Page 68 of The Truth About Myths
Henrique was there. Sitting on the bench underneath Eros’ statue. He hadn’t seen her. While the god of Passion aimed an arrow at his back, she admired the broadness of his shoulders and the scruff shadowing his chin and jaw. The maleness she found offensive before now pleased her better than Canova’s craftsmanship.
Her throat closed, and words failed her. The image of the helpless cicada floated to her mind, beating her spindly legs, drowning.
He looked up, affected by the force of her gaze. “Did you enjoy flying?”
She ambled closer to the bench. “You would have known if you had stayed until the end of the play.”
“Your royal beau has a way of materializing everywhere.” He shifted, opening space for her.
Sighing, Isabel sat by his side. “I loved it. The flight.”
Part of her wanted to tell him of Alfonso’s proposal. To soothe her confusion. Strange how she came to rely on his opinions. Surrounded by watchful Spaniards, he had been her home port. The other part rebelled, afraid he might advise her to marry the prince like a dutiful princess should.
“Your engineering skills are superb.”
He turned and stared at the Eros statue for a few heartbeats. Spirits scented his breath, and a new hardness shaped his jaw. “A set of cogs and pulleys… Theater tricks, nothing special.”
If she were bolder, she would massage the pleats on his forehead and tell him how wrong he was. It bothered her how he dismissed his scientific pursuits.
“If this is a plot to make me flatter you, I must say you are succeeding. Shouldn’t it be you fawning over my performance?” Isabel bumped his shoulder, her lips twitching into a smile.
He gazed at her then. This seriousness of him was too intense.
He touched her lips. “Have a care with your smiles, will you?”
Isabel stopped breathing. Something thick hovered in the air between them. She feared it. If either of them acknowledged it, it would change everything. She should say good night to him and go to her room.
Drums beat a staccato rhythm, grave and mysterious. It called to mind the flamenco’s whirls and turns. She had the strange notion that beyond the palace’s garden, atoreroprepared to face a bull, and the beats were the pumps of the beast’s heart.
Isabel shivered. “What is this noise?”
“It’s a fiesta. A typical Spanish celebration. Just plain people, dancing to their heart’s content.”
A woman called her name, her steps shuffling closer. It was Sophie.
“Shouldn’t you heed your chaperone?” His voice was cool, but his eyes—his eyes entranced her.
Her heart sped, and perspiration coated her arms. She could return to her room. Nothing needed to change. Still, change was as unstoppable as a bull crashing down the arena.
Isabel clasped his hand in hers. “Would you take me? To this fiesta?”
Henrique held her hand through the path leading to the village, his grip decisive and warm. They'd been holding hands since they left the garden. Isabel loved this holding of hands. Instead of fluttering her palm over a gentleman's forearm, a damsel needing guidance, she was his partner in crime.
They stopped by a stall selling tapas. Wine bottles lined the red cloth. An aging man with a waxed mustache offered her a glass. "Sangria?"
Henrique waved the salesman away, but Isabel held his wrist.
"I want to try whatever he is offering. Spanish wine, is it not?"
She was sick of the bland French wine served in Canastra's overlong meals.
"You don't drink alcohol, so…"
He was about to take the glass from her hand when she beat him to it. "I avoid spirits. Wine is fermented. There is a difference. You, above all else, should know it."
He merely lifted his brows as Isabel gulped the liquid. The sangria chilled her throat and swam on her empty stomach. He drank, too. A drop sparkled in the corner of his mouth. A bolder woman would taste that lucky drop. Hand in hand, they went farther into the village. Two-story houses surrounded a circular plaza, their front stairs interlocking at different levels and angles. The geometrical design mesmerized her.
"How lovely. It's like music in bricks," she said.
