“I have no intention of leaving him,” Jessie said curtly, “but I will have to explain your actions. You see, he happens to be standing behind you right now.”

Rodrigo whirled around. His color rose. Jessie was grateful that Chase didn’t understand Spanish. She could make light of the situation because he hadn’t understood Rodrigo’s declaration.

“Just go, Rodrigo,” Jessie sighed. “I believe there is going to be another argument here.”

Rodrigo reluctantly did as she asked. But he could not look Chase in the eyes and cautiously moved around him. What could he say to him? A fine meeting for cousins!

“Why don’t you close the door?” Jessie suggested nervously when after an intolerable lapse of time, Chase had not moved an inch.

He closed the door very slowly, then walked into the room. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you give me some dire warnings earlier about improper behavior?”

“You don’t understand, Chase,” she said hurriedly.

“Yes, I understand. It’s quite clear. I am the only one forbidden the slightest indiscretion. You on the other hand are free to make a mockery of our wedding vows whenever it suits you.”

“I am not,” she replied indignantly. “And I haven’t. Damn it, will you let me explain?”

“By all means,” he said tightly. “This ought to be interesting.”

Jessie raised her chin stubbornly. “If you’re going to take that attitude—”

“Jessie, if you’d rather I let loose what I’m really feeling—”

“No! I mean, you haven’t got a single reason to be angry.” Her hand went nervously to her throat. “It’s not as if I welcomed Rodrigo’s embrace. He just got carried away.”

“And of course you didn’t encourage him.”

“Damn it, he thinks he loves me. I was as surprised as you are.”

“Surprised isn’t what I am, Jessie,” Chase returned coldly.

“What was I supposed to do?” she demanded angrily. “He heard us arguing and assumed all was not well. He wouldn’t have spoken otherwise. He had only just declared his feelings and kissed me to prove his sincerity when you walked in. I didn’t take him seriously. But I did explain to him that he was mistaken in his assumption about us, Chase.”

“Did you? What would you have told him if I hadn’t walked in, Jessie?”

“How dare you!”

“How?” Chase exploded then. “I’ll tell you how! Every damn time I turn my head you’ve got another lovesick gallant falling at your feet. First a cowpoke who takes revenge on you for your rejection. Then a Sioux warrior who would happily kill for you. A Cheyenne brave who would die to protect you. Now my cousin falls under your spell. How long was this going on before I arrived, Jessie?”

“You bastard!” Jessie stormed. “If you’re angry over what happened in Don Carlos’s room then say so, but don’t use this as an excuse to pick a fight with me.”

“I’ll get to that another time.”

“No, you won’t,” Jessie said icily. “I don’t need this kind of treatment, not in my condition. Get out of here. Find yourself another room,” she added stiffly. “This one is taken.”

Chapter 46

RODRIGO drew up the carriage and unhitched the horses they had brought with them for the rest of the journey. Jessie had the gentlest mare in Don Carlos’s stable, while Rodrigo mounted one of Don Carlos’s magnificent white Spanish-Arabians. How Jessie missed her beloved Blackstar, waiting for her with Goldenrod back in Chicago. But she wasn’t put out over having been given a tame horse. She knew she shouldn’t be sitting a horse at all, even sidesaddle and heavily cushioned as she was. She shouldn’t even have left the house, for that matter, but the way things had been between her and Chase meant she needed time away from him.

So she was on her way to Ronda to watch Rodrigo dazzle a large audience with his bullfighting skills. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the only road to Ronda hadn’t been an old mule path, inaccessible by carriage. It must have been fine for the legendary Andalusian bandits who made Ronda their final stronghold in the last great rising of the Moors against Ferdinand and Isabella. One narrow path was easy to guard. But it was a damnably difficult crossing for a heavily pregnant woman.

Jessie had been to Ronda several times already with Rodrigo and Nita over the last months, but she was just as awed as she’d been the first time she saw the town perched high above a rocky cleft that plunged three hundred feet deep. The cleft was spanned by three bridges. She had been terrified crossing the Puente Nuevo, the highest bridge, looking down at the gorge dividing the town. Far below were the other two bridges, both built on ancient Roman foundations.

In the older section of the town one could see gypsies in the streets and watch them dance the fiery and passionate flamenco. Nita proudly claimed that she could dance better than the gypsies did.

Don Carlos’s dying was never mentioned anymore. He had improved with each day since Chase’s arrival, and he left his room once or twice every day, swearing to become his old self again very soon. There was already talk of traveling, even of his returning to America with Chase and Jessie.

Chase was delighted. He was getting closer and closer to his father. In fact, the only time Jessie saw Chase act like his old self was when he was with Don Carlos. At all other times, he was coldly unapproachable.

She was beginning to think Chase never would forgive her for what had happened between her and Rodrigo. He paid no attention to her explanation. They were strangers now, it seemed. She had opened the subject several times, but he always left the room when she did. He plainly wanted nothing more to do with her.

These last months had been intolerable. In her loneliness, she’d spent more and more time with Rodrigo and even Nita. Rodrigo had never confessed his love again, but he was always attentive, always eager to please her.

So there she was in Ronda. She knew she had no business traveling, not that close to her delivery. Rodrigo thought it was perfectly safe, of course, because he was with her.

The heavy perfume of orange blossoms assailed them as they passed the gardens of Paseo de la Merced in Mercadillo, the newer section of Ronda—newer by only a few centuries. The bullring was in that part of town. Truth to tell, Jessie would rather have been in bed resting. But Rodrigo had told her so much about bullfighting and about his own skill that she’d had no heart to refuse him.

She recalled the three elements critics looked for in judging bullfighters. The style of the matador was one. It meant standing straight, firmly planted, unyielding, and bringing the bull past him with a grace that gave no ground. Mastery of the bull, controlling the animal’s every move and spinning him around at will, was the second element. The third was performing the maneuvers as slowly as possible, for the longer the time of dangerous closeness lasted, the more opportunities the bull had to change his tactics and test the matador.

Rodrigo left her alone in the stands and went to dress. She did not see him again until the opening parade across the ring, which involved all the participants in the spectacle. There were two matadors besides Rodrigo, and they all looked grand in their tight-fitting silken hose, knee-length pants, and brilliantly jeweled jackets. Most of the crowd was gaily dressed as well, the exceptionally warm weather allowing the women to wear sleeveless blouses. They wore flounced, colorful skirts, and their hair was rolled up under high combs and mantillas. But the Moorish influence was not entirely lost. Some women covered their heads and the lower half of their faces with embroidered linen, and their dresses were much more somber.

After the parade, the first bull was released and the maneuvers around him began. Then Rodrigo came out, the first matador to demonstrate his skill with the cape, and the tension increased palpably. For a while Jessie forgot her nagging backache and the overall discomfort the last week had brought her. She watched as he went through a series of passes, playing with the bull, testing the huge animal and she joined in the roar of “ole!” as the crowd cheered Rodrigo.

On her fourth “ole,” a sharp cramp made Jessie double over. There was so much more to see, the entrance of the picadors with their lances, more passes by the matador, the planting of the banderillas in the bull’s shoulders, then the final playing of the bull and the killing. But Jessie was going to miss all of it. She hoped she was mistaken but another cramp dispelled that hope.

She had to get out of here before the crowd dispersed and knocked against her. It wasn’t easy going, having to stop every few minutes to let a cramp pass then continue slowly. She felt like a huge cow.

She didn’t know where the hell she was going or what she was going to do when she got there. Why wasn’t Chase there to help her? He should have offered to come along. This was his baby, damn it. He should be there to take charge, to scold, to say he had told her not to make the journey, to tell her she would be all right. Where was he? Did he really hate her?

“Señora Summers!”

Jessie turned slowly, relief washing over her at the sight of Magdalena Carrasco, a woman she had met in Ronda, an old friend of Don Carlos’s. Magdalena had only to look once at Jessie’s pale, cramped expression to know what was happening.

“Where is your husband, Jessica?”

“He didn’t come today,” Jessie panted.

“And you should not have come either, ¡ Por Dios!”

Jessie nodded guiltily. “How will I get home?” She asked meekly.

“Home? Nonsense! It is too late for that. You will come with me, and I will see you settled in my house.”