J. Cheney - The Golden City

Pia walked with them, her white-gloved hands fluttering as she spoke. She wore pink, and with her blond hair down she looked sadly insipid next to her vividly alive cousin. Isabel’s dark green walking suit made her seem more forceful and real. Oriana held a parasol to shade her mistress’ alabaster skin.

They walked past a blanket where a young woman reclined next to the prince’s seer. As they walked closer, Silva took the girl’s hand in his, slowly drew off her short glove, and ran a bare finger across her palm. The girl’s mouth opened in a surprised O at whatever he said.

“I don’t know why anyone listens to that man,” Isabel said loudly enough for the girl to overhear. “He’s wrong more often than the astrologers.” She lifted her chin in the air, the feather from her cap curving around to touch her cheek, and walked on past.

They’d nearly reached the river’s bank by then, the comforting smell of the water filling the air. Marianus Efisio, Pia’s betrothed, stood speaking with another man, one Oriana didn’t recognize. Dark brown hair, medium build, slightly taller than average—not much to distinguish him.

“Who is that with Mr. Efisio?” Oriana asked.

“Mr. Ferreira, the younger one,” Pia whispered, and crossed herself reverently, white gloves fluttering like gull’s wings. “The elder passed recently.”

Isabel laughed under her breath. “You wouldn’t want your handsome betrothed talking to the older Ferreira,” she told Pia, a waspish note in her voice. “They say he took a different lover every night, sometimes more than one . . . and not only women. Scandalous. He was sinfully handsome, Pia, and might have stolen your swain from you. At least with boring Duilio there, your betrothed’s chastity is safe.”

Pia flushed bright red, her cheeks clashing with her pink dress, while Oriana wondered what had made Isabel’s tongue so sharp that day. She extended her arm to keep Isabel’s face shaded by the parasol, and turned her eyes toward the two men in question. The newcomer looked in their direction, his gaze settling directly on Oriana.

But Mr. Ferreira looked away quickly, leaving her with only the impression of warm brown eyes in a serious face. Yet when she saw his face more clearly, his expression seemed fatuous . . . vacant. He went on his way a moment later.

She turned to watch his escape . . . and realized she stood on a seashore instead. It was the beach she’d lived near as a child. She closed her eyes. A cool breeze off the water set her at ease, the smells of flowers and the cries of the birds familiar. It was home.

A musky scent touched her nostrils. She opened her eyes to see Duilio Ferreira standing only an arm’s length away, his bare feet on the sand. He was bare-chested and wearing a black pareu tied in the manner that proclaimed him chosen. Scratches ran across his back and one shoulder, and a number of rose-gold cuffs adorned his ankles and his arms, enough to show his mate held him to be of great value. He turned toward her, revealing that his chest had been painted with the Paredes line mark. His kohl-rimmed eyes laughed. “It is beautiful.”

Oriana stared at him, captivated. What is he doing here?

“As are you,” he added. He stroked her cheek with gentle fingers. She held her breath, waiting for him to kiss her. His warm lips touched hers, soft and patient. His left hand spread on her bare skin below her breast, and then slid around to her back, pulling her closer.

But his grasp suddenly turned cold and wet. His other hand tangled in her loosened hair, just as sodden.

SUNDAY, 5 OCTOBER 1902

Oriana felt cold water in the shell of her ear, and that jarred her out of whatever strange world of dreams she’d inhabited. She lay on the sands at the edge of the river, warm on one side, chilled on the other. The tide had begun to overwhelm the river’s usual good sense, coming in with icy morning fingers; that was what she’d felt threading its way through her hair.

Duilio Ferreira lay half-across her, with his head pillowed on her breast. His hand rested on her stomach, his legs tangled with hers. Oriana lay still, trying to decide what she should do. She had never lain with a man in her arms before, and hadn’t realized the warmth a male body would carry with it.

She didn’t understand why she’d dreamed such things, why that day by the side of the river had surfaced in her memory. It had been the first time she’d realized Isabel intended to steal away Pia’s betrothed. But she’d forgotten seeing a man named Duilio Ferreira that day.

Or, rather, he had seen her. A man who had seemed otherwise unremarkable had noticed her as a person, rather than a nameless servant. He had looked at her. She recalled wondering about him later, but he’d already gone. And then she’d forgotten all about him.

She swallowed, tasting river water on her tongue. She didn’t want to dwell on whatever had made her cast him in the dream as her mate, dressed and painted as a man of her people would have been. It was laughable. He was wealthy and a gentleman; he would never display himself in such a way. Nor would he take someone like her—a sereia, and a penniless woman who’d spied on his people—as a mate.

She’d been told for years that she would never have a mate, that she was destined for service to her people instead. Was she so unhappy with her current life as to conjure a mate from among the humans?

Oriana closed her eyes, hearing the denial spinning through her thoughts. Presented with the truth, she didn’t want to face it; the numinous thread that her people believed bound her soul to another’s—that thread of Destiny she’d always believed didn’t exist—was tied to him . She knew the way he smelled, the twist of his lips when he held in some clever comment that made her wish she could blush.

She did believe in Destiny after all.

Duilio woke when water soaked through his shirt anew. The morning tide was coming in. The sun had begun to rise. Birds screeched in the rocks above them, barely visible in the fog that blanketed the shore.

He was tangled in Oriana’s arms, one of his wool-covered legs between her bare ones. Desire flushed through his body, leaving him almost painfully aroused. His left hand lay just below her breast, and for a traitorous second he wondered if she knew he’d awakened. But she had one hand loosely atop his head; she must have felt him move. He lifted his head slowly from her shoulder.

He’d awakened in a woman’s arms often enough before that it didn’t shock him. Normally this would be the moment to kiss her, to shift his body closer and move his hands to caress her. Normally it would be a good time to make love and perhaps to sleep again afterward. His body surely found that an excellent idea. Unfortunately, nothing was normal with Oriana Paredes.

So he eased himself off her and into a sitting position with a sharp mental reminder not to stare at her breasts. He coughed and moved to one side, his eyes averted. His leg ached fiercely. That helped distract him. Mystified, he peeled back his trouser leg. Blue and purple bruises wrapped his leg where the anchor line had been, crushing the little derringer in its holster against his ankle. He hadn’t realized how tightly the anchor had held on to him. And where were his shoes?

Oriana moved, drawing his eyes back to her body. She settled on her scale-patterned knees and touched his ankle. “Is it broken?”

Her hands on his skin brought his body back to full attention. Duilio felt his face go warm with embarrassment. Her wet hair hung in sand-encrusted tangles, and her eyes seemed deeper set with exhaustion, but she still stole his breath away, just as she had the first day he’d seen her so. He was close enough to lean in and kiss her. Instead he fixed his eyes on his leg. “I don’t think so.”