Golden Roses

by Patricia Hagan

  Amber was trembling with rage, her voice ragged as she whispered, “You think Armand will hurt me? You think I’m like some…animal in heat, but I insist on being in love before I allow myself to be bred. Is that it? What I feel for Armand isn’t really love, and what he feels for me is only lust—”

  “Exactly. Armand is one of the best friends I ever had, but I tell him to his face that when it comes to women, he’s immature. He wants them all. Why shouldn’t he? Women throw themselves at matadors.”

  She jerked away and hurried through the door to the terrace.

  “Amber, don’t—” Cord called worriedly, but made no move to follow her.

  She reached the terrace and glanced around at the people. Then, glancing back over her shoulder, she saw Valdis striding toward her with Diego close behind. Frantic, she looked about wildly, then saw Armand standing to the side of the terrace, surrounded by admirers. He glanced up and saw her, but turned away. He probably didn’t want Valdis to see him looking at her.

  Valdis reached her then and snapped, “What do you think you are doing?”

  Diego caught up with them. “It is our dance,” the general’s son said brusquely, reaching for her hand.

  “No,” Valdis told him coolly. “We are leaving now. The señorita does not feel well.”

  Diego looked alarmed. “I am sorry. Will she and your family be able to join me and my father in our box tomorrow?”

  “Of course,” Valdis responded graciously, obviously impressed by the invitation. “Please give our respects to your parents. I will escort my fiancée back to the hotel.”

  Diego, puzzled, silently echoed the word. Fiancée? He stared after them as they moved away.

  Cord, resuming his position near the French doors, watched with cold, brooding eyes.

  Chapter Eleven

  When they reached the hotel, Amber was the first to alight from the carriage, anxious to escape Valdis and Maretta, who had argued all the way home.

  She had reached the front doors when Valdis caught up to her. He hissed, “You will go to your room and remain there until I send for you when it is time to go to the corrida tomorrow.”

  “Fine,” she said coolly. “As long as you stay out of my room.”

  He looked at her in that smug way and said, “Do not worry, querida. I will not taste your fruit until I am entitled to the whole basket. But very soon we will be sharing not only the same room…but the same bed.”

  She bit back her angry retort.

  Once inside her room, she removed her dress and flung it aside, then pulled a gown from her trunk, slipped it on, and crawled into bed. Outside, she heard a guard take up his nightly vigil at her door. No matter. Soon, she would be free. And with that hope, she welcomed sleep.

  The sound of the door clicking open brought Amber upright and awake. As her lips parted to scream, a familiar voice called out softly, “Do not be afraid, my moonstar.”

  “Armand,” she cried joyfully, tumbling from the bed to grope for him in the darkness. With a moan, he caught her, wrapping his arms about her to crush her against his chest. “Armand how did you get in here?” But he silenced her with a deep kiss.

  “Ah, how I wanted to do that tonight when I first saw you,” he murmured, brushing her hair lovingly back from her face. “To see you and not be able to touch you is a torture I cannot endure much longer.”

  “But how did you get in here?” she persisted. “The guard…”

  He chuckled as he struck a match. Seeing the lantern beside the bed, he crossed to light it. “Pesos do not buy loyalty,” he said matter-of-factly as he sat down on the bed, patting it for her to join him. “Valdis will learn that one day. I gave the guard more pesos to let me in than Valdis pays him to keep me out. Now, he stands guard for me.”

  “Oh, Armand.” She laughed happily, padding across the floor to sit down next to him. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.”

  His expression grew serious as he said, “Tonight, when you ran onto the terrace, you were very upset. You had been dancing with Cord. He has said to you the same things he has said to me, that we should not confuse desire with love. Am I correct?”

  “Well…yes,” she stammered, bewildered. Cord had indeed taken it upon himself to meddle in their affairs! She said as much to Armand, who listened with maddening amusement etched upon his handsome face.

  When she had finished, he spoke as though she were a child. “Amber, my beautiful darling, you must understand. Cord is my friend. He does not want me to be hurt. He is also your friend, whether you believe that or not.”

  Amber was not so sure. “It doesn’t matter what he says, Armand. It’s how we feel. And we really don’t know each other. That’s all I’m sure of right now.”

  “Very well,” he began. “You will have to get to know me. You wish to know about the real Armand? I will tell you. I am a matador. It is my life. From the time I was a small boy, I wanted to fight the bulls. Some men marry and later take a mistress, but the bull is my mistress.”

  “But why? What makes you live with danger? Tomorrow you could be killed,” she cried.

  “But I could also be killed this very night, should Valdis walk through that door.” He chuckled. He stroked her cheek affectionately as he whispered, “I know I could be killed, my moonstar. No matador is without fear. He lives with fear. He wakes in the night with it. When I am actually in the ring, in the midst of the heat of the fight, this is the only time I can completely lose fear. And when I face the time to kill or be killed, then once again my manhood is decided and won. I walk from the ring victorious…only to begin living with fear all over again.”

  “I think,” she said, after a pause, “I understand you a little bit better now.”

  He laughed. “Ah, then this means you can now love me! So when do we marry?”

  Amber found herself laughing at his good-natured spirit. He was so happy, so vibrant, so…so alive. Damn Cord Hayden! What she felt for Armand was the beginning of true love.

  “We will marry when we are both sure it is what we want,” she told him, then changed the subject. “What about Valdis? Where will he think I have gone when I disappear tomorrow night? Will he suspect you had anything to do with it?”

  “No,” he said bluntly. “I will be giving all my attention to Maretta tomorrow. When it is discovered that you are gone, I will continue to give all my attention to her. I will not be suspected. Perhaps you are thinking that I should be sorry for trifling with her feelings, but there are things you do not know. She deserves this treatment, believe me.”

  “But she loves you, Armand,” Amber insisted.

  He threw back his head and laughed. “I am sorry. I do not mean to make fun, but as I told you, there are things you do not know. I suppose you have a right to be told—though I have always made it a rule never to discuss the women in my life I have always thought a man who did so was a braggart, and certainly no gentleman.”

  He hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath, then continued. “You see, Maretta does not love me. She loves my money, my position, my family name. She tried to feel the love we were told by our parents that we should feel. When we were younger, and both quite foolish, we played together. Our bodies grew and so did the hungers within.” He paused again, searching her face for understanding, then whispered apologetically, “We knew each other, Amber. Do you know what I am saying?”

  He rushed on. “This went on for a few years, but as I grew older, I realized that I did not love her and told her so. She was angry and said we had to marry one day. Then, to try and make me jealous, she had an affair with a close friend. I told him I did not love her, and I gave him my blessings to pursue her if he wished.

  “But,” he sighed with disdain, “Maretta would not give up. She arranged for me to find them together, hoping I would become enraged. I did not. When she realized her plan had not worked, she fell in love with the other man. He was honest with her from the beginning, and he told her he was not looking for marriag
e. So she tried to make him jealous, as she had attempted to do with me. He was not jealous, only disgusted. He turned his back on her, and now she hates him.

  “So you see”—he kissed her forehead lightly—“Maretta has tried to use two men. She deserves to have the same done to her. She is a treacherous woman, a very dangerous woman. Never turn your back on her, Amber.”

  Amber was chewing her lower lip thoughtfully. Something was whirling inside, and suddenly it came to her. “Cord Hayden!” She sat up straight. “That’s it, isn’t it?” She wondered why she had not understood before. Oh, but she sometimes was naive!

  “I shall not lie to you,” he said quietly. “It was Cord.”

  “And Valdis does not know.”

  “No one knew but the three of us. As I say, I do not like to discuss the women in my life, and I never shall again.”

  He was gazing at her intently. “You speak excitedly of Cord Hayden,” he said carefully. “He has held you? Kissed you? He has awakened your fire?”

  Amber became wary as Armand gave her a mocking smile. “Maretta told me all about his lovemaking…that I am too gentle, too slow, and he is more than any woman can endure. She says with me, she begged only for release, but with him, she begged to die, for she could not live with such deep pleasure. Is that what you want, Amber? To beg to die because you are being loved so savagely? Do you want Cord, Amber?”

  “No!” she cried, astounded to hear that Maretta had said such things. “Cord has kissed me, but—”

  “But you liked it!” he goaded.

  He stared into her eyes, his own narrowed as he said, “Very well. Perhaps I am afraid for no reason. Perhaps I love you so much it drives me a little mad. But heed my words, Amber. If you are using me only to escape Valdis, pretending to care for me, you will regret it. Never have I cared so for a woman, and you will not play with me and then turn away.”

  “I have no intention of using you. Perhaps”—she took a deep breath, hating to say the words, but knowing she had to—“perhaps it would be best if I found another way to escape.”

  He was silent for a moment. Then he said quietly, “The decision must be yours. But do not make it now. We are both angry.”

  She stared at him. Why did everything have to be so difficult? And why had he become jealous of Cord? Was it Maretta’s taunting?

  She took another deep breath, determined to make one last effort. “Armand, I thought you understood how I feel. But you seem to feel that you own me. You don’t own me, Armand. No man owns me, or ever will. When I do get married, my husband will not own my body or my soul. I will give my love…but never my freedom. Perhaps you want more from me than I can give you.”

  “Is this how you truly feel?” he asked quietly, calmly.

  She nodded, watching his eyes mellow.

  “Then I shall not worry about Cord Hayden stealing you away from me, moonstar, for he would surely demand complete obedience from a woman—in his bed and out. You would not bend to his will.”

  “I won’t bend to yours, either.”

  “Ah, but you are a spitfire!”

  His lips closed over hers, and once more Amber felt the fires burning within. For precious moments they clung together, and when at last he released her, he whispered, “Forgive the jealous outburst of a man in love.”

  When she nodded, he kissed her once more, briefly. “I must go now. I need sleep or the bull will win tomorrow.”

  She gasped. “Armand, how can you joke about it?”

  “Because I think sometimes that is what life is.” He held her against his chest, stroking her long silken hair. “Sometimes I feel God places us here for His amusement, and that all of life is a joke for Him.”

  “That’s blasphemy, Armand,” she admonished him.

  “Ah, but maybe He will think me only joking, eh?” He touched her chin with his fingertips and stepped back. “Good night, moonstar. Remember that I love you more than my life.”

  And he was quickly gone.

  Amber put out the lantern and sat in the dark for a long time without moving. He had been upset about her feelings for Cord. Had she soothed him, or was he still disturbed?

  Chapter Twelve

  The carriage pulled to a stop before the main entrance to the Plaza de Toros, and Amber waited for Diego to step down and turn to help her alight. Directly behind, Valdis irritably followed in another carriage with Allegra and Maretta. Amber delighted in remembering Valdis’s expression when Diego arrived at the hotel with two carriages, one with room enough only for two people.

  Whenever Diego gazed at her adoringly, she tried to smile, but she could not afford to trifle with Valdis.

  “I do not like the way Diego fawns over you,” Valdis had said bitterly, “but his family is important, so you must be nice to him. But I warn you. If you say anything to him, Dolita will suffer.”

  Amber remembered.

  Diego brought her back to the present. “You are so beautiful, señorita,” he said, beaming as he led her to the arena. “I am the envy of every man.”

  Though Valdis had selected it, Amber had to admit that the dress she wore was perfect for her. Deep yellow satin, it had a low, heart-shaped neckline and huge puffed sleeves that tapered to the elbows with ruffles of lace in a deeper shade of yellow. The girdle was beaded with tiny seed pearls, and these were also scattered about the skirt, beside rows of lace ruffles.

  “Tell me, Amber,” Diego was saying, “do you like the corrida? Even some Mexican señoritas find the sport barbarous. How do you feel?”

  Amber did not hesitate. “I find it brutal and disgusting, cruel and senseless.”

  Diego looked at her with amusement. “Then why do you come? Just to be with me? But we could have gone for a ride in the country.”

  “No,” she said quickly, then blushed as she realized she had spoken too clearly.

  But, to her surprise, Diego laughed. “Ah, yes, we both know why you came, señorita. Gossip blows across Mexico as swiftly as the wind. Everyone has heard how Armand Mendosa dedicated a bull to you, and I saw your face last night when you saw him.”

  She stiffened. “You presume a great deal. Señor Mendosa saved me from a bull one night when I wandered into its field. He is a good friend.”

  He chuckled. “Matadors do not dedicate bulls to mere friends.” He patted her hand.

  “I don’t wish to talk about Señor Mendosa,” she said crisply.

  “Very well.” He nodded. “We shall talk about bulls instead, and I will explain something to you. Bullfighting is indeed bloody, but it is not a sport.” Diego grinned. “It is a spectacle. In a sense, it is like the plot of great literature. The plot in this novel calls for the bull to die. To deny that, to attempt to change it, would be as ridiculous as to deny the plot of Julius Caesar which directs that Caesar shall die.

  “It is also”—he flashed her a smile—“like a ballet. Watch the performance of traditional movements. That is grace. It is a tribute to physical dexterity, but it includes the risk of severe injury.

  “The main point of the bullfighting spectacle is the complete mastery of a human being over two living beings—over the bull, and over the matador himself. For the ultimate need of the matador is to conquer his own fear. Only then can he conquer the bull.”

  Amber recalled Armand’s admission of the night before.

  “A brave man,” Diego continued, “is not the one who refuses to feel fear. No, señorita, the brave man feels fear and still faces the danger that causes that fear. Matadors are afraid when they enter the ring. Even Armand Mendosa,” he finished, “regardless of what he might otherwise say.”

  “Armand has told me of his feelings,” she admitted coolly. Diego was right, but she would not reveal what Armand had confided.

  Amber was now glancing around, wondering whether Armand was nearby and if he might see her. Diego was pulling her along too quickly, and she almost did not see the rut in the ground. She stumbled. Diego caught her quickly and held her up, but she could n
ot put her weight on her foot. “I think I have twisted it,” she cried. “Please, help me to sit down somewhere.”

  Diego glanced about anxiously, then spotted a bench just outside the arena. He helped her over and lowered her carefully onto it.

  Kneeling before her, he examined her ankle. After a few moments, he straightened and said, “I see no swelling. I do not think it is badly injured, but if you would like to return to the hotel, I can send for the carriage.”

  “No,” she said hastily, refusing to miss seeing Armand. “I will be all right. But a cool drink would be nice.” She gave him what she hoped was a pained and beseeching look. “If I had something to drink and rested for a moment, I think I would be fine.”

  “Of course,” he said with a nod. “You sit here and do not move. I will return quickly.”

  Diego moved away and she looked around for Armand. But the man who approached her was not the one she wanted to see.

  “Very touching,” he growled.

  She gazed into the cold, accusing eyes of Cord Hayden.

  “I’ve been watching your performance. Very good, Amber.”

  She leaped to her feet, forgetting her pretended injury, and demanded, “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

  He nodded at her ankle. “You acted as though you hurt yourself to get rid of Diego in hope that Armand would come running. He won’t. He’s inside—alone. And he’s in the worst mood I’ve ever seen him in. What the hell did you do to him last night?”

  “I…I didn’t do anything,” she floundered. “Now leave me alone, please. You must know how moody Armand is.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  She felt herself bristle as memories of the conversation of the night before came flooding back. Cord Hayden had caused enough turmoil in her life, and she wouldn’t say they had argued about him! Trembling, she hissed, “What goes on between us is none of your business, Cord. Now please tell me where I might find Armand. I need to speak with him.” Dear Lord, she prayed, help me find the right words to make Armand realize that I do not love Cord. Make him understand.