Wicked Loving Lies

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 run off, little girl! We’re here to watch the dancing. Don’t let her run away. Look at her hair, isn’t that unusual for a gypsy?”

A man caught her around the waist, holding her captive in spite of her frantic struggles.

“Hold still, you little ninny! No one’s going to hurt you. Here, perhaps this will persuade you to calm down!”

Still laughing, he slipped a coin between her breasts. One of the women, throwing the hood back from her high-piled hair, said in a wheedling, husky voice, “Really, I assure you we don’t mean you any harm. But we’re all strangers here, and we’d pay you well if you’ll act as our guide. We want to join in the dancing—do you think your people would mind?”

There was wine on the woman’s breath as she leaned close, and Marisa tried to control the shudder that shook her whole body, feeling her breath cut off by the pressure of the arm that still held her close to a hard, masculine body. These people were obviously of the nobility, out for a good time with the common folk. And she would only provide a source of further amusement for them if she continued to struggle. From the smiling looks of the women, she could sense that she could not expect any help from them.

“Come—we’ll pay you well. Very well. And if you were running from a too-ardent lover, we’ll protect you!”

The man who spoke gave a laugh that sounded strangely familiar. He added petulantly, “Por Dios, amigo, don’t be so selfish! You’ve done nothing but drink and look sullen all evening, and now you won’t share the spoils! Perhaps our little gypsy will give us a private performance later—what do you say?”

Marisa felt, rather than heard, their inane talk and laughter pass over and around her. Without quite realizing what was happening, she found herself dragged along with them, as if she had been a rag doll with no feelings and no understanding—a new toy to amuse themselves with. She felt as dazed as if she had actually turned into wood; and at the same time some deep-rooted instinct of pride held her silent. She wouldn’t cry and plead with them to let her go! At least they were moving towards the lights and the music, and sooner or later, when they tired of their sport, she would escape. Suddenly she thought of Mario, and for once felt relieved that he was so jealous. He’d rescue her! She stopped resisting and tried to ignore the laughing comments of her tormentors.

“You see? She’s quite resigned now—quite tame. It must be your charm….”

“I wonder if she’s a deaf-mute? Really—she hasn’t said one single word!”

“Don’t be afraid. You’ll find us generous—and especially if you’ll dance for us.”

“The poor child looks as if she could use a good meal!”

“Child? She must be fifteen or sixteen at least! And among the gypsies, that’s almost old! Are you married yet, menina?”

The man whose steely arm still encircled her waist said suddenly, “I think she’s frightened half to death. Perhaps she’ll learn to talk back to us after she’s had some wine.”

He spoke with a strange, drawling accent she could not place. Was he a foreigner, then?

They came at last into the flickering circle of lights, and while everyone’s attention was caught by the sudden burst of handclapping as the guitars strummed wildly bringing a dance to its climax, Marisa dared a nervous upward glance.

Her breath caught in her throat when she encountered his eyes. They were like shards of splintered, glittering glass, piercing her, and she could not prevent her instinctive, shrinking movement.

His arm tightened, and he gave a soft, mocking laugh.

“Not trying to run away again are you, golden eyes? It’s too late now that you’ve come this far with us. My companions find you fascinating, you know.”

One of the other men chuckled, overhearing. “And so do you, obviously! I vow, amigo, that I have never seen you exert yourself before to catch a woman. Perhaps it is only the thrill of a chase and a capture that you enjoy?”

Held forcibly close to him, Marisa could feel the man who held her shrug.

“You know I’m a hunter. And this one, with her golden mane and the half-shy, half-wicked look in her eyes, reminds me of a mountain lion. Would you enjoy using your claws on me, menina?”

Taunted into a fury, Marisa tilted her head to glare at him.

“I would like to do worse! To stick a knife between your ribs and watch you bleed—”

“Dios! She is a wildcat after all!”

“I don’t think so,” the other drawled infuriatingly, and through her rage-slitted eyes Marisa could see one corner of his mouth twitch in a grin. “I think she means to challenge me.”

“Ohh! You—you—” Catching the sarcastically expectant look on his dark face Marisa bit her words off short. She would not give him the satisfaction of hearing her swear at him. She would merely bide her time and run away to lose herself in the crowd that now milled around them—some still watching the dancers and others glancing curiously at the new arrivals. Ignoring her captor, she began to search frantically for the sight of a familiar face. Where was Blanca? And above all, where was Mario? The music was so loud that even if she screamed aloud no one would hear her! How dared these people treat her as if she were a new plaything to amuse their jaded appetites?

She noticed for the first time, with a sense of fearful foreboding, that their small group was far too well escorted. In the light, it became apparent that the men were all well-armed, forming a kind of phalanx about the bright-eyed, jeweled women.

One of the women, wearing a deep purple velvet cloak trimmed with fur, had kept glancing in their direction, ignoring her attentive escort; and now as they came to a stop she said in a rather petulant voice, “Surely you don’t need to hold on so tightly to our little gypsy? Give her some more money and ask her if she’ll go back with us tonight, to dance for us. But for the moment, I thought we came here to enjoy ourselves.” And now the dark-haired woman addressed Marisa directly in a patronizing tone. “Do you have any suggestions, girl? We are here to have fun. What do you do to amuse yourself when you are not running away?”

A tall man with a deep voice said smoothly, “Ah, but these gypsies never like to stay in the same place for too long, mi reina. They are a restless, free people always craving to move along—like our friend here, who plans to leave us soon.”

Had there been something significant in his tone? In spite of her own anger and discomfort, Marisa could not help giving him a puzzled look.

“My Queen,” he had said. Merely a flowery compliment or—was it possible? She had heard tales of the wild, licentious royal court of Queen Maria Luisa. And suddenly, like a blow to her midriff, she recalled the careless, laughing words that had floated to her as she sat astride the convent wall on that fateful day not long ago. The nagging familiarity of a laugh—a drawling voice—oh, no! Surely not! Fate could not play such an unpleasant trick on her as to deliver her into the hands of the very man she was running away from!

Marisa became aware that the woman, refusing to be diverted, was speaking to her again—this time impatiently.

“Surely you can speak? Where are your friends? Perhaps they can join us, too. The music makes me want to dance. Do you think we could join in?”

They had somehow pressed forward to the very fringes of the crowd that had formed around the dancers and the musicians.

Sheer desperation made speech return to her paralyzed tongue.

“I see some of my friends now. There—that is my sister who is dancing in the center now—the one with the long black hair. Her name is Blanca. And that is my novio over there, playing the guitar with the red ribbons. Alas, we had a quarrel, and that is why I ran, hoping he would follow.” Again, irresistibly, she slanted an upward look at the man who held her so firmly. What strange, frightening eyes he had! They were truly like glass, reflecting every shade of the fires and smoldering torches while revealing nothing. The black cloak he wore, gave him an alarmingly sinister appearance, as did the bulge of the weapon he wore, which was pressing into her hip. “If the señor would let me go, I will dance for you kind ladies and gentlemen. And perhaps later, if you will, Blanca will tell your fortunes. She is very good.”

“See? She can talk after all! And prettily too. Do let her dance—she’s lost her fear of us now, haven’t you my dear?”

“Oh, I was only startled,” Marisa said demurely. She let her eyes drop shyly as she shrugged. “And a little bit afraid—because my novio is very jealous, you see!”

She felt a warm hand slide up over her breast, and she squirmed away angrily.

“Little liar!” he whispered. “I’ve a good mind to see how jealous this lover of yours is.”

But the others were calling to him to let her dance for them, and he had to release her. With a mocking half-curtsy she whirled away from them, clicking her fingers in rhythm to the frenetic music.

“Aren’t you afraid she’ll get away from you?” Pedro Arteaga whispered maliciously in his friend’s ear. “She seemed only too anxious to get back to that black-browed lout there—and I’ve heard these gypsy wenches like to choose their own lovers.”

“I’ve yet to lose a prize I’ve captured. And I think she’s only playing hard to get—perhaps to put her price up!”

“My God, what a cynic you are! I’m beginning to believe you really don’t like women at all.”

“I’ve loved my share of them. Why does liking have to come into it? They’re all the same—sly, teasing bitches without an intelligent thought in their heads.”

“Well, don’t let our beautiful sovereign hear you speak that way! She’s made it very clear she’s taken a liking to you, hasn’t she? You’d better take care, my friend!”

Pedro Arteaga’s friend had folded his arms, his steely grey eyes following the gypsy girl as she made her way to the center of the crowd of dancers.

“Oh, I expect to have Señor Godoy’s aid in recapturing the elusive yellow-eyed witch if she’s really bent on escape. He’s got two of his guardsmen keeping an eye on her already, or hadn’t you noticed?”

Manuel Godoy had bent his head to whisper in the queen’s ear, and now the voluptuous duchess of Alba, sulky at being ignored, leaned against Don Pedro’s shoulder.

“What are you men whispering about? I thought we traveled all this way to have some fun and mingle with the peasants. Don’t you dance in New Spain?”

Marisa had danced her way to Blanca’s side; and now, ignoring her friend’s surprised look, she began, in a breathless, angry voice, to pour out her story, keeping a fixed smile on her face all the while.

“You cannot imagine how—how arrogantly nasty they all were! Talking about me as if I was nothing more than a block of wood, without feelings. Taking all kinds of familiarities with me!” She shuddered, recalling a warm hand cupping her breast so intimately. “And to make matters worse, I think he’s the one—look, over there. That crowd of strangers—you’d recognize him, wouldn’t you? And his friend—”

“I think you have a crazy imagination,” Blanca murmured. But her voice was doubtful, and she added, in the next breath, “Well—it might be! It’s hard to see from here. But listen, if you’re so scared, why don’t you slip away to the wagons? I’ll go up to them myself and tell them you sent me. I’m not afraid, and if they’re throwing around gold coins, I could use a few.”

“Blanca!”

“Little innocent,” Blanca mocked, showing white teeth, “when will you learn that you cannot hide yourself away from men forever? You’re not in a convent any longer, you know! And the trick is to use them while letting them think they are using you. You’d better learn—”

“Blanca, let’s both go back to the wagons. Now, when they can’t see us. I don’t trust them—and besides—”

Blanca turned her head, black eyes laughing. “And besides what? I’ve already told you that I know how to look after myself. And that handsome caballero you ran away from might need some consolation—even if he does happen to be your novio!”

“Oh, stop!” Marisa, suddenly frantic, clutched at the other girl’s bare arm. “We’d better hide somewhere before they—before he—You see, he made me so angry, the way he was pulling me about, that I—I picked his pocket!”

For a moment, in the midst of all the noise, the clapping and the gaiety that surrounded them, they seemed to be enclosed in stillness.

“You did what?” Blanca threw back her head with a wild, admiring laugh. “Oh, but you are priceless! No—you are crazy!” She grabbed Marisa’s wrist, starting to pull her away into the shadows. “What on earth possessed you? Under the very eyes of the queen herself and her chief minister. Don’t you realize what could happen to you? To them, you are nothing but a little gypsy. You could be arrested, thrown into a cell, even executed. Don’t you understand? Picking the pocket of some stranger on the street is one thing, but a friend of the queen! They’d recognize you in an instant if they come looking for you! Quick, you must throw it away. Wait—does it contain a lot of gold, this wallet you stole?”

Blanca’s eyes gleamed with a mixture of avarice and fear. In the torchlight they seemed to glow as red as coals.

“How would I know? I didn’t think about the money—I just wanted to teach him a lesson. And since you’re not afraid, why don’t you take it back to him? Tell him you found it—”

“I might do just that! What a little fool you are! Where’s that wallet?”

Already beginning to regret her defiant gesture, Marisa handed it to her friend without a word—glad to be rid of it. If only she could be rid of the memory of those bold, rude caresses as well! And if that was the man her father wanted to marry her off to, she was fortunate in having escaped such a fate.

“So, now you are taking money for your favors, eh? Is that why you kept me at arm’s length, because I was not rich enough to buy you?”

Mario had materialized out of nowhere, his dark face glowering with rage. “I saw you!” he growled. “Leaning up against that stranger, his arm about your waist. Where did you meet him? Ah, you should not have brought him here, to flaunt your unfaithfulness before my face, for I shall kill him for it!”

“Here’s another stupid one! Well, I shall leave you to explain to my dull-witted brother while I see what I can do to prevent trouble. Don’t forget to tell him you picked the pocket of your own novio because he got too fresh with you!”

Blanca danced off, and Mario, his frown growing even blacker, caught Marisa’s arm in a grip that made her wince.

“Yes. Tell me what you have been up to! What was my sister talking about just now?”

3

There was the moonlight and the firelight and the torches that flickered like live tongues; and Marisa was no longer herself but someone else. A bold-eyed, bold-tongued creature like Blanca who was afraid of nothing and no one. She had tied a brightly colored scarf over her head again; but it did not disguise the gold hair that rippled almost to her waist.

“If you are innocent still, then prove it!” Mario had hissed. “If he has not had you yet then he will be eager for you, sí? Lead him away from the others; flirt with him if you must. No more than that—I will see to the rest!”

Mario had made it sound so easy! But here he was offering to protect her when not too long ago she had felt she needed protection from him.

What did it matter? She knew Mario and felt sure of her power over him. The other man was a different proposition. Far too insolent, far too sure of himself—and her. The last man on earth she wished to marry, if he was the one.

Facing him again was harder than she had thought it might be, even though he was alone at the moment. He had been lifting a wineskin to his mouth, and when he lowered it and saw her, one black eyebrow shot up in mock surprise.

“Oh, so you’re back. I must say you put a high price on yourself, yellow-eyes. Are you worth it?”

She saw no sign of Blanca. Had she told him, or had he discovered his loss for himself?

Still acting the way Blanca would, Marisa lifted her shoulders.

“Why not find out? I wanted you to notice me for myself. I do not like crowds. They make me feel stifled, and—and trapped. And I do not like being made fun of, either.”

“Should I apologize for my friends and myself?” He swept her a mocking bow, offering her the half-empty wineskin. “Here, now that we are alone, shall we drink to an understanding? I didn’t expect to see you back of your own accord, but here you are, which proves that I am as ignorant as the next man when it comes to understanding the whims of women.” His strangely light eyes crinkled at the corners, catching her attention in spite of herself. What a time to start wondering about him—what kind of man was he?

She shook her head, refusing the wine. “No, I am not used to drinking, señor.”

“But an expert at picking pockets? You continue to surprise me, little gypsy.”

Marisa felt the hot blood rush into her face, but she refused to give ground. “Yes, certainly. But isn’t that only what you would expect from a gypsy wench? The very worst. You made that clear, all of you, when you kept talking of me as if I had no ears.”

A sudden brightness leaped into his eyes, stabbing into hers like a flash of lightning. “Olé!” He said it softly, tilting the wineskin to his lips again and then lowering it slowly. “So you are a creature of emotion after all. You breathe, you feel, and you even think, it seems. Good. We have established that much, at least. Also your price—which is high. I warn you, I shall expect a great deal in return….”

Without warning, Marisa found her waist encircled by a steely arm again. Before she could protest, she was drawn against him tasting, unwillingly, the wine on his breath as he forced her head back with his brutal kiss.

Instinctively, she struggled against him, hands pushing futilely against his shoulders. Horrible! To be kissed like any common slut, without consideration of her feelings. First he insulted her and then he kissed her.

Marisa kept her teeth tightly clenched together and kept twisting her head from side to side, trying to avoid the bruising pressure of his mouth on hers. In spite of her frantic struggles she felt herself drawn against his body. His cloak was open down the front, and she felt stifled in its folds; she was terrified by the pressure of his lean, masculine body all the way down hers. Her neck would surely break in another minute, and she could not breathe. There was a buzzing in her ears and she was no longer capable of the effort of resisting him, even when some faraway part of her mind realized that he had slipped her thin blouse off one shoulder and was fondling her breasts. Her body lay limply against his, still shivering with revulsion; and when she opened her mouth to gasp for breath his tongue forced its way between her lips, bringing a renewal of her feeble attempts to turn her face away.

Did he actually intend to force himself on her here, with everyone looking on? What a callous, unfeeling brute this man was to use her this way as if she had been some whore he had picked up for the night.