Page 69 of The Truth About Myths
Henrique caressed the back of her hand with his thumb. "They block off the plaza and hold bullfights here, with watchers sitting on the steps."
Instead of bulls, villagers crowded the space, walking in circles. "What are they doing?"
"Courting. The men ramble clockwise while unmarried girls stroll in the opposite direction."
"How odd."
"It's groggily effective. I'll show you."
Isabel halted. "What if someone recognizes me?"
She still wore her costume, only a cloak concealing her skin from the night air.
He swept her with his gaze. “This has to go.” He removed her tiara and shoved it inside her reticule.
When he started combing through her coiffure, Isabel caught his hand.
"I allow no one but Sophie to touch my hair."
He grinned. "Is it because she is a Republican? The only person guaranteed not to rob your crown?"
"How did you know she was a Republican?"
"She called me Citizen Henrique. I added two and two."
Isabel glanced away. "It's my scalp. It's... sensitive."
"I'll be gentle."
Isabel held her breath as Henrique unleashed her hair with deft but soft tugs. The tresses cascaded down her shoulders. She hadn't worn it down in society since she was assigned a personal maid at the age of ten. He massaged her scalp, and she sighed deeply. Then he placed his thumbs at the base of her neck, pressed up, and circled the sore spots from the pins. A moan escaped her lips, and she closed her eyes, leaning on him and listening to his heart drumming. If a person could inhabit a single moment for the rest of her life, reliving it for eternity, this would be hers—she would gladly take up residence in the luxury of Henrique's fingers.
"There, she's done punishing you for the night." He kissed her strands, his breath tickling the shell of her ear.
"Do you think a different coiffure will keep me incognito?"
"The hair, no. The crown? Definitely. But you are right. You need a finishing touch." He picked a hibiscus flower.
When he brought it close to her face, she held her breath, not unlike a bride who waits for her husband on her wedding night. How foolish of her. He wasn't denuding her. He was simply tucking a flower behind her ear. Yet, when he took a step away to inspect the results of his labor, Isabel felt naked.
"You will do. Now come, the courting awaits."
Henrique steered her towards the strolling girls. When Isabel saw the strangers twirling in circles, she planted her slippers on the cobblestones and gave him a pleading look.
He laughed and shooed her away. "It's not an intricate diplomacy affair. Just walk."
The folk song launched with an offbeat, the pipe crying out alongside an uplifting guitar. Isabel fell into step with the other ladies.
He winked and started in the opposite direction, his attire and bearing making him conspicuous among the other gentlemen.
A girl linked her arm through Isabel's and, laughing, pulled her into the gyrating mob.
Voices and music and shoulders and feet twirled with her. A bonfire threw cinders and sparkles high, illuminating smiling, weather-beaten faces. It all blurred when she spotted Henrique. Every inch a man's man, he strolled among the Spaniards, not seeing her, and when they crossed paths, she felt him touching her hand. A brief, too brief, touch. Her fingers twitched, and she closed her palm as electricity ignited her skin.
She hastened her steps, wanting to see him again. When they met, he caressed her cheek, a tender, chaste caress that left her breathless and overheated.
Her legs stopped, and before she was trampled, the girl by her side pulled her along. Isabel looked behind her, but she had lost him.
Isabel counted the seconds until she would meet him. She gave a complete turn, and he didn't appear. Her heart sped, and she went on tiptoes, trying to find him.
