Shadow of the Fox

by Pamela Gibson

  “Then we shall begin, yes?”

  She bent over and dropped the soap in the water, stroking it until it formed a lathery film in her hands. The slight breeze cooled his face the minute her hands worked the soap into the stubble on his left cheek. Picking up the knife, she positioned herself at his side. One hand held his chin steady while the other one slid the blade over his cheek. Her hands were soft and his face tingled where she touched. Concentrating, she moved behind, tucking his head against her breasts to steady it while she lathered and slid the knife under his chin.

  Grainger groaned and gritted his teeth. Soft flesh cradled his head. He imagined tight buds brushing his shoulder. But if he turned to look, Sorina might lose her concentration and let the knife slip.

  “How much longer?” he growled.

  “Patience, señor. I have only done your neck and one side.”

  Grainger swallowed hard and waited for her to position herself on his right side. Her braid caught on his shoulder as she moved and he raised his hand to lift it off.

  “Do not move, señor. I do not want to nick you.”

  He stilled while she lathered his right side and moved the knife with sure strokes along his cheeks. When she stood in front of him she leaned forward, holding his head steady, while she addressed his mustache. He licked his lips and she stood back.

  “You are not still. I must hold your head to my chest to steady you while I finish around your ears.”

  Hell yes, put my face into your chest.

  “I’ll be still. I promise.”

  Holding his cheek with one hand, she finished her task and studied him like an artist studies a completed painting. Frowning, she steadied his chin with her free hand and scraped a bit more hair from under his nose and lips.

  “There. You look very different now.”

  “What do I look like?”

  Hands on hips, she tilted her head. “You look like the officer who danced with me in my aunt’s garden many years ago.”

  “Did you like him?”

  She paused before she answered. Looking down, she said, “I thought he would return the next day to take me for a drive. I thought the kisses in the garden meant something and I wanted him to kiss me again. When he did not come the next day, or the day after, I swallowed my disappointment and convinced myself that it had all been a dream.”

  “And?”

  “I did not like him at all. But a week later, when my aunt took me to Liverpool to board a ship bound for the Americas, I liked him very much.”

  Grainger cocked his head in puzzlement. What was she talking about? “I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow you.”

  “It was my cousin’s fault. The next day she told my aunt I’d been in the garden with a man. My aunt, a very proper lady, decided I was incorrigible. I was sent home.”

  “I was the cause of your downfall?”

  “No señor. You saved me . . . as you are doing now.” She leaned down, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and scurried back toward the buildings.

  Chapter 21

  Truth sometimes lay hidden beneath layers of illusion. She’d been angry at Grainger for raising her expectations, for giving her something to look forward to at a time when her English relatives had nearly crushed her spirit. When he wasn’t among the next day’s callers, she convinced herself she hated him. It was easier to hate a stranger than to hate herself, easier to condemn a man who disappointed her, rather than face up to her own failures.

  But when her aunt called her into the library and informed her in clipped tones that she was being sent back home, she nearly wept with relief.

  She’d wanted to go home more than anything else in the world.

  And she owed her good fortune to the stranger.

  Sorina glanced back over her shoulder. Grainger still sat on the tree stump, staring after her. It made her self-conscious and mindful of her unkempt appearance. Was there anything to like about her today? Her nose wrinkled in disgust. She needed a bath and clean clothes.

  And she needed the feathers tickling her insides to cease.

  Madre de Dios, she thought she’d burst into flames the moment she touched his face. Moving from one side to the other, leaning in to hold his chin as she scraped it clean, made her body glow and her heart pound. She longed to have him stroke her in places he had not touched last night, to ease the echo of her heart throbbing there.

  Was she wrong to want to straddle his lap and feel his body pressed against her own? What had happened to her? Why was she acting like a common puta?

  Because last night he said a kiss was a beginning. Because this is my only chance to find out what he meant.

  If only they had more time. But they did not. Their destination was nearby. Sorina knew the missions had been built a day’s ride apart. Except for Pala, to the east, this was the last mission before San Diego.

  She opened the door to the small chamber she’d slept in and waited while Grainger strolled toward her. Would he rest before they set out again? She’d left the bedroll on the frame in case he wanted to use it.

  She could stand watch.

  He took his time, stopping to look at the sky as if expecting rain. The day had turned sunny and warm. A slight breeze stirred the leaves in the oak trees, it’s warmth a portent of a windy afternoon. A Santana was coming. She could feel it.

  “Are you planning a siesta, señor?”

  A lazy grin transformed his face and softened his eyes.

  “I gave it some thought.” The dimple in his chin appeared and his eyes dropped from her face to her chest. “But there isn’t time.”

  She’d admired that dimple in her aunt’s ballroom long ago as he smiled down at his dancing partners. Now he did not have to hide it beneath a beard. “We leave soon?”

  “Yes, and there’s something I want you to do while I’m gone.”

  “Gone?” Sorina hoped he wouldn’t think her squeak of surprise was panic. Surely he was not planning to leave her here. “Where are you going?”

  “When I was up in the bell tower I saw the village I told you about yesterday. We actually passed it, but couldn’t see it from the boat because of a stand of trees. I’m going to go there and see if I can trade the boat for a horse. Can you ride pillion?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good, because the boat will only get us one animal. I hope it is a worthy one.” He touched her shoulder. “Will you be all right here by yourself?”

  Sorina swallowed hard and nodded. She had her knife and she’d been taught to use a sword. She’d spied an old rusty one lying in a corner.

  I wish I had my uncle’s pistol.

  “That’s my girl.”

  He tilted her chin and reached down to place a chaste kiss on her forehead. Sorina held her breath and closed her eyes, hoping for more, but he released her and turned back toward the river.

  “Señor,” she called out, “you said there was something you wanted me to do.”

  “Right.” He kicked the dirt with his boot. “I want you to cut a long strip from one of the blankets.”

  “Why?” This was most bewildering. They only had a few good blankets and they might need them.

  “Take the strip and bind your breasts. You are far too endowed to pass as a boy, and it is imperative that nobody questions your gender. Do you understand?”

  Cheeks flaming, Sorina nodded.

  Grainger headed toward the place where they’d left the boat. Endowed? She’d never heard that term before. Lifting her shirt, she placed her hands over her breasts. Grainger was right. They stuck out too far and might be noticed. She turned and went into the room where she’d slept.

  She tested all the blankets, but they were thick and heavy. Her shawl might be better because it was soft. No need to be itching. Scratching woul
d only call attention to the very part of her body Grainger wanted her to conceal.

  Lifting the paisley shawl, she spread it out on the floor and picked up her knife. A memory flashed, her mother with eyes closed, waiting for her surprise. Her father, handsome and mischievous, telling her to hold still while he crept behind her and draped the shawl over her shoulders. Her mother’s squeal of delight as she lifted the edge and rubbed it against her cheek.

  The indigos and greens of the pattern blurred. Sorina could not rip it apart. She did not want to destroy the memory.

  After folding the garment and putting it back, she wandered around the old mission, looking for the room where Grainger had discovered blankets. When she found it, she spied a length of coarse brown cloth lying on a shelf. It wasn’t soft, but it did not smell like horse and it didn’t feel scratchy.

  She cut her strip, keeping the rest for use later, and for the next hour continued her exploration of the grounds.

  Like San Juan Capistrano, long corridors formed a quadrangle, with the church at one end of a long row. A surprise greeted her near the river. A divided pond with floating lilies glistened in the sunlight. She knelt at the edge and took a closer look. Rough stone steps led down into one, but the other appeared to be deep on all sides. A broken gargoyle lay nearby, the twin of one still sitting atop a low pillar. The water was cool and clear against her hand. A spring? Or was it diverted from the nearby river?

  How much time had passed? An hour? Was there enough time to bathe?

  She hastened back to the tree stump where she’d shaved Grainger and retrieved the piece of soap. It smelled of lye and was probably made to wash clothes, not bodies, but Sorina didn’t care. She longed to wash her face and hands, and perhaps her hair. She dare not remove her clothing. What if the shepherd returned?

  Returning to the pond, she sat at the edge with a tiny square of the brown cloth and dampened it, mopping her face and arms. Reaching under the loose shirt, the cloth cooled her heated flesh over her breasts and belly and under her arms.

  She stood and loosened the waistband of the pants, dropping them so she could run the wet cloth over the rest of her body. Madre de Dios, that felt good. What harm could come of a quick dip in the bracing water? It appeared to be clean.

  She quickly stripped off the rest of her clothes and slipped into the pool. The cold was like a slap in the face. When she grew accustomed to the temperature, it was pure heaven to drift among the lily pads. Pinching her nose between two fingers, she closed her eyes and ducked under the water. When her head broke the surface, she stood, letting the water sluice down her torso.

  Grainger stood there, looking grim.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Taking a bath.” Madre de Dios, she had not heard him return.

  “I see that. Get out.” He picked up the rest of the torn cloth she’d brought to use as a towel, held it by two fingers and looked away. Reaching out, she grabbed it and climbed up the steps, wrapping herself in the coarse material as she bent to pick up her clothes.

  “I did not hear you return, señor.”

  “No you didn’t. Nor would you have heard Santoro if he had come. Or maybe a traveler who had chosen to stop here, like we did. Or even a new owner, if this mission has been sold like the others and he had chosen this day to inspect his property.”

  “I would have heard Santoro. He travels with many.” Grainger had a right to be angry, but his words were harsh and hurtful.

  She moved in front of him, clutching the cloth she’d wrapped herself in, her arms and legs exposed. “I am sorry. I did not think.”

  His arms hung at his sides, but his fingers curled into his palms, like he was trying not to move his hands. His eyes softened as he regarded her, making her ache with longing. As if debating with himself, he turned and strode away. “Get dressed. We have to leave. I’ll meet you in front of the church.”

  “Did you get the horse?” He must have heard her, but he did not answer. She turned back and put on the pants, then reached down and picked up the strip she’d cut and bound herself as best she could. Fastening it in front, she put on the shirt and hurried back to the sleeping room, where the rest of their gear was stored.

  She had not had time to wash her hair, but her body felt much better. At least it had, until Grainger arrived and that strange ache started again. Would it always be thus? Would he always make her body pulse with some invisible need? If only he would touch her again as he did in the night.

  She might never see him again, once they reached San Diego. If the Americans controlled the village, he would put her on the first ship bound for Santa Barbara. Alone.

  A void as deep as an arroyo opened in her heart.

  She did not want that to happen.

  Chapter 22

  Impromptu voyeurs get exactly what they deserve.

  Nothing.

  Grainger ambled back toward the front of the building, the discomfort in his pants making it difficult to walk. He shouldn’t have been silent. He shouldn’t have watched her in the pool. He shouldn’t have stayed while she wrapped the tattered cloth around that luscious body and pleaded for forgiveness.

  He should have stripped, joined her in the pool, and made love to her until she begged him to stop.

  The entire afternoon had been one of frustration. It had started with the shave.

  Shaving was necessary. He had to leave Lobo behind. But sitting patiently while Sorina tilted his chin with soft hands and bent over his face, her breasts clearly outlined under the thin shirt, had been torture. He’d wanted to stick out his tongue and lap at a nipple through the cloth. When she’d cradled the back of his head against those soft mounds, he thought he’d die of the pleasure until his male organ pushed against his pants, pleading to be released.

  He’d run off—on a necessary errand—but escape it was, so he would not be tempted to wrap his arms around her, to kiss her until she couldn’t stand, and to carry her to a soft place where he could continue her education.

  Lack of sleep must be pushing my baser emotions to the surface.

  He reached the horse and stood back to get a better view. It was a stallion, dark brown in color with a white streak on its forelock. Quite unremarkable.

  He’d expected Sorina to run out to see it as soon as he returned. She hadn’t, and he thought she might be sleeping again. But she wasn’t in the room where she’d napped earlier, and when he couldn’t find her he nearly panicked. How long had he been gone? Had Santoro found her and carried her off? He’d run along the corridor, his heart thumping in his chest, careful not to call out in case her captors had her tied up somewhere.

  And then he’d found her.

  What the hell was she doing?

  She appeared to be frolicking in the pool in all her naked glory, parting the lily pads as she floated on her back, her breasts peeking above the surface. He watched her for a while, his cock growing, as she splashed a frog and then stood in the waist high water. She climbed out and bent over to pick up the piece of soap she’d used when she shaved his face. Water dripped from those taut globes down her straight legs and he imagined himself behind her, pulling her toward him, entering her with a single thrust, hearing her moan and feeling her shudder as she climaxed.

  When she dipped her head under the water he quickly moved forward. Rising out of the water her eyes locked on his. And instead of grabbing her and doing what he most wanted to do, he scolded her, fighting for control the entire time. Giving in could spell disaster . . . especially after what he’d heard in the village.

  Santoro’s men had already turned south. They had to get away from this place, and they had to do it now.

  He gauged the time by the angle of the sun and decided they could make it to San Diego if they used the main road after dusk. Before then they would take
the cliff trail.

  He turned off his thoughts and busied himself with the saddle, making sure the blanket was in place underneath and the girth was tight. The stallion was broad and sturdy, and appeared strong enough to handle two riders. His former owner seemed happy to take the boat in exchange. The man was a fisherman, not a vaquero. He wanted to go back to his old trade.

  Grainger hoped the horse wasn’t stolen.

  “I am ready, señor.” Sorina slunk out of the shadows of the corridor, her bundle in her hand, and the straw hat on her head. Her braids were well hidden. She must have found enough pins to keep them from falling.

  He scrutinized her appearance. “Come here.”

  She stood in front of him, her head lowered. He yanked the back of her shirt tight. It lay smooth, although there were still slight rises if one studied her closely. He reached down and grabbed a handful of dirt, rubbing it into her cheeks. “You’re too clean. I know a bath probably felt good, but you’re not Sorina Braithwaite anymore. You’re . . . you’re . . . Sancho, a mestizo born of a white father and an Indian woman. Remember that.”

  “Yes, Grainger.”

  “And no English. Call me Patrón. I am your master in this guise.”

  He took the bundle from her hands and fitted it to the saddle. He’d put one blanket under the saddle and tied the other onto the pommel. Enough of the original was exposed so that she could ride astride sitting on the blanket behind the cantle, instead of the horse’s coarse hair. Climbing into the saddle, he reached down and with one arm, lifted her up behind him. Her arms came around him and pressed into his stomach.

  “Comfortable?”

  “Si, señor.”

  “Let’s see if this is going to work.” He nudged the horse’s withers with his knees and they started off.

  He’d decided earlier to follow a trail over the cliff tops. It was far too dangerous to take to the main roads. The Indian villagers he’d encountered had not heard of the war, but they told him two strangers had offered a reward for information about a missing woman and her captor. It had been hard not to press them further, but he did discover the men were on their way to San Diego.