The Spaniard's Innocent Maiden

by Greta Gilbert

  She could not let herself die. If she perished, then Xanca would, too, and then Puhlko, and then surely her father, bereft and utterly alone. But she could not feel her feet. Nor could she feel her cheeks any more, or her lips. She blew into her hands, but the cold pressed down all around her and she knew not how to fight it.

  Benicio lifted Tula from the rock and laid her gently upon the sleeping mat beneath the second shelter, covering her with the second blanket. He did not lie down at her side, however. Instead, he kneeled at her feet.

  He bent low, keeping his head beneath the roof of their shelter, and appeared to be removing her sandals. He worked furiously, in huffs of breaths, as if attempting to win some unseen contest with the cold. Then he turned his attention to his own clothing.

  Tula watched his shadowy movements in confusion, for he appeared to be removing every piece of clothing that he wore. He unwrapped the thick cotton armour that he had wound about his middle and tossed it beside Tula. Then he unbuttoned his animal-hide vest, pulled off his undershirt and peeled off some other garment until she was certain he wore nothing around his chest. Was he planning to give her all his clothing? To sacrifice his own life for hers?

  She would not allow it. Trembling, she sat up and gathered all of the garments in her arms. She pushed them back at him, trying to communicate her wishes. But he grasped her by the wrists and the clothes fell out of her hands.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she yelped in Totonac. She tried to pull her wrists free, but he held them fast. The blanket had fallen into her lap and she felt the pitiless cold all around her. He said something in his language, then he pressed her hands flat against his naked, heaving chest.

  Her heart skipped and she was unable to collect her thoughts. He was so strong and so...warm. It was as if the small fire that he had built upon the ground now burned inside him. She did not wish to remove her hands, but to keep them there, warming them against his hidden flames. Soon, however, he tucked her hands beneath the blanket and eased her back to her prone position on the mat.

  He returned to his position at her feet. He quickly lifted her leg and placed one of her feet in the small space under his arm. He did the same with her other foot, wedging it securely in the space beneath his other arm so that her legs now stretched outward, motionless and tucked beneath his arms.

  His hurried frenzy ceased. He breathed slowly and she felt him watching her across the rift of darkness. Waiting. She still had no sensation in her feet, but she could feel the slight movement in her legs with the rise and fall of his breaths.

  She felt helpless beneath him, yet strangely alert. In another life, he might have been a priest come to bless her on her deathbed, or a healer come to say a spell over her lifeless feet. Or, she thought wryly, he might have been her husband, staring down at her on their wedding night, preparing to take her for the first time on their joining mat.

  Slowly, she began to feel it—the heat. He was sending it to her through the force of his invisible gaze and she drank it greedily, letting it fill her up.

  In her cold-addled mind, she imagined him lifting her skirts and running his burning hands up and down her thighs. Then he thrust her legs apart and moved in closer, tongues of flame dancing off his body. He was her flaming god, her demon lover, and he hovered over her in the nightmare snowstorm as if trying to decide how he would consume her. You owe me a debt, he told her, for saving your life.

  Her body burned and ached with the desire to pay for the gift of warmth he gave. Take it, she thought recklessly. Take what you are owed. In her fantasy, she arched her hips up as if to dare him.

  ‘Oooww,’ she howled suddenly.

  Her fantasy burst into cinders, replaced by a powerful stinging sensation beginning in her big toes and emanating outward in a thousand needling waves. It was as if her feet were covered with feasting fire ants, or a thousand tiny cactus spines. She dug her fingernails into the blanket, trying to breathe through the agony, but found herself screaming instead.

  He placed a corner of the blanket into her mouth, then gripped her feet more tightly to his chest. She tensed and thrashed as the searing pain in her feet transformed into a sharp, throbbing ache. She heard him say something quiet and sweet, something meant to soothe, though it only seemed to make the pain worse. She spit out the blanket and let out a long, low howl.

  ‘Shhh,’ he whispered, gently kneading her heels. Her feet continued to throb, but she realised that she could now feel the heat of his skin against which they were pressed. Tentatively, she wiggled her toes, amazed that they were still there. An incredible warmth radiated from his body and she wondered how he had conjured it. Had he been dreaming such dreams as she had, perhaps? Or was he really a god, after all?

  She could not think about it now. She could only feel the returned sensation in her feet, brought back from the dead, and a heavy exhaustion, as if she had just run a great distance. She was still cold, but not as cold as she had been, and she became aware that he had probably just saved her life.

  Moving quickly, he bound her feet with his undershirt. She heard the sound of moving cloth and could only guess that he was continuing to disrobe. What madness was he about now?

  He wrapped his arm around her back and lifted her up, arranging the blanket beneath them and then wrapping it around them both. He unwrapped his thick cotton leggings and placed them around her head like a hat, tucking the rest of his clothes behind her against the rock.

  Naked but for a small loincloth, he stretched out beside her under the blanket and began to fumble with the ties of her skirts. She moved to stop him, but she could feel the heat coming off his bare skin like a blaze. She began to fumble with the ties herself.

  She felt a wave of gratitude towards him—this man who was trying so hard to help warm her. She wanted to show him that she trusted him now, so she wiggled out of her undershirt as he had his, baring her breasts in the darkness.

  He could not see her, of course, just as she could not see him. But she heard him draw a breath, as if surprised by her action. He seemed to stiffen as she placed her own undershirt beneath his head. She fussed with the cloth, wrapping it around his head as he had done for her, and was rewarded when she heard him laugh.

  Soon they were lying on their sides and facing each other inside the cocoon he had forged, with nothing but their loincloths and a pocket of air to separate them.

  Incredibly, she began to feel warmer. She could not believe it, but the air between them was not cold. It was warm and balmy with their breaths and it seemed to seep beneath her skin and into her bones.

  He squeezed her hands reassuringly and she felt a tiny bolt of lightning pierce through her stomach. Instead of letting go of her hands, he squeezed them a little more tightly, as if trying to communicate something to her. They lay in that position for many moments, his hands squeezing hers, and she felt once again that strange sensation of being pulled towards him.

  Then she did something she had been wanting to do since the day before. She placed her hand on his cheek. She sensed him shiver as she drew it down across his shaved jaw. She placed her other hand upon his other cheek so that she had his face in her hands. His terribly handsome face.

  Amazingly, it was also radiant with heat and her hands warmed quickly. He edged closer to her and rubbed her arm and she felt it become warmer still. She placed her hand atop his arm and rubbed up and down, just as he had done, and he laughed again. Encouraged, she placed her hands flat upon his chest one more time. ‘Chi’chi,’ she said in Totonac. Hot.

  She did not immediately move her hands, but left them there atop the thick cakes of his upper chest muscles, enjoying the feeling more than she should, until she began to hear the sound of her own heartbeats in her ears.

  Labouring beneath the excuse of warming him as he had her, she moved her hands downwards to his stomach. Like all the bearded ones, Benicio kept
himself concealed beneath layers of cloth, no matter what the temperature, and several times that day she had found herself wondering what lay beneath it. She brushed her hands lightly across his taut stomach, startled to discover rows of thick undulating muscle. His strength, it seemed, was in proportion to his size.

  He let out a low growl. She wrenched her hands away, fearful that she had done wrong. But he edged closer to her and she could feel his fiery breaths on her skin. He held out his blazing hand and placed a molten finger atop her breast.

  She gasped.

  His finger was so hot, but she did not think he was trying to warm her any more. She felt the tip of her breast tighten almost painfully beneath its thick pad and she moaned.

  ‘Diós,’ he said and traced a slow circle around her nipple until she felt something like relief. Had her fantasy just become real?

  She was no longer merely warm, she was burning up inside their little cocoon, yet she could not suppress the strange yearning she felt to get nearer to him.

  She forced herself to remain perfectly still as his finger made its way to her other nipple. Yes, yes, he surely was a god, for no man had ever made her feel pain that was also pleasure, or coaxed the strange dampness that she felt growing between her legs.

  He concentrated as he traced the bud of her second nipple, staring across the darkness with the same powerful intent that he had used to warm her feet. But his touch was so gentle and so maddeningly purposeful. It was if he were tracing a picture of the sun in the soft sand of her flesh.

  He moved his finger to her lips. He traced his finger along her top lip, then her bottom lip, as if reminding her of her own boldness the day she had pressed her lips against his...twice. She did not feel bold now. She felt unusually helpless, as though her icy will had finally melted into nothing but a puddle.

  He pulled his finger off her lip and paused. He curled a strand of her hair around his finger and tugged it lightly. He unfurled the strand, then tapped her nose playfully. He seemed to be holding a question there, right at the tip of his finger, awaiting her answer.

  Did she wish for a third kiss?

  He traced his finger along her arm as lightly as a feather and a chill ran across her skin that had nothing to do with the cold. Then he placed his finger at the top of her woman’s mound.

  Fear hovered at the edge of her mind as she realised that even though she had got warm, she was still not thinking clearly. Moments ago, cold and ice had numbed her limbs. Now she felt as if she were drowning in sensation. The situation had grown beyond her control and she laboured to remind herself of all the reasons why the answer to his question had to be no.

  This was an accident, after all. Not planned. They could not have anticipated the storm or the need to disrobe and huddle close in order to stay warm. Any man and woman in their place would experience the same yearning with their naked bodies together in such a confined space. The desire to join with another was a natural one.

  But Tula could not allow herself to indulge that desire. They were partners, not lovers. He had made that reality very clear. He loved the woman in the picture. Luisa, he had called her, and had stared at her with eyes full of longing.

  He did not look at Tula with such eyes. He did not look at Tula at all, as far as she could tell, unless it was across the darkness, probably imagining that Tula was his Luisa.

  He does not value you. Malinali had warned. It was a statement quite easy to forget in the fog of lust that had invaded her mind.

  Still, it was as true as the wind and the snow. She was not his wife. She was not his kin. She was nothing to him. She was his means to an end. If she allowed their relationship to become more than an agreement between thieves, she knew that the only outcome would be her own end.

  It was different for women.

  She remembered her mother’s wailing moans that day, in the hottest month of the year. Tula had glimpsed inside their house for half a second before being pulled back out on to the porch by her father’s patient hand.

  ‘Your mother is in danger,’ her father had explained. ‘We must leave her alone with your sister and the midwives.’ He had placed his face in his hands as Tula’s mother let out a long, painful wail.

  ‘Father, I am afraid.’

  ‘Tell me,’ her father choked, ‘what are the four greatest cities in history?’

  Her mother let out another terrifying scream. ‘Father—’

  ‘Tell me now, Tula. What are the four greatest cities in the history of the world?’

  ‘Ah...um... Teotihuacan, the birthplace of the Totonacs, is first,’ Tula began.

  ‘That is a clever girl. Go on.’

  ‘Tollan, city of art and wisdom is next, then Chichen Itza, the city between the cenotes, then Tenochtitlan, the floating city.’

  ‘I have taught you well, my curious one,’ he had said. Then her mother let out a sound so full of pain that Tula had pressed her legs to her chest, as if to protect herself from it. Her father had jumped up and rushed into the house.

  In moments he had returned wearing the face of sorrow. ‘You have another sister now, my dear Tula, but your mama has passed. She now resides in the best level of heaven.’

  When a woman joined with a man, she risked getting with child. When she allowed him into the deepest part of her, she put her life in danger. Even if she did not get with child, she risked giving away her heart. In time, the man would leave her. Whether through death or simple disinterest, loved ones always left. They were like rays of sun. They shone on your face and lulled you with joy, then disappeared with the night. Love was dangerous and fleeting, so it was better not to love at all.

  She took his finger and gently removed it from her woman’s mound, placing it and the hand it belonged to securely on his own hip. I am sorry, she wished to say. She belonged to him—that was true. But if he was giving her a choice, then she chose solitude.

  It was different for women, and especially for Tula.

  She rolled over, showing him her back. He traced his finger along the curve of her hip, still questioning her. She gave him no response. He pushed his body against hers, nuzzling his face in her tangle of hair. ‘Please,’ he whispered, sounding as if he were enduring some terrible pain. She could feel the extent of his desire against her backside. It was thick and long and as hard as a tree limb.

  Long ago, not long after Pulhko had married, she had described the act of love between a man and a woman. Tula and Xanca had listened, fascinated, and had laughed in disbelief when Pulhko had described the ‘cenote’s edge’. That is what she called the point during the cycle of a man’s desire from which it was almost impossible for him to turn back. Now Tula feared that Benicio hovered dangerously close to that edge.

  She needed to stop him—to put an end to this terrible yearning that had taken hold of the both of them and left them without their good judgment. She wondered what movement she could make to pull him away from the edge. Then she realised—it was not what she could do, but what she could say.

  ‘Luisa,’ she said simply. ‘Luisa.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  They had slept apart since the night of the snowstorm. Days passed slowly as the high mountains gave way to a dry, sun-scorched plain. As the company proceeded ever onwards, their quest for warmth had gradually been replaced by a quest for water.

  And certainly that was for the best. Benicio had lost his head that night in the cold. He had not anticipated the potency of Tula’s nearness, nor the havoc that her disrobing would wreak upon his mind. Like some lovestruck lad, he had allowed his body’s urges to overmaster him and he was confounded by it.

  Even now, as he cleared two separate spaces for their sleeping mats, the thought of Tula’s soft nipple beneath his finger was making his body come awake against his will.

  He appalled himself. He knew that s
he had disrobed in total innocence, only following his lead. Women’s nudity was more acceptable in the West Indies than it was in Spain. Besides, he had not actually seen her breasts at all. He had not even been certain of their nakedness until he had made bold to touch one.

  Now he could scarcely think of anything other than that moment. He had never been a pious man, but for the first time in his life he wished there were a church somewhere close. Then he could give his confession and absolve himself of this wretched desire that seemed to flow beneath the solid ground of his plans, threatening to erode them.

  She was his partner, not his lover. She was the only person besides Rogelio who had seen the map. He needed to keep himself in her good graces. Stealing her honour beneath a pine-bow shelter was no way to do that—to say nothing of the fealty that he owed Luisa.

  At least someone had been able to keep her wits in that moment beneath the blanket. Indeed, Tula deserved much credit for her cleverness, for there was only one thing that could have snapped him out of the fog of his lust: the name of his beloved. Luisa, she had repeated several times, each invocation like a hammer into his gut.

  But it had worked. Thank God, it had worked. He remained a gentleman in at least some respects and true to the woman he loved. Tula had made sure of it.

  He watched her now, wandering amongst the agaves in the waning light. She appeared to be searching for something, but what? She was well concealed in her dark skirt and matching shawl, though he knew that she had layered her white costume beneath it for warmth. He imagined what it might be like to remove those heavy garments one layer at a time, as if unwrapping some beautiful, forbidden gift.

  As if unwrapping treasure.

  Diós Santo. What was wrong with him? He was not some dishonourable rogue who went about ravishing island women as the mood struck him. He had read Plato and Aristotle and Cicero, for goodness’ sake. He had pondered history and philosophy and the role of virtue in human affairs. He lived by a code—one of honour and restraint. Or, at least, he had done so once.