Hart, Mallory Dorn

by Jasmine on the Wind

  Suddenly she knew why she was so shamelessly reveling in his wonderful embrace. Her heart was engulfed by the truth of it. She loved him. She always had, with no rhyme or reason for it, scarcely daring to dream she might find him again, the youth who had taken her girl's heart and body in the straw of a stable. And now here was the man, moving her still, demanding her heart again and she would give it. She loved him. With a sacred devotion, with a profane lust, but she loved him.

  She scarcely heard his soft curse or felt him lift her off her feet and lay her on the bed, himself sitting so he could lean over her and, with a suddenly gentle hand, stroke her hair, stroke her face, murmuring "querida" over and over. He kissed her closed eyes, the tip of her nose. He drove her wild by running his finger delicately over her lips before he claimed her mouth again with his own, plundering it with his tongue, with his rampant desire until she moaned with delirium. But it was the feel of his hand, the heat of it cupping around her jutting, pear-shaped breast with its sensitive nipple pushing against the silk of her bodice that caused such voluptuous pleasure to surge through her that the very torrent terrified her, jolting her aware.

  No. No, this was not right, tumbled about in her mind, even as his hand began a gentle squeezing. Wait, wait. There was more. There had to be more, there had to be love, there had to be the words that celebrated the twining of two spirits, that matched the fever of their bodies with the fervor of joyful promises.... Stop, stop. Still holding her lips in a kiss with his own, his fingers slipped under the silk covering her bosom and one fingertip just reached to her swollen nipple. The lightning that flashed through her nerves from the top of her head to her toes totally unstrung her. Her eyes flew open, she drew on every ounce of will she had and ripped her mouth away from his, gasping, frantic. Summoning up all her strength and taking him by surprise she pushed and twisted away from him, wriggling away to quickly slide off the opposite side of the bed. Recovering he lunged after her, reaching out to pull her back, but too late. He stared up at her, his face dark with desire.

  She stood just out of reach and put out an unsteady hand to hold him off. "No, Francho, please. Please. Do not shame me," she whispered. Now, she prayed in her heart, watching the rapid play of emotions across his face, now say you love me truly, that never have you forgotten the discovery of love we shared in Ciudad Real and that God then and there pledged us to each other. Now. Disheveled, her chest heaving, her eyes wide and suppliant moving over his face, she waited for him to declare his love for her and then she would give herself joyously into his arms once more. Ah, sweet Virgin, make him know it, guide his heart....

  But—

  He got up and came around the corner of the bed to where she stood. As if he thought she was teasing, the flat smile lines at the corners of his mouth deepened, and a gleam appeared in his eyes. He held out his strong, finely shaped hands to her again. She could not keep her glance from noticing that the tight hosen of his abbreviated costume left nothing of his physical hunger to the imagination.

  "Dolores, come here, querida. Don't try to tease me. We found long ago a passion between us and still it lives, a miracle, a blessing. Dare we deny it? You are so beautiful, little sister. Come back to my arms, sweet, and let me love you." His voice was coaxing, seductive.

  A sharp claw seemed to snag in her heart. Will you not say that which is more than passion, oh, will you not, her eyes begged.

  As if not to frighten her he came only a pace closer. But she saw that the straight, square underlip which could brush so tenderly against hers, which she so wanted to kiss her to distraction, could also smile like this: hard, cruel. "Dolores, querida, do you think you can ignore what your gaze, your lips, your whole trembling body has already told me?" The blue heat in his eyes burned her, chilled her. "Why do you play at games when you have so bewitched me? Are we not old and good friends? Have we not already lain together—?"

  "Enough!" Gulping, fighting tears, Dolores backed away, hearing her illusions shatter. She felt humiliated and a fool. It was all too obvious he held nothing for her but lust, no more than any other man. But what was worse, he seemed to think he was entitled to her, the despicable puerco. Her cheeks flamed, but she took a deep breath and drew herself up. "We seem to be not enough of old friends, Don Francisco. What do you take me for? A bedraggled trull who runs to your beckoning? A wench with whom you can take every liberty because you presume on a childhood we once shared?" Anger, blotting out the truth of how willingly she had entered his arms, how eagerly she had returned his kisses, loosened the hurt that tightened up her throat. "I think you forget, sir, whose protection I claim and that I am far from alone and vulnerable in this Court, or do you choose to ignore it? I warn you, that is dangerous." She deliberately threw the threat like a pail of cold water in his face.

  The amorous glaze fled his eyes, replaced momentarily by an off-balance confusion.

  Dolores stared at him defiantly, her chin up, her eyes stormy. "How dare you, sir, presume upon friendship and a female's helplessness? And indeed, you have overlooked my position. Or don't the current details pertaining to your old friend's success interest you?" she taunted.

  Feeling as if she'd punched him hard in the stomach, Francho growled back at her, "Now that you mention it, no. I have no interest in hearing about your liaison with that lecherous pig, Guzman. But it seems that you are quite faithful to him." He suddenly felt foolish and so he was surly.

  Forcibly composing herself Dolores managed a short laugh. So he too, her old friend, preferred the most glib explanation of her connection with the Duke. Well, the Devil take him for caring nothing, she'd flaunt it in his stupid face then. "And why should I not be faithful to Don Enrique? He has been only generous and gallant toward me. I was without resources, without family or friend, and he was genuinely concerned by my plight. He cared." She flung this word at him accusingly, and then seeing that she was producing the desired effect, she injected a note of vivaciousness, tilting her head, hand on her hip. "Don Enrique accompanied me to Court and he used both money and strong influence to procure me a place with the Queen so I might have a greater allowance on which to live. He brought to me the best seamstresses and he even gave me a dancing master to perfect my steps, a simpering little Jew who repeated the same catechism over and over, listen, I can say it word for word: 'A damsel's bearing should be gentle and suave, her bodily movements humble and affable and displaying a signorial dignity; and let her be light on her feet. Her glances should not be roving, gazing here and there, but lowered to the ground, and showing more modesty than a man. A lady must not allow her hand to be grasped except by the tips of the fingers....'" There was a touch of hysteria in her light laugh. "Have you seen any of these Court dames dance with their eyes on the ground?"

  He'd let her run on so he could cool down physically. Now he cut into her jibing. "You're nothing but a coldblooded adventuress," he rasped.

  "That's a step better than a scabby thief, is it not?" she flung back.

  In two steps he had hooked his finger under her sapphire necklace and yanked so that she was forced up against him, forced to look into the blue flame of his anger. "How can you endure the touch of that pop-eyed, limping—"

  She slapped his hand away smartly. "I told you—he is kind to me. He gives me presents, jewels, lace handkerchiefs, he even promises to lease me a small house of my own in Seville. Why should I care that he is homely?"

  "You are—" He snapped his mouth shut on the ugly words. His hand raised as if it itched to slap her mocking mouth, and then clenched.

  "I am Papa el Mono's common daughter, a street rat, why don't you say it? And don't you feel powerful, o son of the mighty Tendilla? You could destroy me, you could tell the whole Court the truth of me. Then do it, if you despise me so much!"

  "Never. Have your masquerade; I will not betray you. But not for your sake. For Tía's sake. Perhaps she would have approved of your method of binding a rich protector, perhaps not. But for her sake I will not hurt you."


  Dolores's tilted eyes narrowed like a spitting cat's. "What would you have preferred me to do?" she shot back. "Starve on the streets? Beg on the cathedral steps? Marry a bumpkin squire in Torrejoncillo who would work me to exhaustion and give me ten children and an early grave?"

  "Yes," he blurted, saying anything in his irritation. "Better than see you a concubine to a randy, homely goat."

  "And what matter that! He did not take my honor from me, there was another, remember? And you would have renewed your conquest tonight, but that would not have counted as shameful because you are handsome, eh?" Her lip curled. "Go to, my newly born and chivalrous gentleman, your life merely fell in your lap. Mine I have to make. You can choose Leonora de Zuniga to lavish your heart on, I must take who offers me most." Now her smile grew sly. "And you adore your Leonora because she is sweet and innocent and pure, I suppose?"

  He refused to be trapped by her feminine spite. Abruptly he veered the argument. "Have you let Carlos know where you are?"

  She was startled at his quick switch but responded anyway. "No. Why should I? I had a message from him just before I left Santa Rosa saying he had set Pepi up at an inn near Montero and that I could reach him from there. But I'm not interested in spending my life in a louse-infested camp in the mountains, getting calluses on my hands from carting water buckets up the path." She stretched out her ringed fingers and mocked at him. "I like my hands the way they are—soft and fine and covered with jewels that were presented to me, not stolen."

  "Greedy. You were always greedy. But at least you honored yourself."

  Dolores had a split-second to wonder why she even stood and listened to him before her temper erupted. "How do you dare speak to me in such a fashion! What is it to you what I do? If we had not met here at Court, would you have ever given one thought to the tavernkeeper's daughter? Would you have cared if I had given myself to every tinker or muleteer that passed? Would you have even bothered to know whether I was dead or alive?" She had drawn blood.

  The tense muscles in his face slackened for a moment; he blinked and she could see the truth had sunk in, but stubbornly he drove on.

  "Very well then, 'tis as you say. Our paths diverged. But I speak now because of our childhood companionship, Dolores, and because of my past friendship with your brother. He would want you with a sincere and sober husband to look after you, to give you children—"

  Her lips drew back from her even teeth, the sound she made more of a hoot than a laugh. "More likely he would pat me on the back for earning more riches than he's ever dreamed of. And the devil with Carlos! Do you think to hoodwink me with your prim morality, Francisco de Mendoza, late the scourge of the Hermandad? Or"—she tossed back her hair and saucily sauntered about him a few steps, and since he did not turn with her she had a good view of his taut jaw in profile—"or isn't it really that your pride is wounded, that you breathe dragonfire because Don Enrique has my favor whilst you I rebuff? That prig Zuniga will not give you the tip of her finger to kiss, while the woman you once taught the rudiments of lust would rather her crooked-nosed protector than you. Yes, rather! He at least will not ask why I don't prefer a life of carrying slop pails. Picaro! You are green with envy of him, as is every other gallant in the Court."

  Holding her head proudly as she glided up to him, the smile on her mouth was as evil as she felt. "And since your tender sensibility for my mortal soul is only occasioned by your wounded male pride, I hope it really distresses you to hear that should a handsomer and richer duke or marquis offer more largess he would not have to be jealous of Guzman very long!"

  He faced her squarely, unable to control his wrath with her, nor explain it. She flashed beautiful virago eyes at him, disheveled strands of long, auburn hair tangled across her shoulders. He was aching to slap the mocking smile off that honey-tasting mouth, but he realized through his anger that she was right, that there was no good reason for him so to revile her. That she gave herself was not uncommon for ambitious ladies with few means or male relatives, and after all, she was no kin of his, no family honor was involved. But— He grated, "You show very plainly where you come from; it's written all over your grasping heart. My advice still holds. Take the considerable spoils you must already have and find a grateful knight to marry. At least that way you will not be discarded when he is tired of you."

  "Oh monster!" she flung back. "Go to your angelic Leonora and sigh for her every glance, which is all you'll get for your pains from that ice statue. Unless maybe last winter in Madrid her constant suitor, Felipe de Guzman, lowered her barriers. The Count of Perens is a persuasive lover, so I hear, and the little Zuniga also has her own ambitions—"

  "You vixen!"

  "Serpiente! Go. Leave my sight. And spare me your sanctimonious opinions, hereafter, you dealer in hypocrisy."

  Dolores glared at him, and even in the dim and guttering light of the burnt down candles she could see very well the white anger pressing his mouth, the fury in his eyes. She was overjoyed that her feline swipe at Leonora, actually based on no more than instinct, had struck home.

  "I'll leave you. With pleasure—Baroness," he hurled back. He snatched up his plumed hat and whirled on his heel. He flung open the door and stalked out, without giving any indication he had heard her final sarcastic, "Buenos noches, Señor Mendoza," as he slammed the door behind him.

  Dolores stood like a statue, staring at the closed door. One hand crept up to press against her mouth as she tried to calm the turmoil inside of her. Finally, like a sleepwalker, she moved to the bed and clung to one of the slim posts for support, for her legs suddenly seemed not to want to carry her. Slowly she sank along the smooth wood until she had subsided to her knees. She felt the burn of tears spring to her eyes then, and the great, hot drops began to roll down her cheeks. Angrily she tried to brush them away but soon she just buried her face in her hands and the pained, angry tears flowed through her fingers to make dark splotches on her brocade gown.

  There the birdlike Engracia found her and with a twitter of sympathy went to her old knees too. Asking no questions she held the lovely head on her withered bosom until the wild, hurt sobbing wore away.

  Chapter 9

  Wham! the clenched, ringless fist struck the ornate table top with surprising force. Shocked at the outburst, the elderly Marquis of Cantado looked up from the parchment he had been reading aloud, uncertain whether to go on. His Queen's blue eyes had darkened with anger; her mouth was drawn into a tight line.

  "Continue, continue, my lord," she cried. "The worst is yet to come. You must read it all aloud, to impress upon our minds that our plans and preparations, our sacrifices, seem to have been for naught, thrown into the winds like so much useless chaff." Her stormy glances took in Luis Porto-Carrero, Lord of Palma; Don Fadrique de Toledo, who had brought the upsetting dispatch; her confessor, Bishop Talavera; her loyal friend and confidante, Beatrix de Boabdilla, Marquesa of Moya; and several other trusted advisors, all closeted with her in the council chamber of the episcopal palace in the southern city of Jaen.

  "Gently, my daughter, gently," Talavera tried to calm her, of all of them the least dismayed by her unusual show of temper. "The fevers have but lately left you. You must conserve your strength."

  With an effort of will Isabella managed to cool the fire in her eyes and lower her voice. "Go on, Cantado," she ordered coldly.

  The Marquis, the communication held out almost at arm's length, lowered his eyes and continued. "...and although our informants had reported that Baza was unprepared to withstand attack and would capitulate, the long delay of our armies in securing the frontier outposts allowed ample time for the city to summon from Almeria the commander Cidi Yahye with over ten thousand warriors, bringing their garrison strength to above thirty thousand men and adding huge supplies of munitions to their armory."

  The Marquis looked up from his reading, turned down the corners of his wrinkled mouth, and then went on with the letter. "Our surrender demand being rejected, we decided to rigorousl
y press our siege. This required several detachments to take control of the wide green labyrinth of orchards surrounding the city walls so that our artillery might move into position. Fearlessly they rode out, our gallant Christian caballeros, in the assurance that God and the strength of their arms would give them victory. But scarcely had they reached the verge of the orchards when, in a fearful din of trumpets and drums, a horde of Moorish warriors poured out of Baza's gates, led by the shouting Cidi Yahye himself, who exhorted them on.

  "The two opposing forces met in the very midst of the overgrown groves. Our lances, crossbowmen, arquebusses, and swordsmen reaped bloody rewards for their bravery, but the confusing nature of the battlefield, cut up as it was by canals and streams and numerous storage towers and huts, and obscured by the closeness of the trees, gave greater advantage to the enemy, for our troops were mounted and they were on foot. The Hell-spawned Moors were able to lurk, to sally forth and attack, and then to retreat almost without loss."

  A low groan ran around the table. Cantado raised questioning eyes to the Queen and she nodded. He continued. "Finally the Grand Master of Santiago and other of our noble captains ordered their horsemen to dismount and fight on foot, for we could make no advance. The orchards became a scene of carnage, so clouded with smoke from the burning towers that we could see little from our vantage point and our forces were hampered in our attempt to reinforce those areas where the battle went badly. For twelve hellish hours we fought to gain the groves. The eye saw columns of smoke in every direction, there was the constant thunder of the arquebusses and the ringing clash of arms against armor amidst the shouts of the combatants— and worse to our ears, the pitiful cries of the legion of wounded bespeaking the terrible toll in blood and pain of this unexpectedly difficult battle.