Savage Enchantment (13 page)

The sudden white flash of lightning illuminated the wickiup. But it was neither the lightning nor the rolling bombardment of thunder which followed that awoke Kathleen. Her heavy-lidded eyes opened to the dim vision of the dark face hovering over hers.

"Simon." It was a faint whisper, a half sigh.

The warm lips closed over hers, and the muscle-corded body slanted across her own. Even though each time before she had fought him with all her strength, her drugged-like sleep now weakened her resistance, and her arms came up unwittingly around her shoulders. Her fingers tangled in his rain-wet hair.

Startled at this unexpected display of passion, Simon raised his head to probe the deep purple eyes, but the thickly fringed lids fluttered closed to hide whatever secrets were to be found there. "Cataline," he murmured wonderingly as his forefinger lightly brushed the cleft of her chin.

And his lean hips once more claimed her own, but this time with a gentleness that caught the woman beneath him by surprise. Like the touch of butterfly wings, his kisses skimmed her lids, her cheeks, to linger at her ear.

Then, as another explosion of lightning flooded the wickiup, so were the tender moments exploded by the suddenness of white-hot passion. Simon's hand slipped downward to caress the taught, turgid crowns of her breasts, straining beneath her chemise to break free. Kathleen gasped.

His mouth silenced her low moans of pleasure before deserting her lips and burning a path along her slim-columned neck, nipping the delicate hollow of her throat. Kathleen's hands clutched at Simon's back, pulling him against her even as her nails dug into his skin.

But when he rose and shucked the breechcloth, she stiffened in remembrance of the pain and degradation and, as his body lowered over hers, tried to draw away from his embrace.

"Kathleen." The husky whisper of his voice against her ear crackled like the thunder in the heavens. "I'm not an ogre. I'm only a man. Here, feel me." His hand caught hers and firmly guided it downward along his flat belly.

Her tentative resistance of slowly gave way to wonder as she explored this man to whom she was united by the law, by God, and by the strange mixture of hate and passion. His deep groan told her of the pleasure a woman could give a man, and the knowledge was an overwhelming assault on her senses. Her limbs intertwined with his, and her fingers locked in his long curls.

"Love me, Simon!" she begged as the pain became unbearable pleasure and pleasure unbearable pain.

Somewhere out in camp a rooster hearlded the dawn with its onomatopoeic crow, even though the morning's first light had yet to filter through the slits of the curtained doorway. Kathleen stirred drowsily and nestled closer to the strong arms that enfolded her. Playful lips brushed the lids of her eyes, and the tip of a tongue tickled her ear, sending a flood of rapturous shivers coursing through her. Her arms came up to encircle him, and she whispered,
"Mi indio,
take me again!"

Simon laughed softly. "You're greedy, Catalina. And so am I. I can't get enough of you. Each time I make love to you, I dissolve inside. I drown in the warm wine of your eyes -- in the warm juices of your lovely body."

"Then show me," she whispered, and her body arched upwards to meet his, giving as he gave.

The morning was growing old when Kathleen finally awakened. She turned slightly and put out a hand, but the place next to her was empty. For a long moment she lay there, reliving the previous night. It was incredible! Unbelievable! That she could behave in such an abandoned fashion. What ever had caused her to make such wanton love, to let Simon have his way with her? Why hand't she realized the power of passion? She cringed with embarrassment. To think she had actually enjoyed herself -- in the arms of the man she most detested.

She remembered the first time he had taken her, at La Palacia, and she had thought with disgust that that was what sex was all about. But to have Simon teach her! Irony of ironies. To be enslaved by passion to one's own husband! To be enslaved by a man whose dark, Indian skin and flashing, mocking eyes she found loathsome.

Ohh! She flushed with shame with each memory that assailed her. That she could have found that hitherto undiscovered pleasure in the arms of the scoundrel. Perhaps she indeed carried the taint of her mother's blood. How often had she heard the hurled accusations from her father that her mother had whoring blood. But, dear God, was her father any better, with his perverted lusts? And where did that leave herself but with the inherent passion of the senses?

Damn her senses. And damn Simon! She could imagine how out of proportion his male arrogance would be this morning. Well, she would show him! Let him just once swagger about her, and she would treat him as if he were dust beneath her feet!

But Simon did not return to the wickiup that morning, and when noon came Kathleen dressed and, taking a towel with her, went outside, ostensibly to bathe. She saw the grisly Angel, whom she noted had been careful to keep out of her way since he found that
el jefe
had claimed her as his wife. She repressed a scornful smile, recalling how quickly the bandido's bravado had disappeared.

Concha passed by, with the tiny Chela toddling behind her, and stopped Kathleen with an outstretched hand.
"Niña,
the worst has happened! Margarita's man, Najo, didn't return from the last raid."

"Oh, no!" cried Kathleen. "Should I go to her? Say something?"

"No, not now. She will be preparing for mourning. She's marking her face now with charcoal."

As Kathleen continued on toward the glade, sorrow for Margarita, heavy with Najo's unborn child, clouded her thoughts. Why, oh why, couldn't it have been Simon who didn't return? And with the thought of him, the memories of the night before returned. Fool! To have been so easy for Simon. Another conquest for his conceited male ego.

Nowhere did she see him. He probably already had ridden out of camp, spurring his horse toward the waiting arms of Francesca or Gemma. She cursed his name as she made her way through the maze of pines. Once she tripped over the gnarled root of a juniper, sprawling headlong in the carpet of pine needles and scratching her cheek on a prickly cone. Nothing was going right.

When she reached the banks of the stream, she removed her clothing and plunged into the water. But the relaxation she sought did not come; the chilly dip did not cool her boiling anger, did not soothe her feverish senses. She washed her hair and bathed, scrubbing abrasively at her skin as if to cleanse away a contagion. After she finished, she waded from the water, her wet hair swinging against the hollow of her back, and petulantly began to dress before heading back to camp.

Blinded partially by the late-afternoon sun, partially by her seething fury, Kathleen did not see the massive figure looming just ahead of her until it was too late. Heavy arms came around her, and a mouth smelling of garlic locked over hers, cutting off her scream of surprise.

Kathleen tried to push Angel from her, but his strength was too much for her. He slammed her down in the willow grass and began ripping at her clothing. "I've been watching you, lovely lady," he grunted, and brutally rammed his knee between her thighs.

She moaned with the unexpected pain and drew up in a mall. "So, your beautiful body isn't good enough for the likes of me, eh? Well, I'll show you what a real man can do!"

He reared above her, but the ugly face contorted with lust underwent a rapid change to one of petrified shock.

"Get off her," a steely voice ordered.

Slowly Angel raised from his kneeling position to face the thunderous face of
el jefe
-- and the leader's long knife that glinted in the sun.

"Your knife," Simon said, nodding at the man's leggings.

"I was only --"

"You knew my orders about the woman. Get out your knife."

"She was mine first!" Angel said, even as he whipped the knife from his legging. But he was not quick enough for the lean, lithesome leader, whose leg twisted about the larger man's so that he toppled like a tree at Simon's feet. Simon's shining knife arced upwards, and Angel begged, "No,
jefe!
I didn't mean to --"

Simon showed no leniency. The knife flashed downward to savagely bury to the hilt in the fleshy chest. Kathleen raised on her elbows to stare wide-eyed at the man who quivered in the throes of death, blood staining his dirty shirt and gurgling in his throat.

Simon grabbed her arm and jerked her roughly to her feet. "You little fool! I warned you about leaving camp alone. If Temcal hadn't seen Angel follow you, you'd be --"

"Be what, Simon?" Kathleen yanked herself from his grasp. "A piece of used flesh? Isn't that what I am already?"

Simon eyed her coldly. "Only you can tell me that, my wife." He bent and drew his blade from the lifeless body. "Your selfish stubbornness has caused me to kill a good soldier," he told her, once more sheathing the knife in his legging. "Now cover yourself and get back to camp."

Shaken, Kathleen half ran, half stumbled along the path that led out of the glade. At the camp everything seemed as usual, and it was hard to believe she had witnessed only a moment earlier Simon's compunctionless murder of one of his own men.

She retreated to the wickiup, nervously walking the floor. She had missed both breakfast and lunch, and her stomach growled with hunger. When the sun lowered and the smell of roasting meat on the evening campfires reached her, she could wait no longer and ventured outside the wickiup. But once again, Simon wasn't anywhere in sight.

Where was he? What would he do? Would he come to her that night? And would it be with his usual brusqueness, as if he took pleasure in her fear? Or would he take her with the surprising tenderness of the night before? Regardless, she would lay impassively in his arms, treating him with the contempt that oozed from every poor in her skin.

She crossed to the nearest fire, where a huge black kettle of beans bubbled and a jackrabbit roasted on the spit. Concha, who dished out the beans and corn cakes, handed Kathleen a tin plate with a rabbit haunch, saying, "So you and
el jefe
are at odds again, eh,
niña?"

"He's a monster! A callous cutthroat! He killed Angel without giving the man a chance!"

And should he have?" Concha asked softly. "His word is law, and must be obeyed to the letter. How else would he control all these men? Without firm leadership they'd soon split up into aimless bands of marauders."

"Isn't that what they
are?"
she asked Concha and turned away, leaving the woman to shake her head after Kathleen.

Night's darkness covered the hidden valley and a pumpkin moon hung low over the ridge of one mountain. From one of the campfires came the vibrating beat of a drum accompanied by turtle-shell rattles. In the firelight a young Indian, his body painted in brilliant colors, leaped up and began prancing in the center of gathered spectators as if performing some tribal ceremonial rite.

Drawn by the music, Kathleen moved toward a nearby flatbed wagon that was in the shadows and seated herself at the base of one large wheel to eat her dinner.

As she chewed on the tough rabbit haunch, she watched while the youth sat down, giving way to a Mexican girl who took his place. A guitar and trumpet replaced the drum and rattles, and the girl moved sinuously among the onlookers, her hands intertwined high above her head, her back arched seductively. Her hips thrust forward suggestively with the music's beat. The girl's movements accelerated, keeping time with the rhythm as the music erupted in the sensuous fandango.

The staccato strains stirred something in Kathleen, and she felt her blood quicken in response. She longed to dance, herself, to exult in that momentary release of inhibitions, to cast off all restraint.

But as she half-rose to join the revelers, the sight of Simon moving among the men, clapping one on the shoulder, laughing at some jest by another, solemnly discussing something with still another, crushed her urge to dance. And when, with a cursory embrace, Simon caught up the girl, who was dancing with obvious firtatious movements meant only for him, Kathleen swung around and headed for the wickiup.

Once inside, she picked up Simon's saddlebags and dumped their contents on the dirt floor. One by one she began hurling his razor, his brush, and other personal articles against the wall.

She was suddenly yanked around to face him. "You little witch! What's gotten into you now?"

"Don't touch me! You murderer! You and your high ideals. Tell me,
el jefe,
what will you do when you've disposed of all who stand in your way? Set yourself up as Calirnia's first emperor?"

Simon's green-flecked eyes studied Kathleen for a long moment. "I could take the time to explain the political situation to you, Kathleen. But I don't think that's what's eating at you."

She tried to jerk away, but he held her firmly. "I'm right, aren't I? It's eating your insides that you want me as much as I want you. But you're incapable of admitting it."

Kathleen's mouth parched suddenly. "No," she whispered.

"Oh? Then prove it." And he swept her up against him. His mouth slanted across hers recklessly, forcing her lips to yield.

Kathleen tried to push him from her, but his hands slid down to cup her buttocks, pressing her against him so that she could feel his urgency. One hand came up to tangle in her waist-length hair, jerking her head backwards.

"Say you want me, Catalina."

"Never!" she replied.

But her hands caught at the curls that feathered at Simon's worn collar and pulled his head down to meet hers.

"Tell me you'll miss me," he teased, leaning down from Salvaje to catch her hand. Kathleen had forgotten how elegant Simon could look when dressed as the ranchero -- the tight black breeches and bolero jacket over the frilled white shirt that lay open at the neck and the flat-brim hat set low over the mocking eyes.

She jerked her hand away. "Like the pox I'll miss you, Simon Reyes!"

He laughed aloud. "I'll put that to the test when I return,
mi vida."
He spurred the horse forward and, with a company of his men, rode out in a flurry of dust.

Kathleen could have hurled her half-eaten orange after him. Of all the insufferable conceit! To ignore the hatred that could not help but inflect every word she spoke to him. Was he so insensible a man that he didn't feel the contempt in which she held him?

Each day grew worse, her humiliation greater, her degradation lower. And the fact that Simon could arouse passions in her which she could in no way repress was the worst of it all. The desire to escape gnawed at her brain, relentlessly plagued her every waking moment -- and seeped into her dream-filled sleep to mingle with visions of laughing green eyes.

But there was one small hope. While Simon was gone, she might be able to persuade Renaldo to help her -- to call off Simon's watchdogs. She had no idea when Simon would return, and therefore there was not a moment to waste.

She tossed the last of the orange away and headed to the far side of the camp where in an open field Renaldo drilled six or seven men in target practice. Two, Indians, used yew bows that were almost as large as they, while the Mexicans fired muskets. Kathleen waited until the next fusillade reverberated among the large boulders of the encircling mountain and the men were reloading, to approach Renaldo.

"Renaldo, can I talk with you -- alone?"

The intelligent eyes studied Kathleen for a moment, then he said,
"Ciertamente, señora."
He turned and called out to Temcal to take his place, then rejoined Kathleen, who had moved a little aside. "She we walk a ways?"

Kathleen nodded her assent, and, as if by mutual agreement, the two began walking toward the river, but circumventing the camp and whatever curious eyes might be watching. After a while Renaldo said, "What is it you wish to talk about, señora?"

Kathleen heaved a sigh and stooped to pick a poppy from among the sheets of purple and gold flowers before continuing on. "Renaldo," she said finally, "if I'm to make anything of my life -- if this is to be my life -- well, you can see, surely, that I can't remain in this limbo."

She raised her gaze from golden petals of the poppy and fixed troubled eyes on Renaldo. "You must explain to me what this --" she indicated the camp with her free hand -- "is all about. I realize you can't tell me everything. But enough for me to understand ... to make some sense of all this."

Renaldo's velvet-brown eyes narrowed as if he expected some trickery, but the guileless expression in the lovely face convinced him that
el jefe's
wife was sincere.

As he hesitantly began, trying accurately to explain the principles of his people's cause. Kathleen could only hate herself for the deception she played on the gentle man -- but, dear God, if she didn't escape she would go mad, as mad as her father claimed her mother was.

But her pretense at interest changed to genuine attention as Renaldo continued his discourse. "And as you can see, señora, we have no choice. What can we do when the soldiers that Mexico sends -- and they are ex-convicts for the most part,
rateros
that Mexico wants to get rid of -- steal from us, or even murder, at the slightest provocation? Why, our wives and sweethearts can't even appear on the streets, so many rapes have occurred. Then there is Mexico's own unstable government. They change presidents every six months. If they can't adequately rule their own country, how can we, Californios, expect them to rule us justly? I ask you, señora, can you blame us for wanting home rule?"

By this time they had reached the river's edge. Kathleen tossed the heat-wilted flower into the gurgling water. "You speak as only a man of high principles would speak, Renaldo. And that is all very well. But I can only answer you as a woman would."

Renaldo's eyes flickered with surprise.

"Yes," she continued, "what of the women? You speak of a sweetheart. Would you have her postpone her marriage year after year until the day you finally gain your desires? And what of her desires? What of the tiny
niños
she desires to cradle in her arms? What of the husband she wants to prepare a home for? If one day a bullet should find you, what then? Oh, your ideals are very noble. But there must be a place in your life for practicality also. Because when you get down to it, Renaldo, life isn't noble. It's a harsh, practical existence. So how great would your love be? WOuld it be a second-rate love -- second to your grand cause? Can you answer me truthfull?"

Simon's second-in-command walked a little apart from Kathleen before turning back to her. "Señora, what are you saying? Why do you bring all this up?"

Kathleen dropped her pretense. "Because I also am being practical. I can't live this existence -- of a kept woman. And that's what I am in spite of papers declaring the contrary. What happens when your leader tires of me? What then? Tell me, Renaldo, is this your idea of nobility? What kind of life could I possibly make for myself?"

A pained look crossed Renaldo's face, and she hurried on: "I'm telling you this because I can help you -- help your cause, if you'll let me."

She went to Renaldo and touched his arm imploringly. "Within the year, upon my father's death, I'll be heiress to a vast sum of money. A fortune, Renaldo! Think of it! What it could do for your cause. What it could do for your sweetheart you'll one day take as your wife. No more groveling. No more risking your life -- and that of your family. I swear every penny will be yours -- if you'll only help me. God knows, I don't care about the money. It's only brought me unhappiness."

"And do you think the money'll bring me any better chance at happiness than it has you, señora?" Renaldo asked softly. "Do you think I have so little honor? I could never hold my head up if I did such a thing. I could not betray the trust of a man like
el jefe."

At that moment Kathleen could not remember a time in her life when she had ever felt so small, so humbled. But even those feelings were overcome by her own helplessness, her own sense of injustice -- the utter futility that faced her.

"Well,
I
would," she said, pronouncing ever word between clenched teeth. "I would betray your precious leader at the drop of a coin -- and I swear by God I'll do just that if I ever get out of this valley."

Her voice rose to a shrill pitch. "I'll see him face an execution squad if I have to crawl, and beg, and bribe right up to the President of the United States."

"Then God help your soul, señora."

"He can't," she cried. "Simon has possessed my soul!"

The day immediately following her discussion with Renaldo Kathleen was to leave the valley. But not in the way she expected ... not in escape.

She had gone along with the women and children to the river to wash the clothes, when a gradual hush settled over the area. The lack of noise from the forest animals caused some of the women to lift their heads as if, like deer, they scented trouble.

Kathleen herself halted in her bathing of little Chela and looked up with a frown on her face. Chela stopped splashing the water and raised her little round face to Kathleen. "Da?" she asked.

Then, within the darkness of the forest on the river's far side, Kathleen's eyes caught on the glint of metal. And in that same moment came the yell of "Charge!" and a horde of Mexican soldiers, in their brilliant blue uniforms and waving their gleaming sabers on high, swept down out of the forests on their great mounts and thundered through the river's rushing waters.

For the length of a heartbeat the women and children remained paralyzed. Then the mothers grabbed up their babies and shoved their children before them. Shrill screams pierced the still air. Screams of fright -- and then screams of death's blows as sabers plunged into tiny brown bodies or slashed at women's thighs, bringing them tumbling to the ground in flowing blood.

Kathleen caught up Chela to her breast and ran on ahead of Concha, and amidst the roar of the muskets and the pitiful cries of the victims dying, Kathleen heard a man shout: "The golden one! Don't kill her! She's for me!"

Her heart pounded and her breath came in short gasps, as she dodged a heaped body or a charging horse. Immune now to the swords and guns, Kathleen might have escaped but for the burden of Chela, which grew heavier with each step.

And then Kathleen was surrounded by the mounted soldiers. Panting heavily, she clutched the girl against her, waiting.

"It seems the circumstances have changed since our last two meetings," Aguila said, dismounting from his horse.

"Not that much," Kathleen snapped. "You're still the slimy snake you always were!"

Aguila crossed to her and placed the top of his blood-red saber at the base of her throat. Kathleen felt its prick. "And you're still the haughty little bitch, Señora Reyes. But I imagine imprisonment will take the high-and-mightiness out of you ... after I've taught you a few things first."

He lowered his saber. "Take the child," he ordered, and one of the soldiers stepped forward and pried loose the crying child from Kathleen's arms.

"Shall we return to camp, Señora Reyes, and confront your beloved husband?" Aguila sneered.

An insolent smile curved Kathleen's full lips. "You're slightly tardy, Lieutenant. Simon's not in camp."

Aguila's reptilian eyes flared briefly. "Bring her along," he rapped out. He swung upon his palomino and, bringing his quirt down viciously across the animal's flanks, bounded away.

Kathleen was roughly pushed forward by the butt of a bayonet rifle and almost fell. "Get moving,
puta!"
the beady-eyed soldier ordered.

A desolation of horror mounted with every step Kathleen took. Blood was everywhere. In a ravine she sighted Imelda, who had outrun even herself. The girl lay spread-eagled, her blood-stained skirts bunched above her thighs. She moaned, and Kathleen stopped. But a soldier said, "Keep moving -- or the same'll happen to you -- no matter what the lieutenant ordered." A hideous leer creased the filthy, beard-stubbled face. Kathleen cringed inwardly and immediately joined the few survivors, none of which was COncha, in the forced march into camp.

Kathleen could have cried from sheer relief when she saw trudging ahead of her Margarita, carrying Chela piggyback. The pregnant girl's face crumpled with tears when Kathleen caught up with her. "Oh, señora!" she intoned.

"It's going to be all right, Margarita," Kathleen said, and took Chela from her. "We're still alive, at least."

Another burden was lifted from Kathleen's shoulders when they reached camp and she saw that the men of Simon's who had remained behind had been spared. She found Renaldo, among the prisoners and caught the flicker of relief pass over his own countenance when he saw that she was unharmed.

The women and children were herded into a circle with the men and forced to sit on the ground by guards who wielded their rifles like clubs.

From one of triumph. Aguila's mood switched to a sullen nastiness. He came over to Kathleen and said, "Where is your husband, señora?"

"I don't know."

Gladly she would have liked to tell the lieutenant. It was her chance to even the score with Simon. The coward! He had ridden off to leave his followers to this massacre. Oh, if she only knew where he was!

Aguila nodded at one of his soldiers, and the man lifted his musket and fired into the sitting crowd of prisoners. There was a scream as a vaquero Kathleen had seen often about the camp slumped forward.

"Each time I ask you, señora," Aguila said with a silky smile, "and don't receive my answer, one of them will die."

"For God's sake," Kathleen cried, "I don't know where he is! None of us know! DO you think Simon would be so stupid as to inform anyone of his plans?"

The unblinking eyes studied her and then slid over to the huddled mass. "Move them out," he called sharply. "Then fire the wickiups."

He turned back to her, and she whispered, "What will you do with us?"

"For them -- slave labor. Our illustrious grandees will pay a great deal for someone to do their work for them. Yes, labor is much better than death, wouldn't you say?"

His hand crawled up her waist to squeeze brutally one breast, and Kathleen cried out, swaying in pain.

"For you I have other plans. And afterwards -- perhaps death would be better, señora. For I do not take slights lightly."

The march out of the camp began that same afternoon. It was something Kathleen was never to forget. Ringed by the mounted soldiers, she and the other prisoners were driven like cattle up out of the valley. She paused once to look backwards at the flaming wickiups, committing the place to memory before stumbling ahead again.

Often one of the prisoners would slip on the rocky trail, and the bull whip used on oxen and jackasses would descend across their backs. Kathleen kept Chela close to her side, and herself twisted an ankle trying to lift the girl over a rock-strewn ravine. But when she paused to rub the rapidly swelling leg, a one-eared soldier prodded her in the ribs with the butt of his rifle. She would receive no blows across her face, for word had already been given out that the "golden one" was to be given no visible markings.

That first evening, camp was made near Placerita Canyon, where Margarita told her a large quantity of gold had been discovered nearly three years earlier. In the craggy walls could be seen the dark holes of mine shafts, gaping eerily in the twilight. So different from the tranquil evenings of the
ranchería's
peacefulness.

Simon may have been harsh and merciless at times, but he was not a sadist. And if she had trembled with fear then, she shook now as if she were in the throes of an ague. Renaldo, thinking the cool mountain air chilled her, offered his jacket.