“Such as?” Their hostess's voice was harsh.
“Pilar will share my quarters.”
“Oh, but really—”
“Nothing else is acceptable. It will also be more convenient if the others are in the main house. I suggest Enrique occupy the chamber next to your own, Doña Luisa, with Baltasar and Isabel on the opposite corner. Charro can then have the other front chamber.”
“What impertinence! I'm not sure I can allow it. Next you will be telling me when I may come and go.”
“Not at all. You are free to do as you will. If our presence displeases you, we will of course find other accommodations.”
The two of them stared at each other across the dusty, candlelit room while the others shuffled their feet and gazed around at the rough walls and shuttered windows, the handmade furniture and the few pieces of pewter and faience that served as decoration. Pilar did not look away, but divided her glances between Refugio's expectant features and the pale face of the widow. She was the cause of the contention between them, but she could not see Refugio's reason for making an issue of it.
Abruptly, the widow threw up her hands. “Have it your way, as usual! I don't remember you being so hard all those years ago, Refugio, and the change is not for the better.”
“Am I to blame for the inevitable? You wound me.” The words were laced with mournful humor.
The widow eyed him with disfavor. “I wish I might think so, but I doubt it!”
They retired to their respective rooms soon after dinner; there was something about reaching the end of their journey that was wearisome; and they all knew they must begin early the next morning on the mission they had come so far to accomplish.
Pilar was standing in the middle of the bedchamber she was to share with Refugio, staring at the plain bed of cypress wood with its gauzelike curtains of mosquito netting when he entered. He paused on the threshold, then came slowly into the room and closed the door behind him.
She turned her head to look at him, and her voice was cool as she spoke. “You angered our hostess over these sleeping arrangements. Was that wise?”
“No, only necessary.”
“But you have been at such pains to keep her happy.”
“And so I should have waited here, panting like a lapdog for the joy of receiving her caresses? Doña Luisa has given us shelter; that fact does not carry extraordinary privileges.”
“Only ordinary ones?”
He inclined his head in agreement. “There are limits. She can command me, she cannot command you.”
“That's a privilege you prefer to retain for yourself.”
He moved closer, his body loose-limbed and powerful, his gaze dark gray and intent. Softly he said, “You object to my protection?”
“Is that what it is?” she asked in mock surprise as she held her ground. “Are you sure I'm not protecting you?”
“Occasionally, though not often enough.”
There was the shadow of a smile in the words. It was enough to bring heat to her face as she remembered her frenzied attempt to stop the tournament. “You know I didn't mean that!”
“Didn't you? But you must have, or else I'm left to believe that your vexation is from pique, or worse.”
The implication was that she was jealous. It had been a mistake to challenge him on this matter of the rooms when she was so uncertain herself what she wanted. There was only one way to retrieve the situation. She lifted her chin, her gaze steady upon his as she spoke. “I have no claim upon you.”
“And would scorn to make one. I understand perfectly.”
“I don't think so. I'm trying to say that whatever may happen to me, it won't be your fault. I asked you to take me with you that night in the garden, and regardless of where that request may finally lead, I would do the same again.”
The angles of his face were still, impassive, but there was a flicker of something bright and vital in the depths of his eyes. “Endearing,” he said, “but while you are busily absolving me, you might consider that there are more recent obligations between us.”
“You mean my attempt to rouse you from your self-imposed paralysis?”
“Rather, your success.”
She kept her voice even in spite of the images his words conjured up in her mind. “Either way, the situation is the same. It was my choice.”
“And mine. Do you think I could not have refused your tender sacrifice? It might have imperiled sanity and soul, but was a possibility.”
“I am aware, now. Why didn't you?”
“Courtesy, fatalism, and intemperate logic. They can all be vices.”
“Intemperate,” she murmured.
“Violent, and for my own ends. Does that make it more acceptable, or less?”
“What?” Her gaze was focused somewhere beyond his left shoulder, her thoughts elsewhere.
“My protection. Are you inclined to accept it?”
She met his gray gaze, taking careful note of the derision half buried there, and the purpose. “You ask so courteously; why do I feel that I have no choice?”
“You are a lady of some discernment.”
“Then why pretend?”
“Illusions can be comforting.”
Holding courage close, she said, “Who do you think has need of them?”
“I do, of course,” he said without hesitation as he reached to cup her face in his hands. “Will you allow me this one, that you care?”
Once more he thought to spare her. In the face of such generosity, how could she refuse his protection or the desire cloaked within it? It was far too late for maidenly scruples, and in any case she lacked the will to invoke them.
This could not last. In his world, women were fleeting distractions; he had no time, no wish for more, and was too steeped in notions of honor to follow a different inclination. One day soon, perhaps tomorrow, he would either kill Don Esteban or be killed by him. Whichever happened, he would be gone. This moment they held between them, then, might well be their last together.
“I will do more,” she said quietly, “I will share it.”
She heard him inhale, a sharp breath of surprise. Unable to meet his eyes for fear of what she might see, she let her lashes flutter downward. He lowered his head, and his lips, warm and sweetly rewarding, touched hers. Her sigh wafted over his cheek, and she moved nearer, pressing her firm curves against him. He caught her to him for a long, aching moment so she felt the hard beat of his heart and the cool steel of his coat buttons. Then he bent swiftly to put his arm under her knees and lift her high in his arms.
She swung giddily, then felt the soft brush of mosquito netting about her. A feather mattress gave under her hips and shoulders. He lowered her to the surface, then stripped away coat and cravat, waistcoat, shirt, and breeches, before joining her there. His broad shoulders blocked the light of the single candle that burned on the table beside the bed. It gilded his skin, rimming his form in a glowing nimbus while leaving his face in shadow. He turned and stretched a long arm through the folds of netting to snuff the flame with his fingers. All was dark.
Pilar kicked off her slippers so they landed on the floor; there were no stockings to trouble with since she had not replaced them after her bath. She lifted her hands to fumble with the hooks of her boned bodice. He stilled her movements by clasping her wrists with his long, sword-callused fingers.
“Allow me, “ he said, his voice rich and deep.
The hooks gave way beneath his touch, and the bodice, which acted also as stays, was tossed aside. He untied the tapes that held her skirts and petticoats and drew them down her hips, pushing them lower until she could free her ankles. It took only a second to strip her shift off over her head. He lay propped on one elbow beside her for long moments afterward while he smoothed the small ridges and channels pressed into the skin of her waist by her stays, then slowly he lowered his head and began to follow them with soft kisses and the heated touch of his tongue.
He was a gentle marauder, but a relentless one. With f
lowing phrases and delicate guidance, he persuaded her to be the same. He cupped her breasts in his hands while he suckled the rosy crests. She trailed her fingernails through the silky mat on his chest, flicking and tasting the erect sweetness of his paps like sun-dried peach rounds, soothing the puckered scar between them with her tongue. He brushed the cream-smooth inner surfaces of her thighs with his lips, dipping toward their apex and the secret and fragile convolutions of fragrant skin there. She explored the warm and resilient length of him, measuring, cupping, saluting his indomitable firmness. Together upon the mattress they turned and twisted, matching hardness and softness, muscled curves and moist hollows, until the blood surged hot and throbbing in their veins and whispered in their ears and their rasping breaths were taken in plundering forays from each other's mouths. When finally the melding could no longer be postponed, was far beyond denial, he sank into her welcoming softness in a fit that was as wrenching as it was consuming. Together they moved, shuddering with pleasure, lost in untrammeled bliss.
Pilar's mind was on fire, her body dewed with moisture. There was nothing in the blackness of the night except the man who held her and the magic of their joining. She ached with fullness and her muscles quivered with the intensity of her need. His implacable rhythm sent her spiraling higher and higher into realms of feverish joy. She hovered, straining, clenching her hands on his shoulders while inside she felt the slow unfurling of her innermost self, the ultimate release of her being.
It came like the bursting of an internal dam, flowing in heated flood, carrying her with it on a tide of purest pleasure. Rising on its crest, she wrapped herself around him and took him with her, mightily striving, into oblivion.
Their bodies entwined, they lay as if they had been slain. Sleep overcame them while his hands were still entangled in the tarnished gold cloud of her hair.
They woke toward dawn and enjoyed each other again in slow, smooth communion. Their lips curved in smiles of gentle pleasure, though the light was a distraction. And as it grew brighter, pressing against the shutters, they used their lashes as shields for what lay hidden in their eyes.
13
IMMEDIATELY AFTER BREAKFAST on the following morning, Refugio and the other men went into the town of New Orleans. Their purpose was to seek the whereabouts of Don Esteban, to find out what kind of household he had established and where. At the same time, they would discover as much as possible about how the town was laid out and how it was policed, and how often the main streets were patrolled. All this could be important in what lay ahead.
The men had been gone no more than an hour when a message came from the colony's governor, Esteban Miro, ordering the widow Elguezabal and her guests to present themselves at the government house. The coastal vessel's captain had informed officialdom of their arrival. They must be questioned to determine if they were of suitable character to remain in Louisiana and had the means to settle any debts they might incur during their stay. If the examination was favorable, they would be issued a permit to remain for a specified period. It was a formality, but one that could not be omitted.
At Pilar's insistence, Doña Luisa sat down at once and wrote a note to the governor, setting a time when they would appear before him, subject to the governor's approval. It would not do to give the man reason to send soldiers after them. If Refugio did not care for the time the widow appointed for him, he could change it.
The band returned shortly before noon. New Orleans, they said, though it appeared to contain upward of six thousand souls, had the style of a French country village. It was a haphazard collection of dwellings of one and two stories, most of them of timber and bousillage, though there was a newer house here and there of plastered brick decorated with wrought iron imported from Spain and featuring arched doorways and enclosed courtyards. The residences were scattered over only half of the sixty-six blocks laid out for occupation within the palisaded town walls. They were, for the most part, to be found along the river or else set about the Plaza de Armas. It was on this square that the prison, or calabozo, and also the guardhouse were located, standing cheek by jowl with the church of St. Louis. On the other side of the church was the house of the Capuchin fathers, while the soldiers' barracks, built in a rather grand French baroque style, faced the square at right angles on either side.
New Orleans, like most tropical ports, was not known for being salubrious. There was a place outside the city walls called the Leper's Land where these unfortunates were isolated, and a Charity Hospital to take care of the many indigents who persisted in dying in the streets. These streets were standing in water because there were no drainage ditches, a possible contribution to the health problems. As additional drawbacks to public welfare, there was no arrangement for lighting the streets at night, no organized municipal services such as firefighting, and no regular patrols of the streets by police. At least two of these civic failures were seen by the band as possible benefits.
Don Esteban, they had discovered, had taken a house near that of the governor, on Chartres Street close to the square. His house was built in the French style, with the front door opening directly onto the street. The rooms used for entertaining were on the front and the bedchambers in the back, while the kitchen was a separate building lying at the rear edge of a large, open garden area. The whole was only lightly guarded; it was apparent the don did not expect visitors of a troublesome nature.
They had not been able to catch sight of Vicente, but they had heard a cook in the back calling out to a scullery lad, giving him the French form of that name. Casual conversation at a wine shop had gained the information that Don Esteban had a young bondsman who stood behind his chair at meals to serve him.
The order from the governor requesting their presence came as no surprise, for they had been warned by a shopkeeper about the need for a residency permit. They had heard that Governor Miro was a severe and exacting man, one who placed great store in rules and regulations and paternalistic gestures; on taking office he had proclaimed that the ladies of New Orleans must restrict the excessive ornament in their dress, and that women of color were forbidden jewelry and plumes and compelled to wear turbans known as tignons as a badge of their state. Answering such an official's questions might be awkward, but the danger of recognition was not high. The governor had served in this colonial outpost of Louisiana, in various capacities, for some years.
Still, with any luck, Refugio said, they would not have to trouble the governor for a permit. Doña Luisa must keep the appointment with him, but make the excuses of her guests. If she used her considerable charm, she could persuade the honored gentleman to accept another date for Refugio and his men. Before that date arrived, it was likely that their business in New Orleans would be concluded.
It would be interesting to know if Don Esteban had made Vicente's presence known to the governor on his arrival, and in what capacity. Perhaps Doña Luisa could inquire, delicately of course.
There was much discussion over the luncheon table about ways and means of mounting the rescue. Baltasar was in favor of a full-scale frontal assault on the house, but the suggestion was set aside as being too dangerous for Vicente and too likely to cause official repercussions. Enrique wanted to sneak into the house by night, spiriting the boy away. The information gathered, however, seemed to indicate that Vicente was kept chained to the wall in the house at night. In addition, there was also a heavier guard posted at that time. Charro was for infiltrating the house, taking Don Esteban by surprise, perhaps at a meal where Vicente was serving. Refugio conceded the last as a possibility, but how, he asked, was it to be accomplished? How were they to approach the house without attracting the attention of Don Esteban's guards?
“We could pose as street entertainers,” Enrique said, the words tentative. “We might beg the pleasure of playing for the don.”
“Or bribe soldiers for the use of their uniforms for a few hours,” Baltasar suggested. “Then we could demand to see Don Esteban's permit which everyone must have, cl
aiming dangerous criminals had come into the colony by stealth.”
Isabel, sitting playing with her dessert of bread pudding in a brandy-pecan sauce, spoke under her breath. “It all sounds so dangerous, too dangerous.”
Refugio nodded at each suggestion but made no comment. His manner was withdrawn, as if his young brother's plight weighed heavily upon him. It almost appeared that his fear for Vicente made him reluctant to move with his usual decisiveness.
Silence crept in upon them. When Pilar spoke, her voice seemed loud. “Today, there was an old woman who came by the house here driving a cart. She was selling fresh greens for salads, and also herbs, parsley, and scallions, and something she called file for gumbo. When Doña Luisa's cook called out to her, the old woman drove her cart right up to the kitchen at the back of the house and stayed there drinking tafia for over an hour. She was only one of several who came by.”
Baltasar and Enrique glanced at her, then looked at each other with lifted brows, as if her words made no sense. Charro kept his gaze on his plate, where he was using a tine of his fork to turn a piece of bread into crumbs. Isabel looked receptive but puzzled.
Doña Luisa turned around in her chair to face Pilar. “Really, my dear,” she said, “I don't see—”
“Let her speak,” Refugio said, his gaze intent on Pilar's face.
“I only thought, that is, it seems to me that street vendors make themselves very free of households. They come and go at all hours, selling all manner of things, eggs and milk and vegetables, hotcakes and pies; they collect rags and sharpen knives and scissors and mend pans. Some of them carry their wares on trays, of course, but others drive carts that are quite large, large enough to hold a man, or two men.”
As she finished speaking, she met Refugio's gaze. He held it with his own for long seconds. A smile touched the firm curves of his mouth, then was gone. Speaking directly to her, he said, “This time, there is no crying babe for our use.”
“No,” she agreed, “but I might make a fine hag.”
Louisiana History Collection - Part 2 Page 20
