Love and Honor: The Coltrane Saga, Book 7

by Patricia Hagan

“I know what you’re thinking,” Travis interrupted her private thoughts, “and I don’t think it’s fair for you to ask her.”

  Kit looked at him sharply. “Just mind your own business. It’s my life.”

  Travis sighed, grateful that the dance was ending, for a lovely blond in a turquoise gown had caught his eye.

  In the shadows of a leaf palm, a man stood alone watching. He, too, was glad their dance had ended, for he had personally asked the orchestra leader not to play another waltz. He wanted to dance with the girl with the shimmering golden-red hair and unusual lavender eyes that smoldered with mysterious rebellion and sensuality. He had a feeling that she could dance something other than the impotent waltz.

  Travis escorted Kit toward a group of eager young men. The music began slowly, yet the beat of the drums grew steadily faster as the rhythm quickened to a feverish pace.

  People exchanged curious glances. They knew the tango when they heard it, but few could perform the intricate steps.

  The man with the dark, brooding eyes watched as one of the young embassy aides moved forward, unable to wait any longer for a chance to hold the loveliest girl at the ball in his arms. He eagerly took Kit by the hand and as they began to move, the man smiled to himself. He had been right. She did know how to do the intricate steps—but her partner did not. He was stiff, awkward, a pathetic dancer.

  He stepped forward into the light. He was tall and well-built, his broad shoulders and sinewy muscles encased in a tight suit of black velvet. His shaggy raven-black hair was swept back from his forehead, unruly locks curling at his collar. His lowered lashes were surprisingly long, veiling coffee-brown eyes that missed nothing. The play of a dimple to the left of his mouth marked a crooked, often taunting smile. A tiny scar just below his right eye only made him more attractive.

  He crossed the floor to where Kit was trying pitifully to match the awkward rhythm of her inept partner. When he reached them, Kit’s partner was so stunned at the intrusion that he just stopped dancing and stood there, a questioning look on his face.

  Kit stared up at the stranger. She drew in her breath softly, assailed by a feeling she had experienced only in her private, secret dreams of love, when a faceless stranger held her and took her to ethereal heights of passion. He was unforgettable—so handsome, yet he emanated a sense of feral power that she found strangely desirable.

  Kit met his probing gaze. For one flickering instant, it seemed as though he could see right through her black velvet gown to her bare flesh. A mysterious little smile touched his lips, as if to say that he was pleased with what he saw there.

  He did not look at her partner as he declared huskily, “It seems the lady has a special need.”

  With a movement so swift that Kit had no time to object, he swept her into his arms, whirling her completely around and dipping her backward, so low that her long hair brushed against the floor. He held her there for an instant, his dark eyes proudly challenging. “Kurt Tanner,” he casually introduced himself, swinging her up, forward and back into a dip once more. “Can you dance with me?”

  Kit was tingling from head to toe with anticipation. She sensed that this savage of a man could match her every step in a way no other partner ever had before. With a provocative laugh, she gave a high kick as he swung her once more, her gown falling away to reveal a long, shapely leg. There was no mistaking the soft gasps of their audience. “I think,” Kit said with a bold wink, “the question is—can you dance with me?”

  “There’s one way to find out, mi princesa.” He returned the wink, announcing, “Milonga, my princess, the outlaw Spanish tango!”

  He drew her up to stand tall and straight before him as the throbbing cadence of the music made the very air about them seem to vibrate with emotion. They were unaware that other dancers had given up their attempts to do the intricate, difficult dance and had backed from the floor. All in attendance ringed the room to watch the stunning couple. The crystal-and-gold chandeliers bathed their bodies in shimmering light. They were a vision of sensuality in black lace and velvet, whirling together through the charged atmosphere.

  Kurt Tanner slid his right hand from Kit’s shoulder down her back and along the curve of her hips. Their fingers interlocked as their cheeks turned first left, then right. Kit allowed him to bend her effortlessly backward once more, her bare leg kicking up and out of the velvet slit, sending a ripple through the onlookers once more.

  As one they sidestepped to the left, made a swift kick, and turned abruptly. Kurt moved with precision, guiding her through breathless dips and swings. Then he lifted her up in the air with one arm, holding her aloft as he turned round and round. Kit balanced regally, legs outstretched, arms high above her head in an arch. Then suddenly he dropped her, to the awed cries of the crowd, catching her easily to swing her about in a wide sweep. He brought her almost to the floor and leaned over her, his breath warm against her cheek. His eyes met hers in a fiery challenge of dance and lust. And although no one else could see, he slid his thumb up from her waist to touch her nipples through the soft velvet bodice of her gown. Kit instantly felt the sensation, and he saw in her eyes that she enjoyed it. He smiled that arrogant, taunting smile once more.

  The music ended with a crashing crescendo, and the room exploded in cheers and applause.

  Kurt held her tightly, dipped low in his arms. He saw in her eyes a myriad of emotions—the frightened look of a trapped animal giving way to the fierce determination of a survivor. This woman offered a dangerous challenge of her own.

  “As I said”—Kurt gave her a lopsided grin—“the lady has a special need.” He dared to brush his lips boldly against her throat, touching his tongue against her warm flesh.

  Kit was too proud to struggle in his arms. She would not give him the pleasure of letting him know the desperate fear and hunger that churned within her—a hunger that he had awakened…and she knew, without doubt, that he could satisfy. He was arrogant, insolent, and conceited, but he was also devastatingly handsome. Yet she was secure in her dignity. She was not about to be one of his fawning female admirers. “And the question was, arrogante, can you dance with me?”

  Kurt raised her up, set her on tiptoe, and kissed her soundly. “Time will tell.” He winked. Nodding, he turned quickly and disappeared into the crowd.

  Chapter Five

  It was the first week of January 1913, and the holiday of Dia de los Reyes, the Procession of the Three Kings, when children received their Christmas gifts. Kit was lonely, because Carasia had been given time off to enjoy the holiday with her family. They were as close as sisters, and Kit especially missed her on her daily ride, because Carasia always hurried to finish her work so she could accompany her.

  Alone or not, Kit was not about to stay around the house with her mother, especially since the embassy ball. Her scheme had backfired all right, and her mother was worse than ever, nagging her to have parties and socials. The young men who were constantly calling were also a nuisance. On this particular day, Kit was determined to be away, because Esteban Yubero was in town and her mother had invited him to have tea. So, before the first light of day, she had packed a knapsack with cheese, fruit, and a canteen, and quietly sneaked out of the house to saddle Belle and be on her way before her mother awoke. She planned to ride all the way to the Rio Turia—to retreat from the world and dwell in her dreams, if only for a little while. She would face her mother’s anger later.

  Kit now crossed the back pasture and rode alongside the creek bank, moving to a knoll at the rear of Doc Frazier’s land where she could watch the ever awesome spectacle of the sun’s victory over darkness. It was a lovely morning, blue and gold, the sleeping winter fields a blanket of bronze.

  She dismounted and leaned against a jutting rock, enjoying the splendor around her. How she wished that she knew for certain she would never have to leave. Her mother hadn’t said anything about going back to America since the embassy ball, but that didn’t mean she had changed her mind.

 
; Kit’s mind drifted back to the ball…and she cursed herself for once again feeling a sensuous, warm flash of desire as she thought of Kurt Tanner, despite her dislike of the man. Oh, he was arrogant! The nerve of him kissing her right there on the dance floor, but the worst had been the way he had boldly caressed her nipples, staring down at her with knowing, laughing eyes.

  Kit had not seen him since. She did not want to, ever, but she had been curious enough to ask Carasia about him. She learned that his ranch was not far away. It was north of Valencia, between Sagunto and an area called the Castellon de la Plana, sometimes called the Costa del Azahar for the sweet fragrance of the orange blossom that drenched the countryside. Carasia had delightedly told her that Señor Tanner was said to own over two thousand acres of land, extending from the shores of the Mediterranean eastward to the section the Phoenicians had called Spagna, meaning “the hidden land”, because of the menacing mountains along that rugged coast. It was the region beyond where Señor Tanner raised his prize cattle.

  “He is very, very wealthy,” Carasia had said, “one of the richest men in all of Spain. He has mucho gold…and many women.”

  Carasia had giggled, but Kit had not been amused. When Carasia saw her look of disgust, she asked what was wrong. Kit told her about the dance and the kiss, but not the way he had touched her so intimately.

  “Caramba!” Carasia had squealed. “What I would not give to have such an amante!”

  She had then lowered her voice to an intimate whisper. “They say he knows how to make a woman happy beyond her wildest dreams. They say the richest women in Europe have tried to buy his love, but of course, he is above that. They say that for a time he was engaged to a princess from Denmark, a golden-haired beauty with blue eyes and the face of an angel.”

  Kit had cursed herself for her curiosity, but she could not resist asking, “Why didn’t he marry her?”

  Carasia felt superior with her knowledge of Kurt Tanner, and airily disclosed, “Her name was Princess Nedjelja, but he called her Nebula, because, it was said, he found her to be as beautiful as a star. Near Sagunto, there is a place where the ramparts of a medieval castle extend for over a kilometer across the hilltop of an ancient acropolis. You can see the beginnings of the new castle he was going to build for her there when they married.”

  Kit wondered what it would be like to be so loved by a man. She quickly pushed such thoughts aside and pretended only mild interest. Shrugging as though it didn’t really matter, she asked, “So? What happened to the great romance?”

  “No one knows for sure, but it must have been something terrible, because they say Señor Tanner forbids anyone to mention her name. It is as though she never existed.” Carasia’s eyes glittered as she hurried to share her gossip. “My aunt is his housekeeper, and she said there was a portrait of Princess Nedjelja on the wall above the big stone fireplace. One morning when she went to work, the portrait had been slashed to ribbons.”

  Curious, Kit had asked, “Why is Señor Tanner living in Spain? He’s an American.”

  “There’s a story about that, too.”

  Kit had sighed, again pretending that she really didn’t care. “Well, you might as well tell me the rest, I suppose.”

  So Carasia had told her the rumor about how Señor Tanner was said to have been a wanderer, and happened to be in Texas at the same time as Francisco Madero, who had just escaped from jail in Mexico. The two became friends, and Tanner had aided Madero in his successful attempt to unseat Porfirio Diaz and become President of Mexico. Afterward Tanner could have stayed on in Mexico, an important friend of the government, but revolution and politics were not to his liking. Madero had understood and rewarded him for his loyalty and help by deeding him over a thousand acres of valuable land in Spain. Tanner had, in a short while, become one of the wealthiest ranchers in the country.

  Kit now chided herself for dwelling on Kurt Tanner again. The sun was high, and she’d wasted too much time thinking about the brazen Señor Tanner already!

  She mounted Belle and was about to ride on when she saw vaqueros in the meadow below. She paused, curious, when she heard excited shouts. Then she saw two riders galloping side by side across a clearing to where a man waited to mark the finish line. She watched as one pulled ahead of the other to win the race.

  Kit trotted Belle down the slope. She had many friends among Doc Frazier’s vaqueros and always enjoyed riding with them. She had even raced with them, winning often, because Belle was quite a horse. Suddenly the idea of having fun with them was more inviting than her intended ride to the river.

  Kit approached at a fast clip. Catching sight of her, one of the men yelled to the others, “Hola! Señorita Coltrane!”

  They all turned to greet her, surprising her with their enthusiasm. Doc Frazier’s foreman, Riguero, cried excitedly, “Señorita, you must win back our gold for us. He has beaten our best!”

  Kit dismounted, pushing her felt hat back on her forehead and loosening the lanyard beneath her chin as she looked around. She saw several men she didn’t recognize, wearing smug expressions. Her old friends seemed quite upset. “Maybe,” she said quietly, “you’d better tell me what this is all about.”

  “They come, these strangers,” Riguero said with an accusing wave toward the strangers who stood watching in amusement, “with their leader. They challenge us to race, and he beats us and takes our money. You can win it back for us.”

  Kit frowned. She had dash-raced many times, but never for money. If Doc Frazier knew what his vaqueros were up to, he would not like it one bit. “I don’t think so,” she told him curtly.

  “But you must, señorita,” another of the vaqueros spoke up. “Belle is the fastest horse on the ranch, and you ride her so well. You are our only chance!”

  Kit sighed in disgust. “Why did you race for money in the first place? You know that Doc would never approve.”

  “You do not understand,” Riguero bid her with an angry glance at the strangers as they laughed among themselves. “The strange hombre, he comes in with his horse and says he is the best. He goads us. Makes us feel like cowards if we do not accept his challenge. And so we do, and we lose.”

  “Well, was it a fair race?” Kit wanted to know.

  Doc Frazier’s vaqueros nodded reluctantly. Shuffling their feet, they exchanged miserable glances.

  “Well, then, let it be a lesson to you not to bet in the future.” She swept the strangers with an angry look. “Especially with people you don’t know anything about.”

  “Maybe when you know them, you will like them.”

  Kit whirled about to see a man behind her astride a horse. It was not the rider who caused her to stare in wonder, even though her first glance told her he was not an average vaquero. Doc’s men did not wear bandoleers—cartridge belts crisscrossed on their chests. This man looked formidable, was perhaps a true bandido—but it was his horse that caught Kit’s attention. He was the finest animal she had ever seen.

  The man leaned forward in his saddle to stroke the great horse’s neck proudly. Flashing gleaming white teeth from beneath a bushy black mustache, he grinned knowingly and said, “Ah, you like the horse, si? He is one fine animal, si?”

  “Beautiful,” Kit breathed in admiration, “absolutely beautiful.”

  “Allow me to introduce myself.” The man removed his sombrero and gave her a sweeping bow from the saddle. “I am Galen Esmond, and I have to tell you never have I met so lovely a señorita in all of Spain.”

  “Gracias,” Kit responded quietly, unimpressed.

  Then she asked brusquely, “Why did you come here and goad these men into betting their hard-earned pay?”

  To the delight of his men, who were chuckling as he spoke, he pretended innocence. “Ah, señorita, do not judge me so harshly. I am but a poor gitano—a gypsy, wandering through Spain. I come here, and these men, they goad me to race them.”

  Frazier’s vaqueros shouted in protest, and Kit waved them to silence. Galen Esmond spread his
hands in mock despair. “Is it my fault they do not recognize a fine horse, and do not realize they have no chance to beat me?”

  Kit said, “I don’t believe they challenged you, any more than I believe you’re just a poor, wandering gypsy. I can believe, however, that they’ve never seen a Hispano before. There aren’t that many in Spain, because few people can afford them.”

  “Aha!” he cried, looking around at his men in pretended delight. “The gringa knows something about horses, and I thought she only knew how to do what gringas do best—wag her tongue!”

  His men laughed again, and Kit bristled, quickly informing him, “I know much about Hispanos, campesino. They’re quite rare, the result of breeding Spanish Arab mares to English Thoroughbreds, producing a horse with more pronounced Arabian characteristics than the average Anglo-Arab. It’s intelligent, has great courage, and is known for an agility that makes it a popular competition horse in every branch of equestrian sports. The Hispano can take the challenge that an ordinary horse can’t.”

  Esmond threw back his head and laughed. “Mi Dios! The señorita knows her horses!” Then he abruptly fell silent, turning black, penetrating eyes on her as he challenged, “Why did you not teach your compadres about such a fine horse, señorita? Then they would not be so estupido as to think they can race against my Hispano and win.”

  Kit met his cold, condemning stare with one of her own. “Do not call them estupido because they have confidence in their own horses, hombre. After all, that’s what you were counting on to get them to bet so you could take their money.”

  “Oh?” He raised an eyebrow, exchanging amused glances with his men. “Are you also so estupido as to have such confidence in your own horse, señorita?”

  “Si, hombre.” The sound was like the hiss of the prairie rattler.

  He threw back his head and laughed, “Ah, so you are not estupido! You know my horse is tired after so much racing. Naturally you wish to race him now. You would easily win.”

  “Race any horse against me you wish.”