Anne Stuart's Out-of-Print Gems

by Anne Stuart

  But now her safe life had come to an end. She would be back among the living, among the soldiers and the violence. She would put her fate, and that of Timothy, in the hands of a soldier, someone who killed. She had no other choice.

  She heard a scream in the distance, and she sat bolt upright for a moment, her heart pounding. Then she lay back, trying to still her breathing. It was simply a jungle cat, out stalking its prey. Nothing to worry about. Nothing that could hurt her. Besides, it was the two-legged beasts she needed to fear. She’d known that for years.

  There were no clocks in the tiny convent—the nuns ran their lives on God’s time, not man’s. Carlie hadn’t noticed the lack before, but right then, in the middle of a heat-soaked night, she would have given anything to know what time it was. Whether it was getting close to sunrise, or if it was still worth struggling with an elusive sleep.

  Where was Reilly? Sleeping in Mother Ignacia’s bed? Prowling the night corridors? He looked like a man who would snore, but the only sound through the empty corridors was the occasional scream of the jaguar. Maybe he didn’t need to sleep at all.

  She did, but that blessed reward seemed to be denied her. The longer she lay sweltering on the bed, the worse it got. Finally she rose, pushing the rough cotton sheet away from her, and pulled on Caterina’s clothes. She didn’t bother to light the oil lamp by her bed—she didn’t want to run the risk of waking the baby. Tiptoeing to the door, she opened it into the inky darkness of the hallway.

  Her foot connected with something solid, and before she could stop herself she went sprawling onto the hard tile floor, onto the hard-boned body of her protector.

  The words he muttered beneath his breath as he caught her narrow shoulders were words she’d forgotten existed. She scrambled away from him, ending up against the far wall, and as her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness she realized he’d been sleeping in front of her doorway, his bedroll a mute testimony to the fact.

  “Sorry,” she whispered, still mindful of the sleeping baby. “I didn’t know you’d be there.”

  “Where’d you think I’d be?” he countered irritably. “It’s part of my job.”

  She stared at him. In the murky light she could barely see him, but she realized belatedly that she’d felt hot, bare skin beneath her when she went tumbling over him, and she wondered just how much he was wearing.

  “You could have told me,” she said in a deceptively reasonable tone of voice. “What time is it?”

  “Quarter past four. We’ll be leaving in a little more than an hour.”

  “Then I suppose I shouldn’t bother trying to get any more sleep.”

  “I suppose you shouldn’t,” he said, and she felt more than saw him rise, heard the rustle of clothing. “I’m going to scout around the place, see if we’ve had any uninvited visitors. You stay put till I get back.”

  “But—”

  “Let’s get one thing clear,” he said, overriding her objections. “There’s only one person in charge of this little expedition, and that’s me. You’ll do what I tell you, no questions asked, or I’ll leave you behind. Your life might depend on obeying me. The baby’s certainly does.”

  “Yes, sir,” she muttered, struggling to her feet.

  A large, strong hand came down on one shoulder, and she found herself pushed back down, this time onto his sleeping bag. “Stay put,” he growled. And then he vanished into the darkness.

  She started to get up, then paused. It wasn’t like her to be defiant. She’d learned the safety and comfort of unquestioning obedience—why was she choosing now to rebel?

  She sat back down again, tucking her feet under her and leaning her head back against the stucco wall. There was no sound at all now, except for Timothy’s regular breathing in the other room and the steady pulse of her own heartbeat. The sleeping bag beneath her offered very little padding between her body and the hard tile floor, and it still retained his body heat. She considered lying down on the cool tiles, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. The steady sound of the baby mixed with the sultry stillness of the night, and Carlie felt her eyes begin to drift shut as she waited for Reilly to return.

  It wouldn’t be an easy hike out of there—she knew it far too well. Even under the best of circumstances they were at the treacherous edge of the rain forest, and the roads were narrow, rutted and overgrown.

  Having two warring armies on their trail wouldn’t help matters. Reilly would push, and push hard, and right then Carlie felt too weary to even crawl back to her own bed.

  She stretched out on the sleeping bag, just for a moment. It smelled like coffee, and gun oil, and warm male flesh. She closed her eyes, oddly lulled by the faint, seductive odors, and fell asleep before she could stop herself.

  THE FIRST RAYS OF DAWN were just beginning to penetrate the old convent when Reilly returned to the hallway where he’d spent a restless night. For a moment he frowned, certain that Carlie had ignored him and taken off. And then he saw her, curled up on his old army-issue sleeping bag, one small, strong hand tucked under her willful chin.

  He stood over her, staring, but she didn’t move, deep in a dreamless sleep. She looked younger in sleep, innocent, with that pale, delicate skin, that soft, unkissed mouth.

  Though why the hell he should think of her mouth as unkissed was beyond him. She’d done a hell of a lot more than kissing, and Billy hadn’t been the sentimental sort to be enticed by amateur lovemaking. The jet-setting daughter of Hector Mendino would have had more than her share of lovers, no matter how innocent she looked.

  This time he heard the faint, snuffling cry of the baby before she did. She slept on, in an exhausted daze, while he moved past her into the bedroom, conquering the urge to lean down and touch her.

  The baby lay on its back, snorting and snuffling plaintively. The look it gave Reilly when he leaned over the crib was unpromising, but it made no more than a token squawk of protest when he scooped it up, grabbed a folded diaper and headed back out toward the kitchen, stepping carefully over Carlie’s sleeping figure.

  By the time Carlie roused herself and wandered into the kitchen the coffee was made, the backpacks were loaded and ready to go and the baby was fed and dozing peacefully against Reilly’s shoulder. She paused in the doorway, her spiky black hair rumpled around her pale face, yawning.

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” she asked, heading for the coffeepot.

  “You looked like you needed some sleep. An hour or two isn’t going to make that much of a difference in when we leave, and I’m used to babies.”

  She froze, the coffee halfway to her mouth, then turned to stare at him. At the infant resting comfortably against his shoulder. “I need to change her…” she began hurriedly.

  “I already did.”

  She blushed. Odd, he wouldn’t have thought someone like Caterina Morrissey de Mendino would be capable of blushing, particularly over something as innocuous as a baby’s sex. “You want to revise your story just a little bit?”

  She lifted her gaze to his, and the defiance in her soft mouth was more expected. “This is a Latin country, Mr. Reilly. The rebels wouldn’t consider Hector Mendino’s granddaughter to be much of a threat. His grandson, however, is a different matter.”

  She obviously expected him to object. Instead he simply nodded. “Find yourself something to eat, and then we’ll get out of here.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Through the swamp to begin with. On foot, at least for the first day. I left a jeep about twenty miles down the track—if no one found it we’ll be able to reach it by dark.”

  “And if someone found it?”

  “We’d better hope they didn’t,” he said blandly. “We’ll take turns carrying the baby. The damned formula weighs a ton.”

  “Would you stop picking on me about the formula?” she shot back. “I didn’t have any choice in the matter.”

  He let his eyes drop. She was wearing just what she had worn the night before—a sleeveless white cot
ton T-shirt and cutoffs. No bra; he’d noticed that right off. Her breasts were small and perfect. Well, not perfect, if they couldn’t feed a baby, he amended. But close to it.

  “You’ll be carrying the formula as often as I will,” he said evenly. “We’ll take turns with the baby.”

  “No. I can manage him.”

  “I never would have pegged you for a protective mother,” he drawled, shifting the sleeping infant.

  She looked more surprised than offended. “What do you know about me? We just met.”

  “More than you imagine. I know Billy’s taste in women, and they run to thoroughbreds with expensive habits. Before I came down here I asked a few questions, and I didn’t like the answers. You’re a spoiled young woman, you married Billy on a whim, left him on a whim, and if you hadn’t happened to get knocked up you probably would never have planned to go back to him. For all Billy’s parents know, this might not even be their grandson.”

  “What do Billy’s parents have to do with anything?”

  “I told you, that’s where I’m taking you. That’s definitely where the baby’s going. They have the money, the connections, to see to his well-being. If you want to hang around that’s fine. It’ll be up to you.”

  “A child needs family. Grandparents,” she said slowly, as if she were just considering the notion. “Are they good people, these Morrisseys? Will they love Timothy, take care of him, teach him right from wrong?”

  It sounded as if she’d already made up her mind to abandon him. “Trying to assuage your conscience? They’ve got money. They’ll hire the best people to take care of him if they think he’s their grandchild.”

  “I see.” She reached out for the baby, and he put him in her arms. “And if they don’t believe he’s their grandchild?”

  “I don’t know if belief has much to do with it. They’ll arrange for the proper blood tests.”

  “They don’t sound like very nice people,” she said in a quiet voice, cuddling the sleeping baby against her.

  “What’s nice got to do with it? The world hasn’t got much use for nice. When it comes right down to it, money talks.”

  She lifted her eyes and looked straight at him. Innocent eyes, clear blue and honest. Why would someone like Caterina Mendino have innocent eyes? “Do you really believe that?”

  “I’ve been around long enough. So have you.”

  She looked down at the child in her arms. “Maybe,” she said. “But he hasn’t. I don’t want him to have to live by those rules.”

  “He is Billy’s son, isn’t he?”

  “Go to hell, Reilly,” she replied. And it must have been his imagination that her words shocked her.

  IT WAS CRAZY, but for some reason Carlie was even hotter in Caterina’s skimpy clothing than she was in her usual garb. The light cotton of her habit had flowed against her skin, letting air circulate around her. The knit shirt clung to Carlie’s body like a blanket, making her itch. The weight of Timothy’s tiny body in the sling-type holder added to the smothering sensation, and the backpack full of baby paraphernalia and the minimum of clothing must have been thirty pounds at least.

  Reilly hadn’t said a word as he loaded her down, other than to look askance at the shorts. “That won’t be much protection against pit vipers,” he said pleasantly.

  “Then you’d better make sure none of them get to me,” she’d retorted without hesitation. “Otherwise you’ll end up carrying everything.”

  “Good point.” He was already loaded down with at least twice the amount she was carrying, though it didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. He was looking dark and dangerous in the light of dawn, with a stubble of beard, his long hair tied in a ponytail, his rough camouflage clothes rumpled as if he’d slept in them. But he hadn’t slept in them, she remembered. She’d felt warm bare skin beneath her hands. “Let’s do it.”

  “Do what?”

  He paused, staring at her in baffled frustration. “Leave,” he said impatiently. “Vamoose. Split. We’re out of here. We’re history. ¡Comprende?”

  “Sí,” she said in a cool voice. “Spanish and English I understand. I’m just not too sure of the other stuff.”

  “Yeah, right,” he muttered under his breath. “Keep quiet and stay close. And do exactly as I say.”

  “Yes, my lord and master,” she retorted.

  He didn’t deign to answer her. He simply swung off down the narrow trail that led through the swampy undergrowth, with her following behind. She had more than enough time to think about her uncharacteristic behavior.

  In nine years she’d never spoken in such a snippy tone. As far as she knew, she’d never felt the annoyance, the defiance that her reluctant rescuer brought out in her with nothing more than one of those long, calculating looks. She’d cursed, too, the word slipping from her as if it were entirely natural.

  She was coming back to life, and she didn’t like it. It was no wonder the Sisters of Benevolence had founded their convent deep in the heart of the jungle, away from the annoyances and distractions of civilization. The sooner Carlie found her way to the sister house in Brazil, the happier she would be.

  Timothy would be fine. He had grandparents with money and privilege to look after him. She had no qualms about any blood tests—Caterina had made a halting, stumbling last confession to Carlie at the end, since there was no priest around, and while there had been any number of men before she met Billy Morrissey, she insisted that the baby was her husband’s.

  It would be hard to give the baby up; Carlie was honest enough to admit it. In the past few weeks it had felt as if Timothy were her own, and the bond had grown so strong she’d almost forgotten Caterina’s sad, short life.

  But he wasn’t hers. Her life was with the Sisters of Benevolence, and sooner or later she would be able to convince Reverend Mother Ignacia of that fact. Timothy’s life was back in the States, with his father’s family.

  She kept her eyes trained on the man ahead of her as he led the way deeper into the jungle. The sooner she got away from him the better. She knew perfectly well why she was suddenly full of frustration and temper, why blasphemies and more were simmering in her brain.

  Convents existed to keep men and their distractions out. Women were much better off alone, away from the annoyances of the male sex. And that was what Carlie wanted to be—safe, alone, away from Reilly.

  Unbidden, Mother Ignacia’s words returned to her. Was she running away from something, rather than running to the sisters? She didn’t want to be a coward, or someone with a weak vocation.

  “This might be for the best,” Reverend Mother had said. And Carlie could only trust her wisdom.

  She would put up with Reilly’s overbearing, disturbing presence. She would get safely away from San Pablo, relinquish Timothy and follow her calling, secure in the knowledge that it was a strong and true one.

  She would weather these temptations and triumph.

  Though why she should think of someone like Reilly as a temptation was a mystery. He was an attractive man, even with that long hair and unshaven face, but she was immune to such things. He was a strong man, when she needed strength, but he was a man of violence. She had seen enough violence to last her a lifetime.

  The nightmares had stopped only in the past few years. Peace had finally come, and now it was being ripped away from her. She didn’t want to remember. Didn’t want to relive the day in the mountaintop village of Puente del Norte, when she could hear the screams, smell the thick, coppery smell of her parents’ spilled blood washing down the streets.

  She wanted nothing more than to run away and hide. Again, Reverend Mother’s words rang in her head.

  She would survive. She would accept Reilly’s help, for her sake and the baby’s. From now on she would be unfailingly polite, docile, obedient, as the sisters had taught her to be. Unquestioning, she would do exactly as Reilly ordered her, knowing that he would keep them both safe.

  She would pull her serenity around her heavy-laden s
houlders like a silken robe, and not a cross word would pass her lips. She managed a smile, thinking of the statue of the Madonna they’d left behind in the convent.

  A branch thwapped her in the face as Reilly brushed ahead of her. “Watch what you’re doing!” she snapped.

  And somewhere, the Madonna laughed.

  Chapter Four

  The man wasn’t human, Carlie decided three hours later. It was that simple. He was some sort of genetic mutation, produced by the American government to replace human soldiers in the field. No man could keep going, impervious to the heat, to the bugs, to the thick, sucking sludge at their feet, or to the weight of his pack, which probably had to be three times what she was carrying.

  She was accustomed to the heat. Accustomed to pacing herself. Her pack was evenly balanced, and the baby slept snugly in his sling, content with the world and the no doubt thundering sound of Carlie’s heartbeat beneath his tiny ear. Even so, the sweat was pouring down her face, her shoulders ached, her legs trembled and her feet were undoubtedly a royal mess.

  There had been no shoes to fit her. The sandals that the sisters wore would provide little protection in the jungle, and she’d had to make do with Caterina’s leather running shoes. Which would have been fine, if they hadn’t been two and a half sizes larger than what Carlie would have normally worn.

  She wouldn’t have thought overlarge shoes would cause blisters. She was discovering she was wrong. The huge shoes were rubbing her skin raw, and she’d gone beyond pain into a kind of numb misery, plodding onward, only the sight of Reilly’s tall, straight back giving her something to focus on and despise with a kind of blind fury.

  “We have to stop.” She had no idea how long they’d been walking, deeper and deeper into the swampy muck to the east of the convent. It was dark in there, and the trees so tall overhead that sunlight could barely penetrate. It was a true rain forest—the air thick and liquid, and the bush an overgrown tangle that Reilly hacked their way through.