None of which, he well knew, would make—to use the American expression he’d picked up from Sharon—a “spit’s worth of difference” to her. He might as well advance an offer of marriage to a Spanish infanta. Granted, Sharon Nichols would be gracious in her refusal, where an infanta—or her father, more likely—would have Sanchez clapped into a dungeon. Refuse him she would, nonetheless—if anything, even more decisively than a Spanish princess. The Catalan had only a dim sense of the way in which Americans gauged these things, because they viewed the world so differently than other people he’d known. But he understood enough—thought he did, at least—to know that he would be considered an utterly unsuitable spouse for such as Sharon Nichols. By she herself, leaving aside her father or anyone else.
It was all . . . very confusing, and left Sanchez feeling uncertain of himself and what he should do. There was nothing in the world that Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz detested more than being confused and uncertain.
That detestation made him clear his throat more noisily than he meant to. Sharon and the American priest looked over, startled.
“You sent for me, dona?” Stubbornly, as a sop to himself, Sanchez used the Catalan term instead of the Spanish señora or the Italian signora. He knew it was silly, but not even Ruy Sanchez could bring himself to call Sharon Nichols by the girlish diminutives. Not in any language. Unmarried or not, she was simply impossible to address other than with the fullest respect.
“Thank you for coming, Ruy,” said Sharon. She gestured at the corpse whose feet were the only thing Sanchez could see from where he stood. “You were told what happened?”
He nodded. “The soldier who brought your summons informed me.”
“It was hardly a ‘summons,’ Ruy,” Sharon murmured, smiling. It was a little smile, and a sad one. He wondered about that sadness. Most of it, to be sure, was due to the death in the room. But some, perhaps . . .
Old habit swept his hat from his head in a gallant flourish. “From you, dona, any request sent to Ruy Sanchez is considered a summons. I would no more think to disobey than—”
Sharon barked a little laugh. “Oh, Ruy—give it a rest!” She shook her head, smiling more widely. “I will say you can always cheer me up. Even here, even now. But, still, put a cork in the testosterone, would you? Just for a few minutes—I know it’s a lot to ask.”
Sanchez smiled back. He understood the term “testosterone” now. Sharon had explained it to him. Twice. The second time, laughing, after he’d strutted for minutes when she explained it the first time. Ha! The truth! Confirmed even by Americans, with their dazzling science!
She motioned him over. “Come here, please. I want you to look at this. I think—no, I’d rather hear what you think, before I say anything.”
* * *
It took Sanchez no more than three minutes to draw his conclusions. It was not difficult. Certainly it was not upsetting. Sanchez had seen far worse, as a young man, in the course of the endless border wars in New Spain with the savage indigenes of the mountains and deserts. Not all of which barbarisms, by any means, had been the work of the indigenes themselves. By the time he was twenty, he’d understood that savagery was the common property of mankind. The same skin, whatever its color.
He might have despaired then, had he not discovered in the arms of his first wife that other properties were shared and common also. Those he chose to treasure. For the rest, there was always his sword.
He rose. “This is fakery. The man fought. Not well, I think, but fight he did. Those teeth broke; they were not broken. The rest—”
He made a contemptuous gesture. “All done after he died. The garrote is what killed him. Not a good death—what is?—but better than most. It would have been quick, at least, as deeply as that cord is driven into his neck.”
The priest was frowning. “All . . . that? But—why?”
Sanchez shrugged. “Much of it, I think, was done from sheer fury. The murderer probably did not expect his victim to strike back, and flew into a rage when he did.” He pointed to the intestines spilling onto the floor. “Why else inflict such a wound? No torturer would, for a surety. And most of this was done to make it seem that the man was tortured.”