Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  “And what of Grant’s mother?” Eleanora asked when he fell silent.

  “They took her home. For a week she lay in delirium, rambling, her words half-crazed, though the name of Black Eagle was often on her lips. She grew better finally, but she never left her bed. She lay there, pale and silent, growing thinner in the face as her belly grew larger. Her husband would not leave her now, but when she looked at him there was nothing in her hollow eyes except accusation. Nine months later her child was born. He was christened Grant Farrell.”

  “The son of the Apache, Black Eagle?”

  “Without doubt.”

  “Of what was she accusing her husband, of leaving her, or killing the Apache?”

  “She never said, and that was his punishment. But, on the other hand, she could not bear the sight of her son. When he was brought to her, she went into hysteria. Grant was given into the care of a Mexican nurse. His first words were in her tongue. Thomas saw that Grant was fed and clothed, but most of all, he attended to his discipline. He was determined to crush any appearance of wildness before it began. When Grant was eight years old, they sent him away to an Eastern military school, but with so many people able to guess at his origins, it was inevitable that his story would catch up with him. At sixteen he returned to Texas looking much as he does now, tall, straight, with Indian-black hair and hard blue eyes. He had been suspended from school for trying to kill a boy who called him a half-breed. Thomas Farrell decided the punishment had not been severe enough. He took a whip to him. His mistake was getting half-drunk first. Grant jerked the whip out of his hand, flung it in his face, and rode away. His mother had grown old, a white-haired, gray-faced invalid. She had made no move to protect him, had not even said good-bye. Grant, abandoning her in his heart as she had turned from him at his birth, went to join the people of his father.”

  “He found them?” Eleanora asked.

  “They allowed him to do so, when they wanted to be found.”

  “Then?”

  “Then why didn’t he stay? He did, for four years. Long enough to learn how to survive in a barren land, long enough to earn his Indian name, Warrior of Iron, and take pride in it, and long enough to discover that blood alone was not enough to make him an Indian. Too civilized to be a savage, too savage to be a civilian, all that was left to him was soldiering, the craft for which he was trained. He was lucky. Mexico declared war. He joined the army of the United States.”

  “A curious way to look at a war, as lucky chance,” she commented.

  “Nonetheless, the military became his vocation.”

  “No doubt it was fortunate William Walker came along then, when peace was won in Mexico.”

  “For those of us who needed a war to fight, yes.”

  “You — count yourself among such men? Why?”

  “That is another tale, one that cannot interest you.”

  “Why not?” she inquired. But he refused to be drawn into it or to turn his eyes in her direction. “Listen,” he said, and began to sing a soft and lilting madrigal, a song of love with a hauntingly sad counterpoint.

  When the last entrancing note had died away Eleanora was not certain whether he had wanted merely to distract her, or to make some message known that he would not speak.

  The shadow of the roof slowly pushed the sun back over the edge of the galería floor. The blue of the sky faded in the heat of noon; still Luis did not leave. He talked, rambling entertainingly from one subject to the next, from the problem of the camp cook supplied by the Nicaraguan Indians who had peculiar ideas about what was edible, to Walker’s growing preoccupation with Niña Maria and its interference with his command.

  They fell silent, staring, only at the rattle of a key in the door. The panel swung open. Grant stepped through, then stopped, his head up as if the scent of danger was in his nostrils.

  His uniform was correct, his brass buttons and his boots highly polished, his breeches well creased. The line was ruined, however, by the pearl-handled revolver strapped about his waist. For a moment Eleanora could not drag her eyes from it, thinking of that final, echoing shot in the plaza, then she lifted her gaze to his gray-tinged face. His mouth was set in a straight line, and his eyes were dark and empty beneath the jutting bone of his brow. The impression lasted no more than an instant before the swift light of anger lit his face. He shut the door behind him and sauntered slowly into the room.

  Eleanora resisted the impulse to scramble to her feet. It was unpleasant to have him towering above her, but there was no need for panic. She was doing nothing wrong by her own standards; she refused to be bound by the colonel’s. It would have been more reasonable, of course, if she could have managed not to feel just a little guilty.

  Here again, Luis?” Grant said with controlled sarcasm. “I didn’t know you were so bored. I’ll have to see if the general can’t find a little action for you.”

  “That is most kind of you, my friend. Still, I couldn’t let you put yourself to the trouble for nothing. It is not boredom which brings me here, but fascination. Captive maidens, you know, always attract rescuers.”

  “Chivalry, Luis? I thought you were forsworn.”

  “You doubt my word? But of course you do. So would I, in your place. I could, I suppose, bare my breast for your examination, but I give you my word you will not find the imprint of this very pretty iron grille upon it. Neither will you find it upon Eleanora, though I would be most happy to help you look—”

  Flushing, Eleanora watched as the two men exchanged a long look charged with something more in unanswered questions than the obvious one. Luis had come slowly to his feet, his guitar resting on end on the floor beside him, his fingers just touching the neck. His face was set in proud Castilian lines, but in his eyes lay a rueful acceptance.

  Abruptly Grant smiled. Brushing aside his tunic, he fished the key to the lock and chain that secured the grille from his watch pocket and handed it through to Luis. “Here, let yourself in. Señora Paredes is a good cook. You may as well eat with us.”

  “I accept your gracious invitation.” Stepping forward, Luis fitted the key in place.

  Grant turned, extending a hard brown hand to Eleanora. The last vestiges of humor lingered about his eyes. His grip was warm, a firm support that drew her effortlessly to her feet and held her close against his side.

  With two men to satisfy, the señora put her best effort into the meal. Though unimaginative, she was, as Grant had said, a good cook. The dishes she presented were well seasoned, the meat tender, the sauces thick and rich. Fresh fruit was the invariable dessert. On this day it was oranges, the golden-red globes piled high in a wooden bowl with a fruit knife thrust among them.

  Taking the knife and an orange, Grant leaned back. “When I reached the palacio just now I had to identify myself to a pair of guards at the door before I could get into my own house. Your bodyguards, Luis?”

  Luis stared at the wine glass in his hand before looking up. “Yours, amigo.”

  “Mine? Why?”

  “There are those who are jealous of you, jealous of the trust the general gives you, those who find the authority you hold inconvenient to their schemes. If an assassin can reach the stairs of Walker’s apartments, why not yours?”

  “In the past I have always been judged able to take care of myself without nursemaiding,” Grant observed mildly.

  “You will forgive me if I point out that you are no longer alone?”

  “I see,” Grant said. “In other words, your concern is not entirely for me.”

  Luis inclined his head. “As you say, you can look out for yourself; Eleanora obviously cannot.”

  Studying the orange he was peeling, Grant did not reply at once. Halving the fruit, he laid a portion on Eleanora’s plate, retaining possession of the knife with an unsmiling deliberateness that was, nevertheless, provocative. He held her irritated stare while he tore his own half apart, then glanced at Luis. “All right. Leave them, if you are quite sure they can be trusted.”


  “They are my men, from my own regiment,” Luis answered sharply.

  “I’m sure they are loyal to you, but they will be guarding me — and mine.”

  When the meal was over, Grant returned to the Government House, taking Luis with him. Eleanora stacked the dishes and pushed them onto the galería, discovering in the process that the grille had been left unlocked. It did not matter, of course. She was not going anywhere as long as Jean-Paul’s fate rested in Grant’s hands, and she certainly had no desire to parade the galería, much less the street, in a man’s dressing gown.

  She napped through the heat of the afternoon, waking feeling drugged and heavy, her skin veiled in perspiration, to the tapping of the señora on the door. She sat up, pushing her damp hair to the side off her neck. “Yes?”

  “A note, señorita, from Colonel Farrell.”

  At the scrape of the key, Eleanora sat up, drawing the dressing gown, which she had allowed to slip for coolness, about her. The older woman entered, extending a folded square of paper. While Eleanora read it she pretended disinterest, fastening the door key to her chatelaine before looking up.

  “It’s General Walker. He has planned a private dinner party and has commanded the colonel to bring me.”

  “I have had a message also. I am to assist you in whatever way pleases you,” the señora said.

  “My clothes?”

  “They are in the colonel’s room. I will bring whichever gown you choose.”

  “You are too kind,” Eleanora said, exactly matching her formal tone. “I would like water, then, to wash my hair.”

  “It would be easier under the pump in the patio—”

  There was an odd tone in Señora Paredes’ voice. Was the suggestion she had made as helpful as it appeared? It might be an attempt to avoid the labor of climbing the stairs with heavy cans of water, or it might be in the nature of a test. The woman could be giving her the opportunity to venture out of her room under the cloak of the colonel’s permission. If the prisoner used the extended freedom to escape, the señora could not be blamed entirely, could she? Eleanora had not forgotten Juanita’s lengthy visit. It might suit the Nicaraguan girl for Eleanora to be gone. It was difficult, however, to pass up the chance to be free of both her room and Grant’s supervision at the same time.

  Eleanora bathed inside and soaped her hair in the tub, but for the rinsing she descended to the patio. Afterward she sat under the orange trees, watching an iridescent green hummingbird, letting the faint breeze that stirred the heady fragrance of their blossoms dry her long, flowing tresses. She did no more than glance toward the entranceway, even when Señora Paredes went out into the street to buy a string of peppers from a vendor, and left the front door standing wide behind her.

  Between the rose print and the green gown, she chose to wear the green again. It seemed odd to be confined once more in stays and a crinoline after two days of going without them. With silk stockings and kid slippers she felt overdressed, and at the same time, armored to well-nigh invincibility.

  From a center part she drew her hair back into a low chignon in the shape of a figure eight. Then, for no reason she cared to examine, she took it down. The second time, she let it fall in deep, loose waves on each temple, then drew it high and secured it to the crown of her head. It draped down her back in soft, curls that gleamed with the look of burnished copper in the candlelight.

  The señora offered to bring fresh wild gardenias to dress it with again, but Eleanora refused. Their smell had become faintly sickening to her. Instead, she accepted the offer of a long length of jade-green ribbon which she divided in two pieces. One section she tied about her waist, fastening it to the side so that the ends streamed from a spray of vivid magenta bougainvillea broken from the woody vine at the end of the galería. The other was reserved for her hair where it fell from another cluster of papery bougainvillea to twine among her curls.

  Halfway through her toilette she heard Grant return. A little later the señora came and wrestled the empty tin bathtub out of her room and into the one next door.

  Ready, Eleanora sat in one of the straight-back chairs, waiting. A cool breath of air from the lake found its way across the rooftops and through the unlocked grille. It was so fresh after the stifling room that she got up and stepped outside onto the galería, pursuing it.

  Night was creeping in purple stealthiness among the cube-shape houses. A flight of pigeons circled, then inclined toward the cathedral, where the notes of the angelus bell were dying away. The pale ghost of a moon was riding three-quarters’ full. Dark specks of high-flying bats swooped, their eerie screeching a lonely sound above the soft notes of distant music and laughter from a cantina in the next plaza.

  Eleanora breathed deeply of the flower- and dust-scented air. A strange peace enveloped her. Some of the resentment which lay like a twisted knot in the pit of her stomach began to dissolve. She let her thoughts wander to the tale Luis had unfolded for her. How beguilingly innocent and easy her life seemed in contrast to that Grant had led. Thinking of his mother, she could begin to see how he had come to have so little regard for women. It was not every woman who had the strength and will to brave the dangers of the frontier, and certainly what had happened to his mother must have been a terrifying experience, but that did not excuse her aversion to her child or her callousness toward him. He was, after all, of her blood also, and free of guilt.

  In the room behind her the door opened. She glanced up to see Grant enter, a linen towel slung about his neck. His chest was bare above his breeches, and his dark hair shone wet and tousled from washing.

  He paused on the threshold, searching the room with his eyes before staring fixedly at the open grille. His face grew rigid, the muscles tight. He exhaled slowly, and moving to the bed, reached out to touch the dressing gown Eleanora had thrown across the footboard. His fingers closed upon the brocade, then loosened. A smile twisting the corner of his mouth, he separated from the embroidery of the brocade a single russet hair, the long length of which he curled with care about the end of his forefinger.

  A frown flicked across Eleanora’s brow. Then, without conscious thought she moved, sighing, allowing the wide width of her skirt to enter the range of the light flooding across the galería floor. The iron grille squeaked as she passed through it. When she looked up as she entered the room, Grant was standing with his back to her before the washstand, searching his kit for his razor.

  8

  “The mind is a powerful instrument. We haven’t yet begun to understand its strengths and how they are brought to bear, and yet, it is true that some men are capable of controlling other people, that they can inspire them, lead them to anger or to tears. In Europe I studied mesmerism, the science of animal magnetism discovered by the Austrian physician, Franz Mesmer. He was undoubtedly something of a mystic, perhaps even a charlatan, but he was also a man of vision. He sought to use what he felt to be true about the power of the mind for good, and he was successful in the field of medicine. There are documented case histories of remarkable cures using nothing more than the natural ability of the body to heal itself — plus Mesmer’s psychic control of his patient. He made great strides in the relief of pain without—”

  “William, if you please?”

  William Walker, holding forth with animation at the head of the table, paused in mid-sentence. Niña Maria’s lips curved into a smiling pout. “As interesting as this subject is to you, I’m sure Eleanora finds it as fatiguing as I.”

  “Not at all,” Eleanora disclaimed politely. “My father was an admirer of Mesmer also. He used some form of hypnotism advocated by him to relieve my mother’s birth pains when my brother and I were born.”

  “Indeed?” Niña Maria said in chill tones, the yellow-green moiré-silk of her gown shimmering as she drew in her breath in distaste. The low, square neck revealed the curves of her breasts and the huge topaz which hung on a fine gold chain between them. Earrings of topaz flashed in her ears and on the brooch made of plai
ted hair which held her headdress of yellow-green egret tips in place. Behind her, at the foot of the table, stood the bright-eyed Indian girl holding the same fan of canary feathers she had carried at the reception. She had slowed in plying it, her eyes shielded by thick lashes, watching as her mistress reached for one of the pastel-colored bonbons piled in compotes at either end of the table.

  Eleanora, ignoring the displeasure of Walker’s mistress as she had learned to ignore her gibes and pettish curiosity during the interminable meal, felt sorry for the child having to stand waving the heavy fan for so long a time. In sudden compassion, she reached for a pink bonbon and handed to her.

  The girl’s face lit up. She snatched the candy and without pausing for appreciation, popped it into her mouth.

  “Señorita Villars,” the Spanish woman said, “I must ask you not to feed my fan girl. She must not be spoiled into begging for scraps from the table.”

  “She looked tired, and hungry.”

  “She will be fed at the proper time, when she is through with her duties.”

  “But she’s only a child! You mean she hasn’t eaten at all?”

  “You needn’t disturb your sympathies. She is an Indian, an animal with a name. They are used to making do with much less than I give this creature, I assure you.”

  She spoke with the disdain of the aristocrat for the lower orders, and yet she was supposed to be dedicated to the democratic cause which espoused the freedom of the common people. As a guest, both in the general’s quarters and in Nicaragua, Eleanora felt it was not her place to point out the error of the woman’s thinking to her, but her expression was censorious before she turned back to the men.

  “You approve of my choice of Fayssoux as commander of the Granada, then?” Walker was saying.

  “He’s a good officer,” Grant agreed. “Arrogant, but that’s not a bad thing in a man who has to protect the waters of Nicaragua with a single schooner-of-war.”