Shadow of the Fox

by Pamela Gibson

  Circling around the main buildings of the plaza, he gazed toward the hill above, home of the presidio. Where were the soldiers? No campfires glowed in the dark. And why was it taking so long for the American army to reach San Diego? Jameson, his contact at the Buffalo, didn’t know. His latest dispatch, like Mitchell’s, said Kearny was on his way, but he wasn’t sure where the soldiers had begun their march.

  In a moment of conscience, Grainger considered leaving Sorina under the protection of one of the prominent families who knew her. But Jameson said honor would force them to notify her grandfather. And if she was escaping Santoro, she wouldn’t be safe. The marriage would take place, probably immediately, without the usual prolonged celebrations. Better to stick to the plan.

  He was right.

  She’ll be safe from Santoro, but will she be safe from me?

  And that was the real problem. Her breath warmed his neck all the way to San Diego. The faint scent of lilac still lingered on her hair when she put her head against his back. A memory flashed, Sorina naked, floating on her back in the pond. Sorina with a piece of cloth draped around her torso, her long legs straight and smooth, begging to be touched.

  It would only get worse if his plan was successful. They’d be confined to a small cabin on a ship. He would have to keep his lustful thoughts—and body—under control a while longer.

  He spat as his father’s image seemed to appear before him.

  I am not my father.

  Control was a concept foreign to his father. Taking his pleasure wherever he found it—including the beds of his friends’ wives—he was caught and challenged to several duels. The lucky bastard generally won. The last time he made sure by firing early and was branded a coward because of it.

  God, I hope I have more decency than he did.

  The horse grazed where he’d left it. Horses were cheap and plentiful, according to Jameson. There was no danger of it being stolen. But Grainger hadn’t been sure. Mounting, he galloped all the way to the beach, grateful for the distraction from his thoughts.

  When he arrived, several ships were anchored in the harbor. Hopefully, one would be going north and would accept two passengers. Wind willing, they would be in Santa Barbara in a few days. But before he made arrangements, he had purchases to make. He fingered the gold coins he’d removed from his saddlebags. Sorina must be transformed back into a lady. He’d have to visit a brothel in order to get the clothes he needed. And he knew just the one.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sorina jerked. Someone scratched at the door. Sitting up, she rubbed sleep from her eyes and remained quiet, fumbling in the dark for her knife, comforted by the shape of it in her palm. Grainger would have identified himself.

  The scratching became a soft knock, followed by a whisper. “It’s Jameson. Open the door.”

  She’d acquainted herself with Grainger’s friend when he brought her dinner. He was a bear of a man, tall and hairy with tobacco-stained teeth, but he’d been kind and watchful. Her instincts told her she could trust him. “What do you want?”

  “You must leave. Now. Two men in the bar claim to be looking for a man and a woman who are on the run.”

  Ice crawled down her spine. Where was Grainger? Shouldn’t he be back? “Why do you think I am in danger? No one saw me as a woman.”

  “Those louts that played with you a bit told them they’d seen a man and a pretty boy. It piqued their interest and I’m afraid they’re going to search the place.”

  “Give me a minute.” She shoved the saddlebags behind the bed, retied her hair at the back of her neck, and shoved the hat down over her head. Grabbing the blanket, she doubled it and wrapped it around her shoulders the way she’d seen peóns do.

  She slid the bolt and cracked open the door, the knife in her hand. Jameson’s eyes darted down the corridor. He stepped back and shielded her as she crept toward the back door and out into the night.

  Barrels and crates were stacked at the rear of the building. Sorina wasn’t sure where to go, but she must hide. Light from the stars overhead guided her steps. Her instinct was to go back to where they’d left the horse, but she wasn’t sure of the way unless she could get to the plaza.

  Someone banged on wood inside the building. Shouts assailed her ears, adding to the sound of her pounding heart. She crouched behind two wooden barrels and adjusted the blanket around her, careful to curl into as tight a ball as possible. When Grainger returned he would find her here. He would hold her and absorb her fear into his own body.

  What if he doesn’t return?

  Panic knotted her stomach. She should have stayed home. She should have married Santoro and made the best of whatever hand she was dealt. She should have given up her foolish dreams of independence and become a meek, submissive wife, like most of her friends. Not only had she put herself in danger, she was risking Grainger. She pulled the blanket tighter, and bit down on her chattering teeth.

  The back door burst open. A man emerged, holding a lantern. He was joined by another. Sorina held her breath and peered between the two empty barrels. One was Santoro’s brother-in-law. The other was a man she did not recognize, probably someone who worked on his ranch.

  “Go back and question the borrachos again. Maybe the drunks will remember something else.”

  “Shall I question the putas?”

  “Lobo would not risk visiting one of the prostitutes if the girl is with him. Antoine says the girl is smart. She’s probably playing along, waiting for the chance to escape.”

  “When will he make his demands? He must know about the reward.”

  “I don’t think this is about money. You know Antoine. He probably did something to the man and he’s seeking revenge.”

  “Then he’s playing with fire.”

  They laughed as they turned around and went back in the bar. The click of a latch told Sorina it was safe to come out.

  Huddled in her blanket, she thought about the conversation. Santoro’s ego was engaged. He would not want anyone to think she had run away, so he put forth the rumor that she had been kidnapped. Sorina sat back against the hard barrel and shivered. If they had bothered to search the rubbish, they would have found her. It had been close.

  Too close.

  The door opened again. Creeping forward, she peered between the barrels.

  “Senori . . . Sancho.” It was Jameson.

  “Here.”

  He tiptoed behind the empty barrels, squatting down beside her. “They’ve gone. Grainger passed them when he came in. They walked right by him without a blink of recognition.”

  “He’s here?”

  “In the bar. He’s brought your clothes. I put them in the room so you can change.”

  How odd. She didn’t have any clothes, except for the shawl and the blue dress in the saddlebags.

  “He said to give you fifteen minutes, and then he’ll come fetch you. Your ship leaves on the first tide in the morning.”

  Sorina scrambled into the room and bolted the door. A candle flickered on the worn chest of drawers. On the bed was a dark green traveling dress with long sleeves and a matching jacket. A black bonnet with green plumes sat next to it. She fingered the fabric, then lifted the dress. Underneath was a fine muslin shift and a pair of lace pantalettes.

  Thought of everything, didn’t he?

  Would the garments fit? Too much time had passed for reflection. She shed her clothes, grateful to remove the cloth binding her breasts, and slipped on the shift and pantalettes. The dress, reeking of a strong scent, easily slid over her head. The bodice, however, was tight, pushing the tops of her breasts up over the low neckline. The jacket was more a cape and had buttons down the front. It would cover her adequately. No shoes came with the outfit, but the skirt was long and would hide her sandaled feet.

  Her heart thumped as l
oud as the knock on the door. She put her ear to the wooden panel.

  “Who is it?”

  “Grainger. Unlock the door.”

  He was dressed in gentlemen’s clothing, complete with striped waistcoat and cravat. A gold watch fob hung from his pocket. He resembled a man she’d once seen in San Pedro. Grandfather had called him a gambler.

  The door closed and he leaned against it, his eyelids drooping in fatigue. He must be exhausted. She was the only one who had been allowed to sleep.

  “Are you ready for a new role? By the time we reach your uncle you’ll be ready to go on stage.”

  “I’m ready to do what is necessary, señor. But is it a good time to leave?”

  “No, but we have to chance it. Captain Danilov wants everyone onboard tonight, so he can leave at first light.”

  “Señor Jameson said you passed by Santoro’s men and they did not recognize you.”

  “They are looking for a bearded vaquero called Lobo. Not an English gentleman.”

  “I am no longer Sancho, then?”

  “Hardly. You are Baroness Marbury, here to visit your brother who emigrated from England two years ago.”

  “And you are?”

  “Your husband, of course. Come, I’ve booked passage on the Dacha, a Russian trading ship en route up the coast. If we are lucky, it will take us all the way to Santa Barbara. Do you think you can manage a British accent?”

  “But of course, sir. You sell me short. Come, my tea is waiting.” Sorina preened and raised her chin as she glided by Grainger, glancing at his expression out of the corner of her eye. He didn’t laugh, but the merriment couldn’t be kept from his tired eyes.

  Baron and Baroness Marbury, was it? Did that mean they would be sharing a cabin? Married couples usually did on the ships she’d made passages on.

  A different kind of tremor drifted through her body. Perhaps her lessons would continue. She needed the comfort of strong arms. A whimper of sudden awareness escaped from the back of her throat.

  She needed Lance Grainger.

  She needed the man she was starting to love.

  Chapter 25

  Head high, Sorina strolled sedately through the smoke-filled saloon. Although it was past midnight, the place was much livelier than when they arrived. Several tables were occupied by men playing cards. A skinny waitress clad only in a shift served tankards of beer while raucous laughter called attention to a man scratching away at a violin in the corner.

  A nervous tremor found its way down her spine when someone called out to her in Spanish, asking what she’d charge for a night of amor. Pretending not to understand, she ignored the taunt, comforted by Grainger’s firm hand on her arm. The men who had played with her in her Sancho role were thankfully gone.

  Reaching the door, her shoulders tightened as she stepped out into the foggy night, Grainger right behind her.

  “Try to relax and act like the old married woman you are pretending to be,” he whispered.

  Warm breath caressed her neck and she wished she could bury her face against his chest and bury her fears with it.

  A man stepped out of the shadows, and Sorina held her breath.

  “Do you have a light, señor?”

  Sorina lowered her head, the brim of her bonnet hiding her face. She concentrated on the voice, but it wasn’t one she recognized. The accent was different, more like the Castilians she’d once met at a ball in Los Angeles.

  The glow of a match lit a long cheroot, illuminating the features of the bearded man. He was unknown to her, but not to Grainger.

  “Are you ready, my friend? I am eager for my bed.”

  “If I had a woman like that, señor, I would be, too.” The man disappeared around a corner and returned a few minutes later with an open wagon. A trunk was in the back.

  Sorina eyed the conveyance with interest. And what could be in the trunk?

  “After you, my dear.” Grainger swept off his hat in a deep bow, his British accent thick. Sorina climbed up into the bed of the wagon and moved over to make room for him. The vehicle rolled off toward the sea, the neighing of the horse the only sound in the damp night. “Are you cold? There’s a blanket on the floor. This is the best I could do on short notice.” He reached down and spread the cover over their laps.

  “It isn’t far. I can manage.” Sorina was wound up as tight as a child’s top. Although she could see very little, her eyes still searched the edges of the buildings they passed, expecting Santoro to dart out and stop them.

  “Come here.” Grainger put his arm around her and drew her into his body. His fingers drew tight little circles on the back of her neck, helping her to relax as she snuggled deeper into his shoulder. “We’ll be there in an hour.”

  “So long? I thought it was only six miles.”

  “Are you so impatient, then, to be alone with me? Or are you weary and ready for sleep?”

  If he knew the true answer to that question, he might ask for a speedier pace. The moment he drew her into his arms, heat warmed her woman parts. They had not spent any time alone together since they arrived in the pueblo. Now, with the prospect of the shared cabin, she was anxious to get to the ship, curious to see what his actions would be.

  “I am worried that Santoro or his men will follow, that’s all.” It was a safer answer until she knew exactly what his intentions were.

  “The horse knows the road. But the fog rolling in makes it folly to go any faster.” He held her close and Sorina finally let her guard down. She was exactly where she wanted to be: here with Grainger, warmed by his body and comforted by his words. She sighed and breathed deeply, worry-free at last.

  The journey took nearly two hours and Sorina was grateful to leave the hard seat and put her feet on the ground. The driver signaled with a lantern, and a light flashed back from the sea.

  “The boat will be here to row you out,” he said. The lantern was put back on the vehicle and the driver wandered over toward a corral where two men sat around a campfire.

  “Where is the horse you purchased?” asked Sorina.

  “I traded it for this ride. The barter system in California is quite lively.”

  She shrugged. They would not need a horse until they reached Santa Barbara. Perhaps they could acquire two horses this time. Her brooch could be pawned if Grainger ran out of money. Where he got his money was puzzling, but she didn’t question. Madre de Dios, perhaps it was his spy earnings. When they found Uncle Gabriel she would be sure to have him reimbursed.

  Guilt washed over her. She hadn’t given a thought to her uncle in days. She had only been concerned with her own safety. What if he couldn’t be found? What if he had moved on? Santa Barbara was his last known whereabouts. Fortunately, California was sparsely settled.

  What if he is dead?

  He was not. Uncle Gabriel was a survivor, but he might not be easy to find.

  She would discuss this with Grainger later. He would know what to do.

  The slap of oars called her out of her reverie as two men dragged a small boat ashore. Grainger hopped off the wagon and spoke to them in Russian, then turned to signal to her.

  “Come, my love. It is time to depart.”

  She trod carefully over the stones on the beach and climbed into the boat, settling her skirts around her. “What about the trunk?” She used her British accent.

  “The oarsmen will collect it after we’re aboard and bring it to our cabin.”

  She leaned forward so only he could hear. “What is inside?”

  “A surprise.” He climbed in after her and the men pushed the boat into the water. It glided on the smooth surface of the inlet. Sorina watched the lantern light recede. The last time she was in a boat—one a bit larger than this—fire and frustration was unleashed by the man sitting across from her.
A blush warmed her for an instant, only to fade in the cold wet air. When they reached the rope ladder at the side of the ship, her teeth were chattering again.

  The oarsmen grabbed the side of the ship and steadied the boat. Sorina prayed she wouldn’t slip and fall into the water. “Stand up carefully and hold on to the rope. I’ll hold you from behind.”

  Grainger’s hand on her buttocks was warm through the clothes as he helped guide her foot onto the rope ladder and boosted her up. She wobbled, but held on, a knot in her throat.

  “That’s it, love, one hand over the other as your feet find the next foothold. You can do it. You’re almost there.” His words soothed and prompted until rough hands grabbed her wrists at the top and helped her over the railing. Her legs shook under her as a member of the crew led her to a pile of sails and lowered her to a sitting position.

  Grateful, she breathed deeply, afraid to feel safe, afraid to feel free.

  And then he was there, grinning at her. She wanted to jump up and smother him with kisses, but of course proper English matrons did no such thing.

  “Captain Danilov is abed. Follow me. I walk with you to your cabin.” A man with a heavy coat and a tall fur hat stepped in front and opened a door to a passageway.

  “Come, my dear. It is time to get you out of the cold.” He held out his arm and she took it as they went down more steps into the bowels of the ship.

  The cabin was small with two bunks, an upper and a lower. A wooden chair was affixed to the floor. A cupboard revealed a basin and ewer on one shelf, a chamber pot on another. Sorina’s lips puckered in distaste. This was not a ship designed for passengers.

  “What’s wrong?” Grainger leaned against the closed door of the cabin.