Read Online Return to Paradise (Torres Family Saga) by Shirl Henke - Free Book Online
Authors: Shirl Henke
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and marveled that this cold, unnatural Jewess could engender such feelings in him. He had always preferred his women lush and fleshy, not slim and angular. Then he remembered his words to her when he thought she was Louise and burst out laughing. “Best break your own fast heartily and fatten up, Lady Miriam!” he called out as she slammed the heavy oak door.
* * * *
Isaac paid the messenger and dismissed him, then sat pondering the letter for Rigo. It had come a long and circuitous route, all the way from the Indies, thence to Seville and on to General Pescara's army. Pescara himself had paid the youth who traveled from Italy to Marseilles in search of Rigo. The letter was from the foster brother Benjamin had told him of, Bartolome de Las Casas, a Dominican! With a troubled frown Isaac wondered if the man was part of the Holy Office. So many Dominicans enlisted in the Inquisition they had been dubbed across Europe “The Hounds of God.”
With a sigh he stood up and tapped the heavy, travel-stained letter against the desk. “Perhaps tis time I spoke with my nephew and took his measure, now that Benjamin and Miriam have determined he will live,” the old man said to himself as he strode purposefully across the room.
Rigo sat in the large soft bed, propped up with pillows supplied helpfully by a pretty serving wench, whose eyes were round with a mixture of fear and fascination for this newest and most exotic member of the Torres family. He had been given the great luxury of a bath and a shave. His long black hair had been neatly trimmed to shoulder length once more and he felt on the mend, even if weak and in pain.
For the past two days the invalid had not seen Miriam, his doctoress. Benjamin had tended him, remarking on his amazing recuperative powers. He was still uncertain of his feelings about his brother, although Benjamin’s affection for him seemed genuine. It was difficult not to like his golden-hued reflection, yet that very resemblance reminded Rigo of their father. In spite of his brother's insistence that Aaron Torres had not deserted his eldest son, Rigo resisted letting go of a lifetime of hatred. Everything he had learned of life, from the streets of Seville to the battlefields of Italy, made him disbelieve Benjamin.
Rigo was a bastard and worse yet, the issue of a woman of an inferior race. If that were not enough, he was raised in the very church and state that had caused the death of his grandparents and exile of his father. It made no sense. Rigo's pondering was cut short by a rap on the door. Benjamin would not stand on such a formality. He fleetingly wondered if it were Miriam, then dismissed the idea. She had doubtless had enough of his rude Spanish insolence, he thought wryly. He called out in Provencal for the visitor to enter.
Isaac Torres was an impressive man, slightly above middle height, barrel-chested and straight-backed in spite of his advanced years. His snowy hair was thinning but the penetrating blue of his eyes had never dimmed even if his face was creased by age. He wore simple, loose robes, a Moorish affectation left from his years with the Castilian court.
Rigo nodded at his great-uncle without smiling, his eyes measuring the old man as Torres measured him in return. He did not shrink from the assessment. That boldness seemed to amuse Isaac, who tapped a heavy sealed missive against his leg.
With a slight smile that did not reach his shrewd blue eyes, the old man said, “Benjamin did not exaggerate. You look amazingly recovered.”
“He saved my life with his medical skills. I owe you as well, Don Isaac, for taking into your home one of the enemy.” Rigo's eyes moved fleetingly to the letter in Isaac's hand, then returned to his face.
“An odd way to refer to my only brother's eldest grandson. You are of my blood. I could do nothing
* * * *
Isaac paid the messenger and dismissed him, then sat pondering the letter for Rigo. It had come a long and circuitous route, all the way from the Indies, thence to Seville and on to General Pescara's army. Pescara himself had paid the youth who traveled from Italy to Marseilles in search of Rigo. The letter was from the foster brother Benjamin had told him of, Bartolome de Las Casas, a Dominican! With a troubled frown Isaac wondered if the man was part of the Holy Office. So many Dominicans enlisted in the Inquisition they had been dubbed across Europe “The Hounds of God.”
With a sigh he stood up and tapped the heavy, travel-stained letter against the desk. “Perhaps tis time I spoke with my nephew and took his measure, now that Benjamin and Miriam have determined he will live,” the old man said to himself as he strode purposefully across the room.
Rigo sat in the large soft bed, propped up with pillows supplied helpfully by a pretty serving wench, whose eyes were round with a mixture of fear and fascination for this newest and most exotic member of the Torres family. He had been given the great luxury of a bath and a shave. His long black hair had been neatly trimmed to shoulder length once more and he felt on the mend, even if weak and in pain.
For the past two days the invalid had not seen Miriam, his doctoress. Benjamin had tended him, remarking on his amazing recuperative powers. He was still uncertain of his feelings about his brother, although Benjamin’s affection for him seemed genuine. It was difficult not to like his golden-hued reflection, yet that very resemblance reminded Rigo of their father. In spite of his brother's insistence that Aaron Torres had not deserted his eldest son, Rigo resisted letting go of a lifetime of hatred. Everything he had learned of life, from the streets of Seville to the battlefields of Italy, made him disbelieve Benjamin.
Rigo was a bastard and worse yet, the issue of a woman of an inferior race. If that were not enough, he was raised in the very church and state that had caused the death of his grandparents and exile of his father. It made no sense. Rigo's pondering was cut short by a rap on the door. Benjamin would not stand on such a formality. He fleetingly wondered if it were Miriam, then dismissed the idea. She had doubtless had enough of his rude Spanish insolence, he thought wryly. He called out in Provencal for the visitor to enter.
Isaac Torres was an impressive man, slightly above middle height, barrel-chested and straight-backed in spite of his advanced years. His snowy hair was thinning but the penetrating blue of his eyes had never dimmed even if his face was creased by age. He wore simple, loose robes, a Moorish affectation left from his years with the Castilian court.
Rigo nodded at his great-uncle without smiling, his eyes measuring the old man as Torres measured him in return. He did not shrink from the assessment. That boldness seemed to amuse Isaac, who tapped a heavy sealed missive against his leg.
With a slight smile that did not reach his shrewd blue eyes, the old man said, “Benjamin did not exaggerate. You look amazingly recovered.”
“He saved my life with his medical skills. I owe you as well, Don Isaac, for taking into your home one of the enemy.” Rigo's eyes moved fleetingly to the letter in Isaac's hand, then returned to his face.
“An odd way to refer to my only brother's eldest grandson. You are of my blood. I could do nothing
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