Return to Paradise (Torres Family Saga) (4 page)

      
“Will you at least look at the wound?” he asked, knowing that she would. At her nod, he pulled back the cover and revealed Rigo's torso in the flickering light from the candles.

      
“Let me draw the draperies. The sun is up full bright now,” she said as she quickly pulled a cord and let in a flood of blinding white light. Then she returned to the large bed and looked at the stranger who had Benjamin's face. But her Benjamin was golden haired, bright and fair. Rigo's hair was inky black and his skin shades darker than his brother's. A dense sprinkling of coal black hair covered his well-muscled chest and tapered down to vanish beneath the cover, which Benjamin judiciously placed just below his flat, hard abdomen. The wound stretched jaggedly from just above his navel, wrapping cruelly around his side.

      
Her forehead creased in a frown of concentration. “Tis bad. Had you to extract much shot?”

      
“Yes. I only pray I found all the pieces. The cannons hurl every imaginable shape and kind of metal.”

      
“The Spanish invaded France. We did not lay siege to their cities. I am certain our defenders were forced to use whatever came to hand,” she replied acidly, oddly unwilling to touch the unconscious man a second time.

      
“There is no right or wrong in these wars between Hapsburg and Valois, only dynastic politics which kill innocent men on both sides,” he said softly, noting her uncharacteristic nervousness.

      
“This one does not look at all innocent and I would wager, from the number of scars on his body, that he has sent many a French soldier to his reward.” Miriam forced herself to probe the wound's edges. “No suppuration, but you are right. It wants closing else it will never heal before he tears it afresh.” She hesitated, then looked at Benjamin. “I can gather the needle and thread I used on the comtesse and instruct you—”

      
He shook his head impatiently. “I will get Aunt Ruth's sewing basket for you to use. You have done this before, Miriam, not I. Please. He is my brother.”

      
She sighed in resignation and took a slow, calming breath. “If Father ever found out that I treated a man—much less stitched up his naked flesh...you must make certain he and your uncle are occupied.”

      
“Always the sensible planner,” he said with relief. “I will send for Paul to keep watch below, then fetch the basket before my aunt arises. We kept her up late in the night,” Benjamin added with a wink as he quit the room.

      
Just then Rigo moaned softly and attempted to raise his hand. Miriam freed it from the tangle of covers and held it in hers. It was not the blunt-fingered hand of a crude mercenary. The palms were lightly calloused, but the nails were cleanly pared and the fingers as elegantly tapered and slim as Benjamin's. Again she marveled at the similarities between the brothers in bone structure and facial features. They even looked to be of a height, tall compared to the men of Provence. Yet this Spaniard was different than Benjamin, in ways far more significant than the shade of his complexion or the color of his hair. He was half Taino Indian, the bastard son who Aaron Torres had been obsessed with finding.

      
As she studied his face, Miriam concentrated on how angry she would have been in Magdalena Torres' place to have had her husband mourn the loss of this renegade. Magdalena had given Aaron five beautiful children. “Why does he want
you
back?” she whispered aloud, puzzled by her reaction to him. It was as if she were afraid of a helpless, injured man.

      
What I really fear is having to choose—either to lose Benjamin or to follow him back to your birthplace. Her thoughts were interrupted by Benjamin's return.

      
“Here is the basket,” he said as he watched her carefully replace Rigo's hand beneath the coverlet, again puzzled by her reaction to his brother.

      
Miriam walked to the table near the window and poured fresh water from an intricately wrought silver ewer into a basin. She washed her hands methodically and dried them on clean linen. “Let me see the needles,” she commanded in a low, steady voice.

      
Benjamin watched in fascination while she stitched the skin delicately, as if it were indeed fine embroidery. He wiped away the fresh blood that oozed from the closure as she worked. “Should you not leave it open just a bit in case of suppuration?”

      
She paused to consider, then smiled up at him. “Your friend Paracelsus' theories again? I suppose the body does throw off poison from such outside sources as cannon shot.”

      
“The Swiss told me he used clean hollow reeds to let drain the pus from wounds.”

      
Miriam gave a cluck of curiosity and said, “I shall leave a small opening. Let us see if Paracelsus' theories work for us.”

      
Throughout their ministrations Rigo was restive, but the opiate had done its work and he did not regain consciousness. When they finished their task, Miriam carefully covered him and then straightened, vigorously rubbing her back.

      
“You must be stiff and sore,” Benjamin said.

      
“I am fine. I slept soundly last night. You look ready to fall into a swoon of exhaustion. You have prescribed for your brother. Now I shall prescribe for you. To bed, Benjamin Torres. You must have rest—but first some hot, nourishing food and,” she paused to wrinkle her nose, ”a bath. I vow, your hands are the only thing you have washed in days!”

      
“You are right, and that only to treat Rigo's injury. I will bathe and eat, but then I must sit with him. He is fevered and I must send to the apothecary—”

      
“I can prescribe for a fever as well as you. I shall sit through the day with him, Benjamin. You must get some rest.”

      
“And what of your father? Will he not be offended at your treating a man?” he asked, knowing how protective Judah was of his daughter.

      
“He need not know I viewed his body and worked on it, only that I watch over him while you rest. Anyway,” she added with mock sternness, “you will go down to them now and plead your case for your brother. Surely you and Isaac can convince Father to relent in his overprotectiveness.”

      
Benjamin's expression darkened for a moment. “Do not count overmuch on Uncle Isaac as an ally. He shares your aversion to Rigo's Spanish upbringing. He was raised by a Christian family.”

      
“And he still does not know we are Jews,” she added in dawning comprehension. “That should prove most interesting when he awakens,” she said as quiet laughter lit her gray eyes, turning them to silver.

      
“You sound certain he will live,” Benjamin said hopefully. “Pray God you are right.”

      
“You will help him all the better by taking care of yourself—off with you now,” she said, shoving him toward the door.

      
After he was gone, Miriam waited, knowing her father would climb the long flight of wide stone stairs just to reassure himself that his beloved daughter was indeed tending a man too severely injured to move.

      
Within minutes her intuition was proven correct. Judah Toulon stormed into the room, out of breath from ascending the steps. He straightened his heavy velvet chamarre and glared at her. Isaac stood behind him, shrugging his big shoulders helplessly.

      
“Isaac has explained about that one, Miriam,” Judah said, gesturing toward the bed. “I like this not. He is half savage and half Spanish.”

      
“He is also Benjamin's brother, which makes him Jewish,” she said quietly.

      
“His mother was not of our blood,” Judah persisted stubbornly.

      
“Neither is Benjamin's mother, yet you have given your blessing that he and I should wed,” she replied, knowing how dearly he favored her match with the House of Torres.

      
Isaac Torres and his family had departed Castile in 1492, taking with them much of the vast Torres fortune accumulated over centuries. As soon as Don Isaac settled in Marseilles and invested in his first trading venture with the Turks, Judah Toulon found a worthy competitor. Over the past thirty years the men and their families had become friends as well as coreligionists in a city often hostile to non-Christians. Now the two wealthiest houses of Levantine merchants in Marseilles were about to be united through marriage. Judah would do nothing to jeopardize that.

      
Relenting, he said, “Very well. If you could use your sorcery on me so I allowed you to study medicine, I suppose I cannot protest your watching Benjamin's brother. But see that you keep a servant close at hand,” he admonished, as he stroked his long, carefully groomed beard.

Chapter Two

      
Rigo awakened slowly, like a man submerged in a dark pool of water, struggling upward toward the surface. When he took a deep breath and shook his head to clear it, pain lanced through his gut. Then he remembered it all—the cannon blast, Pescara catching him, calling for the surgeon—his brother! He gritted his teeth against the pain and focused his eyes. He was in a spacious chamber, by the look of it far more grand than Louise's drafty country estate. Heavy velvet drapes were drawn back from a wide set of glass-paned windows, which were slightly ajar, allowing a warm breeze into the room. A beam of brilliant afternoon sunlight gilded the rich reds and blues of the intricately patterned Turkish carpet on the floor.

      
The bed hangings, pulled back now, were of the finest brocade and the bed itself softer than any he had ever felt. Even the snowy white linens felt smooth as silk against his hands. The furniture was of the heavily lacquered and cunningly carved style the wealthy Provencals favored.
I could feed all my men for a month on the price of one of those silver candelabrum,
he thought in amazement. His father's family was wealthy indeed if this was their home. But fuzzily he recalled Benjamin saying that they lived in the Indies. Then where in hell was he? Surely he could not have been unconscious that long! Then he sensed he was being watched.

      
Bright blue eyes locked with clear gray ones. She was a lady, little doubt of that, in spite of the plain brown dress. Her features were patrician and strong, not dainty or conventionally beautiful. Her wideset eyes were accented by slim arched eyebrows and framed by high cheekbones. When the light caught her hair, what at first had seemed a nondescript brown came alive with a rich bronze glow. It was worn loose, the better to show off its silken beauty.

      
She returned his careful perusal, neither smiling nor batting her lashes but studying him without artifice or coquetry. Still there was a vulnerability, a shyness about her that she tried to keep well hidden.
How did I know that?
his mind asked as she rose from the Faldestol chair by the window and walked slowly and deliberately toward the bed. She was slim and quite tall for a woman.

      
“Who are you?” His voice sounded raspy, as parched as his mouth.

      
Without deigning to answer, she turned to the ewer by the bedside and poured some watered wine into a silver goblet. God's bones, these people were rich. Was everything in the house of silver?

      
“Drink this,” she commanded as she held the cup to his mouth with one hand while her other arm levered him up by raising the pillows beneath his head. She spoke in Provencal although he had used Castilian.

      
He took a deep swallow. When she then removed the cup lest he overdo, he switched to her language. “Am I still in France? Where is this place, my lady?” He was rewarded when those elegant eyebrows raised in surprise at his carefully cultivated accent.

      
“You speak our language. Tis good since my Castilian is abysmal. As to where you are—this is Marseilles.” She had to smile inwardly at the look of horror that flashed across his face. “Yes, Spaniard, you are in the camp of the enemy,” she said lightly.

      
“Tis an elegant prison, far better than any other I have seen. How did I get here?” he asked, then added as he deliberately scrutinized her, “and you are a far lovelier jailor than any I've had, as well. How are you called?”

      
Miriam clenched her fists in the folds of her skirt to steady her nerves. How quickly this rogue could turn the tables! Coolly as she could, she replied, “So many questions. As to me, I am Miriam Toulon, your brother Benjamin's betrothed. He is the one who saved your life and brought you here.”

      
Rigo digested this for a moment, still allowing his gaze to linger on this disturbing young woman. He judged her age to be past twenty years, yet she was only now betrothed to his brother. Perhaps she was a widow. Immediately he dismissed the idea. There was an air of calm self-possession, yes, but also a sexual innocence that he had always been swift to sense in women, be they peasant winches or fine-born ladies. An. enigma here, he concluded. “My brother is Spanish, from the Indies. How could he find sanctuary in a city besieged by the Imperial Army?”

      
Again that illusive, almost bitter smile barely touched her lips. “The House of Torres was Spanish—for a thousand years. Long before your King Charles' state was ever created, Torres' lived on that land—until 1492, when they were driven into exile—those who were not killed. Uncle Isaac took his family to safety here in Marseilles. Your grandfather and his family were not so fortunate. While your father was voyaging to the Indies with Colon, they were all burned by the Holy Office—as judaizers.” Her eyes were frosty gray now, cold as pewter.