Daughters of the Summer Storm by Frances Statham (good fiction books to read TXT) 📕

be any doubt. You are wrong when you say I have no jurisdiction over you. As Vasco's intended wife, you are already a part of the Monteiro family, and I am head of that family. Do you know what that means, Maranta, here in Brazil?" He did not wait for her to answer, but continued. "I am the ruler of a vast area of land. The laws are ones made by me. If I should choose to have a slave whipped or even killed, that is my right, with no one to dispute it. If I should choose to have a member of my own family. . . punished, it is within my rights. I am the fazendeiro and king of my own land. And you, Maranta, are still subject to me. Now, do you understand why you must obey me?"

The words numbed her. It was worse than she feared. Not only Vasco to please, but also this. . . this arrogant lord who stood above her, demanding obeisance.

With one last rebellious action, Maranta curtsied before him, and in a soft, muted voice answered, "Sim, Dom Ruis."

His white teeth flashed as his hearty laugh echoed over the land. "You do not have to address me in that manner, Maranta. You may reserve that title for our own Dom Pedro, emperor of all Brazil. As a member of the family, you will call me Ruis. Now, let us see to your face before the eye closes."

The river was within sight, and Ruis led her to the bank where the water splashed noisily over the rocks. Motioning for her to sit on the rock that projected out of the water onto the bank, Ruis took the wicked-looking knife from his side. He swished it in the water several times and with a lightning motion, he caught her face to hold it toward the sun, while the knife point flicked the skin under her eye.

Maranta took one look at the knife. "No," she whispered. And that was all she remembered—that and his dark sapphire eyes. . .

The distant sound of voices bothered Maranta. She wished they would go away so she could sleep. With a tiny moan, she moved, trying to find a position to relieve the ache in her body.

"She is coming around, Ruis," Dona Isobel's voice sounded next to her.

But when she opened her eyes, only the conde stood over her, his tanned face showing a sympathy and something else that Maranta could not fathom.

"Do not look at me like that, pequena. I intended no harm to you."

He sat beside the pallet on the floor where she lay, and in the dim light of the fire, she saw the hesitant movement of his hand as he brushed the tangled black hair from her forehead. As if soothing a frightened child, he talked in gentle tones, explaining, "I had to use the knife, Maranta—for it was no ordinary insect bite. A beetle had burrowed under the skin, and it was imperative that I remove it."

A regretful tone crept into his deep voice. "I can understand how frightened you were, after my speech, to see the faca de ponte coming at you. But I have not marred your porcelain face. The tiny imperfection will be healed before Vasco sees you."

Maranta closed her eyes. She was too tired to respond.

Gently, Ruis covered her with the blanket, and as he left her side, he whispered softly, "You should be the one named Innocencia."

The next morning, Maranta changed clothes. She worked with her long, tangled hair, brushing it furiously until, at last, it was smooth. There was no need to place the tattered yellow dress in the valise. It was ruined, as Ruis intimated it would be. So she balled it up and discarded it instead of packing it.

But the dress was of no concern. It was the condessa who required attention. Her drawn, ashen face was almost the color of her snow-white hair, and Maranta was worried that she might not survive the trip.

Her offers to help were negated by Dona Isobel, who followed behind the conde. He carried the frail, old condessa gently in his arms. Placing her in the carriage, he turned to Dona Isobel and inquired, "You have her medicine, Isobel?"

"Sim, Ruis. It is here in the brocade bag. I will give it to her when she needs it."

"Obrigado, Isobel."

"Não tem de quê, Ruis."

Maranta's attempt to translate the polite exchange caused her brow to wrinkle.

"Is there something bothering you, menina?" the conde asked.

She blushed, as if she had been caught eavesdropping. Hastily Maranta said what had been on her mind previously.

"If the condessa wishes to lie down, Fado and I could ride part of the way up front with. . . with the driver. That would give the senhora more room."

Her subdued rust-colored dress peeked from under the cloak and came under his scrutiny, the sturdiness of material seeming to meet with more approval than the flimsy yellow dress of the day before.

"We will tie the cage to the back of the coach, Maranta," Ruis announced. "Rico has enough to do, without watching out for some worthless bird."

"But I would watch out for Fado, senhor. It would not be necessary for. . ."

"You will not be riding beside Rico. You may ride on the stallion with me this morning."

"But. . ."

His sharp look quelled her protest. The last thing she wanted to do—to be near him. Miserably she waited while he tied the cage securely and then spoke through the window of the coach in the nasal language that she found so hard to follow.

"Come," he said in English to Maranta.

Dejectedly she followed his order, walking behind him to the stallion that was tethered to the post. Before lifting her on the horse, Ruis examined the area under Maranta's eye. "It looks much better this morning, pequena."

In silence they cantered along the trail, and Maranta, trying to avoid the conde's touch, sat stiffly away from him.

"Relax, Maranta. I am not going to