Artemis Rising

by Cheri Lasota

  “Greetings, Senhorita Maré.” He spoke with much formality, and when he walked out into the hall to allow Tristan to join them, his expression changed from amusement to a ceremonial graciousness. “Your beauty has improved with age,” Diogo added with a soft voice, his eyes appreciative. His gaze radiated subtle warmth and not the evil fire that she knew so well.

  For a few breathless moments, the stifling space between them was unbearable. She wanted to bolt down the hall to the safety of her room, but Tristan was studying her, as if to see how she would react to Diogo. Was their last parting from Diogo also in his mind? Would Tristan remember the promises he had once made and protect her from Diogo again? For why else would the marquês come back to Terceira Island but to finish what he had started? Her pulse beat out a painful march as she stood between the one she wanted and the one who had once wanted her.

  Does he want me still? She wondered. Then she felt ashamed that she would ever entertain such thoughts about Diogo. Even with the passing of three long years, Diogo was more of a puzzle to her than ever.

  “Diogo’s a marquês now.” Tristan gave a bland smile. “He’s been living at his family’s estate in Porto on the mainland all this time.”

  “Yes, I’ve been overseeing the expansion of our winery there, and, in just three years, our profits have tripled.”

  Arethusa hadn’t forgotten Diogo’s penchant for bragging. Silence reigned, as though he waited for her reply.

  “Oh.” He gave her a quiet smile. “You still can’t speak.”

  She couldn’t tell if he was mocking her or not.

  “You’ve certainly been busy,” Tristan said, looking more awkward by the moment.

  Diogo flashed an innocent smile. “It was hard work, but I gained much experience while I was away.”

  “Oh, you try to make it sound so ordinary when I know you’ve led an adventurous life on the mainland. Don’t deny it,” Tristan said, a jealous tinge in his voice.

  Arethusa wondered if he had wished for more than the pastoral life of the islands and would someday seek a life across the sea.

  Diogo put up his hands in feigned surrender. “All right, all right. It wasn’t a bore, but I’m sure the daughter of a count doesn’t wish to hear of such things.”

  “Of course she does.” Tristan smiled at Arethusa. “And you can tell us all about it at the tourada à corda today.”

  Arethusa’s heart numbed with fear. She had not thought any farther than the present, but, of course, Tristan was too kind not to invite Diogo. Or did Diogo invite himself earlier? Either way, she would be forced to spend the entire day with her old tormentor. She looked up at Diogo, saw the familiar smile curving his scarred lips, and the room began to spin. She braced herself against the wall.

  “Are you all right?” Tristan said. “Are your feet hurting?”

  “What happened?” Diogo asked her in mock concern.

  She ignored him, though she felt the color rise to her cheeks.

  “She hurt her feet down by the shore yesterday,” Tristan said.

  “Did someone do that to you?” Diogo’s said. “It’s bad luck, of course, to hurt someone’s foot.”

  His jest made her want to try her own luck. And, she thought, get away from Diogo.

  I will go lie down, Arethusa signed to Tristan, as she pointed at her feet.

  “Of course. Do you need help getting to your room? You could use my shoulder or I could carry you,” Tristan offered. His suggestion was kind but foolish, given that her room was just down the hall.

  “Oh, let me,” Diogo said. “I had no idea it was so serious.” Arethusa gasped when he unceremoniously picked her up. She grimaced as Diogo’s arms closed around her.

  “Diogo, stop.” Seeing her distress, Tristan’s arm blocked Diogo when he would have charged down the hall with her. “She doesn’t want you touching her.”

  “Nonsense.” Diogo laughed, pushing past Tristan’s arm. “Tell me where her room is.”

  Tristan frowned but Diogo was already walking down the hall.

  “Last door on the left,” Tristan said, disapproval ringing in his voice. “I’ll open the door.”

  Arethusa’s heartbeat rushed in a mad rhythm as Tristan moved past them. The hallway seemed to reel as she watched the muscles rippling in Diogo’s forearm and felt his hot skin against her own. Diogo’s eyes scanned her room as he brought her over the threshold and laid her on the bed. He lingered, his lips brushing her ear.

  “You looked like a true sea nymph last night, querida.”

  The breath left her body. Diogo. It had been Diogo all along. Not Alpheus.

  He smirked at the look of horror he saw in her face. When he straightened, he brushed the chain at her neck with his fingertips, sending a chill down her spine. She recoiled and backed up to the headboard.

  “What did you say to her?” Tristan said, suspicion and sudden anger clouding his face.

  “Merely complimenting the lady’s beautiful eyes. Is that such a crime?”

  The lie was enough to make her want to scream. Diogo continued to glance about her room as if searching for something. She felt invaded and embarrassed, thinking of the pictures of saints on her walls, her books, the blood from her feet on the floor. What evidence does he gather against me? What does he want with me now?

  Diogo’s feigned charm didn’t draw Tristan in. “That was no compliment, Diogo, and we all know it. Let’s go.”

  “Must we? I’d much rather talk to Senhorita Maré,” Diogo said, his voice half-mocking.

  “We must. I am not even allowed to enter Arethusa’s room.”

  “Hmm,” Diogo murmured, as he scanned the length of her body. It made her sick to her stomach.

  Will I never be rid of him?

  *

  Two hours later, the three of them made their way on horseback into the town of Praia da Vitória. Arethusa rode behind them as Tristan and Diogo talked of politics, bullfighting, and horses. She listened to Tristan tell of his bullfighting exploits. He had hopes of becoming one of the great horsemen that old men boasted of over a cerveja and a smoke down at the pubs. Arethusa had no doubt he could accomplish it. He had a lithe gracefulness and a natural affinity for horses. When she saw him practice his dressage techniques with his favorite stallion, it was like watching a spirited dance.

  Arethusa imagined Tristan was glad to have someone to talk with. The bitter irony is that he speaks to the man who took my voice.

  She studied them as they rode side by side. The differences between them were like light and shadow. Where Tristan was blonde, Diogo was everything dark. He had come into his title, his station, with ease but not grace. He was a marquês now, and he wanted them both to know it. She had grown up watching the conde use his wealth and title for good, but she sensed the lust for prestige in Diogo’s words, as if he were still the little boy trying to gain his father’s approval.

  When they arrived in Praia da Vitória’s central square, the festivities had already begun. The crowds had gathered, sitting atop the rock walls lining the street to stay clear of the rampaging bull. The loud snort of the bull carried over the crowd as Tristan helped her dismount her horse, Tesouro. He asked her again how her feet were doing. She reassured him with a gesture, feeling guilty she had let him believe her pain much worse than it was. When Tristan led their horses to a hitching post, she was left alone with Diogo.

  “Glad to see me again, little queen?” He touched her cheek with the back of his hand.

  She swatted his hand away and scribbled him a message on the notepad Tristan had fashioned for her to hang around her neck.

  “Why did you come back?” She was so angry that she ripped the paper as she shoved it into his hand.

  “Oh come now, did you really think I could forget you?” He clucked his tongue and touched a wisp of hair that had escaped her coiled plait. “You’re so naïve, Arethusa. But you’re also very beautiful.”

  She stepped back, and then suddenly Tristan was there again, all
smiles and laughter.

  “Are we ready for some action?” he asked, his hand sweeping toward the center of the activity where the sound of men shouting and the rumble of hooves stood out in staccato cadence to the warm island breeze.

  “Absolutely,” Diogo said, but he glanced behind Tristan and cocked his head. “But there is someone I want you to meet first. She’s wanted to see you again for some time.”

  “She?” Tristan asked, his eyebrows raised, but Diogo offered him nothing but a devilish grin.

  Arethusa looked on as a young lady walked up smiling with demure confidence. Her high-collared midnight-blue gown was out of place among the villagers’ simple frocks. It must have come from the mainland, for such fineries were not common on Terceira Island. Peeking out from below a matching parasol, her blondish hair was pulled high atop her head in billowing curls. She was the most beautiful girl Arethusa had ever seen.

  “Tristão!” the girl called out, as she picked up her skirts and skittered up to him. He stared open-mouthed at her, and Arethusa felt a foolish shock of jealousy.

  “You look the way I remember you, though you’re far more handsome now. And you’ve still got those sad, sad eyes,” she said with an exaggerated sigh.

  At first, Tristan tilted his head, perplexed, and then with a timid smile he asked, “Isabel?”

  Now it was Arethusa’s turn to stare open-mouthed.

  “Have you forgotten me so soon?” Isabel offered him a charming pout.

  A dozen emotions filtered over his face at once. When it settled into an awestruck admiration, Arethusa had to turn away. Diogo caught her eye, and the look in his haughty eyes told her everything. He had planned it all.

  “How could I?” Tristan asked Isabel.

  “But you have forgotten someone, haven’t you, Tristan?” Diogo asked.

  Tristan checked himself and dipped his head in apology to Arethusa, but she was irritated that Diogo had rubbed Tristan’s snub in her face.

  “You remember Senhorita Arethusa Maré?” Tristan asked.

  Isabel took her time tearing her gaze away from Tristan. Switching the parasol to her other shoulder, she peered down at Arethusa, for she had grown quite a few inches taller.

  “Goodness, you’re still a runt, aren’t you? Hasn’t Conde Estrela been feeding you?”

  Arethusa scowled.

  “I know.” Tristan laughed. “She’s a tiny little thing, isn’t she?” he said to Isabel, poking Arethusa in the ribcage. She resisted the urge to slap him, though she wasn’t sure why.

  “I don’t know what Diogo has been telling you about me...” Isabel began.

  “Nothing actually. He only just mentioned you.”

  “Well,” she said, with a sniff at Diogo, “just last week I was made a ward in Conde Branco’s household. I suppose you’ve heard of him.” Isabel waved a dismissive hand toward Conde Branco and his wife as they stood apart, eyes intent on the bullfight, oblivious to the spectacle Isabel was making of herself.

  Tristan and Arethusa both raised their eyebrows. “Conde Luis Branco? He’s my father’s rival in the shipping trade. You live just a half-kilometer away from us! How did you manage that, Isabel?”

  More importantly, Arethusa thought, who did Diogo pay off to insinuate her into the Branco household?

  “It’s Senhorita Infante now. But we were always such good friends, Tristão, you may continue to call me Isabel.”

  “Actually it’s Tristan now.” He smiled, his eyes softening. He rubbed the back of his neck, cocked his head to the side, studied her face. “Somehow I always knew you’d do well.”

  How can he look at Isabel like that? How can he not remember what she did to me?

  “Power can always buy you what you want.” Diogo narrowed his eyes. “Right, Senhorita Infante?”

  “Yes.” Isabel shot him a sneer and brought her hand up to flaunt her expensive rings in Tristan’s face. “Conde Branco said I had a gracefulness and beauty that would be a charming addition to his household.” Isabel reached over and touched Tristan’s arm. “I’d like to see what kind of power lies within your grasp, Tristan. Your exploits in the touradas à corda are legendary, I hear.”

  With a disarming smile that Arethusa wanted to erase permanently, Isabel hooked her arm in Tristan’s and led him away toward the tourada. But Arethusa wasn’t to be dismissed. She hurried after them, leaving Diogo to catch up. When they reached the square where the tourada à corda was taking place, Tristan stopped.

  “This is where we must leave you lovely ladies,” he said, with a beaming smile and a bow. “It’s time for us to go bull hunting.”

  Diogo laughed and clapped Tristan on the back.

  Tristan glanced back at Isabel. “Take care of my sister, will you?” he said with a wink.

  Without a second glance, they rushed in the direction of the fracas, where men baited the bucking bull with umbrellas and scarves. Arethusa watched Tristan go, feeling as though her world had just been ripped away from her. It was the first time Tristan had ever referred to her as his sister.

  “Of course,” Isabel called after him with a wave but when she glanced back at Arethusa, her eyes were cold. “Need a nanny, do you?” She twirled the parasol like a little girl playing dress up. “Now that I’ve come back to Tristan, you’ll need to move aside.”

  At Arethusa’s hard expression, Isabel smirked. “What? Had designs on him yourself, did you? Your own brother? What would the gossips say? You’d best go with Diogo. He’s the only one who ever looked twice at you anyway, though I can’t understand why.”

  Arethusa scowled at her, feeling all the familiar emotions rising up at Isabel’s cruel taunting. Without a thought, Arethusa kicked up dust onto Isabel’s perfect dress, covering the midnight blue with a fine grey mist.

  “Arethusa! How dare you.” Isabel dropped her parasol and started patting the dust away from her skirts. “You’ll pay for this.”

  Arethusa didn’t bother to respond. She merely smiled and moved away toward the front of the crowd.

  Diogo and Tristan were already deep in the fray, taunting the bull with shouts and gestures. A man controlling the 160-foot rope tied around the bull’s neck yanked hard, causing it to snort and stamp its hooves in the dirt. Tristan jumped in front of the bull and grabbed its blunted horns. The crowd erupted in cheers. The bull snorted as Tristan dashed away, then, with a bounce, the beast charged after him. Tristan vaulted over a stone embankment just as the bull’s horns reached him. Arethusa had to admit she was impressed with his courage. Isabel clapped and cheered with a maddening daintiness as Tristan flashed her a radiant smile.

  Not to be outdone, Diogo ran after the bull and pulled his tail. The bull grunted and kicked up clods of dirt as he bolted away. Diogo bowed to the cheering crowd, and then he turned to Arethusa and, with much formality, bowed low to her. His black eyes shone with great respect, but Arethusa knew that he was posturing for the crowd. And it worked. Arethusa saw the people whispering as they stared at her, thinking the peculiar, mute daughter of Conde Estrela had captured the eye of a young and powerful marquês.

  She glanced at Tristan, but he was smiling at Isabel as she blew him kisses and waved him over. The feelings sweeping through Arethusa were strong, but she didn’t recognize them. Yet she felt her hand move up to her mouth and blow a kiss at Diogo before she could stop herself. Diogo’s eyes widened, but, at the corner of his mouth, a tiny smile grew. She realized her mistake at once when Diogo strutted up to her, his purpose clear. Tristan hadn’t even noticed. His eyes were on Isabel’s hand as he kissed it.

  Diogo jumped the embankment and leaned in close to her ear, “Missed me already, did you?” He withdrew, locking eyes with Arethusa. He stared at her as if she were a rabbit, and he was looking down the barrel of a gun. Even if she had the use of her full voice, she could not have spoken, caught as she was inside the grasp of his gaze.

  Arethusa didn’t want the people to see this. They would talk, they would gossip, and it would embarras
s the conde. She backed away from Diogo, made her way through the crowd. He would not follow, not with everyone watching. She made her way to an abandoned fruit stand, hoping for a little peace to cool her thoughts.

  But she felt his hand on her wrist as she reached the quiet shadow of the stand.

  “I can teach you to forget him, little queen.”

  He shoved her down on top of a dirty crate and watched her until the lust in his gaze was all she could see. She tried to get up, but he took hold of her arms and kissed her. She braced against him, but Diogo pushed her legs apart with his thighs and shifted his body closer.

  “I know you feel it,” Diogo whispered, in his usual confident tone. “I know you want this.”

  She was ashamed at the truth of his words. A bruising electricity suffused the space between them. But it wasn’t Diogo’s kiss she wanted.

  “I can erase him from your mind,” he said, as his arms circled her waist.

  To defy him, she envisioned Tristan clearly in her mind—his blue eyes, his golden hair—and when Diogo parted her lips with his tongue, it was Tristan she was allowing entrance. His mouth felt like a feather brushing across her flesh. Again and again, she felt an intense ache in unfamiliar places within her. It broke forth, rising like a terrible fish from the deep. She struggled to understand it, to listen for it. This felt like her yearning for the sea. No, it was different. Much different. This was a pleasure that felt like a sickness. She felt swept back and away from herself, as if her body were being carried away from her soul by a violent wave. But as Diogo pushed her farther and farther away from the shore, she thought of Alpheus and froze.