Spanish Serenade by Jennifer Blake Page B

waits even now, uncomplaining and burned like crisp beef, for me to come for him.”
    “You are asking for payment?” She could not keep the shock from her voice.
    “If the form can guarantee forgetfulness, it will be considered.”
    His voice was clear and cool, yet there was buried inside it a crackling edge that caught at her attention. She was silent as she listened to its echoes in her mind. It was, she thought, the sound of denied pain.
    “No, you won't do that,” she said with certainty. “You will do something, I don't doubt, but not that. After all, you are El Leon, the bandit leader they sing about in the mountains. How difficult can it be for you to defeat Don Esteban? I expect that if you exert yourself, you can preserve me and Vicente at the same time!”
    A sound like a dry laugh left him. “Who knows?” he said in slow acquiescence. “It might even be worth the effort.”
    Refugio, staring down at the woman he held, seeing no more than the pale curve of her cheek in the darkness, wanted suddenly to strip her bare. He wanted to see not her body, but her mind, wanted to know what she thought and felt and believed, and how he was placed in her view. He could do it with force and sharp, double-edged wit, but what would be the purpose? The act itself would cause change. Therefore, he must wait, must accomplish what he wanted by stealth. He would ply her with words and sweet possibilities until she revealed herself. And when his curiosity was satisfied, then he would, must, dismiss her.
    She was different. She didn't cling with lovesick entreaties, nor did she lure him with crude gestures and promises; she wanted nothing to do with him, in fact. On the other hand, she didn't shrink from him or act the coy, retiring maiden. She had strength of purpose, more than his band, it seemed, or she would not be there. She could not be bullied, and if she was frightened, refused to show it. She met his more outrageous sallies with wit and flashes of understanding that were disconcerting.
    He thought she was exactly as she had said, but could not be sure. She intrigued him, and was therefore dangerous. It was imperative that he discover everything there was to know about her. Always before, that had brought boredom and satiety. It would, pray God, again.
    When she made no answer to his taunt, he stepped back, gesturing toward the faint light that shone from the hut as an indication that they should return to its shelter. The movement was exaggerated in its gallantry, but no less sincere for that.
    Pilar moved ahead of him toward the hut. There should have been satisfaction in the fact that she had distracted him from his worry about Vicente, but she could not feel it. It seemed, instead, that she had gained not a concession, but a reprieve. There was to be no rest. Refugio, brisk with orders and exhortations, waxing acerbic and dulcet by turns and with neither mood safe to question, got them all up on their feet again and back in the saddle. Pilar thought she would be left behind, until she was directed to her horse with a stinging rebuke. They took the small chest of silver because, she surmised, their leader felt it might prove useful, and took Isabel because the young woman refused in near hysteria to remain behind again. They were far along the road, with the sun climbing ladders of pink cloud into a sky of purest cerulean, before anyone thought, or dated, to ask where they were going.
    Cadiz was their destination. Cadiz of a thousand years and ten thousand ships, where Phoenician merchants once dreamed of Tyre, where Carthaginians and Romans had saluted their dancing girls in the wine of Jerez, and where the yellow wealth of Aztec gods had been dragged ashore with grunts. Cadiz, where the sea surrounded the Alameda and the Alameda edged the houses of the town, and all was guarded by the rocky headlands of Los Cochinos and Las Puercas.
    They were headed for Cadiz, where Don Esteban was to take ship for Louisiana.
    No