Spanish Serenade (13 page)

SHE WENT AS THE Venus de la Torre; there was no other choice. She did not go naked, but in silk and velvet and a plumed hat, and with her bare throat draped with faux pearls, though they were fine quality of their kind. She went as the inamorata — incomparable in beauty, of course — of a nobleman of great wealth, unstable disposition, and flamboyant habits, Don Gonzalvo, whose name and crest were recognized instantly, though not his visage. She traveled with a maid named Isabel to carry her jewel box, a manservant called Baltasar to hold the cushion for her feet and perform the other tasks that might add to her comfort, and with a pair of gallants known as Don Enrique and Don Miguel, friends of Don Gonzalvo who could be trusted to amuse her without encroaching, and also to keep other men at bay.

Pilar was the touchstone, the key, the one who justified the disguises of them all. She accepted the position, but the knowledge was incensing. It angered her, not because of the invidious position in which she had been placed, but because it was further proof that she need never have asked to join Refugio and his men. The scheming bandit had never intended anything else, but had used her appeal as a lever to persuade her to an impersonation she might not otherwise have assumed. More than that, her role was a constant reminder that she was his hostage.

If she had thought that the imposture they were all undertaking would be conducted with some degree of moderation, she soon learned her error. Moderation played no part in Refugio's plans. He wanted her, and the nobleman at her side, to be the focus of all eyes, the subject of such surprise and amazed conjecture that no one would have the time to consider that they might not be who they seemed.

It was Enrique and Baltasar who proved most capable at creating interest in the tale of Count Gonzalvo and his mistress. With guile and competence and strong heads for wine, they spread the story of how the count was taking his Venus away to the Caribbean to remove her from the notoriety surrounding their love affair, and also from the importuning of the men who were enraptured by her loveliness, both in marble and in the flesh. They spoke of the terrible jealousy of the count and whispered of the men slain in duels for the sake of his Venus. They hinted at wealth beyond the dreams of mortals, wealth that gave ample license for his violent temper and odd whims, such as bathing every day, eating no fruit other than pomegranates, and commanding the manservant Baltasar to act as his food taster on the odd occasion.

It was also Enrique who, with Refugio, visited a discreet Moorish Jew who dealt in ersatz jewels and clothing cast off by the rich due to ennui or death. It was there that the entire party had been outfitted, and at minimal expense. The greater part of the cost had been applied to Pilar's wardrobe. Neither man could understand why she was not more grateful for that fact, or so they pretended.

There was no ship embarking for Louisiana from the Cadiz harbor, and would not be for at least a month, possibly longer. There was, however, a vessel called the
Celestina
which was bound for Mexico by way of the island of Cuba. If they landed at Havana harbor, they might then find passage to Louisiana aboard a coastal trader plying between the island, and the ports of Mobile and New Orleans. It would be a roundabout way of reaching their destination, but could well be faster than waiting for the later ship. Moreover, it was a safer alternative for Refugio, and the others than remaining in Cadiz. The chance that one of them might be recognized by the authorities was always with them. The sooner they took up their new identities, the sooner they were out of Spain, the better it would be.

It was Charro who provided the carriage for their arrival at the docks. He had borrowed it, in a phrase, from its owner, an invalid who seldom left his sick room and would not miss it for a few hours. There was a crest painted on the doors, but it was so artfully splattered with mud as to be undecipherable. The coachman and footmen who accompanied it wore livery of burgundy velvet laced with gold. If their faces were suspiciously red with the effects of strong drink and there was a jingle of silver in their pockets, no one came close enough to notice.

The gaze of the five or six other passengers already on board the ship, as well as that of the greatest portion of the crew and every drunken seaman and waterfront lounger in Cadiz, was, on Refugio as he descended from the carriage. He moved with animal grace, yet there was about him the hauteur of a prince. He was splendidly visible in a jacket of red velvet piped in burgundy and set with silver buttons the size of apples. With it he wore golden-yellow breeches, gray stockings, and black shoes with silver buckles. His tricorne hat, set on lightly powdered hair, had a burgundy plume, and his cane of polished malacca was as long as the average man was tall and had a head formed of gold filigree. His cloak was embellished by a multitude of capes, each fuller than the next, so that his wide shoulders appeared broader still.

With magnificent indifference for his audience, he brushed aside the aid of a footman and, turning, gave his hand to Pilar to help her alight. She was his match in demure splendor, outfitted in a traveling gown of gray velvet lined with pink satin, and wearing a wide-brimmed hat of gray felt tied with a wide pink gauze ribbon under her chin. The faux pearls gleamed on her bosom with an opalescent sheen that made her skin appear luminous — and there was a great deal of it to be viewed. The gown was low cut, with a pink-lace edging at the neckline that acted as a frame for the display. Pilar kept her eyes lowered, though she sent Refugio, a fulminating glance from under her lashes as he bent over her hand in a gesture nicely calculated to indicate homage and adoration. She felt he was making a spectacle of her, turning her into something she was not. At the same time it seemed he was laughing at her, though it could just as easily have been himself he mocked.

They swept up the gangplank. Behind them came Isabel, simply dressed and carrying what had every appearance of a jewel chest but was actually the last pitiful remnants of the silver. Enrique strolled after the girl, a refined courtier in a blue vest and breeches worn with a pale gray coat, a diamond in his sky-blue cravat and his hair white with powder and with its back length caught in a silk bag.

Baltasar was perfection as the manservant. His raiment was sober, even a little rough; his hair was natural, his expression stolid, and he carried the first of a number of boxes being decanted from the carriage. Charro wore a short black riding jacket that matched his shadow-striped black vest and also his breeches, which were tucked into gloveleather boots. With his flat-crowned hat and lariat of braided leather coiled around his shoulder, he appeared the consummate horseman. The quality of his attire hinted, perhaps, at some hacienda devoted to the breeding of Arabians, or of bulls for the arena; still, his role was so nearly his own identity that he seemed natural in it.

The captain of the ship came forward to welcome them. He bent himself in half, his face wreathed in ingratiating smiles.

“To have you traveling with us is an unexpected pleasure, Don Gonzalvo,” the ship's officer said. “You do us great honor. We will do our utmost to make your journey comfortable, and memorable.”

The captain would have presented the other passengers, but Refugio waved the suggestion away with a languid hand. Later, perhaps. The señorita was fatigued, he said, and he wished to personally inspect his cabin for cleanliness before the ship sailed.

Pilar had never been on a ship before. The few pictures that had come her way had failed entirely to prepare her for the small size of the one she was on, or for the cramped quarters allotted to passengers. The cabin she and Refugio were shown contained a narrow berth, a corner washstand with a basin set into the top, and a minuscule table with two chairs. There was hardly space for a full step between any of the furnishings, and this was the most lavish accommodation on the ship, next to that of the captain himself.

The space allotted to the others was apparently on a lower level, for Baltasar set down the box he carried, then with Enrique, Charro, and Isabel, followed after the sailor who had been detailed to see them all installed. Pilar would have trailed after the others, but Refugio put his hand on her arm.

“One moment, my dove,” he said with a melting smile, then closed the door behind the others. Turning, he leaned his shoulders against it.

Pilar looked at him, at the lingering elation underlined by gaiety in his eyes. She tilted her head. “You're enjoying this, aren't you? This playing of parts and running risks?”

“It's bearable.”

“More than that, I think.”

He inclined his head, as if in recognition of her insight. “To be restricted to the hills of Spain and to the places that have been made safe by money or loyalty is a kind of imprisonment. Prisons are notoriously dreary. To break free even for a day is gratifying.”

“But dangerous.”

“The prospect of weeks, even months, at large is a gift from the gods. Such gifts are best accepted without counting the cost.”

“That's all very well,” she said, her brown eyes cool with condemnation, “but there are some of us who don't enjoy fear. Or walking into possible traps.”

He tilted his head. “Such as?”

“This room. I have the strangest feeling that you are waiting with anticipation for the moment when I must concede that a man's mistress usually shares his quarters.”

“Hardly anticipation. More like considered interest. What took you so long?”

She gave him a tight smile. “I thought you usually slept alone and preferred it that way. I thought that the supposed eccentricity of your nobleman would surely extend to separate cabins. Failing either, I thought sharing accommodations with all your followers might be so ingrained a habit that you would not think of doing otherwise. I thought a great many things, none of them, it seems, quite correct.”

“You have nothing to fear from me,” he said softly.

“You have held me against my will, threatened me, and forced your attentions on me. Tell me why I should believe you.”

“My attentions,” he repeated, the words musing.

“Do you deny it?”

“By no means. But you might realize that the attentions you mention were an exercise in restraint compared to what I could have done.”

It was true, that much she would admit. She transferred her gaze to the wood grain of the door behind his right shoulder. “That doesn't make them acceptable.”

I repeat, you have nothing to fear. All that's required is the appearance of intimacy.”

“I don't like it.” The statement was bold with strain.

“Why? Even if those for whom the masquerade is being played out found out who you are, it could not harm a name already damaged beyond reckoning. As it is, why should a new-made Venus care?”

“Don't call me that,” she snapped.

“Then trust me,” he returned, the reasonable quality dying out of his tone to be replaced by light acerbity. “If I were breathing prayers and pleas to taste your sweet favors, you might have reason for complaint. I am not.”

“For the moment.”

“Oh, agreed. Is that the objection?”

“Not at all!” She could feel the heat of the hot flush that made its way to her hairline. It was sheer rage that caused it, and not the mental images his words conjured up in her mind.

“Proving that you are not pining to nestle at my side with gentle cooing and soft, intrepid explorations? If there is neither dread nor yearning between us, what can trouble our slumbers?”

“We are forced to travel together. We are not forced to sleep together!”

His gaze narrowed and his voice grew quieter, both warning signs. “Oh, but we are. Unless you prefer to change places with Enrique. Charro I refuse to have for a berth-mate; he wears his spurs to bed.”

“You mean—”

“That's the choice.”

“What of Isabel?”

“Baltasar is unlikely to agree to her leaving him alone. She might exchange places with you, however, and Baltasar might permit it, but the question is whether you would find the arrangement an improvement.”

“You think I should prefer you?” There was derision in the challenge. It hid the sudden flutter near her heart that the words brought.

“Oh, I'm sure of it,” he answered in unimpaired self-esteem. “You see, I don't snore.”

“I am not proposing to sleep with Baltasar!”

“No? Neither am I.”

She swung away from him, moving to stand at the porthole with its small, thick, salt-smeared panes of glass. From that position in the stem of the ship, she could see the stretch of the dock with its milling activity and, beyond that, the curve of land that would be her last view of Spain for a long time, possibly forever.

“You think it's easy,” she said over her shoulder in a voice that was uneven with weariness and the anxiety she was trying valiantly to hide. “You don't mind setting out for a colony on the other side of the world. You are used to being thrown together with Baltasar and Enrique and the others. The prospect of being crammed together with another person in a space hardly bigger than a nun's single cell for weeks on end is, to you, only an inconvenience. I can't be that way.”

“You misjudge me. I have never shared a space this small with another human being, and the thought affects me with doubt amounting to terror. I am aware, you see, that this cabin is not, and never will be, a nun's cell.”