Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2
Page 56
“Ah, Eleanora, I have found you in spite of that dragon’s handmaiden below.”
“Luis — Lieutenant de Laredo; how — what are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see you. There was a bougainvillea growing at the end of the house. The thing arranges itself. I have only to brave the thorns.” He looked ruefully at his palms covered with bleeding lacerations.
“Well, you will have to brave them again. You can’t stay.”
“Eleanora, you could not be so cruel. I have come to entertain you. See?”
She barely glanced at the guitar he brought from where it was slung on his back by a cord. “To entertain me?”
“But yes, querida.” His voice was softly beguiling, his smile, below the dark line of his mustache, caressing.
“Has it occurred to you that you are braving more than thorns?”
“You mean the colonel? He is a busy man, busy counting the new arrivals, issuing weapons, planning this, planning that with the general. And this morning the man who killed the traitor was discovered. No one will be allowed to give to him the mercy of a bullet to prevent him from telling all he knows. Today he will be — encouraged — to explain his actions and those of his compatriot, and tomorrow they will shoot him.”
“The firing squad?”
“The fate of traitors.”
Eleanora resisted the impulse to question him further. “It doesn’t matter why you came. You can’t stay.”
“Tell me why, querida,” he said, resting his shoulder against the grille the better to see in.
“Because — Grant will not like it, and — and I am not dressed.”
“My amigo knows we have the same taste in women,” he said, his eyes on the length of her legs and her bare shoulders not covered by the towel she still wore wrapped about her. “As for dressing, I like you as you are, but if you insist on it, I will wait.”
“You don’t understand.”
“No?” He lifted a droll brow, making a joke of his desire. “Reveal all to me.”
“I have no clothes. Your friend took them.”
His face went blank, and then a delighted grin spread across his face in a flash of white teeth. “I never suspected my amigo of such impatience.”
“It was not impatience,” Eleanora snapped, her anger and sense of ill-usage getting the better of her discretion. “He took them to keep me here.”
Stillness sat upon his features. “You wish to go?”
“Why else do you think I am locked in with a guard over me?”
He straightened, frowning. “This is bad. That he holds few tender feelings toward women I knew, but I have never known him to use them with cruelty.”
“Then you should have been here this morning when he threw Juanita from the galería.”
“Yes? I would like to have seen this. Juanita—”
“Yes, I remember, you have the same taste in women,” she said as he paused, searching for a way to indicate his knowledge of the Spanish girl.
“There are some women, querida, that it is unwise to treat with too much kindness.”
“Perhaps I am one of them?” she suggested tartly.
“No, no. There is no comparison, believe me. I don’t understand my friend Grant. I don’t understand at all. To seduce a lady is one thing, to hold her against her will is another. I think — yes, I think I will have to talk to him.”
Eleanora’s brows drew together. “That might be dangerous.”
“You begin to understand this man then, my Eleanora. But I, too, am dangerous.” Without looking at her, he unslung his guitar, and propping against the door once more, began to play a soft and melancholy tune.
She stared at nothing, her green eyes unfocused. How nice it would be to have someone fight her battles for her, remove her from the colonel’s sphere of influence, and yet, it would not work. There was always Jean-Paul. She knew also that she had not been strictly honest, and she could not allow Luis to become embroiled in her affairs for the sake of a false premise. She lifted her gaze to that slender figure, narrow-hipped in breeches of cordobán brown leather, his wide shoulders covered by a red shirt with full sleeves, the glint of a gold chain at his neck. Grace, gallantry, and humor — Luis was everything Grant was not. It was a thousand pities he was not the provost marshal.
“Luis?”
“Yes, querida?” he answered, his fingers moving on the strings.
“You may understand Grant better if tell you he did not realize I was — an innocent. He thought I was something very different, as you did in New Orleans.”
“And now he knows better?” he asked without looking at her.
She agreed.
“Then you are most generous.”
“No,” she refused the compliment. “I am only trying to be fair.”
“For whose sake, mine or his?” When she did not answer at once, he turned his head. “What I mean is, are you sure you want to leave?”
Eleanora shook her head unhappily. “I want to, yes, but I can’t.”
“Locks can be broken.”
“But not the ties of the heart.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t. I didn’t mean it like that,” she began, but already he was moving away. Slinging his guitar over his back, he stepped over the railing, hung for moment by his hands, then dropped out of sight. In a moment he reappeared down the street, following a dark-haired feminine figure with a seductive swing to her skirt of red and green and blue. It was Juanita, moving away from the house as if she had only just left it. From her vantage point beside the window Eleanora watched as Luis caught up with her, and gripping her arm, swung her to face him. The Spanish girl laughed up at him with a quick greeting that included a kiss on each cheek. Winding her hand inside his arm, she pressed herself against him. Luis, leaning to catch what Juanita was saying, walked away with her without looking back.
The sun went down in a rust-red haze that put a soft edge on objects in the ambient light. Colors were muted, the gold of the stone buildings in the street outside blending with the blue evening shadows. Eleanora seemed powerless to stop herself from watching down that darkening calle for the colonel’s return. In self-defense she told herself it was better to be forewarned. What good was a pretense to indifference if it left you vulnerable to surprise? She was ready to admit, in any case, that she was not indifferent. Rancor, fueled by a long night of apprehension and a long day of close confinement, burned with a cold fire in the back of her mind. She wanted to make him feel some degree of her helpless humiliation at his hands. She wanted the satisfaction of seeing him called to the account that she had been forced to deny herself earlier in the afternoon. In short, and as far as she was able to accomplish it without endangering her brother, she wanted revenge. For this his presence was necessary.
It was possible that she was not the only one with ideas of revenge. Juanita had been enraged with her dismissal, enraged and hurt, if she was to be believed. It would not be astonishing if, after her degrading expulsion from the house, she felt some desire toward vengeance. Did that, perhaps, explain her visit to Señora Paredes? Was the señora her ally? Wearily Eleanora shook back the warm red mane of her hair. If Juanita was plotting to regain the colonel’s affection, then she wished her good fortune. It was a shame they could not scheme together for his downfall.
Night had long fallen and Eleanora was beginning to fear a design to starve her when she heard the rattle of a key in the lock. She lay in darkness upon the bed, completely, and wryly, conscious of the forlorn picture she presented. The colonel’s form was outlined for an instant by the gray light of the courtyard, then he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. She knew he moved, but his footsteps made no sound. Her searching eyes could not penetrate black space around her. He is looking for a light, she told herself. Still her scalp prickled. Abruptly the bed sagged beside her, and long arms reached, dragging her to a hard chest. She felt the imprint of metal buttons and the rasp of beard stubble, and then
his lips captured her in careless plunder. For an instant she allowed herself to respond, pressing the open palm of her hand to the muscles of his back. His arms tightened. With an in-drawn breath that verged on alarm she went stiff.
He raised his head without releasing her. “Did you think,” he asked softly, “that it was Luis, returned to save you?”
It was an instant before she could find breath to answer. “If I did, I must be disappointed.”
“You have a tongue like a viper.”
“It is the last form of protection left to me, one I may stand in need of if you are going to set informers around me.”
Without warning he let her go. She fell back against the pillows, then reached for her towel drawing it more securely about her as she heard the striking of match.
His face had a shuttered look in the yellow glow of the candle. Though he did not glance in her direction, Eleanora was under no illusion; she knew he was aware of her every movement. “Señora Paredes,” he began deliberately, “is not an informer. She knows, however, that I am interested in your visitors.”
“And what of hers? Did she tell you Juanita was here for the best part of the day?”
“Did she trouble you?”
Eleanora shook her head, her gaze going for an instant to the key still the door. “I had a certain amount of protection.”
“Too bad the same thing kept Luis at bay. When can I expect to receive a challenge from him?”
“I — don’t believe you have to worry about that.”
“You mean you were able to keep yourself from pouring out your sad story?”
The sarcasm in his voice was an unbearable irritant. “I mean I was able to keep you from sounding the beast you really are. I have no more desire to have blood spilled for my sake than you have to spill it!”
He surveyed her from behind the screen of his lashes, the blue glitter of his eyes grimly assessing. “Noble of you.”
“I thought so, considering the possibilities.”
This was not what she had intended. Animosity, however much provoked, would get her nowhere. Still, there was no power on earth that could make her take back what she had said. It might even be a good thing, this quarrel. Too much compliance too quickly might make him suspicious.
“Possibilities?” he queried.
She lifted her chin. “You might have been killed.”
“I might,” he agreed, “then again, I might not. It was smart of you to consider that last possibility the longest.”
After that exchange, dinner was a silent meal. The moment it was over, the señora cleared the table, retrieved the dishes from the outer galería, and bade them good night. From his room next door, the colonel brought a sheaf of papers, spreading them out over the table in the light of a candle covered against moths by a hurricane globe.
The moths came anyway, of course, attracted by the light. They swooped about the room, huge winged creatures in gray and soft yellow and green. They seemed to have nearly as great an affinity for Eleanora’s hair as for the candle. One, a luna moth, crawled from a russet strand to her bare shoulder where it sat, gently fluttering, a living ornament, for ten long minutes. When it took wing again she followed its flight, watching in concern as it swung in delirious circles about the opening of the hurricane globe. She got to her feet when it perched on the rim, one wing directly over the rising heat. Moving stealthily, she cupped her two hands about it, and carrying it to the grille, pushed her hands through and wafted it up, free, into the night.
She turned back into the room to find Grant watching her, an odd expression hovering at the back of his eyes. Nervously, she adjusted her towel, tucking the ends in place between her breasts for the thousandth time.
Grant’s mouth firmed in a thin line. Pushing back his chair, he left the room, returning in a few minutes with what appeared to be a dressing gown swinging from his hand. He tossed it to her without a word, then resumed his seat, bending over his work.
Eleanora shook out the garment. Glancing from the man’s dressing gown, or robe, of blue brocaded satin to Grant Farrell, she could not feature him ever wearing it. Where had it come from? The state of warfare between them prevented her from asking. It did not prevent her from accepting it, or from thanking him in subdued sincerity. If he heard he gave no indication.
Before the candle had sunk an inch she was given an opportunity to show her gratitude, however. Looking up, Grant asked, “You write — and read?”
“Yes.”
He indicated the chair across from him. When she had seated herself in it, he pushed a bound book in front of her and handed her a pen. “Copy the name and particulars of these new recruits in the roster,” he said, touching a stack of enlistment papers in front of him.
Eleanora flicked her eyes down the page of those already entered. It looked straightforward enough. She nodded and dipped her pen in the ink stand between them.
The only sound was the scratch of pen nibs across paper and the soft rustle of blotting. Now and then as she reached for another paper, Eleanora saw Grant’s hand slashing over the page, listing what appeared to be horses and mules and shipments of supplies; food, canvas tents, blankets, saddles, horse blankets, feed bags, grain; and kegs, barrels, and boxes of items with the sound of munitions. At his elbow was a journal identified on the cover as a guard book.
A hundred, a hundred and fifty, two hundred men were recorded as soldiers for William Walker’s American Phalanx, with still more to go. Grant had finished the table of supplies and guard book, and was working with a map and several sheets of closely written notes. Flexing cramped fingers, Eleanora asked, “Don’t you have a clerk to handle some of this?”
He almost smiled. “The men who came down here with Uncle Billy came to fight, not to count horses.”
“You must have come for the same reason.”
“Yes, but as military second-in-command this is my responsibility. I don’t delegate it because I like to keep the information — close to hand.”
Odd. She had thought he was going to say he liked to keep the information to himself. She supposed an interested person could tell a great deal about the strength of the phalanx by looking at the papers scattered around them. And what was it Luis had said? That Grant and Walker were always plotting? There might also be some hint to be found of the general’s plans for the future. Yet, what did it matter? As far as she knew Walker was secure in Nicaragua, the two political factions were no longer at war. No, she must have imagined the hesitation. If there was the least danger of the colonel revealing anything of importance, he would never have allowed her near the papers.
The call to filibustering must be a strong one, she thought as she took up her pen once more. If the influx of “soldier-colonists” continued at the same pace for the month of January as for December, there would be more than twelve hundred men under Walker by the end of it. If he had taken Nicaragua with only fifty-eight men, he should be ready to conquer the rest of Central America with that force behind him. She looked up to communicate the humor of that observation to the colonel, but his face was closed, uncompromising.
The night drew in. The moon rose, a pale, cool-looking disk, above the roofs of the town. The satin dressing gown grew overwarm and Eleanora pushed the sleeves above her elbows and eased the heavy shawl collar away from her neck, sweeping the weight of her hair to one side. The action drew the colonel’s attention. With her head bent, she was aware of his gaze on the moist skin of her temples, moving lower to where the dressing gown closed in a deep vee. Tossing his pen down, he leaned back, stretching, then with a shake of his head, he reached for it again. The pen skittered across the table and rolled over the edge, falling with a clatter to the floor. He grabbed for it, missed, then dived after it. The thing seemed to elude him with a life of its own. He was so long in returning to an upright position, that Eleanora moved restively, conscious of her bare legs beneath the table and the way she had let the dressing gown fall apart over them for coolness.
Her hopes were rudely deflated when Grant Farrell entered the room once more. In his arms he carried his guns, a pair of pearl-handled revolvers, his shaving kit, two silver-backed military brushes, three red shirts with the insignia of his rank on the collars, an extra pair of breeches, and an assortment of other odds and ends. The toiletries and guns he dropped on the washstand, the clothes he threw into the armoire, slamming the door upon them and resting his hand upon it, watching her frown with sardonic amusement.
His purpose was obvious. Still Eleanora could not prevent herself from asking, “What are you doing?”
“I am tired of traipsing back and forth. It seemed more — convenient — to move in with you.”
“I suppose I should be flattered,” she said tartly.
Moving to the bed, he lay down, stretching out with his hands behind his head, staring up at the drawn muslin that lined the half-tester. “Why?” he asked.
“You prefer to — to have me at arm’s length instead of keeping me in some cheap lodging on the other side of the city.”
His voice when he spoke was deliberate. “I don’t know that I prefer arm’s length. And Juanita’s lodging, cheap or not, was her own affair. I didn’t provide it.”
“But you took advantage of it, and her?”
He lowered his gaze. “There are some women who ask to be taken advantage of, and some who resist. Those who ask usually want something.”
“Something you don’t have to give?” she asked, her face flaming. “Shouldn’t you be careful? If you show me too much partiality I might begin to cling.”
Even harkening back to their first crossing of swords failed to anger him, or to move him. “I’ll chance it,” he replied, his tone dry. “Right now I need you to cling to the heel of this boot.”