Spanish Serenade (3 page)

“I am aware of that, just as I know your name and station and recent history. I have made it my business to know, being neither an idiot nor a quixotic fool. What I don't know is what you want of me.”

He released her waist in a sudden movement, then caught her wrist, spinning her around to face him. Pilar, off balance, put out a hand, bracing against his chest. She could feel the bands of muscle that sheathed it, sense the overpowering solidity of his presence. She stared up at him with her voice caught somewhere in her throat, stifled by doubt.

He was tall and broad, his shape exaggerated by the length and fullness of his black wool cloak. The features of his face were firm and regular and precisely molded, sun-bronzed even in the moonlight, but his eyes were no more than dark sockets shadowed by the wide brim of his hat. There was about him an air of stringent control coupled with an edge of danger. There was not a shred of sympathy.

Refugio de Carranza looked at the woman he held, and felt as if a hand had squeezed his heart inside his chest. He had come to this rendezvous out of purest wanton curiosity, to see what manner of woman could rouse Vicente from his studies and persuade him to use methods of communication that were reserved, usually, for direst emergencies. He saw. She was beautiful, with the fair skin and hail that spoke of the blood of Visigoth invaders in her veins, coloring that was common in northern Spain where he was born, but more rare here in the Andalus. There was pride in the tilt of her head and the set of her shoulders, and also determined bravery. Remembering the softness of her, the fragrance of her skin and silkiness of her hair against his cheek, he found it necessary to subdue a strong need to gather her close once more. He had thought himself invulnerable to the allure of her kind. It was incensing to be proven wrong.

“Well?” he said when she made no sound. “Did you have a purpose, or is it a game? Shall I seek to relieve your tedium, or would it be best if I guard my back?”

“I—I would never betray you.”

“Your assurance eases my mind. That, and my inspection of this fine garden. I can only suppose that if there's an assassin present, it must be you.”

“No!”

“It's a tryst, then. And here I am a laggard lover, behind in my embraces. Come and let me taste your sweet lips.”

She gave an abrupt shake of her head, resisting the pull on her wrist that he still held. “It pleases you to make fun of me, though why it should I have no idea.”

“Why not? There's little enough fun in the world for me and mine. But it would please me more to be told why I was bid to come.”

“I want—” She stopped, horribly uncertain of the wisdom of what she meant to say.

“Yes, you want…? Everyone wants something. Shall I complete what you are too bashful to say?”

“No!” she said in haste. “I want you—”

“I knew it.”

She glared at him in annoyance and embarrassment.

Then she saw, projecting over one shoulder, the neck of a guitar that he carried slung across his back by its shoulder strap. It came to her abruptly that he was the serenader she had heard; the timbre of the voice, its soft power, was the same. The knowledge eased the doubts inside her, though she could not have explained why. She drew a shallow breath and spoke quickly and a little too loudly.

“I want you to abduct me.”

His grasp slackened. Pilar twisted her wrist free and stepped back. That she had surprised him gave her a fleeting satisfaction.

It was premature.

“By all means,” he said, sweeping his hat from his head as he bowed with consummate grace. “I am at your service. Shall it be now?”

“I wish it might, but I have no means to pay you at this minute. If you will wait and take me as I am being escorted back to the convent, there will be a chest of gold, the endowment to be paid in my name. You may have it as your reward.”

His stillness was complete, like that of a stalking cat before it strikes. When he spoke, the words had a slicing edge. “I am to be rewarded? Surely to have you would be enough?”

Angry confusion washed over her in a wave of heat. “You — You won't have me,” she said. “You will deliver me at once to my aunt in Cordoba.”

“Will I?” The question was softly suggestive.

The man in front of her had once been a grandee of wealth and title, with all the instincts and manners of his class. Now he was a bandit, an outcast who made his way by preying on his fellow men. He was El Leon, a leader of thieves and outlaws who could only have gained his position by being stronger and harder than the men he led. How could she trust him?

How could she not?

“You must help me, Refugio de Carranza!” she cried, stepping toward him and clutching the edges of his cloak in her hands. “I'm saying this all wrong, but I had no idea how it would be. I meant no insult; I only thought that you would have use for gold. I don't doubt that if you agree to do as I ask, it will be for the sake of striking a blow against Don Esteban. It would be a great injury to his pride to have his stepdaughter abducted from under his nose. And if it happens in the open countryside, as the caravan takes me to the convent, there will be no way he can hide it, no way he can deny it.”

He said nothing for a long moment. Finally, he spoke. “Don Esteban himself will be with the caravan?”

“So I understand. He wants to make certain that I am safely locked away again.”

“You realize,” he said, lifting his hands to close them on her clutching fists and loosen their hold, clasping them with impersonal firmness, “that what you ask will mean your ruin? There isn't a person in Spain who will believe that your chastity survived this abduction, no matter how short the span of time you remain in my company. The enmity between my family and that of your stepfather is too well known for it to be otherwise.”

She lifted her chin as she met the dark glitter of his eyes. “I don't care, if you don't. I have already been compromised, so more talk can't harm me.” She told him quickly of her stepfather's scheme.

Refugio listened to the young woman in front of him with only half his attention. He had heard something of what she was saying already, and knew enough of Don Esteban to guess the rest. He was much more aware of the clear sound of her voice, of the translucent purity of her skin in the moonlight and the flashing life in her night-black eyes. The feel of her slender hands in his, the memory of her curves against him, clouded his thoughts, creating inside him a slow-growing need to know more of her. Aligned with it, however, was compunction as uncomfortable as it was inevitable.

“That may be how it was,” he said, “but will your aunt believe what you say and take you in?”

“I believe she will, pray she will.”

“Even if she should give you shelter, will she protect you from whatever Don Esteban may do afterward?”

“I can only trust that she may. There's no one else.”

“Not even the church, the convent?”

The tenor of his questions, the evidence they gave of his swift consideration of her plight, gave Pilar hope. Her voice rang as she answered. “Never. I was not born to be a nun, and refuse to be forced to become one at Don Esteban's bidding.”

“And will you be content to be a spinster, a dowerless female spurned by men who want a wife they can be certain is chaste?”

“If they are fools enough to want me only for my money or judge me from no more than rumor, then I have no use for them.”

“Proudly spoken, but pride won't keep your feet warm on a long winter's night.”

The doubts he expressed were more than familiar to Pilar. However, she had counted the cost of what she was about to do already and would not turn back. She lifted her chin, staring him straight in the face. “Will you take me or not?”

“Oh, yes,” Refugio, Carranza y Leon said softly as he watched her there in the moonlit stillness. “I'll take you.”

2

THE CARAVAN TAKING PILAR to the convent was not a large one. It consisted of the old and cumbersome carriage in which she was shut up with her duenna, Don Esteban cantering alongside upon an Arabian stallion, and eight lackeys riding guard, four before and four behind. It would have been even smaller, Pilar was sure, but for considerations of safety. Don Esteban was not a coward, but neither was he a fool. He muttered about the thieves and brigands who prowled the roads and his fears for the gold, in its chest strapped on the back of the carriage beside the trunk holding Pilar's meager possessions. Regardless, she suspected that the outriders had been hired against his enemy, Refugio de Carranza, for there was no safety from El Leon once they began to climb into the hills. Her stepfather's vigilance troubled Pilar, but there was nothing she could do about it. She could only trust that Refugio knew Don Esteban's habits and would take them into consideration as he made his plan of attack.

Don Esteban had insisted on an early start and permitted few stops along the way. He wanted to get this journey behind him. If they made good time, they would reach the hill village where the convent was located before dark. Then, after a night spent at the village inn, he could return the following day to Seville. Even if he had not been wary of trespassing overlong on El Leon's territory, he had no time to waste. He had received orders from the king's minister to proceed immediately to Cadiz, where a ship for Louisiana was making ready to sail.

The carriage jolted and bounced along the dusty, rutted roads. The countryside around them, which in summer was a soft green highlighted by the red of poppies and the yellow of wattle, lay brown and barren under the winter sky. Now and then there were the gray shapes of olive trees or a patch of silver-green weeds, but the only other color was in the hills that spread in long sweeps of blue and lavender against the horizon. Now and then they passed a farmer plodding along, leading a donkey piled high with sticks for firewood, or else a boy herding a few sheep or goats. Scarcely anything else moved except the wind blowing over plowed fields and stirring up the little whirlwinds of loose soil known as dust devils.

The afternoon was waning. They had turned off the main road some time ago to follow a track winding into the hills. Soon the spires of the village church would appear, the church that sat beside the convent. Where was El Leon?

He had given his word he would come. Pilar dared not let herself think he might fail her, but she could not prevent herself from drawing aside the leather carriage curtain every few minutes to peer out the window.

“What is it, señorita?” the duenna asked at last. “Is something amiss?”

Pilar let the curtain fall. “Not at all. I'm just . . . anxious to catch sight of the convent.”

“You will see enough of it, I'm sure,” the woman answered with an edge of irritation in her voice.

“Only the inside,” Pilar said, her own tone subdued.

Her role of quiet submissiveness was beginning to wear on Pilar. She longed to shout her defiance and announce her approaching freedom to the woman who had been set to watch over her. She could not permit herself that luxury. She must bear with the restraint a little longer before she could escape Don Esteban. How surprised he would be. His ego was so great that he could not conceive of her finding the will, much less the means, to do so. How she would love to see his face when he realized he could not bend her to his will.

She had done everything she could think of to ensure that all went well. The day gown she wore was of wool in a gray-blue color without stripes or figures, ruffles or lace to attract attention, and her cape was chestnut-brown, trimmed only with a bit of braiding. Both were such as befitted a novice, but they were also warm. More than that, she had left off her cul de Paris, the crinolined bustle used to add fullness to skirts, since it might make riding horseback awkward. Her shoes were of sturdy leather and without buckles, in case she had to walk over rough ground. Her hair was perfectly innocent of a hairdresser's skill since there had been no opportunity to have the services of one either in the convent or in Don Esteban's house. She had done no more than draw it back into a neat knot at the crown of her head. At least it would not be a bother if she had to move hastily.

The caravan rounded a bend. Directly in front of it was a flock of sheep. The coachman shouted and swore, applying the brake as he sawed on the lines. The animals leaped here and there, bawling in alarm as the carriage rocked to a stop in the middle of the flock. A dog of uncertain breed nipped at the heels of the milling sheep, barking in excitement and throwing looks at his master, the shepherd. This last was an old man, bent and hobbling and carrying a crook, and dressed in faded rags and a hooded cloak. He crept along in the midst of the sea of dirty wool, but seemed to pay no heed to sheep or dog. He appeared not to hear the shouts of the coachman nor the commands of Don Esteban that he clear the way. In truth, there was no place for him to move his flock, for the hillsides rose steep on either side.