Heart's Ransom

by Sara Reinke

  * * *

  Just as he had with his musical talents, Rafe thoroughly surprised her by teaching her some simple box-step dances. He summoned a sailor to the room, the young, quiet crewman named Eduardo who delivered them their food each meal. Eduardo was the oldest son of Rafe’s boatswain, Claudio, Rafe had explained. Rafe had known him since he had been born. Eduardo would play the guitar for them while Rafe and Kitty danced.

  Kitty shrank behind Rafe, mortified, as she heard the other man come into the room. “Rafe, no,” she said, clutching at his sleeve. “Please…I have not had a bath in days. I must look affright.”

  Rafe pivoted to reach for her, and when he stroked the cuff of his fingers against her face, she found herself frozen by the nearly tender gesture. “You look beautiful.”

  He did not sounded like he was teasing her; there was a warm and unexpected sincerity in his voice, and she found this even more unnerving than she would have a sharp-edged taunt. He nearly sounds as if he believes it, she thought, and this notion stirred up that little nest of butterflies that had seemed to take up residence in her belly since the night before.

  “I think my blindness must be contagious,” she managed to remark, giving him a light slap across the arm. He chuckled with what sounded like earnest good humor, which only left her wondering if she had really heard the previous warmth in his tone or not. I must have imagined it. Surely I did. His heart is all caught up in this Isabel woman, while I’m just a bloody nuisance to him.

  Rafe had her step atop his feet, drawing her so closely against him, she was immediately embarrassed of what Eduardo would think of this wholly improper proximity―not to mention what Rafe might think if he felt the sudden, eager hammering of her heart beneath her breasts. She tried to hedge away, blushing brightly, but Rafe hooked his hand against her waist, slipping their cuffed palms together, and she was held fast.

  “This cannot possibly work…” she protested weakly, as Eduardo began to play.

  “It will be fine,” Rafe told her, laughing gently again. He offered her a slight, playful shake. “You are as stiff as a pine board, Kitty. Relax. Trust me.”

  He leaned forward to offer her this last, his breath and voice brushing lightly against her ear. The butterflies fluttered again at this, and a dim but not unpleasant sort of heat stoked deeply within her.

  She could not relax for the first few songs, but then she forgot herself and her awkwardness and actually began to enjoy the dancing. Rafe turned her about in slow, sweeping circles. He held her gently, his hand against the small of her back, keeping her poised against him, and his fingers slid between hers.

  She enjoyed the warmth of him seeping through his clothes; the firm press of the muscles in his thighs against her, the gentle motions of his hips as he led her through the simple moves. She liked the feel of his breath against her skin, and the way he kept speaking in intimate proximity to her ear to be sure she could hear him above the strumming of the guitar.

  “I understand that in Spain, you enjoy to watch bulls being killed for sport,” she said as they danced. She felt like a true lady, a proper prospective daughter of English high society, enjoying a ball in the company of an elegant gentleman bachelor.

  Rafe chuckled. “La tauromaquia,” he said, the Spanish term rolling off his tongue in nearly sensual articulation. “Bullfighting, you English call it. To us, it is la fiesta brava, the brave party.”

  Kitty raised a dubious brow. “What a splendid party,” she remarked. “I am sure the bulls would agree.”

  When Rafe laughed, Kitty could feel it rumbling through his chest and into hers. “La tauromaquia is less of a sport, and more of an art form. There are few animals as noble and steadfast in the world as bulls, who would as soon stand their ground and fight to the death as flee for their lives.”

  “And few as foolhardy enough to attack them in spite of this as man,” Kitty said.

  Rafe chuckled. “Actually, la tauromaquia is not so much an attack,” he said, his breath rustling her hair, tickling her ear―and sending shivers down her spine.

  “Have…have you ever seen one?” she asked, drawing away from him.

  “Oh, yes,” he replied. “I have been to la Plaza Mayor, the arena square in Madrid, many times. You see, when you fight or pursue a sport, your intention is to win. That is not how it is done with la tauromaquia. ”

  “Killing a bull is not considered winning?”

  “No―the success of the matador is. Death is not the ultimate goal; the demonstration of prowess and skill, of grace and poise are. It is very sensual.”

  Kitty laughed. “Yes, I imagine it must be.”

  Rafe pulled her close again so that he could speak against her ear. “Think of la tauromaquia as a dance,” he breathed. “The matador and bull do not fight as much as they move together, either in tandem…” His hips moved against her, leaving her to hiccup for breath.

  “…or in opposition.” Kitty gasped as he leaned her back, lowering her head toward the floor, supporting her with his hand against her spine and keeping his torso folded toward her, pressed against her, belly to belly.

  Before she could blush or stammer out some manner of objection, he drew her upright once more. “The key to la tauromaquia is space,” Rafe said. “How much a matador must allow between him and the bull, and how little, as well. A bull’s nature is to charge anything that moves. The matador draws the beast to attack him not with his own motions, but with that of his cape. He remains still despite its charge; he moves the cape to let it pass, while he himself is unmoving.”

  Kitty shook her head. “He is an idiot.”

  Rafe laughed. “No, he is brave.”

  “Only a man would think another man standing still while an enraged bull attacks him constitutes courage,” Kitty said, making Rafe laugh all the more.

  “Each time, the matador draws the bull to him is a moment he could strike,” he said. “The true measure of his courage comes from biding his time and bringing the bull to him again and again, exhausting it. Only then does he deliver the death blow.”

  Kitty shivered, imagining such a brutal scene. “It sounds positive beastly.”

  Rafe simply laughed again. “It is beautiful,” he said. “Trust me.”