“That’s often the way of a man in his youth. My own father was a rake until he met my mother.”
Barto smiled. “Ah, but there are rogues, and then there are rogues. And Alejandro was definitely one of the latter. Aye, and worse than a rogue.”
He faced her squarely, one eyebrow lifted as if he challenged her. “He was a pirate. A corsair of the Barbary coast, preying on foreign vessels and making his wealth from the misfortunes of his victims.”
Celeste’s eyes met Barto’s and saw the truth in them. He studied her carefully, waiting for indignation or outrage. She gave him neither.
She knew. Somehow she’d always known. There was something about Don Alejandro that spoke of fierceness, of boldness, of a wildness never tamed.
She looked away, plucking at the petals of the bloom in her hand. “A pirate. Did he kill people?”
“Only such as needed killing.”
Celeste frowned, trying to resolve her conflicting images of Don Alejandro. “Then the accident which left him crippled… It was not an accident, was it?”
“Nay, señorita. He was injured in a fight for an Italian nao loaded with rich cargo. We won the vessel, but our good captain lost his legs, injured by the blade of a scimitar against his spine.”
“We, Barto? You were there?”
Barto bowed slightly. “Aye, Pirate Barto at your service, m’lady. I was steward aboard Alejandro’s vessel, chosen as much for my size and the fierce aspect of my countenance as for my ability to read and cipher. Who among Alejandro’s seamen would question the quality of the rations if I’d purchased them? What man dared question his share of the captured loot if I meted it out?”
Barto thumped his chest. “I was—and am—loyal to Alejandro. He lives today because I fought my way to his side before a hideous, pockmarked Italian could finish the job of killing him. Yet I do try to be an honest man, señorita, and will not portray your future father-in-law as anything but what he is, a sinner struck down as a man in his prime, humbled by fate or Allah or God, or perhaps by whatever wickedness led him to such a vocation in the first place.”
Celeste pondered that. “Doña Anne told me not to feel sorry for him.”
“I agree. Alejandro was humbled, but he wasn’t debased, for he’s a man of intelligence and energetic will. He’s not one to bemoan his tragedy. Indeed, I doubt he gives much thought to it today.”
Celeste studied the huge Negro’s face. “You admire him, don’t you?”
“I do. There’s much about him which is admirable. Even as a pirate he was never without honour.”
There was companionable silence for long moments, each staring at the soothing fall of water in the fountain, or the riot of blooms or the shifting patterns of shade beneath the trees.
Celeste finally broke into the quiet. “Tell me about the sons. Give me the truth, plainly spoken. I’m convinced there’s much I’ve not been told.”
“What were you told?”
“That they were twins of like appearance.”
“They are similar in looks. Or at least, they were. What Diego’s appearance is today, I cannot know.”
“Are they similar in their personalities as well? Damian seems…” She struggled to express her fleeting impression. “He seems well-mannered.”
That much she could say in truth. He had been outwardly courteous, attending flawlessly to minding her chair, even though she suspected he’d used it as an opportunity to view her bosom from above.
Barto laughed, but the short sound was almost bitter. “Wellmannered,” he said dryly. “Aye, he’s well-mannered. Anne would have seen to that.”
“You don’t like him very much, do you?”
“I despise him. And now that I’m fond of you, I would that you weren’t pledged to him.” Barto quirked an eyebrow. “That’s the truth, plainly spoken.”
“Why do you dislike him?”
“Dislike? I didn’t say dislike, señorita. I said I despise him. I’d almost say I hate him, and not merely for what he did to Diego—”
Celeste held up a hand. “Hold there. What did he do?”
“It’s past, and not my story to share. For now, I’ll say merely that your novio, señorita, is a self-centred fool who’s cared for naught but wealth from his youth. The injustice is that he was firstborn and thus the heir, for he’ll never become half the man that Diego was without even trying.”
Celeste looked down. The jewels of her betrothal ring glittered in the filtered sunlight, mocking her. Tears sprang to her eyes. All her reasons for marriage suddenly seemed weak and illogical. “This man is to be my husband?”
Barto frowned. He took her hand into his larger one. “Don’t despair. He’ll not do you harm. There are those of us who love you. We’ll insist he treat you kindly, even if he’ll never love anyone but his own miserable self.”
“I don’t wish to marry such a man. Help me, Barto. Help me know what to do. I’ve learned to trust you in spite of what Padre Francisco tells me of your heathenish ways.” Her mouth quirked up. “Or perhaps because of them.”
Barto smiled and rubbed her knuckle with his thumb. “I’m honoured to have earned your trust. And now trust me in this. Alejandro and Anne already love you. They’re growing older and deserve an heir to carry on the Castillo lineage. Theirs is a very noble, very honourable name, and your children will do well to receive it. For their sakes, and for the peaceful union of our two countries, you will marry Don Damian and you will get an heir by him. But once that is done you can forget the bastard even exists.”
“Is he so awful, then?”
Barto looked away. He didn’t answer for such a long time that Celeste wondered if he’d heard the question.
He turned finally, with an expression both tender and sad. “A heathen I may be, my lady, but even heathens know when the time comes to pray. And I will pray for you that God might intervene and grant you happiness. If anyone deserves it, you do.” He dropped a kiss upon her forehead and left her alone to ponder in silence, staring past the gentle fall of water into the shadows beneath the trees.
Don Ricardo Alvarez was a generous host. Celeste could hardly believe the great quantity of food and drink he’d placed before them. She smiled at the thought that even Barto’s great hulk must claim satisfaction after such a meal, and Padre Francisco would probably need to ask forgiveness for succumbing to gluttony.
Not only was the fare ample and delicious, but Don Ricardo was an excellent host. He had appeared early to escort Celeste to the table, his doublet and hose of silver contrasting nicely with his tanned skin, blue eyes and black hair. He spoke to her in English, though very poorly, and, since Celeste had learned but a little Spanish, they managed to converse in awful broken phrases heavily punctuated with much laughter.
They strolled through the garden on the way to the large, well-furnished dining hall, and Celeste told him with mispronounced adjectives how lovely the flowers were. Don Ricardo obliged her by picking some of the more exotic blooms and giving her the bouquet, even taking one and tucking it behind her ear. Celeste might have thought the attention flirtatious, except that with Don Ricardo it didn’t seem so. Instead, he seemed friendly and kind.
The others had not yet arrived, so he took her into the kitchen and introduced her to Maria and Pablo, a Taino Indian couple in their mid-thirties. He explained in slow, careful English that Maria was his hostess and Pablo his overseer.
“Their names—no Maria, no Pablo—no true. I call this, for names true are words of Indians, words hard, hard to say,” he explained.