Spanish Serenade

“…this fast-paced story has plenty of action, intrigue and some good sex. I found it fascinating, unpredictable.”

~Romance Reviews

“Blake, who provides enough passion, lust and adventure to satisfy even the most voracious of romance consumers, triumphs again...”

~Kirkus

“Blake’s style is as steamy as a still July night on the bayou, as overwhelmingly hot as Cajun spice.”

~Chicago Tribune

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without the written permission of publisher or author, except where permitted by law.

Copyright © 1990 and 2012 by Patricia Maxwell

First Edition: August 1990

First Mass Market Edition: 1993

E-Reads Edition: 2003

Steel Magnolia Press Digital Edition: 2012

Cover Design by
LFD Designs For Authors

Dedication

For my husband, Jerry Ronald;

My sons, Ron and Rick;

And my sons-in-law, Roddy and Rob—

Southern gentlemen and heroes, all—

with love.

PILAR MARIE SANDOVAL Y SERNA knew that what she was doing was nothing less than madness. To meet the brigand El Leon, the lion of the Andalusian hills, by chance and in daylight was dangerous enough, but to invite him to come to her at midnight in a dark patio garden was to place her honor and her life in his hands. The danger did not matter; some things were worth the risk.

Pilar drew her shawl around her as she paced back and forth over the patio tiles. The night was chilly, as it often was in late December in Seville. That coolness was, naturally, the only reason for the tremors that ran over her in waves. Why should she fear El Leon? Her stepfather Don Esteban was far more despicable, a devil in human form, yet she didn't shake when she faced him. He thought he had conquered her, her stepfather, but she would show him. She would.

It was a quiet night. From the town streets beyond the garden wall came only the occasional rattling of a passing carriage as late revelers made their way homeward. Somewhere far away a dog barked. Nearer at hand, perhaps three or four houses down, a lovesick swain strummed a guitar, softly serenading his lady with an old Andalusian melody. The music was intricate and flowing, the voice low and deep, rich with suppressed longing.

The moonlight shone down into the enclosed patio, filtering through the branches of the jacaranda and making deep pools of shadow under the glossy-leaved orange trees. It caught the water spouting from the tiered stone fountain, turning the splattering droplets to liquid moonstones. It traced the intricate pattern of the Moorish floor tiles and bleached the flowers of the trailing geraniums in their pots attached to the walls from rose to palest pink. Under its light the honey brown of Pilar's hair turned to gold, while her cheekbones were washed with a pearl sheen, and the warm chocolate brown of her eyes acquired more mysterious depths.

Pilar's pacing slowed. She stood still, listening to the distant serenade. There was something in it, in the man's voice, that drew an answering resonance from deep inside her. The empathy was unwanted, yet inescapable, moving her to tenderness and despair that was near tears. She felt she knew the serenader's pain, but also that he understood and shared hers. It helped, somehow, to still her apprehension.

The song came to an end. The last notes of the guitar died away, and all was quiet again.

Pilar gave her head a quick shake, as if to rid herself of the peculiar moonlight fantasy. Frowning up at that bright light, she moved deeper into the shadows under the loggia of the house. She must not be seen from inside. Her stepfather was at some official dinner, but her duenna was still up, working at her tatting. The duenna, a sister to Don Esteban who was terrified of her brother's shadow, thought Pilar was safely asleep. That was the way it must stay.

Where was El Leon? Surely he had received her message?

It was possible he had not; there had been so little time to give it, and no hope of repeating it. That she had found the chance at all was a miracle. Now she was in need of another one — that El Leon would answer her summons. He might well have decided against it. It would be nearly as insane of him to show himself at the house of Don Esteban Iturbide as it was for her to send for him. Her stepfather would kill him on sight, as he might a stray dog.

There came a quiet rustling from the palm tree at the corner of the patio garden. Pilar stopped, going still. She strained her eyes in the darkness until they burned, her every sense alert for further sound. There was none. It must have been the cool night wind coming over the garden wall, or else a bird disturbed in its rest.

Her chest rose and fell in a long sigh. She drew her shawl closer once more and resumed her measured pacing along the loggia.

The amazing thing was that her stepfather had not yet killed her. The deed would not have troubled him; he had murdered her mother, after all. Pilar had no proof that was what had happened, nothing except her suspicions and her knowledge of Don Esteban; still, she was sure that it was so.

Pilar had despised the strutting little man with his cruel eyes and pointed, perfumed beard from the moment her widowed mother had introduced him to her as a prospective stepfather six years before. She had not troubled to hide her feelings in his presence and, moreover, had done everything a girl of sixteen could to prevent the alliance between him and her mother. It had not helped; her mother had been infatuated. Don Esteban was a lonely widower and also a man of charm and address, her mother had said, smiling fondly down on Pilar, smoothing the silk of the girl's hair as she sat on a stool at her knee. There would be honor and privilege in being his wife, for he was destined for a great position at court in Madrid. With the weight of her wealth behind them, combined with his, the two of them would shine there. It was natural for Pilar to resent the man who would take the place of her own father whom she had adored, but she would grow used to Don Esteban in time. And in a year or two, when she was a bit older, it was possible there might be a marriage arranged between her and Don Esteban's son by a previous marriage.

Never, Pilar had declared. No, not ever. She had met Don Esteban's beloved son during a visit. The young man had cornered her in a darkened salon, sneering at her protests, squeezing and pinching her body, and had cursed her when she kicked his shins and ran away. She would never accept such a vicious, egotistical suitor — nor could she think the father any better than the son.

The choice had not been presented to her. Don Esteban had revenged himself upon her for what he called her meddling the moment the marriage celebrations were over. He had escorted her to convent school where he spoke personally to the mother superior, claiming that Pilar was wayward and spoiled and in need of severe discipline. He left instructions that she must be taught to respect her elders, to curb her tongue and stifle the unladylike fierceness of her spirit. Then within a few months had come the news of the death of Don Esteban's son in a duel. Pilar had been forced to stay on her knees in prayer for his soul for hours because she had dared to say aloud that she was glad he was dead.

In the end, Pilar had learned her lessons of obedience. She had learned to appear meek and compliant while rage burned inside her. She had learned to bow to a thousand petty rules while searching for ways to circumvent them. She had learned to accept punishment without flinching, assuming a smile of forgiveness even as she plotted vengeance. She hated the duplicity, but she learned.

For the six years of her incarceration she was not allowed to go home, never permitted to communicate with her mother. Still, Pilar heard rumors from the other girls who came and went. Don Esteban, it seemed, was of the old school which believed that, women should be kept shut up in their houses as in the days of the Moors, a belief he had taken trouble to hide before his marriage. There had been no shining at court for Pilar's mother, for her new husband decreed that his wife must not flaunt herself abroad, but stay submissively at home. She must not mind that he wore fine lace and rare emeralds. She must not question his expenditures or the whereabouts of her wealth which he had claimed as his own, or wonder about his supposed fortune. She must obey his every command, accept his every dictate. His word was law, and he did not want Pilar in his house.

It was in the past year that Pilar had received word her mother was ill with a wasting sickness. Pilar had written, begging to be allowed to come home, but silence was her answer. She had appealed to her only other relative, her dead father's sister who lived in Cordoba, in the hope that her aunt could intervene. Her father's sister had made inquiries, but it had done no good; Don Esteban assured the lady all was well and that Pilar was only trying to make trouble. Pilar had then written to her mother's confessor, Father Domingo, but could receive no satisfactory answer to what was happening, no permission for her release from the convent.

Then her mother had died. It was Father Domingo who had finally prevailed upon Don Esteban to allow Pilar to pray at the funeral bier for the repose of her mother's soul. People would think it odd, the priest said, if the dead lady's daughter was not there. They might begin to wonder why she was being kept away, wonder what it was Don Esteban was trying to hide. Father Domingo was no longer welcome in Don Esteban Iturbide's house, but an escort had been sent to bring Pilar to Seville.