Grant was as good as his word. Her baggage and the clothing from the palacio arrived in due course. The latter was so neatly packed that she suspected Grant of boxing her gown and Thompson crinoline personally, and was troubled for several hours by the pleasure the thought gave her.
Shaking them out, seeing that they were pressed and hung away, Eleanora could not make up her mind which of the three ensembles that made up her limited wardrobe to wear for the general’s fête. The skirt and blouse procured for her by Major Crawford were not in keeping with the formality of the occasion, and neither of the gowns — the one strewn with pink cabbage roses or the green muslin — seemed to suit her mood or changed circumstances. It might be possible to take the black ribbons woven through the eyelet of her petticoat, plus her black mantilla, and add them somehow to the green muslin to create a costume subdued enough to pass, but she was by no means satisfied with the compromise.
To open the door, then, to a grinning soldier bearing a dress box on the afternoon of the third day was more in the nature of having her innermost wishes fulfilled than a surprise.
“The colonel’s compliments, ma’am, and he hopes you will wear this tonight,” the young man said, holding the box out to her.
Eleanora hesitated. Only the reflection that this was probably another example of the Republic of Nicaragua’s “defraying her expenses” allowed her to accept the box with a smile and an expression of “gratitude worded as graciously as she was able. It would be less than generous to refuse William Walker this opportunity to make amends.
The gown was of black lace over ecru satin, and it seemed on examination to have been made using the green muslin as a pattern. The measurements were the same as well as the style, with the layers of flounces falling from the pointed waist and the wide lace bertha covering the shoulders. The fit, after she had struggled with the row of tiny jet buttons down the back for a good half hour, was quite good; perhaps a trifle loose in the waist, but so, no doubt, was the green just now. It was a good choice, she thought, turning this way and that before the mirror in the wardrobe door. Somber without being falsely deep mourning, the cream-colored satin, glimpsed through the lace, was a foil for her hair without giving the gold of her skin a sallow cast as deep black alone might have done. There did seem to be the need of something to break the open expanse of the line from her chin to the low dip of the neckline, and on impulse, she stripped the medallion of St. Michael from its chain and strung it on a length of black ribbon, tying it so that it lay in the hollow of her throat.
She was dressed and waiting when the general’s carriage came for her, and if she felt disappointment that Major Neville Crawford was to be her escort, she was careful not to let him see it.
He had no such reticence about her feelings, however. The instant they were seated in the carriage, he crossed his legs, bending a pleasant smile upon her strained face. “No luck, so far, eh? If he won’t come to you, you’ll have to go to him.”
“What do you mean?” she asked tightly.
“I mean that we no longer have the time to wait for the colonel to get over his jealousy and stiff-necked pride.”
“Jealousy?”
“Naturally. Think how Farrell must have felt when he found out what Luis de Laredo had done for your sake. Now that the man is dead he will get over it eventually, but as I said, we don’t have time to wait.”
It was an instant before Eleanora could bring her mind to bear on what the major was saying. When she did so, she realized he was waiting for her comment. “Why this sudden urgency?”
“We hear rumors that Walker intends to arrest President Rivas and his cabinet as traitors to the Republic because Rivas has been corresponding with the leaders of San Salvador and Guatemala. There have been some street disturbances in the capital at León that are anti-American in feeling. To be perfectly frank, I suspect Rivas of planting the rumors himself. El Presidente got his nose put out of joint earlier this month when Walker was given a savior’s welcome in León, because of the retreat of the Costa Rican Army. It’s my bet Rivas wants to test his popularity against Walker. Also, now that the little general has taken care of the threat of invasion for the time being, he would like to stir up enough feeling against him to push the American Phalanx out of the country before Walker gets too big for his britches — and maybe casts his eye on the president’s job.”
“Another betrayal,” Eleanora murmured.
Neville Crawford shook his head. “That maybe, but it doesn’t make any difference to us where the rumors start. We want the same thing as Rivas, the ouster of William Walker.”
“And what is it that — we — are supposed to do?”
Overlooking the sarcasm, Neville explained, “It is obvious that Walker can’t afford to ignore the situation. It may turn out that he will be forced to do exactly as the rumors suggest, if he can arrange the support for such a move. We need to know exactly what he does intend to do, and when.”
“Why must I be involved? Why can’t Niña Maria discover this for you?”
“Because,” he said after a moment of deliberation, “General Walker no longer confides in her since the incident with Juanita, and he has taken to holding his most important meetings in his officers’ quarters, usually Farrell’s.”
“I begin to see,” she said expressionlessly.
“Good. I think we can be certain that Walker will not make this decision without consulting Farrell — whether he follows his advice or not.”
“And what if this conference has already taken place?” she asked.
“My sources of information are somewhat faster than Walker’s. It may be that he has yet to learn what I have just told you, but if he knows, he can only have known for a few hours at best. I think you will be in time, if you act swiftly. Tonight, for instance.”
“I am sure you have a suggestion as to how I am to go about it.” She looked away from him out the window. They had entered the plaza. Within seconds they would be arriving at the door of the Government House.
“Few men can resist a direct appeal,” he said, his voice quiet in the darkness beside her. “If it came from you, Eleanora, I am quite sure I couldn’t.”
Neville Crawford’s declaration left her shaken. She had thought him too intent on the pursuit of his fortune to find her attractive. There had been an odd kind of security in the knowledge that he was impervious to her charms. She had no reason to believe that he would capitalize on the hold he had upon her, and yet, she was left newly vulnerable.
The Government House blazed with light and hummed with the sound of confident voices and laughter, the indicators of prosperity. To Eleanora there seemed to be more candles burning in the chandeliers than when she had last danced beneath them, more women present in the long reception room wearing more glittering jewels. The supper table was provided with more sumptuous viands, the wine glasses were passed with greater frequency, the music was louder, the waltzes faster. It was possible that this was only her impression because she had been so long isolated from such affairs, but she did not think so. There was a hectic feeling in the air, and standing back, watching the men and women eating and drinking, it appeared to her that their movements held a grasping greed for this moment, coupled with a pervasive fear of the next.
Despite Niña Maria glowering beside him, William Walker made Eleanora a pleasant speech of welcome, but as she went down the receiving line, she was not singled out for any greater attention on this occasion. She was not surprised. The general was much busier with foreign dignitaries and guests of obvious importance, including a man with the richly satisfied appearance and the accent of a New York business tycoon.
Despite the lilting music of a waltz, Eleanora’s Creole conscience made her reluctant to take the floor while wearing black for Luis. Major Crawford, obligingly, strolled with her around the edges of the floor until summoned as a dance partner by Niña Maria while the general was occupied. For a time she was entertained by Dr. Jones. Later Colonel Thomas Henry took the air with he
r, teetering back and forth beside her on his cane. They were followed by first one and then another of Luis’s fellow officers who remembered her, until she began to feel as if she were holding audience. She was not sorry when they began to disperse. Answering the many expressions of condolence had not been the easiest of tasks, and avoiding the questions prompted by their natural curiosity was even harder.
She was standing alone in a window embrasure when a slight sound made her turn. Grant stood beside her, and as her chin came up in something like alarm, he pushed one of the two glasses of champagne he held into her hand.
“Drink this,” he said without preamble. “You look as if you could use it.”
Hurt that had little to do with vanity moved through her. Her voice had a caustic edge as she murmured, “So thoughtful of you.”
He made no reply, and after a moment, for something to do, Eleanora raised the glass to her lips to take a sip. At the same instant, Grant reached out to pick up the medal of St. Michael at her throat.
Startled, Eleanora swallowed the bubbling wine the wrong way. It burned into her windpipe and she made a choking sound, her hand going to her mouth.
Looking around, Grant hastily took her glass from her, setting it with his own on a nearby table. He pushed wide the half-open French window behind them and swept her out onto one of the small balconies that jutted out from the back wall of the Government House. He raised his hand to thump her on the back, but by then she was recovered enough to shake her head vigorously, saying in a husky tone, “I’m all right, thank you.”
“Certain?”
She nodded, the ridiculousness of it curving her mouth into a smile before she glanced down. “I hope I didn’t get champagne on this gown. It might spoil it, and I would hate that. Will you remember to thank General Walker for me for sending it this afternoon?”
Something in the stillness of the man beside her made her look up. She was in time to glimpse the self-derision that flitted across his features.
“It — wasn’t the general, was it?” she said slowly. “It was you. The soldier said — But I thought—”
“Don’t make a tragedy of it,” he said shortly. “I thought you could use a gown and I bought one for you. Forget it.”
There was more to it than that, she knew. Before she could put her feeling into words he swung on his booted heel and left her. Moving a little to one side, Eleanora watched him go with a trembling feeling in her heart, as if she had just lost an important opportunity. Standing there, she saw Niña Maria glide forward with her snakelike tread and place a predatory hand on Grant’s arm. It was at that moment that the desperate gamble she must take occurred to her.
19
There was no difficulty in leaving the Government House unnoticed. Even the soldiers on guard at the front doors appeared not to see her as she drifted past them.
It was not late by tropical standards. The plaza was filled with the mellow glow of the lamplight falling from the open doors in the square that surrounded it on three sides. People — couples, families, and older men and women — sat and stood about, enjoying the coolness of the night air and the music coming from the windows of the house she had just left. But even in pitch darkness Eleanora could have found her way from the plaza down the Calle Santa Celia to the palacio. She had trod these gray cobblestones so many times; it could not be held surprising that they had the feel of the homeward path beneath her slippers.
She hesitated for a moment under the overhang of the galería, her gaze going to the thick, woody trunk of the bougainvillea that grew at the end of the house. With a slight shiver, she shook the intrusion of memory from her, and turning to the bell, set it to jangling on its wrought-iron support.
It could not have been more than a moment or two before there was a rattle of a key in the lock and Señora Paredes’ thin visage appeared in the crack of the opening door, but to Eleanora, it seemed like an hour. Nerves, allied with purest fright, froze her face into a mask as she pushed past the old woman.
“Good evening,” she said over her shoulder as, removing the black mantilla she wore over her hair, she continued along the cool tiles of the entranceway.
Behind her, the señora hurriedly fastened the door. “The señor colonel, he is expecting you?” she called after Eleanora.
Eleanora turned back at the foot of the stairs. “I believe he will be glad to see me,” she said gently.
Nothing had changed in the bedchamber she had once shared with Grant. Eleanora did not need the light of a candle to show her that. The moonlight flooding in at the open French window was sufficient. The wardrobe, the washstand, the table they had taken their meals upon, the cuadro in the corner, the bed draped in virginal white; all were the same. Even the rugs scattered on the floor were in their same places. The only difference that she could see was that the grille was open, its halves resting back against the outside wall. Grant’s belongings were just as they had been before he left for Rivas. His extra shirts and breeches were stacked in the wardrobe, his shaving equipment and silver-back hairbrushes reposing on the washstand. Dropping her mantilla beside them, she touched the back of one brush with a tentative finger. It was purple with tarnish, sadly in need of polishing. After a moment, she wandered away again.
Few men can resist a direct appeal, Neville had said. What he meant was, few men will bother to resist a woman who throws herself at them. The only trouble with that was, she had good reason to know that Grant not only could, but would. He had wasted no time in resisting Juanita’s appeal on that memorable morning. He had, in fact, dealt with it with great directness. Suppose he rejected her in the same way? Despite the bravado of her statement to the señora, it was not impossible. She would die of the humiliation if he did.
Taking a step out onto the galería, she surveyed the long fall from the railing with a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. Grant had had ample reason for what he had done, she told herself. Juanita had been wild, clawing, attacking both her and Grant. It did not help. The prospect that she might not be welcome had to be faced.
It might make it more difficult for him if she was not dressed for the street. It should make it harder still, then, if she was not dressed at all.
She caught her lower lip between her teeth, staring over the railing, and then slowly raising her hands to the back of her neck, she turned into the room, freeing the tiny jet buttons from their holes as far as she could reach. She dropped her arms to her sides to rest them, then twisted them behind her back trying to reach the rest.
Intent on what she was doing, she did not see the shadowy movement in the doorway which led to the inner galería until Grant stepped into the room. As she froze, he tossed his hat at the top of the wardrobe, caught her elbow, and turned her slowly around with her back to him, encircling her waist with a strong, muscular forearm. The touch of the fingers of his right hand tingled against the bare skin of her back, and his voice, warm and deep, whispered at her ear. “Let me help you,” he said.
Relief sapped her strength and she leaned against him. Her pulse throbbed and her breast rose and fell with the quickness of her breathing in the aftermath of fear and the foretaste of excitement. A trace of guilt surfaced in the tumult of her mind, dying away before the rush of an uncontrollable yearning.
Grant’s hand moved from the last of the buttons to the nape of her neck. His probing fingers found the few pins which held the heavy chignon of her hair, and he drew them out one by one, letting it fall in a rippling cascade down her back. When it hung free, he turned her in the circle of his arms, and slipping his hands beneath the red-gold waves, tilted her head back, seeking the tender shape of her mouth. His lips moved on hers with a slow insistence that grew steadily more demanding. Her arms, freed, lifted to his neck, and her fingers grasped the tightened broadcloth of his tunic where it stretched across his shoulders. She felt the burgeoning heat of his desire, and knew a quickening response deep inside that spread with the sting of acid along her veins. His lips slid fro
m the corner of her mouth, along the softness of her cheek, to the curve of her neck just below her ear. She made no protest as he pushed the lace from her shoulder, while his mouth burned its way to the hollow of her throat, displacing the cool disk of the medallion with a searing kiss.
Her eyes closed, she felt herself lifted and swung dizzyingly onto the bed. In a few swift moves she was freed of the restricting folds of her clothing. The pores of her skin seemed to breathe in the warm night air, expanding in a voluptuous nakedness that welcomed joyously the slide of warm skin against her own, the roughness of the coverlet beneath her, and the feel of pressing caresses. With her lashes lowered, she smoothed the open palm of her hand over his chest with its faint dew of perspiration, trailing her nails down the lean hardness of his belly. The fresh smells of sun-dried clothing, cornstarch, and bay rum was in her nostrils, mixed with the scent of heated bodies closely held. Grant’s hand, rough at the fingertips, cupped her breast, and then, as his mouth closed on hers once more, she knew the tart-sweet rise of passion on her tongue. His hands moved lower, over the slim indention of her waist to her hips, and she accepted in swift, mounting pleasure the full weight of his body as he pressed her to her back.
A certain knowledge, communicated by touch and taste and intuition, that this man would not leave her aroused and unsatisfied, acted like an aphrodisiac to banish inhibition. Her ardor welled, fed by the burning touch of his lips. The faint quivering of his arms betrayed the depths of his longing and his need. The beat of her heart increased, roaring in her ears. His panting breath fanned her cheek, mingling with her own, and her sides ached from the vise of his arms. There was a painful fullness in her loins, a fullness that grew, stretching beyond containment. Like a long-held dam the paroxysm flooded over her in a wash of molten silver, spreading liquid fire along the length of her body, invading her brain with pulsing, metallic glow.
She opened her eyes, and as her vision, cleared, she smiled into the deep, dark ocean-blue eyes of the man above her. He kissed her trembling mouth, and she sighed softly, feeling the gentle ebb of her being dissolving into the pure stillness of love.
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2 Page 76
