Free The Spanish Marriage by Madeleine Robins

or shaking my head, and then our game will truly be up. God, but
I’ll be glad to see England again.”
    “So will I,” Thea agreed. “My hair is
nearly brown with all this dirt, and I hate to think what Silvy would say about
my complexion.”
    “As to your hair, the browner the better for the
nonce, I should say. A blonde is too easily remarkable, and that is simply
dangerous. As for your complexion—well, you look healthy, except for
those circles under your eyes. Don’t you sleep well, child?”
    How can I, she wanted to ask, throwing his solicitous tone
in his teeth. He appeared to find nothing odd in their marriage, in the
pretense in their relations. “I’m all right,” she said at
last. Something in her voice must have disturbed Matlin; he applied himself
more heartily to his bread and cheese.
    “I calculate that we have about a hundred fifty miles
to go to Oporto. From there, I should be able to locate a privateer or
man-of-war lying offshore, and we’ll have the last leg of our journey, at
least, in some comfort, child.”
    I am not a child, she thought furiously. “We
have a way to go today, then,” was what she said.
    “We’ve made a good start, in any case.” He
rose to pack away the waterskin and remains of their meal. As he reached his
feet Matlin’s face went white for a moment and he swayed, clutching the
lead rein of one of the mules to steady himself. Then he smiled unconvincingly
at Thea. “Clumsy brute.”
    She would not be so easily fobbed off. “Is it your
head that hurts you? Matlin, let me see. Are you still dizzy?”
    He waved off her attention irritably. “It was only for
a moment, for God’s sake. The sun—the heat—No!” he spat
as she stood on her toes to reach up and sweep aside the dark hair that covered
his scar. It looked well enough, long, ragged, but with pink healthy tissue
under the grime that covered most of his face. “For God’s sake,
girl, I’m all right.” Brusquely he pushed her aside.
    “Lo siento, seguro, “ Thea snapped, as
angry as he, and clambered onto her mule without his help.
    They rode silently for the rest of the afternoon, each
regretting the outburst. It was nearly sundown when they approached a largish
village which seemed unusually busy, even for this post-siesta time of day. “You
rest here,” Matlin instructed curtly. “I want to see what’s
happening in the town. If anyone comes, you’re waiting for your man; his
name is, uh, Miguel.”
    “Si, Miguel, grácias. “ She watched him
tie his mule up with hers, and she stared at the dark, travel-stained back of his
jacket until he was out of sight. Then, because there was little to keep her
from thinking of herself and her husband, Thea settled herself up against a
rock and began to sing one of Sister Ana’s old songs. Gradually the late
heat of the day and fatigue made her drowsy, and she slipped into a light doze.
    When she wakened it took a moment for her to recall where
she was and how long she had been waiting there. Matlin was long overdue; the
light was very nearly gone. He said to wait, but she was certain that something
had happened. His Spanish was so chancy and—she admitted to herself—that
dizzy spell of his had frightened her badly.
    Standing stiffly, Thea unlashed the mules from the tree
where they were patiently cropping low branches. She pulled her shawl down
again over her filthy, betraying hair and started off in the direction Matlin
had taken. As she walked she could hear the sound of voices, men’s voices
singing boisterously in French. A frisson ran down her spine; they were
in the village, right enough, and from the few words she could make out from
this distance she surmised that most of them were very drunk. “Dear God,
don’t let him have been taken,” she whispered. Then, remembering to
drop her shoulders in the self-effacing imitation of a peasant wife, she
started down the hill into the village proper.
    She wondered if she dared to ask for him