by Diane Gaston
She had had the same effect on him the evening of the Feast of the Epiphany, when he had urged her to marry him. But she had only stared at him with those lovely green eyes, pondering something. What had it been?
‘I have returned,’ said Armando, rejoining them. ‘Why do you stare at me so piteously?’
‘You have been selected to hear Carlos’s proposal,’ explained Benicio.
Before Armando could protest, Carlos had dropped to his knee once again and was sputtering some muck about the colour of the rose in the light of dawn after the first rain. Undaunted, Armando embraced his role as Luisa and was soon heaving a false bosom and feigning a maiden’s tears. Benicio erupted in riotous laughter.
‘Knaves!’ shouted Carlos. But his sour expression quickly turned sweet, as his gaze travelled beyond his two brothers to a vision just behind them.
‘Dearest friends, what merriment have I missed?’ trilled a delicate, familiar voice.
Benicio and Armando turned. It was none other than Luisa. She had sneaked up on them with fox-like stealth. Benicio felt a rush of blood to his cheeks.
‘Carlos, what wretched errand do your brothers demand that requires you to kneel before them so deferentially?’ She offered her hand to Carlos to kiss, which he did for many long seconds. ‘And, Benicio, you are as red as a cock’s comb. Are your humours out of balance?’
She slid Benicio a playful grin, and his heart flickered. Had she just teased him? Searching for confirmation, his eyes stumbled upon her lips—two large, luscious impediments to his otherwise rational thoughts.
‘Benicio?’ Luisa asked again, her voice leaking concern.
She wore her curly hair pinned up, almost the same as when they were children, with two gentle ringlets framing her round face. As she spoke, they seemed to bounce in rhythm with Benicio’s racing heartbeats. ‘Tell me now,’ she demanded. ‘What are you three devils about?’
‘We were just...practising,’ said Carlos.
‘Practising?’
Carlos opened his mouth once again, but no sound emerged. Benicio stepped forward. ‘It was nothing—a scene from an old book. We had not anticipated its comedic effects. What a lovely summer day, is it not?’
‘Which book?’ asked Luisa. ‘Perhaps I know it.’
‘Ah,’ Carlos stumbled. ‘Ah...’
‘Ah... Amadís de Gaula,’ Benicio finished.
‘Amadís de Gaula!’ Luisa exclaimed. ‘Which scene?’
Now Benicio was in a tangle, for in truth he had laboured most of his life in order to avoid reading the ever-popular Amadís de Gaula. ‘It was the scene in which Amadís the Brave battles the terrible...’ Benicio paused, for he had forgotten the name of the monster.
‘The terrible monster Endriago?’ said Luisa, her green eyes glinting.
‘Indeed!’ cried Benicio. ‘I was playing Amadís, of course, and Armando was playing...’
‘His assistant Gandolin?’
‘Yes, yes! And Carlos was playing...’
‘The beautiful Oriana?’
‘Exactamente!’ Benicio exclaimed. ‘And that is why we were laughing, for Carlos—I mean, Oriana—was pronouncing her undying love for Amadís with the conviction of a practised thespian.’
Carlos was now smiling at Benicio with something like a monstrous rage beneath his grin.
Luisa smoothed her voluminous dress. ‘My dear Benicio, in all the years we have known each other, you continue to surprise me. I had no idea you were such an avid student of our beloved Castilian literature.’
Her admiring smile had produced two perfect dimples at the edges of her round cheeks, causing Benicio’s insides to rollick unbidden. ‘Indeed, I am very fond of Amadís,’ lied Benicio. ‘The chivalric romances have been an integral part of my university studies.’
‘Ah, the university,’ Luisa said and her dimples disappeared. ‘You are still at the university?’
‘I am.’
Why had she asked that question? He had told her as much the evening he had presented his suit. He had also explained the professorship he planned to seek and the life he would be able to provide her as an academic—a humble life, but one full of love and wonder.
‘Remind me when we part,’ she said, ‘I have a gift for you.’
‘A gift?’ Benicio sputtered. If joy were made of water, then he was surely drowning. ‘I will most certainly remind you, mi bella dama,’ he said. He slipped her a devilish grin and watched with satisfaction as she swallowed hard.
Then, with the practised diplomacy of the most sought-after young lady in all of Seville, Luisa turned her attention back to Benicio’s brothers. ‘Of course, we will not soon be parting, not if my dearest childhood friends will walk with me a while?’
She nodded at her wary driver, then wove her hands beneath Carlos’s and Armando’s arms. ‘Tell me, when was the last time we were all together?’ And with that, the three began to stroll.
‘We came to your family’s latifundia for the Feast of the Epiphany two months past,’ noted Armando.
‘Ah! I remember! What a wonderful celebration, was it not?’
She stole another glance at Benicio. ‘And since then, caballeros, what news of your lives?’
Carlos spoke first. ‘I have been accepted into the Order of Santiago. I am apprenticed to become a knight.’
Benicio smiled to himself. After the Reconquista of Spain by the Christians, Queen Isabella had fleeced the Orders of their dominion. The world had changed and knighthood was no longer anything to brag about.
Still, Luisa was staring up at Carlos as if he had just hung the moon. ‘Is it not very dangerous? To command a horse in battle?’ she asked.
‘Any equestrian pursuit carries some measure of danger, my lady. But it is worth it to serve in Christ’s army.’
‘Though the bloody Crusades are indeed a thing of the past,’ Benicio pointed out, feeling a twinge of jealousy. ‘Was it not Aristotle who wrote that the best men behave moderately?’
‘Easily said by a man who rides atop a wooden desk instead of a horse,’ countered Carlos.
Thankfully, Luisa had become distracted by the shimmer of a fine fabric being displayed at a nearby stall.
‘What have we here?’ she asked. A Moorish man was unfurling a bolt of red silk. Luisa touched the fabric to her cheek. ‘My father can no longer indulge me such extravagances. He has lately lost much land to the Ponce de Leon clan in court. Have you not heard of it?’
‘A terrible injustice,’ said Armando, getting Luisa’s attention.
‘But do tell me of your life, Armando,’ urged Luisa, sauntering on. ‘I assume you are training with your father to take over your family’s estate?’
‘No, I have enlisted in the Tercios Regiment.’
Now Luisa halted her stroll. ‘But you are your father’s first son. Why would you risk your life in battle?’
‘To bring glory to my family and to Spain.’
If Carlos had hung the moon with his news of a future knighthood, then surely Armando had lit the sun. ‘You do your country proud,’ Luisa said, staring at Armando as if he were Amadís himself.
‘Would you look at that strange fruit over there?’ Benicio cried suddenly. Across the plaza, a young man was describing a misshapen melon to a crowd of onlookers.
‘We must examine it immediately!’ Carlos seconded.
Benicio and Carlos hurried Luisa and Armando across the plaza.
‘The papaya is not what it appears to be,’ the young man was saying.
‘How much?’ Benicio interrupted, desperate for anything to help him regain Luisa’s attention.
‘Ah...half a real.’
Benicio slapped his half-real into the young man’s hand, pulled a papaya from the bin and sliced his pocket knife through it to prod
uce a bite-sized cube. ‘Sweet fruit for a sweet woman,’ he said, holding the cube to Luisa’s lips.
Luisa opened her mouth and the four young men watched reverently as she chewed. She gave a lusty swallow, then her review: ‘Absolutely delicious. Thank you, Señor.’
‘I am Rogelio,’ the young man said, bowing low.
‘Rogelio, it is your job to sell, not to woo young women!’ A grizzled old man appeared and, noticing Luisa, he stepped towards her. ‘Well, hello, my dear.’
Benicio jumped protectively in front of Luisa and the old man was left to survey Benicio instead. ‘You have a commanding stature, young man,’ he said with surprise. ‘Tall but strong, and with a long reach.’
‘And you have an aggressive manner, Señor,’ Benicio growled.
The man snarled, then cheered. ‘But coming from one so well made, I shall take it as a compliment!’ He held out his hand. ‘I am Vicente Yáñez Pinzón, former captain of the Niña.’
‘You sailed with Colón?’ asked Benicio incredulously.
‘I did, rest his soul.’ The old conquistador crossed himself mockingly. He studied Benicio’s arms. ‘I am in search of strong, able-bodied young men who would like to bring riches to the Kingdom of Spain,’ he said. ‘You, Señor, have the stature and reach of a fine rigger. Why not serve your country and get rich? There is more to be had in the New World than simply fruits.’
‘Thank you, Capitan Pinzón, but I serve Spain with the fruits of my mind.’ Benicio caught Luisa’s hand and they started back across the plaza with Armando and Carlos following behind.
As they walked, Benicio reminded himself that he was happy. Luisa’s hand was in his, after all, and she had not yet refused him. Still, a pall seemed to have been cast upon the day—an invisible foreboding that even the bright spring sun seemed unable to defeat.
‘It is no small thing,’ said Luisa, ‘to be invited to the West Indies. I have heard that men pay twelve ducados or more for the passage. And you have just been invited to make it at no cost.’ She peered up at him curiously, then pulled her hand free of his. ‘Well, look at us, gentlemen! We have returned to where we began.’
Indeed they had. There was Luisa’s driver waiting beside her carriage. The baker had sold his loaves, the fishmonger his fish and even the nearby butcher’s stall was almost empty of its offerings. ‘Look at that adorable little dog,’ Luisa said, pointing unknowingly at her failed understudy, who was lingering at the butcher’s stall. ‘She appears to be trying to choose between sausages.’
Benicio gave an ironic chuckle, though his brothers did not appear to understand the joke. Suddenly, the chimes of the noonday bells commenced. Benicio bowed his head, though he could not remember a word of the Sext hour prayer.
As he pretended to pray, he told himself not to be a fool. Women were capricious and nothing could be relied upon but the stars in the sky. Still no matter how many pretty young ladies batted their eyes at him, Benicio could think only of Luisa.
He was so consumed with thoughts of her that he did not even notice the conclusion of the bells. Nor did he perceive the quickening of Carlos’s breaths, or how his younger brother fumbled in the pocket of his jerkin. Before Benicio could do anything to stop him, Carlos had dropped to his knees before Luisa, removed his hat to the ground and was holding up a tiny silver ring.
‘Dear Luisa,’ he began, ‘my aromatic rose, every day you grow more...fragrant. The rain, the mist, the abundant dew...’
Overcome by nerves, Carlos shouted his professions, drawing a small crowd. ‘The light of dawn, the rosy glow of morning, your eyes, your lips, your beautiful...teeth. My dear...aromatic Luisa... Can I be your husband?’
There were a few giggles among the crowd. Then a terrible silence descended.
A lonely breeze blew past, tousling Luisa’s curls. ‘Oh, Carlos, do stand,’ she cried at last. She reached out her arms and lifted him to his feet.
‘I am honoured that you would ask me to be your wife,’ continued Luisa, ‘but I cannot accept your proposal.’
‘You...what?’
‘You are a fine young man, but I cannot become your wife.’
‘But our engagement can last as long as necessary,’ argued Carlos. ‘I am well into my apprenticeship at the Casa de Contratación. My knighthood shall be granted in only four short years.’
Carlos looked around desperately, as if searching for something to cushion the fall of his breaking heart. ‘Is it my physical form that does not appeal? I know that I am not handsome like Benicio, nor am I strong like Armando, but I—’
‘My dear friend, it is nothing to do with your physical form. I must consider the interests of my family. I am my father’s only daughter and you are...’
‘A second son,’ Carlos finished.
And there it was.
Carlos, like Benicio, had been born into that particular class of Castilian nobles whose names were respected, whose education was complete, but whose wealth, in the end, would have to be earned—the second sons.
Luisa placed a single kiss upon Carlos’s cheek. ‘I shall treasure your friendship always.’
Carlos dusted off his hat and placed it back on his head. ‘And I yours, my lady,’ he managed. ‘But this is not the end.’ He turned towards the cathedral.
Luisa sighed. ‘I think it is time to go,’ she said.
‘I shall accompany you to your carriage,’ said Benicio. ‘I believe you have something for me in it?’
‘Ah, yes—the gift!’
‘I believe I will join you,’ said Armando.
When they arrived at the carriage, Luisa retrieved a thin leather-covered tome and presented it to Benicio. ‘I have been meaning to give this to you for some time.’
Benicio’s eyes slid down her creamy neck, catapulted off her glorious bosom and finally settled upon the small book lying in her hands. ‘Amadís de Gaula?’
‘Did you not say that you were especially fond of it?’
‘I will savour the insights that lie upon each page of this magnificent work,’ Benicio said, bowing low.
‘Indeed he will,’ added Armando, ‘for he spends his days amassing knowledge, not glory or fortune.’
Luisa turned to Armando. ‘I shall await your swift return from service.’ Then she kissed him on the cheek. ‘Godspeed, noble warrior of Spain.’
‘I shall not return unless I have acquired wealth worthy of a marquesa,’ Armando proclaimed.
That was when Benicio saw it. There, beneath her practised expression—the flame of her life’s ambition: marquesa.
Benicio helped her into the carriage. ‘Enjoy the book, Benicio. Every page of it.’
She measured her nods equally between the two brothers as the small painted chariot moved away. Benicio and Armando were left staring into each other’s eyes.
The world seemed to press at Benicio’s sides. ‘I think I shall walk on my own for a while,’ Benicio told Armando and, without waiting for an answer, he turned and made long strides back across the plaza.
While he walked, he opened the book, flipped through its pages, and spotted a piece of paper wedged therein. He caught his breath as he beheld the image it contained—a charcoal sketch of a woman so beautiful she could not have been real. Her face was turned away from the artist, revealing her rounded profile, her long, beautiful neck, and a cascade of curls. A lump came into Benicio’s throat. It was a sketch of Luisa. He flipped the sketch over to discover a note written in her elegant, looping script:
My Dear Benicio,
I love you, but I must take care to marry well. Seek a fortune. I will wait for you as long as I can.
Your Luisa
Benicio’s heart overflowed. There it was, written in her own hand: her answer to his proposal. She loved him as he loved her. She would wait for him and become his wife.
All she required was a bit of wealth, to keep her in the lifestyle she wanted. The lifestyle she deserved.
Benicio looked up and saw the old captain, still there, still waiting at the other end of the plaza. He might have been the Devil himself, considering whether or not to take Benicio’s soul.
Benicio began to walk towards him, letting his book of formulas drop upon the ground. Benicio was a man, after all, and the purpose of a man was not to sit at a desk, but to seek a fortune. To make himself worthy of the woman he loved.
Luisa, I promise, he murmured.
He caught the captain’s eye. The old man flashed Benicio a knowing grin.
Copyright © 2017 by Greta Gilbert
ISBN-13: 9781488021275
Bound by Their Secret Passion
Copyright © 2017 by Diane Perkins
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, M3B 3K9 Canada.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com
