building was constructed of stone and stood out from the rest. “The home of the Governor,” Barto said, leaning close. “Governor Ponce de León had it built well, for he anticipated problems with Diego Colón, son of the Admiral. They both laid claim to the title of governor.”
“Has there been trouble?” Celeste asked.
“Aye, a bit, though the Crown kept violence from erupting by choosing Ponce de León over Colón. But the ill will lingers between the two men yet, or so I hear.” Barto made a sweeping gesture and faced her with a sardonic grin. “And all for this nondescript mudhole where the mosquitoes will either kill you or make you wish for death.”
Padre Francisco joined in, his lean, ascetic face animated. “Ah, but the mud glitters here, Barto, don’t forget that. The promise of gold has made many an old friend into an enemy.” He shrugged. “Though that promise, too, has proved a disappointment. Little gold has been found, despite the blood spilled for it.”
Celeste nodded, wondering about Diego Castillo and his reasons for coming to this land. It couldn’t have been the desire for gold, not with all his parents’ great wealth. But he’d come. Why?
She had far too many questions about Diego Castillo. It had seemed odd that she’d lived among the Castillo family for months and had never heard of this twin brother until Damian’s abduction. Even then, his parents had seemed strangely reluctant to talk about this mysterious twin.
Ten years. He’d been gone for ten years. What kind of man would not return to his family once in ten long years? She feared the answer to that question.
The Captain soon returned with good news. “The Saviour has seen fit to bless us today, my friends,” he said. “One within knew our man. Diego Castillo lives on an encomienda nearby. You can find your way there before nightfall.” A look of pleasant surprise passed between Barto and Francisco.
Celeste nodded, tension strumming through her gut. He was here. She’d found him. Even before sunset of this very day she might have met Diego Castillo and explained her need. She prayed he’d be willing to help, already half afraid that he would not. And yet she had to convince him. There was so much at stake. She’d try anything, promise anything. Almost anything.
The narrow streets of Caparra were primitive, but Celeste soon realized things could be worse. The rutted courses of mud which passed into the countryside made even the puddled streets of the town seem decent by comparison.
Now the cart had stuck again. This was the third time they’d halted to push the cumbersome vehicle out of sucking mud. Celeste climbed out with a groan of frustration, lifting her skirts nearly to her knees without care for propriety. Padre Francisco took up the reins while Barto eased his way through the muck to put his strong shoulder to the back of the conveyance. “Hettie,” Celeste said, turning to her maid. “While the men push the cart out, I need to relieve myself. There in the forest. Nay, don’t climb down. You’ll soil your skirts. I won’t go far.”
Hettie nodded. “Be careful, love. And hurry. It shouldn’t take long to get the wheels on solid ground again.”
Celeste entered the gloom of the trees with trepidation. This island was so lush that she expected to find herself in a tangle of underbrush. Surprisingly, the trees grew tall and the forest floor was passable. She sought out a sheltered place to answer nature’s call, then looked around at the beauty, so different from the forests of England, even more vastly different from the dry plains that surrounded Seville. Curious, she eased farther into the wood, smiling at the coolness, enjoying the heady fragrance of vividly coloured tropical flowers. She breathed in deeply, comforted by the scent of vegetation, of rich, moist earth and…water?
She moved forward and soon heard the roar. Moments later she stood on an outcropping of rock, looking down at a froth of rapids below. She sighed with disappointment. She’d wanted to cool her skin, wash her face. But the water was too far down and much too rapid.
She held her place for a moment, mesmerized. As she turned away an exquisite blossom nearby caught her eye, vibrant pink with streaks of peachy orange. She thought of Jacob. He loved flowers. He’d often picked bouquets of daffodils for their mother.
Jacob needed beauty. The physicians had said so. He could have it if she pressed this unusual bloom for him. Maybe she could reach it. It grew on a vine only slightly above her head. She swiped at it without success.
She tucked her lower lip between her teeth and tried again. Her fingertips grazed the delicate blossom, but it remained stubbornly out of reach. She jumped, then jumped again, realizing just as she snared her prize that the earth beneath her feet had shifted, carrying her towards the edge of the cliff on a rolling wave of pebbles. The blossom was crushed, then lost in a nightmare of blurred motion. She sought anything to grasp—vines, roots…nothing! There was no solid earth beneath her feet, only the tumbling of slippery rock and the edge, the very thinnest edge, of the cliff overlooking the water.
She fell in slow motion, her arms winding like fragile windmills, her body tipping forward even as her mind screamed. No! Oh, dear God, no!
She saw water beneath her before she plunged into the soundless depths of it. For a moment she hung within it, then rose again into sound and air. Down, up again, constantly shoved between the deep green-blue of the river, the green forest, the blue sky.
The current caught in the heaviness of her skirts. She was hurled forward into white froth, then dragged below into dark silence.
She bobbed up, gasping. Stones slammed against her ankles and her elbows, and scraped roughly against the tender pads of her fingertips. She screamed as she was flung towards a huge boulder. Somehow she managed to avoid it. She was sucked backwards into the eerie silence of water, then just as quickly rushed forward towards turbulence again, helpless to stop herself from hurtling downriver.
I will die and no one will know. Oh, God, don’t let me die.
Then, as if God had truly heard the petition, someone was there, someone of flesh and blood with strong arms. Someone made of warm muscle and sinew. Those arms lifted her, pulling her through the noiseless depths and through the froth, pulling her up into air and light and sound. Masculine arms closed tightly about her.
They reached the bank, dripping. Celeste could only cling to him, burying her face into the throbbing pulse of his neck—shaken, trembling, aware now of a thousand chaotic sensations. The tendrils of her hair clinging to his skin. The prickling of scraped places. The heavy breathing that meant she lived. And the breath of her rescuer, hot and harsh against her neck.
He spoke to her in Spanish, in between gulps of air. “Está bien?” he asked.
She could not answer, not yet.
He shifted her slightly in his arms so he could see her face. “Está bien?” he repeated, the tone more worried, more forceful.
“I’m sorry,” she said, gasping. “I don’t speak much Spanish.”
“Are you all right?” he asked, in her English tongue, the enunciation clear but accented in a heavy, sensual way that made something burn within her. Or maybe it was the voice. So deep. So rich with concern.
“Aye, I’m fine,” she managed to say between gulps of air. She pushed her hair out of her eyes.
Celeste wasn’t sure what she noticed first, whether it was the rigid planes of his jaw or the clear blue-green
