Savage Enchantment

by Parris Afton Bonds

  Some hours passed before Juan came out, lugging two kettles in his hands. Behind him his son carried pails of sloshing water. The guards permitted the two to pass inside the corral. Kathleen half rose, intending to talk to Juan, see if she could get him to help them, and all the while knowing it would be useless.

  But Renaldo's restraining hand at her wrist prevented her. She turned to him, but he merely shook his head. "You will endanger all of us, señora."

  Kathleen slumped back against the wooden slats. When Juan and the boy returned to the house, drunken laughter poured outside. Then there was the sudden scramble of the prisoners for the kettles as the guards gave them permission to eat. It was the first hot meal they had eaten in more than two days, and Kathleen found herself among the others, greedily dumping the kettles' contents into the wooden bowls, spilling the steaming soup all over them in their haste. As she carefully carried her bowl back to her corner of the pen, she thought with shame how low she had sunk, fighting over food like a yard dog.

  She fishe dout the bits of meat and vegetables first, dropping the tenderest in Chela's open mouth just as if she were feeding a bird. With only the juice left, Kathleen put the bowl to Chela's lips, then her own. But before she could swallow the first mouthful, she saw the corporal Pablo enter the corral. His beady eyes searched among the prisoners, coming to rest on her. Slowly she lowered the bowl to the ground.

  "Go to Renaldo and stay with him," she told Chela thickly.

  The large black eyes gazed in unblinking puzzlement on Kathleen, but at last the child said, "Sí, 'Lina," and scrambled away.

  Then the guard was there, standing before her. "La puta is to follow me," he said with a leer that reminded her of Aguila.

  Kathleen got awkwardly to her feet. Her legs were like wooden stilts under her as she moved forward. The others in the corral made way for her, a pittying look in their eyes.

  Once inside the rancho, the laughter stopped, and the soldiers set down their glasses and jugs of fiery aguardiente at the sight of Kathleen. "El teniente is waiting for you -- there." Pablo said, and pointed toward the bedroom where she had once changed her clothing.

  Aguila watched the woman enter. In the flickering light of the wall candle she looked like a golden apparition. He had already had his revenge on her. Why did he continue to demand her when another woman prisoner would have done just as well? But that wsn't true. Only this one. Perhaps it was her pride that fascinated him, for no matter how he debased her, she seemed to remain apart, her spirit untouched and unfettered, like some golden eagle.

  Or maybe it was the contempt with which she regarded him, otu of those deep purple eyes that were like chilled wine, so that he felt compelled to humiliate her, to prove that he, the Castilian, was better than the Californio's wife.

  The Californio. Simon Reyes was a cross he had shouldered far too long. But by the time he reported to Monterey, that cross would have been thrown aside. If all went as planned, the lovely Kathleen Reyes would serve as bait for the fish. As flame to singe the drawn moth.

  Aguila nodded curtly to Pablo. "Leave us."

  The corporal frowned at not being included in the night's activities as el teniente had alluded to the previous evening, but he did as he was told, fearing the stinging whip of his superior.

  Aguila removed his scabbard and tossed it along with his quirt on the leather-bound chair while Kathleen stood waiting with the quiet dignity that irritated him. "Come here and entertain me."

  "And if I refuse?" Kathleen nodded at the sheathed saber. "Will you draw your sword, Lieutenant Aguila, and slay me?"

  "No, Señora Reyes. That would be too easy a death for the likes of you. A slut deserves to be treated as a slut. No, if you fail to please me, you shall wish that you had begged me to slay you. Now, get rid of those stinking clothes and come here."

  As Kathleen began to remove her clothes, he moved to the chair and once more picked up his whip. He fingered the flays thoughtfully.

  "Maybe a woman like you needs to taste the bite of the lash to know her true place." He laughed as he saw the sharp intake of Kathleen's breath but noticed that she admirably held her tongue.

  He let the whip drop to the bed. "But I hope that will not be necessary, for any kind of marks would lessen your value on the market."

  Kathleen's eyes dilated to mere points.

  "We have a convenient way to rid ourselves of Indians who fail to fit in with the mission's concepts, you know. We sell them."

  "But I'm not an Indian," she pointed out.

  "The sun, Señora Reyes, has tanned your skin as dark as one. A little dye on your hair, and only your eyes would lead your purchaser to believe you may have mixed blood in you. Now unless you wish me to try my hand with the whip, come here and show me what you've learned these past few nights ... and unbraid your hair. I can't stand squaws."

  * * * * *

  Kathleen lay staring up at the adobe ceiling. The candle had long since gutted, leaving the room in total darkness so that she did not have to endure the sight of the man who lay half sprawled on her. Only the odor of his ejection on the sheets.

  The sword he laid so carelessly on the chair was only a few feet away. SHe would run Aguila through like a stuck pig if it were only possible to reach the sword without disturbing him. She closed her eyes, wondering how much longer to dawn, hoping Aguila was finished for the night.

  Scenes of that night flashed behind the closed lids, and her eyes flew open with revulsion -- to meeet light-green ones that glittered just above Aguila's head.

  Kathleen lay frozen as she felt something hard slide between her breast and Aguila's head. In the darkness she could barely see the shape of Aguila's quirt. Then there was the abrupt sound of staccato gurgling as the whip was tightened about the soldier's neck. She felt Aguila jerk spasmodically atop her, and one hand groped blindly along her shoulder, digging into her skin as the gurgling came to a halt. And finally the shuddering ceased, and Aguila was rolled from her.

  Kathleen found herself swept up into Simon's arms. "It seems, mi esposa, that I'm continually finding you in strange beds."

  Chapter 27

  Kathleen found herself enfolded in the turquoise woolen blanket Simon tore from the bed, and carried out into the dark stillness that surrounded the way station. Somewhere near, a horse snorted, echoed by the wine-reeking snore of a soldier who lay stretched out at the door.

  As Simon, dressed once more in the leather chaps and brush jacket of the vaquero, moved silently across the wheel-rutted yard, the night's fresh air wafted over Kathleen's face, reviving her, and she wondered why she didn't call out, alert the guards. She told herself it was because she would only be endangering herself. Had not Simon once before forced her to choose between himself and his men? Then for the moment she would choose him again over the soldiers who would surely tear her apart without Aguila to lord over them. Yes, she would bide her time.

  Once inside the stone rubble of the mission's walls, Simon spoke softly to someone, and Kathleen recognized Armand's French accent. Did Armand already know of Concha's deach ... or that his daughter Chela slept safely within the confines of the corral? And how had Simon slipped through Aguila's personal guards and the sleeping soldiers inside the way station?

  Suddenly she found herself thrown astride Salvaje. "Where are you taking me?" she demanded in an angry whisper.

  Simon looked up at her and grinned, displaying in the dark the even, white teeth. "Do you know, Catalina, you look like Lady Godiva right now?"

  Imagining how she must look, mounted on the powerful horse with only her gilt tresses and the draping blanket to partially cover her nudity, Kathleen smiled in spite of herself, but said with a stern voice. "If I do, Simon Reyes, it's all your fault."

  Then she leaned down, her face only inches from his, so that Simon found it hard to raise his gaze from the rounded breasts that gleamed so enticingly.

  "It's all your fault, Simon!" she said harshly. "Everything! Your people there," -
- she nodded toward the way station -- "what about them" Will you desert them ... as you deserted us before?"

  In the gray light she saw the rugged features draw together in a frown. "So that's what it is," he said, as if talking to himself.

  He swung up into the saddle behind Kathleen and quietly urged the horse forward. When the way station was several miles behind them, he said, "In answer to your question, I'm taking you back to del Bravo."

  And how do you explain my two-month absence?" she asked tartly.

  "Our absence. Aren't a bride and groom allowed a luna de miel -- a honeymoon? The last two months have been spent blissfully alone, in a mountain cabin, getting to know one another."

  Kathleen could imagine Simon's insolent smile and refused to say anything.

  "And in answer to your second question, my men are waiting on the beach. Armand'll see that Renaldo and the others are freed. Now," he said, his warm, tobacco-scented breath stirring the wisps of curls at her ear. "I want to ask you a question. Why are you so concerned about the people back there? -- the people you would've looked down your nose at back in Boston."

  "I-I ..."

  Kathleen bit her lip and fell silent. She was puzzled by the man who was her husband; and keenly aware of his maleness -- the wide expanse of shoulders at her back, the clean scent of leather that clung to his clothing, the soft mat of hair that peaked through the open flannel shirt and tickled the nape of her neck ... and the way his arm encircled her waist, just lightly enough to remind her she was one of his possessions.

  Just before dawn, when the slate sky was burnished with faint streaks of purple, Simon reined in Salvaje at a small stream lined with twisted willows and dismounted. Kathleen slid into his upraised arms. For a fleeting second she thought the green eyes searched her face there in the darkness, but he turned away and released her.

  Kneeling at the creek's bank, he splashed water on his face and dried it with the back of his sleeve. Then he crossed to Salvaje and, taking a packet from the saddle bag, produced what looked like to Kathleen thin strips of dried, lean meat.

  "Goose liver," he said. "Eat some. It'll be almost eight o'clock 'fore we reach the cabin."

  Warily Kathleen took the stringy-looking meat and bit into it. It was about as tasty as an old boot. But she was hungry, and she seated herself on a grassy knoll to eat the rest. Simon hunkered off to one side, and when he had finished his portion of the pemmican, he rolled a cigarette and lit it, all the while watching her.

  Uneasy under his scrutiny, she said, "Without a watch -- or the sun -- how can you tell what time it is?"

  "El reloj de los Indios," he said, a smile briefly touching the solemn lips.

  "The clock of the Indians?"

  Simon gestured to the fading light of the stars that were still scattered throughout the sky. "The two stars -- there on the front side of the Big Dipper -- they point to the pole star. By watching the swing of the Big Dipper around the North Star, you can hit within fifteen or twenty minutes of the correct time."

  "And if it's a cloudy night?"

  "Then you go by the time it takes to roll and smoke a cigarette."

  "You're joking with me."

  "Nope. The shepherds and vaqueros spend enough time on the range to have their inner timing down pat." He flicked his cigarette away and stood up. "Time we get going."

  Kathleen wiped her hands on the blanket that covered her and followed Simon over to where Salvaje stood quietly grazing. After he hefted her up into the saddle, he mounted behind her. But instead of heeling Salvaje forward, he spoke, his voice low.

  "Were you hurt, Kathleen?"

  She turned her head and raised her violet eyes to meet his steady gaze. Understanding the underlying meaning in his question, her own gaze dropped. Her voice when she spoke was barely audible.

  "I was not raped -- if that's what you mean. Aguila's impotent."

  There had been physical pain, she thought bleakly, but not anything that wouldn't heal. It was the mental torture, the unbearable memories that she could never mention to anyone. How could the arrogant Simon ever understand such degradation? Understand the meaning of humiliation, defilement, debasement.

  The grimness that etched her face at that moment matched the midwinter gleam in Simon's eyes.

  * * * * *

  Several times, as the dawn lengthened into the crisp light of day, Kathleen was aware that she fell asleep, her head on Simon's shoulder that she fell asleep, her head on Simon's shoulder, only to be jerked awake as Salvaje plunged down a barranca or scrambled up a rocky hill like some mountain goat, as always surefooted.

  Then they were there, on the mountain's pine-forested crest with the small log cabin standing in the clearing like a refuge for hunted animals, accentuated by the golden shafts of the morning sun.

  Once again Kathleen found herself cradled in the cedar-bough bed, smelled the sweet, fresh scent of the ferns growing through the pine boards, and heard the musical flow of the stream that cut through the cabin floor.

  As Simon moved about the room, she lay on the bed, not wanting to disturb her deep, drowsy contentment. But she suddenly jerked upright when Simon took hold of her right foot.

  "Romero weed," he said, spreading the pungent paste over her lacerated sole. "It speeds the healing and eases the pain."

  "Another Indian remedy?"

  "Um-huh," he said, ignoring her barbed tone as he picked up her other foot and rubbed the soothing unguent into the reddened flesh.

  "Simon."

  He looked up at her.

  "Let me go -- now. I can make my way to Santa Barbara and leave the country. I swear I'll never utter your name to a living soul."

  Simon sat back on his haunches. "Even under torture? I'm afraid I can't take that chance. Too many other lives hang in balance besides my own."

  The purple eyes frosted over. "So that's why you came for me tonight. You couldn't afford to have me give you away."

  "Nope. I don't intend to share my wife with anyone. For that Aguila died."

  Kathleen shuddered at the cool indifference in Simon's voice. She saw again the white bulging of Aguila's eyes and heard the wheezing rasp from deflating lungs. Simon, in his way, she thought, was as merciless as Aguila had been. And it was Simon's bed she would have to share for God knew how long. Simon's bloodstained hands she would have to endure.

  "Your derringer's in my saddlebag," he said, breaking in on her thoughts. "From now on I want you to keep it with you -- at all times."

  You're not afraid I'll use it on you?" she taunted.

  He rose and hooked his tumbs in his belt. "There's still Edmund," he reminded her. Then: "We'll bed down until evening."

  Kathleen's mouth parched suddenly. The agony of Simon's intentions seared her soul like a hot iron. COuld she again make her mind a blank when Simon came to lie by her?

  And what would happen when he found her body rigid and unyielding?

  Chapter 28

  Kathleen reclined on the mound of goose-down pillows. Over the powder-blue satin cases her bountiful mane spread in studied disarray like tangled skeins of apricot-colored silk. Her thoughts drifted over the day that stretched ahead of her, sorting the details that would have to be taken care of before the reception that evening.

  There was a soft knock at the door, and Amelia entered, bearing Kathleen's usual morning breakfast -- a cup of rich hot chocolate and sugar-powdered sopapillas. "Gracias," she told the girl as Amelia sat the tray on the night stand.

  "De nada, señora," Amelia said cheerfully, and bent to collect the clothing that Kathleen had heedlessly dropped on the chair the night before.

  When the girl had left, Kathleen picked up the cup with trembling hands. Did Amelia and the other house servants whisper of the fact that Simon did not share his wife's bed? As she herself wondered. Had he already grown tired of her? Or, dear God, did he despise her that she now had been used, that her body had been soiled by the leavings of another man?

  The moment she had b
een dreading -- that afternoon alone with Simon in his cabin, after he had stealthily whisked her from Aguila's stronghold -- had all been for naught. Before, he would have taken her without thought, his lovemaking cursory yet consummate. But that afternoon they slept apart, their bodies only inches distant on the cedar-bough bed -- yet never touching. And since then Simon had treated her with a cool politeness. Not once had he even entered her bedroom.

  Was it out of disgust or pity that he ignored her? There were times when she would swear he didn't even know she was there -- except for the occasional moments when she would catch the long green eyes resting on her in a speculative manner ... as if she were an irksome insect that bore watching.

  But this evening would be the worst she had so far had to endure since her return to del Bravo -- to smile graciously at the guests Simon had supposedly invited in honor of his bride -- and which she knew was merely a pretext for another of his political meetings.

  Simon, the loving husband! Kathleen set her cup on the tray, sloshing the chocolate into the saucer. To pass her off as his wife in order to silence her knowledge of his identity; to masquerade as the respectable ranchero while he plotted against the Mexican government ... that was her loving husband! Why, she was nothing to him but a pawn to be sacrificed at the right moment -- and when would that be?

  * * * * *

  "I've the news you've been waiting for, Simon," Gemma said, inclining her head close to Simon's cupped brown hands as he lit her thin cigar.

  Kathleen caught the meaningful look that passed between the two. And when Gemma slowly exhaled and flicked a questioning glance in her direction, Kathleen's lips curled in a contemptuous smile, and she said sweetly, "I'll take the cue and mingle with the guests -- while you two conspire."

  Actually, she wanted nothing better than to remain at Simon's side and watch the frustration crack Gemma's cool and lovely mask. But she would forgo that satisfaction in exchange for the precious opportunity to speak with Larkin, who at that moment was alone at the buffet table. The merchant, Simon had told her, had just been appointed by Polk as American Counsul to California. Here perhaps was someone who might be able to help her -- one of her own countrymen.