Thank goodness it had been Maria who found the objects, not her great-aunt. Tía Consuelo would have immediately known they belonged to Uncle Gabriel and would have demanded to know how they came to be in her room.
According to Pablo, all of Uncle Gabriel’s belongings were locked away in storage and kept out of Grandfather’s sight. Sorina had slipped into the room one night and sifted through them, retrieving those items she might need.
Uncle Gabriel was her hero. He lived to help those who were poor and had little hope. While always careful to act the fastidious gentleman in company, he was in real life more like a man who hid behind a proverbial mask—a daring risk-taker who outsmarted those who preyed on others.
He constantly honed his skills as a swordsman and was, of course, skilled with a whip. He professed to have a disdain for guns, but Sorina had seen him shoot a gun out of the hand of a man who attempted to hold up their carriage. Her uncle later dropped the weapon like a burning ember, claiming it was a lucky shot.
He had instilled in her his own determination to help the downtrodden. He was the one who had inspired her to open her school.
How I miss you, Uncle Gabriel.
Dwelling on the past was for another day. Why had she not heard from Lobo? Rising, she stood in front of the desk, fingering the stones that surrounded the flower in the little pot. Pushing them aside with her finger, she dipped into the dirt and touched something underneath. Scooping the pebbles out with her fingers, she extracted a piece of paper.
Eleven o’clock, cove. The words were written in English.
Finally.
Sneaking out tonight would be risky, but she was desperate. Their entourage was scheduled to leave before dawn for the village. Avila expected them for the main meal at noon. That meant many would be up through the night loading food and supplies for the fiesta that would follow the betrothal ceremony.
She must somehow slip past those preparing for their journey to San Juan Capistrano and join Lobo in the cove. He had not signed his name, but who else could have sent the note? She had faith in Lobo’s resourcefulness. If he wanted to go tonight, she would be ready.
Suddenly lightheaded, she clutched the newel post of her bed. Could she do this? Could she leave her home, her family, her friends—everything she ever cared about and put her life in the hands of a stranger? The room swayed and she focused on the headboard to steady herself.
She must be brave. Life with Santoro would be like entering a dark cage with outer comforts others would envy, but with unknown terrors lurking in the corners. And there was the land. If she married, all of her inherited land would be his to control, along with the people who worked in the house and the fields and who tended the cattle.
That cannot happen.
The pile of dark clothing in her uncle’s trunk drew her. She shook out the shirt, tied his bandanna behind her head, and struck a pose in front of the looking glass. The sight infused her with courage she didn’t know she possessed.
If Uncle Gabriel were standing here, staring back at her, what would he tell her? He’d say, “Dig deep into your soul and decide what is right. Then do it. Only then, can you live with yourself.”
She held the shirt against her heart and made a promise. She would be fearless. She would fight. And if Santoro won in the end, she would continue to wage war in subtle ways, until he cursed the day he ever asked to marry her.
Feeling better, she took several incriminating items from the trunk and placed them in the secret hiding place under the floor. Who knew when she might return? Best to keep incriminating items safely hidden away.
After the evening meal, she would plead a headache. Tía Consuelo and her grandfather knew she still opposed the marriage and the coming day would be a difficult one for her. She hoped they would leave her to her despair.
She had tried to hide her anger but had given up. For days she had remained silent through her meals, answering questions with sullen indifference and as few words as possible. She would not be a good dinner companion, and her early departure from the dining room should be welcome. At half past ten she would slip out and see what fate held for her.
Do not fail me, Lobo.
Packing a cloth bag with a hairbrush, her mother’s brooch, and the loose shirt and pants of a house servant, she stuffed it under the bed. As an afterthought, she went back to the hole under the floor, lifted the floorboards and took out her uncle’s gun. Bullets for this weapon and others in the house were kept in her grandfather’s study. She’d seen them in a drawer with a pair of dueling pistols he’d won in a card game. The study would be her only stop as she made her way out of the house.
Or she could do it now.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon. Grandfather would be taking his afternoon siesta, as would most of the household. Her grandfather observed this tradition religiously.
She took off her shoes and slipped into the courtyard. The study was on the far side. She paused before the door and knocked. No one answered. She crept inside, tiptoeing to her grandfather’s desk. Opening the lower drawer, she reached back to a secret lever. An inner drawer flew open.
The heavy, cherrywood desk had come all the way from Spain and Grandfather had taken pride in showing her all of its little secrets. The inner drawer held a set of keys. She picked them up and unlocked a large matching credenza. The broad drawer with the guns and ammunition held several valuable objects. She only needed one item.
Kneeling, Sorina went through the contents until she found the bullets that fit her uncle’s weapon. She slid them into the pocket of her skirt, closed and locked the drawer as silently as possible, and stood. Turning around, she dropped the keys into the secret compartment. It did not make a noise, but the outer drawer slammed shut. Footsteps paused outside the door.
Madre de Dios, I cannot be found here.
Sorina dropped to her haunches behind the desk as the door opened. The figure paused in the doorway, but did not enter the room. The door closed again.
Heart thudding, Sorina rose. Waiting a few minutes, she cautiously opened the door and peeked out. Two men argued at the end of the courtyard, their backs to her. One was Pablo. She entered the corridor, eyes fixed on the two men, and walked backward to the next doorway. She opened it without entering and slammed it shut behind her, drawing their attention. Waving, she hurried off to her room.
Inside, she sank into her bed. How can Lobo be a spy? It was too hard on the nerves.
Fanning herself with her hand, she leaned against her pillow and prayed to God that she would be able carry off her part of this escape.
She couldn’t fail. The stakes were too high.
For both of them.
Chapter 12
A small, wooden skiff bobbed in the water a dozen yards offshore. Owned by two fishermen who sailed between the mainland and Santa Catalina Island, it seemed sturdy enough. An inspection showed it didn’t leak and it had a small cabin forward where one could take shelter. Grainger prayed it was swift.
A length of rope secured the boat to a crude dock, a few planks nailed to rotting wooden posts. Grainger narrowed his eyes. Timing would be tricky. At high tide, the boat would be in six feet of water. Even if Sorina had good balance, it would be a tough boarding. Plus they had to make their escape when the tide was ebbing—about an hour after the ceremony, if it started on time.
The short, bearded man with several missing teeth held out his hand. “Twenty pesetas and it is yours,” he said.
“Ten or I walk away,” Grainger said. He hoped he wasn’t bargaining too hard. Escaping by sea was their best hope and he needed a boat to do that.
Scratching his head, the man glanced at the boat, then back at Grainger. “Twelve pesetas and three cowhides.”
“Señor, you drive a hard bargain.” Grainger had brought cowhides because they w
ere a popular bartering tool in this part of the world. They were folded and draped across the front of his saddle. Lifting them onto his shoulder, he dropped them in front of their new owner and counted out the pesetas. The man pocketed the coins, hoisted the hides, and shuffled toward a mud hut a few yards from the beach.
Grainger scanned the horizon and saw calm water beneath a cloudless sky. God, he hoped it stayed that way for a few days. The sailboat was sturdy enough for two under normal conditions in these waters, but bad weather or strong wind would make the short trip a challenge.
The plan was to whisk Sorina away during the horse race. It would be the first activity after the betrothing ceremony. Next would be a barbecue, followed by dancing. Tomorrow the most experienced vaqueros would exhibit their roping skills.
They’d be long gone by then.
Santoro loved to tout his prowess as a horseman and Avila liked nothing more than a good race past the mission grounds, all the way to the Trabuco River crossing. While Sorina would have to be present at the start of the race, they’d have a twenty- or thirty-minute window in which to escape to the bay. Mitchell would have horses waiting.
Are you out of your mind?
He’d asked himself that question a dozen times, and the answer was always the same. What choice did he have? If Sorina married Santoro, he would control her property and he would control her. The thought of the snake putting his hands on her body made him sick. The little cruelties he was known to inflict on his women made the vision worse. For all her bravado and recklessness, Sorina Braithwaite was an innocent and a lady. He couldn’t abandon her in her time of need.
Mitchell had other reasons for allowing him to go. Santoro would surely follow, keeping him busy while the American army marched toward California.
If any of his superiors questioned his absence Mitchell would fill them in. Grainger trusted the Irishman with his life. He could certainly trust him with his reputation.
He climbed into the saddle and turned north. A hard ride awaited him. He’d get no rest until after his meeting with Sorina tonight. And if she didn’t come?
She would. That vixen had more brass than a spyglass.
~ ~ ~
“You haven’t taken a bite.” Tía Consuelo shook her head. “You need nourishment and strength for tomorrow’s journey.”
“I’m not hungry.” Sorina knew she sounded like a petulant child, but her stomach roiled with anxiety. Any food would make her nauseous, and the fresh abalone was exceptionally rich.
“Leave her alone. She has bridal nerves. It will pass.” Her grandfather chuckled as he refilled his wine glass and handed it to her. “Try some of this claret. It is quite good.”
Sorina had declined wine, but the outstretched hand could not be ignored. She took the silver cup and lifted it to her lips, letting the smooth, slightly tart liquid slip down her throat. It warmed her. She sipped a little more. “Thank you, Abuelo.”
“You’re welcome.” He reached over and patted her shoulder. Sorina always sat to his right and her great-aunt sat on his left. The chair at the end of the table had been her grandmother’s. No one sat there when the family was dining alone. She gazed at it wistfully. If only her grandmother were still alive. Perhaps she would have an ally.
All of the plates had been cleared except hers. Sorina lifted her fork and pushed aside the steamed lentils, fresh from the garden, and calculated whether or not she could plead fatigue and leave the table. It must be nearing ten o’clock. They had dined late again and she had a good twenty-minute walk to the beach, if she could sneak out without her great-aunt checking on her.
An idea formed in her head.
She placed her hand over her mouth and yawned. “I fear all of these preparations have made me very tired.”
“Are you sure it isn’t pouting that has made you weary?” Tía Consuelo dabbed her pursed lips with her napkin.
“I have accepted grandfather’s wishes and go willingly to my betrothal.”
Her great-aunt sniffed, but Grandfather beamed. “You are a good, obedient girl. You make me very proud. Now go and get your rest.”
Sorina slid her chair back and rose. Stopping by her grandfather’s chair, she leaned down and kissed his cheek. “Good night.”
“We leave at dawn. Make sure you are ready.”
“My maid has already packed. She will sleep in my room tonight to be sure I wake up on time.” With a quick glance at her tía, Sorina left and closed the door firmly behind her. She sprinted down the corridor to her own quarters. Reaching her bed, she sat down and slumped forward, holding her head in her hands. She hated lying to her grandfather, but it had to be done. Perhaps one day he would understand.
A soft knock told her Maria had been waiting for her to finish her meal. “Come in.”
“I’ve packed enough clothes for the length of your stay.” The young maid bobbed a curtsy. “I shall wait until tomorrow to pack your toiletries.” She stood in front of the dresser and opened a narrow drawer, lifting a comb and a small cloth bag full of hairpins from its depths.
“Do all that in the morning,” Sorina said. “You can be excused. But if anyone asks if you slept in here tonight, tell them yes.”
Maria narrowed her eyes. “If you say so, milady.”
Sorina stood and walked to her desk. “Here. Take this book. I brought it from England.” She thrust it into the maid’s hands. If all went as planned, it would be a long time before she saw Maria again. She wanted her to continue her studies on her own. “You’ve been a quick learner. This will test your skills, but it is not beyond you.”
Maria held the book and ran her hand reverently over its leather cover. “I shall be very careful and I shall return it as soon as I have mastered it.”
“It’s a gift.”
“A gift?” Maria’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “I have never had such a gift.”
“You have one now.” Sorina gave her a quick hug and sent her on her way. With all the preparations taking place around the hacienda, Maria probably would go unnoticed. And Tía Consuelo would think she had company for the night, and would not bother her before she retired.
I shall have company, all right. But it won’t be Maria.
A little before the appointed time, Sorina dressed in her loose peon’s clothing, braided her hair, and slipped out of her room into the night, clutching her hat. Hunched over, she shuffled past a group of men loading sacks of flour and cornmeal onto a wagon. Barrels of wine were lined up to be loaded next. Juan Avila would host the banquet following the betrothal. The bride-to-be’s family would be responsible for the barbecue the next day.
Disappearing into the darkness, she followed the trail she knew by heart until she reached the cliff top and its well-worn path to the beach below.
She stifled a squeal as a hand reached out of the darkness and closed over her wrist. “Change of plans,” a familiar voice said.
“Madre de Dios, you scared me,” Sorina said. She stumbled as Lobo towed her away from the path toward the lip of a crevice created by some long-ago landslide. “Why are we not meeting in the usual place?”
“There are men below. I saw their campfire. They may be Santoro’s vaqueros on their way to San Juan Capistrano. It is a two-day trip for them.”
Sorina sat on the edge of the chasm. Lobo’s muscled thigh touched hers as he settled himself next to her. Warmth seeped into her leg and snaked up to her fluttering stomach. She swallowed several times and forced her mind to pay attention to his words.
“On the day of the ceremony, a horse race is planned. It is my understanding that Señor Avila has challenged Santoro. Is that right?”
“Yes. He has to accept or lose face.”
“And he’ll probably be out to impress his bride-to-be,” Grainger said. She couldn’t see his expression in the d
ark, but she had the distinct impression he was smirking.
“She will be effusive in her pride,” Sorina said. “Everyone will say it is a love match.”
Lobo snorted. “Once the race begins, you will make your way to your room, saying you are ‘overcome’ by the anticipation of the race’s outcome. Somehow you will have to get into Avila’s barn next to Trabuco Creek. I’ll be waiting.”
She turned and stared at him. “We are riding then? Santoro will catch us once he realizes I am gone. His horsemanship isn’t a guise, it is real.”
“We will only go as far as the bay. I have a boat there and we’ll put out to sea with the ebbing tide.”
“The sea.” She chewed her lip and pondered the plan. No large boats had been seen in the area and no trading ships were due. What boat could they be meeting? An American warship? Were the Americans that close?
“What’s wrong? Do you get seasick?”
“Certainly not. I will do my part.”
“Good. Now, let’s get you back before you’re missed.” Lobo stood and helped her climb back to the cliff top. She tripped and fell against him in the dark. For a moment his arms closed around her and held her against a hard ridge of heat under his belly. Curiosity made her rub against it. He groaned as he thrust her away.
“You are a dangerous woman, Sorina Braithwaite.” He drifted away into the night.
Sorina stood very still. She would wait ten minutes before following the path back to the hacienda. Her woman parts tingled from the encounter. She absently stroked herself through the coarse fabric of the pants, trying to ease an unfamiliar ache between her legs.
Madre de Dios, what was wrong with her? All Lobo had to do was touch her and she burst into flames.
The plan he proposed was dangerous. But the danger to her might be from a different source than Santoro.
Shadow of the Fox Page 9
