Passionate Pursuit (7 page)

She regarded the sheathed dagger and arming sword hanging from his belt.

“Ignore the weapons. They mean nothing. Who taught you to ride so well?” She seemed born to a horse, the same as him, easily riding astride rather than sidesaddle. Good thing. He hadn’t had one to offer.

She looked past him, brow furrowed in thought or dismay. “He did.”

“Who?”

She tensed, fists clenched. “My papá.”

Her dislike for the man surprised him. Their relationship must have been awful for her to harbor such resentment after his death.

Tomás wanted to know more but could hardly pry. He needed her happy and at peace. “Have you had recent news of your mamá? Is she still feeling well?”

Beatriz lifted her face to a bird flying past. “She is.”

He nodded, wanting her to look at him rather than the bird or anything else. “Does your mother grow ill with the same malady each time or something new? I only ask because I may be able to find a remedy for her. I was near death when a potion saved me.”

“What? Oh no, you nearly died?”

Her concern surprised and pleased him, proving how much she cared. Not that she should. He shouldn’t either but couldn’t help himself. He hungered for the smallest information about her, wanted only to please, and couldn’t have been more thrilled to be at her side. “I recovered fully.” He threw out his arms to prove how robust he was, his weight the same as before he’d fallen ill.

Her lovely features tensed. “Did you have the fever?”

“And a cough so ghastly I could scarcely breathe. I was at the fortaleza then. My men sent for the
sacerdote
to anoint me as no one expected I would live.”

Beatriz clutched her throat. “Has the cough returned?”

“Not at all. No need to fret.” Grateful for her worry, he smiled softly. “Once my…ah…that is, the physician arrived and ministered to me, I slowly grew better.”

“What was in the cure he gave you?”

Tomás had no idea, recalling nothing more than how awful the potions had tasted. Sancha had risked her life to save him, and he’d nearly said her name to Beatriz, revealing how Sancha healed in secret. If the Inquisition ever found out…

He didn’t want to consider such a thing. “I recall little of my illness. However, I will ask about the ingredients if your mamá should ever need the remedy. Had you planned to visit her today? Do you usually do so during the times you have free?”

He’d hoped to surprise Beatriz with this ride and their meal, not keep her from her daughterly duties.

She stroked her horse’s mane even though the mare needed no comfort. The ride was uneventful and quite leisurely, his gelding and her mount ambling along, enjoying themselves as much as he was.

“I visit when I can.” She lifted her shoulders. “Not often.”

“Because you lack a horse?” If Beatriz had come from a village, as stated, and he sorely wanted to believe her on the matter, then surely the community was one he owned and under his protection. “Is your mamá’s home far?”

“Too far for me to walk to easily or readily.”

“If you need to visit or when you care to do so, let me know. I can provide a horse or my carriage if you prefer.”

Her smile looked more pained than appreciative.

“What have I said?”

“Nothing. I was picturing Señor Nuncio’s face if I were to ride from the castle on your fine Arabian or in your carriage, the guards chasing after me, swords drawn, arrows flying at his request.”

Tomás laughed. “No need to worry about them or him. Nuncio and I had a talk. Beginning tomorrow, you return to dusting my study and your original duties. His meddling and the kitchen are in the past.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “Señora Cisneros said I performed nearly as well there as Yolanda, who has yet to turn thirteen.”

He’d already heard the same. Señora Cisneros had seemed eager to get Beatriz out of the kitchen. “Did you hurt yourself while you were there? Show me your hands.” He pushed up in his saddle and craned his neck to get a better look at them.

“I am quite well.” She hid her fingers within her sleeves. “May I ask you something?”

“No need. I have no doubt you were as extraordinary in the kitchen as you are riding a horse even with your hands buried in your clothes as they are now.”

She laughed quietly. “I could barely lift a bucket of water.”

“Did you break your fingers trying?”

Beatriz pressed her face to her shoulder, her newest laughter muted.

Tomás smiled. “Come, show me your injuries.”

“I have none.” She displayed one hand, then the other. Outside of a small cut on a knuckle and her skin being slightly pink, she was well on the road to recovery.

“What was your question?”

“Yolanda is still a child. Might you find less difficult work for her? If not, I would rather stay in the kitchen to help her out.”

And neglect the dust in his study, along with their time together to read and talk? Never. “The moment we return, Señora Cisneros and I will have a word about Yolanda.”

“Gracias. May I ask something else?”

“I want no one except you to dust my study. I trust your abilities.”

Beatriz rolled her eyes. “Were your other servants so horrible that you find my service good in comparison?”

“Not at all. I find you perfect in every way. Lovelier than the dawn, brighter than the sun, more enchanting than a moonlit night. Was that your question?”

She blushed prettily. “No. Are you expecting trouble?” She gestured to his weapons.

“I always carry my dagger and sword with me whenever I leave the castle. A habit I learned when I left my father’s estate at seven and became a page.”

“So young?”

“I had no choice.”

She made a face. “Why? Did your father force you out? Is he a brute?”

“Practical. Do you know anything about Spain’s current laws of primogeniture?”

Beatriz opened her mouth only to close it. She smoothed her hair and pushed strands behind her ear before she shook her head.

Tomás wasn’t certain what to make of her delayed response. If she didn’t know, why not admit it readily? No need for shame, especially when the law affected nobles and affluent merchants, rather than villagers who lived simply. He considered her background, the details still not fitting. Nothing about her was unrefined or lacking. She was exceptional in every way. Too bad he couldn’t tell her so, and everything else in his heart, without running her off. “According to the law, the first born inherits everything, leaving the others to scramble for a living. Women can join an order or marry well. Men can become priests or fight for the Crown to earn their wealth. As the youngest of six brothers with little chance to ever inherit, I became a warrior to build my future.”

She frowned at the lush surroundings, vineyards, fields, and orchards extending to the horizon. “You risked your life repeatedly and without thought for this estate?”

He considered his land quite beautiful. “I had no wish to become a priest.”

“You could have died. Were you ever hurt?”

Numerous times. He’d often boasted to señoritas about his battles, loving the fire in their eyes at his bloody tales.

Beatriz searched his face, her complexion paler than usual, expression pained.

He shrugged. “I have a few scars.”

She regarded his chest, thighs, and groin, lingering there the most. His shaft stiffened, sac tightening from the intense heat pouring through him.

She glanced up. “Were you afraid?”

He patted his horse’s mane. His gelding exhaled at the unexpected attention. “At times.” He lifted his shoulders, feeling foolish for admitting any weakness. “Not even the bravest warrior looks forward to death.”

Her eyes rounded. “How close did you come? How many times?”

During every battle with swords clashing, arrows sailing, arquebuses firing. “If a man stopped and considered such things before a conflict, fear would kill him. A soldier blinds himself to everything except doing what he must.”

“For this?” She gestured at his estate.

“Not entirely. Mainly for the Crown. Every warrior has a duty to protect Spain, just as El Cid had. You find his tale quite rousing.”

“In a book written after he survived, not when he was young enough to risk death.” She shook her head. “Your eldest brother should have shared his inheritance with you and your other siblings.”

Tomás tried to imagine such a thing and couldn’t. “He has yet to receive all the properties. Papá is very much alive.”

“Do you resent him?”

“My father?”

“No. Your brother. For having everything given to him when you had to risk your life for years.”

“I hardly faced death every day. My men and I had some free moments to enjoy ourselves.” Tomás stopped short of telling her about the women and drinking between battles. He did smile, though, liking her spirited defense on his behalf. “I never envied Enrique, my eldest brother. He was as caught up in the situation as the rest of us were. As a boy, he wanted to be a warrior. Instead, our father forced him to learn numerous languages and nearly every subject on earth. While the rest of us rode or swam, he was stuck in a room with his books. Papá hounded him relentlessly, never giving him a moment’s peace or the simple joy of being idle. He learned to accept his fate. We all did. You do what you must.”

“Or change things. Men only care about property and wealth, gaining favor with the Crown, ruling others. People never matter to them, only things.”

“Are you including me in your judgment?”

Her features slackened. “No. Never. I was talking about… You must find me awful for saying what I had.”

Not at all. She reminded him of Sancha and Isabella, intelligent and spirited women who hardly cared about convention. He recalled Fernando’s initial complaints about Isabella’s independence, her determination to do what she wanted whether he approved or not. Fernando wouldn’t have fallen in love with a lesser woman. Certainly not foolish señoritas like Ines, Zita, and the others. The same with Enrique. Sancha loved him but he didn’t rule her. She would never have allowed such a thing. They stood shoulder to shoulder, respecting each other’s wishes and beliefs. “No.”

“No, what?”

“You asked if I found you awful. I could never think of you in anyway except dazzling.”

She got a faraway look in her eyes, somewhat dreamy but also marred with unease.

He guessed what she thought. “As a friend.” Hardly all he wanted, but he was determined to be as positive about their arrangement as possible. “As such, I must point out how noisy your belly is.”

She pressed her growling stomach.

“No good. You need to eat.” He inclined his head to the right. “We can share our first meal together over there.”

* * * *

Beatriz adored the secluded location, the hillside view spectacular. The valley stretched beneath them, endless wheat fields undulating in the wind. A large section was green, a small portion golden and ready for harvest, the lighter color seeming to advance before her eyes.

After Tomás tethered the horses to cork trees, he carried the basket to a clearing for their first meal together. He’d spoken with confidence that they’d do this again.

Perhaps they would, but their shared days would never last. He’d either ask her more questions about her parents and she’d reveal the truth, or he’d tire of their friendship, want more, and seek other women.

Sadness tightened her throat. She pushed the feeling aside, not wanting anything to ruin this day. During these few moments, he belonged to her.

He spread a soft brown blanket over the grass and secured the corners with rocks. Once he’d placed the basket in the center, he put his weapons to the side. The breeze pushed his shirt against his broad, muscular chest. He was more stirring than El Cid and certainly more handsome.

He offered his hand.

She accepted his help readily, her earlier aches disappearing beneath delight.

They sat side by side, arms touching, wildflowers in purple, blue, and white surrounding them, the basket in front like a longed for gift they both wanted to open.

Beatriz could barely keep still. “What did you bring?”

“I have no idea. Cook packed this. I did tell her not to include the carcass Leonor gutted yesterday while you scrubbed the floor. Cook said you kept frowning at the thing.”

Beatriz laughed and bumped his arm. “You two discussed me. Wait. You made light of me.”

“I did. She frowned quite a bit. Ah, look here.” He tore through the basket. “We have cold pork, chicken, cheese, boiled eggs, olives, oranges, bread, and wine.”

With each word, he’d removed the food and placed containers in her arms.

Struggling not to drop any, she pressed the dishes against her breasts. “Such a feast. What do you intend to eat?”

He winked.

Immeasurable pleasure coursed through her with his gesture, far different from Rufio’s. She’d sensed an undercurrent of cruelty in his playfulness. Not Tomás’s. Though large and powerful, he was unmistakably gentle too.

After relieving her of the food and spreading the containers before them, he slipped his hand beneath her chin.

Her scalp tingled.

He leaned in and brushed a small slice of pork over her lips. “Eat.”

She tongued the meat into her mouth, licking his fingers as she did so. Whether the fare was flavorful or not, she had no idea. Tasting him was what mattered.

He stroked her throat.

Her lids slid down.

“Good?”

She’d never had a more enchanting meal. “Sí. You now.” She eased a sliver of chicken between his lips.

He chewed and swallowed, and then he wrapped his hand around hers and licked her fingers quite slowly, lingering on each. “Wonderful. Cook knows how to roast a bird.” He sucked her forefinger.

She tried to catch her breath but couldn’t, resigned to overwhelming dizziness as long as he was near. “Should we see how well she prepared the other items?”

“We must, or risk hurting her feelings.”

“I could never be so cruel.”

“Nor I.”

They feasted, washing down the fare with sweet wine before returning for more, their attention on each other, nothing else. His locks were almost white in the sun, a delightful contrast to his bronze skin and dark eyebrows.