Bridge of Fire, page 4
Suppressing a shudder, she drew herself up. “Sir, I would have you release me. This is outrageous! I am Francisca de Silva y Roche; my father—”
“I know who you are,” the conquistador interrupted.
He lifted the helmet and the visor, to reveal a mocking smile above a tawny beard.
Francisca, shocked into speechlessness, could only stare.
“I’m sorry if I hurt your arm,” Don Miguel said.
Her eyes fastened on his face; she absently rubbed the black and blue imprints he had left upon her white flesh. “I…thought…My father said you had gone to Veracruz.”
“What—and miss a mascarada! Especially when you are so charmingly costumed for it.” His eyes made a leisurely assessment, skimming over her bare, creamy shoulders and pausing for a long moment on the round swell of her breasts. “I had no idea your father would grant you such a liberty.”
“He doesn’t know,” she said hastily, and was instantly sorry.
“I guessed as much.”
He strode to a small table and placed his helmet upon it. Then he began to divest himself of his armor, the mail and the breastplate clanking as he deposited them on a chair.
The room was large, the windows curtained in figured red damask, the floor covered with scattered Turkish rugs and animal pelts. Blue figured tiles faced the fireplace in a Moorish motif repeated under the timbered ceiling. A large bed stood in one corner, its canopy draped in gold-tasseled hangings.
“The house belongs to a friend who was kind enough to let me use it,” Miguel said. “Will you sit and have a glass of wine?” He indicated a cushioned chair.
“Thank you, but I think I should be going home.”
“There’s no hurry. The night is young.”
He moved to a long, low sideboard and poured dark red wine from a carafe into two glasses.
“Let us drink to better acquaintance,” he said, handing her a glass.
She took it, dismayed at the slight trembling of her hand. This was the second time in her life she found herself alone with a man not closely related to her. The same man. But what harm could a glass of wine do? He was polite and had made no remarks that could be construed as suggestive. Yet…
“Why have you brought me here?”
“So that we could be together without prying eyes watching us.”
“No good can come of this meeting.”
“But you are mistaken. More than good—joy. I fell in love with you the moment I set eyes on you. I could not get you out of my mind: so beautiful, skin like cream, and a mouth made for kissing. Ever since that night on the stairs, there has been nothing in my thoughts but your sweet, lovely face.” It was the extravagant flattery of the accomplished seducer. Francisca could understand why women found Miguel Velasquez del Castillo irresistible. In the glow of candlelight the proud, handsome head, the sculptured nose, the thin, almost cruel, mouth above the barbered beard, was that of a man who was accustomed to overcoming obstacles, a strong, virile man who took by strength what others tried to take by guile. His white, ruffled shirt, opened to the buckled belt at his waist, revealed a golden crucifix glinting on a muscled chest. His broad shoulders spoke of leashed power, a vitality reflected in the blue fire of his gaze. He could have easily ridden with Cortés as conqueror of the New World, although the conquest was now over a century old.
“My dear Francisca, you look at me as if you doubt every word I said. It’s God’s truth, but halfway to Veracruz I turned back, not because of the mascarada but because of you.”
She set the glass down. “I cannot drink your wine. You are mad. Or arrogant. Or both. I am not La Flor or your other lady loves. I am Francisca—”
“Exactly. That is what I’m trying to tell you. There is no woman in the world who can compare to you. None.”
He took a few steps toward her and, lifting her hand, put his lips to it. She stood stiffly, unyielding to his touch.
“Surely I am not repellent? Come, give me an hour. Let me make you happy.”
She snatched her hand away and, sidestepping him, made a dash for the door. Laughingly, with graceful ease, he caught her fleeing figure, turning, crushing her against his chest. Again the sinewy hardness of his body came as a shock, and an involuntary shudder of pleasurable fear set her nerves to tingling.
“If you will…please…I beg of you…” The words of entreaty came haltingly.
He bent his head and touched her lips, smiling at the quiver that trembled on the soft curves of her half-open mouth. “You care for me, I can tell. I knew it when I first kissed you. You want me as much as I want you. Confess it.”
Confess it? Sudden anger swept through her, banishing her momentary weakness. Did he think she could be won that easily? “How dare you presume?” She wrenched herself free, and raising her hand, she struck him with the full force of her outrage.
An angry flush rose to his sun-bronzed cheeks, and his eyes darkened into a look that constricted her heart.
“I shall do that again unless you release me,” Francisca threatened.
His midnight-blue gaze raked her heaving breasts. Before she could speak again, he pulled her into his arms. She tried to free herself, beating furiously at his shoulders with knotted fists, but his arms, like bands of steel, held her fast. As he lowered his face, she jerked her head away. He brought it back, cupping the back of her skull, his mouth grinding into hers. No gentle kiss this, but a hard, demanding one that left her lips swollen;
“Don’t ever try to lift a hand to me again,” he said, drawing away.
“I hate you!” she exclaimed, tears of rage beading her thick lashes. “You’re a beast, a savage!”
His heavy scowl vanished suddenly, and he laughed at her impotent anger. “Am I then?” He lifted her heavy, dark hair and kissed the tender curve of her slender throat. “Don’t struggle, my dove,” he murmured, his lips burning her skin. “You will see how pleasurable it can be.”
“No!” But even as she protested, he was kissing her throat, her shoulders, raining hot kisses on her face, his lips searing a path of fire to her cleavage. Without raising his head, he blindly found the half-shouldered sleeves with his hand and pushed one, then the other down her arms, exposing her white, pink-tipped breasts.
“You mustn’t!” she exclaimed. But her voice had lost its vehemence. And as he nuzzled a breast, licking at the nipple, a fluidity like honeyed wine entered her veins, melting her bones. Soon she found herself leaning against him, gasping when his pursed lips caught the other rosy point, sucking, drawing gently, nibbling with his teeth. Exquisite sensations radiated out from the stiff peaks, bringing a fevered flush to her skin.
And now he was kissing her mouth again, forcing it open, raiding the inner sweetness, his hands pulling her gown to her hips, tugging at the strings of her undergarment. Cold air prickled her skin as he stripped the last of her clothing, letting it fall in a heap at her ankles. Then, stooping, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the high, canopied bed.
The drop from his arms to the straw-filled mattress brought her to her senses. What was she allowing him to do to her, this arrogant hidalgo who boasted of his skill in making women happy? She watched in growing trepidation as he shed his lace-fronted shirt and tossed it aside. His golden muscles rippled in the candlelight as he removed his hose and doublet. He was naked, narrow hips tapering to well-formed legs. But, oh, his manhood—turgid and swollen—so frightening!
Francisca slid to the far side of the bed and leaped to her feet. Dodging Miguel, she made for the door and had her hand on the ornately carved knob when he captured her.
“This game has grown tiresome.” He held her fast, her naked back pressed against his chest.
“Then let me go.”
“When I’m so close to the prize?”
He turned her. She brought her hands up, clawing his face, her nails scoring his right cheek.
With a curse, he dragged her to the bed, pulling at her arm so that it nearly left the socket. Throwing her on it, he flung himself over her, pinning her to the rustling mattress. A hard knee separated her flanks. Her hips rose in sharp, painful protest as he entered her, his manhood plunging like a sharp-edged sword into her very being. A strangled cry burst from her lips as he moved inside her, his fullness rasping at her tender flesh.
When he had finished, he held her while she sobbed. “Francisca, don’t cry, my love, don’t cry. I am at fault, I admit. I swear by the Holy Trinity, by God and Mother Mary, I had not meant to take you against your will. But when I’m struck in that manner, it brings out the devil in me. Hush— don’t cry. I give you leave to do what you want, to punish me in any way you see fit.”
He leaned backward and drew a short knife from under the mattress. “Here, love,” he said, putting it in her hand. “If you think I deserve death, I present myself.” He twisted his torso so that his chest, with the dangling crucifix, hung a few inches from her face.
Lying on the pillows, she looked into his eyes and saw contrition there, a concern she knew in her heart was not feigned.
“I can’t,” she whispered.
He took the knife from her hands, and she heard it clatter as he dropped it to the floor. Then he gathered her in his arms, caressing her hair, his fingers gently brushing the tears away. When he kissed her softly, she found herself responding, a whispering pressure of her lips upon his. He spoke her name kissing her eyelids, her still wet cheeks, his hands outlining her shoulders, returning tentatively to her breasts, stroking and coaxing to upright stiffness the ruched crests.
Slowly, as his hands moved tenderly over her sensitive skin, touching, kneading, stroking, her desire returned.
Sensitive to her mood, he got bolder. As he lowered his head, his mouth brushed her stomach, inching down to her thighs, kissing the inner flesh, making them fall open. She gave a little start when his seeking hand parted the dark patch of curly hair on her mound, his fingers slipping inside. With practiced rhythm he titillated the button she had no idea existed until now, fluttering it, exciting her with a sudden wild, passionate longing. Oh, he must stop, he had to stop, she would lose her mind if he didn’t stop. She would die if he did. She could feel the wetness, the moist heat between her legs, and she moaned with shock and delight. Now—now! her mind screamed.
He rose above her, thrusting into her with a fullness that seemed to fill the very essence of her soul. She grasped his corded muscles as he moved, fitting her hips into his, breathing in unison with his own hard breaths until at last an unbearable series of shudders shot through her in a dazzle of exploding light.
She lay under him, her hands tangled in his coarse red-gold hair, replete, curiously happy.
“We are one now,” he whispered in her ear. “My Francisca.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice catching with happiness, giving him her heart, a gift bestowed in trust and innocence.
Chapter IV
Francisca arrived home before dawn, just as the cathedral bells were tolling the hour of four. The house was silent except for the loud snores of Manuel, the doorman, sleeping off the effects of his nightlong debauch at the mascarada. Replacing the gate key, she tiptoed up the staircase to her room on winged feet. Joy filled her heart. The feeling of Miguel’s hot kisses still lingered on her lips; the passioned warmth of his caresses still wrapped her in a delicious cocoon. He had sworn he loved her, vowed he would let his ship rot in Veracruz before he left her.
Though Francisca’s mind, the same cool, percipient intelligence that had pored over the books in her father’s library, told her that elaborate declarations of love were a hidalgo’s stock-in-trade, she wanted to believe Miguel. She wanted to believe that he loved her as she loved him, that he belonged to her as she belonged to him. That nothing could separate them, that somehow they would find a way to be together always.
She did not want to think of his wife or La Flor or the women he had known before. She did not want to know if he had used the same love words, swearing undying devotion to his mistresses. She had no wish to probe into his past life, to ask whether he had ever loved his wife and thought of her even as he held her, Francisca, in his arms. For her these women did not exist. She wanted to imagine that she was his first as he was hers.
Most of all she wanted to forget the abyss that lay between them. He was a Christian with ties to an inquisitor. She was a converso. If he discovered her true religion, it would be his duty as a devout Catholic to report her to the Holy Office. But he wouldn’t, for she would never tell him.
When she climbed into bed, she lay awake for a long time, reliving the hours they had spent together, their laughter afterward as he brought her home through the dark, silent streets. They would meet again. It could be arranged, Miguel had assured her. He had a friend, Tomás, who owned a house on the Calle de Las Infantas. It was shut up now since Tomás had gone to Spain to fetch his parents and wife. Miguel had been given free use of the house, and it would serve him and Francisca well since it was thought to be empty. Could Francisca manage to get away for a few hours the next afternoon? She had agreed, had said yes with a last fevered kiss.
She was wondering now, as she lay on her tumbled bed, how she could elude the ever watchful eyes that guarded her name and honor when she thought of a plan.
“Aunt Juliana, I hope you haven’t forgotten that I’m to have a Latin lesson today with Sister Inés.”
Sister Inés was a Carmelite, the proud, educated daughter of a prominent Castilian family, who had chosen the veil instead of marriage. Francisca had met her a year earlier. Pedro, aware that the Inquisition was stepping up its activities, had felt that the family should improve its pious image. Among other things, mass was more punctiliously attended, alms given more freely, and a stained window donated to the Saint Dominic monastery. In addition, Pedro encouraged his daughters to take up charitable work for the nuns. In this way Francisca, giving out loaves to the poor, had discovered Sister Inés’s erudition and begged for Latin lessons.
Aunt Julia, about to pop a fig into her mouth, paused. “Today? Aren’t your lessons every other Wednesday?”
“Yes. But Sister Inés asked me to come this week on Tuesday instead.”
Francisca held her breath. Juliana hated those visits to the convent. The dank piety, the hushed voices, and the chaste, pale faces irritated and bored her.
“Perhaps your mother can accompany you,” Juliana suggested.
“Mother, Leonor, and Beatriz go to the Jerome convent on Tuesday.”
A lucky coincidence.
“Couldn’t we miss this once?” Juliana’s plump fingers chose another fig. “I was thinking of visiting the Benavidos.”
Francisca pretended to think a few moments. “Why don’t we do this?” she said, brightening as though the thought had just flashed across her mind. “You can escort me to the convent and leave me there. I will be perfectly safe—while you have your visit. Then afterward, say at six o’clock, you can fetch me.”
“Hmmmm.”
“On the way home perhaps we can stop at Carlos’s,” Francisca continued. “His second batch of rosquillas should be ready by then.” The lightly fried doughnut was one of Juliana’s favorites.
“Well…as you wish. But, Francisca, I don’t know what good all that learning will do. A lady has no need of Latin.”
“It amuses me. Shall we leave at four, then?”
Breathless with her hurried passage through the back streets, her heart pounding with excitement, she pulled the latch of Tomás’s outer door and entered the courtyard.
“Francisca!”
She looked up. He was there, leaning over the gallery rail, smiling, the midnight blue of his riding cape contrasting with his red-gold hair.
She ran to meet him as he came down the stairs, rushing into his arms, pressing against him, returning kiss for passionate kiss.
“Am I late?” she asked, pulling away, one hand on her heaving breast.
“Yes. But we shall make up for it.”
“I have only two hours.”
“They will be the happiest two hours of our lives.”
He lifted her as she clung to him, her arms about his neck, as he carried her up.
“I couldn’t sleep for thinking of today,” he said as they entered a room where sunlight spilled across a polished floor.
“Nor I.”
When he put her on her feet, he embraced her again, taking her lips in a deep, exploring kiss. She surged against him, the gold ornament he wore as a clasp pressing into her breasts, a small pain that was pleasure. Everything about Miguel was pleasure. He had spoken the truth. Never had anyone made her so happy.
Murmuring softly in her ear, he uttered words of erotic love that she only half understood as he removed the combs one by one from her hair. Catching a handful of the dark, perfumed torrent that had fallen about her shoulders, he brought it to his lips.
“Mine, Francisca, mine. You are all mine.”
Could she deny it?
She undid her cloak. He took it and tossed it aside, then brought her into his arms again, kissing her slowly, lingeringly, tasting her lips, the sweetness of her mouth, the pure curve of her throat. His hand cupped a breast, and he drew his head back when he felt the taut nipple pressing against the silk fabric.
“Little minx. How quick you are to desire.”
“As quick as you?” she asked flirtatiously, her hand timidly descending to the large bulge in his breeches.
He grasped her fingers and held them there for a few moments. “I was aroused long before you appeared. The thought of you alone…”
It was true. His good fortune in taking her to bed had amazed even him, no stranger to good fortune. Long after they had parted he still seemed to breathe her intoxicating perfume. He had been amazed at the beauty of her naked body, at the white, satinlike skin, the beautiful little breasts, the hips, the belly that had fit so like a glove into the angles and surfaces of his own body. The face, those haunting dark eyes, had followed him into sleep, had smiled at him in his dreams, had slowly filled with tears the moment before he woke.
