Bridge of fire, p.7
Bridge of Fire, page 7
“It takes time, time and patience.” He smiled, a smile that lit up his face with a gentle sweetness that momentarily diminished his homely appearance.
Francisca decided that she could like Don Ruy as a friend, but she could not picture herself in his arms. Perhaps if she had never met Miguel, she might consider this match. Perhaps not. She didn’t know. But since Miguel had come into her life, every man she looked at was somehow diminished.
Now she must choose between Miguel and Don Ruy.
Married to Don Ruy, she would still be part of the family, could still share in the warmth of holiday celebrations, all the more precious because they were held in intimate secrecy. She would not be far from the home she had known all her life, the crenelated towers that were a landmark on the Calle del Reloj. Don Ruy would care for her, as her father said. Life would be constricted and dull, but it would be free of subterfuge and pretense. On the other hand, if she went off with Miguel, she would be living with a man she feared to trust with her innermost soul. Could she continue to love him knowing that she must always take care not to give herself away?
The question remained like a stone on her heart all that restless night. In the morning her mother took the girls to mass and Communion at the Great Cathedral, making sure they were seen by Fray Rafael Cortés, an agent of the Inquisition. The de Silvas thought it politic to attend mass (especially after celebrating one of their own holidays) where their presence would be noted. So much of their lives was governed by the necessity to allay suspicion that the genuflecting and kneeling and tasting of the wafer had become automatic.
After the service they walked out into the bright sunlight, standing before the cathedral’s wide wooden doors waiting for their carriage.
“Look!” Leonor exclaimed, pointing to a passing coach and four. A familiar-looking horseman rode beside it. “Isn’t that Papá’s acquaintance, Don Miguel?”
He was dressed in chestnut-brown velvet, and on his head he wore a shallow-crowned hat with a sweeping golden plume. The coach’s occupant, a woman, leaned out to laugh up at Miguel as they came abreast of the church. Her bone-white face was powdered with ceruse and painted with lip dye and rouge. Her satin gown was a startling red, cut low to expose all but the nipples of full, ripe breasts. Francisca knew from the stories that had made the rounds of the city that this was the courtesan La Flor.
Francisca felt as though a sword had run her through. She was amazed to find herself still standing, her face expressionless, her eyes following the disappearing coach. Neither its occupant nor the horseman had seen them. She fought the urge to run after Miguel, shouting, upbraiding and cursing him like a pulquero who has been cheated by a customer. She had been duped by Miguel, taken in by his caresses, the thin, hungry, sometimes cruel, sometimes tender mouth. From his impassioned words she had assumed that she was now the only woman in his life. Though they had never spoken of La Flor, she had thought the affair was over. Apparently not. The idea that he may have gone from her bed to La Flor’s sickened her.
Oh, God, why had she been so gullible? She had warned herself in the beginning that Miguel was a gallant who would use any ploy to seduce a woman. But she hadn’t relied on her own good sense. She had naively swallowed his protestations of undying affection. She had believed him. She had loved him, and more painful yet, still did.
“Francisca,” her mother said gently, taking her by the elbow, “the carriage is waiting.”
Like a puppet pulled by invisible strings, she walked out to the carriage, stepping up, settling herself next to her sister.
“Why doesn’t Don Miguel come to the house anymore?” Leonor asked.
“I suppose,” her mother answered, “because his business with your father is finished.”
No, Francisca wanted to cry, it's because he can't face Papá after having seduced his daughter. He has made a fool of me, she thought. Did he really mean that I should run away with him? Could he have asked La Flor to accompany him, and when she refused, tried to persuade me? He needed a woman to warm his bed across that wide ocean, a woman to relieve the monotony of a long voyage; any presentable doxy would have done.
Suppose she had decided to go, and when they reached their destination in the Philippines, he abandoned her there. Men like Miguel Velasquez del Castillo tired quickly of their mistresses. He would cast her adrift in the pestilent city of Manila, which her father had once described as a haven for criminals, soldiers of fortune, sleight-of-hand artists, the hopeless and insane. She would be alone there without a protector, sinking into God alone knew what abject depths.
“Francisca, you are very quiet,” her mother observed.
“I’m sorry, but I have a headache.”
And a heartache. She would not go to their rendezvous. Let him fret and fume, wait for her in that room on the Calle de Las Infantas. Let him pace the floor, gnash his teeth, hurl wineglasses and crockery at the walls. She did not care. The thought that she had contemplated becoming his paramour appalled her.
“Go upstairs and lie down,” her mother instructed as they drew up to the door. “You look pale as death. I will have Beatriz bring you cloths soaked in vinegar.”
The cloths helped her head, but not her heart. From under the acerbic coolness of moist linen, tears oozed and spilled. She could cry now. The shades were drawn and the door closed; she had the privacy she had yearned for since the moment she had seen Miguel and La Flor. But after the first trickle of tears, anger replaced self-pity.
If I were a man, she thought vehemently, I would take a dagger to him and bring him to his knees. I would cut his heart out. She thought of all the ways she might seek revenge, how she might humiliate and humble him. But when she finally dozed off, it was to dream of Miguel holding her and tenderly kissing her closed lids.
Thursday, the day on which she was supposed to meet Miguel with her decision, was a torment. Her determination not to keep their rendezvous, to never see him again, had to be bolstered, as the hours passed, by the memory of La Flor’s painted mouth wide in laughter, her half-naked breasts offered for view to a bending Miguel. Even now they might be entwined, naked limbs tangled with naked limbs as they heaved and panted together.
She hated him. She would not go.
Late afternoon found her pacing the garden, up and back along the flagged walk. The blossoms of lemon and orange trees imported from Spain gave off a sweet fragrance, their fallen fruit rotting in the grass underneath. She passed and repassed the statue of Saint Agnes, greened by time, watching her with sightless eyes. She almost wished she could become a statue, too, a thing of stone immune to pain. She pressed her hands to her flushed face. This will pass, she kept repeating silently. A year from now I will have forgotten Miguel.
But she knew she never would.
An hour passed, and still she walked. Suddenly she heard a thud behind her and a rustling in the hedges that bordered the wall. Before she could turn to look, a hand was clapped over her mouth, her struggling body held in a viselike grip. She fought, trying to bite, to kick, to scream. Her eyes bulged, her lungs screamed for air, her heart seemed near to bursting with terror, as the trees and sky revolved in a sickening mist. And then a merciful blackness descended.
Chapter VI
She drifted up from darkness to the clip-clop sounds of horses’ hooves and the creaking jolt of a carriage. Startled, she opened her eyes. “Where am I?” she asked weakly.
Her head was raised, a flask put to her lips. “Drink this. Dutch schnapps. It will clear the cobwebs.”
She gulped at the fiery liquid, coughing and sputtering as it burned down her throat. When she tried to move, she was restrained by strong hands.
“Be still, Francisca.” Miguel gazed down at her with brooding eyes. “No harm will come to you unless you bring it on yourself.”
She was lying across his lap, her head resting on a velvet-clad arm. The interior of the coach was richly appointed with gold knobs, teakwood paneling, and red silk curtains at the windows. For a moment it crossed her mind that the conveyance might be La Flor’s.
“What have you done?” she asked hoarsely. “Where are you taking me?”
“It is I who should be asking the questions, not you.” He stared so long and hard at her, a dull flush rose to her hairline. She tried to summon indignation, but her struggle in the garden had drained her strength.
“We had a rendezvous today,” Miguel went on coldly, “or had you forgotten?” He was hatless, a bit of green leaf tangled in his bright tawny hair.
She stared at the leaf, the chalky smudge on his right shoulder. “It was you who climbed over the wall, wasn’t it?” The schnapps fanning out in her chest revived her. “You took me by force,” she accused.
“There was no other way. Why weren’t you at the house today, as promised?” The velvet-clad arm beneath her head stiffened. “I am not a man to be kept waiting like a simpering petitioner. Well?”
She met his dark, angry eyes coolly. “I’m surprised you haven’t guessed. The answer is quite simple. La Flor.”
"Who? Don’t speak in riddles. What has La Flor to do with us?”
Francisca eased herself to a higher position. “She was your mistress. Do you admit that much?”
“Gossip.”
Scorn twisted Francisca’s lips. “Always the gallant, aren’t you? A gentleman does not reveal the names of his loves. Spare me. If you wish me to speak frankly, then have the courtesy to do the same.”
“Damn your courtesy! So what if La Flor was my mistress. You didn’t think I lived the life of a monk, did you?”
“Not was. Confess it now: La Flor still is your paramour.”
“By God, you try my patience!”
When she attempted to swing herself free of his lap, he caught her shoulders, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. Then abruptly he let go. She moved then, shifting to the plush covered seat next to Miguel, gathering her skirts, trying to put as much distance between them as possible.
“You speak of patience,” she said tartly, noting through a gap in the curtain that dusk had fallen. “Since yesterday my patience has also grown thin. I saw you and La Flor as my mother, sister, and I were coming out of the Great Cathedral. She was in a coach—this one perhaps?—and you were riding beside her, talking, laughing, smiling together like lovers who had never parted. Don’t deny it, Miguel.”
“What a vixen you have become. You are not only a vixen, but an unreasonably jealous one as well. I am not in the habit of explaining myself, especially to a woman.”
“Then I shall be obliged to think the worst.”
“Think what you will and be damned.”
“It is you who will be damned, not me,” she retorted. Francisca met his angry glare with one of her own, lifting her chin in defiance, one corner of her mind wondering at herself. Was it the schnapps that gave her the courage to face down this man whose black temper could frighten her, or was it that his arrogance, never more apparent than now, had tested the limit of her patience? Whatever it was, she would not be bullied.
Several moments passed in hostile silence. Then suddenly Miguel threw back his head and laughed. “I see where I might have met my match. Very well, then, my appearance with La Flor had nothing to do with her charms. Our association was over the moment I met you, you ungrateful wench. I was begging the use of her coach so that we, you and I—could leave the city without arousing suspicion. And if you don’t believe me, I shall tumble you out alongside the road and let the coyotes feast on you.”
She said nothing, her face blank, doubt mirrored in the depths of her eyes.
“Is it to be the road, then?” he asked, a sudden harsh impatience edging his voice. Holding her with one hand, he leaned over and jerked the paneled door open. A rush of cool wind fanned across Francisca. She caught a glimpse of dark trees and thick, shadowy vegetation rushing by.
“You can’t mean it!” she cried as he hoisted her up in his arms. “Miguel—don’t!”
He slammed the door shut. “Will this convince you?”
He put his mouth to hers. She twisted away so that his kiss fell on her cheek. He held it there, his lips warm on her skin. She felt the beat of his heart, the slight tremor of forced control that ran along his arms. His touch was something she had never been able to bargain for even in anger. And now as his mouth moved to her own and bore down, she felt again a rush of blood to her head, a delicious sense of surrender. Doubt, mistrust, jealousy, fled as his passionate kisses covered her face. She brought her hands up, tangling them in his red-gold hair, leaning into him as his probing kiss deepened.
“Now,” he said at long last, lifting his head from her bruised mouth. “Do you believe me? Do you believe that I love only you?”
“Yes,” she whispered breathlessly.
“Then we shall leave in the morning for Veracruz.”
“In the morning? But my family—they will be ill with anxiety.”
“Would you have me go back with you, hat in hand, to ask for their permission?”
“Miguel—you must give me more time. Perhaps you should sail for the Philippines without me, and when you return—”
“You’ll give me your answer? No. I won’t be fobbed off with your protestations for more time.”
“But I must think of a way I can leave with the least hurt to them.”
“You can think of it at your leisure—while you are with me.”
She sat bolt upright. “You can’t hold me against my will.”
“Can I not?”
“I shall hate you for this.”
“On the contrary, you will thank me.”
“You are a fool if you think—”
He put his hand over her mouth. “I have no wish to debate the matter. It is settled.”
When she tried to bite his hand, he cuffed her. It was a light blow, but she felt the restrained savagery behind it and for a moment felt a thrill of fear. She knew all too well how quickly he could erupt in violence. Perhaps she didn’t love him? No, she did love him. But she wasn’t ready to leave her world behind. Why couldn’t he wait?
They had arrived at their destination. It was too dark to see clearly, but Francisca sensed at once that he hadn’t taken her to the house on the Calle de Las Infantas. Tall trees towered over them, their branches swaying and clacking in the wind as he helped her from the coach.
“Where are we?” she asked.
He did not answer. Instead he cupped her elbow with a strong hand and led her toward an open door. Outlined against the lamplight streaming from the house was a tall man in linen pantaloons with a red kerchief at his throat. A short dagger and a snaphance firearm were thrust into the wide scarlet sash that belted his stout midriff.
“Ah, booty,” he said, going over Francisca’s figure with avid eyes.
“Mind your manners, Gaspar,” Miguel warned, raising his arm in a threatening gesture. “You are speaking to a lady of gentle birth. I will have your throat cut in a trice if I hear anything but words of respect from you.”
The smirk instantly disappeared from the man’s face. Miguel, still gripping Francisca’s elbow, directed her into an oak-beamed room where a fire leaped in a stone fireplace. A man with the curled shoulder-length hair and the furbelowed waistcoat of a French dandy sat eating at a trestle table. He inclined his head as Miguel, with a reluctant Francisca, went through. For one wild moment Francisca thought of appealing to the diner but could think of nothing to say. That she had been brought here was proof enough that the two men were known to Miguel and, if not overly friendly, subservient.
They ascended a short flight of stairs. Opening a heavy wooden door at the top, Miguel ushered Francisca into a small bedchamber, then slammed the door shut with a backward kick. The room, like the one below, had few furnishings: a wide testered bed, a chest of drawers, and a commode.
“You must forgive me if these quarters are not up to the de Silva standards,” Miguel said acidly, releasing his hold on Francisca. “But since we will be here for only a short time, it doesn’t matter.”
Removing his cloak, he tossed it on the bed. Then, going to the chest, he opened the carved lid and brought out a flagon of wine.
Francisca, her heart beating rapidly, drew herself up. “It does matter. If you mean to intimidate me by an abduction, you are wrong. I am not your chattel, nor your obedient servant like the ones downstairs.”
He laughed. “What a fine little speech.”
“And if you think I will allow you to make love to me, you are again mistaken.”
“Now that you mention it…” He paused, his eyes going slowly over her. “Perhaps it is not such a bad idea.” He set the flagon down. “Will you undress or shall I do it for you?”
Color stained her cheeks. “You are not to touch me, do you hear?”
He laughed again.
How she hated that laugh! She was cornered and he knew it; he was savoring her surrender beforehand.
Slowly, with an assured, measured casualness, he drew close, his hand resting on the sheathed dagger he wore slung in his sash.
She knew then—looking into his narrowed eyes—why he had a reputation for being ruthless and cruel, how the blood of the conquistadors which ran in his veins could be so easily aroused. She had challenged him. But this was not a duel on the field of honor. She had not meant to be his adversary. Why was he being so perverse?
“Miguel, if we could talk about this amicably—”
“There is nothing to discuss. Will you undress?”
“No,” she said stubbornly, lifting her chin, her hand splayed across her breasts as if to protect them. “I shall not do as you ask.”
He flung her hand aside and, drawing his dagger, placed the point at the collar of her gown. “Do you prefer that I cut it from you?”
“No!” she exclaimed, horrified, for even the rich valued their clothing, the satins and silks so hard to come by.
