Mexican Fire (12 page)

Even though he had had no intention of fulfilling his commitment to keep her posted as to Antonio's plans, Reece realized everything had changed. She was a Federalist, not a spy for the cur of Manga de Clavo.

That, along with Reece having realized his dream to make her his woman, roused a feeling within him. A certain obligation to honesty. A side of him wanted to honor his word. The more practical side prevailed.

He couldn't appear honorable, not with so much at stake.

With his arms wrapped around her, Reece considered an equally important factor. He needed to protect Alejandra from Federalist insanity. The danger of it all was just that, dangerous.

She must remain out of harm's way, and if it took his intervention, so be it. He owed her that much, considering his double-cross.

He considered his options and decided it would be best if she backtracked to Campos de Palmas. Let her think that Antonio's designs were on Mexico City alone.

As for now, though, what should he do? Steal out of her arms, and go on to Santa Fe? That idea went down like a big wad of sodden, salty bread. The last thing he wanted was to leave his woman—and she was his, there was no doubt about that—but duty beckoned.

Duty be damned.

It wasn't too far to Santa Fe. And Reece could ride as if demons were chasing him, so why not . . .

“Let me love you again,
querida,”
he murmured into her ear, awakening his darling. “I want to feel myself buried in that sweet secret place of yours. Would you like to be surrounded by this?”

He took her hand, guiding it to the turgid evidence of his need.

“You are so wicked,” she said in a sleep-drugged voice that trailed into an intake of breath.

And was that a girlish giggle?

He blew a stream of air over the heavy fringe of her lashes. “You're right. I'm wicked and wanting more of you.”

“How can you be?” She laughed, low and sweet. “We have already . . . Tonight . . .”

“I know.”

“How can you?” she asked, wonder evident.

“Easily. And after we've finished, I will have you again before dawn breaks.”

“I don't believe you.”

He wasn't surprised. She had been, in their loving, almost as innocent as a maiden. He felt pride in having introduced her to his brand of wild lovemaking. Her inhibitions—thank God they had vanished—had him stymied. Alejandra hadn't been a maiden for years.

“Alejandra, are you trying to tell me your husband couldn't get it up more than once at a serving?” he asked, wondering what in the hell had been wrong with the guy's libido.

“Let's not discuss my Miguelito.”

He didn't like the way she said the dead man's name.

“Good idea,” he returned. “From here on out, your memories are going to be of my lovemaking.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but it dropped open in horror. Quickly, she crossed herself.

Reece turned his gaze to the point she looked at. He heard a rustle of feathers, then a “hoo . . . hoo.” Round eyes blinking, an owl perched on the bureau.

“Death.” Alejandra wadded the sheet in her fingers. “The owl brings death.”

“Now that's a bunch of superstitious malarkey. I—”

“Montgomery . . . ?”

Recognizing the voice from the other side of the French doors, he froze. Damn! “Hold your horses,” he called in Spanish, hoping to fool Alejandra and alert his idiot cousin not to do something stupid, like say something else. “I'll be right there.”

“Who is it?” she asked.

“Just one of Antonio's men.” He tucked the covers around her naked body. “Stay right where you are. I'll–”

“What about the owl?”

“I'll chase him out as soon as I find out what Antonio's man wants. You stay abed, you hear me?”

She nodded.

Breathing easier, Reece yanked on his breeches. He took giant steps past the door and out to the patio. A young man, dressed in ducking and a sailor's beret, saluted him. He was blond and tall, as were all LaTouche descendants with the exception of black-haired Garth Colby.

Reece hustled the cousin from Caen to the shed fifty feet away, fastening the door behind them.

“I've no time for small talk. What do you want, Jacques?”

Jacques LaTouche pulled a Havana cigar from his pocket. “The prince said you must come with me to the
Néréide.”

“What for?”

“He does not confide in me, cousin.” Jacques's cheeks puffed with smoke. Blowing it out, he said, “He gives orders and I obey.”

“You don't care much for your prince, do you?”

Jacques shrugged. “It's not for me to consider. France fought a revolution to get rid of his kind. But we have them again.” He flipped ashes on the earthen floor. “Anyway, what difference does it make? I've orders to escort you to the flagship, so let's go.”

“Can't do it. His Excellency Santa Anna requires my services. Tell the prince the two of us will be calling on Commandante Rincón this morning. I will get a message to the
Néréide
as soon as possible.”

“I see.”

“Good. Now, be gone with you.”

Jacques turned to depart but stopped short of the door. “There is something you must know. Admiral Baudin has decided to carry through with the attack. Before I rowed over here, I was among the boat parties that made soundings beneath San Juan de Ulúa's batteries.” He took another puff from the Havana before exiting. “The assault will be perfect.”

“So be it.”

In truth, Reece wasn't as blasé as he would have it appear. Unless the Mexican government met the king's monetary demands, and it seemed unlikely, Mexico would suffer. So would the French. While Charles Baudin led an exceptional fleet, all Texans could attest to the might of the Mexican Army. Blood, be it European or native, was going to be shed.

What would war do to Alejandra?

Not liking his answers, Reece left the shed and approached Alejandra's mare. Munching beach grasses, she waited below the patio.

“Hello, beauty.” Comfortable with the innocuousness of man conversing with beast, he stroked the sleek neck. “You're almost as lovely as your mistress. What is your name?” From the recesses of his memory, he recalled it. “Ah, I know. Moscada. That's nutmeg in my language.”

Moscada whinnied and pranced. Her proud head moved in the direction of his bedchamber, and Reece, looking to the right, followed her line of sight.

Alejandra, dressed in her skirt and one of his shirts, stood at the French doors and held her injured arm.

He waved, then sprinted up the steps. “Thought I told you to stay abed.”

“I shooed the owl,” she replied, her voice uneven.

“Is he gone?”

“To whom do you refer, Señor Montgomery? To the owl or to the Frenchman?”

Damn! Reece stood close to her now. Close enough to see the disappointment in her eyes, to hear the brittleness in her voice, and to smell the scent of gardenias and sex and woman. A funny, tinny taste was on his tongue.

“You're a fine one for games,” he said, trying to parry his way out of this one. “Frenchman? That boy is—”

“French. I suspected as much, so I called to him. And he answered.” Alejandra took a step backward. “In the beginning, I figured you might be a spy for Admiral Baudin. Then I was told you are Tejano. You tell me—and the Mexicano leader who saved you from the gallows over your treason against Tejas!—you are a Santanista. The words that pour from your mouth come from both sides, Señor Montgomery.”

“Jandra, it's not like you think.”

“It is exactly as I think. You are aligned with those who would conquer my country.”

“How the hell was I to know that boy speaks French?”

The look in her verdant eyes, now completely evident in the breaking dawn, was intractable and condemning. “Before, you were my enemy. Now you are the foe of all Mexico.”

“Now, Jandra . . .”

“The penalty for treason in Mexico is death.”

Reece knew that hers wasn't an idle mention of capital punishment. Protecting her from harm might not be in the realm of possibilities. Beyond all that, her anger cut him like a scythe did wheat.

“So, what are you going to do? Turn me in?”

“Mark my words, El Cazador, you
will
face a firing squad.”

They sang “Ave Maria” over him on the morning of Tuesday the twenty-seventh of November.

When the requiem was over, some of the mourners said the choir boys sounded as if they were a band of archangels. The priest then led them all to the graveyard of Catedral Metropolitana de Jalapa. Rain, the biting
chipichipi,
was falling. Murmurs such as “Isn't it a shame, he was so young and handsome” could be heard around the priestly intonations. More than one person cried as the dead man was laid to rest.

His widow shed not a tear. Twenty minutes after she had urged her family and friends to leave her be, the priest's incense still stung her nostrils, making her dizzy.

Mercedes Navarro's head was lowered in sorrow and shame. In her own way she had loved her husband. Of course she had married him to spite the peasant lover who had abandoned her for his windmill chasing in Tejas, yet Joaquin had been a good and faithful husband, deserving more than she had given him.

She regretted their argument and her flouncing away from their home. All Joaquin had ever wanted was to love her, yet in her frustration over her barren state, she had lashed out at him. Oh, those awful names she had called him.

If possible she would retract each and every one. And a few of her deeds, too.

Such as with Erasmo de Guzman.

Why had he killed Joaquin? He claimed he hadn't. But the housemaid Josie had found el mestizo standing over the body, his hand clutching the bloodied candlestick.

Sainted Mother above, why did he do it?

In the past Mercedes had thought Erasmo incapable of such violence, and she didn't want to believe it now. Yet . . . While she was loath to accept it, she realized that he was not the man who had left Vera Cruz in 1835. No longer was he the gentle and sweet man she remembered. War had scarred him physically and emotionally. On the heels of his release by the Tejanos, politics had provided a podium for his revolutionary, dangerous ideas.

Mercedes shivered. It had nothing to do with the brisk morning or with her widow's grief. Though Erasmo claimed to love her, she feared his consuming devotion to politics and to her.

She shouldn't have—absolutely should not have!—fallen prey to his advances.

If only she hadn't . . . If only she had behaved as a proper wife, Joaquin would not be in his grave.

What
had
happened that night?

Oh,
Dios,
it was too much for her to think about.

“Mercie,” she heard Alejandra say quietly, lovingly, “Papa and Mamacita are waiting.” She felt her sister tug on her arm. “Come, dear one. We must go home.”

Mercedes refused to quit the gravesite. Her sister knew the scope of her sin, and to face the words that went unspoken was more than she could handle. The gravity of it all overwhelmed her. She turned her face to the heavens, letting the needle-like rain beat into her face. And she wailed. For the first time since word had arrived at Campos de Palmas that Joaquin was dead and Erasmo was his slayer, Mercedes allowed herself self-pitying tears.

For hours, she stayed in the graveyard, crying over what-might-have-been and refusing her family's comfort. Finally, at dusk, she entered the black-draped coach for the ride to the Toussaint family home here in Jalapa. So profound was her grief, she never remembered the journey to Hacienda del Pappagallo.

It took her a week to comprehend that at half past two on the day of her husband's funeral, the French attacked San Juan de Ulúa. The islet fortress considered impregnable for over two hundred years had surrendered to the invaders the following morning. Command of Vera Cruz had fallen to Admiral Baudin.

Vaguely, she knew His Excellency the former president of Mexico, Antonio López de Santa Anna, played no part in the battle, his advances having been spurned by Commandante Rincón.

She took full note, however, when, on the morning of December fourth, Alejandra announced that she'd had her carriage packed for a return to Campos de Palmas.

The family Toussaint was sitting in the armory at Alejandra's announcement. The armory was a big room, its walls lined with all sorts of weaponry. Papa hunched near a gun case, cleaning a Brown Bess musket. A fire blazed in the hearth. Mamacita sat in front of it, her fingers flying through a piece of embroidery. Alejandra, her arm in a sling and her face more white than Mercedes had ever remembered seeing it, was curled up on a window ledge, staring at the mountains to the west.

She eyed the white sling. It was quite unlike Mercedes, not knowing everything about everyone, especially about her baby sister. A bit of her inquisitiveness returned, though.

What had happened to Dulce?

Trying to sort through the cobwebs of the last few days, Mercedes vaguely remembered her sister flying off to stop Erasmo from killing that American soldier-of-fortune. When word arrived, just before dawn, that Joaquin was dead, she had sent a messenger to fetch Alejandra. He returned with her—and she had been shot. Who did it?

“I must see to my plantation as well as Mercie's,” Alejandra said to Papa.

“Don't leave,” Mercedes interrupted, and realized that even though she had shunned her sister's comfort, she yearned for it. “Please don't.”

“You've decided to rejoin the living, I see,” said Mamacita, not missing a stitch.

Except for her blue eyes and fair hair, a legacy from an ancestor born in the north of Spain, Anita del Lago Toussaint was an older and heavier image of Alejandra. Though known for her domineering personality and for the iron hand in which she controlled Hacienda del Pappagallo and everyone on it, Mamacita wallowed in a morass of apathy when it came to her daughters. Mercedes figured it had something to do with the four sons who died at birth. Dynasties were founded on male children, not on defiant daughters. Especially barren ones.

“Drink some of that broth, Mercedes,” Mamacita ordered, “you need your strength.”

Mercedes would have none of the soup sitting on the table beside her chair, but she did plead one more time for her sister's continued presence.

There was a look to Alejandra, a certain plea for understanding. “I can't stay, Mercie. The French could be overrunning our properties.”

Obviously offended that his countrymen roused no respect in his daughter, Papa put down the musket and puffed out his thin chest. “They would do no such thing. All they want is financial redress for our ex-patriots.”

“Forever the Frenchman, aren't you, Papa?”

Mercedes eyed her father as he answered,
“Bien sûr.”
Pierre Toussaint resembled his countrymen: diminutive and rather sharp-featured, with black hair straight as a poker and thick as a feather mattress. There was a typically French air of insolence, mixed with defiance and overwhelming national pride, to his bearing.

And Alejandra had inherited his arresting hazel eyes.

“What is the matter with you, Alejandra?” he asked. “Have you no sense of yourself? Your heritage is as much French as it is of this land, yet you have no regard for—”

“Hush up, Pedro,” Mamacita demanded, using the Spanish appellation for Pierre and brooking no argument. The needle took another poke at material. “If you like France so much, maybe you should return to it.”

It was an idle challenge, one employed each time Papa got too carried away with his homesick pin-ings. Mercedes and her mother both yawned.

His next words shut their mouths and snapped their faces to meet his.

Alejandra's face turned even whiter. “What did you say?”

“I have no choice in staying,” he repeated.

Mamacita snipped a thread with her teeth. “Pedro, what trick are you pulling now?”

“No trick, Anita. In retaliation for the capture of San Juan de Ulúa and Vera Cruz, President Bustamante has ordered the expulsion of all French citizens from Mexico.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Pedro. You made no claims against the government. Furthermore, you have the embrace of my family.” It was no secret that Mamacita considered her wealthy French husband beneath her station. As far as she was concerned, in light of her noble Spanish ancestors, the blue-blooded Toussaints might as well have descended from beneath some mossy rock. He had been lucky—it was de rigueur for her to announce to anyone who would listen, and that was at any opportunity—she had married the Frenchman, thus securing his place in Mexican society.

“No del Lago will allow your expulsion,” she said airily.

Mercedes knew her mother was correct about her family's influence. Trouble was, that power resided in
la capital.
Far from the jungles of Veracruz.

Besides, the del Lago challenge was much the same as Papa's threat of home: a pawn in their marital game.

A curl to his lip, Papa came back with, “We shall see how much power is wielded by the venerable del Lagos when Mexico falls to greater power.”

This was no game. War was brewing on the home-front, Mercedes could tell. Alejandra spoke up, no doubt to forestall it. Which was another family absolute. For all of Mamacita's pride of kin, she was easily distracted, and her younger daughter played peacemaker.

“Tell me about the hostilities, Papa,” Alejandra was saying.

“Did you know Santa Anna and his retinue, during the ceasefire to collect bodies and wounded, inspected the fort?”

Alejandra's eyes widened. “I did not.”

“Well, he did. But that isn't my point. President Bustamante has called Commandante Rincón a traitor for capitulating.”

“A good enough name,” Alejandra muttered.

“Agreed,” was Mamacita's comment.

“Call him what you like, it doesn't matter. What matters is, Bustamante has declared war. Furthermore, the president is impressed with the speed in which his old foe Santa Anna came forward to offer advice and assistance. He has named him commander of the army.”

Papa beamed, for all in attendance knew he thought the Napoleon of the West “sorry.” At best. Veritable stars danced in his eyes; no doubt he was dreaming of the fleur-de-lis waving over the main plaza of Mexico City.

Alejandra was not beaming.

She rose from her window perch. “My carriage should be packed by now. I must bid you
adios.”
With that, she swept out of the room.

Mercedes followed close behind.

Once they reached Alejandra's quarters, she placed her hand on her sister's shoulder. “Dulce, please don't leave. I need you.”

“I—I can't stay.” The shoulder wilted. “Really I can't. I must return to Campos de Palmas.”

“How can you leave when Papa needs us?”

“Mamacita won't let him be deported, I guarantee you.”

“You're leaving because you can't stand the sight of me. Because I am weak and went to Erasmo's arms.”

“I've learned weakness is a very human thing.”

Mercedes took a long look at her sister.
I've learned weakness is a very human thing.
So . . . Alejandra had slept with the Anglo. Interesting. She yearned to get to the truth of her sister's motivation for leaving Pappagallo. “You want to leave because of what Papa said about Santa Anna, yes? You want to rejoin your Federalist friends, no?”

Alejandra walked to the bed and sat down. “Naturally I'm concerned about these turns of events.”

“Aren't you concerned for me?” Mercedes did nothing to hide her affront. “I've just been left a widow.”

“Of course I'm concerned for your welfare, Mercie. But I've been with you for over a week, and you've taken little regard of my interest.”

“I hope you understand why.” Tears forming, Mercedes bit her lip. “Dulce—” she could barely get the words past her throat “—why do you think Erasmo killed Joaquin?”

“I don't know.” Alejandra stared at her hands. ‘I don't know anything anymore.”

“Dulce, are you still angry with me over Erasmo?”

“I never was. You weren't happy with Joaquin, and—”

“Then what is the matter?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

“You
are
still angry over me and Erasmo.”

“No.” Alejandra shook her head. “That has nothing to do with my reason for leaving.”

“Which is?”

Alejandra studied her hands. “Reece Montgomery is an agent for the French.”

“Dios mio.”
She had heard many things about the man from St. Louis, most of them of a titillating sexual nature from her friends, but never had Mercedes heard a whisper that he might be a Frog. “How do you know this?”

“I know. Believe me, I know.”

“Have you told anyone?”

“Not yet. I was going to, but fate turned against me. Naturally I rushed from Casa Montgomery as soon as word reached me about poor Joaquin. I returned to you immediately. As you know, we left for here that same day. I've had no opportunity to alert the authorities about . . . El Cazador,” Alejandra said, uttering Señor Montgomery's sobriquet as if it were vile.

Alejandra touched her sling.

“What happened, Dulce? Who shot you and why?”

Through the silence that was as deep as a cave, Alejandra dropped her chin. What was she trying to hide?

At long last, she elevated her gaze to Mercedes, and said, “It was an accident. I took the shot meant for Reece.”

“Erasmo shot you?”

“Yes.”

Mercedes swallowed. “When he went charging after Señor Montgomery, I didn't think he would actually try to kill him. Beat him to a bloody pulp, yes, but not try to shoot him!” She paused. “You got in the way, though, and he injured his best friend's widow. That says little for his character, yes? None of which explains why he turned up at my home, with whatever intentions or whatever results.”