While Passion Sleeps

by Shirlee Busbee

  Of Lorenzo Beth preferred not to think. She avoided looking his direction as they sat at a long, elegant table eating dinner. But she could not make him vanish any more than she could banish Rafael from her mind. Staring at the debonair Don Miguel at the head of the table, she found herself searching for some resemblance to Rafael, but she could find none, except for the black hair and the black eyebrows with their wicked slant. Don Miguel's face was kinder, softer, perhaps, weaker than his son's; his dark eyes inclined to twinkle and his lips quirked easily into a smile; his body was slimmer and shorter than his son's. Yet, when Lorenzo made some comment that annoyed him, he looked very much like Rafael; his mouth tightened and the black eyes hardened and lost their twinkle.

  Beth and Dona Madelina left the gentlemen to their cigars and brandy as soon as dinner was finished, and they wandered out to the inner courtyard to enjoy the mild night air. Near the three-tiered fountain they seated themselves in sturdy iron chairs made comfortable by soft scarlet cushions. Dona Madelina reopened the conversation concerning Stella Rodriguez that had started during dinner.

  "Imagine you being a friend of Estella's!" Madelina had exclaimed. "I remember how unhappy she was at being sent to school in England. I couldn't blame her. Her mother is English, you know, and she was most insistent that Estella attend her old school. So it was off to England for our darling Estella. And to think that now one of her friends from there is traveling to see her."

  Sebastian had obviously not told them of the change in plans, and Beth hesitated to correct the impression that they were continuing on their journey. Nathan showed no such reticence. "Yes, it was a wonderful idea," he murmured, "but one we find with regret that we shall have to forget it. When we leave here, we will be returning home to Natchez—Beth has found the journey too arduous, and I cannot allow her to damage her fragile health. Of course I would much prefer to press on, but you understand the situation."

  Beth nearly choked on her wine and sent Nathan a speaking glance torn between amusement and annoyance. Nathan smiled at her sheepishly and hastily changed the subject. Beyond the expressions of disappointment, the topic was dropped.

  But now that she had Beth all to herself, Dona Madelina began, "What a pity that you are not continuing on your journey. After all, you have come a great way to turn back."

  Beth made a tactful reply and asked, "Didn't Stella live near here before she and Juan moved to Santa Fe?"

  It was the surest way to turn Dona Madelina's thoughts away from the canceled trip. "Oh, yes. The Hacienda del Torillo is not more than twenty miles away. Estella was often here at our home as a child—she and my second daughter, Maria, were great companions. Did you know that Estella is related to us?" Not waiting for a reply, she said, "Of course, it is only distantly, you understand—Maria married Juan's eldest brother, and they live at the Rodriguez rancho, not more than a day's ride from here." Struck by a thought, Dona Madelina said excitedly, "But of course! I shall send a rider over there tomorrow morning and invite Maria and Esteban to meet you. You will enjoy Maria's company, and you both will find it amusing to exchange tales of Estella's escapades—she was always a lively thing."

  Hastily Beth said, "Oh, no, Dona Madelina. We do not intend to stay more than a few days. We would not wish to put you to any trouble."

  "It wouldn't be a bit of trouble, but if you would rather not..."

  "It isn't that I wouldn't want to meet your daughter, it is just that, having made up our minds to return to Natchez, we would like to do it as soon as possible. You do understand?"

  Dona Madelina smiled kindly at her. "Yes, my dear, I do. I wish that you and your husband were staying longer—we seldom have visitors, and when we do, it is like a holiday. Selfishly we would like it to last as long as possible."

  Beth said nothing, wishing that she dared take advantage of the warm hospitality offered. How much she would have enjoyed meeting a friend of Stella's! But it was imperative that they not linger, and regretfully she changed the subject. "Do you have only the two daughters? Or are there more?"

  "There are five," Dona Madelina replied proudly, always delighted to talk of her children. "The older ones are married, with families of their own—two of them in Spain." Her face saddened. "I miss them dreadfully, but Miguel has promised me that next year we will go to Spain for a long visit. Oh, how I shall enjoy it!"

  "And the youngest? Is she not here with you?"

  Dona Madelina's lips tightened. "No. Don Felipe, my husband's father, decided that Arabela needed to acquire some sophistication, and when he departed for Mexico some weeks ago, he insisted she go with him. I did not like it, I can tell you! But Don Felipe is hard to dissuade from any given idea—and my husband will not defy him."

  "Perhaps she will like Mexico City," Beth offered. "Many young girls would, and I'm certain that she will be a comfort to her grandfather."

  "Now, that I doubt!" Dona Madelina retorted. Her expression a mixture of pride and uneasiness, she added, "Arabela is a constant joy to us, you understand, but she is so spirited! She does not take kindly to authority, and I am very much afraid Don Felipe will be too strict and she will defy him. My father-in-law has already suggested a match for her, and even though she is just fifteen she has very decided views about her future—and she flatly refused to consider it. She is very independent." Dona Madelina sighed. "She reminds me too frequently of her half-brother, Rafael. You may meet him before you leave, and you will see what I mean. He is iron-willed—nothing stops him from doing as he pleases! Rafael frightens me a little, but Arabela says that I am just silly."

  Beth sent her a strained smile, thinking Arabela was the silly one. The conversation would have returned to the married daughters, but the gentlemen joined the ladies.

  At the sight of Lorenzo's swarthy face above his white shirt and gold brocade jacket, Beth's relaxed mood vanished. She avoided his eyes as he attempted to catch her attention and threw herself into a mild flirtation with the delighted Sebastian. When Sebastian was unwillingly drawn into a conversation with Don Miguel and Nathan, Lorenzo neatly trapped Beth near one end of the courtyard where she had walked to inspect a potted palm tree. Sauntering up to her, he growled, "I must talk to you."

  Her jaw set, Beth regarded him with open contempt. "And I told you I have nothing to say to you!"

  Something ugly entered his eyes, and instinctively Beth stepped away from him, but he captured her wrist and threatened, "Don't scream—just listen to me!"

  "I haven't much choice, have I?" she returned tightly. "Unless I wish to cause a scene we both will regret."

  Ignoring her, he went on, "I don't mean you any harm, believe me. I have no intention of admitting to anyone that we have met before—can I trust you to do the same?"

  Bitterly Beth replied, "I am hardly likely to bring up the subject. But I think you have forgotten that Rafael is expected, and I doubt that he will keep his mouth shut."

  "I know," he admitted with a nervous air. "I intend to be gone before he arrives—he and I do not make for agreeable company together." Shooting her an assessing glance, he murmured, "He still doesn't know that my dearly departed cousin arranged that little tableau for him. I don't think he will inform his father that he caught us in an intimate situation. So shall we strike a bargain, you and I? I will forget that we ever met, if you will do the same."

  Her flesh crawling with revulsion, Beth stared mutinously up at Lorenzo's intent features for a long minute, wishing there were some way to expose him to Don Miguel. Wretchedly she realized that it was impossible to do so... without telling the sordid tale of that afternoon in New Orleans. It had been hard enough to tell her husband, and even to him she had not revealed names, but to speak of it to a total stranger was beyond her—especially when that stranger was connected to the perpetrators by marriage... and blood. She disliked it, but she had no choice and reluctantly she agreed. "Very well. We have never met... and, Lorenzo, I pray God we never meet again."

  The black eyes glowed dangero
usly and his hand tightened around her wrist. "You no more than I, senora."

  Beth watched him walk away with relief... and unease. There had been something in his voice when he had spoken of his "dearly departed cousin" that left her disquieted. Their bargain galled her; she longed to see him unmasked for the blackguard he was.

  Nathan strolled over to her and, scanning the wrist she was rubbing with her other hand, he asked mildly, "Is everything all right, my dear? I couldn't help but notice the somewhat intense conversation you were having with that Mendoza fellow. Was he bothering you?"

  "Why no," Beth replied quickly, hating the lies that fell so freely from her lips. "He was just being polite and making small talk—you know how it is."

  "Certainly, but it appeared to me to be more than just... small talk."

  Desperate to change the subject, Beth retorted with unusual sharpness, "We were only talking, Nathan—not making an assignation."

  If Beth had hit him, her husband couldn't have been more surprised. His blond eyebrows soaring in astonishment, he regarded her angry face. There was a painful silence and then Beth murmured miserably, "Forgive me, Nathan. I don't know what came over me."

  "I rather think that you do, my dear," Nathan said. But as Beth opened her mouth to protest, he placed a restraining finger against her lips. "Hush, Beth. Something has upset you, I am not blind, you know. But if you don't wish to tell me, fine—forced confidences have never been to my liking." The finger that had been on her lips traced her delicate jawline, and, his voice not quite steady, Nathan added, "You know that I care for you as deeply as it is possible for me to care for any woman. Keep your secrets, but remember that I am always at hand."

  Beth knew her eyes were damp with tears and unhappily she stammered, "Oh, Nathan, I-I-I..."

  Her husband put an end to her dilemma by bending over and softly kissing her lips. Smiling gently, he said, "Good night, Beth. I'll see you in the morning."

  Her throat tight and raw with pain, she stared at the flagstones of the courtyard as he walked away from her. If only she dared tell him! How much easier it would make things—but how much deadlier it would be. The prospect of Nathan fighting a duel terrified her and there was little likelihood there would not be a duel if he knew the truth.

  Beth wasted no time in seeking her own bed. She was exhausted emotionally as well as physically, and she yearned for nothing more than the oblivion that came with sleep. Crossing the courtyard, she said good night to Don Miguel and Dona Madelina and declined Sebastian's plea that they take a short walk around the grounds of the hacienda before she retired.

  Sebastian was inclined to press the issue, but he was aware that Beth was inattentive and frustration boiling in his veins, he accepted her negative answer without further argument. Moodily his gaze rested on her face, wondering bleakly why she was now so remote when earlier she had been flirting so enchantingly. He had been elated with the turn of events, certain that he would be able to arrange a secluded meeting where he could reveal his heart's yearnings. The evening had been progressing nicely—until Lorenzo had spoken to her at the end of the courtyard. The green eyes narrowed, and speculatively Sebastian looked at Lorenzo.

  Lorenzo was bending over Beth's hand as she said a stilted good night to him, and Sebastian heard his, "It was a pleasure to meet you, Senora Ridgeway. I am sorry that I may not see you again before you leave."

  Don Miguel entered the conversation. "But why not, my friend? Surely you can remain a few days with us?"

  Lorenzo looked at him. "Have you forgotten that your son is due to arrive?"

  Don Miguel gave a cluck of annoyance. "You two hotheaded fools! Why you cannot settle whatever differences you have between you and become friends I do not understand. You are part of our family, and this nonsense must stop."

  "Tell that to Rafael."

  Don Miguel pulled a face. "Oh, do whatever you like—you both will anyway," he retorted irritably, washing his hands of the situation.

  Beth did not linger and it was a relief to know she need not fear Lorenzo would reveal their earlier meeting. If Beth had known what was in Lorenzo's mind as he rode away from the hacienda that night, she would not have gone to bed so relieved.

  It was a dark night, the moon not half full, but Lorenzo pushed his horse hard—he had many miles to travel if he was to arrange a final end to the Ridgeways' journey back to Natchez.

  If Beth had been dismayed at Lorenzo's presence, he had been dumbstruck and furious. A cold, deadly fury raged in his blood as he thought of how easily she could destroy his standing with Don Miguel—with all of the aristocratic families that looked upon him agreeably. These days he was viewed as a gentleman who had amassed a sizeable fortune in just a few years; one who came from a good family, a man who would be an acceptable son-in-law. Lorenzo had paid flattering attention to every rich Spanish family with a marriageable daughter too assiduously, too determinedly over the years to have Beth Ridgeway destroy all his plans. His choice for a worthy bride had fallen on Arabela de la Santana—with Rafael dead, in time he would see himself as Don Miguel's heir. As for the other members of the family, he smiled. If they proved obstructive he could take care of them—Comanches left no witnesses.

  After Consuela's death only three people knew what happened that afternoon in New Orleans. Lorenzo had dismissed Manuela as a danger long ago. She was a servant, and who would believe her word over his? Beth Ridgeway was something else again, and he was taking no chances. If she had shown up once unexpectedly in Texas she could do so again, or their paths could cross somewhere else in the future when he least expected it; he wasn't willing to run the risk. Somewhere between San Antonio and the Texas coast, the Ridgeway party would meet with disaster. Disaster in the shape of a Comanche raiding party.

  Beth did not know of Lorenzo's plans for her, but sleep proved just as elusive as it would have if she had been privy to them. She lay in the handsome bed for what seemed an eternity, her thoughts scrambling through her brain as she tried to sleep. Eventually, when she knew dawn could not be far, she slipped from her bed, pulled on her peignoir, and wandered out into the deserted inner courtyard seeking its peacefulness.

  Chapter 12

  The courtyard was a beautiful, she thought, seating herself on the edge of the stone fountain and trailing one hand in the cool water. It was rectangular and enclosed by the four walls of the casa grande. The front of the casa grande was two-storied; Beth could look up and see the black filigreed-iron balconies garlanded with clinging bougainvillaea vines. The other three wings of the house were single-storied, appearing wider than they were because the roofs had been extended to create the cool, wide arcades that served as hallways throughout the entire house. The extended red-tiled roofs were supported by graceful arches that bespoke the Moorish influence so prevalent in Spanish buildings, and from where Beth sat the arches resembled huge windows draped in purple velvet.

  It was silent in the courtyard except for the sound of the water in the fountain. Silent and peaceful, the shapes and shadows of the tubs of plants, the iron chairs and round filigree tables muted in grays and mauves as the moon slowly disappeared before the sun took its place in the heavens. The stars had vanished and there was that slight chill in the air that precedes dawn. No one, not even the servants, was stirring yet. Once, though, Beth was certain she heard the crow of a cock from one of the adobe houses near the hacienda.

  Afterward she was never quite certain what caused her to glance over her shoulder. Had he made some sound when he entered the courtyard and saw her sitting there? Or had premonition compelled her to look in that direction? Whatever the reason, when she turned she saw Rafael Santana standing there in the dim, predawn moments staring at her.

  He stood in the shadows, more a disturbing presence than an actual form, but Beth recognized him instantly. It was not his height or the breadth of his shoulders that identified him, but the stillness of a predator he projected. Not a word was said as they regarded each other across the l
ong flagstone patio. Beth's heart was lodged somewhere in the back of her throat, and it was beating with such frantic strokes she thought she would faint.

  Rafael remained in the shadows, making no effort to ease the tension that charged the silence, making no effort to lessen the air of animal awareness that seemed to flow from him into the courtyard. Unable to move, unable to utter a sound, Beth sat frozen, her eyes straining to pierce the shadows around him to see if it was the man that every instinct cried out it must be.

  From her position at the edge of the fountain, she could just discern his shape, the tall, virile strength of him, and the faint scent of tobacco that drifted across the courtyard. Every nerve, every muscle, every fiber in her body was aware of him in the shadows; every instinct, every emotion screamed that she should escape; yet she was helpless to do so, her body seeming rooted to the fountain. How long, she wondered, how long will he allow this moment to last?

  Not long, it appeared. The tip of his cigarillo flamed red and made a fiery streak in the mauve shadows of dawn as he tossed it away. Deliberately he stepped from under the arch that had obscured him and stood revealed in the faint light.

  Beth's first impression was that he hadn't changed a great deal in four years; the gray eyes were just as veiled, although she detected a hint of furious astonishment in them; the lean face was just as dangerously attractive; and the slim-hipped, long-legged figure was as devastatingly male as it had been the night of the Costa soiree in New Orleans. But there was a change in him—if possible a deadlier emptiness to the eyes, a more cynical slant to the arrogant mouth, and a difference in apparel.

  Both times she had seen him—and it came as a stunning surprise to realize that she had only seen him twice for the impact he had made upon it—he had been dressed in the clothes befitting a man of wealth and breeding, the trappings of a rich aristocrat. But such was not the case at the moment. Now he truly resembled the "renegade" of his name: the faint shadow of a day or two's beard darkening his jawline, the well-worn black calzoneras, showing their age and wear while clinging smoothly to his muscled thighs; the blue calico shirt of the kind a common vaquero would wear. A short black chaqueta, despite its dusty appearance, fitted his broad shoulders, and the wide leather belt with its holster and jutting revolver increased his likeness to a desperado. Almost absently she noticed the large sombrero hanging carelessly from one hand, and the faint ruffle of the thick, unkempt blue-black hair as it was caressed by a little breeze that swooped down into the courtyard.