Fires of Paradise

by Brenda Joyce

  Of course, nothing had been settled between them, and Shoz had not said when he would return. In truth, they had barely done any talking. He had taken her time and again like a starved man, and Lucy knew, finally, that his need for her was almost as great as hers for him. She had no doubt that he would come back to her.

  Of course, she wanted more than just this, his visiting her in the dark of the night. But this was a beginning. She would make sure that his occasional visits became frequent, routine. She would become his mistress—his only one. And then, maybe, they could find something more.

  But first, now, she had to decide if she was going to allow General Weyler to escort her to Maravilla or not.

  Lightning struck her. What if she could help Shoz, show him she was more than a woman to warm his bed? Earn his appreciation, his gratitude? Lucy leapt from the bed, excited. What better way than to become friendly with the man in command of all the Spanish troops—the greatest enemy the rebels had? What if she could leam something of value to the rebels—to Shoz!

  Miraculously Lucy was dressed and downstairs promptly at eight, appearing as fresh as if she had slept more than eight hours and not a mere two. She was a bit taken aback to see that her escort consisted of fifty heavily armed, mounted cavalry. She was also surprised to find herself sitting in a supply wagon next to the driver, while Weyler rode ahead with several other officers after greeting her at the front door.

  It was a three-hour ride to Maravilla, and Lucy was upset to realize that she had no chance to eavesdrop on the general in order to help Shoz. She had obviously misjudged his interest in her at the party. She had no desire to converse with the driver of the buckboard, but the scenery was lush and gorgeous, and she had her memories of last night to keep her company.

  Maravilla was five thousand acres of verdant, sugar-yielding hills fringed with tropical jungles and stretches of shell-white beach. Weyler dropped her off at the plantation house's front door, promising to return for her at four. Lucy thanked him, and waved until he had driven away.

  Maravilla! Lucy turned exultantly. The big, white-shingled manor reminded her of the southern plantation homes she'd seen in Natchez. She turned slowly, pleased to find the house whitewashed and fresh-looking, the lawns carefully manicured, a profusion of pink and orange tropical blooms creeping along the drive and against the walls of the house. A long, gray-floored veranda ran the length of the front, furnished with white wicker chairs and sofas in green and pink striped upholstery. Huge potted fems marked the four corners of the porch. Lucy noticed that the emerald-green shutters were closed on all the windows.

  Lucy frowned. The place was very still and quiet, as if deserted, yet the manager lived here—or at least, he was supposed to. Lucy hurried up the porch steps to knock on the heavy door. There was no answer.

  Lucy tried the door and found it locked. Her heart sank; she had a terrible feeling that the place had been abandoned. But that did not make sense. Lucy walked around to the back.

  As it turned out, the house wasn't deserted, merely locked as a precaution against unruly, looting soldiers and rebels. The housekeeper let her in, introducing herself as Bamie. She explained that Harris, the manager, was out in the fields, supervising the day's work.

  Lucy was pleased to see that everything was in order at Maravilla, as if the war had not touched the sugar plantation at all. Bamie informed her that in fact they had lost five hundred acres last year to a fire, which had broken out after a skirmish between the rebels and the Spanish troops. Other than that, the plantation had escaped the revolution un-scathed and in nearly full productive capacity. Lucy assured Bamie she would not be spending the night, but urged her to prepare a guest suite should she be able to come for a weekend. After a light lunch of crisply fried fish and delicious greens, Lucy decided to take a mount out to ride across the land, heeding Bamie's warning not to go too far.

  Promptly at four, Weyler returned for her, and Lucy was ready. Again she rode in the buckboard while he rode ahead with his officers. They stopped to water the horses an hour after leaving the plantation. As he had done when they had paused to rest that morning, Weyler rode up to her. "I hope the wagon isn't too uncomfortable."

  She gave him her best smile. "Not at all. I'm very appreciative of the escort. But I think I will stretch my legs."

  He shouted a command to the soldier driving the wagon, who helped Lucy down while Weyler rode off to re-join his officers.

  Lucy was certain they would not stop again before reaching Havana. This would be her last and only chance to spy, and she knew it. Her adrenaline was racing wildly. Afraid her excitement and fear showed, Lucy strolled along the creek, in the direction of the general. Weyler had dismounted and was in what appeared to be a deep conversation with a lieutenant. Lucy tried not to appear interested, ostentatiously viewing the scenery, yet she ambled closer until she could hear almost every word. She was surprised that there appeared to be a shortage of necessities for the Spanish troops, particularly meat, boots, and ammunition. New supplies were expected next week. This did not strike Lucy as important, but the fate of a rebel leader did. Apparently he had been interrogated to the general's satisfaction, because he was slated for a public execution the following day at noon. Lucy kept her facial expression impassive, but her heart was thumping madly.

  She turned to gaze up at a hawk soaring overhead, determined to tell Shoz about the execution. But did she even have time? She would have to instruct Janice to make sure Shoz got her message that very evening.

  Feeling slightly faint, Lucy returned to the buckboard, unaware that Weyler had turned to watch her.

  Chapter 44

  Lucy straightaway went to the consulate to ask Janice to have Shoz contact her. Although she stressed that it was urgent, Shoz had still not appeared at the villa by midnight, and Lucy had nearly paced a hole in the rug of her bedroom. Thinking he would enter her room as he had done the night before, from her terrace by way of the gardens below, Lucy stepped through the open balcony doors to wait outside.

  The night was pitch-black, starless, and still, but it was also thickly sweet and fragrant. Lucy leaned on the polished mahogany railing, trying to pierce through the darkness blanketing the gardens and swimming pool below. Suddenly he swung over the rail and landed beside her as silently and unexpectedly as a jungle cat.

  He did not give her a chance to speak, but grabbed her roughly. "What were you doing with General Weyler today?"

  Lucy blinked in surprise, for only Venida and the rest of her household staff, and of course, Bamie, knew she had been escorted by the general to Maravilla. "How did you know I was with Weyler?"

  He was furious. "That is none of your business. What in hell were you doing with him?"

  "He escorted me to Maravilla, that's all."

  "Maravilla!" It was an explosion, and he grabbed her. "I thought I told you—begged you—to be careful!"

  "I was being careful," she protested angrily, trying to free herself from his grasp. "How better to travel there than with a military escort?"

  "You shouldn't have gone at all! Didn't I make it clear? Cuba isn't safe, not for you, Lucy, not for anyone. What if Weyler's troops had been attacked? Dammit! And that's the one man I want you to stay away from. Do you understand me?"

  He was hurting her, and she finally wrenched free. "I have a few questions of my own, dammit! You obviously have spies everywhere. Is Janice one of them? Is she the spy—or are you?"

  "Don't worry about her, Lucy, or about me. You had better worry about yourself! Dammit! I can't spend my time worrying about you!"

  Her heart skipped a beat. She touched him. "Do you? Worry about me?"

  He refused to answer. "What is so urgent?"

  Her hopes were winging, no matter how hard she tried to rein them in. Her fingers settled around his wrist. She could not let this go, not now, in the balmy intimacy of the Caribbean night. "Shoz? Do you worry about me?"

  For a moment he did not move. She could hear him breathing
, then he yanked his hand free. "What is so urgent?' '

  She straightened, certain that she had attained a small victory. Now she would attain another one. She told him about the rebel slated for public execution tomorrow at noon.

  "How in hell did you find that out?"

  "From General Weyler."

  He grabbed her again, this time shaking her. "What in hell did you do to make Weyler confide in you?"

  "Let me go! You're hurting me!"

  He ignored her. "He seduce you, Lucy? Is that it?"

  She gasped. Outrage filled her. "Why don't you ask one of your spies! Apparently someone left a few details out!"

  "You have ten seconds to answer me. One."

  He meant it. Lucy answered. "When we stopped on the way back to Havana, I happened to overhear him talking with his officers."

  "God!"

  "What was so wrong with that?"

  "You happened to overhear him?" He was incredulous. "I pray you're not playing spy! Stay away from him. Or you might be very sorry."

  She bit her lip. "You could at least thank me for the information."

  "Thank you for spying on Weyler? Forget it! I want you to mind your own business, Lucy, dammit!"

  He still held her. He was so angry, so upset. Lucy knew then, with all her soul, that he was afraid for her. She swayed against him. "You still care about me."

  He stiffened. Then he rudely ground his pelvis against hers. "That's what I care about, doll."

  It hurt. Lucy refused to believe him, and she twisted free. Clouds broke, spilling moonlight on them both. His eyes blazed. "Sometimes I hate you," she said bitterly.

  "Yeah, out of bed."

  "Why did I bother to even tell you about that poor Cu-ban!"

  "I can't figure that one out, either."

  "Are you going to do something about it?"

  "That, lady, is none of your concern!"

  "I've only been in Cuba five days, and already I'm sick of everyone telling me that everything isn't my business!"

  "Maybe you should try taking some advice—before you get hurt."

  "There's something else I want to tell you." "I'm all ears."

  "They're expecting supplies for the troops within a few days." "Where?" "I don't know." "Anything else?"

  "No." Lucy folded her arms around herself, wondering what to do now. Shoz hadn't moved since she had stopped speaking. He was staring at her, and in the light spilling from her bedroom, she could just make out his shadowy features. She wished she could see his eyes more clearly. She didn't want him to go.

  "Got an itch?" The words were rude, but his tone was not. It was a whisper, soft and gratingly sensual.

  Lucy just looked at him.

  His fingers touched her chin, raising it. His slight touch thrilled her the way no other man's ever had. If he wanted to, in moments, he could have her on her knees, begging for his attention. Lucy did not delude herself.

  "Promise me," he said huskily, and Lucy rocked toward him, "Promise me you'll stay away from Weyler, promise me you won't go anywhere unescorted. Promise me you'll stay where you're supposed to stay, and do what you're supposed to do. Promise me, Lucy."

  His tone was mesmerizing and sexy, despite his message. She was stunned when he pulled away from her and moved to the railing, about to leave.

  "You—you're not staying?"

  "I can't, not tonight."

  She wanted to ask him why; she didn't dare. Anguish flooded her. She watched him straddle the rail, and when he was poised on top of it, she said, "You care about me, but you won't admit it. Well, I'm braver than you, because I'm not afraid to say it. I still care about you, Shoz; God help me, I do!"

  She turned and ran into her bedroom, flinging the French doors closed behind her, and then she was clinging to their frame.

  Daylight brought sanity, making her midnight confession seem foolish and melodramatic. She had only given him power over her, which he would not hesitate to use. Today she was determined not to dwell on Shoz, although she wondered if he would attempt to rescue the rebel prisoner. She had tremendous faith in him, she realized, for she did not doubt that he would succeed against the odds if he tried.

  The world Lucy had so far moved in was carefully circumscribed by diplomatic dinners and the ladies' lavish luncheons, by the finest shopping in the city, and by her own elegant villa. Lucy decided that a tour of Havana was in order. There must be much more to the city than those fine shops of imported goods where all the diplomats and titled Spanish shopped. However, her driver did not want to take her around the city. Lucy had to threaten to go alone with a hired cab before he succumbed, albeit reluctantly.

  And then she ordered him to take her to Havana Hill.

  "You don't want to go there, senorita," he begged, clearly distressed. "Yes, I do."

  She knew that Havana Hill was one of the reconcetrado camps. Her driver's blunt refusal fueled her determination to go. She threatened to dismiss him, and they finally set off.

  They soon left the stately, charming Havana Lucy was accustomed to behind. She grew somber as they entered Havana's slum neighborhoods. The buildings were low, squat, and crumbling adobe; tiles were missing from the roofs. Doorways were often open or doorless. Shops were empty, windows broken or boarded up. Lucy glimpsed an abundance of stray cats. Ragged clothes hung from some lines outside some of the tenement windows—so apparently someone lived there. But she did not see a soul, as if every-one were in hiding, and it was eerily quiet. Lucy felt distinctly uneasy.

  Havana Hill was not deserted. To the contrary. The buggy stopped in front of a high wire fence. The fence stretched through the slums as far as Lucy could see—restricting everything and everyone on its inside from leaving its con-fines. Spanish soldiers patrolled its exterior and its gate.

  "Oh my God," Lucy said. Not really aware of what she was doing, she stepped from the carriage, staring.

  Within Havana Hill, people were everywhere. Old men and women and children sat on the street, on stoops, on upside-down garbage cans. Aimless and vacant-eyed. Poor people, skinny people, people half-clad in rags. Sick people, emaciated people. People who limped and hobbled, people with festering sores, people lying with fever. There were no young men, no teenage boys. The youngest children ran naked, thin and sticklike, their swollen, starved bellies testimony to their desperate plight.

  Lucy realized she was clinging to the fence, trying not to faint. Two children ran up to her, no more than five or six, the boy clad only in a ragged shirt, the girl naked. They held out their palms. They begged.

  Lucy reached into her purse, and through the fence, she gave them everything she had.

  "Senora!"

  Vaguely she was aware of a soldier questioning her. He sounded far away, but he was standing at her elbow. He demanded she state her business. It was the last thing she was aware of; she fainted.

  "General Weyler." Lucy managed a warm smile. She had never known she could be such an actress, but too much was at stake.

  "Senorita, I am honored." He ushered her into his cool, spacious office at military headquarters. The contrast with Havana Hill was gruesome, nauseating.

  It was several hours later. Lucy had revived from her faint to find herself in the offices of the local camp commander. After she had explained who she was, she had been allowed to go. She had come directly here, to Weyler.

  Shoz's words flashed through her mind: Promise me you'll stay away from Weyler. "I need your help, General," Lucy said briskly.

  "I am eager to give it."

  "Good!" She went on to explain her intentions—she wanted to organize a relief effort for Havana Hill and any other concentration areas in Cuba. She would bring in food and medicine and organize volunteers to clean up the camps. Unsmiling, she waited for his reply.

  "I'm afraid that is not possible."

  "Why not?"

  "It is the policy of the government not to allow any relief to the prisoners."

  "That's inhumane."

  "W
e are at war."

  "Surely you can bend the rules."

  "I'm afraid not." He stood. "Can I offer you some refreshment? Coffee? Tea?"

  Lucy stood. "General, we must do something about those poor starving—dying—people!"

  "Once the rebels cease hostilities, I assure you, they will be freed. That is the government policy."

  Lucy debated arguing with him, and decided against it. "May I have permission to go into the camps?" "Why?"

  "To bring what comfort I can." "I'm afraid not."

  "I see." She smiled tightly. "Good day, General."

  He grabbed her arm. Lucy froze. "Perhaps we can come to an arrangement."

  Lucy looked at him, trembling with disbelief and anger. Surely she was misunderstanding him. "What kind of arrangement?"

  "Perhaps an intimate dinner? Or lunch?"

  "And after our meal?"

  "You can convince me to accede to your request."

  "On your sofa?" she said sarcastically.

  "You should not be offended. You should be flattered. I find you incredibly desirable, my dear."

  "I don't think so, General!" She turned and stormed to the door, her heart thundering.

  "If you change your mind," General Weyler said, "please let me know."

  Lucy slammed the door shut behind her. Outside, she sank against the wall, trembling. Why did she feel that she was getting deeper and deeper into something she could not control? With no way out?

  That night Lucy did not sleep. Images from Havana Hill haunted her. Weyler was the most inhumane man she had ever met. She wished Shoz were here; she needed so very much to share with him what she had seen.

  She soon realized she could not live with herself if she did not do something, anything, to help those poor inmates at Havana Hill. It seemed to be some vast moral obligation which she just could not escape. But what could she, Lucy Bragg, do? The inmates needed so much.

  She had been sitting in bed; now she tossed the sheet aside and threw her feet on the floor. The solution was so obvious! The one thing she had was money, and a lot of it. She would buy all the relief supplies she could, and she could do it right here in Havana.