The Spanish Daughter(66)

Images of Franco and Cristóbal fighting on the deck came to mind. I couldn’t allow another tragedy. If Laurent and Angélica were not going to do anything other than scream, then I would. I jumped on Del Río, wrapping my arm around his neck. He turned to me, looking more confused than angry.

“Who the hell are you?”

He stood up, with me on top of him. He was a giant and I a snail holding on to his shoulders trying not to fall. I was taller than most people here, but Del Río towered over me. He dropped me on the ground and punched my face so hard and fast I couldn’t even react.

His fist felt like a brick. Had he broken my jaw?

So now I knew what it felt like to be in a man fight. I guess I can add this to my list of experiences I never want to repeat.

Luckily and shockingly, my glasses were still in place, and apparently intact. But Del Río wasn’t done. I shut my eyes when I saw his fist coming at me again, but something stopped it. I heard a groan and a thump and when I opened my eyes, Del Río was on the ground and Martin over him.

“Stop it!” Angélica said.

Laurent pinned Martin’s arms back so he wouldn’t hit Del Río.

“Get out of here!” she told the neighbor. “I don’t want you on my property ever again!”

Martin jerked his arm free from Laurent’s grip.

Heaving, Del Río stood up straight and assessed every one of us for a moment. “?Malnacidos! ” He stormed out and continued swearing under his breath.

Martin came toward me, hands resting on his hips.

“Are you all right?”

I nodded, rubbing the side of my face.

“Come on.” He offered me his arm and pulled me up.

Angélica and Laurent gaped at me. I didn’t blame them. I didn’t know what had come over me, either. Only that the fight on the ship—the fight where Cristóbal had lost his life—propelled me to act like I should’ve done that fateful night. Why did it bother me so much to see that man choking Martin?

I followed Martin through the patio toward the back of the hacienda. I still couldn’t believe that idiot had punched me. Then again, he didn’t know I was a woman.

But Martin did.

“Where are we going?” I said.

“To my house. I have dressings and an iodine ointment for your bruise.” His voice softened as we drifted away from the hacienda. “You shouldn’t have attacked him.”

“He was choking you,” I said.

“I know how to defend myself.”

“Really?” I stopped and gave him my meanest look. That was how he thanked my efforts?

“I’m sorry. I’m just not used to anybody defending me.” He attempted a smile. “But thank you.”

*

As we entered Martin’s house, Mayra rushed to the entrance to kiss my hand.

“Don Cristóbal! What a pleasure to see you here! Thanks to you my baby will now have a roof over his head.”

“No, please. There’s no need for this,” I said, recovering my hand. “It’s Don Martin you have to thank.”

Martin inserted both hands inside his pockets.

With brimming eyes, Mayra promised the best bolón de verde I would ever taste. I glanced at her stomach. My nephew lived in there.

“It hasn’t been all roses in here,” Martin said as she rushed back to the kitchen. “Bachita hasn’t taken the new arrival so well. She says she can manage all the work herself and complains that Mayra doesn’t know how to do the simplest tasks.” As he talked, he pointed at the stairs. “Come on.”

I froze. Now that Martin knew I was a woman, he must surely understand that it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to go to his bedroom. My expression must have given my doubts away because he gave me a slight push on the back.

“Come on, you’re not going to act prim and skittish with me now, are you? I keep my bandages and ointments upstairs, that’s all.”

Hesitantly, I followed. He was right. After all the time we’d spent alone together, I couldn’t suddenly be bothered by the rules of decorum. I’d broken them a long time ago.

Peering at every detail of his house—from the ceramic vases to the portraits of severe men and women along the walls—I followed Martin up the stairs. I had an insatiable curiosity about him. I wanted to know how he lived, what he did when he wasn’t working, what his parents, his family, had been like.

We entered the first room in the hall.

“Have a seat.” He pointed at a den next to a set of windows overlooking the forest.

“What a view,” I said, admiring the turquoise sky, the lush vegetation. And then, a little farther down, a fragment of the river where I’d swum naked. Madre mía, he’d probably watched me from here.

“This used to be my parents’ room,” he said. “My mother always sat by this window, cross-stitching, and usually fell asleep while I played with my marbles by her feet. She had such a lulling presence.”

He approached a chest of drawers and removed a leather case. Inside were bandages and a round tin box with ointment.

“How old were you when she passed away?”

“Ten,” he said. “I remember she had this tic, this small twitch in her nose, especially when she was nervous, and she always dabbed some kind of rose-infused oil on her neck and wrists. Whenever I smell roses, I think of her.”