Return to Paradise (Torres Family Saga) (10 page)

      
Benjamin gazed at her dear face and a lopsided smile wobbled fleetingly on his lips. “No mask, Miriam. I have made my bargain with you and your father.”

      
“And now you must live in exile the rest of your life. That is how you view my home, is it not—exile? Away from your parents, your friends, the life you always knew.”

      
“One of us had to make the choice, Miriam. Else you would have wed DuBay,” he said hollowly, weary of the argument.

      
“Never! I told you I would refuse, no matter what my father threatened,” she denied heatedly. “DuBay is—”

      
“I know what he is!” Benjamin snapped. “And I know how Judah felt about sending his darling across the Atlantic. He would not have relented, Miriam.”

      
“You need not sacrifice yourself to save me from spinsterhood, Benjamin,” she said coldly as she fought to control her rising temper and hurt pride.

      
“Do not act a fool! You are too bright by half to believe Judah means to die without grandchildren. He could and he would force the match with DuBay. We both know it, so let us end this fruitless discussion.” He took his fingertips and traced the trail of tears spilling down her cheeks, drying them gently. “Smile and let us return to our guests. Who knows, perhaps you will fall in love with Española. Then you could write your father to sell all he owns and sail for the Indies to join us!”

      
She forced a shaky smile and read in his eyes the bitterness of the jest. When he lowered his head and lightly brushed her lips, she felt a strange emptiness that she had never felt before.

* * * *

      
Luc Brienne was not comfortable on land, even though he loved sighting the high limestone cliffs each time he neared Marseilles. The stark outline of the Basilica of St. Victor was his first landmark as he entered the Lacydon. From the center of the harbor he could see the winking lights climb the hills, from the flickering of rude tallow wicks burning in fishermen's hovels along the quay, to the bright tapers glowing from silver candelabrum in wealthy merchant's palaces atop the promontory to the south. But once he climbed the hill and entered Isaac Torres' palace, he was uneasy.

      
The younger son of a prosperous merchant, Brienne had been educated to enter the church while his elder brother inherited the family import firm. However, Luc had grown up by the harbor, watching the lanteen-rigged caravels ply their trade with Tunis and Istanbul. He had roamed the wharfs and warehouses, smelling the pungency of saffron and watching the dull glow of gold pieces. He had dreamed. No monk's cell or priest's rude quarters for him. Some day he would be rich!

      
After a brief affair with an old nobleman's young wife, he had fled Marseilles in disgrace, disowned by his family. With luck, cunning and, ultimately, ruthlessness, he had become master of his own small, swift caravel, smuggling luxury goods captured from Tunis pirates into Marseilles. After making enough profit from the illicit trade he had purchased a larger Portuguese
nao
, square rigged for venturing into the vast Atlantic. His ambitions were to seize the riches of the Indies from slow, wallowing Spanish treasure galleons.

      
Now and again he was successful, but the years passed and King Carlos had learned to send his gold across the ocean in highly armed fleets. Then Brienne had met a Frenchman from Marseilles posing as a Spaniard on Española. Reynard owned a
hato
, as the agricultural settlements on the island were called, which provided an excellent means of cover from which he could spy on wealthy neighboring
hatos
and loot them. Etienne knew when every large shipment of goods left the interior: brazilwood, saddle horses, wool, hides, even gold. For a share of the profits he informed Luc, who preyed easily on these poorly armed smaller convoys.

      
All in all it was not a bad life, that of a corsair. Soon, if all went according to plan, Luc Brienne would be able to retire from his dangerous profession and build a palace such as this one on a small tropical island. But now he must have his usual meeting with Reynard's partner, the merchant who bought the illegal cargoes.

      
“What have you for me this time?” the voice said quietly from the shadow of a squat portico column.

      
Luc turned, always surprised at the man's stealth. Tis you, not me should be the corsair, the way you sneak upon your fellows,” Brienne said crossly. Then, realizing the temper of his patron, he added, “There was a young couple out here a moment ago. I would not be overheard—”

      
“They are returned inside, have no fear. We are alone,” the voice from the shadows replied.

      
“I have a cargo of slaves—strong men for the galleys. They will fetch a fat price at auction.”

      
“I want no more puny savages from the New World. They sicken and die so fast no ship's master would take them for free!”

      
“No, these are stolen from a Portuguese lying off the coast of Española—Africans he was going to sell to Spanish planters for their cane fields,” Luc assured him.

      
“Good. What else?” his questioner asked, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

      
“A load of brazilwood and some gold. I will unload all the merchandise at the usual place in three days, when there is no moon. After you have inspected everything send me word of your price. I will be aboard the
Ghost
at the north side of the quay.”

      
“Is there word from Etienne?”

      
The corsair paused, then recounted Reynard's exact message carefully. “The plans against my neighbor proceed according to schedule.” He shrugged, not understanding what went on between the two men who employed him, not wishing to understand. “I must depart lest someone in that press recognize me. I no longer belong in polite society.” With a rueful laugh, the small, wiry Frenchman was off, his shiny bald head held at a jauntily defiant angle as he walked with catlike tread across the courtyard toward the gate.

      
Rigo watched the moonlight gleaming on the departing guest's head, then turned his attention to the other man for a moment. Odd, it had seemed to be a clandestine meeting, but he quickly dismissed it from his mind, having been too distant to overhear and too busy getting drunk to care. “What I need is a good lusty wench to ease me,” he muttered as he took another swallow from his cup.

      
Yet he knew the whores in the dockside taverns would please him not at all. He had always been fastidious about his choice of bed mates, having seen the ravages of the pox in his years with the army. When he was younger he had been careful to select only clean and comely peasant girls. As he rose in rank and traveled with Pescara he had come to realize that his swarthy, dangerous mien fascinated French and Italian noblewomen. With an ear for dialects and foreign languages and his skills as a lover, he had been a natural spy. And a connoisseur of female flesh. No, tonight he wanted no cheap whore, but perversely he wanted no women such as Louise of Saint Gilles either.

      
Miriam froze in the shadows, watching the brooding figure standing alone in the moon-drenched garden. She had stepped outside, upset by her earlier quarrel with Benjamin, desiring to gather her scattered thoughts and emotions. The last person she should want to talk with was Rigo de Las Casas. Odd, she did not think of him as a Torres, and no one had dared call him Navaro since his first flash of temper weeks ago, when Benjamin insisted it was his real name. He denied it vehemently and expressed such bitter contempt for his Taino heritage that everyone, including his brother, called him Rigo. Why did he feel such loathing for the Indians? How did he feel as a member of this family? She felt herself drawing nearer as she turned these and other jumbled thoughts about in her mind.

      
“Why are you not inside dancing? I saw many young ladies fair swooning over Benjamin's mysterious brother,” she said as she stepped onto the hard-packed earth. She was rewarded when she caught him by surprise as he had her weeks before in this very spot.

      
“I am not proficient in courtly dance, my lady. I am but a rough mercenary,” he replied, tossing off the last of his wine and clutching the heavy goblet tightly as he smelled her perfume.

      
“A rough, unlettered soldier who carries about Latin histories with him and speaks Provencal as elegantly as any man in that room,” she countered as she drew a step nearer, like a moth to a dark flame.

      
He gave a mirthless laugh, “I am not the only one who is more than he seems. You, my drab doctoress, have become quite the glorious belle of the ball. Wearing a farthingale and a rich silk gown does not seem to interfere with dancing.”

      
She shrugged, perversely pleased at the left-handed compliment. “I dress one way to work, another to play. Do you ever play, Rigo? Or has all your life been duty?”

      
“Are you so ignorant of society's unwritten rules? Perhaps so, being a woman who has chosen a man's profession. Allow me to explain about half-caste bastards! Either stain on my heritage would suffice to bar me from the company of good women. If I were to dance with one of those eager females inside, think you her father would beam upon us? Fine ladies of your class may bid me come to them by dark of night, but they will not suffer my company where the world can witness it.” He made a drunken, mocking bow and added, “I do play, Lady Miriam—in the dark. Tis appropriate to my nature, do you not agree?”

      
Miriam's face felt scalded. She was relieved the dim light did not reveal her blush as she replied, “So that is why you have such hatred for your mother's people that you refuse even the Taino name Navaro. If she had been white, Aaron Torres might have married her and your life could have been different.”

      
Rigo had always thought of Bartolome's precious Tainos as cowardly wretches unworthy of saving. No one had ever explained his hatred in this manner, and he did not like the possible truth in her words. “I am who I am, and that cannot be undone, any more than the rules that govern society can be changed,” he said bitterly. “And you are who you are, a beautiful woman, alone in the dark, without the protection of her father or her betrothed. Is it wise to tempt the devil, lady?” He took a step closer and smelled the soft essence of roses.

      
“I do not fear you, Rigo,” she lied, refusing to back down from his taunt. “And I need no man's protection to walk in the garden in the moonlight.”
What madness is this that I do?

      
He swore and tossed his wine goblet in the bushes, then took one pantherish step toward her and seized her by her upper arms.

      
Miriam could smell the wine on his breath. “You are drunk, Rigo. If you hold any regard for your brother, release me,” she said, not resisting physically but struggling to hold her voice calm.

      
“If you hold any regard for Benjamin, why are you tormenting me?” he cried as he pulled her against him with one arm while the other hand came up to tangle in her elaborate coiffure, sending pearls and topazes flying. “Your hair is like molten bronze when the light touches it, but I am darkness, Miriam, I am darkness,” he whispered as his mouth descended on hers.

      
Benjamin's kisses had been gentle, and he had always restrained his passions. Nothing had prepared her for this onslaught as Rigo savaged her mouth, molding her body against his. Her palms pressed against his chest for a moment as she struggled to breathe, crushed in his embrace. When her mouth opened, gasping for air, his tongue plunged inside, darting a swift exploration and retreat that left her reeling. He rimmed her rounded lips, then bit softly on them with his teeth. Her swift intake of breath led him to make another foray with his tongue, this time pausing to duel with hers before he withdrew.

      
Rigo could tell no man had ever really kissed her before and, without further thought as to what that meant for his brother, he proceeded to initiate her by trailing his hot mouth across her cheek and down her neck, pulling on the long coils of hair trailing down her back until her throat lay bare and vulnerable, as did the soft swells of her breasts. He licked, bit and brushed with his mouth, lower, until he felt the pulse in her throat hammer wildly. Then his mouth moved lower still.

      
Miriam knew her heart was going to explode from her chest as his scalding breath caressed the vale between her breasts. His hand released her hair and moved around to touch the neckline of her gown, tugging at its stiff seams. The samite was heavily embroidered with gold thread inset with topaz stones. When he could not free the aching tips of her breasts, he nuzzled between them and then trailed kisses up to her mouth once more.

      
By now she was holding on to his shoulders, her fingers caught in the rich black velvet of his doublet.
I am darkness.
She could feel him trembling, even feel the pressure of his erection through the heavy layers of her gown.

      
This time when his lips covered hers she opened to him at once, her uninitiated young body hungry for the assault. He obliged her with another of those shattering duets of tongue. By now her lips were bruised and her hair and clothes in shambles, but Miriam was aware of nothing but the man holding her so fiercely.

      
Rigo ached with an unquenchable fire, a longing he could never satisfy as he pressed her lower body against his. He could feel the stiff metal frame of her farthingale through their clothing. A niggling trickle of sobriety and conscience assaulted him.
Like the savage bastard that I am I would take advantage of her! She is to be my brother's wife!
The thought pounded him like a siege cannon until he finally pushed her away roughly.