to experience the wonders of love. Kissing had been distasteful, to say the least.
After trying it, she’d had little interest in more intimate matters. Such things had seemed vulgar and common. So she’d come to the age of nineteen with her virtue intact and little knowledge or concern for what occurred between a man and a woman in their coupling.
Even when she thought of being married, she never considered the actual act of consummation. Marriage meant running a husband’s home, directing his servants towards profitable enterprises and seeing that his children were well trained. That was the role of a woman. Celeste hadn’t imagined actually lying with Damian Castillo.
She fingered the bright fuchsia blossom of a vine which covered the wall, and then sank miserably down onto the bench beside it.
She tried to remember Damian’s face from the one time she’d met him, just prior to their betrothal ceremony. She wanted to think him handsome, but the leer in his eyes and the sneer of arrogance that turned his lips had made him less than attractive. She couldn’t imagine he’d be tender or gentle with her inexperience.
And yet the priest had told her she’d feel desire for him, that she must concentrate on him until that desire came.
The only thing she could imagine coming was a deepening disgust.
Now Celeste admitted her truest feelings. She was not uninterested in love or carnal matters, nor had she ever been. She knew—had somehow always known—that there would some day come one whose touch would stir her passion.
That man had come along this very morn, a man with eyes so warm she’d wanted to fall into their depths, with a form so tall and lean she’d wanted to memorize every hard angle of it. She envisaged herself kissing him and quivered with the imagined taste of him on her tongue.
When she thought of that man, she knew she couldn’t do what the priest asked. The priest was wrong. She wanted to know that man, not forget him.
She arose, a new plan forming. She would ask in the village for a tall, golden-haired Spaniard with eyes sometimes blue and sometimes green, a Spaniard with a knowledge of English and a voice rich and deep. She’d find him.
A soft clearing of a throat behind her made her shift around on the bench. “Barto,” she breathed. “It’s you.”
He moved forward until he looked down upon her, his expression soft.
She extended a hand. “Sit down here with me. I wish to talk with you.”
Celeste paused, thinking back over their voyage. At first she’d been wary of the big man, of his size, of his fierce demeanour. But he’d shown her his true self when she’d become seasick, along with Hettie and Padre Francisco and nearly half the crew. Barto had shown incredible gentleness with her then, holding her as tenderly as a child while he forced ale down, one swallow at a time.
When she’d recovered, he’d sensed her boredom and brought out books. Her eyes must have widened with anticipation, for he’d laughed. “Not all of these are in English, señorita. There are some in Spanish, too, so you might learn the tongue of your betrothed’s homeland.” Barto had seemed to enjoy her squeal and excited hug.
A few days later, when the books in English had all been read and the struggle to learn Spanish had begun to weary her, he’d brought out another gift, a simple tunic top and a pair of zaragüelles, the wide trousers worn by the sailors, sewn small enough to fit Celeste’s petite frame.
Celeste remembered Barto’s grin when she’d emerged from her quarters a short while later dressed like a seaman, her hair in a single braid down her back. “No mariner ever looked as good in those breeches as you do now, m’lady. The boatswain will have a hard time keeping the men’s minds on their duties today.”
But he’d introduced her to José Lorca just the same, and the boatswain had soon begun letting her perform duties with the rest of the men, although she’d suspected they saved only the easier tasks for her. She had grown proficient at knowing the workings of the ship, the names of its complicated machinery, and the tasks of the sailors. While Hettie had complained that no proper lady should become as golden brown as Celeste was becoming, Celeste had enjoyed the sun and the salt and the smell of the sea.
Barto seemed to know her heart, her very heart, and she gravitated towards his company. Barto was patient, and let her tag along behind him. He taught her how to knot ropes. He taught her how to play poque. He taught her sea ditties, even though a few were so ribald that she couldn’t sing them for laughing. Padre Francisco had censured him for that, but Barto had merely grinned at Celeste. She’d smiled back. A friendship had been made.
So now, as Barto took his place beside Celeste on the bench, she knew she could ask him the questions that burned in her heart. “I want to talk, Barto,” she said. “There are things I need to know, and I trust you to tell me.”
Barto raised an eyebrow. “What things?”
“I want to know more about the Castillo family. I sense…I don’t know. Something amiss, perhaps.”
Barto didn’t reply.
“I grow uneasy, although I can’t say why. On the surface, naught seems out of place. And yet…”
“Don Alejandro was right in what he said about you, that you possess a keen intelligence to go with a lovely face and exquisite form. He cares for you. You remind him of his own dear Englishwoman, his beloved Anne. Like her, you are warm, emotional, the kind of woman he’s always wanted for his son.”
“He said that?”
“Sí, señorita, he did. And, coming from Alejandro, that’s a compliment indeed. In all the years I’ve known him, he’s never been one to carelessly give affection. Anne won his love and she’s worthy of it. But you…you’ve won his heart in a different way altogether.”
Celeste smiled. “I like Don Alejandro. When I came to Spain I was anxious about what I would find, whether I’d be welcomed by the Castillo family, and whether I’d find my future husband an old man, plagued by gouty legs and a pox-kissed face. But Don Alejandro and Doña Anne were kind, and Damian…well, he’s not old and not gouty, and if his face has been kissed, then ’twas not the pox which did it.”
Barto laughed. “You’re pleased to marry him, then?”
“I suppose.” Celeste shrugged a delicate shoulder. “Our two kings favour the match.”
“Aye, but you still have the final decision. No man, not even a king, can force a maiden to wed. With your wealth, you could remain unmarried if you so chose.”
Celeste toyed with a blossom. “I need this marriage, Barto.”
Barto met her gaze. “The Castillo family needs you, too. Alejandro and Anne long for a grandchild. An heir.”
Celeste sighed. “So this marriage will be done and the alliance made, if we’re successful in this venture.”
Barto frowned. “I don’t think we will be. I doubt Diego will be aboard our vessel when we return.”
Celeste’s breath caught. “Is he such a churl, then?”
“Nay, no churl. Not he. He’s the most upright of the Castillo family. I doubt he’ll be party to the deception, whatever the cause of it, whatever the worth of it.”
“Upright? More upright than even Don Alejandro?”
Barto laughed, the sound booming across the courtyard and down the covered porticos. “Especially Don Alejandro! You don’t yet know Alejandro Castillo well enough.”
“No?”
Barto grinned, crossing his massive arms in front of his chest. “Let me clarify. Alejandro’s a good man. He always has been. But he’s also been…unorthodox at times.”
“He doesn’t seem so to me. Quite the opposite.”
“He’s