Return to Paradise (Torres Family Saga) (52 page)

      
“If you know so much about me, you answer,” she replied tartly, willing her thudding heart to slow.

      
He rubbed his chin, touching a thin white scar along one side. “You are Benjamin Torres' whore.”

      
“I am Benjamin Torres' betrothed!” Suddenly Rani realized she must convince Brienne of her value else she would become
his
whore—and that was the best fate she could expect.

      
He studied the lavish rubies and gold combs half untangled in her hair, then moved on to inspect the rest of her jewelry and the rich samite gown. “Someone has wrought quite a change in you, that much is obvious.”

      
“Benjamin's family has accepted our relationship. His cousin Olivia Fontaine has sponsored me. You will make dangerous enemies if you harm me, Captain.”

      
One brow raised rakishly. “Who is to know I have even taken you?”

      
“I am of far more value to you alive and unharmed than dead...Benjamin will pay you well for my release—but only if I am not soiled by your touch.” She watched his cold brown eyes harden and wondered if she had gone too far. “You or your loathsome crew. Keep me safe and you shall reap a great ransom.”

      
“Perhaps I shall at that. You may be just the lure I need. Nothing else has brought that accursed Spaniard into Reynard's hands. Perhaps his brother's betrothed will do so. Tis worth a try—to kill Rigo Torres.”

      
Rani felt her throat go dry. “Again you say that. Why do you wish to kill Benjamin's brother? You will bring down the enmity of one of the most powerful houses in Marseilles on your head. Jews place family above all else.”

      
He laughed mirthlessly. “I need fear no Jews. I am employed by one.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Española, June 1525

      
Fray Bartolome de Las Casas pronounced the final blessing over the lustily squalling infant and placed young Diego Guacanagari Torres back into his mother's arms. Smiling gently, he whispered only for her ears, “Now he is initiated Christian as well as Jew.”

      
Miriam's expression warmed for the kindly old priest who knew she had followed Torres family practice and circumcised her son a week after his birth. Now, after the long awaited arrival of the Dominican, young Diego had been baptized as well. The circumcision, like much else, had sparked another conflict between Rigo and her. Only Magdalena and Aaron's intercession, pleading that the practice was for medical not religious reasons, convinced her stubborn husband to agree. She held the baby, crooning to him until he ceased crying. Feeling Rigo's eyes on her, Miriam looked up, and their gazes locked as if they were alone in the crowded room.

      
The
hato
had no priest and no church. On the rare occasions when a cleric visited, mass and other sacraments were celebrated in the banquet hall of the Torres mansion. Fray Bartolome watched the silent and troubling interchange between Rigo and his wife. Even the birth of their son, it seemed, had not sealed the marriage. When Miriam took the baby upstairs for his feeding, the family gradually dispersed, leaving Las Casas the opportunity to speak with his foster brother alone. Clasping Rigo about the shoulders, Bartolome strolled through the hall and led them outdoors to the wide stone porch that surrounded the house.

      
“For the first time in many years, we are able to sit back and have a long, private conversation,” the Dominican said as he sank down onto a low chair ingenuously made of woven palm fronds lashed to a cane frame.

      
Rigo stood eyeing him before taking another chair. “Conversation or confession?”

      
Fray Bartolome laughed gently. “Perhaps you had best choose. I was your elder brother and confidant long before I took holy orders.” He waited, his shrewd, kindly eyes studying Rigo.

      
Rigo ran his fingers through his hair, loosening the leather band that tied it in a queue at his nape. His eyes were dark with anguish as he met Fray Bartolome's gaze. “You know things are not right between Miriam and me.” It was not a question.

      
“I only arrived late last evening, but it is obvious your wife is sad and you are troubled. I have had time to see naught else. Why do you not tell me what has passed since you left Santo Domingo?”

      
Bartolome listened patiently as Rigo explained their betrayal of Benjamin, the circumstances of the marriage and Miriam's estrangement from her father. He went on to describe the trap set to kill him that had resulted in Miriam's capture and the premature birth of Diego.

      
He confessed brokenly, “I spoke cruel words to her after the birth, accusing her of being an unfit mother! Then, when we returned to the compound, she fell ill with a fever and nearly died. Tis only the past few weeks that she has recovered. And still we quarrel. She insisted upon that terrible mutilation of Diego.” He winced even thinking of it. “I would never have permitted such barbarism if not for my father and stepmother's insistence.”

      
Bartolome chuckled gently. “Many learned men, physicians and others, feel circumcision serves a health practice, rather than being a religious symbol, although I must agree with you in having an aversion to such at my advanced age.”

      
Rigo studied Bartolome for a moment. “You do not find this judaizing cause for alarm?”

      
Bartolome waved his hand in dismissal. “You but skirt the real issue with such petty quarrels. Even your brother Benjamin is not the issue any longer. You are the one Miriam has wed, yet you fear to confront your wife and return to your husbandly duties. Everything you have told me betrays your love for her. Your anger after Diego's birth was born of fear for her, as was your guilt when she fell ill with the fever.”

      
“You know me, Bartolome, perhaps better than anyone. I am not an easy man to love. For a woman—a lady like Miriam, educated and headstrong—a rough Spanish soldier was a poor choice for husband.”

      
“And you once again fear rejection. I believe the lady chose you because she loves you, but no one, save you, can learn the truth. You must speak your heart to her if you would hear her speak hers.”

      
Rigo mulled over Bartolome's advice late that afternoon. It was the same advice Aaron had given him before Diego's birth. He had just inspected the progress in cultivating a whole new acreage upriver from the compound. Soon it would be time to ride home and prepare for the feast that evening. His father had invited everyone across the great Vega to celebrate the birth and baptism of his eldest son's first child.

      
There would be rich food and fine wine, music and dancing. Everyone would be overflowing with high spirits—but for the parents of the infant guest of honor. “Dare I tell Miriam that I love her?” he asked Peligro.

      
The horse snorted enigmatically in reply. Rigo had suffered the pangs of the damned when he feared his wife would die of the fever. His angry words after she had been delivered of the child had haunted him all during her illness. Then as she began to mend, he had feared to approach her. She seemed so frail. He had witnessed the agony she had undergone during Diego's birth—agony for which he was responsible. “Twas the fruit of my seed that she bore.”

      
He mused grimly that it was small wonder most men absented themselves during the grueling process of birth. Yet all his fear for her health and guilt over her suffering did not lessen his desire for her. “If I go to her now, tis her duty to accept me back in her bed.” Of course, he could do as many men did in Spain, leave his wife untouched and take a mistress now that he possessed an heir. Yet he desired no other woman, although many a serving wench and Taino girl had lasciviously cast her eyes on him.

      
He loved his wife. Perhaps Bartolome was right in believing that Miriam loved her husband. “There is but one way to find out,” he murmured as he turned Peligro toward home.

      
Home.
The wide, cool porch of the big stone house shaded by silk cottons and mahogany trees was home now, where his father and stepmother lived, his brothers and sisters...and his wife and infant son. He quickened Peligro's pace.

      
Miriam heard the approach of a lone rider and knew intuitively that it was Rigo. She stood on the balcony of their chambers, looking out through the leafy branches of a towering mahogany tree as he dismounted in a clean, smooth movement and handed the big black's reins to a servant. His shoulder-length hair was windblown. Sweat soaked the sheer white linen tunic, molding it to his chest, revealing the curly black pelt beneath. A fine reddish powder of dust covered his hose and boots. Her eyes slid down his tall, lean body, devouring it from afar, and she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.

      
“Tis the same each time I look on him, this aching...longing. Yet he will never forgive me for endangering Diego. He is duty bound to his son and angry with me.” She forced back the sting of tears. In the past weeks she had cried tears enough for a
huracán,
alone in the big wide bed they shared before Diego's birth. “Then I felt cheated because he came to me only in lust. Now how gladly I would settle for lust.”

      
She ran her hands down her body, once more slender and supple, then walked to the big steel mirror on the wall and studied her face. Still too pale and drawn from the fever. Again she was the thin, overly tall woman who had always felt so unattractive…especially now that Rigo had quit her bed.

      
Magdalena tapped on the door, then gingerly entered to find Miriam deep in thought before the mirror, with a sad, soft frown marring her lovely face. “Tonight is the grand feast for your son. Come, we must prepare you so you will dazzle everyone.”

      
Miriam turned self-consciously from the mirror. “Have you perchance a small miracle in your medical repertoire? I possess none such to turn me into a woman who dazzles men.”

      
“You long to dazzle only one,” Magdalena said drily, shaking her head at the willful blindness of young lovers. Had she and Aaron been this stubborn?
Of course we were
! Laughing, she approached Miriam and placed her arm about the taller woman's shoulders. “You are beautiful, Miriam, and well your husband knows it, even if you do not. Come, let us see to selecting your most enticing gown for tonight. Tis well past time he returned to your bed.”

      
Miriam felt her cheeks heat and was glad that Magdalena had not seen her staring so lasciviously at Rigo from the balcony. “I planned to wear the violet silk with amethyst jewelry.” She shifted the subject back to the safer ground of clothing, away from her relationship with Rigo.

      
Magdalena walked to the long, low mahogany chest set against one wall and lifted the heavy lid. Sealed against the rotting moisture of the tropics, it held treasures of silk, gauze and velvet. She took the carefully spread gown of deep vibrant purple and shook it, then laid it across the bed, smoothing the soft, glowing fabric with her hand. “On you this will be magnificent, bringing out the silver in your eyes and bronze tones in your hair. On me with my red hair and green eyes...” She grimaced at the thought, “I would look like a parrot!”

      
Miriam joined her in the laugh, but shook her head. “No matter what you wear, you are beautiful, small and sweetly curved. I am tall and gawky—”

      
“You are the woman Rigo loves and the one many another man finds more than passably attractive. Mark me, tonight all the gallants will flock to you. Flirt with them and see how they react—and how jealously your lord reacts. Rigo is much like his sire.”

      
Miriam let the servant finish fussing with her hair, weaving the heavy braided loops with strands of amethyst on silver chains. “There. You are magnificent, my lady,” she pronounced as her round brown face split in a wide smile.

      
“Thank you, Teresa. You are very skilled. I would have a moment alone before I must face the crowd downstairs. Please, you may leave now.”

      
As Teresa bowed and departed, Miriam studied her reflection in the mirror. Was Magdalena right? Would other men find her desirable? Even so, would it matter to Rigo? There was but one way to find out. She gathered up her train and walked from the room to face the evening and her husband.

      
Rigo stood across the hall watching his wife as she swept down the wide stairs into the press of admiring men and envious women. He was transfixed by her beauty as he made his way to her side, singlemindedly parting the crowd to reach her just as she alighted from the last step. “Silver witch,” he murmured low for her ears alone, taking her hand in his and raising it for a soft yet possessive salute. Gone was the languorous pallor of her illness. She sparkled like the amethysts she wore at her throat and in her hair.

      
As he bent his gleaming ebony head over her hand, Miriam felt a frisson of heat lance through her. He was dressed all in black, rich armoisin that glowed in the brilliant lights. The simply tailored doublet and hose hugged his splendidly lean, muscular body, accenting his swarthy handsomeness. In a room full of brilliantly arrayed peacocks, he looked like a dark, predatory hawk. No man alive could compare to him. When his piercing blue eyes riveted on her face, her breath left her body.

      
Amid the laughter and good wishes of guests and family, Rigo swept her away to the center of the hall where a dance was just beginning. As they moved to its precise and intricate cadences, he smiled as they closed together and whispered, “Again armored in a farthingale, I see.”