The Spaniard's Innocent Maiden. Greta Gilbert
Perhaps she had ceased to cut it the day they parted, just as he had done with his beard.
Keeping his eyes closed, he kissed beneath her jaw, then down her long, elegant neck. ‘Mi amor, how I have missed you,’ he said.
Gently, he cradled her breasts, which were swaddled in some soft, vaguely damp textile. How many times had he thought of placing his palms upon the small rises, which were as tender as ripe pears? How perfectly they fitted there now.
Ay, lusty Luisa.
He let his tongue explore her neck’s soft chalice, feeling a tingling warmth rising through his body. There had been others before Luisa—silly, fatuous women who had chosen him for what he appeared to be, not who he was. Only Luisa knew who he was. She had known him since he was a boy and he felt certain she could see into his heart.
Now her chest heaved with her emotion and it was all he needed to know that she felt as he did.
‘It has been...difficult,’ he confessed, keeping his eyes closed. ‘I think of you every day.’ He kissed her shoulders, which smelled vaguely of the briny air. ‘This new world...so much...misery.’
That was all he would say. He would not tell her about the things he had seen, the things he had done. He would not sully her view of him, or shatter her illusions by admitting that there had been many times since they’d parted that he had wished himself dead.
Though perhaps he was dead now. If so, then he thanked Diós, for surely he had made it to Heaven. Here it did not matter that he would inherit nothing but his bootstraps. All that mattered was his love, which was truer than the stars, and burned more brightly than the sun.
He plunged his tongue into her mouth. But instead of soft wetness, he felt only a smooth, hard stone.
Then Luisa released a frightful yelp.
Benicio opened his eyes to behold a strange, big-eyed woman staring back at him. He might have believed her a ghost, were it not for the deep honey hue of her skin, the wind of her breath and the large jade and diamond ring resting upon her tongue.
His jade and diamond ring.
‘Bruja!’ he cried. Witch!
The woman jumped backwards in the sand.
‘Give it to me!’ he shouted. In a blur of motion, he leaned forward and cupped her jaw, forcing open her mouth. Then he plucked the large jewel right off her tongue.
He felt a sudden, piercing ache behind his ribs. He careened backwards in pain, his head swimming. In that instant, it all came back to him—the battle, the priest, the ring, the thrust of Rogelio’s blade as it plunged through his chest.
He sat up and peered down at his jerkin, half-expecting to see a spreading bloodstain. But the leather garment was spotless. The only evidence of the stabbing was a coin-sized hole in the pocket that covered his heart.
Benicio struggled to right his thoughts, wondering why he was not dead. Rogelio had chased him relentlessly into the night. By daybreak, Benicio thought he had lost the greedy villain, but Rogelio had burst from the jungle with the first rays of sun.
It was at that moment Benicio had realised the reason for Rogelio’s speed: he had abandoned his heavy armour. Wearing nothing but his woollen hose and leather boots, Rogelio had easily caught up to Benicio. When Benicio finally decided to abandon the weight of his own armour, they had already reached the coast.
‘Where is the ring?’ Rogelio had demanded, pinning Benicio upon the beach.
But Benicio had refused to open his mouth.
‘And where is the map?’ Rogelio had added, searching the pockets of Benicio’s jerkin. Benicio had only blinked mindlessly. ‘Do not play a fool,’ Rogelio had sneered. ‘Where is the map to the Maya treasure?’
And thus Rogelio had given away the secret. It was a treasure map that Benicio carried, just as he suspected.
Benicio looked around now, confused. After such a tireless chase, and after plunging his very knife into Benicio’s chest, Rogelio had all but abandoned Benicio, and without taking the ring that he had chased him all night to obtain. Something was amiss, but Benicio could not determine what.
Benicio studied his would-be bandit. Her wet black hair hung in ropes about her breasts, which were covered by a damp yellow shawl that betrayed the shadow of two small nipples.
Benicio felt his desire tighten against his will. If not a witch, then surely she was a siren of the sea, for her lips were pink like coral and her eyes were dark, watery maelstroms. When he finally wrenched his gaze from the pools of her eyes, he took in her whole face. Her cheeks were high, her nose straight and long and her steep, angled eyebrows tilted like twin arrows. She was at once lovely and fearsome, and he felt strangely helpless in the grip of her ancient beauty.
‘Leave!’ he shouted, but she only stared at him with those unfathomable eyes. Perhaps she was casting a terrible enchantress’s spell upon him—some witch’s curse that would see his golden prize back inside her mouth once again. And where, oh, where had Rogelio got to? Had she cast her enchantress’s spell upon him, as well?
She squared her shoulders to Benicio and he observed that she was quite small, but with all the fascinating dips and curves of a woman. She straightened herself upon her knees, as if to make herself seem larger. But her fearsome posture only served to display her lovely long neck, reminding him that just moments ago, his lips had been upon it. His mouth grew wet with an unsavoury lust. Surely she was an enchantress, for only enchantresses were this beautiful and corrupt.
‘Leave me in peace,’ he entreated, feeling exhaustion overtake him. Even if she did not understand his language, surely she could understand his tone? ‘Now,’ he commanded weakly, but the enchantress would not move. Instead, she seemed to grow in stature as she loomed over his prone body.
He gripped the ring tightly in his fist. The sun beat down from above and a menacing chorus of cicadas rose from the jungle. Surely this was part of her enchantment—to paralyze him beneath her sorceress’s gaze until he all but begged her to take the ring. Or perhaps her beauty was just a trick of his mind—some sweet illusion to help him cope with his own slow death.
He reached beneath his jerkin, expecting to discover a bloody wound. Instead, he found a stiff, leathery object. He gasped, letting his fingers caress the brick of pages. Ah! It had not been fortune, but irony that had kept him from extinction: It was the pages of Amadís de Gaula that had protected him from Rogelio’s blow.
He gave a thunderous laugh. Since the day Luisa had given it to him, he had always kept the slim volume close to his heart. Now he saw that the cover had been completely penetrated by Rogelio’s blade, as had many of the pages. But the tales of chivalry had not been fully impaled and had literally saved his life.
And now it appeared that the book was also saving him from the enchantress, for she had turned her attention away from him and towards its battered cover.
‘You have never seen a book, have you?’ Benicio asked, seizing upon a possible advantage. Perhaps if he shared it with her she would reciprocate somehow? If only he could signal to her that he was in need of a sturdy canoe.
He laughed again, for the thought struck him as absurd. Here he was at the far ends of the earth, looking to hire a canoe! Still, he could not give up hope of finding passage back to Spain. And for that, he needed all the friends he could find.
He handed the book to the woman. She paged through the text with familiarity, as if she had handled many books before this one. She placed her finger in the hole that had been created by Rogelio’s blade, then shook her head in bemused disbelief. She returned the book to him and, though they had exchanged not a single word, he was left with the uncanny feeling that that they had just had a conversation.
Now the woman fixed her gaze upon his beard. ‘This?’ he asked, touching the whiskers he had been growing since the day his ship had sailed from Seville. ‘You want to touch it?’
She nodded