Читать книгу Tempted By Innocence - Lyn Randal - Страница 10

Chapter Four

In his dream he was a man, and not a priest. Diego looked down and the robe was gone. He felt for the heavy weight of the crucifix. Gone, too. He saw his bare feet, his wiggling toes against cool leaves, then his knees and thighs, and realized with delight that he was naked.

The water he entered was still and cool, but she was there, her skin warm against his. She slid against him and his breath caught. “Celeste,” he said. “Don’t. It will only make matters more difficult.” He closed his eyes, already aware of the tingling heat of his loins.

She was a water nymph, a spirit as free as time, as warm as earth. She was a fairy with coppery locks that wrapped around him and pulled his body against hers.

Then he kissed her, tasted the carnal innocence of her mouth and groaned. “I want you, Celeste. I want you,” he said against her wet lips, and felt his manhood push aside the water, push aside the flesh, push into her tight, hot sheath…

Diego awoke just as his body betrayed him.

He closed his eyes and let the forceful spasms subside, let his breathing return to normal and his tense muscles relax again.

It had been a dream. Just a dream.

He groaned, feeling shame even though he knew it was irrational. Feeling he’d betrayed his priestly vows.

Even though a priest was a man.

That was the problem. He was a man—a virile, healthy specimen, with all a man’s innate drive to pursue, to conquer, to mate. A man who’d kissed his brother’s betrothed for reasons he couldn’t begin to understand, and who had liked it enough to want more. God help him, he did want more.

Diego smoothed his hands down the front of his robe and sighed. It was good to feel like a true servant of the Lord again. The events of the previous day, the disturbing dreams of the preceding night—what were they compared to the coarse, familiar feel of this robe? Especially when, like today, he had work to do—important, satisfying, soul-cleansing work.

The family of Juan Carlos awaited him in their tiny peasant hut on the far ridge overlooking the valley. His prayers were urgently needed; Juan Carlos was desperately ill. Diego also had coin from the poor box to relieve the hunger of the wife and four small children. Beyond prayer and food, he could do no more. Miracles were still the realm of God.

But when he stood before their dwelling he found there was more he could do. The small garden Juan Carlos had planted was neglected and sadly overgrown. Not only that, but the family’s lone milk goat helped herself to it freely, her eager mouth nipping the tender tops off of whatever poor, struggling plants remained.

This was charity he could do. He set to work clearing the weeds from the small plot. This was charity to benefit their most urgent needs—aye, and his own as well. The hard labour would drive the sinful folly of the previous day from his mind.

Here, sweating in the escalating heat, he could even imagine that the raw desires of yesterday had been but a strange aberration. His life would now return to normal, with his days spent in service to the people of Ricardo’s encomienda and in the prayers and study that strengthened the soul.

It was peaceful, his life, if somewhat predictable, with time measured from Mass to Mass and from each holy day to the next—and if in his inmost being he sometimes found himself longing for something more, he reminded himself that he’d chosen this course for his life, no one but he. He concentrated on its rewards, like the gratitude he’d seen in the face of Juan Carlos’s wife, and the timid smiles of admiration on the faces of their dark-eyed children. Or the satisfaction he’d felt as he’d left them, looking back at the neat rows of plants, cleared now of strangling weeds and surrounded by a fence he’d contrived of sapling poles lashed together with vines.

By the time he left them it was well past midday. He was tired from his labours, and hungry. He’d grown hot and dripped with sweat.

Plunging into the river would go a long way towards refreshment, even without soap or towel, and he headed for it.

It helped his body feel cooler, but also brought to mind the disturbing images he’d worked all morning to set aside. Celeste, warm and womanly in his arms. Celeste the water nymph, her ripe curves sliding provocatively against his own. Celeste the innocent, her lips moist and pliant beneath his kiss.

He left the river with a growl of frustration, shaking wetness from his hair. A large, flat rock nearby usually held his towel, but today he’d have to let his skin dry by sun and wind. Even out of the water, his thoughts had no respite, for as he looked down at himself, sprawled naked upon hard stone, he saw again the admiration in Celeste’s face when her eyes had traced his form.

What madness had seized him? It was insanity, most surely, and he’d come too far to let himself be waylaid by it.

It helped to think of this as a moral test. Lust had been his downfall before. Now it was being presented to him again. His faith was being tested, his resolve tried by the carnality of his flesh. When he thought of that, he was strengthened in his determination to subdue his impulses and conquer his own baseness.

It was only when he thought of Celeste that the whole image fell apart. She was not the brazen temptress it demanded. She was, instead, refreshingly innocent, with scarcely any knowledge of what occurred between a man and woman. A virgin just awakening to the beauty of her own sexuality.

Awakened by him.

And, because he had absolutely no idea what to do about that, he climbed down from the rock, donned his still-damp robe and his sandals, and headed for his tranquil cell. Spending his afternoon in prayer might quiet the confusion and provide the way out of this maze.

Padre Francisco came in the late afternoon. Diego heard his sandalled feet shuffling against the stone floor and raised his eyes from his books just as the elder priest slipped into the seat beside him.

“I knew I’d find you here,” Francisco said.

Diego studied his face. The man had aged, but his grey eyes were as gentle as always. “Aye, a priest should spend time before the altar of God,” he answered. “I learned much from you, Padre.”

“You must have, Diego. I was rather surprised to see the priestly garment upon you last night. I didn’t know.”

“No more surprised than I was at seeing you and Barto. It was rather a shock to have my past so suddenly become my present.”

Francisco chuckled. He gestured with a slight wave of his hand. “You look good. Healthy.” He motioned towards the book Diego held. “Studying, I see. That’s good. Don Ricardo says you’ve been a fine priest.”

Diego shrugged. “Ricardo’s a good man and a faithful friend. He makes sure I have all I need. This land is primitive, but there are many opportunities to serve. The native people here knew nothing of the Lord Jesus, and nothing of Spanish ways. Sad to say, they’ve suffered at the hands of some of our countrymen. The friars and priests here try to mitigate the evil. Perhaps it’s helped. I hope so. I long to give something of value back to the world.”

Francisco was quiet for a moment. “Is that why you entered the priesthood? Do you serve God to undo the deeds of the past?”

“What do you mean?”

Francisco studied the younger man’s face. His expression was compassionate. “Diego, my son. For ten long years you’ve wandered in the wilderness.”

The words—so quiet, so gently spoken. Yet they sliced Diego’s heart. He closed his eyes.

“All the service you render, all the masses you say, all the good you do… It won’t bring her back.”

“I know, Padre,” Diego answered, his voice sounding odd. He raised a hand to cover his eyes.

There was a long silence. Francisco leaned near, his voice not much more than a whisper. “Diego, listen to me. All have sinned. All men fall far, far short of God’s standard. And we can’t any of us make it up by our deeds.”

“I know. I preach this to the people. I know these things.” Diego drew a deep breath and looked away. “I know them.”

“Yet you’ve not trusted in them.”

Diego’s head jerked round. “I’ve not trusted in them? Good Lord—I’ve given my life to them!”

Francisco shook his head. “Youpreachthegraceof God. You teach of his compassion towards repentant sinners. Yet you…you walk in the guilt of the past. This is not trusting, Diego.”

“You don’t know this. You don’t know me. For ten years, ten long years, I’ve been as one dead. You didn’t know where I was or how I fared or even if I yet lived.”

“I didn’t know where you were, that’s true. Yet in my heart I knew you lived, that you prospered. I believed in my own answered prayers, perhaps.”

“You knew a boy of eighteen years, Padre. You don’t know the man he became. You’ve not seen me, haven’t spoken with me. Yet you come here, sit beside me now, and tell me I don’t belong in the priesthood?”

“Aye. Though it sounds strange to your ears, Diego, I don’t think you do.” Francisco rubbed the tension from the back of his neck with a large hand. “You wanted to be an artist. Do you not remember that? You had the talent. No one had the same eye as you, the same hand as you, the same ability to put ink to paper and create a world of feeling that never existed before.”

“That was long ago. My life changed. It had to.”

“Aye, some things had to change. But, Diego, God never meant you to live with unresolved guilt. I told you this when you came to me, when you confessed your sin.”

“Leonora was dead.”

“Aye, she was.”

“And my child with her.”

“I know, Diego.”

“And all my tears and a few Pater Nosters wouldn’t undo the evil I’d done.”

“Diego, their deaths were not your fault.”

“Oh, the hell you say!” Diego stood abruptly, his fists clenched. “I didn’t kill them, no. Not directly, not with this—mine own hand!” He wheeled and faced away, struggling to breathe, struggling to think, struggling not to race down the aisle and slam his palms against the weighty oak door on his way to somewhere else, anywhere else.

After a moment of deep breathing, he managed to sound calmer. “No, I didn’t kill them outright. But it was my sin, Padre. My sin!” He turned and crumpled into the seat. “How could I have done it?”

“You were young, Diego. She was young.”

“I loved her.”

“Aye, and she loved you.”

“She was betrothed to Damian.”

“But she loved you.”

“I took what was not mine to take.”

“The sin wasn’t yours alone. She gave you the right to take it.”

“And she paid for it, Padre. How completely and utterly she paid for it.”

“And you didn’t?” Francisco’s brow creased with such compassion that he was nearly in tears. “Diego, what have you been doing for ten long years if not paying? Sweet merciful Jesus, what are you doing now if not paying?” He waved his hand towards the robe Diego wore, towards the cross on the wall. “What is all this if you aren’t still paying, paying for a sin that’s already been forgiven?”

“You don’t understand.”

“I do, Diego. I do. More than you know.” Francisco looked off, as if his thoughts travelled far beyond the walls of the small sanctuary. “Do you remember the night you came to me?”

Diego swallowed hard. He’d tried to forget Leonora’s message, the wild ride that had followed, the realization that he’d come too late. He’d tried to forget the blood, the sight of Leonora lying still and lifeless, the silence—and, in it, the rending of his heart.

How he’d got back to the chapel… He could never remember that part, only the strong arms of the priest catching him as he fell, the truth tumbling out over shuddering lips, the violence of sobbing, both his and the Padre’s. The rest, a blur. His parents, their faces pale. Their hands trembling as they placed the purse of gold into his and their voices telling him to go, to ride, to wait until they knew Damian would not kill him.

He’d tried, tried to forget that night. And for ten years it had haunted his dreams, had breathed the poison of sadness into every moment of joy. Oh, how he’d tried to forget.

And now, sitting here so quietly with the Padre, all he could say was, “Aye, I remember.”

“I told you my story, that I knew your pain. For in my youth I also sinned. I have a son, Diego. Unlike your child, mine was born, but he was not whole. He was…is…crippled. Helpless, his mind feeble. The child of my lust.” He turned a look of patient understanding towards the younger man. “And it’s taken me years to realize the truth, that I joined the priesthood to ease my guilt because my son, my poor son, carried in his marred body the penalty of my sin. In some deep part of my soul I needed to do penance, I wanted to suffer.” He held out his arms. “This robe, this crucifix of silver about my neck, my vow of chastity—these were my self-imposed punishments, although I didn’t see that at the time. Nor has it helped, Diego. It hasn’t helped.”

He reached out and plucked at Diego’s garment. “I see the same struggle now within you, and I must tell you, before you get too far down this road, that this is not the way.”

“Leave me alone, Padre.”

“Guilt is a brutal gatekeeper, my son. I know.”

Diego looked away, his jaw tightening. “Leave me alone, Padre.”

“There’s a better way, Diego.”

Diego’s head jerked upward; his eyes narrowed. “What do you know about it—or me? Perhaps I enjoy what I do, perhaps I find peace in it, perhaps—”

“Aye, you’ve found some comfort in it; I doubt it not. But you’re not completely at peace, are you? There are times when that robe chafes, times when that crucifix feels like a prisoner’s chains. You can’t fool me, Diego, not me.”

Diego drew in a sharp, exasperated breath. “Blessed Mother of God!”

“You still long for home, for resolution. You miss your parents and you grieve over the broken relationship with your brother.”

That cut to the bone. Beneath the swift stroke into tender flesh Diego could not speak, only stare, his eyes burning.

Francisco cleared his throat. “’Tis time you made those things right. Return with me to Spain. Do as your parents have asked.”

“That would be deception, Padre. To pretend to be my brother? To wed the girl in his name? A lie. It seems wrong to me.”

“Nay, Diego. What is wrong is you here, far from your home and family, an exile from all you ever held dear. What is wrong is you here, wearing robes of the priesthood for reasons that demean the sacred. What is wrong is bearing the guilt—”

“And there wouldn’t be guilt from this action, too? That girl…and Damian? Just to think of it makes me writhe. She’s young, her innocence a fragile thing.”

Diego raked his fingers through his hair. “Padre, you know Damian. He’ll not treat her kindly. He’ll not love her. Will this marriage be good for her? Nay, it will not! How could I feel anything but guilt over my part in it? I cannot do this.”

Francisco drew in a long, deep breath. “In some things you’ve changed, Diego, but in this you have not. You yet think with your heart. It’s why I love you, why Leonora loved you.”

Francisco stroked his chin with a thin finger. “I shouldn’t question the ways of God, but sometimes I do wonder why Damian was born the heir and you were not.” He shook his head. “It’s true that Damian is unworthy of the girl. She is beautiful and full of goodness. She’s loving, kind towards others, exuberant and joyful. She has much that would please a normal man—a keen mind, a sharp wit, and a form…ah, a wondrous form for a man to touch. But Damian won’t cherish those virtues. I know that. His taste is too vulgar. Whores, harlots, and worse, for now there are boys—”

Diego held up a hand. “Enough. Tell me no more.” He turned abruptly to face the other man. “What I need to know is this—how can your conscience be at ease with the thought of giving her to him?”

“Because I’m thinking of your parents. They suffered great pain when you left. They’ve suffered daily ever since.”

The muscle in Diego’s jaw tightened. “I know. It grieves me yet.”

“They know what Damian does, what he is. They’ve little hope he’ll ever change and be worthy of his fine lineage. Their hope now is for the future.”

“They want a grandchild.”

“Aye, they do. Their hope of redemption.” Francisco drew in a long sigh. “Is that not God’s way, my son? That even in the darkest evil there’s always a remnant of virtue, a seed of hope for the future? The seed of your parents’ hope lies with Celeste. They’ve come to love her, Diego—for her virtue and her pluck, for her loving heart and her kind ways. They hope that a child of her womb might have her qualities, rather than those of his sire.”

“I’m not convinced Celeste wants Damian.”

“I doubt she does. She’s intelligent enough to sense the evil in him. Yet she has little choice. Her kinsman is the King of England and he’s committed her to this course.”

Francisco crossed his arms before his chest, his gaze solemn. “Diego, she will wed Damian, whether you aid us or not. Your help only hastens the enterprise and eases the hearts of your parents. Should you choose against it, the nuptials might be stayed, but they will not be stopped. You do understand this?”

Diego nodded, but said nothing.

“Damian will be found—indeed, might have been ransomed already for all we know. We might return to Spain only to find the entire voyage unnecessary. However, your intention to do this for him, for your parents, will restore you to your rightful place within the family. It will show your brother your sorrow for the past.”

Diego snorted. “As if he’ll appreciate that. As if he’ll forgive. How am I to know he won’t make good his threat to kill me?”

“Ten years have passed. His anger has cooled. He has no reason now to feel threatened by you. He has the title, he has the wealth, and he has the girl. He has it all. What have you, Diego, beyond this robe you wear and this vow you’ve made? Indeed, he’ll view you with disdain…with pity, even. But he’ll let you be.”

Diego breathed in deeply. “I’ll think on all this, Padre. I promise you nothing but that.”

Padre Francisco smiled. “That is enough for now, Diego. ’Tis enough.”

Celeste knew Barto had probably thought her request odd, but still he complied. By the time he’d received her message and met her at the stables, she had horses saddled and ready.

Barto’s expression was a mixture of curiosity and bemusement as she handed him the reins. “Here,” she said. “I chose this gelding for you myself. He’s large and powerful, but his disposition is one of gentleness. Rather like you, Barto.”

Barto grinned, pulling his large frame up into the saddle. “I don’t know about that, señorita. Few others have found me tame, but when it comes to you, I’m foolishly twisted around the crook of your smallest finger.”

Celeste smiled up at him, then mounted her own horse, a smaller black mare. “The crook of my finger? I doubt that. Yet I do thank you for coming to ride with me. I need your advice.”

Barto glanced at her sideways. “My advice? You wouldn’t rather have that of good Padre Francisco?”

“Nay, Barto. Padre Francisco would likely shake his head and censure me for my honest questions. You, on the other hand…”

“I, on the other hand, have no room for censure, is that it? Most interesting, this, if it’s my heathenish advice that’s warranted.”

“I need to talk, Barto. I have questions, but no father and no mother from whom to solicit advice.”

“You have Don Alejandro and Doña Anne.”

“Aye, and most especially I could not say these things to them.”

Barto raised an eyebrow. “This must be serious indeed.”

“Aye. I know not how to ask even you. I shall have to be direct. Surprisingly so, I fear.”

“I guessed as much,” he said with a sigh. “You’ve questions such as any maiden would have, considering her tender state of pending matrimony.”

Celeste’s cheeks flamed, but she nodded. “You are wise, Barto. Or else I am too easily read, like a book whose plot is overly familiar.”

“Nay, there’s nothing wise about me or overly familiar about you. Yet truly hath it been said that the most necessary things of life are air to breathe, water and food for subsistence, and a lover with whom to sport. Since air is not your problem, and you eat little more than a cat, I figure the worry in your eyes has mostly to do with the lover, or the sporting, or both. Do you grow disturbed about becoming wife to Damian Castillo?”

“Aye. I do not much cherish the man and dread all I must perform.”

“You’ve no wish for him to bed you?”

Celeste nodded.

“Well,” Barto said. “’Twill not be the most awful thing you’ve ever done, certainly. And, like I said, you can forget him and all further intimacies once an heir is born.”

“I can’t do it, Barto. He’ll find me dreadfully inept. I know so little.”

Barto smiled. “I promise you, it won’t be a problem. A man prefers that his wife be inexperienced. Indeed, most men relish the thought of such tutoring as that would require. Trust me. What happens between a man and woman is not too difficult to figure out. It won’t seem uncommon or strange at the time.”

“I want you to explain it to me. In detail, if you please.”

“Doña Anne will do it when you return, doncella. She’s a much better choice than I.”

“I want to know now. I want to know how a child is made. I know that kisses, even passionate kisses, cannot cause a woman to conceive. But how—?”

“Oh, Lord,” Barto said. “Lady Celeste, I cannot tell you these things.”

Celeste frowned. “You can. You’ve lain with women. I heard the Padre say you’ve—”

Barto groaned. “I can’t deny that, but neither can I explain it. Not to you.”

“Aye, Barto, you can.”

“Sweet heavens,” Barto said. “Sweet heavens. I can’t—”

“If I wished to arouse a man, how would I do it?”

Barto shook his head. “I promise you, señorita. With your fair looks, your husband’s arousal won’t be a problem.”

Celeste frowned and chewed at her lip. “What I most want to know is…how far must one go before a child is conceived?”

“One must go…rather far.”

“How far? Will I conceive if I am touched by him…there?”

“Señorita, please. I think, if you must know these things now, that I will find an older woman who—”

Celeste’s scowl was fierce. “I am asking you, Barto, and don’t pretend you do not know! Just how intimate will I have to be with this man before I conceive his child?”

“Oh, no,” Barto groaned. “Oh, no.”

“Will he have to touch me in private places?”

“Aye.”

“And will he…?” Celeste took a deep breath. “Will he have to do more than that?”

Barto nodded. “Aye, if a child is to be made.”

There was a long silence.

Celeste saw it all. She was not sure of all the intricacies, but her imagination provided her with enough understanding for now.

“I cannot marry Damian Castillo,” she said quietly.

Barto looked worried. “Señorita, I know that here in the harsh light of day the act of which we’re speaking sounds unspeakably unpleasant.”

Celeste wanted to scream. No, no, it wasn’t the act that sounded unpleasant, only the man. In fact, were she to lie in such fashion with the… Oh, sweet merciful heavens, he was a priest!

“I know it sounds unseemly and crude,” Barto said. “In reality,’ tis not the way. It can be nice. Very nice. You’ll see.”

They rode in silence for a while. Finally Celeste spoke. “In Spain, I never thought much about being a wife in those ways. I thought marriage was what I wanted. But I’ve come here and now I shudder at that which I must do.”

Barto glanced at her. “Perhaps when we return to Spain all will right itself. Your time here will seem distant then, like a dream.”

“Perhaps.” Celeste looked down, her eyes misting. “Perhaps my discontent is merely due to this island’s loveliness, to the softness of the moonlight here, to the warmth of its nights. It makes me…”

“It makes you long for love.”

Celeste sighed. “I suppose. I do long to be loved.” To admit that sounded strange, but it was true. She hadn’t felt loved since her parents had died. Maybe that was why she understood why Jacob never spoke, why happiness never touched his eyes. Maybe that was why she felt so compelled to make a family for him again. She looked away quickly, and wondered if Barto saw her tears. “I want to be loved,” she repeated softly. “Now I wonder if I shall ever know it.”

Barto looked down. He said nothing.

Celeste remained silent during the rest of their ride. She could not admit, even to Barto, that she ached for a man with blue-green eyes and tawny hair. A man she could not have.

“I can’t imagine why you’re going to do this,” Ricardo said as he clipped another lock of hair with shears and laid it on the table.

Diego met his gaze. “Do what? Cut my hair?”

Ricardo held up a thick shock of gold. “Maybe I should save these curls, Diego. That way, if you’re ever canonized, people will make pilgrimages from all over the world to see the relics of my humble little shrine. Could be a worthy way to make some money.”

Diego shook his head. “You’re forgetting something. Most of those saints had to be martyred or some such thing before they were so honoured.”

Ricardo sighed and clipped at another curl. “True, true. Though I wonder if you aren’t hastening towards your cross with desperate speed.”

Diego frowned.

“I can hardly believe you’ve chosen to return to Spain. Did your brother not say he’d kill you if ever your paths crossed again? And did he not attempt it once before?” Ricardo pushed at Diego’s jaw to tilt his head, then drew his hand back sharply. “Ouch!” he said with a grimace. “Damn at the whiskers! Two days of not shaving and you’re as woolly as a lion!”

Diego shrugged. “Damian has a beard. I have to look the part, don’t I?”

Ricardo grunted. “I don’t suppose you’ve considered how dangerous it could be to play his part. A bastard like your brother has probably made his share of enemies. His enemies, your enemies… And yet you’re going back into harm’s way, all because some little snip of a wench asked it of you?”

“I’m not doing it for Celeste. In fact, I don’t think she much favours the match.”

“Not if she’s a sensible girl, and she does seem to be.” Ricardo clipped and combed, stepped back to look, then clipped again. “So why are you doing this?”

“I owe it to my brother.”

“Like hell. You don’t owe that idiot anything. If he’d treated Leonora like a gentleman should—”

“It wasn’t his fault that she…that we…”

“I say it was. She was betrothed to him long before she met you. If he’d been kind and loving, there wouldn’t have been room for you.”

Diego frowned. “Forget it, Ricardo. The past is done. But perhaps I can make up to him what I did then…make it up to my parents.”

“And what of Celeste? She seems much too dear to be so cruelly sacrificed.”

Diego was silent.

“That bothers you.” Ricardo nodded. “Well, maybe it should.”

“It does. I can’t deny it.”

“Then you need to listen to the voice of God or your conscience or whatever it is that’s telling you not to do this.”

“I’ve tried. But there are other things to consider. My father, my brother’s life, and Celeste’s own wishes. She says she needs this marriage. She needs it.”

Ricardo nearly dropped the shears, causing Diego to rise in his chair. “Cuidado, amigo!” he cried out. “You could unman me with such carelessness!”

Ricardo shook the shears at him. “You’re a priest, Diego. You’ve little use for all your parts, even if you should lose a few.”

Diego sat down again, shaking his head. “When I’ve finished this masquerade, I’ll find another position where I’m not so abused.”

Ricardo laughed. “I do abuse you sorely, I know it. Yet you’ll deserve all of it and more if you help marry the sweet doncella to Damian. But you say she needs the match? Whatever for? I can hardly see our little Celeste as the sort to desire gold at the expense of her happiness.”

“She says wealth is not the object. I would be disappointed in her if it were.”

Ricardo worked on in thoughtful silence, finally snipping through the last tawny curl before handing the looking glass to Diego. “Are you disappointed that she’s marrying him, or disappointed that she cannot be yours?”

Diego studied his hair, rubbed a hand through it and across the coarse stubble of his new beard. He stopped upon hearing the question, his eyes narrowing, and stared at Ricardo’s reflection in the glass. “What sort of question is that?”

“The sort of question only a friend would dare ask.”

Diego lowered the looking glass. “I don’t want her to marry Damian. But she certainly couldn’t marry me, now could she?”

“There are other roads besides marriage, Padre. And sometimes even priests tread them.”

Diego scowled. “Ricardo, if you weren’t my friend I’d lay you out cold for that, priest or no.”

“Then you won’t mind if I try to bed the girl?”

Diego stiffened, unable to control the involuntary reaction even though he was mindful that Ricardo watched him with a relentless stare.

“I cannot, as your priest, condone such immoral behaviour. And she is to wed my brother.”

“Aye, she is.” Ricardo sighed. “That’s what’s so tragic, Diego. Such a fair little maiden, never to be loved by a man, never to be pleasured until she loses herself in ecstasy. Merely a container for your brother’s seed. God, what a waste.”

“I agree. Yet she has chosen the path herself.”

“One of us should love her. Just once. So she’ll know the joy of true passion.”

“Ricardo…”

“I know she’s virtuous, but I doubt not that if it were put to her right she’d lie with one of us.”

“I should geld you for these things you speak.”

Ricardo laughed. “Ah, you do well, Padre. You hide your feelings well. They were but the palest glimmer in the dark, dark blue of your eyes.”

Diego stood, rubbed the tension from the back of his neck, and studied his friend. “You talk foolishness, Ricardo.”

“Nay, I do not. Were you not bound by your vows, you would have already made love to her.”

“She is betrothed to my brother.”

“And yet you have already come to love her.”

Diego snorted. “Love?” he said, brushing hair from the front of his robe. “Love doesn’t come in a moment. Nor in three days. And that is all the time I’ve known the girl.”

“Well, desire, then. Hard-driving, gut-wrenching sexual desire. You do already feel that for her.”

Diego was silent.

Ricardo laughed again, the sound rankling. “You don’t have to admit it. I know well enough. I’ve seen it in the way you tense when she enters the room, in the way your eyes follow her—and in the way jealousy flitted across your face when I suggested bedding her, even though I did it only to see your reaction. Aye, you want that girl, Diego, priest or no.” His lips twisted as he held up the shears. “Are you sure you don’t want me to complete the job I almost began with these? It’s a long, long voyage to Spain, my friend, and the quarters aboard the vessel far too close and conducive to passion.”

“There will be others aboard the ship. Celeste will be well chaperoned. Trust me, I’ll not let history repeat itself. If she wishes to wed my brother, then wed him she shall. With her maidenhead intact for him to enjoy.”

Ricardo looked unconvinced. “Sins of the flesh, sins of the mind. Cuidado, mi amigo. They are not too far apart.”