Savage Enchantment

by Parris Afton Bonds

  Kathleen rose to tread the earthen floor, feeling suddenly as restless as the caged cat. "You speak of freedom, Concha, and yet --"

  "Don't ask that of me, niña. Don't ask me to help you escape. I'm pledged to our cause. Give yourself time. It won't be as bad as you think."

  "That's easy for you to say. You're here because you want to be. You're here with the man you love. You're not held against your will by someone whose very nearness you abhor!"

  Concha's dark eyes opened wide. "You are still a child then. Or else you would see --"

  "See what?" Kathleen snapped. "That he is a mercenary man that takes what he wants with no consideration for any but himself -- that will stop at nothing to gain his ends ... even forcing me into marriage to protect himself? No, you're wrong, Concha. I see that Simon -- for that is the name I know him by -- is a cold, callous brute. With a total disregard for anyone else's feelings. He knows nothing of the higher form of love, but will rut like the beasts of the fields."

  Concha shrugged her strong, peasant shoulder and threw back her head and laughed. "I think, niña, it is you who knows nothing of love."

  Kathleen turned on Concha. "If being raped and mauled by him is a demonstration of love, then I want nothing to do with it!"

  "We shall see," the woman replied. "We shall see."

  Chapter 20

  As the morning lengthened, the air grew stifling within the wickiup. At last Kathleen could bear no more and cautiously stepped outside the doorway. Surprisingly, she found no guards to bar her exit.

  She paused to survey the ranchería. It looked much s it did the day before. Children laughed and chased each other through the fields of riotous wildflowers. The women busied themselves in basket-weaving with their nible hands working the bundles of tule reeds at their feet. Only the men were missing except for the few mostly hoary Indians, who sat beneath the shade of the scrub oaks and talked of olden days, better days.

  No one paid her heed. There was no one to hamper an escape.

  With an idle saunter, Kathleen moved past the doorway and down a slight incline that sloped away to the back of the wickiup. Less than fifteen yards ahead of her lay the protection of a grove of madroña evergreens. And from just beyond came the sound of some tumbling mountain stream. She had only to follow it as it snaked to the west, and she would eventually make her way back to the coast. Kathleen looked about her, seeing the forest's red, edible berries and wild oranges and plums. Surely these would sustain her.

  But what most sustained her was the thought that she had the rest of the day before Simon would come looking for her. Time enough for a good head start.

  The near taste of freedom was as heavenly as water to a man lost on the Mojave. So when the red-haired guard with a double belt of bullets crisscrossed about his torso and a fearsome-looking Hawke plains rifle resting in the crook of his arms stepped forward. Kathleen could have attacked him out of sheer frustration.

  "Madame is looking for something?" the guard asked, a polite look of genuine concern wrinkling the mustachioed face.

  "I only wished a bath," she said, trying hard to control the fury that seethed just beneath her stilted manner even as she noted the guard had addressed her by the title reserved for a married woman. So, Simon had already let it be known she ws his wife.

  Suddenly the guard's hand moved to the rifle's trigger as his eyes shifted from Kathleen to something behind her.

  "It's all right, Armand," Renaldo said, stepping forward.

  Kathleen turned on the young man. "Am I allowed no privacy for a bath?" she demanded.

  "But of course, señora. When you are ready, I'll have one of the women bring you soap and your fresh clothes from the wickiup."

  She searched the thin face for any sign of ridicule, but there was only kindness in his steady gaze. Kathleen could but nod her head curtly. Brushing past the guard, whom she supposed was Concha's lover, she founced off in the direction of the rushing water.

  In a glade rimmed by scented firs she came upon the stream. It plummeted down from the mountains over a multitude of miniature rocky falls, surging in foaming eddies into a crystal-clear pool. The sunlight filtered like gold dust through the high branches. There was a peaceful quiet, broken only by the ouzel, a water thrush which flitted about in the spray and chirped his song of joy.

  Kathleen stood there, transfixed by the untouched beauty of the scene; awed, after the brick-civilization of Boston, by the pristine work of nature.

  If it were not for the scurrilous savage that called himself her husband, thereby imprisoning her, she would have sought to remain forever in that glorious shelter. But, as it was -- Kathleen shrugged, not wanting to think beyond the moment.

  She shed the dusty pants and shirt and cautiously tested the water with one dirt-streaked foot. The water ws cold but refreshing. Slowly she began to wade in, letting her skin adjust to the chill. But as the sound of someone approaching reached her, she quickly slid under the water. When she surfaced, strands of hair plastered to her cheeks, a young girl, obviously very pregnant, stood on the mossy bank. Her dark brown hair was caught Indian fashion in a single braid at the nape of her neck.

  The girl smiled shyly. "I'm Margarita, señora."

  Because the girl's Spanish was poor, Kathleen answered uncertainly, "My name is Kathleen."

  Margarita, whose high cheekbones were tinted with the dusky hint of Indian beauty, set the clothes down within Kathleen's reach and handed her the bar of soap. "I know who you are, señora. My brother, Temcal, told me your name. He says you are like the first golden moments of spring."

  She turned to leave and Kathleen called out, "The men -- when will they return to camp?"

  Margarita's bright eyes, reminding Kathleen of a squirrel's, looked at Kathleen curiously. "Near dusk ... if all goes well."

  Were the men away on some raid? Kathleen wondered. Oh, God, that Simon would be killed!

  When the young girl had disappeared among the trees once more, Kathleen busily scrubbed the accumulated dirt from her hair. How long it seemed since she had last had the luxury of curing tongs. And from there, her mind drifted to other comforts of civilization -- to once more idly muse over the pages of one of Godey's Lady's Books ...

  Reluctantly she put the nostalgic memories from her and finished her bath. It was already afternoon. By the time she dressed and dried her hair, it would be time for Simon's return.

  And she meant to be ready for him. No, she could not yet escape him. The guard had proved she was better watched than she supposed. But she would fight Simon with the very weapon he threatened her with -- six. She would gain the advantage on him. And when she had lulled his suspicions, then would be the time to escape. No matter how long it might take. She would wait.

  * * * * *

  Her hands balled beneath her chin, one hand rubbing the tightened knuckles of the other. How long would he keep her waiting?

  She rose from where she sat with her legs tucked beneath her and crossed to the doorway, her skirts swishing about her bare ankles. In the rapidly dimming twilight she could just make out Simon's form, taller than the others, standing near one of flickering campfires. She returned to the blanket and drew her knees up under her chin, hugging her ankles against the evening's approaching chill. The waiting was torture. What would Simon do to her? What demands would he make of her?

  Suddenly he ws there. She had not heard him enter. But his presence in the small room was overpowering. Slowly she raised her eyes, following the magnificent male torso, naked but for the leggings and breechcloth, until her brandy-colored eyes locked with the green ones.

  "Come here, Catalina."

  As ever, his familiar use of her name in Spanich infuriated her. She bounded to her feet, forgetting all her plans of feigned submission. Her clefted chin jutted forward with indignation. "You have no right to --"

  In two strides Simon stood before her, so close she could smell the campfire wood smoke that still clung to his bronzed skin. In his hair was
the black tailfeather of the condor.

  "Must I remind you that you're no longer entertaining a gentlemanly caller in your Boston parlor? That you're my wife -- and under Mexican law you have no rights."

  Her eyes fell under the relentless flame in his. "You had best kill me, then," she whispered faintly.

  "No," he said, taking her shoulders between his hands. "I'd be admitting defeat then, Kathleen. I want your willing submission."

  Icy perspiration congealed in every pore, but she faced him boldly. "Never!"

  He laughed softly, and his laugh unnerved her more than anything he could have said. One hand, stained with fresh blood, came up to cup her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. Kathleen shuddered. The desire she saw flaming in their steely depths turned her weak with disgust. Each separate nerve in her body tingled with an awareness that appalled her, that sickened her with the knowledge of his intentions.

  She tried to turn away, but his ironlike grip held her immobile. His lips lowered slowly, leisurely over hers, and she writhed with horror in his arms as his tongue thrust inside her mouth and took its pleasure.

  She twisted her head free with a sob. "No!"

  "I could almost believe you were a virgin that night," he whispered huskily, and lifted her trembling body in his arms. His lips scorched hers as he lowered her onto the blanket. His firece embrace that joined the length of her body with his own warm,s trong one drained her of all power of resistance.

  Her clothes fell away easily beneath the sureness of his demanding hands. She shrank under the ardent gaze that traveled over her nude body like a consuming fire.

  Then his hot mouth pressed on hers, drugging her like an opiate. But as his dark head slipped lower to bury itself between the rose-tipped peaks of her breasts, Kathleen cried out -- only that once.

  "I'll never forgive you, Simon! Never!"

  Chapter 21

  Had it really been three weeks? Twenty-one days since that ruinous night she had wedded with Simon? Simon!

  The very name lingered on her tongue like a bad taste.

  Kathleen straightened from where she knelt on the stream's bank and rubbed her work-reddened hand along the small of her back. She arched her spine with contentment as some of the ache slipped away. At least there was one ache that she did not have to deal with that day -- the piercing abdominal pain that had come with each month's menstural.

  Kathleen grimaced. She supposed she had Simon's nightly ravaging of her body to thank for that. Thank God, the telltale red that morning had also released her from her fears of pregnancy.

  The other women were busy chattering over the laundry they spread on the grass to dry. But Kathleen, embarrassed by her position at the ranchería -- a white woman, a prisoner, in spite of the fact that they regarded her as Simon's wife -- could not bring herself to be spontaneously friendly in response to the polite overtures of the women, even to the thirteen-year-old Imelda who, in her pigeon-toed Indian gate, followed adoringly in Kathleen's footsteps.

  Each time Kathleen washed a leather shirt of Simon's, or the disgusting breechcloth, it brought home hard to her that she was nothing more than a servant ... a slave by day and an odalisque by night. She was lower than the women about her. For at least they were there by their own free will, while she was reduced to obey like an animal at Simon's beckoning.

  Kathleen went back to scrubbing the soiled clothing on the rocks, enjoying the feeling of the warm sunlight on her skin. In the three weeks she had been at the camp, her skin had darkened, had taken on the hue of warm honey, as Simon had told her one afternoon.

  She bit her lip at the unwelcome memory. Simon had come in hot and sweaty from drilling the men and, taking her by the hand, practically dragged her down to the glade she had come upon that first evening in camp. "A loving wife washes her husband's back," he said, the roguish grin making him seem years younger.

  "I'll never be your loving wife, Simon Reyes!"

  "Oh, but you will, Kathleen. You will."

  He had stripped before her then, unbuttoning the faded blue shirt, unbuckling his belt, and removing the knee-high leather leggings. Kathleen turned from him, her hands covering her crimson face, when he shucked the worn denim pants. He came up behind her so that she could feel the searing heat of his naked skin against her and took her hands from her face, turning her around to face him.

  "Now, mi esposa, you will wash my back."

  Kathleen threw the bar of tallow soap he handed her on the bank. "You wash it yourself!" she spat, defiantly planting her fists on her hips.

  One dark brow cocked. "Would you rather I wash you? You know, you look like a peasant woman with your dusty feet and braided hair. Maybe a good washing will restore the breathtaking beauty that graced my home and married me all in the same night."

  Kathleen understood the threat. "Get in the water," she told him, her voice as icy as the mountain stream.

  He laughed lightly. "I thought so."

  Like a powerful, sleet otter, he dived beneath the surface of the water, and Kathleen retrieved the soap, biting back the thousand curses that trembled on her tongue. She lifted her skirts and tucked them into her waistband as she had seen the other women of the ranchería do.

  When Simon broke water near the bank, she saw the kindling flame of desire in his eyes as his gaze fixed on her long, slim legs, and she knew her first real taste of a woman's triumph over a man. She promised it would be her first of many small revenges against the men that had raped her, had betrayed her with her own reward poster, had used her to protect himself, and who now degraded and humiliated her each night that he took her, laughing softly at her silent struggles that would inevitably end in her passive yielding.

  But this time it would be different. Simon would not have the opportunity to dominate her.

  Gingerly she stepped into the current. When she halted, the water swirling about her knees, Simon rose from the water and waded to meet her. Kathleen kept her eyes on the distant tree-shaded bank until he was at her side. Then her heavily lashed lids raised to the watchful face. A slow smile eased his harsh countenance.

  I'm ready, mi esposa. Are you?"

  "Sit down," she ordered. When he dropped to his haunches, she knelt beside him and, dipping the soap in the water, began to lather the broad, sun-darkened back. She had meant only to tease him with her nearness, but the intimate task was pleasurable. As her hand glided over his back, she marveled at the muscles that rippled just below the warm skin.

  The tenseness eased from the muscles beneath the gentle prodding of her fingers, and Simon grunted a sigh of relaxation. His head turned to look back at her. "Then you can make yourself useful," he said with a grin. "You're not just another pretty face."

  An image of herself, looking like a toil-worn squaw, flashed through her mind, and she had to laugh in spite of herself. "You're a rogue!" she said and, without thinking, playfully shoved his head under water.

  He came up laughing and sputtering water, his wet curls glistening in the sun. "So, you dare to challenge your husband, woman?" With a whoop, he tackled her as she staggered ashore, bringing her down among the willowly tules.

  Without understanding it, it seemed to Kathleen that a magical hush overtook the secluded forest glade. There was the sensuous scent of the tropical flowers, the erotic play of the water's current about her legs -- and her acute awareness of Simon next to her. She heard the quickening of her own breath. Her eyes slid upwards to encounter Simon's intense gaze, to see the nostrils that flared passionately. The smiles faded from both of their faces.

  Inexorably the arms that enfolded her about her hips moved up along her back to pull her against him so that his wet body soaked her thin clothing, burning her skin with the heat of his desire.

  Kathleen closed her eyes against the inundating passion that seethed like molten lead in the fiery green depths of Simon's eyes. A liquid warmth fanned out from the pit of her belly as his lips traced a searing path to the base of her neck, ending in the softest brus
h at her nape. A weakness she could not believe claimed her. She clutched blindly at the sinewy shoulders.

  Intertwined with the ragged intake of his breath, she heard her own whispered moan. "No, Simon. Please, no."

  The brutal grip that dug into the soft skin of her arms jerked Kathleen back to reality. She trembled with absolute fear, knowing Simon capable of breaking her apart and crushing her as easily as he would a matchstick.

  There was a wintry gleam in his eyes. "You try my patience, Kathleen!"

  He shoved her from him then, and stalked from the lagoon while she floundered helplessly in the reeds. When she had regained her footing, she saw Simon squatting calmly on the bank. Casually he took a sheet of cornhusk paper and tobacco from the tin in his shirt pocket and rolled a cigarette. All the while his eyes studied her with an intentness that disconcerted her.

  "I get tired of reminding you of your marital obligation -- namely, a warm response." His eyes suddenly narrowed to mere slits. "Or is there another that can thaw your Yankee coldness?"

  Kathleen waded from the water and occupied herself by wringing the water from her skirt. "There isn't anybody else," she said tersely. "It's just that I-I don't feel like that."

  Simon took the cigarette from between his lips and tossed it into the water. "Kathleen, you're a little hypocrite."

  * * * * *

  "I'm not a hypocrite! I'm not!" Kathleen told herself as she wrung the water from the laundry with agitated motions. "He's so sure of his persuasive power over other women! He just can't imagine that I wouldn't feel the same as those others."

  And she wondered again as she carried the laundry back to the camp just how many others there had been in Simon's life. How many others had shared his wickiup with him.

  It was with a lightened mind she recalled that that night she would not have to share the wickiup with Simon. "I'll be leaving," he told her early that morning.

  She had looked up quickly from the shirt she was mending. "Why? Where?"