Spanish Serenade

by Jennifer Blake

  “What is it?” Refugio's voice was quiet, yet carried the crack of a whip.

  Isabel wrapped one hand in her apron so tightly the cloth split. “The message was brought this evening from Seville, from Don Esteban. He sent word that he — he has abducted Vicente, taken him as he walked on the street. He says that he has branded your brother as his slave and means to take him with him when he sails for Louisiana. And if you ever want to see Vicente alive, then you must make sure that the woman you hold, his stepdaughter Pilar, causes no trouble until he returns.”

  5

  SILENCE CLOSED IN upon them. Refugio's face hardened, his features taking on the sharp edges of an image cast in metal. The tremulous light from the lantern Isabel held caught in his eyes with a silver-gold reflection of virulent pain. His grip on Pilar's arm tightened, becoming a vise capable of crushing bone. The night wind that drifted around the eaves of the stone hut made a soft sighing sound and died away.

  Behind him, Refugio's men stood in arrested movement: Baltasar holding the saddle that he had just taken from his horse, Enrique wiping the dust from his face with the tail of his cloak, Charro rubbing his mount down with a handful of straw. Isabel pressed one hand to her mouth with a sick look in her eyes, as if the message she had spoken had been a blow she had taken herself. At the same time, there was fear in her face as she watched the bandit leader.

  They were all watching him, waiting, and they were all wary if not actively afraid. But of what? What did they expect of him? Did they look for some violent act of rage against them? Did they fear he would do something that might draw them all into a confrontation that would destroy them? Or was their concern that he might turn his destructive urge upon himself? Whatever it was, they made no move to deflect what might come. Nor did they show so much as a hint of the compassion that must surely be the first impulse of long-time companions.

  Pilar put her free hand on Refugio's fingers where he grasped her arm. Her voice low, she said, “I'm sorry.”

  Slowly, he turned his head to look at her. “Are you?” he said, his voice no louder then the night wind. “Are you indeed? And are you sorry enough?”

  Pilar flinched, not only at the raw lash of the words, but also at the barely contained ferocity she glimpsed in the depths of his eyes. She drew her hand back as though she had been burned. She could feel the sickening thud of her heart in her chest and the rasp of the air in her lungs.

  Abruptly, he released her. Swinging away, he moved with long, swift strides into the darkness.

  Pilar drew a gasping breath. One of the three men sighed and swore, Baltasar dropped the saddle he held to the ground, then moved to take the lantern from Isabel's trembling hand. Isabel began to cry with the quiet, hopeless sound of a lost kitten. The others gathered close together, not quite looking at each other.

  “What is he going to do?” Pilar asked, her gaze going from one to the other.

  It was the tall and rangy one known as Charro who answered. “Who can say?”

  “He will kill Don Esteban,” Enrique said, giving a shrug of one shoulder which said that the answer was obvious.

  “Or die in the attempt.” Isabel gasped the words on a fresh sob.

  “I mean now, this moment,” Pilar said. “You can't just let him go.”

  “How do you suggest we stop him?” Enrique watched her with an ironic lift of his brows.

  “You could go after him, be with him.”

  “Yes, if we did not so love life.”

  Pilar eyed the one-time acrobat with irritation for that hint of melodrama. “He's a man like any other. It can't be that bad.”

  “If you think so, then you are free to offer him comfort.”

  “I hardly know him, but you are his friends, his compadres.”

  “If you hardly know him, señorita,” Baltasar said with slow reason, “why this concern?”

  “I'm not—” she began, then stopped. She lifted her chin before she continued. “Maybe because I feel to blame.”

  “Yes,” Baltasar said with a nod of his massive head.

  “Don Esteban protects himself from all angles, or so it seems,” Enrique agreed. “He kills the lady, your aunt, to prevent you from enlisting her aid and influence against him, then seizes Vicente as hostage against Refugio's good behavior, ensuring that El Leon will do nothing to further your claims before Don Esteban departs Spain or while he is out of the country. At the same time, Don Esteban has avenged himself against both Vicente and Refugio for their interference in his private affairs. He has, in fact, injured El Leon and effectively caged him at the same time. He has won. Tell us how we are to solace Refugio for this defeat?”

  There was accusation in every face turned toward her. Pilar felt the heat of guilt rising to her cheekbones. “I didn't mean it to happen this way. You must know that.”

  “We know,” Baltasar answered.

  The words were flat. The sound of them made Pilar wonder at his meaning, wonder if perhaps they all doubted her innocence in the affair. It seemed beyond belief that they could think she might have conspired with her stepfather to place Refugio in his present position. Such an elaborate charade could hardly have been necessary, even without the danger from Refugio's retaliation as a deterrent.

  She glanced away from them, staring in the direction Refugio had taken. If his followers believed the worst of her, what must El Leon think? He had suspected her of enticing him into a trap at their first meeting. It could well appear that the trap had closed.

  Lifting her skirts, she took a step into the darkness. Charro straightened from where he slouched against the doorframe. “Wait, señorita,” he said, an urgent sound in his voice. “You don't know what you're doing. You'd fare better facing a band of Tejas country Apache in war paint than going out there.”

  “That may be,” she said over her shoulder, “but I have to go.” Without looking back, she moved away into the night.

  She couldn't find him. She circled the hut, moving a few yards at a time before stopping to listen, then taking another few steps and listening again. Returning to the place she had started, some hundred yards from the front of the hut, she turned in a slow circle, her every sense alert for movement. She probed the shadows under the scattered trees and scanned the rocks silhouetted against the night sky. She even breathed the soft night breeze for a scent. There was nothing. Nothing moved, not a night creature, not a tree branch. The very light of the stars in the velvet-lined dome overhead seemed stationary and unblinking.

  Long moments passed. Finally, Pilar began to walk again, straight ahead. She penetrated farther and farther into the darkness, until she began to wonder if she could find her way back to the hut. But as she paced, the first inkling of a suspicion came to her. It grew inside her, formed partly of instinct and partly of acquired knowledge of the man she sought. She walked on another step, and another. She slowed, stopped.

  She stood unmoving, almost without breathing. When the silence had stretched to its greatest depth, when the stillness around her was near unbearable and the darkness seemed to be closing in, ready to smother her, she knew.

  “If you touch me I may well scream,” she said. “Not, you understand, from surprise or even fear, but from sheer vexation.”

  “Who would hear? Or hearing, come?” he answered from so close behind her that his warm breath disturbed the hairs on the back of her neck.

  “No one, of course. But I would hate to waste the energy when I have so little left.”

  “You have my sympathy. But that was what you came to offer me, wasn't it?”

  “In part. For the rest, I wanted to explain about Vicente.”

  The choice of words was wrong; she knew it the instant they left her tongue. She expected violence, an explosion of wrath and denial. Instead, she felt him receding from her, leaving her.

  She swung around, crying out, “Wait! I know I've involved you in something far bigger than I expected, but I give you my word I didn't intend it. And I swear that I never mean
t that Vicente should be caught in it. Please believe me.”

  “I believe you. If it were otherwise, you would never have been left at my mercy. Assuming that Don Esteban would value you as an accomplice, of course. There is the possibility that you have merely been deserted.”

  “I assure you—”

  “There is also the chance that I am meant to use you for my retaliation, meant to injure you, brand you, ravish you in the wildness of my rage. The temptation to return the transgression committed against my sister must be strong, must it not? More than that, it would serve to blacken the polish on the country legends, so that there would be less hue and cry if my body were to be found hanging at some remote crossroad.”

  The even, expressionless sound of his voice as he laid the potential in the situation bare sent a chill to the core of Pilar's being. She opened her mouth to refute it, but his words continued without pause, relentless in their logic.

  “The situation is not quite the same. My sister was seduced away from her home by a mad attraction to Don Esteban's son, in addition to a head full of romantic ideals inspired by Shakespeare's tragedies and a family inclination toward self-sacrifice. She meant to heal the rift, you see? When she discovered the depths of her error, she was extinguished inside; to take her life was only a small added sin. You, I think, are made of stronger stuff. You would never permit yourself to love an unsuitable man, never allow your spirit to be violated along with your body.”

  “Is that what you think of me?”

  “It is, though it's not possible to be sure. Shall we see?”

  He had moved nearer again as he spoke. There was no warning of what he meant to do, no prelude to his last words. He stopped speaking, and abruptly she was whirling, falling. The breath was jarred from her as she struck the ground, though the stony earth was cushioned by a long, hard form. Strong arms closed around her and she was rolled to her back. His mouth descended on hers, its molded firmness seeking, burning its imprint into her memory. White beat flared in Pilar's mind. She made a convulsive movement, as if she would break free, then forced herself to stillness by an act of stringent will. She would not give him the satisfaction of overcoming her resistance, would not encourage him in his experiment by even a fraction of response.

  And yet his kiss was tantalizing as its pressure eased. His lips upon hers were warm and smooth, subtly inviting. The touch of his tongue on the tender surfaces of her own mouth was sweet, its invasion one of infinite grace rather than demand. Pilar felt the surge of the blood in her veins, heard it begin to pound in her head. Her lower body grew heated and heavy. Her breasts, pressed against the hard planes of his chest, tingled with exquisite sensitivity, so that it seemed she could feel the weave of the rough peasant's shirt he still wore and the interlocking bands of the muscles that lay underneath. His thighs were rigid against her own. His weight was constricting so that she felt incredibly vulnerable, as if somewhere deep inside there was a place where she was defenseless, where if touched just so she might be enticed to yield.

  Alarm, silent but strident, swept through her. She drew a deep, gasping breath and pushed him violently away from her. He let her go. In the same movement he rose to one knee, bracing his forearm across it as he hovered above her where she supported herself on one elbow. He gave a short, breathless laugh. “You see?” he said. “Stalwart and inviolate inside yourself. How could it be otherwise?”

  It was a long moment before she could trust the steadiness of her voice enough to speak, before she could force her mind to function. She wanted to roll away from him, but refused to give him the satisfaction of that retreat. “How indeed?” she answered finally in husky tones. “There must be another reason, then, for this display. If it's the price to be paid for daring to pity you, I must tell you it's too high.”

  “On the contrary, it's wonderfully low, a decision taken in deliberation. Unlike some, I have no desire for a branded hostage.”

  “I'm not your hostage.”

  “Aren't you?” He reached to catch her hands. Rising in a single swift movement, he pulled her to her feet with such force that she was catapulted into his arms. Holding her palms pressed against his chest, he said, “Tell me, how long do you think it will take me to exchange you for my brother?”

  If he returned her to Don Esteban, there was little doubt that her stepfather would kill her. With the blood slowly congealing in her veins, she whispered, “You — You wouldn't.”

  “You don't deny that I could. Does that mean you accept that I hold you, or only that you perceive me as capable of any iniquity?”

  Anger stirred at having the knowledge of her position forced upon her with such unremitting intention. “Neither. It's only that I had not thought you would surrender so tamely to Don Esteban's manipulations.”

  “It's a question of a life. My brother's.”

  “And what of mine?”

  “The choice, I admit, is difficult. Tell me why I should preserve you instead of the fruit of my mother's womb, a sibling who venerates and trusts me, and who waits even now, uncomplaining and burned like crisp beef, for me to come for him.”

  “You are asking for payment?” She could not keep the shock from her voice.

  “If the form can guarantee forgetfulness, it will be considered.”

  His voice was clear and cool, yet there was buried inside it a crackling edge that caught at her attention. She was silent as she listened to its echoes in her mind. It was, she thought, the sound of denied pain.

  “No, you won't do that,” she said with certainty. “You will do something, I don't doubt, but not that. After all, you are El Leon, the bandit leader they sing about in the mountains. How difficult can it be for you to defeat Don Esteban? I expect that if you exert yourself, you can preserve me and Vicente at the same time!”

  A sound like a dry laugh left him. “Who knows?” he said in slow acquiescence. “It might even be worth the effort.”

  Refugio, staring down at the woman he held, seeing no more than the pale curve of her cheek in the darkness, wanted suddenly to strip her bare. He wanted to see not her body, but her mind, wanted to know what she thought and felt and believed, and how he was placed in her view. He could do it with force and sharp, double-edged wit, but what would be the purpose? The act itself would cause change. Therefore, he must wait, must accomplish what he wanted by stealth. He would ply her with words and sweet possibilities until she revealed herself. And when his curiosity was satisfied, then he would, must, dismiss her.

  She was different. She didn't cling with lovesick entreaties, nor did she lure him with crude gestures and promises; she wanted nothing to do with him, in fact. On the other hand, she didn't shrink from him or act the coy, retiring maiden. She had strength of purpose, more than his band, it seemed, or she would not be there. She could not be bullied, and if she was frightened, refused to show it. She met his more outrageous sallies with wit and flashes of understanding that were disconcerting.

  He thought she was exactly as she had said, but could not be sure. She intrigued him, and was therefore dangerous. It was imperative that he discover everything there was to know about her. Always before, that had brought boredom and satiety. It would, pray God, again.

  When she made no answer to his taunt, he stepped back, gesturing toward the faint light that shone from the hut as an indication that they should return to its shelter. The movement was exaggerated in its gallantry, but no less sincere for that.

  Pilar moved ahead of him toward the hut. There should have been satisfaction in the fact that she had distracted him from his worry about Vicente, but she could not feel it. It seemed, instead, that she had gained not a concession, but a reprieve. There was to be no rest. Refugio, brisk with orders and exhortations, waxing acerbic and dulcet by turns and with neither mood safe to question, got them all up on their feet again and back in the saddle. Pilar thought she would be left behind, until she was directed to her horse with a stinging rebuke. They took the small chest of silver because, s
he surmised, their leader felt it might prove useful, and took Isabel because the young woman refused in near hysteria to remain behind again. They were far along the road, with the sun climbing ladders of pink cloud into a sky of purest cerulean, before anyone thought, or dated, to ask where they were going.

  Cadiz was their destination. Cadiz of a thousand years and ten thousand ships, where Phoenician merchants once dreamed of Tyre, where Carthaginians and Romans had saluted their dancing girls in the wine of Jerez, and where the yellow wealth of Aztec gods had been dragged ashore with grunts. Cadiz, where the sea surrounded the Alameda and the Alameda edged the houses of the town, and all was guarded by the rocky headlands of Los Cochinos and Las Puercas.

  They were headed for Cadiz, where Don Esteban was to take ship for Louisiana.

  No one asked what they would do when they got there. They failed to ask because there was no leisure for it, no breath or will. Pilar thought they had traveled fast before; she had been mistaken. They careened along the mountain roads, crowding less desperate travelers into the ditches, trampling chickens and geese under their horses' hoofs and sending curs yipping. They rode tough hill ponies into heaving, windbroken nags; they ate and drank with one foot in the stirrup, and they did not close their eyes for fear the caked grit of the road dirt would blind them.

  Shadowy figures gave them food, led away their exhausted mounts and brought fresh ones. These men talked to Refugio, in low voices, pointing south, explaining, absolving. Sometimes there was silver passed, sometimes not.

  The leagues fell away behind them. The day waned and night came again, and still they rode on. Pilar, tired before they started, felt for a long time as if she were on a rack. Gradually she was overcome by a blessed daze through which she could hear and see but no longer feel. Her fingers were claws made to hold reins, and there were patches on her thighs and hips that might never grow skin again. Unlike the others, particularly Baltasar, who snored with closed eyes as he rode, she could not sleep in the saddle. She remained upright on her horse by sheer strength of will, that and a carefully nurtured hostility.