“Is the race over? Who won?”
“It surely is over by now, but no word has come.”
“Why are you not awaiting the results outside? Because you are certain of the outcome?” It took a moment to be sure, but Señora Avila was teasing. Her eyes were merry, even though her tight bun stretched her features into severe lines.
“No, Señora. I am merely hurrying to change before my fiancé returns. I . . . want to look my best . . . for him.”
More lies. Will I know the truth when I hear it?
“Then be off with you. Races are short. There isn’t much time.” She shook her head and wandered toward the front of the house.
Sorina willed the butterflies in her stomach to stop their flapping. Opening the door to her room, she hurried inside and stilled. Tía Consuelo lay on the bed.
An open palm muffled Sorina’s cry. Tía Consuelo smacked her lips in her sleep, but didn’t awaken. Holding her breath, Sorina tiptoed around the bed and carefully slid the flour sack from under the bed. Her great-aunt shifted her bulk, and turned toward her. Her eyes remained closed.
Why did she have to take a siesta now?
Changing clothes would create too much noise. Even though Tía’s hearing was bad, she had an uncanny way of knowing when something was amiss. Sorina couldn’t chance it. She would have to escape in the blue dress.
Could she carry the flour sack out to the stables? No. It would be too conspicuous. Her presence in the courtyard would be noticed. And if servants were questioned later about her disappearance, the flour sack would cause suspicion. A guest would have no reason to have one.
Unless it did not contain flour.
Shaking out the contents of the sack, she put the loose pants on under her petticoat, over her drawers, and shoved the shirt under the bed with the bag. She tucked her uncle’s knife in the waistband of the pants, pulling the string tight so it would not be dislodged.
A loud shout came from the front of the house. Someone had returned. She hoped it was only a messenger with news of the race. No time to lose.
For the last time, she focused on the sleeping form of her great-aunt.
Dear Tía, I will miss you. I hope you will understand one day.
Sorina slipped out of the room and into the busy courtyard.
Slabs of beef roasted over open pits. An entire row of women shaped small mounds of dough into rounded tortillas, which they cooked and turned on flat pans. An enormous iron pot held beans flavored with oregano. The mouth-watering smells reminded Sorina she would miss the barbecue and no longer had the pan dulce she had hidden in the sack during the morning meal.
Drat! She’d forgotten the gun in the bottom of her trunk. Did she have time to go back? No.
Eyes widened at her appearance amid the army of peóns, stirring pots and turning meat on spits. A man dressed as a house steward ambled toward her.
“May I be of service, señorita?”
She took a deep breath and let her wits guide her. “Only if you can keep a secret.”
“And what might that be?”
“I have learned that my betrothed will be coming directly to the stable. I want to surprise him.” Sorina lowered her head and glanced up at the man through her lashes, tilting her head for effect. “You won’t tattle to my duenna will you?”
“Of course not, señorita.” The man put his hand over his heart. “Your secret is my secret.”
“Thank you.”
She gulped and hurried off toward the stables, sure that her thumping heart could be heard over the din. The darkness of the interior disoriented her for a moment. Blinking she focused on the rear of the building, where she had conversed with Mitchell. A tall form emerged.
“Hurry, we don’t have time to waste.”
She ran toward him, her delicate kid slippers sinking into a pile of horse dung. They could be cleaned later. Or discarded.
“What are you wearing? I thought you were going to change into your shirt and pants.”
Lobo sounded annoyed, but it couldn’t be helped. “I had no chance. Let’s go. The race is over.”
He led a large stallion out of the stall opposite Bolero’s and motioned for Sorina to follow him. Hurrying past a series of small tack rooms, they finally reached a door that led out of the Avila compound. The stand of trees Sorina had seen earlier was on the other side of the shallow riverbed.
Lobo hoisted himself in the saddle and reached down to pull her up. She had to sit sideways in front of him at the base of the horse’s neck—a precarious position—but there was no way she could straddle the horse in her cumbersome skirt.
“Put your arms around my waist and hold tight.”
She pressed her face into his shoulder and locked her hands around his back. He smelled of woodsmoke. She stifled a sneeze. The horse lunged forward and nearly unseated her, but she gripped hard and tried to concentrate on Lobo’s heart thumping under her ear. Once they were behind the trees, Lobo’s right knee pressed into hers as he nudged the horse’s flanks into a full gallop. It was a smoother gait than a trot, and she wouldn’t fall now, but still kept her fingers laced.
They didn’t speak until they reached the mouth of the river and turned toward the shelter of towering cliffs. Slowing, he paused in front of a group of fishermen’s huts and brought the horse to a standstill.
“You can let go now.”
She removed her arms from behind him and sat tall. Hopefully she did not look as frightened as she felt.
“I’ll get off first. Then I’ll lift you down and we’ll be on our way.”
Sorina nodded and grabbed the saddle horn while he dismounted. When his hands held the sides of her waist, she slid off the horse into Lobo’s arms. If her body had been less tense, she might have enjoyed the feel of hard muscle pressed against her breasts. But her ears were tuned to every sound, waiting for shouts of men in pursuit. Instead, seagulls screamed overhead and the sun, now shining directly above, nearly blinded her.
“Come.” A warm hand tugged her forward and led her along the beach to a rocky outcrop at the end of the beach. A small boat, tied to the ruins of a dock, bobbed in the smooth waters of this sheltered spot in the cove. Sorina gawked at the boat and caught her breath. That was the boat that would take them to safety? That toothpick?
She whirled and shook her hand free of Lobo’s. “You cannot be serious. You cannot expect that . . . that . . . oversized wooden bathing tub to take us to Santa Barbara.”
“Get in. We’ll discuss this later.”
“I will not.” She stomped her foot and pushed his chest with her hands. “I trusted you. I put my life in your hands and you repay me with this? I’ll take my chances on your horse. You can stay here.”
“I guess we do this the hard way.” He lifted her and thrust her over his shoulder. Her arms dangled nearly to the back of his knees. She pummeled his backside with her fists and tried to kick with her legs, but they were pinned securely by his arm.
“Stop fighting or we’ll both land in the water. You don’t want to ruin this pretty dress, do you? I’d sure hate to have to strip it off you while I’m too busy to enjoy the view, but I’ll do it if we have to swim to the boat.”
Sorina stopped and went limp, watching the sea under the missing boards of the dock as he made his way slowly toward the boat, as lithe and graceful as a cat. When they reached the end, he stooped and put her feet down on the dock and helped her into the boat.
“Stay here.”
“Where would I go?”
She ignored his scowl and watched him go back to the horse. He removed the saddle and seemed to be giving instructions to a man who came out of one of the huts. Hoisting the saddle over his shoulder, Lobo came back to the boat and dropped the saddle next to Sorina.
“Ready?” He untied
the two lines that kept the boat next to the dock, stepped aboard, and let them drift on the ebbing tide. “Let’s see if this thing sails, shall we?” He hoisted the sail up on the mast, tied it off and sat opposite her, guiding the boat with a tiller until the wind filled the sail and they glided over the water.
Sorina shaded her eyes with her hand, convinced she would see horsemen lining the beach any moment. No one followed.
“We’re still too close to shore,” Lobo said. “Your blue dress is too noticeable. Go into the shelter and stay there until I tell you it is safe to come out.”
“What about you?”
“A fisherman heading out to sea won’t draw any attention on a day like this.”
Sorina gathered her skirts and moved back into the wooden shelter that served as a cabin. A pile of blankets that probably served as the fisherman’s bed covered the cabin sole. It was cooler out of the sun and she allowed her shoulders to relax. Perhaps Lobo knew what he was doing, after all, but she still didn’t know his plan.
Where are you taking me, señor spy? It is a long way to Santa Barbara.
Chapter 17
Water lapped gently against the side of the boat, waking Sorina from a deep sleep. For a moment, she couldn’t remember where she was. Then reality slapped her like a cold ocean wave.
Boat. She was in a boat.
Straightening her legs, she sat up and raised her arms over her head. Stretching was difficult in the cramped cabin, but helped clear her head. Her dress was awry and her braids hung in front of her shoulders, the pins that attached them to her head, lost in the crumpled pile of blankets she’d slept on.
She peeked out the opening at the man lounging against the stern. He held the tiller with two fingers, moving it imperceptibly to keep the sail full. He seemed relaxed and unconcerned, a man in his element, out for a day sail.
She envied him.
In her panic to leave, she hadn’t paid attention to his attire. She studied it now—a loose long-sleeved shirt, leather vest, and buckskin breeches with a broad-brimmed felt hat. He dressed like a gringo, not the Mexican vaquero he had pretended to be.
“You awake?” He grinned through the full mustache and beard. “Come on out. No one chasing us by land or sea.”
The cabin was on the same level as the rest of the boat. Not daring to stand for fear of tipping it, she crawled out the doorway and looked around. Late-afternoon sunlight glimmered like shards of glass against the water. Seabirds circled overhead, swooping down into the water, in search of fish. A sense of peace settled over her. It wouldn’t last, but for now she could let the warm afternoon breeze brush her shoulders and caress her upturned face. She leaned against the mast and allowed her spirit to fuse with the calming powers of sunlight and water.
“I cannot believe I fell asleep.” And yet today’s tension had been almost unbearable, draining her until she was sure she could not take another step or speak another word.
“Battles do that to you,” he said. “Your body gets all worked up with anticipation and when the fight is finally over, it wilts like a rose too long on the ground.”
“Have you been in battles, Señor Lobo?”
“Only one.”
Sorina digested that information, recalling he was a naval officer—too young for the battles she’d read about in her father’s books—battles fought by heroes like Horatio Nelson and Edward Pellew. But those books were full of English sea battles, not American ones.
“Where was your sea battle?”
“In the South China Sea. We encountered a stray pirate while on a reconnaissance mission.”
“Were you already a spy, Lobo?”
“No. I was a midshipman.”
She’d learned from Father’s books that midshipmen were some kind of junior officer in training. How fortunate she was that her father insisted on teaching her to read. She knew so much more of the world than her peers. Education was not necessary for Mexican women. Better to keep them tied to family, church, and their husbands.
“Can I ask you another question?”
“Shoot.”
“What is your name? I cannot keep calling you Lobo.”
He laughed and ran his hand through his shaggy hair. “That’s right. We never were properly introduced at your aunt’s summer ball, were we? Let’s fix that now. Señorita Sorina Braithwaite, meet Navy Lieutenant Lance Grainger.” He took off his hat and nodded in her direction.
“Shall I call you Grainger?”
“If you wish.”
She sat quietly and watched the man at the helm. A school of dolphins distracted her as they jumped out of the water alongside the boat, then frolicked off in another direction. The sun would dip into the horizon soon. She’d watched sunsets many times from her favorite spot on the beach. The air was so clear she might see a green flash the moment the sun sank into the sea.
Her shoulders drooped as a sliver of doubt cut into her peace. Had she done the right thing? Could she have adjusted to Santoro’s needs and, in time, changed him? Had she left others in danger by running away?
Would Grandfather and Tía Consuelo forgive her? Would Uncle Gabriel think her a coward?
Too late to worry. She and Lobo would have to make the best of the situation now.
Did he have a plan? He said he did, but what was it? Where were they going? Certainly not upwind. Questions had to be answered so she could prepare for what came next.
“Where are we going, Señor Grainger?”
“Not too far. There’s a fishing village near Mission San Luis Rey. It’s less than a day’s ride. But by boat, in this wind, we won’t be there until morning.”
Sorina did not know the territory south of the extensive Rancho Santa Margarita y Las Flores, owned by the Pico family. What would they do when they landed? Where would they go from there?
“That’s your plan? I thought we were going to Santa Barbara.”
“We’ll go south first, then north by ship. If you know where your uncle is, then others do, too. They’ll expect us to take the shortest route.”
She nodded.
“We’ll land somewhere out of sight—perhaps by the abandoned mission—and I’ll walk into the village. I’ll say we were robbed of our horses while camping. I’m an English sailor, left behind by one of the trading ships. And you are my Indian servant.”
“Your servant?” Sorina narrowed her eyes. Did he mean for her to clean his boots and tend his horse?
“In the loose clothing I’ve seen you wear, you can pass for a boy. Keep your hair under your sombrero and pray nobody takes a good look at your face. I thought you’d be wearing that getup for the escape. But now . . .” His voice faded.
“Now?” she prompted.
“You’re certainly not going to be mistaken for a male in that garb.” His eyes focused on her breasts, peeking over the low bodice of the silk gown. Her cheeks flamed. She remembered taking off her shawl to use as a pillow before she fell asleep, preferring to have something clean against her nose. Now she wished she had it on.
“I brought the pantalones,” she said, lifting her skirt to reveal the loose trousers underneath. “But I had to leave the camisa in my haste.”
He swallowed as the sail shook in the wind. He shifted his gaze to a loose line and tightened it, bringing the wind back into the sail.
“I have an extra shirt. We can cut it off with that knife you wear, so it won’t be too long. You did bring your knife?”
She shrugged, not wishing to answer directly. “Most peóns have ill-fitting clothes. Such a thing will not be noticed.”
He nodded, his eyes expressionless in the gathering dusk.
“As my servant, I can keep you close by. It’s not unusual for masters and servants to sleep in the same room when on the road.”
Sorina stopped breathing. Sleep together? Madre de Dios. The thought made her warm in hidden places.
“Where is the shirt? I want to change while there is still light.”
“In the saddlebag.”
She leaned forward, opened the leather flap, and pulled out a loose shirt she had seen Lobo wear on the rancho. She turned and crawled back into the dark interior of the cabin, glad she would finally be rid of the gown and petticoats that hampered her movements and reminded her of the night of her greatest temptation.
~ ~ ~
Grainger shifted on the hard floorboards of the boat and reached down to adjust the bulge in the front of his pants.
How are we going to get through the night, let alone the rest of the trip?
He thought he’d choke when Sorina crawled out of the cabin on all fours. Her full breasts spilled over the top of the gown and bounced slightly with each movement. He wanted to reach over and cup each one in his hands while nuzzling the space between them with his lips. His discomfort grew with each breath she took as she assessed the situation, her tongue darting over her lips as she filed away information. When she lifted her skirt to show him the trousers, her legs were outlined against the fabric, and he allowed himself to imagine those legs naked, wrapped around his body, his cock tight inside her.
He’d completely lost his focus, letting wind spill out of the sail.
Now she was crawling back and she still hadn’t changed.
“What’s wrong?”
“I cannot manage the buttons or the corset by myself.”
He groaned. “Come here.”
She shifted awkwardly, rocking the boat, but managed to sit in front of him with her back turned. He reached out and with one hand opened each tiny button, one by one, until her back was exposed through her shift. To untie the lacings of the corset, he needed both hands. Tying off the sail, he unlaced her until the two parts sprung free. Giving in to an impulse, he brushed the soft skin of her back with his fingers.
Shadow of the Fox Page 12
