Abruptly the heavy weight at her side was gone as Brant rolled to his feet. His eyes ran over her sprawled nudity with a grim contempt, and when he spoke there was a deliberate coolness that was more frightening than icy rage. "You and the so-called gentleman you fancy deserve each other, sweet."
Anne exulted in this momentary triumph. "Unlike you," she threw back at him as he drew on his pants, "Colin's enough of a gentleman that he'd never try to rape me."
Brant looked down at her with a thin smile. "Why should he? When you've made it so easy for him."
Pushed beyond logical thought, infuriated by the way Brant always managed to get the last word, Anne's hand shot out for the pistol on the night stand. Leveling the pistol at the upper half of Brant's torso that gleamed like polished mahogany in the room's dimness, she said, "You're taking me out of here―now. To Houston."
Surprise flickered briefly in the brown eyes. But he shrugged into the faded, blue flannel shirt before answering her. "If you fire that, I won't be taking you anywhere. Of course, you can try and make it on your own," he told her, nodding toward the door where filtered up the muted laughter of the early revelers. "If you think you can make it past them."
Uncertainty played on Anne's face, and in that moment of distraction Brant jerked the pistol from her hand. She sprang up at him, fighting for the pistol, and he shoved her back on the bed. Her eyes, like shards of smoked glass, glared up at him. "I should have killed you when I had the chance!"
Brant's laugh was more of a sneer. "Then you should've primed the pistol first." At the door he paused and looked back at her. "If you want me to take you to your lover, you can damn well wait 'til I'm ready."
Anne felt as if she personally knew each of the people in the plaza below. From the wrinkled old man who sat dozing on the bench beneath the shade of the stucco portals to the fat duenna garbed in black who escorted her young charge to the matins at the cathedral every morning. There were the bloodcurdling yells of the vaqueros reining in before the saloon that told her evening was near, and the gleeful shouts of the street urchins and the hawking of the street vendors that awoke her each morning.
In the last four days, as she paced the hotel room like a heretic his cell, she had come to recognize the sounds and sights of the plaza. Even the smells-the tortillas the old woman fried in the iron stove she pushed on her wooden cart, and the fresh scent of goldenrods and wild roses that the barefoot girl pedaled at the corner. These were all the diversions afforded to Anne.
There were times when she thought she would lose her mind. Grudgingly, she admitted she missed the distraction of the verbal fights she shared with Brant... and missed the way their bodies had fought―and Anne sensed that Brant, too, fought his desire for her. But the way their bodies at last joined in a truce of passion, on this she did not dwell. For Brant had not returned to the room since that night she had whispered Colin's name.
That he came back to the hotel each evening she had no doubt. Several times she had recognized his sorrel gelding hitched to the post in front of the hotel, indicating he spent his nights in some other room. And she could not help but wonder if he slept alone at these times or if perhaps even Celia shared his bed―but this she doubted, feeling that Rafael would never permit his sister's stubborn waywardness to go that far.
Brant's few notes, written in his heavy scrawl, were impersonal, telling her little. That the boy Pepe would be bringing her meals to the room and to stay put (that Anne intended to do, not wishing to suffer the same consequences of her last sally from the room). But the time would come when she would make her way to Colin. Until then she would wait, bide her time. But the waiting was grating on her nerves.
For at least the fifth time that day she impatiently drew the calico curtain across the dusty window and stalked to the other side of the room. She flung herself on the bed, hands beside her head, and stared listlessly up at the cracked ceiling, willing her thoughts to other places. To the cool blue-green tide that rolled in to ripple at her toes buried in the warm island sand. To the tall arching palms that swished with the trade winds. And to her mother and father and the gaiety of the plantation home. She could almost taste the sweet fruit punches that Delila would make and hear the rhythmic song of the slaves at evening, when the slamming of the door broke her dreamlike concentration.
Jerking to a sitting position, Anne faced Brant. There were tired lines about his mouth and the shadow of beard stubble across the square jaw.
"Where have you been?" she demanded, suppressing the sudden, unfamiliar feeling that gripped her. After all, she told herself, who wouldn't be glad to see someone after six days of looking at the walls?
Brant's lower lip flattened in a grim line. He swung about, hand on the door, and Anne cried, "Wait!"
One dark brow cocked. Brant looked back at her. "Well?"
She lowered her lids, unable to meet his piercing eyes. "Don't go," she whispered.
"I've been riding for forty-eight hours straight, Anne, and I don't feel like putting up with a bitching woman."
She raised her gaze to the frowning face. "Please. I'm not used to being alone―this long a time."
Over the hawklike nose the black brows drew together. Damn, had he expected her to throw herself at him in joy? he asked himself. If he'd been cooped up like this for a week, he'd be ready to kill the first person he saw ...especially the person responsible. Brant studied the eyes that shimmered, as fathomless as gray mists on a winter sea. Despite all she'd been through, despite the mute entreaty in those arresting eyes, there was still a brave stubbornness to the tilt of her chin. Brant knew a fleeting moment of remorse.
"Ezra and Rafael are meeting me here for supper," he said finally. "Do you want to eat below with us?"
Anne's eyes narrowed in suspicion of Brant's unexpected gesture of generosity, but she was too afraid he would withdraw the invitation to question him further. "I'd like that very much." Her hand slipped up to the blouse she had so poorly mended. She had only learned since Delila's death how much she had depended on the woman's beloved ministrations. "The blouse is ..." she hesitated, and Brant said, "Still displays too much of your charms."
Anne glanced up, expecting to find bitterness etched on the rugged face, but there was only wry humor. "I'll have Pepe find another blouse when he brings the hot water." Brant rubbed his stubbled chin with the palm of his hand. "And a razor."
"You're going to bathe―here?"
"Uhmm,"he told her, flinging himself on the other side of the bed. "And what's more, you're going to scrub me."
Anne sprang to her feet, hands on hips, and glared down at him. "I will not! I'll not be both your maid―and your whore. Sweet Jesus, waiting on Pa-ha-yu-quosh was better than this!"
Brant's hand shot out for her wrist, dragging her down across his chest. The heavy lidded eyes regarded her narrowly. "You little hellcat. I should've left you there."
"But your greed couldn't pass up Colin's reward!" she hurled back.
"It's not Donovan's money I want."
Anne shrank beneath the intensity of the desire she read in the dark depths of his eyes. "You've been paid," she whispered. "Three times now. My debt is more than cancelled."
"You're not in Houston yet, sweet," he said lightly, surprising her at his abrupt change of mood.
"If you're threatening―" Anne broke off at the light knock at the door.
"Pásale," Brant said.
It was Pepe with two buckets of water .There was a rapid flow of Spanish between Brant and the boy, and when the boy left Brant said, "Fill the tub."
Anne wanted to argue, but knew that Brant would make good his threat, leaving her there while he ate below. And she had to get out of that room, if only for a few precious minutes. She pushed away from him and went over to the buckets. She could feel his gaze on her as she rebelliously sloshed the water into the hipbath that stood in the corner.
After the buckets were empty, she turned to find Brant calmly removing his shirt, as if the two o
f them had lived together in the intimacy of marriage for years. When his naked chest gleamed in the candlelight, shadowed by the brown, wiry curls that snaked down the taut, corded stomach, and his fingers worked at the buttons of his pants, Anne whirled about. A hot flush crept up her neck to cover her face. "Do you have to behave so crudely?"
"I keep forgetting," he mocked, coming up behind her. "You've never seen a man naked before."
Anne shivered, afraid he would take her in his arms, but he moved past her, sliding into the hot water with a grunt of pleasure. "It's not that," she spat at his back. "There's such a thing as respect."
"For those who earn it. Scrub me, would you?"
Her eyes carefully averting the naked loins that shimmered beneath the water's steam, Anne sullenly took the tallow soap he handed her and began to rub his back. With an effort, she diligently concentrated on the sun-browned skin, noting the various nicks that marred it. Some scars were fresher than others. Above the right shoulder blade was a puckered seam, and she wondered when and how he had taken that bullet.
There was a quietness in the room, broken only by an occasional splash as her hand cupped the water to rinse away the lather. The silence grew until it was as tangible as the skin beneath her fingers. The tension snapped when Brant caught her hand in his. Anne's breath sucked in at the daredevil look in his eyes. "There's more to me than my back."
Why did the shared intimacy with the man bother her? She remembered having to pick lice from Pa-ha-yu-quosh's scalp and the chilling way he had grinned when he indicated he wanted her to perform the same task on the hairy nest around his swollen penis. But she had merely considered it a distasteful chore, treating it with the same distant dislike as she did the menial job of plucking chickens.
And with Otto―she had, following her husband's example, kept their sexual encounters on an impersonal basis, divorced from the reality of daily life. That had been difficult, though. For, unlike Pa-ha-yuquosh, who cared nothing for her feelings, she had had to hide from Otto her revulsion at his clumsy, warped attempts at lovemaking. Had had to hide the light of love that surely must have sprung to her eyes the night Colin came to Adelsolms; had had to hide those treasured dreams that sustained her those long desolate months of marriage to him.
But with Brant―she could not account for her instinctive reactions to this man. Purely physical. Raw desire. There must be a streak of baseness in her of which she had been unaware. Nurtured by those frantic rites of violent passion she had so often witnessed at the voodoo ceremonies. But she had endured and overcome the revolting relationships with Otto and Pa-ha-yu-quosh, and she would yet put an end to her relationship with Brant. One way or another she would reach Houston and the safety of Colin's arms.
Emboldened by thoughts of Colin, her eyes met those of Brant's with defiance. "Get Celia to wash you. I'm sure she's more familiar with your body than I."
Brant laughed. "Come to think of it, you're probably right. At least her hands would wash me more gently. And speaking of hands, sweet," he turned her hand over, palm up. "Your hands would shame a lady."
Anne flushed and tried to draw away, but Brant held her firmly. "Tush, tush," his tongue clicked. "What would Sir Donovan think of the way his love neglects her appearance?"
Rising from the tub and dripping water on the floor, he dragged her across the room to the mound of his clothing he had deposited on the floor. Withdrawing the long-shafted Bowie, he pulled her down next to him on the bed. "Sit still," he told her, "or you'll have another scar besides the one on the back of your hand."
Stiff, she sat beside him, feeling the wet warmth of his arm against hers. She had only to look below where his hand cupped hers, his knife flashing deftly across the built-up calluses, to see the astounding beauty of his masculine body. Her heart began to hammer faster, the blood thundered in her ears ,and a curious weakness sapped her own body.
Absurd! Absurd! her mind cried out. To want this man like a common wench. With all her will, she forced her other hand to lie limply in her lap. Suddenly she felt Brant's penetrating gaze on her and looked up to find dancing in his eyes amusement mixed with desire.
XIX
The clank of the flatware against the tin plates, the loud buzz of conversation, the pungent odor of blackstrap molasses and flapjacks, bitter coffee and sizzling side meat―it was almost too much for Anne to assimilate at once. She felt somewhat like a prisoner suddenly released from his cell, blinking against the bright sunlight and inhaling the precious fresh air.
At the small dining room's other tables, graced by red checkered tablecloths, was a diversified stream of humanity, and her eyes roamed over the diners as hungrily as her mouth had watered over the hotel's specialty, the slum gullion stew.
The man in the tall beaver hat and frock coat―obviously an Easterner. "Here to buy up land cheaply," Ezra had spat. The wizened Indian with the military cap. "A scout out of Goliad," Brant had informed her, meeting her inquisitive gaze. Then there was the gray-haired, patrician-looking woman who dined alone―a descendent of one of Cortes' conquistadors, who owned one of the largest ranchos in Texas. And at the table next to the street window was a thick-muscled man with grime embedded in his hands, the local blacksmith/dentist.
It was with some difficulty that Anne brought her attention back to the low discussion between Ezra and Brant. And even then, listening to Brant's husky voice, her thoughts drifted back to an hour before when in their room above he had pared the calluses from her hands, when she had half-expected to be attacked again and had only been raped by Brant's wicked gaze before he negligently left her on the bed to shave himself.
Now he sat just as negligently in his chair. The blue smoke from the cigarette held between his lips drifted up across his face to screen the sharp eyes that restlessly watched the doorway. Rafael was late, and Anne knew both men worried. Had he been set upon by marauding Comanches, attacked by bandits who found safety this side of the Sabine River from the powerful arm of the United States government, or suffered a more commonplace accident like a broken neck in a fall from his horse? The possibilities were numerous, yet neither Ezra nor Brant voiced their concern.
Ezra chatted lightly with Anne, his baritone voice teasing, but his eyes were just as restless as Brant's. "You mean Brant hasn't shown you the sights of San Antonio?" he asked Anne.
Anne's smile was bitter. "Hardly."
She glanced at Brant. There was a mischievous curl at the end of his lips. Did he dare her to tell of the way she had been kept the past week, like some odi in a sultan's harem? She opened her mouth only to close it. It would be foolish of her, would only bring further embarrassment and shame were the sordid story ever to reach other ears, could possibly endanger Colin's career were the truth to come out after they were married―and, God help her, she hoped Colin still wanted her. But she wouldn't let herself worry about that.
As if sensing the conflict that linked his friend with the lovely Scotswoman, Ezra filled in the disconcerting silence with a description of the centuries―old city. "Before you return to Adelsolms, you'll have to see the Spanish Governor's Palace. Then there's the Mexican marketplace, the ruins of the Alamo, and the San Jose―" he broke off, looking past Anne.
Anne looked around to see Rafael in the doorway. As ever, he was dressed completely in black. But the white linen shirt was dusty, and the black sombrero did not hide the weariness in his eyes. However, there was a grim smile of satisfaction on his slim face. "Amigos―Anita," he addressed them, pulling out a chair for himself.
"You're late, Rafael," Brant snapped when the hidalgo's gaze seemed to linger on Anne.
Rafael's eyes narrowed, but after a second he said calmly, "I think I've found Flores, Brant. North of here, heading toward the San Gabriel River."
At once Brant and Ezra sat up, leaning close over the table. And Anne knew what Brant's business had been the past week. "We'll leave at dawn," Brant said.
"I'm going also."Anne cut in.
Three pair of eyes
jerked around to stare incredulously at her. "Why not?" she demanded when they said nothing. "Brant, you taught me how to load a pistol. And Pa-ha-yu-quosh taught me how to handle a knife. And I can ride well enough to stay up with the rest of you!"
"It's not the same," Rafael told her gently. "At any moment we could be attacked―and there'd be nothing we could do to help you."
Anne's eyes were mutinous. "I don't care. Anything's better than being caged up in that room for another week. And what if you don't come back?"she pointed out. "What am I to do? Besides, you're going to need all the help you can get."
Surprisingly, it was Brant who took her side. "There's something to what she's saying. And if we do succeed―if we get the proof for Sam that Mexico is intending another invasion, it'll save me a trip back here."
"How come?" Ezra asked.
"Anne's going to Houston," Brant told them in a flat voice.
Fog-shrouded shadows hovered along the rolling hills at six-thirty the next morning. Through the eerie fingers of mist rode Anne, along with Brant and Rafael at either side and Ezra bringing up the rear. Dressed in the white camisa and calzones of the peon, she was indistinguishable from her companions. The floppy sombrero that hid her long hair and worn huaraches at her feet completed the costume donated by Pepe.
A dozen yards behind the group followed a small company of Texas Rangers headed by Lieutenant James Rice. If Lieutenant Rice seemed puzzled to find a woman, especially a woman like the exquisite creature ahead of him, riding with the three scouts, he kept a tight rein on his tongue.
The group traveled slowly, following the faint tracks Rafael had picked up the day before. At noon they paused beneath the shade of a grove of bodark trees, and Anne gratefully accepted the canteen of water and the rope of jerky Rafael offered her. The water had a metallic taste, and the jerky was barely palatable, but her hunger was eased. Brant did not eat, but hunkered with Lieutenant Rice off from the others. In the red dirt he drew lines with a stick, and Anne watched Lieutenant Rice nod his head as if in agreement.
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