Golden Roses (7 page)

Armand touched her arm, bringing her out of her reverie. “If you will allow me,” he murmured softly, “I will see that you return to the house safely.”

She wanted to tell him that the house was the last place she wanted to be, but she kept quiet as Armand turned to his foreman and said, “I will see you back at the ranch later, all right?”

Cord Hayden nodded, tipping his hat to Amber. He turned away, but not before she saw that strange look in his eyes, as though he was having the same thoughts she was. They had met somewhere, sometime before. But no—that wasn’t possible.

“Tell me. Why were you out here wandering the ranch alone?” Armand said as they made their way toward the distant lights and the sound of music. “I am surprised that Valdis would allow you to go off like this by yourself.”

She saw no reason to lie, and blurted, “I was trying to get away from Valdis. I despise him.”

To her amazement, he threw back his head and laughed. “You do not hesitate to speak what is on your mind, do you? That is good. I do not like coy women or feminine games. And I do not blame you for feeling as you do. I must admit that I share your opinion of Valdis. I must tell you also,” he reached for her hand and squeezed it, “that I accepted his invitation tonight only because I wanted to meet you. Now that I have accomplished that, I am tempted to go home rather than be in the company of Valdis and his spoiled sister. I have had the best of this night, I know.”

She said candidly, “I’ve heard that Maretta is in love with you, and that you won’t marry her. Valdis is very unhappy about it.”

He made a face. “Who would want to marry such a contrary woman? And she does not love me. She only wants to be Señora Mendosa. If I were a poor peasant, she would not give me a second look.”

Amber said nothing, feeling that it was not her place to comment further.

“Tell me,” he went on. “Why are you still here? I assumed you would return to America after your father’s funeral.”

She bit her lip to hold back the torrent of words. How easy it would be to pour out all her troubles to this man. He seemed so kind. But she did not know him, so she merely said, “I will leave…when the time is right.”

He gave her a strange look, as though he knew there was much more to be said.

As they reached the top of the garden, they heard the lilting guitar music, and the glow of dozens of lanterns spilled down on them.

Armand stopped abruptly, spinning Amber around to face him. “Before we go inside,” he whispered, grinning, “I want you to know how happy I am that we met. I am glad we had some time alone together, and I am sorry it must end now. I wish…” He took a deep breath, warm, hungry eyes on her face. “I wish I did not have to take you inside.”

Amber became light-headed. Here was a famous man, a fearless man, a most attractive man, and he desired her. They were standing very close, and since he was only a few inches taller than she, their lips were almost touching. “I…I thank you for saving my life…” she began, unable to think of anything else. It was an unnerving moment.

“I thank
el toro
for giving me the opportunity to place you in my debt, señorita.” He smiled. “If ever I should meet that one in the arena, I would be tempted to be merciful, for he has done me a favor.”

“I should think a fierce bull like that one would be just what you matadors want,” Amber said in a rush, grateful for a chance to step away from him.

He laughed, taking her hand and leading her to a nearby marble bench. They sat down together. “Let me explain,” he began. “That bull will not fight again. You see, he has won.”

She was genuinely confused. “I don’t understand. I thought the bull always had to die.” She stopped as she saw the look of pain on his face.

“When the
matador
dies, the
bull
wins,” he said sadly. “You heard Cord say that the bull has killed. It was last year, a great matador named Gosa Huerto. He bled to death in moments. By custom, the bull should have been put to death afterward, but he was Alezparito stock, and Valdis stubbornly insisted he be saved for use as a seed bull. In one year, he has sired twenty-seven offspring, so Valdis’s thinking was shrewd even if it went against custom.”

“So why can’t he be used in the ring again? There must be many matadors wanting to avenge Señor Huerto’s death.”

“You have much to learn.” He sighed Then, crossing left leg over right, he stared into the night as though wondering where to begin. Finally, he said, “A matador has but fifteen minutes to kill his bull. If the matador takes longer…if the bull is allowed to increase his knowledge of the matador…if he is allowed to fight again, then many matadors would die.

“You see,” he went on, “bullfighting is based on a first meeting between a wild animal and a man on foot. The bull has never been in the ring before. They are not taken to the ring except to be tested for bravery, when they are exactly two years old.”

“Why two years?” Amber was curious.

“At one year, they are not strong enough, and at three years, they are too dangerous, too powerful. Also, they are old enough to remember the test.”

“Remember?” she echoed, astonished. “What difference would that make?”

“A great difference, my beautiful one.” He flashed her a smile. “To begin with, the bull is put into a corral about thirty yards across, half the size of a bullring. A picador is waiting with a kind of spear with a triangular steel point, slightly shorter than is used in a real fight. He waits on his horse with his back turned toward the gate through which the young bull has entered. No one speaks. The picador does nothing to excite the bull, for the test is to see whether or not the bull will charge without being goaded. When—and if—he does charge, his style is noted…whether he makes his charge from a distance…whether he paws the ground first…or bawls. It is noted whether the bull goes toward the horse…whether he keeps his feet back and charges with full power, pushing onward to reach the picador and horse after the pic is put into him.”

Amber was horrified. “You mean the picador
stabs
him?”

“It is all a part of it. You will learn.”

“I don’t think I want to.” She shuddered.

Armand ignored her revulsion and went on. “The bull is also watched to see whether he chops his neck around, trying to get the pic out, or if he just turns away and quits his charge because he has been hurt. If he stops fighting because he is wounded, then his owner—if he is scrupulous—will have him castrated and fattened for market.”

“What do you mean, ‘if he is scrupulous’?”

“No honorable breeder would sell a cowardly bull for the ring.”

“What happens if the bull doesn’t give up at that point?”

“Sometimes even a two-year-old bull can knock over a horse and a man. If this happens, he must be taken away with the capes. But it is not good to do this, for it is not good for the bull to see the cape. It is not even good to have the bull charge more than once. It is felt that only so many pics can be accepted by a bull. If he takes two or three in his bravery test, then that is two or three less that he will take in the ring.

“Most of the time, faith is put in the lineage of the bulls. You see, a bull is not a stupid animal. This is why the bull that killed Gosa Huerto is so dangerous. He has learned that it is the matador he must fear, and not the cape. He would probably charge the man and not the cape.”

“But would that not make bullfighting more of an honest sport? The bull would have a chance, then. And why do picadors stick them? Just to torture them?”

“It is going to be wonderful teaching you about bullfighting, señorita.”

“Call me Amber, please,” she urged, thinking how wonderful it was to have a friend here.

“And you must call me Armand,” he said with a grin, then continued. “Let me explain. The picadors aim their shafts at the hump of the bull’s neck in order to weaken his muscles and to lower his head for the kill. If those muscles are not weakened, and the bull has the full use of his neck, he can rear up and gore the matador quite easily. The banderilleros drive the barbs into the bull’s hump to further sap his strength—though it really does little more than rile the crowd. The bull, you will learn, is regarded very highly.”

He took a deep breath and grinned. “Have you learned enough to become interested? Would you like to go to the bullfight tomorrow? I will be performing.”

“I…I don’t think so,” she stammered. She still thought it was cruel, and she wanted no part of it. She knew, too, that there was going to be a scene with Valdis when she refused to go with him.

Still, this handsome, vibrant young man had made bullfighting his profession, and there was such a warm glow between them. She did not want to do anything to end it. This attractive man had a delightful way about him.

She jumped, startled, as he touched her hand. Their eyes met and held, and she felt he was looking into the depths of her soul. He whispered, “Moonstar. That is what I shall call you. Here, in the moonlight, with your glorious hair sparkling like spun silver, it is as though you were a rare star. A moonstar.”

He leaned closer, lips dangerously near. Amber could feel his warm breath on her face. “Say you will come tomorrow, my moonstar. I want to know that you are near me. I want this feeling that is growing between us to blossom in the warmth of the sun. That is what you will be for me if you are there tomorrow—my sun. We say that the best bullfighter is the sun. There is no best bullfighter if the sun is not there. You will always be my moonstar, but when I face the bull, you will be my sun. Say you will be there, Amber…for me.”

She gazed into his eyes and could not move. His lips were so close she could feel them brushing hers. Oh, how she wanted him to kiss her, to take her in his arms and crush her to him, his lips devouring, possessing. Her whole body tingled fiercely. She could only stare at him, mesmerized, wanting.

The angry scream pierced their magical moment, and they sprang apart, staring at the raging woman running toward them. At first, Amber did not recognize the twisted, enraged face of Maretta.

She came at Amber with arms outstretched, fingers arched in daggerlike claws, but Armand grabbed her about the waist and stopped her, shouting to her in Spanish. Maretta struggled against him, also screaming in Spanish, but her angry eyes never left Amber.

Amber took a hesitant step forward. “What is wrong, Armand? Why is she so upset?”

“Why is she so upset?” Maretta cried. “You she-devil! You try to take my Armand from me. For this, I will kill you.”

“You are not going to kill anyone, Maretta.” Armand sighed. “I have told you many times that you have no right to interfere in my life.”

“I have every right. We are promised. You know we are promised.”

“That is a ridiculous custom and means nothing to me, as you know very well. I will marry for love and no other reason, as I have so often told you.” He snorted in disgust. “A stupid custom indeed, promising babies!”

“If my father were alive and your father were alive, you would not say that. You would not dare.”

“I dare many things, Maretta. Now go inside. Amber and I will be along soon.” He released Maretta and gave her a gentle shove away from him.

“You will come
now
!” She hissed, moving toward Amber once more, but Armand blocked her path. Maretta cried, “It is not proper that you should be out here alone. I know she has no decency, but I should think you would know better, Armand.”

“Another custom I find annoying.” He chuckled, turning his back on Maretta and returning to Amber’s side. “Now go inside. I am telling Amber about bullfighting.”

“A pity she will not be in the ring tomorrow,” Maretta spat. “I would take much delight in seeing her blood spilled in the sand.”

She turned away and took a few steps, skirts flouncing, then whirled around to cry, “You must come inside now. Valdis will deal harshly with both of you.” Then she turned and ran quickly up the path and into the house.

Amber said, “Perhaps we had better go in, Armand. I don’t want any trouble.”

He gently danced his fingertips down her cheek. “I knew I was in trouble when first I saw you, my moonstar…”

Amber was flooded by those strange feelings all over again when he pulled her tightly against him. She trembled. “I think we should go inside, Armand,” she said nervously. “I can’t explain now, but, you see, I already have many problems here, and I must leave as soon as I can. I don’t want any more trouble, and—”

“I am your friend,” he interjected quickly, frowning. “I was afraid Valdis might cause you pain. You can tell me anything, Amber.”

She shook her head. “I can’t burden you, Armand. Goodness, you already saved my life!”

“Together we shall overcome anything,” he whispered. Then his lips came down on hers without warning, gently at first, then demanding. His tongue sought hers, holding her in a kiss so deep, so scorching, that Amber trembled uncontrollably.

She struggled against him, and, surprised, he released her. She stepped back quickly, staring up at him. “I…I don’t think you should have done that,” she murmured nervously. “We don’t even know each other.”

“I know enough to find you irresistible, enchanting, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” His eyes twinkled mischievously as he added, “And I also know that you like being kissed, my moonstar.”