Fires of Paradise (34 page)

Lucy's nails tore down his back. Shoz lifted himself to pull out his shirt; Lucy yanked it apart, spilling the buttons over her body and the bed. Her hands found his bare chest, his ribs, his nipples. Pinching him, she moaned frantically into his mouth.

He touched her. He touched her and made a sound full of raw lust. He stroked her, parted her, then was apologizing even as he rammed into her.

It was a wild mating that was over almost as soon as it began. He pounded into her; she rose to meet him. They strained and bucked. Lucy cried out first, loudly, without shame, the keening call urging Shoz to faster, harder rampaging in an effort to catch up. He clapped his hand over her mouth to silence her as he convulsed deep inside her.

Lucy began to think almost immediately. Desperation brought instant coherence. He did not move off her; she did not let her arms slip from their embrace of him. Yet she was careful not to tighten her hold, although she wanted to. Oh dear God, she thought, I still love him.

She lay beneath him in utter confusion and total panic, gripping him fiercely. What would he do now? What should she say? God, there was so much to say, but he had rejected her once, divorcing her; what if he rejected her again? Ai terrible understanding—a terrible fear—was materializing, that there was so much to say but that even if she dared, he would not care, even if she tried, it would be impossible to breach the past. Her terrible fear grew that this was only a moment in their lives, a single and passing moment, maybe a final moment. She dared not think further; if she did, she would burst into tears. His face was buried in her neck, and! she wanted desperately to kiss his temple, caress him. She i did not have the courage.

Suddenly he rolled off of her.

Lucy did not move. He lay still for a moment, then got up and began tucking his shirt into his pants.

Lucy closed her eyes. No, this couldn't be happening.
This couldn't have happened.
Not this way. She heard him: closing his fly. She sat up and found him buttoning his pants, watching her.

She had to say something. He couldn't leave. He couldn't leave her again. But he was doing just that—leaving her— again.

She attempted a too bright smile. "Well, that's one thing we do well together.'' She was afraid to be serious; levity was much easier. She hugged a pillow.

"But not without fighting," he said quietly.

Lucy stared.

He turned abruptly and reached for his jacket. Lucy fought an onslaught of fierce emotions that were going to leave her crying like a baby if she wasn't careful. "Shoz?"

He didn't look at her, but she knew he was listening.

She had to know. "How long will you be in New York?" He shrugged on his jacket and stood before her. "I'm leaving for Cuba tomorrow." "Tomorrow?"

He looked at her. "Disappointed?"

His words were uncharacteristically flat, instead of sarcastic and snide. Lucy couldn't answer. She wanted, desperately, to tell him that she was disappointed, but she had too much pride. He would only be amused. His response would be cutting, his only interest more sex. She lunged to her feet and ran into the bathroom. She fell onto her knees by the bathtub, gripping its white porcelain rim.

She strained to hear. She heard the floor creaking as he moved. She began to rock with the impending tears. She was choking with them. Her back was to the door, but she heard him come to stand in the entrance, felt him looking at her.

Don't go, she begged silently. Don't leave me! Not like this!

She dared to look at him. For a heart-stopping moment, she thought she saw compassion in his eyes; she thought he was going to come to her and hold her. But instead, his jaw tightening, he turned and left.

When Lucy heard the terrace doors shutting, she sagged against the tub. He was leaving tomorrow, but he was breaking her heart tonight. The tears finally came, unstoppable.

Chapter 41

That next morning Lucy was ushered into one of the drawing rooms while Leon was summoned. She was rigid with nerves. She had realized on her way over to the Claxtons' that she could not just drop off a note, she had to tell

Leon in person that the wedding was off. She jumped when Leon strode into the room, smiling.

"Don't you know that it's bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding?" he admonished in good humor.

Lucy wet her lips. "Leon . .. that's just it. I'm sorry, but I can't marry you." "Is this a bad joke?" "No."

He was stark white, stunned. "I'm so sorry, Leon." "Just explain to me why." "I don't love you."

"What does that have to do with anything?" he shouted.

"I'm afraid it has everything to do with a marriage, Leon. I'll see myself out. Good-bye."

She left before he could respond, knowing she was a coward in wanting to avoid any further confrontation with him. She felt miserable for treating him so badly, but while she was driven home in one of the Bragg coaches, the guilt began to fade as another confrontation loomed before her. Fortunately, she ran into her mother in the foyer as she entered. Grace was putting on her cloak, no doubt about to leave, having much to do before the wedding that evening. "Mother, can we speak?"

"Lucy! It's eight-thirty. Where have you been first thing in the morning?"

Lucy handed her cape to a valet, waiting for him to depart before she spoke. "I went to see Leon, Mother."

"Why?"

"Because I've called off the wedding."

"You've called it off!"

"I don't love Leon. I can't marry him."

"Lucy, do you know what you've done? I thought you realized that this was for the best!"

"I just can't go through with it, Mother. I've seen how happy you and Daddy are too many times. If I can't have that kind of marriage, then I don't want to marry at all."

"Oh, dear." Grace quickly came to her to wrap her in an embrace. "Are you sure, Lucy?" "Positive."

Grace stroked her hair. "I'll take care of everything. Why don't you go upstairs for a while." "And Father?" "I'll take care of him, too."

Lucy hugged her. ' 'You are so wonderful to understand." "I just hope you can try to understand your father," Grace replied softly. "He only wants the best for you." "I know."

Her father was, of course, shocked and angry, so angry that he refused to speak with Lucy. The tension between them was awful, and had never been worse. When Rathe happened upon her in the house, he set his jaw and would not even look at her. He did not soften for several days, but when he did, he came to her room and gruffly told her that he only wanted her to be happy, and while he was sure she was making a mistake, it broke his heart for them to remain estranged. Lucy took the cue and embraced him. "I'll be all right, Daddy; you don't have to worry about me, you'll see."

He hugged her hard before releasing her. "I wish I could believe that."

Now that they were once again on good terms, Lucy was free to concentrate on finding Shoz. She hired a private detective, for Cuba was a big island and she was determined to know exactly where he had gone. She could not let things end this way between them. He thought her the lowest sort of tramp, about to marry Leon and sleeping with him on the night before her wedding. Why, right now he even thought she was married to Leon! Lucy was determined that he should know the truth, or part of it—that she had never loved Leon, that she had been pressured to marry him, and that she had, finally, begged off. The real problem was that she was afraid he might not even care.

While Lucy waited for news from her detective, she stayed close to home and studiously avoided all callers and hence all of the scandal she knew was swirling about the city. One week later, on New Year's Day, her detective provided her with the information she sought. Shoz had left New York on a freighter bound for the Caribbean. One of

the ship's stops was Havana, its only port of call in Cuba. Did she dare?

Before she even asked herself the question, Lucy knew she was going to go to Cuba in search of him. She was a fool, for in her heart she knew she would follow him to the end of the world—and not just to set the record straight. She still loved him and was sorry she had finally signed those damn divorce papers. She wanted, desperately, to be with him. He still desired her, he had made that so very clear, and that gave her some amount of power over him. Would it be so bad to be his mistress? Maybe, one day, they could overcome the past and recapture what they'd once had. And if she was chasing a dream, so be it. There was nothing for her here, nothing at all.

She booked passage on a passenger ship bound for Miami on the sixth of the month. From there, the ticket agent assured her, she would easily find a cruise ship headed for Havana. It was quite a popular tourist spot, despite the rebellion.

Lucy told her parents she was going to Dragmore, and they did not question it. She made arrangements for two passengers to travel to England, fortunately finding a ship leaving the same day she was departing for Cuba. At the last moment she would easily evade her chaperone, who would sail without her. Lucy planned to leave her a note, so that the poor woman would not think she had fallen overboard.

In the few days she had left before departing, she packed all she would need for an extended stay and began reading everything she could find on Cuba. That was easily done; it was the hottest political topic of the day, and the newspapers were full of accounts of the suffering of the rebels, the massacres of the Spanish troops, and the epidemics infesting General Weyler's reconcetrado camps. Lucy be¬gan to have a few doubts. It sounded as if she was going into a veritable civil war. But her love was stronger than reason, and on January sixth, a bleak, snowy day, she departed New York.

Lucy was seasick during the entire voyage. She spent just one night on land in Miami, barely enough time to regain her equilibrium. Fortunately, it was only another sixteen hours to Cuba, and when she arrived at Havana Harbor, she was relieved. She was still quite green and she wanted to set foot on land as soon as possible. She intended to reside in Havana at her father's villa, certain that it would be easier to find Shoz if she stayed in the capital than at Maravilla. Lucy stood at the railing as the large vessel was eased into the bottleneck harbor by a smaller tugboat. It was January thirteenth.

The day was warm and balmy. The skies were very blue, the waters of the Caribbean opaque and turquoise. Lucy gazed at the Castillo del Mono on her left as the ship passed by, a rather decrepit old castle that was now a defense fortification, a newly whitewashed lighthouse rising from its midst. Ahead of her, to the right, lay Havana, a charming city where colonial-style buildings abounded in bright sunlight, palm trees sighing in the breeze along the wide avenues. Lush green hills framed the city, a perfect backdrop. Lucy smiled, a sense of excitement pervading her.

She had succeeded in escaping New York; she was about to begin an adventure, perhaps even a new life. For the first time in almost six months, life seemed ripe with promise. She lifted her face to the warm sun and smiled.

The harbor was a bustling port, one of the most important for the tiny island. Most of the vessels anchored there were being loaded with sugar destined for the States. Smaller local fishing vessels bobbed beside them. And a Spanish man-of-war was at dock, a deadly reminder that this was a country in the grip of war.

The villa was in the center of town, on the Avenue Muralla, not far from the Iglesia de San Francisco, a magnificent old church dating back to the sixteenth century. Lucy hired a horse-drawn buggy to take her there, and even so, it could not accommodate all of her luggage. The driver promised to return later for the rest of her belongings. He clucked the mare forward across the cobbled street.

Lucy had not been to Cuba in years, and then only twice, yet the city did not seem to have changed. Although the hills around them were lush and green, the most fertile sugar-growing land was on the eastern side of the island.

Lucy knew all this from her visits to Cuba as a child. Maravilla was about twenty-five miles from Havana, bordered by softer slopes in the west and lush jungles in the east.

They passed through a teeming marketplace. Buyers and sellers shouted at each other in an endless cacophony; the crowd swirled around them. Vendors hawked their wares from stalls or big woven baskets at their feet. The stench of freshly caught fish assailed her, and Lucy glimpsed one vendor standing amidst his catch, a ton of long, silver-scaled marlin dumped at his feet. They left the market behind and turned in to a narrow, winding street.

Ahead of them a faint sound rose, like a muted roar.

It came again, a swelling echo.

"Sir, what is that noise?" Lucy asked the driver.

"I don't know, senorita."

They both listened and the sound became more distinct-it was the roar of a crowd. Indecipherable chanting followed. Lucy realized with curiosity and excitement that they were heading in the direction of the crowd; now she could hear applause and whistles.

They turned a sharp corner and abruptly entered a town square.

Lucy gasped. The small square was jammed with thousands of people. Even the green in the center was packed with bodies. The carriage moved forward a few paces and stopped. The street was so congested with people that all forms of vehicular traffic were impossible. The driver cursed and shouted and they inched forward before halting again.

"What is it? What's happening?"

"A protest, senorita," the driver cried with excitement. "A protest against autonomy. Cuba will never accept autonomy from Spain. Jose Marti is here!"

Lucy knew who Jose Marti was from the reading she had done. He had practically started the revolution single-handedly, and the American press treated him like a hero. She looked where the driver was pointing. A man on a second-story terrace on the building beside them was speaking through a megaphone. It had to be Marti. He spoke with forceful charisma, firing up the crowd, stating that no Cuban would ever accept autonomy from the Spanish—it was freedom or death. When he had finished, the crowd roared in approval.

"He must be crazy to come to town and show himself like this!" Lucy cried, caught up in the excitement that Marti was generating.

"Si, senorita, the Spanish have been trying to capture him for years."

Lucy stared at Marti in awe, wishing she could see him better. The carriage hadn't budged. They were in a sea of bodies, and it was clear that they would be stuck here for a very long time. "Am I going to have to walk?" Lucy asked, as Marti started to talk again. "Unless he finishes quickly, we'll be here all day."

"It's not far to Muralla Avenue," the driver said. "I can give you directions and follow with your bags when I can."

What harm could there be in walking? As interesting as Marti was, Lucy wanted to get to the villa and settle in— and find Shoz. She quickly made arrangements with the driver, then slipped out of the carriage. Lucy, who had been feeling fine from the moment she had set foot on solid land again, felt her breath catch and her stomach clench. There were so many people! She did not like the feeling of being trapped in this crowd at all. Panic was rising, although she told herself not to be silly. Already the crowd had jostled her away from the buggy, providing an impenetrable wall of human flesh, making it impossible for her to return to it, even had she wanted to. She needed air, desperately.

Lucy forced her way through the crowd, panic giving her unusual strength. She was near the park and she managed to push past four or five women to reach it. Lucy clung to the stone wall surrounding the park, panting, but it wasn't good enough. Lifting her skirts, careless of who should see, she climbed up so that she was standing on it. Her heart began to settle and she took great gulps of air. A few other people were standing on the wall, too, and Lucy began to look at them with interest. Many were young boys and teenagers. She began to enjoy her vantage point. The crowd around her on the ground was mixed, men, women, and children. Many wore worn cotton, the sign of the Cuban farmer and farm worker. Above them all, Jose Marti was crying out another fervent message that the government's promises were empty lies. They had promised reforms, but had the reconcetado policy ceased? Was the press free? Prisoners released? Autonomy was another empty promise, and even if it wasn't empty, they would never accept it, not ever!

Everyone in the crowd roared, the gustiest sound yet. Lucy gazed up at the terrace at Marti. She was on the side of the park closest to the balcony where he stood, and from her position, she could see him quite clearly now. He wore an ill-fitting suit, and had Indian features, his face high-cheekboned but flat and wide. He raised his fist in the air as he shouted.

The crowd echoed him. "
CUBA LIBRE! CUBA LIBRE! CUBA LIBRE!
"

The chant swelled and grew and reverberated around her. Lucy found herself caught up in the excitement, in the tremendous energy. She stared at the speaker, whose face was triumphant. The door behind him moved and another man stepped out onto the terrace and spoke urgently into Marti's ear.

Lucy froze. Her heart slammed to a stop. The other man was tall and dark and wearing faded Levis. It couldn't be. It could not be Shoz.

She would know him anywhere, even from this distance, even when his face was so close to the other man's that she couldn't see it. It was Shoz, she wasn't dreaming; he was here, in the middle of this protest!

He moved away from Marti, and Lucy saw his rough, dark features. She was trembling. Why was he here? What was he doing with the Cuban rebel leader?

She realized his gaze was sweeping the horizon, not the crowd, as if watching for someone or something. She couldn't take her eyes from him. Maybe he felt her stare, because suddenly he looked down—right at her.

Their gazes met and locked, and there was no mistaking his recognition and shock.

The crowd was still chanting, "
CUBA LIBRE, CUBA LIBRE
!" as they stared at each other. Lucy was vaguely aware that she was hearing glass breaking somewhere close by. Cries of approval sounded. The sound of more glass shattering caught her attention and Lucy turned to look behind her, but it was impossible to see anything other than the surging, angry ocean of people. The tone of the crowd had changed. Lucy heard hysteria, felt the frenzied intent. She also heard wood groaning and splitting, and then before her very eyes, she saw the carriage—her carriage—being overturned by a mob of shrieking youths.