All these things were true, and Lorenzo had been well pleased, thinking that Don Felipe had come to appreciate his worth and that this might be the time to mention his wish for a closer tie with the Santana family. All during the day he had been buoyed up with a feeling of gleeful anticipation. Soon all his schemes would come to fruition—Beth would die within a matter of days, killed by Comanches, thereby stilling her tongue and stopping any marriage with Rafael; and if Don Felipe was indeed looking with favor upon him, his suit for the hand of Arabela would prosper. Once Arabela's hand was actually his, there would then remain only one person in his way, Rafael. .. and Rafael could so easily go the way of the poor Senora Beth!
Unfortunately his designs had suffered a rude jolt when, after everyone had retired, he had sought an interview with Don Felipe, who was in the library savoring one last glass of sherry. Lorenzo was not sleeping at the house, and Don Felipe was slightly surprised to find him still about the house, having thought he had already departed,
But, feeling rather benign, certain that he could force a marriage between his recalcitrant grandson and the eminently suitable Senora Beth, Don Felipe bade him enter the room and even went so far as to offer him a glass of sherry. Encouraged by this further sign of the great man's unbending toward him, after a few minutes
of desultory conversation Lorenzo had made the mistake of slyly hinting in which directions his ambitions ran.
Don Felipe had stiffened and the cold, black eyes had rested on Lorenzo's face. In a contemptuous voice Don Felipe had inquired, "Correct me if I am wrong, but wasn't your mother so foolish and headstrong that she ran away with her dancing master? And after she had disgraced her family and caused an embarrassing scandal, didn't she have the temerity to return begging her father to take her, along with her bastard child, back?"
At Lorenzo's unpleasant start, Don Felipe had smiled pityingly. ''Did you think I didn't know your background? Did you think I never questioned why a supposed cousin of Consuela's should be so poor and treated so disdainfully by her family? And did you think that even for one minute I would consider aligning my family with the bastard of a dancing master?"
Don Felipe had laughed. ''Lorenzo, you are a good servant. I can make use of you—but only as long as you keep your place and know your place! Now leave me, I am weary and there are things I must plan."
Dismissed so summarily, there had been nothing for Lorenzo to do but leave. And he left, but he left with an undying hatred for Don Felipe, and as he rode toward the meeting with the Comanche renegades, he plotted not only Beth's sudden demise but Don Felipe's as well. Tomorrow, he thought viciously, tomorrow I'll see them both dead!
Unaware of this treachery, Beth woke early the next morning and stretched luxuriously, a delicious sense of well-being curling through her slim body. Tonight she would be Rafael's wife! How strange to think that only yesterday she had been so uncertain and unhappy.
A dreamy, faraway expression on her delicate features, Beth docilely allowed herself to be bathed by the servant, Maria, and she came back to the present only when Maria diffidently inquired which gown the senora wished to wear today. Making a face, Beth forced herself to choose one. I hate black! she thought rebelliously as she examined the black gowns hanging in the wardrobe. Longingly she gazed at some of her other gowns,
hanging at the far end of the big wardrobe. The soft hues, the pale pinks, the dehcate lavenders, and the sunny yellows all held far more appeal than the widow's garb convention dictated she wear.
Reluctantly she chose a simple gown of black muslin with a wide bertha of lace that gave the somber garb an almost frivolous air. I will not, she decided mutinously, be married in black! And covertly she eyed a beautiful gown of mauve satin. Hidden under a full, black cloak...
Smiling to herself, she turned away and watched idly as Maria arranged her hair in a large round chignon on top of her head. Wide ivory combs held the fair hair in place, and v/hile the woman did not have Manuela's skill, Beth was more than satisfied with the effect of the cool, unruffled elegance the arrangement effected.
Standing up and twitching her gown into place, Beth was ready to face the world, particularly Don Felipe! Taking one last look at herself in the mirror and disliking anew the color of black, she grimaced. But then her conscience smote her. What a dreadful creature she was! Nathan dead barely three months and already she was carrying another man's child and looking forward to marrying a man she loved. Disgraceful!
Feeling wretched about her happiness when Nathan lay in his grave, the light died in her eyes and her expression was suitably subdued when she joined the others. Don Felipe put it down to acceptance of the fate he had planned for her and would have been astonished to know her pensive demeanor was caused by guilt. Life was offering her so much, and yet Nathan was dead, and dead because of her. She didn't deserve to be happy! she thought mournfully. Oh, but she was, God forgive her, she was happy!
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
For Rafael the time sped by and yet moved on leaden feet. The procuring of the license took but a minute, and then he stopped by the Maverick house, explaining what had transpired, and somewhat offhandedly inquired if Mary and Sam would care to witness his marriage. Hiding their delight, the Mavericks accepted instantly.
Relaxed and cheerful, he returned home and drove the servants mad with his demands. The suite next to his must be aired and cleaned—tonight his bride would sleep there. And there must be flowers—flowers in her rooms, flowers throughout the house. And food and wine, there must be both suitable for the occasion. And... his wants seemed endless, and all for Beth.
For Beth the day passed almost pleasantly. Left alone most of the time with Dona Madelina, Senora Lopez, and Arabela, she actually enjoyed herself, although it was very hard to keep her joy from spilling out and giving away her secret. The siesta hours were very hard for her, for she could do nothing but lie in her bed and think of Rafael.
About four o'clock the family met for some light refreshment in the small open courtyard, and it was then that Don Felipe suggested that perhaps the younger two ladies would like to accompany him on his afternoon ride. At first Beth demurred, but relented when Arabela begged her prettily and Sebastian, who had spent a harrowing day with Don Felipe, added his plea.
From his outpost in the hills near the house, Lorenzo watched the party leave the protection of the high walls—Don Felipe, Don Miguel, Beth, Sebastian, Arabela, and about a half dozen armed riders. He frowned.
Unless there was some way of separating Arabela and Don Miguel from the others, he dared not have the Comanches attack.
But fate played into his hands, for the party had not gone a half mile when a young rabbit suddenly jumped up under Arabela's horse, causing it to rear. And as Arabela had been in a spirited argument with Sebastian she hadn't been paying any attention to her horse and was promptly thrown. She was only shaken, and Don Miguel, who hadn't particularly wanted to come along in the first place, proposed that he and Arabela return to the house. Regally Don Felipe gave them permission to leave the party. Wanting the pleasure of a beautiful woman all to himself, he also decided that Sebastian would be best employed amusing his cousin. After all, it was his fault she hadn't been pa5ring attention to her riding.
Grudgingly Sebastian accepted Don Felipe's order, and Beth could have boxed his ears for leaving her alone with the autocratic old devil. And he knew it too, from the audacious look he sent her way before he kicked his horse into a canter and headed back.
Lorenzo smiled as he observed the proceedings. Clambering down from the huge, flat rock, he hurried down the hillside to an impatient group of about fifteen Comanche warriors. This was not the first time Lorenzo had worked with the Comanches, and their dealings in the past had proved mutually profitable. This, though, was the first time that Lorenzo had organized a raid simply for his own gain, except for Consuela's death, and then there had been many horses and trunks of clothing and trinkets for all.
Lorenzo and the Coma
nches carefully chose their spot for ambush. Like a wolf on the trail of a wounded deer, one Comanche had followed the little party for a short distance to discover which of the many trails Don Felipe was taking. Signaled by a series of animal and bird calls, the Comanches positioned themselves for the attack.
The trail led through a short, narrow arroyo; the sides of the arroyo sloped down to a trail. For the Comanches it was simple to station warriors at either end
while the others hid just out of sight on either side of the brush-covered arroyo. When Don Fehpe and his party rode by the concealed Comanches at the entrance, the trap would be sprung.
Beth was not enjoying her ride. Don Felipe had been asking her very personal questions and slyly flirting. She wished she had been brave enough to defy him and return with the others. Eager to return, she asked, ''Are we to go much farther?" And, falling back on female megrims, she said plaintively, '1 am growing tired and I fear I have a headache coming on.*'
Don Felipe slewed around in his saddle and had just opened his mouth to speak, when the Comanches attacked from all sides. It was a slaughter. Caught by surprise, completely surrounded, and badly outnumbered, the men had absolutely no chance to protect themselves. The Comanche arrows and lances felled the guards before they could even draw their clumsy muzzle-loading weapons.
With horror Beth heard the terrifying Comanche war cry and watched almost paralyzed with terror as they came hurtling from all directions. The rider by her side gave an odd little gurgle and before Beth's fearful stare he died, an arrow in the throat. To her right, another man took a lance in the back—all around her were the screams of dying men and frightened horses. It was a wild melee of rearing, bolting horses and falling bodies. Galvanized by stark, unreasoning panic, she tried to fight her way clear of the action, but she was caught helplessly in the middle and only iDy sheer luck escaped with nothing more serious than a grazed cheek.
A sudden ghastly silence fell, and with icy dread Beth realized that of the little riding party she was the only one still mounted... and alive. Dry-mouthed with fear, her heart thudding painfully, she stared around her at the ring of savage Indians who surrounded her. Everything that Matilda Lockhart had spoken of, that day in San Antonio, came rushing back, and for one awful moment Beth thought she would faint with terror. But then spirit and pride came to her rescue, and, hiding her fear, she defiantly met the black-eyed stares of the Comanches.
They were terrifying, the broad-nosed, dark-skinned faces cruel and fierce under their black stripes of war paint. Some wore the buffalo-horn headress that gave them the look of a nightmare, others only a few feathers. All were naked except for a loincloth, and all had long hair, some having braids, others merely long, lank black hair that hung around their shoulders. A slight breeze ruffled the feathers on their lances and the ornaments of the round buffalo-hide war shields, but otherwise all was still, silent as if waiting... and waiting ...and...
An agonized groan from one of the men lying on the ground broke the tension-filled quiet, and to Beth's horror she watched one of the Comanches lift his lance, intent upon dealing the death blow—it was Don Felipe who had made the sound—and the Comanche was already moving his horse in that direction when a voice stopped him.
"No," Lorenzo said with relish, having also recognized the lone man who still lived. "Save him for the women. I shall enjoy watching him scream out his life under the knives of the squaws.''
Revulsion showing on her face, Beth spat, ''You! Are you so beneath human feeling that you will join with these creatures against your own kind?"
Lorenzo smiled, moving his horse between the Comanches that ringed her. "Why, of course. You should know that for money I will do just about anything." His face grew ugly. "Even kill my own kind."
And the suspicion that had formed in her mind the instant she had seen him with the Comanches suddenly hardened into belief. "It was you!" she burst out. ''You who killed Consuela!"
Lorenzo actually preened himself "Of course! It was so childishly easy. Consuela was a stupid woman. Did you know that she refused to pay me for my part in our little scene in New Orleans?" Not waiting for her reply, nor really expecting any, he went on casually, "I never let her know she had made me angry, and she was so arrogant that she thought I would let her trample me how-
ever she chose. Ha! I showed her the error of her ways in the end. I took a great pleasure in watching what the Co-manches did to her. Of course, the warriors are not as proficient with the knives and the tortures as the squaws, but they did well enough."
Unable to control it, Beth shivered at the note of enjoyment in his voice, and, seeing the movement, Lorenzo looked at her full in the face and smiled. Then he said something to one of the Comanches, and a moment later Don Felipe's bloody form was tossed over one of the horses and another warrior roughly jerked the reins from Beth's hands. A brief second was taken to strip the bodies of weapons and any plunder that caught the eyes of the victorious Comanches, and then, driving the riderless horses before them, Beth and Don Felipe being brought along at the rear, the Indians departed at breakneck speed. Beth could only hang on to her saddlehorn and wonder at what fate had in store for her.
Nothing pleasant, as she was to learn painfully, bitterly through the long terrifying night that followed and the even more humiliating, punishing day that followed. The Comanches rode swiftly all night. They stopped for nothing, and for that Beth was thankful—knowing that when camp was made she would face the inevitable rape by each one of the warriors. Matilda Lockhart's burned and scarred face seemed to dance in front of her eyes. Would she soon resemble that poor creature?
They struck an isolated ranch just before dawn, and it, too, was an easy victory, as Lorenzo had told them it would be; the men were slaughtered as they woke and reached for their weapons, the three women raped, then lanced and left for dead. Lorenzo had remained with Beth and the barely alive Don Felipe, and, watching the horror on her face, he taunted softly, "Tonight it will be your turn. Do you think the Comanches will prove to be kind lovers?" He laughed at her shudder.
And it was then that the real terror began. After the two easy victories the arrogant Comanches were in high spirits. Whooping and cavorting about, they emptied the
ranch of all livestock, killing some of the cattle for sport but herding the horses and mules to join the other horses they had captured.
Their real objective obtained, their eyes turned to Beth and Don Felipe. Don Felipe had been badly wounded by a lance in the side and an arrow in the shoulder. How he had survived the reckless journey through the night, Beth didn't know. She herself was exhausted, as much from fear as from a night without sleep, a night in which every terror she had ever imagined had begun to come true.
There was only one reason why she was still alive— before he left her to the Comaijf hes, Lorenzo intended to taste fully what he had been denied that afternoon in New Orleans. Briefly he had considered the possibility of taking her immediately and then leaving to appear at the Santana house as if he had never been away from San Antonio. But no, he waited, enjoying her terror and the hot thrill of anticipation that ran through his blood. Yet he didn't really care what happened to either Beth or Don Felipe, and when one of the Comanche warriors yanked Beth from her horse and began to ruthlessly strip her clothes from her, he said nothing, merely watched and took pleasure in the lovely body that was being bared.
Thinking she was to be raped, Beth fought viciously, kicking, biting, scratching and clawing, but to no avail. She was cuffed and slapped savagely as the Comanche's knife did its work, cutting away every vestige of clothing she wore. The long, silvery hair had lost its neat chignon hours ago, but now in her struggles the last ivory comb slid from it and the glorious hair came spilling and tumbling down around her naked body.
Almost with wonder the Comanche touched it, but Beth flew at him, determined to fight to the very last. Effortlessly the Comanche caught her hands, and, holding her struggling body captive, he cruelly pinched o
ne breast and laughed when she screamed as much from pain as rage. Then with a careless flick of his wrist he tossed her from himself and turned to Don Felipe.
Don Felipe was meted out the same rough treatment, only there was no fight left in the old man. From where she had landed on the hard ground Beth felt something
like pity for him as the Comanche stripped him too and just as carelessly threw him to the ground.
Lorenzo was looking at Beth, lust flaming in his eyes. She was irresistibly beautiful, he thought as he viewed the white, slender body through the veil of silvery hair. The pink-tipped breasts seemed to jut proudly through the half-concealing hair, and nothing hid the slender waist or the beauty of the slim, beautifully formed legs.
Lorenzo's were not the only eyes that held lust, and with a feeling that she was suffocating Beth saw that same look reflected in all the faces that stared down at her. But again she was spared the final humiliation, for it was imperative they put a great distance between themselves and this latest scene of depredations.
Only now Beth began to suffer the true fate of a Comanche captive—no horse, no clothes, no shoes, only a rope around her neck that tightened painfully if she stumbled or slackened the punishing pace the Coman-ches set. All day in the hot, blistering sun she ran, her breath coming in painful, gasping breaths, the sun burning the delicate skin, the rocky, rough ground tearing the soft soles of her feet—but she ran, and ran... and ran!
Perspiration poured from her and her body ached and screamed with silent pain as the sun rose higher and higher and then at last began slowly to descend. Once during the afternoon Lorenzo, fearful possibly that she might die before he took his revenge and pleasure, stopped his horse and offered his hand, intending to take her up in front of him for a while. The violet eyes glittering with hatred and contempt, with what little strength she had Beth flung his hand away and spat on the ground near his horse. Her actions brought a murmur of approval from the warriors, for above all else they admired courage. But Lorenzo was enraged and, his face twisting into a snarl, he lashed out with his booted foot, catching Beth fully on the chest and stomach, knocking the breath out of her and causing her to fall heavily to the ground. For a long, agonizing time Beth lay there, almost ready to give in to defeat and simply lie down and die under the hot sun on the wide expanse of prairie. But painfully, slowly, ago-
Louisiana 08 - While Passion Sleeps Page 47
