Wicked Loving Lies. Rosemary Rogers

      2

      The air of Seville was warm and scented with the odors of cooking, the sweet smell of flowers, and the rankness of sweat as crowds of people jostled each other on the narrow streets. It was the week of the grand fair—the feria—and from all over Spain people had traveled here to take part in the festivities. It was even rumored that the queen and some of her closest intimates were here incognito. And as if to bear out the rumors, there were smartly uniformed guardsmen everywhere, keeping an eye on the crowds.

      “You notice that they are all young and handsome?” Blanca whispered to Marisa. “The queen likes good-looking young men around her. Why, Manuel Godoy was nothing but a hopeful young guardsman when Maria Luisa’s eye fell on him—and now, they say, he is the real king of Spain!” She jostled her friend with her elbow. “Hey, wake up! Don’t say you are starting to suffer from pangs of conscience at this late stage!”

      “Of course not. You should know better than that! It’s just that I can hardly believe I’m free again.”

      “Well then, you might show it! Stop wearing that dreaming look; you’re not locked up in that convent any longer. And try smiling. It’s not too hard, once you get used to it, you know! Look, those two men are trying to flirt with us.”

      Blanca gave a high-pitched giggle and a toss of her dark head as the two girls, barefoot and brightly clad, ran past a group of men who stopped talking to stare after them, giving low, admiring whistles.

      Blanca was right, Marisa told herself as, head lowered, she hurried after her friend. She had made her choice, and she was here of her own free will—in spite of the grumbling and headshaking of Blanca’s father.

      But why did she find it so difficult to readjust to the free and easy gypsy way of life? Without her realizing it, the years in the convent had left their mark; and she could not help feeling curiously lost and frightened without the security of those grey-white walls to enfold her and the slow, disciplined days when her every movement had been planned for her.

      What must Mother Angelina be thinking now? Would they be searching for her? She had left only a short, hurriedly scribbled note to say that she was on her way to France to stay with her mother’s relatives. And since Spain was allied with France now, and there were Frenchmen everywhere, she hoped the reverend mother would think she had found some French friend to escort her.

      “I will be in safe hands,” she had written. But would the prioress believe that? What did she think?

      They had reached the gypsy encampment on the outskirts of the city, and Mario came to meet them, his dark face sulky, his eyes burning Marisa’s hot, flushed face.

      “You took long enough, you two! What have you been up to?”

      Leaving Blanca to shout angrily at him that it wasn’t any of his business, Marisa caught back her own sigh of vexation. Mario was another of her new problems. She had been a child when she had left the gypsies, but now, he made her only too aware of the fact that she had grown into a woman. His eyes followed her constantly, and he was forever trying to catch her alone in some dark corner, caressing her bare arm with his rough hands as he whispered to her that he adored her, he always had, and would kill any other man who tried to touch her. Blanca was amused. She would laugh, shrugging casually.

      “That Mario! He’s a hot-blooded one, eh? Better watch out for him, my little innocent—stick close to me!”

      But how long could she continue to elude Mario? France was still a long way off. In spite of the fact that she was still far too thin and deliberately rubbed grease into her hair to darken it, he wouldn’t stop pursuing her.

      Now, ignoring his sister’s screeching, he strode up to Marisa and grabbed her wrist. “You’d better not have been flirting, little skinny one! Tonight, when we dance for all the visitors, I want you to stay in the background, remember! I don’t want any other man looking at my golden beauty.”

      She snatched herself from his grasp, imitating Blanca’s sharpness.

      “I’m not yours—I’m not anyone’s property! And you’d better run back to Liuba before she sticks a knife between your ribs. Go on!”

      “That’s right—tell him off!” Laughing, Blanca linked arms with her, sticking her tongue out at her brother as she did so. “Come on, we’ve got things to do.”

      “Oh, I’m a patient man, I can wait!” he called after them, the glowering look on his face belying his light tone.

      She told herself later that Mario was the cause of her mood of depression. If only he would leave her alone. But she could look after herself—of course she could! Like Blanca, she had taken to carrying a small dagger strapped to her thigh, and Mario knew she would not hesitate to use it on him. Oh, how she hated men! Beasts, all of them, with only one thing on their minds.

      The gypsies were all busy preparing for the famous horse fair, which formed a climax to the Holy Week celebrations. On a piece of flat land between the Rio Guadalquivir and the city of Seville, they had set up their tents and their wagons; and when the day’s business was over, there was dancing to wild music in the flickering torchlight and the plaintive, quavering flamenco—song of love and sadness that had been bequeathed to Spain by the Moors.

      At any other time, Marisa would have been caught up in the excitement of it all, just as the others were. She and Blanca had roamed freely everywhere, and they had finally slipped into the enormous cathedral to pray. Perhaps that was why she felt so strangely sad and forlorn tonight. Last year and for so many years before that, she had spent Holy Week quietly in the convent, praying in solitude. All this festivity and frantic air of gaiety seemed strange and almost sacrilegious to her.

      “I’m just not used to crowds yet,” she told herself; and to please Blanca, who had been so kind to her, she forced herself to smile and laugh and even to flirt with some of the bolder young men.

      “Hey, gypsy girl! Won’t you tell me my fortune?” The man who called out to her was well-dressed and handsome, but, remembering Delphine and the horror of that night, she gasped fearfully and ran away from him. Running away from the lights and the music that tugged at her she almost cannoned into a group of newcomers walking from the direction of the river.

      In her headlong flight she had lost her head scarf, and her hair, newly washed that evening, slipped from the careless knot at the back of her neck, to fall in curls about her shoulders. In the faint light, she looked like a wild, tawny animal, too shy to be tamed.

      “Here’s a piece of luck! A runaway gypsy wench with hair the color of the Castilian plains! Perhaps she’ll act as our guide tonight.”

      There were women among them, their flimsy, high-waisted gowns only carelessly concealed by velvet cloaks. Jewels winked around white throats, and they laughed as loud as the men.

      “Don’t