24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

"To Eros—You burn us." SapphoIsabel’s legs took her to the garden. The moon kissed the mowed grass, and jasmine fragrance lingered over the flowerbeds. Brushing her arms, she sped to the spot he favored. She wanted something from Henrique, a closure, a definition... She knew not which. A man should not look at a woman as he did and walk away.

A burst of nervous laughter escaped her throat. She had just received a proposal from the next king of Spain. Instead of pondering where her duty lay, she was ruining her slippers in search of a blue-eyed rogue. Craving his… His what? His passion? Like Ariadne and the women after her, Isabel expected more. Love. A future? Impossible. Her chest constricted until the air became scarce. It was best if she didn’t love him. She’d never been in love before. She could be mistaken. This discomfort in the pit of her stomach every time he came near, this appeal to fluster and amuse him... This need to learn his opinion of everything? This admiration, this desire to have him succeed at his endeavors? Maybe this wasn’t love.

He said passion and desire were but animalistic urges. Had other royalty not had to forbear such instincts? Her priority should be Alfonso’s proposal. Instead of traipsing the garden, she should write to her brother, considering the implications for his reign.

A breeze kissed her cheeks, sweeping through the olive trees. Their silver leaves shimmered in the moonlight, adding a touch of myth to the summer night.

Henrique was there. Sitting on the bench underneath Eros’ statue. He hadn’t seen her. While the god of Passion aimed an arrow at his back, she admired the broadness of his shoulders and the scruff shadowing his chin and jaw. The maleness she found offensive before now pleased her better than Canova’s craftsmanship.

Her throat closed, and words failed her. The image of the helpless cicada floated to her mind, beating her spindly legs, drowning.

He looked up, affected by the force of her gaze. “Did you enjoy flying?”

She ambled closer to the bench. “You would have known if you had stayed until the end of the play.”

“Your royal beau has a way of materializing everywhere.” He shifted, opening space for her.

Sighing, Isabel sat by his side. “I loved it. The flight.”

Part of her wanted to tell him of Alfonso’s proposal. To soothe her confusion. Strange how she came to rely on his opinions. Surrounded by watchful Spaniards, he had been her home port. The other part rebelled, afraid he might advise her to marry the prince like a dutiful princess should.

“Your engineering skills are superb.”

He turned and stared at the Eros statue for a few heartbeats. Spirits scented his breath, and a new hardness shaped his jaw. “A set of cogs and pulleys… Theater tricks, nothing special.”

If she were bolder, she would massage the pleats on his forehead and tell him how wrong he was. It bothered her how he dismissed his scientific pursuits.

“If this is a plot to make me flatter you, I must say you are succeeding. Shouldn’t it be you fawning over my performance?” Isabel bumped his shoulder, her lips twitching into a smile.

He gazed at her then. This seriousness of him was too intense.

He touched her lips. “Have a care with your smiles, will you?”

Isabel stopped breathing. Something thick hovered in the air between them. She feared it. If either of them acknowledged it, it would change everything. She should say good night to him and go to her room.

Drums beat a staccato rhythm, grave and mysterious. It called to mind the flamenco’s whirls and turns. She had the strange notion that beyond the palace’s garden, a torero prepared to face a bull, and the beats were the pumps of the beast’s heart.

Isabel shivered. “What is this noise?”

“It’s a fiesta. A typical Spanish celebration. Just plain people, dancing to their heart’s content.”

A woman called her name, her steps shuffling closer. It was Sophie.

“Shouldn’t you heed your chaperone?” His voice was cool, but his eyes—his eyes entranced her.

Her heart sped, and perspiration coated her arms. She could return to her room. Nothing needed to change. Still, change was as unstoppable as a bull crashing down the arena.

Isabel clasped his hand in hers. “Would you take me? To this fiesta?”

Henrique held her hand through the path leading to the village, his grip decisive and warm. They’d been holding hands since they left the garden. Isabel loved this holding of hands. Instead of fluttering her palm over a gentleman’s forearm, a damsel needing guidance, she was his partner in crime.

They stopped by a stall selling tapas. Wine bottles lined the red cloth. An aging man with a waxed mustache offered her a glass. "Sangria?"

Henrique waved the salesman away, but Isabel held his wrist.

"I want to try whatever he is offering. Spanish wine, is it not?"

She was sick of the bland French wine served in Canastra’s overlong meals.

"You don’t drink alcohol, so…"

He was about to take the glass from her hand when she beat him to it. "I avoid spirits. Wine is fermented. There is a difference. You, above all else, should know it."

He merely lifted his brows as Isabel gulped the liquid. The sangria chilled her throat and swam on her empty stomach. He drank, too. A drop sparkled in the corner of his mouth. A bolder woman would taste that lucky drop. Hand in hand, they went farther into the village. Two-story houses surrounded a circular plaza, their front stairs interlocking at different levels and angles. The geometrical design mesmerized her.

"How lovely. It’s like music in bricks," she said.

Henrique caressed the back of her hand with his thumb. "They block off the plaza and hold bullfights here, with watchers sitting on the steps."

Instead of bulls, villagers crowded the space, walking in circles. "What are they doing?"

"Courting. The men ramble clockwise while unmarried girls stroll in the opposite direction."

"How odd."

"It’s groggily effective. I’ll show you."

Isabel halted. "What if someone recognizes me?"

She still wore her costume, only a cloak concealing her skin from the night air.

He swept her with his gaze. “This has to go.” He removed her tiara and shoved it inside her reticule.

When he started combing through her coiffure, Isabel caught his hand.

"I allow no one but Sophie to touch my hair."

He grinned. "Is it because she is a Republican? The only person guaranteed not to rob your crown?"

"How did you know she was a Republican?"

"She called me Citizen Henrique. I added two and two."

Isabel glanced away. "It’s my scalp. It’s... sensitive."

"I’ll be gentle."

Isabel held her breath as Henrique unleashed her hair with deft but soft tugs. The tresses cascaded down her shoulders. She hadn’t worn it down in society since she was assigned a personal maid at the age of ten. He massaged her scalp, and she sighed deeply. Then he placed his thumbs at the base of her neck, pressed up, and circled the sore spots from the pins. A moan escaped her lips, and she closed her eyes, leaning on him and listening to his heart drumming. If a person could inhabit a single moment for the rest of her life, reliving it for eternity, this would be hers—she would gladly take up residence in the luxury of Henrique’s fingers.

"There, she’s done punishing you for the night." He kissed her strands, his breath tickling the shell of her ear.

"Do you think a different coiffure will keep me incognito?"

"The hair, no. The crown? Definitely. But you are right. You need a finishing touch." He picked a hibiscus flower.

When he brought it close to her face, she held her breath, not unlike a bride who waits for her husband on her wedding night. How foolish of her. He wasn’t denuding her. He was simply tucking a flower behind her ear. Yet, when he took a step away to inspect the results of his labor, Isabel felt naked.

"You will do. Now come, the courting awaits."

Henrique steered her towards the strolling girls. When Isabel saw the strangers twirling in circles, she planted her slippers on the cobblestones and gave him a pleading look.

He laughed and shooed her away. "It’s not an intricate diplomacy affair. Just walk."

The folk song launched with an offbeat, the pipe crying out alongside an uplifting guitar. Isabel fell into step with the other ladies.

He winked and started in the opposite direction, his attire and bearing making him conspicuous among the other gentlemen.

A girl linked her arm through Isabel’s and, laughing, pulled her into the gyrating mob.

Voices and music and shoulders and feet twirled with her. A bonfire threw cinders and sparkles high, illuminating smiling, weather-beaten faces. It all blurred when she spotted Henrique. Every inch a man’s man, he strolled among the Spaniards, not seeing her, and when they crossed paths, she felt him touching her hand. A brief, too brief, touch. Her fingers twitched, and she closed her palm as electricity ignited her skin.

She hastened her steps, wanting to see him again. When they met, he caressed her cheek, a tender, chaste caress that left her breathless and overheated.

Her legs stopped, and before she was trampled, the girl by her side pulled her along. Isabel looked behind her, but she had lost him.

Isabel counted the seconds until she would meet him. She gave a complete turn, and he didn’t appear. Her heart sped, and she went on tiptoes, trying to find him.

He circled his arms around her waist and lifted her from the ground. "Caught you."

Amid cheers and laughter from the twirling audience, he took her away from the plaza and into a shadowy alley.

Placing his hands on her cheeks, he stared down at her. Her skin tingled like she had rolled atop embers and entered a gelid cave. Isabel closed her eyes. When his wine-scented breath touched her lips, she lifted her face, a sapling searching for the sun’s warmth. For an aching moment, she stood in a dark abyss. Waiting… and then he joined her. Isabel interlaced her fingers over his neck, her pulse hammering a flamenco inside her chest. Her legs became useless maypoles, unable to move, to do no more than keep her upright. Henrique kissed with the thoroughness of the scientist, the expertise of the rake, and the passion that was his alone.

He pulled away, breathing heavily. “Isa, Isa, Isa… this is—”

"Don’t speak. I need, I need…"

He nibbled at her bottom lip and then peppered kisses over her cheeks. "What do you need, my siren princess?"

"I need another lesson."

She imagined many a maiden had been ruined by uttering much less. In silence, he guided her toward the palace. The incessant drums continued, like a desperate heart, giving the beat, excusing any behavior.

The way passed in a blur, and they were back under Eros’ statue.

Henrique caught her in his arms and knelt over the grass. Kissing her deeply, he lowered her over the bench, a maiden sacrifice to the god of love. Inhaling the spice of wet earth and daffodils, she twirled her fingers through his hair, and tugged his head closer, thirsty for his kiss. His hand explored her torso, her stomach, her hip bones. Without a corset, his touch felt real, and yet, she wanted more.

Moonlight danced in his hair, and his face was dewy with the midnight mist. He drew up her skirts. He did it slowly, possibly giving her a moment to judge the sanity of her actions. How foolish. Her sanity still spun on the plaza. A soft breeze kissed her thighs as he revealed to the night sky places that had never seen daylight.

When he found the entrance to her drawers, she sought his eyes. She would have stopped him if his gaze was jaded, patronizing, or lewd, but he seemed… awed and affected like her.

He covered her mound with his palm and trailed his finger over her outer lips. Her hips buckled shamelessly, and he chuckled.

He found that delicious spot and brushed his finger around it, a different kind of courtship than at the fiesta, but with the same dizzying effect. It wasn’t enough. Then he stopped. Isabel lifted her head to watch him. He changed position, now kneeling between her legs. The difference in height placed his face inches from her intimate parts. He caressed the fine hairs atop her mound, then sighed, her name a sweet chant on his lips. Isabel held her breath when he propped his weight on his elbows and moved closer.

"You are very pretty here." He kissed her there.

Abruptly, he slid his hands below her buttocks and lifted. Her legs fell to the sides of the bench, exposing her fully for his view. Her spine pressed against the stone bench, feet dangling without purchase. Heat rose to her cheeks, and she tried to wriggle away from him. He hushed her, and she felt his breath over her core.

“Henrique, I don’t—”

“Shhh.” Holding her firmly, he massaged her derrière. “Let me show you another way to fly.”

The moist heat of his tongue lapped at her from her entrance to her little bud of nerves. A half moan, half gasp escaped her, and she lay back. He licked her outer lips, and then he penetrated her. Her body dissolved, becoming one with the cicadas, a creature with no tangents, boundaries, or thoughts, just a waterfall of feelings. He took her tiny spot of pleasure between his teeth, suspending her between this world and the next, poised at an abyss. She undulated her hips, offering herself to him, pleading for more heat, more friction, more. Then he sucked. All her energy floated there, wet and demanding, and she cried out as pleasure burst, igniting her nerve endings.

She closed her eyes, an arm flung over her forehead, panting.

Henrique petted her mound, the caress soothing. "Good God, Isabel, you are—"

Before he could define what had just happened, she laced her arms over his neck and pulled him atop her, shifting underneath him. The drums played a primitive rhyme of seduction. The pleasure he showed her left her exhausted but oddly empty.

She bit his earlobe. "I want more. The final lesson."

"Is this wise? You are tipsy…"

He was unsure. Of all the reactions she expected from him, indecision ranked the lowest.

A single glass of sangria hadn’t muddled her wishes. "I’m not intoxicated."

"No? Lust is as intoxicating as any wine. I’ve been drunk on you since I saw you in your ridiculous Joan of Arc garb. I’m drunk on you now, drunk on your sweet breath, drunk on your scent. Drunk. And drunkards are famous for lousy decision-making."

Ignoring his reasoning, she licked his bottom lip and then his chin, tasting his brandy aftershave and the rough texture of his skin. Bolstered by his groan, she skimmed her palms over his back, tracing the ridges of his spine until she arrived at his waist.

Ending the kiss, he leaned his forehead on hers. "I promised you just a glimpse."

"A glimpse is not enough."

Why could he restrain himself so easily?

"Must we rush things? I don’t want to do this on a bench, risking discovery." He sat, shifting away from her, his expression hidden by Eros’s shadow.

The words ’I don’t want this’ rang in her ears. How foolish she had been. The prudish princess trying to tempt a rake. Her chin trembled, and she clutched her stomach. "Really, Henrique, for all your fame… You are revealing yourself to be a disappointment."

"It is not only your prince who has honor." His face hardened, and he stood up. "I will escort you back to your room."

Isabel smoothed her skirts down her unwanted legs, her cheeks heating with shame. "I know the way."