Louisiana History Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  Pilar waited until she was certain her voice would be steady before she answered. “You're mistaken.”

  “What is it, my soul? I was certain sleep would sweeten your outlook, if not your disposition.”

  “There's nothing wrong with my disposition! You promised—”

  “On pain of forfeiture. And have I deceived you?”

  She stared up at him with an odd breathless sensation in her chest. She could feel the hard musculature of his body against her, pressed close in the narrow bed. His left arm was draped across her waist in a casual hold that might be for balance and accommodation to the narrow width of the bed, but felt like an embrace. He wore a shirt; that much she could see. What else he wore, and whether he lay under the covers or on top of them, she could not tell. She would have liked to know, but refused to look for fear of showing her trepidation. Instead she concentrated on the dark centers of his eyes, on his lashes which grew so long they tangled together as they curled down to touch the skin, on the individual wiry hairs of his brows.

  “You know very well that you said I might have this bed for my use, mine alone.”

  “How was I to know that I would meet a round score of men who required a dry spot to roll up in their blankets? There's not space for a newborn pup in the outer room, I swear it. Besides, I required to be certain that you remained as undisturbed as I had sworn, regardless of the new arrivals. It was a matter of pride, overweening and my own, of course. This seemed the best way of assuring it.”

  “No doubt you think I should be grateful.”

  “No, no, only understanding.”

  She considered it. “That may just be possible since I'm now wealthier by a chest half full of silver.”

  “Half empty. But the pledge was to leave you undisturbed, not necessarily alone. Tell me at what time I joined you — and also why you allowed it — and you may claim the silver.”

  It was irritating how quickly and casually he could create his word traps. With a terse phrase or two he had made it impossible for her to say when he had arrived. She thought she knew, but if she had been truly roused, she would not have permitted him to stay. To claim otherwise would be to leave herself open to the question of why she had not protested, and how much more she might accept from him. She had been exhausted; that was the answer, though it was far from satisfactory. If she could hardly accept that explanation herself, how could she expect it of him?

  “You are the most—” she began, then stopped as she remembered that this man had saved her life and, moreover, had not touched her during the night hours he had spent beside her. Or at least she thought he had not.

  “Oh, come, don't be shy. I'm a collector of personal epithets, preferably unusual. Give me one I haven't heard.” Refugio watched her there in the semidarkness as she held back what she had meant to say by compressing her lips. The urge to lean and touch his own to hers was so sudden and violent that he was startled, and also annoyed by the heart-pounding effort it took to refrain.

  She was beautiful as she lay there with her hair spread in shining abundance over the pillow and the soft morning light reflected in the dark mirrors of her eyes, but he had seen many nearly as beautiful. The situation between them at the moment was provocative, but he had weathered others more compelling without the stirring of flagrant desire. It was true that she had more refinement of manner and features than the women he had known these past few years, but what recommendation was there in that?

  His motives for being there beside her were exactly as he said. He could have left before she woke, indeed had meant to do just that. Then had come the impulse to see what manner of steel she had inside her. So now he knew that she was stalwart and honest and not given to screaming. But had that been all? Might he not also have wanted to see how she would react to being close to him in a more private setting than the back of a horse or in a roomful of people? It was true, but unfair. It was also time to call enough. There were times when an analytical tendency could be inconvenient.

  He threw back the cloak that covered him there on top of the sheepskin coverlet. Rising to his feet with lithe ease, he reached to catch her hand. “Up with you. The sun would be shining on Cordoba, if there was a sun, and it's time you were placed with your aunt.”

  Pilar was pulled upward so quickly that the sheepskin coverlet fell back and the over-large dressing gown of stiff quilted velvet she wore gaped open to the waist. Feeling the waft of cool air on her bare flesh, she jerked back against his strong grasp, a movement that threw her so off balance she toppled over the edge of the bed. He caught her, his hands sliding inside the dressing gown, skimming over her warm and fragrant curves to clasp her against him. For a stunned instant they were still, while he slowly spread his fingers wide over the satin skin of her back and flattened his palm upon the smooth expanse of her lower spine. His gaze flickered downward over the blue-veined paleness of the small, perfectly formed globes of her breasts with their peach crests burrowing into the soft linen of his shirt, over the silken swath of her hair which trailed along his arm. A tinge of dull color appeared under his sun-darkened skin. Pilar, watching it, slowly closed her hands on the taut muscles that ridged his arms while every drop of blood in her veins mounted swiftly, frighteningly, to her head. Her heart jarred against her ribs and she could sense deep inside the slow rise of something unwarranted, unwanted.

  She drew a ragged breath, wrenching backward as she gasped in accusation, “You—”

  “No!” he said, the word harsh with the violence of his denial. “I never meant this. Clumsy I may be, but not entirely venal. I pledge you this much on my word of honor.”

  His hold, unbreakable until that instant, slackened, allowing Pilar to sink back onto the bed. She drew away, clutching the edges of the dressing gown together at her throat. She met his gaze, brown eyes clashing with gray, and saw the fleeting bafflement followed by self-derision mirrored there, saw the squaring of his shoulders, as if he was bracing himself for either her screams of outrage or her scorn.

  It came to Pilar that he spoke the truth, that he had not intended that brief embrace. She lifted her chin, her eyes steady upon his hard features. “I accept your pledge.”

  “You accept it?” he said, the words tentative as he watched her.

  “I can do no less,” she said with dignity.

  “But why?”

  “I have benefited from your . . . hospitality. A Carranza would not, I think, press his attentions upon a woman under his own roof.”

  “Ah. My hospitality.”

  The current of understanding between them was strong. She was conceding to him full right to the honor inherent in his proud name and former station as a grandee, along with the manifold obligations of the code of conduct that went with it. He must, in return, remain bound by that code.

  He inclined his head with a shadow of admiration lurking in his eyes. “Accept my gratitude, and my apologies.”

  “Not at all,” she said, lowering her lashes before she continued. “You were speaking of leaving here, I believe. No one could be happier to be on the road than I, but my clothes are in there by the hearth. I doubt your men will want to have their sleep interrupted for the sake of a petticoat.”

  “What they want matters not at all. But don't stir; I'll bring both your clothes and your trunk. While I'm at it, do you take your chocolate strong or milky?”

  “There's no need for you to trouble,” she said as she swung her feet from the bed. “Maybe Isabel—”

  “She's asleep, and it's my whim, taken this moment, to have you share my morning repast, and my privacy.”

  She glanced around the alcove. “Oh, I'm keeping you from your retreat. I'll get up and leave you to it.”

  “By no means,” he said over his shoulder as he swung to brush aside the privacy curtain, “unless you prefer the odds on the other side of this barrier?” As she did not answer, he gave a nod. “I thought not. Be patient, and I'll bring what you need.”

  It was possible she
might be safer in the other room, Pilar told herself as he ducked under the curtain and dropped it behind him, closing her into the alcove. Other men might be less trustworthy, but were not so disconcerting in their speech and their attitudes. The idea of his serving her while she waited in bed made her acutely uncomfortable, especially in light of what had just happened; a man of finer sensibilities and less confidence would have left her to recover in private. Joining her in his quarters was in essence a protective gesture, or so he implied, yet there was something almost possessive in it, with a hint of testing the trust she professed. She didn't like it, but there was little she could do. At least she need not endure the situation for long. A few hours more and she would be with her aunt. Once safely established in Cordoba, there was no reason she should ever see Refugio de Carranza again. None. That would make her extremely happy. Of course it would.

  She was combing her hair with her fingers when he returned a few minutes later. Hurriedly bundling the thick, waving mass into a knot, she pinned it at her nape, then reached to take the cup of chocolate he held out to her. As he seated himself on the foot of the bed, she pushed backward to lean against the wall behind the bed's head. He gave her a look of sardonic amusement, as if he suspected her of putting as much distance between them as possible, but made no comment.

  It was possible he was not entirely wrong. He seemed so large there in the tiny alcove, such an overpowering presence. To be shut away with him again behind the curtain, separate from the others, was unexpectedly provocative, as well as uncomfortable. That he felt the constraint also seemed evident from the stiffness of his movements and his comparative silence.

  His manner was neutral as he handed her a piece of the bread he had brought wrapped in a napkin and balanced on top of his own cup. She took it with a murmur of thanks, adding in an attempt at light conversation, “I didn't know banditry allowed such luxuries as this.”

  “We live well enough, though the bread is made with coarse grains and the chocolate with goat's milk.”

  “You seem to manage better than most.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  She gave a brief shrug. “I've heard the stories.”

  “You shouldn't believe them.”

  “If I had not,” she said, her gaze on the piece of bread, “I would never have sent for you, never have escaped my stepfather. I am grateful, in spite of everything.”

  He stared at her a long moment. When he spoke, the words were soft. “I would have done it without the promise of gold, you know. It's just that I object to being taken for a fool.”

  “I would never do that.”

  “At least no more often than necessary,” he answered dryly.

  “No, really,” she protested.

  “I will try to believe you. How can I not?”

  She met his gaze in brief acknowledgment of that tenuous pact. A slow smile lighted his eyes, warming their gray color with rich humor and creasing the hard planes of his face. It also brought a degree of ease to the atmosphere between them.

  They ate in silence a few moments before Pilar spoke again. “Did you discover what became of Don Esteban?”

  “He was gone from the place of attack. He apparently recovered enough to be taken away in the carriage, or so it appeared from the signs.”

  She nodded her understanding, her expression grim.

  “You don't seem surprised.”

  “I knew he could not be dead; that would be too fortunate.”

  “So bloodthirsty,” he said with a droll shake of his head.

  Her answering smile was brief. “It comes from a long association with Don Esteban. Things just seem to always go his way.”

  “Not always, but too often for comfort.”

  There was in the comment a reminder of how much he had also lost. Recognizing it, Pilar hastily changed the subject. “I've been thinking. If my mother had not married Don Esteban, he would not have had the means to pursue his ambitions — or his feud with your family. It's possible you have reason to distrust me.”

  Refugio watched her with a faint curve at one corner of his mouth before he spoke. “If the Carranzas had not inspired such hatred and need for revenge in your stepfather, he might never have pursued and married your mother, never have caused her death or sent you into exile. This sword has a double edge.”

  “That may be, but there is more. If you had not killed Don Esteban's son, I might have been forced to marry him. I owe you a great deal.”

  “You might, if I had killed the son for your sake. Since I did not, you owe me nothing. Nor is there any real question of blame. Shall we call that much settled?”

  She inclined her head in uneasy acquiescence. “If you like.”

  “I do.”

  Pilar from under her lashes looked at the man sitting so near. His shoulders were broad, straining against the worn material of his shirt. His hair lay in dark, soft waves against his head, and his gaze from under thick brows was steady yet had rapier-sharp perception in its depths. His features were perfectly balanced, and there was strength and grace in the shape of his hands as he held the crude earthenware cup. Despite his guise as a bandit and the edge of danger it gave him, there was also a sense of breeding, of ancient lineage about him. For a fleeting instant she wished things were different, wished it were possible for her to continue her acquaintance with Refugio de Carranza y Leon under other, more proper conditions. She looked away, disturbed by the tenor of her thoughts.

  The silence between them stretched. In the next room a man coughed and rose from his blankets with a muttered imprecation. The quiet crackle of the fire could be heard as someone placed more wood on the coals.

  Refugio drained the last of his chocolate. “As pleasant as this is, it's time we began to plan in earnest for Cordoba, to think of a ruse to get you inside the gates.”

  “A ruse?”

  “What did you expect? A grand procession with a gilded carriage, outriders, and the town fathers waiting to greet you?”

  “Hardly,” she answered, her tone tart.

  “Good. Then you won't be disappointed.” She entered the ancient, walled city in a two-wheeled cart. If she had been traveling alone, she could have ridden through the great carved gates without worry or hindrance beyond giving her name to the guards. But she was not traveling alone; Refugio had agreed to see her to the house of her aunt, and he intended to do exactly that. Pilar had not considered, when she made her proposal to him, how El Leon would be able to keep his bargain. She knew that folk tales had sprung up crediting him with the powers of a ghost to pass where he would without being seen. She had also heard rumors about his many friends and sympathizers in the countryside and smaller towns who helped him come and go, and the bribes that were sometimes passed to allow him to enter and leave Seville at will. What other shifts he might be forced to use had never occurred to her; certainly she had never expected to become a part of one of them.

  The cart was old and worn out, so that its tall wheels of solid wood squealed on their axles with nerve-shattering regularity. Its load of firewood, the sticks and stumps and odd-shaped branches of deadwood carefully scavenged from the forest, was almost too much for the ancient donkey plodding between the shafts. Pilar rode on the seat while Refugio walked to one side, with the donkey's lead rein in one hand and a staff that was stouter than it looked in the other.

  They had found their dubious transportation at a farm well outside the city. The farmer's wife had also supplied the rebozo of black wool that covered Pilar's head and shoulders, and the piece of charcoal that had been used to make the dark, aging circles under her eyes and the hollows in her cheeks. Where Refugio had found the peculiar conical hat that he wore pulled low over his eyes, and the short, ragged breeches and rough shoes that made him look the part of a peasant, Pilar did not ask. She only stared at him from time to time, wondering in amazement tinged with respect at his attire, and also at the rough thatch he had made of his hair and the look of a dullard in his eyes.

/>   It was early morning of the third day, a market day, before they made their attempt to enter the city. They joined a stream of carts, barrows, and donkeys headed toward the gates, all of them loaded with something to sell, from cured leather to jars of olive oil, fresh cabbage to trussed and squawking geese. Behind them, at some distance, trailed Baltasar, Enrique, and Charro amidst a herd of goats.

  Pilar and Refugio, with the other three, had lain for what was left of the second night at the farmer's house, sharing its one room with the man and his wife, their nine children, five dogs, a black hen, and a liberal supply of fleas. After such a night, Pilar thought, they surely looked as slovenly and unlike themselves as anyone could wish. Refugio still wasn't satisfied, however. He insisted she carry the latest addition to the farmer's family in her arms, a fine boy of seven weeks who had protested at the top of his lungs at being removed from his mother's arms. The child had not ceased to scream since they left the farm, and had made three wet spots on Pilar's lap in spite of several changes of the rags that served for diapers. His mother, trailing with her husband behind the herd of goats, had come forward once to nurse the baby. He had quieted only a few minutes, beginning to cry again the instant he was given back to Pilar. He sensed her inexperience with him, she thought, and her fear of what was going to happen.

  Ahead of them lay the Guadalquivir River. The water flowed greenish-brown and placid around its islands that were dotted with oleanders, before gliding through the great arches of the old Roman bridge that gave access to the city. The cart trundled past the tower fortress of Calahorra and began to cross the bridge. Before them Pilar could see the stone-pillared, Romanesque puerta del puente. There were two guards at the gate. One was talking with an attractive and vivacious young girl with a goose under each arm. The other stood watching their approach with his hands clasped behind his back and a look of dyspeptic gloom on his face.

  The cart drew closer, its wheels shrieking as if in alarm. The guard stirred and released his hands to place them on his hips. A frown drew his brows together. Nearer the cart came, and nearer still. The guard took a step forward. Pilar sent Refugio a swift glance. The brigand leader seemed oblivious of their danger, only plodding onward with his gaze straight ahead.