Bridge of Fire, page 5
And now she was kissing him back, her hands clutching his shoulders as if she could not bear to let him go. There had never been a woman whose lips had tasted sweeter, never one who had kept him so long from his ship and the business of his masculine life.
He led her to the bed and sat her down, tracing her upturned chin with a finger. Then, kneeling, he removed her high-cut brocade shoes. Reaching up under her skirts, he tugged at her garters, skillfully pulling her stockings free of her legs, leaving her small feet bare. He kissed them tenderly before helping her rise.
As he unhooked her gown, she watched his face, the small frown as his fingers momentarily fumbled over a stubborn eyelet, the growing impatience as he discarded one petticoat after another. She did not help him. She wanted to savor the delicious luxury of having this virile man, her lover, her loved one, undress her. Oh, but he was handsome, the strong cut of his bearded jaw, the straight nose, the thick, untamed hair, so unlike the perfumed locks of the city’s cavaliers.
“You are truly beautiful,” he murmured, surveying her naked body. The raw desire glittering in his narrowed eyes made her tremble. She remembered then how he had taken her by force, how easily his Spanish temper could be aroused. She still bore the bruises on her arms where he had held her pinned helpless to the mattress, and a thrill of fear chased up her spine. She lowered her eyes, no longer able to meet his fierce gaze.
“Miguel,” she began, flustered, not knowing how to tell him she was suddenly afraid.
“You haven’t changed your mind?” he asked, harshly, misinterpreting her hesitancy. “You’re not sorry you came?”
His hands fell on her shoulders as he pulled her roughly to his chest. He circled her waist with bands of steel, his lips pouring a storm of hot kisses across her cheeks, her forehead, her mouth, searing kisses that left her breathless and dizzy.
“Say you’re not sorry,” he demanded, his mouth poised above hers. “Say it!”
“I’m not—”
But he was kissing her again, his insistent mouth parting her lips, sending wild tremors racing up her spine. Her fear faded, disappeared. She trembled now with desire and excitement, her hands guiding his down to her breasts, wanting to feel, again, the sensations he had aroused before.
He stood for a few moments, his hand cupping her breasts; then, with an impatient groan, he lifted her and placed her on the bed. Through lowered lashes she watched while he disrobed, her heart beating erratically in anticipation. Hurriedly unlacing his thigh-length boots, he kicked himself out of them. Next came stirrup hose, doublet, and shirt, torn off in haste and flung into a corner. The bed rustled and swayed as he knelt over her, a quiver running through his muscular arms before he lowered himself to burn her mouth with his kisses.
The rasp of his beard on her cheeks, on her throat, across her shoulders, inexorably moving down to the ripe mounds of her eager, upthrust breasts, tingled and tickled. But it was the touch of his hands, the firm stroking that traced the curve of her hips, lightly kneading, massaging her thighs, then parting them, as he tongued her nipples, that swiftly engulfed her in a whirlwind of dizzying sensations. Ecstasy, joy, plea? sure, poor words to describe the exquisite fever that brought a husky laugh to her throat.
Hearing it, he grunted. She wanted to touch him, too, in places she could only guess would pleasure him, but the languor that gripped her limbs and held her in thrall was still too new. Oh, Miguel, she wanted to cry, tears burning behind her eyes, I do love you. But she was afraid to speak, afraid to break the spell.
He shifted his weight slightly and brought his hand up again between her thighs, finding the delicate little place, fluttering it with a finger until she felt as though she were riding a towering wave, exciting yet terrifying, a huge comber that threatened to crash and drown her.
She heard herself protesting weakly, whimpering, moaning under his weight, calling his name. He did not—or pretended not to—hear. Sliding down the length of her torso, his tongue entered the place where his fingers had been. Her body jumped with shock. But he held her fast, his tongue pointed as it licked in quick rhythm. Biting her lip to stifle the scream of pure, unbridled rapture, she arched her hips, digging her fingers into Miguel’s muscled back. She could feel the approaching shore, the growing, swelling tide that now, now, finally burst inside her, sending her into a shattering void…
She was still shuddering in climax when he rose quickly and entered her, plunging deeply inside, moving back and forth, his breath hot on her cheek. They were one, body and soul, man and woman, Adam and Eve, who had eaten from the tree of knowledge and were unafraid.
Holding her, he felt her heart beat, a steady pulse beneath her lovely breasts. She was his. And yet he felt no triumph, no victory of conquest. Instead he wondered how this young, untried virgin, reared in gentility, could suddenly mean more to him than any woman he had ever known. Not even La Flor, skilled by upbringing in the art of pleasing a man, could arouse in him such insatiable desire. But there was something else here, something he could not define.
Was it love? He thought not. Love was an emotion conceived by the bards, by the guitar strummers who sang sickly songs of pining hearts and disappointed lovers. He knew nothing of love and did not believe in it.
His marriage had been an arranged one when he was seventeen. His wife, Doña Ana de Tovar y Molina, niece of Count-Duke Olivares, royal favorite and grandee of Spain, had been considered a good catch. She was eight years older than Miguel, a cold beauty who later proved barren. She had disliked Miguel even before the wedding and loathed him after he had deflowered her. From that first night forward she made every pretext to keep herself from his bed. He had not missed her presence there. Nor did he mourn the marriage into which he had been cozened. Doña Ana had come with an ample dowry, a large sum that had enabled Miguel to buy his beloved Espíritu Santo. On rare occasions when he saw her, he treated her with the respect that was her due. A polite exchange, a chill kiss on the turned-away cheek, was the sum of the connubial intimacy they shared. She repelled him with her excess piety. He felt sure that she would be happier in a nunnery. Still, it was a marriage he felt duty-bound to honor, and it had never occurred to him until Francisca that it could be otherwise.
She stirred in his arms. “We have so little time, Miguel.”
“Don’t think of time, sweet,” he said, caressing her hair. “We have this moment, and that is all that matters.”
She sighed, nestling closer. “What’s to become of us?”
“I know not.”
“We have dishonored your wife.”
“Shhh.” He placed his finger on her soft, rosy lips. “There is no dishonor where you are concerned. Let’s not speak of it.”
This was an aberration, this wild affair, this torrential lovemaking, he decided. He would tarry a week, perhaps two, then he would make for Veracruz.
“I can’t think of life without you,” Francisca said, the glow of happiness lighting her dark eyes.
That eager, happy look gave him a slight twinge, one that he studiously ignored. “You know that my business is with the sea. I would give my last drop of blood to remain here always, but I cannot.”
Francisca digested this with a little sigh. Of course he could not stay. What was she thinking of?
“Part of me will go with you, Miguel.”
He pressed her hand, his arm drawing her closer. “Hush. Let us not think of parting yet. There is tomorrow. You will come tomorrow?”
“Oh, yes, yes! I will find a way.”
For two weeks Francisca met Miguel every afternoon at the house on the Calle de Las Infantas. The owner, Tomás (she never learned his surname), apparently traded in vanilla, for there were sacks of it stored under the gallery, and the fragrance of the beans permeated their room. Years later a mere whiff of the mellow scent would bring back those bittersweet hours, and she would be there again with the sun slanting through the iron grillwork of the high window, its beams glancing off the wooden carving of a young Christ hanging from his cross on the opposite wall.
She and Miguel would come together in an explosion of frantic kisses as though they had been separated for months instead of hours. They would fall on the bed in a frenzy of passion, their naked limbs entwining, mouths and hands grappling, exploring, their bodies rocking to the eternal, searing rhythm that took them into an ecstatic realm of their own.
Afterward they would doze, then wake. Francisca, nestling protectively in Miguel’s strong arms, would question him about his voyages, fascinated by tales of the strange lands he had visited, the white beaches of Africa, the tropical sugarcane fields of Jamaica, the rocky shores of lower California. He did not like to talk about his childhood, and she never asked about his marriage. The questions Miguel put to her, Francisca answered guardedly, the soulful eyes of the bearded young Christ on his teakwood cross reminding her that she held a secret Miguel must never guess, must never know.
Except for that tiny worry nibbling at the back of her mind, she lived for those hours spent with Miguel, jeweled minutes, each one replete with happiness. She did not wonder again what would become of them; she did not want to think of the future. They were sinners, but she did not care.
Francisca explained her daily trips to the Carmelite convent by saying that she was now helping Sister Inés with the embroidery and lacework of an altar cloth promised to the archbishop, Fray Garcia Guerra. It was imperative, she told her mother, that it be done by Easter. Aunt Juliana, who disliked embroidery and lace making almost as much as Latin, escorted her niece to the convent each afternoon. At six she would return and bring Francisca home. She never went inside to talk to Sister Inés, never showed the slightest interest in examining the altar cloth.
Her mother or Leonor would sometimes inquire about her work at the convent, though Beatriz seemed to accept her tale with the passivity that was her nature. Francisca hated to lie, but she had no choice. She lived in fear that her mother would stop at the convent and mention the altar cloth to Sister Inés. Her absence there discovered, Francisca would be questioned, and finally the truth would come out. Her father, inexperienced as he was in the use of arms, would be forced to challenge Miguel, whose reputation as the best swordsman in Seville had followed him to New Spain. Miguel would have no choice but to fight. Blood would be spilled. Whatever the outcome, she herself would be banished to a convent, for no man (converso or otherwise) would want a woman who had given her maidenhead outside the bond of marriage.
Francisca realized it had to end. They couldn’t go on trysting, spinning out their days with no thought except their own joy. Luck had been with them; God’s thunderbolt aimed against the breakers of His commandments had been withheld. But it had to come. Yet she could not bring herself to speak of parting.
One evening, when Francisca was sitting in her room dreaming before her mirror, Beatriz came to tell her that her father wished to speak to her.
“Tell him I’ll be down in a little while,” Francisca said.
“He wants you to come at once.”
A tight cord suddenly wound itself around Francisca’s heart. There could only be one reason for this imperative summons. Her father had found out about her trysts with Miguel.
He was waiting in the library. If sweets were Juliana’s weakness, books were his. About one third of his collection was of a religious nature, such writings as those of Santa Teresa of Avila, Saint John of the Cross (where the key lay hidden), and the Book of Hours, the latter considered indispensable to any Christian household. But he also possessed novels, popular works by Cervantes, Quevedo, and Céspedes, and the philosophical coda of Maimonides. The latter, a proscribed book and dangerous to own, he kept hidden behind the religious ones.
“Ah, there you are, Francisca. Come in, come in! Please close the door behind you.” Pedro was standing with his back to the tiled fireplace. His face, crosshatched with fine wrinkles, held a sober expression.
“Sit down, daughter. What I have to say to you is of utmost importance.”
Francisca, her mouth dry, her knees quivering, sat slowly down on a carved, hard-back chair.
He studied her for a few moments. As always, he was dressed conservatively in the fashion that was popular some ten years earlier, wearing a blue velvet doublet, a silver-trimmed jerkin, and breeches that were tied below his knees with garters. His face, framed in the golilla, a wide, standing collar of lawn edged in lace, gave his features a grave dignity.
“I have been thinking seriously about you and your future.” He clasped his hands behind his back for what seemed an overlong interim of silence.
Francisca swallowed. Her future. Had he already decided that she should take the veil?
“In a few months you will be eighteen,” Pedro went on. “Your mother and I agree it’s time you were married.” Francisca drew a long breath. He didn’t know. She was safe. Miguel was safe. There would be no disgrace, no duel, no stain on the de Silva honor.
“We have given the matter much thought. It has always been our wish that you marry within our faith, but no proper suitor has presented himself. Now, however, there is one.” He paused. “Are you listening, Francisca?”
“Yes, Papá.” She was, but inattentively. Her mind was again taken up with Miguel. They must be more careful. She must change her routine, skip a day, find an excuse other than her obligation to Sister Inés. Perhaps she and Miguel ought to meet in a different place. There was no assurance that someone, some afternoon, would not recognize her as she crossed the Plaza Mayor.
“He is not a complete stranger to you,” her father was saying. “He has had more than one meal with us. In fact, he presided over our New Year services. Can you guess of whom I’m speaking?”
“No, Papá.”
“Don Ruy de Diaz.”
Francisca looked blankly up at her father. “What of Don Ruy, Papá?”
He made an impatient sound with his tongue. “Just as I supposed. You haven’t heard a word. Wool-gathering instead of paying heed to a matter which affects all of us. I was right. It’s high time you settled into becoming a wife and mother.”
“Time?” Now Pedro had her full attention. “Why should it be time? I know that most girls are married by their seventeenth birthday. But you once promised you would not rush me.”
“That was when you were a little girl. Your marriage seemed such a long way off. But now we must face reality. Taking all things into consideration, I find that Don Ruy would make you the kind of husband both your mother and I approve of.”
“Don Ruy?” Her voice quavered in disbelief. “But he’s an old man, Papá. At least twice my age. And I don’t love him. Oh, I can’t…I can’t!”
“Francisca…” He paused, a flicker of distress in his eyes. But when he spoke again, both eye and voice were stern. “Let me tell you that love does not enter into arranging a marriage. Love may come later, often does, as witness your mother and me, but if we were to be guided by romantic love in seeing to our daughters’ welfare, we would be in deep trouble. Marriage is for life, and you must be practical about it.”
“But he’s old!” she repeated distastefully.
“Hush. You are too immature to realize what an older man can do for you. He will cherish you, be father, brother, and husband to you. He will care for you—and Don Ruy, I might add, has the wherewithal to do so. You will never lack for comfort, for servants, pretty clothes, and jewels. And he will be faithful. What younger man can promise the same?”
“He has offered, then?”
“He has indeed. He is quite smitten with you.”
“I have a considerable dowry. Perhaps he was smitten with that.”
“The dowry is of little importance to Don Ruy. He is a man of means.”
“But, Papá,” she said, reasonably, “do you remember you arranged for Beatriz to marry Julio Busmonte, and she refused? You did not force her.”
“She was a fool to refuse Julio. Instead she wanted Don Alfredo de Contreros, a wastrel. I did not forbid it, if you remember, I simply said I would withhold her dowry. But we are not here to talk of Beatriz. It is you I am concerned about.”
Francisca twisted her hands in her lap. “Oh, Father, I cannot. Please, please…” Tears sprang to her eyes. Marry Ruy, bed with him, when her heart ached for Miguel? She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. “Don’t make me do this, I beg of you. Papá!”
Pedro chewed his lip, a sign, Francisca knew, of his exasperation.
“Control yourself, daughter. You sound as though you loathe Don Ruy, a man, I might add, you hardly know. Or is it because you have taken a fancy to some young, good-for-nothing Caballero?”
“God forbid!” she said emphatically, dismayed at the red that rushed to her cheeks. Although Miguel was not a Caballero, one of those profligate rich sons who hung about the taverns and gambling establishments, he was much younger than Don Ruy, and she had taken more than a fancy to him. Pedro had come too close to the truth.
“Then be sensible. I have always considered you to be different than most women, who think only with their emotions. I’m sure after you have considered this proposal, you will find it quite acceptable if not desirable.”
“I am sensible. Feeling the way I do, I don’t see how I can make Don Ruy a good wife.”
“Nonsense. I think if you got to know Don Ruy better, you would like him. He is a very intelligent and learned man. He carries in his mind Hebrew prayers that have been forgotten since the Expulsion. A fine, pious man, a childless widower, he is also kind and thoughtful. You have only to allow yourself to view him without prejudice and you will see that I speak the truth.”
“And if I still refuse?”
The jaw under his short, gray beard hardened. “Remember, you are my daughter and I am your father. I don’t choose to compel you. But if I must—for your own good—then I will.”
“Papá…she began, a pleading note in her voice.
“It is useless to argue, Francisca. I may have indulged you when you were a child, but I can no longer do so. This is too grave a matter.”
But I love Miguel, she wanted to cry. If I can't have him, then I don’t want anyone else.
