Savage Enchantment (17 page)

"Kathleen! It's all right -- it's all right."

She opened her eyes to find Simon leaning across her.

"You were moaning," he said softly, "and thrashing about like a sick calf."

He put a hand to her head. "You might be, at that."

Kathleen felt nearly half-frozen, as if the cold glaciers of a million years earlier were rising through the floor of the cave. Her teeth chattered. "I'm cold, Simon."

But she was only partially aware of the warmth that enveloped her as Simon gathered her body up against his.

Unconsciously Simon ground out the half-smoked cigarette with his boot, leaving an ash-stained circle on the hardwood floor of Gemma's office. He was in an ill humor, and he knew it had nothing to do with the foray he was to lead in four days at Beunaventura.

If the bit of intelligence Nathan had gleaned from the governor's palace was correct, Micheltorena and Sutter had marched out of Monterey with a combined force of almost three hundred men. And by the time they reached Santa Barbara, the presidio's roster had added another fifty-seven. Yet with Castro's forces soon to arrive, and backed by Frémont's show of force, there was a good chance of defeating the governor.

Nor was his ill humor due to the report that Edmund Woodsworth had been seen at the presidio talking with Micheltorena. What was the man up to now? So far, his own spies had served him well, supplying him with information not only about Woodsworth's movements in California but the man's life in Boston. Sweet Jesus, no wonder Kathleen was disgusted by the man's touch when she had practically been sold to someone like WOodsworth!

But then, he himself hadn't made the situation any better. Why had it taken him so long to admit to himself the truth of that first night? Maybe if he hadn't been so drunki, if he hadn't willingly let himself be deceived into thinking Kathleen was Aguila's paramour -- maybe his bestial behavior that night he raped her woudl never have occurred ... and she would not hate him as she did.

Simon rose from the leather chair and began pacing the office, lighting another cigarette to dangle from the corner of his mouth. It was Kathleen, he knew, who was responsible for his ill humor. A vision of her came to him, and he chuckled aloud, remembering the silly way she had squinted behind those damned spectacles. Her ridiculous disguise hadn't fooled him for a moment, hadn't hid the spirited beauty that had so disarmed him

Dios mío,
how he wanted her! It wasn't just the innate sensuality that pervaded her every movement, from the guileless way she would glance at him from beneath lowered lashes to the sinuous swaying of her hips. Nor was it the strong courage of her convictions, or the way she fought him at every turn in spite of her obvious fear of him

Maybe Kathleen was right. Maybe he was an animal. God knows he had been forced to grow up like one. If he cared at all for this one woman, he would be unselfish for once, think of someone else for a change.

The door opened, and Gemma entered the room. "It's all taken care of. I've put her in the best room we have."

"And the guard?"

Gemma settled back in the chair behind her desk. "You can be sure she's safe, Simon. I've stationed one at each end of the hall."

Simon crushed out the cigarette. "Gemma, you're a rare woman. Never asking anything of me. I'll find a way to repay you one day."

Gemma's smoky brown eyes rested on Simon's dark face. "You know what I want from you, Simon. But --" She shrugged. "I'll settle for your friendship, if nothing else."

Simon put on the sombrero, pulling it low over his eyes. He paused at the door. "You understand, Gemma, if the attack should fail, it's up to you to see to it that Kathleen is safely aboard the
Tempest."

"You're sure Nathan's ship will put in?"

"At the week's end -- if all goes well."

"He's to take her back to Boston?"

"He's to take her wherever she wants." Simon's face ws expressionless. But Gemma did not miss the wintry look that hardened the green depths of his eyes.

She waited until she was sure Simon was well out of the building, then she made her way back to Kathleen's room.

At the sharp rap on the door, Kathleen reached for the towel and rose from the porcelain tub with a regretful sigh. It had been so long since she had had a long, soaking bath. Since the day before she had fled Valle del Bravo.

"Who is it?"

"Gemma. May I come in?"

Kathleen grimaced. She didn't like at all waiting at La Palacia for Simon to return. She would rather have waited at his camp, braved the dangers of the battle, than to stay with the woman who eyed her with such hate.

"Yes, certainly," Kathleen answered. Quickly she slipped back into the dirt-stained skirt and blouse.

Gemma swept in, her dark hair piled high and her rose satin skirts rustling with her graceful walk. At once Kathleen felt ill at ease, the barefoot peasant before the regal lady. She watched Gemma move to the marble-topped bureau and pick up a tortoise-shell comb, idly playing with the curls before her ears. After a moment the woman looked in the gilt-edged mirror at Kathleen.

"You know Simon and I have been in love with each other for years."

"Why are you telling
me
this -- his wife?"

Gemma turned to face Kathleen, her well-manicured hands locked on the bureau's edge. "You are an intelligent woman, Miss Whatley, so there'll be no need to mince words. I didn't get where I am now withoug some bit of shrewdness. I always place my bet with the winning side. Simon's side will win -- eventually. And when it does,
I
intend to be the woman at his side -- not you.

Kathleen planted her fists on her hips. "And if I'm not willing to give up Simon?"

"Then that's most unfortunate. Because, however unpleasant I find it, I feel it is to my own benefit that I follow Simon's instructions."

An instinctive feeling of danger seized Kathleen. "Which are?" she asked, backing slowly toward the door.

Gemma smiled softly. "That you be silenced -- permanently. You understand, of course, you know too much about the revolution. Simon naturally has to take this precaution."

"I don't believe you," Kathleen whispered.

"You should. I mean to see to it that you are kept quiet ... but my way. A woman on the slave block as fair as you should sell for a goodly price, you know."

"No!" Kathleen shouted. She grabbed for the doorknob and jerked it open. A battered-faced man with a rifle gripped in his hands filed the doorway. Kathleen opened her mouth to scream. The man raised the butt of his gun and slashed it downward across her jaw.

Kathleen slumped to the floor in a pain-filled mist of unconsciousness and Gemma carefully picked up her skirts as she stepped over the inert figure. "Make certain she's securely bound and gagged before loading her into the wagon, Guido."

When the wagon had quietly set off from the rear entrance of La Palacia, Gemma returned to her desk. Within the hour Edmund Woodsowrth was ushered in. "You have her?" he asked, drawing off his gloves.

Gemma drew on the thin cigar, then said, "I want your assurance that you'll immediately remove her from California -- where she and El Cóndor -- Simon -- will never chance upon each other."

"Where is she?"

"The money first. I'm not such a fool to keep her where you'd find her, Woodsworth. How you get her is your problem."

Edmund took out his purse. "You ask a high price."

"You can afford it -- with the fortune you'll soon have control of, if I understand the rumors correctly."

For the first time a frown crossed the lineless face. "Not quite. James Whatley died last month."

At that same moment Kathleen's eyes flickered open to encounter a blurry, gray haze. The trobbing ache that accompanied her distorted vision was so great she immediately closed her eyes, willing herself to a semi-unconscious state again.

But the flies that swarmed about her and the stench that seemed to invade every pore in her skin were too great to be ignored. Once more she tried opening her eyes. Her head still ached acutely, but her vision presently focused, and she knew with a sickening horror that she must be in the women's barracks of the presidio compound.

The adobe brick room she found herself in could scarcely be more than fourteen feet square, and even that space was reduced by the plank bunks that lined the walls. The one single high window admitted little fresh air to drive out the fetid odor that came from the center of the room, where human excrement overflowed the improvised latrine.

But what frightened Kathleen more than anything was the apathetic looks given her by the eight other women in the room. Most of them appeared to be of Indian origin, although she thought two or three could have been Mexican. But all of them gave her only disinterested glances when they saw that she had awakened, before they turned away to stare lethargically at the walls.

Kathleen wondered wildly whether there was so little hop that the women had resigned themselves to their animallike existence. And with that thought came another -- the realization that she could rot in the cell and no one would ever know it. Rabid panic seized her, and she leaped from the bunk and flung herself against the foot-thick wooden door. Her screams rent the stifling air, but the other women seemed oblivious of her outburst.

When the seizure of fear had consumed her strength, Kathleen slumped to the dirt-packed floor. Spittle beaded her lips. And when she wiped it away, the name of her husband rose to take its place. "Damn your black soul to hell, Simon Reyes!" she shouted repeatedly, until her voice was hoarse and her curse dwindled to a faint croak.

If Simon had wanted to insure that she did not give him away, why had he not killed her instead of condemning her to this miserable existence? -- she asked herself over and over in the long days that followed. Or did Simon detest her so much? From the very first he had believed her to be a deceitful, treacherous woman of the streets. And she had said nothing to change that opinion. But, dear God, did she deserve this? Death was infinitely preferable!

She lay her head on her knees, and the tears fell from her eyes as quietly as the curses from her lips.

"The presidio," Woodsworth instructed the driver, and he settled back to muse over the situation as the carriage made its way out of the throng of other carriages parked before La Palacia.

Why had he not thought of it before -- at Gemma's office when she inadvertently mentioned Simon and El Cóndor in the same breath? Woodsworth permitted himself the slightest smile of satisfaction -- a smile that lingered on the lipless mouth even as he alit from the carriage and was presented to the ramrod-stiff governor. The same satisfied smile transferred itself to the usually stern lips of Governor Micheltorena as Woodsworth explained his dilemma.

So you can see, Your Excellence, we are obviously in accord concerning this man -- El Cóndor. With his capture, an annulment, I'm quite sure, can be effected. I will once again be Miss Whatley's appointed guardian -- and you will once again have a completely stable provincial government."

Micheltorena drummed his square-tipped fingers on the oak desk. "You may be right," he said after a minute. "The Whatley woman may serve as bait to ensnare her husband -- the man you claim is El Cóndor."

His lean body flattened against the adobe brick, Simon silently slid over the wall of the compound and dropped down into the darkness of one corner. His gray poncho, like the skin of a chameleon, blended with the gray presidio walls.

It was sheer stupidity. Every moment he delayed the attack at Buenaventura, he not only endangered Renaldo and the men who lay hidden in the chaparral thickets just outside the town but also jeopardized the entire hope for independence. All this folly for the white woman who hated him with every separate nerve in her body.

That lovely golden body. It had nearly driven him insane to think that Aguila had laid his foulhands on it. But to learn that Kathleen was held prisoner in the presidio compound to be branded and sold as a slave ... the thought was more than he could endure. Would the horror of the compound never stop? First his mother -- and now Kathleen.

It had been all he could do to act rationally, to think logically, when Renaldo had ridden his lathering horse into camp that morning and tossed the edition of the
Novedades
at him. The headline seemed to expand before his eyes: WIFE OF REVOLUTIONARY IMPRISONED FOR PART IN CONSPIRACY.

The memories of his childhood terror of the compound had risen to suffocate him, and he had crumpled the newspaper in his hands as if he would crumple the memories.

He turned to Renaldo then, his voice coming in a dry rasp. "Take the men to the thickets outside the town. If I don't return by morning, mount the attack without me. Understand?"

Renaldo's eyes were brown stones in the thin face. "Let me come with you."

"No! We can't risk it. One of us needs to lead the attack. And this is something I have to do, Renaldo."

Now Simon could only wonder, as he edged along the wall, if he had been foolish, placing his own selfish desires above the welfare of the Californios. And yet, he knew he could have done no differently.

"We've been waiting a long time for you, Cóndor."

Simon whirled, cursing his carelessness, even as his hand whipped to the knife tucked in his legging. Damn her treacherous heart! How cleve his dear wife was with me. First Aguila, then Dimitri, and now Edmund. But the little bitch
had
warned him ... had sworn countless times she'd have her revenge on him.

The captain whistled to summon the soldiers waiting just beyond the courtyard. "Not yet, Mejia," Woodsowrth told the captain. "My turn first. Then you can have your revolutionary."

As quickly as Simon had drawn his knife, Edmund drew out his sword and leaped backward. The two circled each other, each sizing up his opponent. Simon had ridden hard throughout the night and knew his strength was no match for that of Woodsowrth. And he was at a disadvantage with the shorter weapon. He would have to take the offensive rather than let Woodsworth wait him out. His long knife flashed in the night, and Woodsworth leaped backward.

The Englishman's lipless mouth twitched in what could have passed for a smile each time the point of his sword scored a red path along his opponent's body. When Simon tried moving in closer, Woodsworth cut the sword through the air, keeping Simon at arm's distance but continuing to nick him, drawing blood.

"Shall I slash your other brow for you?" he taunted. And at once a scarlet line cleft Simon's right brow. Blood spilled over, blinding him.

Simon struck then, while the man was careless with success. Throwing up his left forearm, he used his poncho as a shield to entangle Edmund's sword. The sword clattered to the ground and, caught off balance, Edmund stumbled forward.

From behind him Simon heard a whooshing sound as one of the soldiers lunged at is back. Simon dodged and whirled just as the soldier's saber drove into Edmund's stomach. The man pitched onto his knees. His hands clutched his torso as the intestines poured forth like slippery, writhing snakes.

There was shouting then, and the soldiers converged on El Cóndor.

Kathleen looked out between the wooden spindles that barred the window of Captain Mejia's office. She tried to make her mind lucid, to gather her senses while she waited on him. Why had he summoned her? What did he plan to do with her? What other horrors would she now face?

The door opened, and she turned her back to the window. The balding captain entered. With him was a man she did not recognize, a man with a stringent mouth, curving nose, and thick grizzled brows that sloped downwards, concealing the expression in the eyes.

He seated himself behind the desk, and the captain went to stand at the door. "Have a seat," Mejia said, indicating one of the cane-backed chairs.

Kathleen knew she must look a sight with her grimy hair straggling over her shoulders and her bedraggled clothing and dirt-encrusted nails. But she moved toward the chair with her head held high. There was open admiration in the captain's face, but the other man's was shrewdly bland.

When she had seated herself, the captain said, "This is our governor and commander in chief of the military forces, Manuel Micheltorena, señora. He wants to help you.

Both men mistook Kathleen's silence for obstinacy. They did not know how frightened Kathleen was of cells, that she was so desperate she could not speak, for fear that the captain's mention of help was a trick.

The two looked at one another, and after a moment the governor cleared his throat and said: "Señora -- Miss Whatley. Yes," he said, noting her startled look, "Mr. Woodsworth informed us you're the daughter of the United States ex-minister to Spain, the late James Whatley."

"My father -- he's dead?"

"I thought you knew. I'm sorry. As I was saying, Miss Whatley, Mr. Woodsworth appeared before me to clear up the charge against you."

"What charge?" Kathleen demanded, gripping the reed arms of the chair.

"The charge of theft that Señorita Gemma Chavez brought against you. Unfortunately Mr. Woodsworth -- who was to serve as a character witness in your behalf -- met with an accident in the early hours of this morning."

Kathleen sat there, incredulous. "Edmund -- dead," she half whispered to herself.

Micheltorena bowed his head. "I know the death must be hard to take, coming on the heels of your father's death." He looked up again at the young woman across from him. "However, I am prepared to offer you some consolation -- immunity. Here," he said, rising, "come to the window."

He pointed a large-knuckled finger to the parade ground outside as Kathleen came to his side. Several Indians now stood wiating under the baking sun, bound to one another by heavy chains at their wrists and ankles.

"Do you recognize one of them?" The shrewed eyes watched her carefully.

Kathleen looked again. Dressed only in the breechcloth, they all looked alike. Yet ... one -- as thin as the others, but with a more powerful build. Her breath came in a gasp as the sun glinted off the mahogany-colored hair.

"It's your husband -- the one they call El Cóndor, is it not, Miss Whatley?"

Kathleen looked back to Micheltorena. "What is it you want from me, Governor?"

"We merely need your confirmation that the man outside is the revolutionary -- El Cóndor. You, of all people would know. In exchange for your testimony against him, I am prepared to offer you immunity from the theft charge."

"What will happen to him?"

Micheltorena studied her. "I am a just man, Miss Whatley, as far as my office allows me. The man will be executed for treason."

Kathleen turned away and returned to her chair. She leaned her elbows on the chair's arms, resting her head in her hands. Confusion. Her thoughts were jumbled, with visions of Simon. Simon removing her wet clothing that first night in the cabin; Simon tackling her in the mountain stream, laughing; Simon rubbing salve on her blistered feet.

"If you'll just sign this statement," Micheltorena said, breaking in on her thoughts, "we can have it witnessed. We wouldn't need to detain you any longer. You'd be free to go."

Free! Kathleen couldn't believe it. She was free from her father, from Edmund. And all she had to do was sign the paper and she could walk out of that hellhole. She could at last return to Boston. The joy that suddenly coursed through her was as sweet as the wine of the country.

She took the paper Micheltorena thrust at her and picked up the pen on the table. How many times, she asked herself, had she sworn vengeance on Simon? Her opportunity was here. At last.

The fine print swam before her eyes. The chance for revenge didn't taste as sweet as she thought it would. No, it was like sour wine in her mouth. The pen dropped from her hand.

"This piece of paper would be a fraud, Your Excellency, if I put my signature on it. I don't even know that man outside, much less lay claim to him as my huaband. For a moment I was desperate enough to get out -- I would sign anything. But not an innocent man's death warrant. I'm sorry."

Micheltorena frowned. Had Woodsworth tricked him in order to lay his hands on this woman?
Caramba!
He'd just have to wait until he returned from Buenaventura to find out what was behind it all.

"That's too bad, Miss Whatley," he said, not trying to conceal his anger. "I have no other choice but to let you serve out your sentence as a slave."

He snapped his fingers at Mejia, and the captain crossed to the door and called the guards.

Once inside the cell, Kathleen slumped to her knees, rocking back and forth. Four days in the mission compound had driven her beyond rational thought. Even now she trembled with the knowledge that her mind would surely snap if she endured one day more in the lice-infested cell.

Oh, God, if there was only some way she could kill herelf. If the captain's office had been on the second floor, she would have thrown herself from the balcony onto the shards of glass that lined the presidio walls.

Kathleen saw again the blank eyes of her mother. She realized her mother had been spared the horrors of the asylum by the insanity that had indeed finally claimed her. If only she herself could seek the forgetfulness of insanity!

Fool! Fool!
The tears coursed bitterly down her cheeks. She had sacrificed all for a man who had betrayed her time and again. And why? That was the bitterest part of all. To have to admit that she loved him, Simon Reyes, a man who had scorned her from the very first, used her and tossed her aside.

She could only hate her weakness more. As long as she might live, she could not wipe out the memory of his lips on hers, the taste of his salty skin, the feel of his muscles rippling below her fingers, the whispered words of passion that fell from the hungry lips.

What woman was sharing them now? Gemma? Francesca? Some dusky Indian maiden?

Fool! Fool!