back, but she thrust her bowl into his rough hands and jumped to her feet. Her eyes filled with hurt tears, she whirled from them all to plunge behind the curtain of one of the alcoves.

  The men looked at one another, then away again. Refugio, for all the attention he paid, might not have noticed. He ladled soup into a bowl for himself with apparent unconcern. Still, as a stifled sob was heard, he checked. The knuckles of his hand tightened to whiteness, then relaxed once more. Face impassive, he finished filling his bowl and sat down to eat.

  Pilars' appetite had fled. She swallowed a few mouthfuls of the savory concoction in her bowl, but used the piece of earthenware mainly to warm her hands. She was still shaken now and then by a shiver of combined chill and tension, but suppressed each one with valiant effort. Rainwater oozed slowly from the hem of her skirt, soaking into the earthen floor around her feet.