Shadow of the Fox

by Pamela Gibson

  No words were spoken, but a soft moan escaped her lips as he stroked her, moving his fingers down her spine all the way to her waist. She trembled under his hand and tugged free, holding her bodice in place with her hands as she twisted to face him, longing in her eyes. “Señor Lobo, you must not touch me. I cannot defend myself. It may be foolish, under the circumstances, but I trust you to act as a gentleman, even though I do not deny there is something I cannot put a name to between us.”

  “I know.”

  “You could toss me overboard and return, nobody the wiser. But I believe you have your own reasons for helping me, reasons that go beyond my threats to expose you.”

  Grainger took a deep breath and looked east toward the cliffs, not daring to look at her in her dishabille. He knew what he wanted to do and it had nothing to do with removing her from the boat. He was an officer and a gentleman and, by God, he would not ravish an unwilling woman. He reminded himself she was an innocent and he was protecting her from marriage to a vile man. But his resolve was cracking.

  “Get dressed. Then come back out and let’s see what there is to eat.”

  She nodded and crawled awkwardly back into the enclosure.

  Grainger adjusted the sail, retied it to the tiller, and fumbled around for the canteen of water he’d put in the saddlebag. After taking a drink, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and thought hard about jumping into the cold sea. He had to control himself.

  Lust for Sorina had started a long time ago. It hadn’t abated. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d tasted her—all of her—but that could not happen.

  It would be dishonorable.

  And after what his father had done, maintaining his integrity meant everything to him.

  Once she was safe and on her way to her uncle, he was going to continue his assignment after which he could join Commodore Sloat in Monterey. The war in Alta California, shouldn’t take long, unless there were other hotheads like Santoro around. The rancheros were smart. They wouldn’t jeopardize their cattle, their land, and their wealth. Hell, they had more chance of loss under the corrupt Mexican governors than with the Americans.

  And when the war ended, he hoped to be sent to sea.

  Señorita Braithwaite would stay here and marry someone she found to her liking. She had spirit and courage. She deserved someone she could love and respect.

  It wouldn’t be him.

  The light would be gone soon. When it was clear, the night usually turned cold. They would need each other to keep warm.

  And then what?

  Grainger clenched his jaw. It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter 18

  The temperature dropped with the setting sun, but thankfully, it wasn’t damp. Sorina huddled under a thick, wool blanket that smelled of horse, while Grainger worked hard to keep the boat moving in a gentle wind.

  She watched him light a match and study a handheld compass. He’d been making small adjustments to the angle of the sail since the sun sank into the sea below the horizon, taking most of the wind with it.

  Cold tortillas and water, brought onboard by Grainger, comprised their evening meal. And yet the empty feeling in her stomach was still there. It was more of a longing—the same feeling she’d had when rough fingers caressed her back and she’d turned to see a different kind of hunger in Grainger’s eyes.

  And she’d boldly alluded to the feelings that hovered between them since that long-ago night in her aunt’s garden.

  A soft puff pushed the boat forward, then died. The sail luffed and Grainger tightened a rope, changing the angle of the sail to find more wind.

  “Have we moved at all?” She hoped she didn’t sound like she was whining. It honestly felt like they had bobbed up and down in one spot for hours.

  “Downwind is deceptive. You think you aren’t moving, but actually you are. It is a faster point of sail, and a more comfortable one. Right now, most of our forward movement is the result of the current, flowing south.” His voice was low, and Sorina inched closer to hear him. He had cautioned her about speaking too loud. Sounds carry over the water in the dark and he was keeping close to land. If a search party had been sent south and was near the shore, they could be overheard.

  A tendril of unease brushed her neck. She shivered under the blanket, both from cold and fear.

  “Are you cold?”

  “No.” Chattering teeth belied her statement.

  “Why don’t you go into the cabin and try to sleep?”

  “I cannot. I slept too much in the afternoon.” He swore, but the word was whispered.

  “Come closer, then. I’m cold, too. We can keep each other warm.” He held out his free arm, and Sorina crept aft until she reached him, careful not to rock the boat.

  “Bend forward, señor, and I will wrap this blanket around both of us.” Sorina draped the heavy blanket over Grainger’s shoulders, and nestled in the crook of his arm.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “Much.”

  She had changed into the cotton shirt that Grainger had given her, letting it hang long and loose over her body. The garment with its baggy sleeves was comfortable, but did not provide much warmth. Still, the shirt carried his scent and it soothed her in ways she did not understand.

  Sorina leaned against Grainger’s arm, careful where she put her hands. She sighed and let herself feel safe and warm. It would be so easy to sleep right here, if it were not for the cloud of winged creatures flapping inside her stomach, making her restless and wanting . . . something.

  Conversation might help. She sighed and allowed herself to snuggle closer. His response was a slight tightening of his hold.

  “What made you become a spy?”

  A chuckle rumbled against her ear. “Ambition, patriotism, the element of danger, the need to be important to someone. All of the above.”

  “I understand ambition and patriotism, señor. But I do not understand the others. Why would danger attract you? And is there not someone who thinks you are important?”

  He was silent for a while. Perhaps he wouldn’t answer.

  “I was bookish growing up. My father was a diplomat. At an early age, he decided I should go to school, learn languages and become a diplomat, too. I rebelled. So after graduation, I joined the Navy, but because of my flair for languages I eventually found myself promoted and attached to various embassies anyway.”

  “And did this make your father happy?”

  A long pause made Sorina think he hadn’t heard, but a stiffening of the body next to her told her otherwise. “He was already dead by then.” The words were spoken harshly. Perhaps he had not had a good relationship with his father.

  “And so you became a spy.”

  “I was assigned to join Larkin’s men in California. I do my duty.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Died in childbirth.”

  “So we are both orphans.”

  “I reckon we are.”

  How sad that they both lost their parents. Sorina wanted to comfort him, but was unsure of what to say.

  “And what of you?” he asked. “Why have you not married?”

  “My grandfather thought it best to send me to England, thinking I would find a suitable match there. I did not. In the eyes of my family, Santoro was a gift from God, a chance for me to become a respected matron at a time when I was . . . what is the term? An ‘antidote.’ Marriage was also my grandfather’s desperate attempt to keep me safe, now that war is nearly upon us. Santoro, of course, wants my property, my dowry and the land I will one day inherit from my grandfather—not me.”

  “He is a fool, if that’s true.”

  Sorina smiled, warmed by his words. Grainger was an odd ally. Tough, committed to his principles, and yet, here he was risking his life
to help her escape Santoro and find her uncle. Perhaps she provided the “element of danger” he talked about.

  “I must confess something, señor. I would never have reported you to my grandfather or Santoro or any other official of the government. It was a bluff.”

  “I’d hoped that was the case, but I couldn’t be sure.”

  His tone was off, like he was hiding something. She would think about that later.

  Wavelets slapped the boat as they drifted in near silence. Snug in Grainger’s body heat, a strange anticipation tightened Sorina’s breasts and constricted her breathing. On an impulse, she reached up and brushed her lips against his cheek. He turned and covered her mouth, his lips warm and seeking. Her mouth opened under his, releasing a firestorm of need that threatened to consume her. An aching heat settled between her thighs. She moaned as his tongue found hers, deepening the kiss while his free hand stroked the side of her breast under the blanket.

  The sail flapped wildly as the wind spilled out of the sail. Grainger muttered an oath and wrenched himself away. Standing at the mast, he backwinded the sail and tied off the tiller. The boat bobbed in the water, side to side. He crouched in front of Sorina.

  “Remember what you said earlier about you being vulnerable and at my mercy? That I needed to remember that I am a gentleman? You were right. But I’m not a monk. If you continue to do things like that, we will take up where we left off in your aunt’s garden and we will finish it. A kiss is just a beginning. Your virginity will not be intact.”

  He caught her off guard, but she did not regret her impulsive action. She finally put a name to the restlessness she felt in Grainger’s presence.

  She wanted him.

  “I do not plan to marry. And I confess I am . . . curious.” Her voice sounded breathless, even to her own ears.

  “Curious?”

  Madre de Dios. What was happening to her? “I want to know what goes on between a man and a woman. I want to experience what I would if I married. But I must do this with someone I am comfortable with, someone who fills me with . . . longing.”

  It was hard to confess these things, but as she spoke she knew it was true.

  He studied her face in the moonlight. “You’re sure?”

  “Si, señor. I am sure.”

  He disappeared into the shelter and came back out with the other blankets. Laying them on the bottom of the boat, he seated himself with his back propped against the mast, and drew her into his lap, tucking a blanket around her shoulders.

  Sorina reached up and put her arms around his neck, bringing his face down to hers. His lips covered hers and she opened to him, savoring the warmth of his mouth while entwining her fingers in his hair. With eyes closed, she let her body lead her, enjoying the softness of his beard against her face, the touch of his fingers sliding up under the loose shirt, the feel of the bulge against her buttocks. She wiggled slightly, memorizing its size and shape through the soft pants.

  “You’re killing me.” He left her lips and kissed his way along her cheek to her neck, tracing circles with his tongue on her skin. His fingers stroked her nipple under the shirt before covering her breast with his hand and kneading as his teeth gently nipped the lobe of her ear. Heat shot through her body, straight to her core. She squirmed, squeezing her legs tight.

  “Does that feel good?” he whispered. His voice was as smooth and silky as an after-dinner port. “Do you want more?”

  “Yes.” Sorina had difficulty breathing.

  She was not sure what was supposed to happen, although she had told Isabella otherwise. She’d witnessed farm animals mating. It seemed very unpleasant. Isabella had told her a skilled man can make a woman’s body sing, but Sorina was not sure what she had meant.

  Now she knew.

  Cascades of heat washed through her body. Grainger placed his hands on the edge of her shirt, preparing to lift it up over her head. She closed her eyes and tensed, waiting for the cold air to caress her bare breasts. Nothing happened.

  Her eyes fluttered open.

  “We can’t do this.” He ran his fingers through his hair and lifted her from is lap, setting her aside.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s wrong. Because I’m supposed to be protecting you.”

  He threw her a blanket and she wrapped herself in it. The ache in her body was intense. Silken threads of fire zigzagged through her breasts and in her core. She fidgeted on the seat, willing herself to be still, for the fiery ache to subside.

  “Are you cold?”

  “Cold? I feel like I have a fever.” She watched his gaze slide over her body. He shuddered and turned away, standing to look westward into the darkness.

  “I’m sorry.”

  His words made no sense. “Tell me, señor. Where is the dishonor? I am nearly one and twenty. I told you I would never marry. I want to do this. I do not want to live my life without living fully every minute of every day. I give you permission. It is not wrong if the lady is willing.”

  She pulled the blanket tight, waiting for his response. The mood was broken, but there might be other nights. Yes, she was willful. Yes, she was outrageous. Her English aunt had once called her a hellion and maybe she was right. But this was important. She would go through life a spinster. But unlike Tía Consuelo, she would have memories to warm her, to make her softer, to remind her she was a woman . . . memories of a man who made her body sing.

  Grainger finally turned to her and stared hard before looking away. “Let’s just say I do not want to be like my father.” His words, spoken softly, drifted away.

  More questions formed in her mind but she would not ask them tonight. She burrowed in the nest of blankets and closed her eyes.

  ~ ~ ~

  Grainger put an extra blanket over Sorina and moved to the bow of the boat. When he was sure she was asleep he serviced himself, thinking of her as he did it. He untied the sail and the tiller, found the wind and moved back on course. The current had taken them a little toward shore, but not by much. They should still make San Luis Rey by morning.

  He watched Sorina turn in her sleep. She appeared childlike with her hair still in braids. He had to remind himself she was a woman, a spinster, according to Mexican society where girls married just past puberty. How had such a beautiful, accomplished woman gone unclaimed?

  Maybe she scared off potential suitors with her education. More likely, she was unmarried because she wanted it that way.

  A frown settled on his lips. Had he done the right thing? Should he have given in to the urge to introduce her to pleasure? He liked the fact he was the first to touch her. Thank God Mexican rules of propriety did not allow contact between betrothed couples until the wedding night. If Santoro had laid his hands on her, he would have killed him. He might have to, anyway. The bastard wouldn’t rest until he found them.

  Stealing another glance, he saw her twitch under the blanket. God she was responsive. He’d had to force himself to stop. But decency was important and deflowering a virgin under his protection was not honorable, even if she’d been eager. Out of curiosity, she’d said. That was no excuse for his actions.

  There was no moon, but the stars were bright and he imagined her perfect breasts, tiny waist, and slim hips under the dark blankets. When he’d kissed and stroked her she’d arched into his hand. He nearly lost his resolve. He had to look away, fill his lungs with air, and let it out slowly to bring himself under control.

  How many more nights would they be together on the road? After tonight, she would want to know more and might try to convince him to finish what they’d started. Could he withstand the pressure? And why in hell had he mentioned his father? Now she would dig around until she’d unearthed all his secrets.

  He couldn’t have her, not in the Biblical sense. She might change her mind and want to marry someda
y. No decent man would have her if she was used goods, not in her culture. But he might be able to ease her with his lips and hands, as long as he remained sane.

  A phrase from Hamlet slid out of nowhere into his thoughts.

  “Aye, there’s the rub.”

  Chapter 19

  A bump jarred Sorina awake. Not knowing what it was and refusing to open her eyes, she let herself drift into a languid pool of peace. Her legs and arms seemed wedded to the tangled blankets. What was wrong with her? Where was her morning energy?

  And then she remembered where she was, who she was with, and what they had done.

  Last night’s experience set her cheeks aflame. She remembered waking up on deck, hours later, wrapped snugly in a cocoon of blankets. The air was damp on her face and at Lobo’s direction, she’d crawled into the cabin.

  Lobo. She must call him Grainger now. Or Lance.

  A smile spread across her face and warmed her heart. She remembered the time she saw him wading unclothed into the surf, the muscles of his back defined in the moonlight as he swam toward the rowboat. Even then her body responded to him and she fantasized that he would be the one to introduce her to the mysteries of the marriage bed.

  Except there would be no marriage.

  She must remember she was an inconvenience to him. She had no doubt that he would rid himself of her as soon as she was safe from Santoro. And that suited her, didn’t it? She had plans that did not include marriage, but gave her the independence she craved. Her plans allowed her to make a difference in the lives of a few women who must learn to survive in the new American world that was coming.