Shadow of the Fox

by Pamela Gibson

  “Are you all right?” She nodded and knelt beside him. Cool fingers cupped his face.

  “I’m so sorry, querido. It was the only thing I could think of at the time. I could have lost you if they’d put you on the horse.”

  Tremors shook her and Lance carefully gathered her to him, stroking her hair. His throat constricted and he swallowed several times.

  God, how he loved her. How could he not have realized it sooner?

  “Everything’s going to be all right,” he said. “We’re both alive. We’re both safe.”

  She stood and moved behind him.

  “Your shirt is in tatters where the whip bit your flesh. I’d like to remove it, but the blood has dried and the cloth will be stuck to your wounds. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  He nodded. It would feel like a branding iron, but it had to be done. He’d seen men on ships who were flogged. Afterward they were smeared with goose grease, but they didn’t have any here. If putrefaction set in, he might wish he hadn’t survived the hanging.

  “Do what you have to do, my love, and do it quick.”

  “Hold still.”

  Gentle fingers loosened the binding on his arm, then slowly drew his shirt up over his chest and back. He cried out as skin attached to the fabric tore loose. This must be what it’s like to be skinned. As the shirt reached his head, he raised his arms and she freed it from his body. When cool air hit his back, he flinched.

  “This doesn’t look as bad as I expected.” Her voice was gentle and soothing, like cool water falling over bowls in a fountain. “If I can get my hands on some whiskey, we can clean you up.”

  “And after you use it for cleaning, we can drink the rest.” The last was said in her ear, which was close to his lips as she bent over him.

  “What shall we drink to, señor?”

  “To us.”

  Sorina shook her head, her eyes filled with sadness.

  “You forget. I am married now. If the priest is still alive, he will attest to it. I’m sure Santoro paid him well.” She wanted to bury her head against his shoulder, but held back. “It is too late for us.”

  “No,” he whispered. “You’re a widow. Santoro is dead. He ran off and I followed him. He drew his gun as he disappeared into the trees. We both fired. My shot found its mark.”

  Wide-eyed, Sorina looked toward the stand of trees. “I do not believe it.”

  “Go and see for yourself.”

  She rose and stumbled to the area where the last shots were fired. In less than five minutes she was back.

  “There is blood on the ground, but Santoro is not there.”

  Bloody hell. They had both fired at the same time and Santoro had fallen. The tiny nick on his arm was his proof that Santoro had gotten off his shot. He should have checked, but he was more concerned about Sorina.

  Grainger shook his head to clear it and slowly rose. The ground under his feet swayed, but he remained upright. If Santoro wasn’t there, then where was he? If he was still alive, he couldn’t have gone far.

  “Here.” He put a pistol in Sorina’s hand. “I know you can use it. I’m going to find him.”

  “No, Lance, you are not. Look around. Two are dead and one has vanished. Even the priest has disappeared. We need a plan. Lean on me and we will go to the cabin while you can still walk.”

  She was resourceful, this woman of his. Her suggestion made sense. He nodded, draping his arm around her shoulders. Together they headed toward the lean-to. Grainger hoped to hell Mitchell would arrive soon. If Santoro was still alive and he came back, Grainger didn’t know if he’d have the strength to put up a fight.

  Pride filled him as he looked at Sorina.

  She would.

  Sorina led him inside and seated him on the bed. Finding only water, she cleaned his wounds, her fingers pressing against his flesh.

  His jaw clenched, but didn’t cry out.

  “The bullet grazed your arm. It should heal.” She kissed his cheek and smiled. “Your back is a mess and you will have scars.” She tore strips off her skirt and wound them around his bloody torso. His muscles cried out for rest, but the bed appeared to be flea-ridden. “This is where they held me until you came,” she said. “Lie down if you can while I replenish our water.”

  “Come closer,” he whispered.

  She sat next to him while his free arm came around her. He kissed her with new intensity, as if the soft lips opening beneath his were an illusion, drawn from a fevered need to reassure himself that he was still alive.

  “Be careful, Lance. You don’t want to start bleeding again.”

  “You’re beautiful, you know that? I love that streak across your cheek. It gives you . . . character.” His words were soft, but audible. “Where did you learn that trick with the knife?”

  “My uncle. Knives, swords, pistols, whips—all were part of my training.”

  “A wise man,” he whispered. “Remind me to thank him when we locate him.”

  She patted his uninjured shoulder and left. He didn’t want her outside, but the gurgle of the nearby creek could be heard through the open door and they were now out of water. The creek wasn’t far. If she was careful and stayed amongst the bushes she’d be fine . . . not that there was anyone around.

  Santoro must be dead. He had aimed carefully and had not missed.

  The door was ajar and from the cot he could see the two dead men still on the ground. A good Christian would bury them. Right now he hadn’t the strength and would leave it to others.

  Where is that priest?

  In the distance the rumble of horses’ hooves told him men approached. Thinking Santoro had come back, he jumped up to peer through the window. Sorina rushed back through the open door, closing it behind her. Water sloshed from a clay bowl onto the floor.

  “Is it Santoro?” The tremor in her voice told him she was not as brave as she pretended to be. Nor should she be. The entire experience was not one a lady should ever have to go through. She’d been kidnapped, lied to, and half-starved, only to be married to an evil man. Thanks to her prowess with a knife, he was alive.

  He owed her.

  He swallowed convulsively.

  “Give me the gun,” he said. She handed it to him, making sure it was loaded. “Now get behind the cot. These walls are thin, and I’m not letting anyone take you without a fight.”

  The bastard had to be dead. He’d seen him fall, clutching his chest.

  The horsemen came into view. Grainger let out his breath, not realizing he had held it. It was a group of men wearing the blue jackets and gray trousers of U.S. Marines.

  Thank God. Mitchell hadn’t let him down.

  “Come with me, and hold your hands in the air. We don’t want to get shot by accident.”

  They inched their way through the door. An officer in charge dismounted and walked forward. A man with a rifle backed him up. His eyes seemed to focus on Grainger’s naked torso and the bits of skirt binding him. “Are you the man they call Lobo?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Captain Christopher Sutherland, in charge of a contingent of Commodore Stockton’s Marines.” He looked directly at Sorina. “Are you all right?”

  Grainger answered. “We are now. Is the war already over? How did you find us?”

  The officer glanced back at Grainger. “Will you walk with me? I’d like to speak to you in private.”

  Grainger squeezed Sorina’s hand and followed the captain a short distance away.

  “A messenger came to our camp from Rancho Niguel.”

  “Mitchell summoned you, then.”

  The captain’s gaze fell on Grainger’s bandages. “I see you’ve had a bit of trouble here.”

  “Yes.” Grainger scanned the group of eight men in
uniform. “Sean Mitchell didn’t come with you?”

  “Who?”

  “Mitchell. Didn’t he contact you?”

  “If you’re talking about a horse trainer named Sean Mitchell who worked at Rancho Niguel, he’s missing.”

  Oh my God. How can this be happening?

  “The war?”

  “We’re camped in the hills, preparing to take Los Angeles, but I doubt Castro will put up much of a fight. There are still pockets of opposition, but most of the hidalgos seem to be with us.”

  “Then how did you find us?”

  “We were summoned by an Englishman, John Forster, on behalf of his friend Juan Avila. A messenger looking for Mitchell gave Avila your note. Forster sent it to our camp. He claims you kidnapped and raped the granddaughter of a Mexican grandee.” His eyes shifted to Sorina. “I assume she is Miss Braithwaite?”

  “She is, but she was not kidnapped.” Christ. He knew the rest of this conversation was going to be awkward.

  “Let’s ask her.” They wandered back to where Sorina stood wringing her hands, a frightened expression in her eyes.

  Captain Sutherland cleared his throat. “Are you Miss Sorina Braithwaite, granddaughter of Jose Lorenzo de la Vega?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did this man kidnap you?”

  “No, sir. I forced him to help me escape a vile man who wanted to marry me, he—”

  Grainger interrupted. “My real name is Lance Grainger. I am a lieutenant in the United States Navy. I have been working undercover for months at Rancho de Los Lagos. I report to Sean Mitchell who works directly for Thomas Larkin.” He slanted a glance at Sorina, then looked away. “Miss Braithwaite did not force me to do anything. It was planned. My rescue of Miss Braithwaite was part of my assignment.”

  Sorina gasped.

  “When Miss Braithwaite threatened to expose me as a spy, Mitchell ordered me to agree to her request. You see, her fiancé was Antoine Santoro, a man we suspect of inciting a well-financed resistance movement. We knew Santoro would follow us and try to get his fiancée back. The plan was to distract him long enough for Mitchell to locate his arsenal, break up his band of insurgents, or if not, to keep him busy until American forces arrived. We were successful. This is part of his camp. A mile away is his arsenal. And somewhere between, you should find his body.”

  The captain’s posture straightened. “It’s a good story, but one that requires verification on several levels.”

  He looked down at his boots. “I understand.”

  “I won’t arrest you for kidnapping, Lieutenant, but I still have to take you in. Without Mitchell’s corroboration of your identity and your mission, it’s just your word against the word of influential Mexican citizens, even though the lady says it’s true.

  “After getting Avila’s message, I contacted Vega and he swears you are an employee named Lobo and you stole his granddaughter and compromised her beyond redemption, a capital offense in his culture. Until we straighten all this out, you’ll be confined to quarters and at the very least you will be charged with conduct unbecoming an officer.” He paused. “You know what that means.”

  Grainger froze. It was a nightmare.

  He would be dismissed, his reputation in shambles.

  Chapter 34

  The worst day of her life had turned into the best. Now it was the worst again. Sorina’s legs turned to jelly and she thought she might fall. Instead she took deep breaths, narrowed her eyes, and turned away, willing herself to remain upright.

  The captain addressed his sergeant. “Take him to our camp.”

  Two men dismounted and stood on either side of him. Grainger stared straight ahead, body stiff, eyes unblinking.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To a place near San Pedro. We have temporary quarters there while awaiting our orders.”

  The captain came over and stood in front of Sorina. She raised her head to meet his eyes. “I’ll have two men escort you to your grandfather, Miss Braithwaite. We’ll hitch a horse to that cart over there.”

  She remained silent and followed the men assigned to her. What had Grainger meant when he said he’d been assigned to accompany her? Had he not complied with her request to save her from a forced marriage because she’d threatened to expose him?

  Had he used her?

  The tension in his stance and the anguish in his eyes told her that for him the charge of conduct unbecoming an officer was worse than dying at Santoro’s hands. His father had been branded a coward, and Lance had worked hard to bring honor back to his name. Now it seemed he would face the horror of being discharged in shame.

  He will not face a kidnapping charge. He did not rape me.

  But if her autocratic grandfather ordered the local midwife to examine her, he’d know she was no longer intact.

  Grainger had stolen her heart all those years ago in England. When she saw him again, her body as much as her mind, wanted to know him, be with him, love him. She was at fault for choosing him to be her instrument of escape. But she was not at fault for his acceptance of her challenge if in fact he saw it as a means to an end, an end he had not shared with her.

  Tears stung her eyes and she swallowed hard. This could not be happening. Lance loved her. He must. He’d proven it over and over.

  Or maybe it was his honor that compelled him to search for her when Santoro took her from the ship.

  There it was again, that stupid honor.

  Her emotions must have played across her face because her escort gently took her arm. Overcome by confusion, she did not look back at Grainger. He would not want her to witness what was, for him, a shameful moment, when all of his dreams scattered like ashes in the wind.

  If she had been the instrument of his downfall she might see anger or hatred in his eyes. Even if he’d come to love her, he might blame her for this ultimate shame.

  He does not love me. He used me to distract Santoro. Then why am I not angry? Why is my heart breaking?

  When she got home she would beg her grandfather for mercy and plead with him to take her to the pueblo so there would be no doubt that she wasn’t kidnapped. And where was Señor Mitchell?

  Somehow, he was the key.

  Sorina walked with her head held high and her back straight. The wagon loomed ahead.

  Lance’s words reverberated in her head. Had she been nothing more to him than bait? She stumbled as a heaviness settled in her chest. A strong arm steadied her.

  She looked back. Grainger sat tall in the saddle, a proud man who did not deserve this inglorious twist of fate, or what was to come.

  Even if he’d used her shamelessly to divert Santoro.

  A sudden pain twisted her heart. She would not think about this now. Taking a deep breath, she climbed aboard the cart and set her mind to the coming confrontation with her grandfather.

  ~ ~ ~

  Home usually meant rest and good food and the security of familiar objects and people. Home meant peace and the comfort of routine. Home meant getting up each day and doing the same tasks over and over.

  Except when your family considered you a pariah.

  Sorina rolled onto her back in her wide bed and focused on the unpainted rafters above her. They’d arrived late at night. Pablo had awakened Grandfather, who had ordered her to her room without a further word. She had not expected joy or relief or an uttered prayer that she had been returned safely. But she expected to be acknowledged in some small way . . . a smile or a pat on the shoulder. Instead he had dismissed her like an errant servant or a piece of furniture relegated to a storeroom.

  Would Tía Consuelo be the same?

  She sank into the soft feather mattress, willing her limbs to relax and be free of the tension she’d lived with on the road. The scraping of a key in a lock told her
someone was entering. Two house servants set down a claw-foot tub. Others followed with steaming buckets of water. The door closed and Maria came around to the side of the bed.

  “I thought you might like a bath.” She tugged the covers away and stepped back, her eyes wide with alarm. Sorina remembered she had dropped into bed—exhausted—not bothering to remove her bloodstained, tattered clothes.

  “Help me undress.”

  Maria removed the soiled garments and threw them into a pile. Sorina rose from the bed and walked on her own to the bath, sinking into the hot, scented water. Scrapes on her knees and hands blinded her with momentary pain, but it soon subsided and she let the heated water soothe her.

  Maria handed her a cake of lemon-scented soap.

  “Do you not have questions, Maria? Like, ‘Where have you been?’ ‘How have you lived?’”

  “No, señorita. I do not. It is not my place to pry.”

  Señorita. That meant her newly married state was still unknown.

  “Then I have questions for you. What happened when my absence was discovered?”

  “After the race, there was a search. A cook reported seeing you near the stables. Señor Mitchell was questioned, but he said he’d been busy with the racehorses and had seen no one.”

  Sorina slipped further into the tub. The water momentarily covered her face. When she sat up straight, water streamed down her shoulders while Maria applied special lather to her head, massaging it into her scalp. Her gentle fingers were heaven after days without bathing. Sorina dried her face, but remained in the still-warm water. She might never get out, it felt so good.

  “Tell me about my grandfather’s reaction.”