Greta Gilbert - The Spaniard's Innocent Maiden

‘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 shyly.

If he indulged her this wish, perhaps she could help him with his own? Surely her tribe lived somewhere close. He did not trust her, but that did not mean he could not profit from her knowledge. He nodded and she reached out her hand and stroked his long whiskers.

She laughed softly as she tugged at the hairs, as if trying to ensure they were real. She tugged again and again. She tugged again, a bit too hard, and he caught her by the wrist.

She narrowed her big brown eyes and her smile was full of mischief.

A flood of lust ripped through his body. He wanted to kiss her again, he realised. And that was not all. Hijo de la... He released her wrist as if it were a burning coal.

No, he would not do that. He might have been a lonely, world-weary wretch, but there were some lines he did not cross. Seducing island women was one of them—whatever island this was. Even if Luisa were not waiting for him back in Spain, he still would not prey upon the innocence of this local woman or any other. It sickened him that many of his compatriots seemed to make careers out of doing just that.

Though as he stared at her lips—still red with the evidence of the kiss they had shared—he found it very difficult to think about anything but how much he wanted to feel them again, this time in full possession of his senses. He watched her gaze slide down to his own parted lips and for a moment it seemed she was seducing him.

He sat deadly still, fighting his desire for her. He reminded himself of Luisa, his one true love, waiting for him back in Spain. He would not betray her. He was responding to the lovely, sensual woman before him as any man would. But it was a response of the body, not of the heart, and it would pass.

As if in apology, she smoothed his beard with her fingers. She scooted closer, her eyes fixing again upon his lips. Would she ask to touch those, too? Part of him prayed for it.

Another part of him demanded that he come to his senses. The first Spaniard to come to these shores—a man by the name of Córdoba—had lost half his crew to a local tribe. And the explorer Grijalva who had come after Córdoba had spoken of highly advanced, warlike peoples living in every corner of this strange land.

And now Cortés had learned that there were not only Maya living in this land, but dozens of other peoples, all with their own languages and customs, all living beneath the heel of some powerful tribe called the Mexica. This sensual enchantress probably had an entire army of strange men behind her, watching from the jungle, waiting to strike.

Gently, she pressed her lips to his. He did not respond. He refused to respond, though Diós Santo, her lips were so soft. He stayed perfectly still, concentrating on the rhythmic sound of the waves, trying to remember all of the reasons why he was an honourable man.

His reticence seemed only to spur her. She kissed him with a maddening gentleness, placing small, soft pecks along the length of his bottom lip. She tasted of herbs and strange fruits, and as she placed her whole mouth on his, he found himself wishing to consume her.

He was angry at her for trusting him, for kissing him so brazenly, for flitting about his lips as if she were some bustling bird. Was this some kind of game to her? Some trifling amusement that sirens and witches played? She knew not what she was teasing awake in him.

She probed her tongue deeper into his mouth and he imagined pushing her upon the sand, ripping off her shawl and yanking up her skirt. His need throbbed powerfully beneath his breeches. He should just take her, hard and fast—give her what she so thoughtlessly asked for and show her the error of it.

No. He could not allow himself to think of such things. He was a good man. An honourable man. He would not do what his basest longings demanded. He was so caught up in resisting his desire that he did not even notice her small, stealthy fingers stealing into his pocket.

Chapter Six

She darted among the trees, changing directions to confuse his path. She had not wanted to deceive him, but she had had no choice. Treasure was treasure and a ring that big and beautiful could be presented to the Mexica in place of an entire cycle’s worth of her family’s tribute.

It was not just a pretty jewel: it was rest for her older sister’s hands, twisted from so many hours of weaving. It was relief for her younger sister’s shoulders, which had swelled like a man’s with so much grinding of maize.

For her father, it represented nothing less than time—time to commit to training the secret army of Totonac warriors, so that when the moment came to throw off their Mexica overlords the Totonacs would be ready.

She gripped the ring more tightly, then realised that she should simply place it on her finger. The heavy gem glided easily on to her thumb and she closed her fingers around it.

Treasure was treasure. She did not like that she’d had to deceive him, just as she did not like to spend her afternoons killing large numbers of birds and fish. It was a necessary evil and something impossible to explain to him. Not now, anyway. Now she could only run as fast as possible out of his reach.

Though that was proving unexpectedly difficult to do. He was surprisingly fast and agile for so large a man. While she leaped over logs and disappeared behind bushes, he followed her steadily, like a jaguar chasing a deer. She wondered if his speed was motivated by something beyond greed. Vengeance, perhaps.