Return to Paradise (Torres Family Saga) (14 page)

      
Her eyes flew to his face.
Does he guess?
“Yes, I have been very...unsettled. As this marriage was being forced upon us by my father's well-meant manipulating, I have come to view our feelings for each other very differently than once I did.”
Before the Spaniard ruined everything!

      
“What do you mean?” he asked with an edge of sharpness creeping into his voice. “We have been pledged, Miriam.” His eyes pierced hers and his face grew as taut as his body.

      
She took a steadying breath and faced him. “I will not marry you, Benjamin. You would be unhappy in Marseilles. I would be unhappy in the Indies. There is no way to work out such an impasse.”

      
“And you expect me to believe you decided all this in the space of one night!” He combed his fingers through his tousled hair and paced away from her, then spun about and asked, “Are you saying you no longer love me?” His voice was low and tight with controlled anger.

      
“I do love you, Benjamin—but as a friend, a good, dear and true friend, not...not as a husband,” she added brokenly.

      
“Most marriages are built upon far less than friendship,” he argued. She was set on this course. He knew he would not dissuade her.
Do I wish to know why?

      
Miriam could read confusion and hurt on his face, as well as righteous anger. “I am so sorry, Benjamin. In time you will come to know tis for the better this way.”

      
“I have written my parents about our marriage. They will be expecting you to come with me.”

      
“I am sorry for that. But you have also written them of Rigo. Take him with you, Benjamin. Seek your happiness in the Indies, and, perhaps, from time to time, you might return to visit here.”

      
Visions of her ministering to his brother, the scorching looks of anger exchanged between them, the vituperative words she spoke about Rigo—then her dishabille at the ball, her eyes on his brother and her words of denial—all flashed before his eyes, stunning him. “Is it Rigo, Miriam?” He waited for her reaction.

      
If he had struck her, Miriam could not have felt the impact more keenly. She struggled to control her emotions.
Please, do not let me hurt him more!
“You cannot possibly think I love that...that Spaniard! He would crush my spirit, deny me my work, treat me as less than his horse.”

      
He watched the pain and anger flair in her eyes, turning them dark as pewter. “For all that is true, you might still fall in love with him,” he said quietly. Then he forced a smile. “But you are right, twould prove most...impractical.”

      
When he left her sitting alone in the garden, he recalled her earlier words,
tis for the better
. Was she choosing not the best alternative, but a lesser among evils?

      
Rigo had worked on the horses all morning, until his side throbbed dully and he was ready to drop from exhaustion. But it was a familiar and comforting ritual, grooming a spirited animal. Such work gave a man time to think, to clear his mind.

      
Ever since the poverty of his childhood in Seville when hidalgos rode by on their splendid Barbs, he had dreamed of possessing such a mount. The first horse he owned was a trophy of war, taken at a battle in the barren mountains of Navarre when he was a green boy. The old dappled gray was a poor beast, but as the years passed and his proficiency as a soldier increased, he acquired several fine mounts. The cannon shot that nearly ended his life outside the city walls of Marseilles had killed his finest destrier.

      
Isaac Torres' stable had no war horses in it, but did contain a number of fine fast racers used for pleasure riding and business travel. The magnificent chestnut he worked on now was his brother's horse. “Atonement?” he asked himself grimly as he curried the glistening coat.

      
He could still see Miriam's face in the dim moonlight and hear her scathing words,
Would to God Benjamin had let you die on that battlefield!
What madness had led him to take her virginity? His brother's woman. Benjamin deserved better, so much better. Yet even as guilt twisted his insides, he could smell Miriam's subtle perfume and see her clear gray eyes, feel the softness of her skin and know from her innocent reactions to his touch that she had been as powerless to stop them coming together as was he.

      
Now she would break her betrothal to Benjamin, as fine a man as ever he had met, the man ideally suited to love her as she deserved. They had both betrayed Benjamin and now they would both pay for their treachery.

      
Rigo felt bitterness toward Aaron, who had deserted him, and wariness toward Isaac, whose dislike he at least understood. He was an outsider in this Jewish home, but Benjamin belonged. And Rigo had come to love his brother, even if he was confused and mistrustful about the rest of his newly discovered family.

      
While he was recovering from his wounds, Benjamin had earnestly tried to convince him to come to the Indies. Bartolome was in Santo Domingo and the golden lure of Mexico offered promise. But he did not want to face the Tainos, his mother's dusky race. Bartolome's impassioned letters and speeches about the slaughter of these helpless primitives only made Rigo's contempt for them grow.

      
And then there was his other heritage—the
converso
father who had wed a Castilian noblewoman and left him orphaned and alone. All Benjamin's assurances about how Aaron Torres really wanted him did not convince Rigo. It would be for the better if he returned to Pescara in Italy and forgot the golden lure of the Indies.

      
“I do but deceive myself. Tis
her
,” he gritted out as he gave the chestnut a final pat. He could not travel with Benjamin after robbing him of his bride. Sooner or later the truth would come out—a slip of the tongue, a drunken confession...
Two brothers in love with the same woman
, he thought bitterly, then froze and leaned his arms against the stall's splintery planks.
In love
. He had desired her, found her fascinating, different, infuriating—but love? No!

      
It was at that moment that Benjamin entered the stable to interrupt Rigo's very troubled reverie. “Aunt Ruth said you were here.” He inspected Rigo's sweat-soaked body, clad only in hose and riding boots. A white linen tunic and black doublet lay across the bars of one stall where Rigo had tossed them. “We have servants to see to this,” he said, but he recalled how much their father loved working with the horses on their
hato
.

      
“I need exercise. I have grown weak and flabby over the past weeks,” Rigo said as he shoved his hair from his eyes.

      
Looking at the hard-muscled, lean figure in front of him, Benjamin knew that was far from the truth. “You need not repay your keep, Rigo. You are family,” he said quietly.

      
Rigo shrugged as he reached for his tunic. Already he possessed a whole new wardrobe, fine gentlemen's clothing from the best tailors in Marseilles. He would take little of it with him to Italy.

      
“Miriam and I are no longer betrothed,” Benjamin said, watching his brother's back stiffen imperceptibly as he slid the tunic over his head.

      
“Why?” Rigo held his breath as he turned around and faced those level blue eyes.

      
“She says she cannot live on Española and I will not be happy here...and...she also told me that she loves me as a friend, not as a woman loves a husband.” He paused, still studying Rigo.

      
A lifetime of practice hiding emotions, burying pain, fear, all the weaknesses that interfered with survival, now stood Rigo de Las Casas in good stead. He met Benjamin's questioning gaze and said, “I am sorry. I know you care for her.”

      
And do you, too, care for her
? Benjamin noted Rigo's shuttered expression. He had seen the look before—on their father's face. “I love her, yes, but perhaps she is right. We are not meant to be lovers.”

      
“Will you return home sooner now that this marriage is not to be?” Rigo asked.

      
“There is no reason we cannot arrange passage within a few weeks. I will have to close my practice here—”

      
“I am not going with you,” Rigo said softly.

      
Now Benjamin's eyes revealed the heartache he had suppressed earlier. “Why, Rigo?” Please, do not let Miriam come between us! Tis bad enough that the two of you have been attracted to each other. Tis a relationship that can never be. I regret your pain. I regret the pain for all three of us. Let me at least salvage a brother though I lose a wife.

      
“I think it best if I returned to the life I know. I have made a good career with Pescara. Italy is ripe for the plucking and I mean to gain my share. I shall miss you, Benjamin,” he said, letting his defenses down for a brief moment.

      
Benjamin knew Rigo would not relent. “And I, you. We must not lose touch. I know you do not believe Papa wants you to come home, but you are wrong, Rigo. When you do not return with me to Española, I know he will come searching for you to restore your birthright. Will you at least write to me and let me know where you are?”

      
Rigo felt his throat tighten. He did not want to lose his brother, but there was no other way. “I will write, Benjamin. I will write,” he promised. At the same instant both of them reached out to clasp arms, then hugged fiercely.

* * * *

Española, October 1524

      
Magdalena Torres watched her husband Aaron ride across the broad clearing at the foot of the hill. All around the low livestock pens, the lush green jungle reached out relentless tentacles. Keeping trails to the outside open was a year-round task. She had just come from inspecting their new orange and lemon orchards, only to find their children excited by a message from Santo Domingo.

      
'Tis a letter from Benjamin, Mama,” Violante, their youngest daughter, piped excitedly. “Can you not open it and read it to us? I know he sends love to me!” she said wistfully.

      
“No, poppet, I cannot. Tis addressed to your father. He must read it first,” Magdalena said pensively as she watched Aaron ride through the gate of the compound.
Why have you written to your father and not me, Benjamin?

      
Aaron saw his russet-haired wife and little girl exchange remarks. “Violante is always wheedling from someone,” he said ruefully, knowing they all spoiled the beautiful child. When he began to climb the low stairs to the house, he could tell that Magdalena was troubled. “Not more of our cattle or horses stolen while I was abroad rounding up
cimarrones
?” he asked wearily.

      
“No, the raiders seem to have left the area, at least for the present,” she replied.

      
“We have a letter from Benjamin, Papa. Please open it, please!” Violante chirped as she leaped into her father's waiting arms.

      
“Why have you not opened it?” he asked Magdalena.

      
“Tis addressed only to you. Perhaps you had best read it in the library,” she said, exchanging their daughter for the letter. “Come, poppet, and we shall fetch your papa some of Luisa's nice fresh lemonade.”

      
With a puzzled shrug, Aaron took the letter and walked rapidly into the cool, dark interior of the house. By the time he reached the book-lined walls of his library he had ripped open the seal and unfolded the heavy paper.

      
When Magdalena tapped on the door a few moments later, he was sitting, staring out the window, lost in thought. “You have the strangest expression on your face, Aaron. Art ill? Is Ben—”

      
“No, no, Benjamin is fine. Everything is wonderful! Or at least it will be,” he interrupted, standing up and reaching out to enfold her in his arms.

      
Magdalena scarcely had time to set down the glass of lemonade before he embraced her, murmuring against her neck, “Benjamin has found Navaro! My son, Magdalena, my firstborn son is restored to me at last!” He thrust the letter into her hands.

      
She quickly scanned Benjamin's familiar scrawling hand. “He was all the while in Seville!” Both she and Aaron had fled that city of their birth, vowing never to return. Her father was the very instrument by which the Torres family had been betrayed to Seville's inquisitors. Spain held no fond memories for either of them. “He was raised in poverty...by a Christian family...he is a mercenary with the Imperial Army...” The letter fluttered from her nerveless fingers to the writing table beside her.

      
“He has had a hard life,” Aaron said gravely, reliving his own experiences during the Moorish wars.

      
“And he blames his bastardry and tainted Indian blood on you,” Magdalena whispered brokenly. “Oh, Aaron, how cruelly unfair it was of Aliyah to give him to a Spaniard and lie to you.”

      
“I have much to make amends for, Magdalena. Blaming Aliyah will serve nothing. Benjamin says Navarro despises his Indian blood. We must make him proud of it.”

      
She smiled tremulously and caressed the golden whiskers on his cheek. “You will make him proud of you. And his uncle, Guacanagari, can show him that the Tainos are fine and noble people.” She went into his arms once more and lay her head on his broad shoulder. As he spoke he could not see the worried look in her eyes.