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unaware that her grandfather was a strict disciplinarian and might have slapped her soft cheek for having been so disrespectfully forward. But Don Rodrigo, as he continued to meet that bold yet innocent stare, could not deny his own flesh and blood. “ Mi dulce batata peque ña ,” he murmured as he kissed the rose-petal smooth cheek held up so ingenuously.
    Lily giggled. “ ¡Batata !” she squealed, repeating the word that Magdalena remembered as an endearment her father had been fond of calling her when she’d been Lily’s age. “I’m not a sweet potato! I eat sweet potatoes,” she said with another giggle.
    “It would be wise to remember that bad little sweet potatoes often get cooked and eaten,” Don Rodrigo advised her as Lily’s mouth dropped open in amazement.
    “But you said I was your sweet little sweet potato,” Lily reminded him as she tucked her hand in his confidingly. “Papa says they are the true treasure from the New World, and he’d rather capture a ship with a hold full of sweet potatoes than one with a hold full of gold.”
    Don Rodrigo drew breath to speak then glanced over at Magdalena, a helpless look on his face. “Already she flirts outrageou sly. You taught her Spanish?! he asked. “You were allowed to do this?” he continued, his meaning obvious as his gaze moved to include the tall figure of Geoffrey Christian.
    “ Sí, mi padre .”
    “You may still believe that I stole your daughter from you, Don Rodrigo, but I never intended to steal her heritage from her. Although circumstances have brought about a certain heightening of hostilities between our countries, my daughter has been taught to have no shame of her Spanish blood and to be proud of all of her ancestors,” Geoffrey stated, those pale green eyes of his, so like his daughter’s, unshadowed by deception. Don Rodrigo could not doubt his English son-in-law’s word, for did not his granddaughter speak her mother’s native tongue?
    “ ¿Padre? Mi— “
    Magdalena did not have to finish her question, for her father knew what she had been reluctant to ask. “Your mother still lives. You have arrived in time to comfort her with your presence, he admitted, then turned his attention to the other Englishman darkening his door, a less than cordially raised eyebrow questioning the man’s presence in Casa del Montevares. “I do not believe we have been introduced, señor? ” he inquired in a tone that left little doubt that had he his wish they would continue to remain strangers.
    Basil Whitelaw still stood hesitantly near the great door. He had been uncertain of Geoffrey Christian’s welcome, much less his own when Don Rodrigo learned he ’d come as special envoy from Elizabeth, but now he stepped forward and bowed deeply and deferentially to the Spaniard. With a fine flourish, he removed a stiff piece of parchment from the top of a packet he carried tucked beneath his arm. Basil Whitelaw handed the letter to Don Rodrigo. It was folded and affixed with melted wax, which bore the stamped impression of the royal seal of Elizabeth.
    Don Rodrigo was startled, for who in England could possibly be writing to him? When he recognized the royal arms displayed so boldly on the letter that he, a loyal subject of Phillip II, not held so gingerly in his hand, Sir Basil thought the Spaniard was going to drop it like a burning coal.
    “ Madre de Dios ,” Don Rodrigo muttered, turning pale as he fingered the high, stiff ruff about his neck. It suddenly felt much tighter than usual.
    With Her Majesty’s sincerest compliments, Don Rodrigo,” Basil Whitelaw said, urging the Spaniard to open the missive from the queen of England.
    With a shaking hand, Don Rodrigo broke the seal and opened the folded sheet of foolscap. His expression was disbelieving as he stared down at the elaborate signature of Elizabeth.
    “Her Majesty has instructed me to extend to you and your family her deepest sympathies and personal wishes for a quick recovery