The Spanish Daughter(82)

He wouldn’t take his eyes off me. “Sure.”

Julia dashed into the kitchen while Martin took a seat in front of me.

“You deserve an explanation,” he said, his body leaning forward, his voice urgent.

“There’s nothing to explain. Angélica already told me you’ve been lovers since you were youngsters.”

He rested his palms on the table. “I know it looks bad, but I had nothing to do with what happened to you on that ship. I swear.”

“What about her?”

He glanced over his shoulder, lowering his voice. “I don’t know, but I don’t think so. I admit that she wasn’t pleased when she learned her father had left you the control of the estate. And neither was I, for that matter, but I doubt Angélica would hurt someone for money.” He attempted to hold my hand but I moved it away. “Look, my relationship with Angélica is complicated. It’s something that has tormented me for years. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but even I can’t explain it.”

“Explain what?”

“The effect she has on me.”

I stood up. I didn’t want to hear another word. I didn’t want to hear how much he loved and desired her and how he’d been playing with me, using me, or worse yet, helping her, even if he denied it now.

I darted out of the room without looking back. I needed air. He was following me, trying his best not to run.

I crossed the patio and headed for the stables. My throat was tight, my eyes stinging. I wouldn’t let him see me cry. What was wrong with me? I’d never been so weak to cry for the love of a man.

A young boy, whom I’d seen before tending to the horses, was brushing Pacha just a few meters away. I told him to put her saddle on.

“English or Western?” he asked.

“Whatever!”

“Cristóbal!” Martin said, behind me. “Wait!”

The boy grabbed a brown leather saddle and I helped him strap it around the horse. He was still adjusting the mount when I climbed on top. Now, Pacha and I weren’t the best of friends, but we’d grown to respect each other—at least I thought so. However, Pacha didn’t seem to appreciate my urgency or my abruptness and being that she was not particularly fond of me, she reared, just like she’d done when we first met. Again, I slid to the ground, but this time I hit my head so hard that everything circled around me before turning pitch black. The boy’s voice became so distant and faint that after a moment, all I could hear was the ringing in my own ears.

*

When I woke up, I was lying on a bed in a dim room with the curtains drawn. It was a tiny room—I’d never been here before. Martin was sitting on a chair next to the bed. Behind him was a shelf filled with ornaments of all kinds: vases, glass containers, dolls. He spoke as soon as I opened my eyes.

“You’re in Julia’s room,” he said. “Julia is here, too.”

I took this as a warning not to say anything about us in front of her. I looked around some more. Indeed, Julia was standing by my side with a moist cloth in her hand. Oddly, Ramona was there, too.

“Don Cristóbal, you scared us! We thought we’d lost you. You have to be careful with that mare,” she said. “Not even Don Armand liked to ride her, and he was an experienced rider.”

And yet Martin had made me ride her the first day. I fixed my eyes on him, then sat up.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Getting up.”

“Oh, no, Don Cristóbal. You have to rest here for a while and wait until the doctor arrives.”

A doctor? So he could see what my body—my female body—looked like?

“That won’t be necessary,” I said, trying to stand, but the entire room started spinning around me.

“Benito already went to town to get one,” she said.

“Who?”

“The boy that takes care of the horses.” She approached the bed.

I lay down again, my breathing agitated.

“Look at you with that suit. You must be suffocating. Let me help you with that.” Julia proceeded to undo my tie. “I told Don Martin that we needed to remove these clothes, but he wouldn’t let me.” She turned to Martin. “You see? The poor man is sweating. He’s going to catch a cold now.”

“Just leave him be, Julia. You shouldn’t be moving his head. I’ll help him out of his clothes later when he’s feeling better. Now go back to the kitchen. I’m sure your mistresses are up already.”

Grumbling, Julia walked out. What a relief.

I closed my eyes.

“Puri,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Angélica, but I don’t want you to think that I’ve been using you or anything like that. The truth is . . .” He stopped.

I opened my eyes and looked at him.

“The truth is I like you. Very much.”

“Is that why you wanted me to ride the most finicky mare here?”

“Well, in the beginning, I was angry, too, but it was only meant as a joke. I didn’t want you to get hurt.” He held my hand. “For whatever it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

I removed my hand, avoiding his face. I looked around Julia’s room—it was so neat and organized, just like she was, but she owned a lot of things. I would’ve never imagined she collected so many things. There was a porcelain tea set, ceramic birds, dolls and marionettes of different sizes, jars, candles.