by tiffy
Chuckling at the primness of Fray Domingo and the naivete of Fray Alonzo when confronted with these challenges, the priest found this new life one for which he was willing to chance his scruples. Looking at the open window, he watched a confrontation between a plucky six‐year‐old girl named Green Leaf and a sternly commanding Fray Domingo. The girl was reluctant to relinquish her five‐year‐old brother for a much needed delousing treatment. He turned his attention back to the recently arrived pouch of mail.
The post was highly erratic, subject to the vagaries of Indian raids, corrupt government contractors, even lazy or unwilling militia who were often assigned the unenviable task of riding the length and breadth of New Spain with the mails. As he quickly perused the water‐stained addresses, one letter caught his eye. It was written in a familiar handSantiago Quinnʹs!
Eagerly he tore open the seal. In the year since the youth and his sister had left with Ignacio Valdéz under such tragic duress, the boy had become a faithful correspondent. Orlena, still in mourning for her dead child and lost love, wrote less frequently.
Their life with Ignacio had not been unpleasant overall. He was well favored by the viceroy. They had the shield of wealth to protect them, and the boy had resumed his studies with some fine tutors. It was Orlena, as lost and embittered as Joaquín, for whom he worried and prayed.
He read the letter once, then read it once more, carefully. Quickly penning a note, he rose from his desk and called through the open window, ʺBrother Alonzo, make haste! Send one of the older boys to the market with this message.ʺ The market in Chihuahua City was where Joaquín had spies who delivered information to him wherever he roamed. Pray God they can reach him quickly!
The City of Mexico, Autumn 1789
The garden, with its fragrant oleander blooms and brightly colored canna lilies, had become Orlenaʹs refuge. Ignacioʹs estate was outside the city itself, yet was as large and lavish as any of the grand houses of the nobility who governed New Spain. Over the past year, she had grown to hate the cold splendor of its marble floors and velvet draperies.
Only the courtyard garden with its open access to the azure sky, the earth, and living, growing things kept her in touch with reality. How she hated the painted, bewigged, and jewel‐adorned men and women at court functions. Ignacio insisted she be fitted with an elaborate wardrobe, refusing her even the decency of a period of mourning for the infant daughter buried in the desert so far away.
Using Santiagoʹs continued education and well‐being as blackmail, Ignacio had forced her to participate in the lavish balls, hunts, and parties that amused the cream of New Spainʹs elite.
Her only protection from Ignacioʹs scheme to wed her advantageously had been the fact that she was married and her husband yet liveduntil now. As she paced the gardenʹs pathways, she twisted a passion flower in her hands, unconsciously pulling the petals from it. What will I do? The question hammered at her mercilessly.
So engrossed was she in her dilemma that she did not hear the catlike tread of her elder brother until his sibilant voice caused her to drop the flower, spilling petals down the front of her elegant rose silk day gown.
ʺSo, have you come to your senses, little sister? I have had the viceroyʹs own confessor draw up the documents. With his majestyʹs backing, twill be a simple matter to see your highly irregular marriage to that savage set aside.ʺ
ʺMy marriage was not forcedʺ
ʺNor was it consummated, in spite of the bastard Quinnʹs bastard got on you,ʺ
Ignacio interrupted with a hiss. ʺMy patience grows thin, Orlena. I know the circumstances under which Fray Bartolome wed you and the half‐caste. By canon law the marriage is of highly dubious validity at best. Only be grateful no one here in our circles is aware of who your husband was or how you came to be tied to him.ʺ
She fought the urge to claw his pale, cruel face. To Ignacio she was merely bait with which to lure the viceroyʹs nephew into marriage.
ʺI do not choose to sign over my life to yet another of your foppish cronies, Ignacio. Santiago has found a protector in our motherʹs cousin, Don Bernal Dominguez. He will see the boy properly educated. No longer can you threaten me with our brother.ʺ She turned with her shoulders squared and faced him defiantly. ʺAs for me, my dearest wish would be for you to free me of this endless turn of social life. Iʹll go to the sisters before I become Don Rodrigoʹs wife.ʺ
He smiled nastily. ʺAh, yes, the good sisters. You could live as austerely with them as you did among the savages. There would be no man to touch you in a convent, would there, Orlena?ʺ
ʺI want no husband pawing me, Ignacio. I have had enough of men and their treachery.ʺ
Before she could jerk away, he reached out and took a lock of her hair, which he twisted free of her highly piled hairdo. Yanking cruelly on it, he pulled her face to his until their eyes met, narrowed in mutual hatred. ʺSo now even the sainted Conalʹs treachery has soured you. He still lusts for you, little sister. Of course, you could not wed your stepfather with the blessing of the Church, but . . .
arrangements could be made. I do have communications with him now and again. It seems he has become one with the savages he hunts. He takes ears and scalps and decorates his body with them. He is quite mad, I think. They call him Colorado Quinn.ʺ
ʺThey always did! Only I was too blind to see that side of him when I was an idealistic girl.ʺ Orlena knew what he was going to threaten her with, and her mind raced frantically to find a way free of the snare. ʺHe does not want his sonʹs leavings, Ignacio. Until he and Joaquín meet and one dies, neither will be free.
And neither of them wants me.ʺ
He laughed silkily and patted her ruined coiffure. ʺYou are mistaken, little sister; they both want you. I have offered you to Conal as lure. Who knows? If you are taken north by his soldiers and used as bait, perhaps he may gain his dearest wishto kill his Apache bastard!ʺ With predatory satisfaction he watched her blanch.
ʺYou would actually give me to Conal?ʺ Her voice was flat with defeat. For months now, she had heard stories of Quinnʹs atrocities. Her only solace was that Santiago was forever free of his fatherʹs influence. She had taken care that the boy be sheltered from the grisly stories of Conalʹs worst exploits. She prayed that Conal Quinn would die in the wilderness that had stolen his soulif he had ever possessed a soul. Turning her eyes to Ignacio, she said lifelessly, ʺYou, not Santiago, should have been Conalʹs son.ʺ
ʺBut I am not mad. Nor am I a savage steeped in gore. I am merely a practical man. I would, of course, spare you the horrors of living with Conal again, or of encountering your vengeful husband. Think you, sister mine, which is the worsea respectable marriage with the viceroyʹs nephew, Don Rodrigo, or life as doxy to a whole garrison of Quinnʹs soldiers? I am certain the captain would be most generous in sharing you with his men.ʺ
Don Rodrigo was an overweight youth who stuttered and was afraid of horses.
Indeed, his very timidity had kept him from pursuing a bride for so long that his exasperated uncle finally took matters into his own hands. Some said the gentleman was one of those afflicted with a preference for men, and the viceroy wanted to quash all such scandal. Perhaps the boy would not want her. After Joaquínʹs betrayal, she could never again bear a manʹs touch.
ʺBring me the papers, Ignacio. I will sign the petitions. If the Holy See approves it, I shall wed Don Rodrigo.ʺ
He laughed in triumph, knowing the threat of giving her to Conalʹs soldiers would workthat and the possibility that the Night Wind might even fall to Colorado Quinn, with her to entrap him. He caught her hand in a surprisingly swift, sure grip and kissed it with mock ardor. ʺI am your most obedient servant, dearest sister. Look for me on the morrow with the petitions to free you of this odious marriage with a savage!ʺ
After he had departed, Orlena rubbed her hands together, trying desperately to wipe away the stain of her brotherʹs touch. He was corruption personifiedthe quiet treacherous viper, while Conal, her beloved champion
of childhood, was equally evil. He had hidden it well during those years in Spain, but she had been blind not to see it when they came here. Perhaps he was mad. She rubbed her aching temples and continued walking, thinking of the cruelest, most unexpected betrayal of all.
As if conjured out of the air, a familiar voice cut into her troubled thoughts. ʺYou will not sign away the blessing Bartolome placed on our union, no matter how accursed it has become, Lioness.ʺ Joaquín slipped from the high stone wall facing the rear of the garden and dropped gracefully to his feet in front of her.
Orlena gasped in shock, frozen to the ground as she took in the hard, handsome face of her husband. His green eyes gleamed like polished glass in his swarthy face, which was now slashed by a cruel parody of a smile. ʺI only heard the last of that touching scene. Such devotion to your brother. What a fine pair you Spanish make, you and your elder brother. Does this Don Rodrigo know he would purchase used merchandise, pawed by a savage?ʺ
ʺAnd so you are, although well disguised,ʺ Orlena replied, forcing her hoarse voice under control as she inspected him with contempt. His tall, lean body was as elegantly clad as any courtierʹs in a dark bottlegreen velvet jacket and skin-tight buff breeches. His feet, normally encased in soft moccasins, were now sporting gleaming leather riding boots. He had clubbed back his straight black hair into a queue fastened with a green velvet ribbon that matched his jacket. The snowy lawn of his shirt front only served to contrast with his bronzed skin. Yet in spite of his swarthy complexion, he looked every inch a Spanish gentleman, if one with perhaps a predominate strain of Moorish blood.
When he moved near her, however, his pantherish stride and the wary movements of his narrowed eyes betrayed the savage lurking beneath the disguise. She stepped back as he came closer. ʺOnce you came willingly into my arms and we were not even wed, Lioness,ʺ he said arrogantly, noting her retreat with satisfaction. Let her fear me.
ʺYou deceived and seduced a foolish virgin for the sake of your vengeance. I am no longer that girl.ʺ
His laughter rang cold. ʺNo, you are not a virgin. How many fine Spanish fops have you spread your legs for, I wonder? Are you with child by one of them?
Must you now arrange to rid yourself of an unwanted half‐caste husband so that you can wed your latest lover? Or is it merely to aggrandize Ignacioʹs political fortunes that you sign his papers?ʺ
When he pulled her close with one arm, she reached up and slapped him with all her strength. Rage welled up inside her, infusing her with a vitality she had thought long gone. She flailed and struggled as he pulled on her hair. Pins went flying as the burnished masses of curls came tumbling to her waist. He ripped the sheer watered silk of her gown as he twisted her claw‐like little hands behind her back, holding both slim wrists in one strong fist.
Finally she fell quiet, exhausted by her futile struggle. He held her tightly molded to the length of his body. They were hidden by the whispering embrace of low‐hanging willow branches. His face was shadowed and barbarous looking as he lowered it toward hers.
Just as she opened her mouth to scream, he closed off her cry with his lips.
Plundering her soft mouth, his tongue dueled with hers in a harsh, grinding kiss.
He bore down, bruising her lips and Orlena could taste her own blood. Furiously she bit his tongue and was rewarded with a snarled oath as he released her from the kiss. The breath was still crushed from her lungs as he held her fast in a bone-crushing embrace.
ʹʹBitch! You beautiful, conniving whore. Once I swore I would leave you to the vices of the idle rich and only reclaim the child that you rejected.ʺ She flinched at the mention of their dead daughter, but he shook with such repressed rage that he could not see it. ʺBut now I have decided your freedom must be curtailed.
Santiago sent frantic word to Bartolome that you would be forced into a terrible marriage after ours was dissolved. I see now how much Ignacio has had to force you to wed the viceroyʹs nephew!ʺ
ʺI would have no husbandneither you nor Rodrigo,ʺ she hissed breathlessly.
ʺMore is the pity then that you are already tied to meand I choose for my own reasons not to unloose you!ʺ
With that he tapped her a sound blow on her jaw, rendering her unconscious before she could scream. Since receiving the desperate plea from Bartolome, he had ridden for days to rescue his wife. Foolishly risking death, he had disguised himself as a rico, a mixed‐blood rancher, visiting the capital on business, using the dangerous deception to gain entry to Ignacioʹs estate, where he could talk with Orlena and decide what to do about her plight. Her plight! As he slung her unconscious body over his shoulder and stalked toward the rear gate to the gardens, he realized that this precipitous kidnapping was far from the rational plan he had intended. But as always, Orlena drove him past reason. He had desired her with a sudden painful stab when first he saw her in the garden, all gold and rose, so slim and elegant, the perfect Spanish lady. Then, upon hearing her words to Ignacio and watching her brotherʹs parting gallantry to her, Joaquín had felt a killing jealousy seize him. He had wanted to hurt her as he had been hurt.
Orlena was his wife, canon law be damned! Ignacio, the viceroy, the whole Council of the Indies be damned! He would keep her until he tired of her!
Effortlessly, Joaquín tossed her across his heavy, silver‐inlaid saddle and swung up behind her, riding swiftly toward the shelter of the dense foliage beyond the estate.
ʺWhere are you taking me?ʺ Orlena finally asked. She had held her peace for as long as she could bear it after regaining consciousness. She was tied to a small, sleek filly and Joaquín held the reins, guiding them through the dense vegetation that lined the narrow, steep ravine. Insects bit her legs where her silk skirts had been hiked up so that she could ride astride. Her muscles cried out for respite from her cramped position, but she would not give him the satisfaction of begging.
He ignored her question, intent on searching out some hidden trail on the jungle floor. All day they had been riding north, descending from the fertile plateau of the capital into the green embrace of the tropical wilderness.
ʺWe will die at the hands of bandits or savagesthere are many hereabouts who do not speak Apache,ʺ she added spitefully, wishing desperately to swat at a mosquito extracting a generous quantity of her blood. Her hands were bound, but in the isolated jungle he had not bothered to gag her, only warning her of marauding animals and humans if she cried out for rescue. Since coming to New Spain, Orlena had learned to be practical. But watching Joaquínʹs cold, silent profile as they rode wore on her nerves. With every jarring bounce on the heavy saddle, her scratched, bitten, and exhausted body cried for mercy. Orlena seethed until she had to speak. ʺAnswer me, damn you! Where are we going?ʺ
He turned and favored her with an icy smile, at odds with the steaming heat of their surroundings. ʺFor tonight, to a small village not far from here. They will provide us with shelter, fresh horses, and something more suitable, if less fashionable, for you to wear,ʺ he added with a leer at one slim leg laid bare for the insects to feast upon.
As a concession to the heat, he had long ago shed his cutaway coat and unfastened the studs of his lawn shirt. It hung open, revealing the dark curling patterns of his chest hair. The sheer fabric clung to his sweatsoaked skin, molding across his broad shoulders. The breeches were equally indecent and distracting, fitting snugly to his lean, muscular thighs. His feet, unlike her silk-slippered ones, were encased in the flexible protection of soft leather riding boots. Suitable clothes, indeed! she fumed.
Good as his word, Joaquín was soon hailed by a small dark man of mixed blood, dressed in the usual paisanoʹs garb of loose, dingy white cotton and leather sandals. By nightfall they were settled in a small thatched hut on the outskirts of a rural village. Joaquín strode casually in the narrow door and tossed a coarse peasantʹs blouse and skirt to her. She was reminded of the clothes he had given her in New Mexico. Grinning, he seemed to read her thoughts.
ʺThe skirts are full. Yo
ur legs will be protected from the insects as we ride.ʺ
ʺWhat is our final destinationthe Lipan camp?ʺ she asked with hope in her voice.
Her foster parents would believe the truth when she spoke it!
ʺYou will see when we arrive,ʺ was all he would reply.
When one of the old women brought a simple meal of beans, tortillas, and sliced fruit, they ate in silence. Wiping her sticky fingers on her ruined silk dress, she eyed the practical clothes, wondering if he expected her to change before his cold, disconcerting gaze.
Raising her chin stubbornly, she said, ʺI will not disrobe for you, Joaquín.ʺ
A chilling look flashed in his eyes, then a slow, lustful smile replaced the anger.
ʺYou stink, Doña Orlena, and your insect bites need attention lest you take a fever and die. You will bathe and let me treat you. There is nothing to reveal that I have not already seen, Lioness,ʺ he added in a taunting voice.
When he stood over her, she realized the futility of doing battle. She would only humiliate herself in front of a village full of people. Retaining the small measure of dignity left her, Orlena rose, clutching the clean clothing to her breast.
A path from the hut twined into dense foliage. In a sudden clearing lay a small pool fed by a stream that trickled from the crevices of a rocky ledge that jutted above the opposite side. The wild beauty of the scene would have enchanted her under different circumstances. Orlena recalled very well their earlier erotic ablutions! This time Joaquín surprised her. Handing her a bar of soap, he turned his back and began unconcernedly to peel his clothes from his sweaty body. Lest his hard savage beauty again hold her in thrall, Orlena did likewise, quickly shedding her clothes. The water proved a much‐needed refreshment, in spite of her unease in again bathing with Joaquín. The isolated pool was warm with tropical heat in spite of the dense canopy of trees overhead.
Orlena waded cautiously until she was hip deep in the water, then knelt and began to soap her hair. By the time she had rinsed it and lathered the rest of her body, her concentration was broken by a clean splash as Joaquínʹs body knifed into the pool from the ledge above. He emerged about ten feet from her, obviously familiar with the depth of the water to have made such a dive. ʺFinish with the soap and give it to me,ʺ he commanded as he shook clinging locks of night‐black hair away from his face.
