“I thought you might have left without me.”
“For the briefest moment, I actually considered it . . . for your own sake.”
“Mine?” She licked her dry lips. “Why?”
“To save you from me.”
Her chest tightened with the sadness she felt for him. “Please don’t say such things . . .” The last few words got tangled around her cotton-coated tongue. He brought a cup of water to her mouth and lifted her to take a drink. After several sips, he lowered her back to the bed.
“I will be better tomorrow,” she whispered.
“We shall see.” He appeared skeptical, then looked away as he placed the cup back upon the table.
“I will be on my feet, Blake.” With such a weak voice and body, her attempt to convince him was futile. “I must look for Andrew.”
“I asked about your son,” he offered, turning back to her. “There was a boy here who fit his description but—”
“He’s gone,” she said at the same time as he did.
His eyebrows shot up. “You know he ran away?”
“No, he was kidnapped.”
“But the priest said—”
“He doesn’t know the truth,” she whispered. “Andrew was taken to a different ship by some other men.”
“How can you be so sure? You have been sick with fever all day. Perhaps you were dreaming.”
A knock at the door interrupted them. Blake straightened in the chair, calling out in Spanish for the person to enter. Behind him, Cara saw a stoop-shouldered, white-haired woman come inside carrying a covered platter.
Her heart pounding, she lifted her head. “Aunt Gaby?”
“No,” answered the woman, walking up to the bed. “Me llamo Guadelupe . . . Lupe.”
Cara watched her hand the tray to Blake, then remove the cloth. Steam rose from the plate centered on the wooden board, filling the tiny room with an aroma of fresh-baked bread and other tantalizing smells.
“¿Dondé está Gabriella?”
In Spanish, Lupe answered solemnly, “She is gone.”
“But she said she would stay with me.”
“Why do you ask such a question?” She leaned over and felt Cara’s forehead. “You must still be sick with fever.”
“No . . . I saw her. She was here.”
The woman pulled back, made a quick sign of the cross over her breast, then pressed her palms together. “You have been visited by someone other than me? A woman. Old as I?”
“Yes. My aunt. Aunt Gabriella.”
Blake interrupted, “What are you two talking about?” Lupe glanced nervously at him, then at Cara. “Gabriella, she was one of us. But she died last year.”
“But you said—”
“I said she is gone. But I have heard of others who say they have seen her just as you claim.”
“Nonsense,” muttered Blake.
Cara ignored his disbelief. She had seen the same reaction many times before in her life when someone found out about her own psychic abilities. It didn’t surprise or disappoint her to see it again. “Then what I experienced . . . ?”
“I-I don’t know.” Lupe looked down at her hands. “She has been called the angel of mercy.”
Silence fell upon the little room. An erratic flickering of candlelight danced across the white adobe walls. As the tiny flame spit and sputtered, Cara glanced over at the last of the tallow being burned away.
“I will go and get another candle,” offered the old woman, hurrying out the door and leaving it ajar. A sea breeze slipped through, bringing a chill into the room and extinguishing the dying flame.
“Blake?” asked Cara in the sudden darkness. She heard a slight movement beside the bed and assumed that he had placed the tray on the floor.
“I’m here.” His hand settled on the blanket over her arm. She withdrew her hand and reached for him. After an awkward bump of fingers and knuckles, he clasped her hand in his. “Is that how you know about Andrew?”
“Yes.” She lightly squeezed his fingers. “Trust me, Blake. I don’t know what else to tell you right now. But I know that boy was kidnapped.”
“That boy?”
Now she’d gone and blown it. So tired and weak, she couldn’t keep up with all the lies and half-truths. Cara held her breath, waiting for the inevitable question.
“You meant to say ‘your’ boy, right?”
“Y-yes, of course.” She sighed heavily, perhaps more than was necessary. But she wanted to make sure he heard a sadness in her voice. “Forgive me, Blake. I’m not myself. I will be better tomorrow.”
“So you said.”
“Yes.” And I promise I will tell you everything then.
“I will let you get some sleep.” His voice had taken on an edginess, not quite sharp, yet not the same gentleness as before.
“Yes, you should find a table to eat your dinner.”
“I intend to.”
The dark room kept her from seeing his face, his expression. But in her own intuitive mind, she saw his features without the need for light. His wary eyes. His fixed chin. His tight jaw. She sensed his drifting away again.
“Are you coming back later?”
A long pause followed, then he finally answered in a weary voice. “I will see you in the morning.”
Holding his hand a little longer, she wanted desperately to break through the barrier he had restored in the blink of an eye. She tried to read his thoughts. Only stoic silence met her, but she felt his hurt and a twinge of anger.
“In the morning, then.” She tried to keep her spirits up. “I’ll be ready to sail with you.”
“We shall see.”
Though they were the same words he’d said earlier, this time he did not sound worried for her health. Instead, he sounded as if the question of leaving with him was the issue. Dear Lord, she hoped not She had to go with Blake. Somehow she knew he was the only one who could help her find Andrew.
A glimmer of light moved into the room, preceding the old woman as she entered with a new candleholder in her hand. After she set it on the table, Blake lifted the tray from the floor, draped the cloth over it, and stood to leave.
“Goodnight Cara.” He turned, nodded at Guadelupe, “Buenas noches, señora.”
The woman glanced between them, then frowned. “No kiss from a husband to his wife?” she asked in Spanish, hooking her hands on her hips. “If you two have quarreled, she will not sleep restfully. That is no good. Captain. You make amends. I come back soon. Very soon.”
Lupe left. He hesitated, then placed the tray on the seat of the chair and leaned over the bed. “Sweet dreams, my dear and precious wife.”
Cara saw a spark in his eyes as he lowered his mouth to hers, uncertain if it was anger or humor. The flu-like symptoms she’d battled all day seemed to be wreaking havoc on her mental radar.
Expecting a gentle kiss, she was surprised by the sensual press of his mouth. Despite her exhaustion, her blood pressure shot up. An uncontrollable moan of pleasure murmured deep in her throat. She reached up and cupped the back of his neck with her hand. He slowly pulled away, revealing eyes dark with carnal desire.
His gaze drifted over her mouth, her chin, her neck. A sardonic smile tilted one corner of his mouth. She looked down and saw that the blanket had slipped downward, uncovering most of her chest, exposing the upper curve of darkly pigmented circles.
Without touching her, he gingerly grasped the edge of the blanket where it tented across the shallow valley between her small breasts.
Her breathing grew shallow. Her fever returned. With a deliberate and calculated move of his hand, his gaze steady and direct, he dragged the covers up, one millimeter at a time, allowing the coarse wool fibers to rub across her nipples. She felt them grow taut, sending a tingling, gnawing need to the pit of her belly.
She knew he was well aware of what he was doing to her. It was torture, sweet torture.
And she was putty in his hands.
No matter how sick she had been
earlier, no matter how exhausted she was now, she could not stop the escalating arousal from this erotic stimulation of her nipples.
She was ready for more, ready for him to continue his seduction, to finish what he had begun. This time it would end differently than in his cabin. This time he would slip under the blanket with her and hold her tenderly. He would enter her and move inside her with the caress of a gentle lover.
“I need you, Blake,” she whispered desperately, her arms reaching out to him.
Wordlessly, he dropped his lips to hers, claiming her with a rough and hungry kiss. She groaned, her fingers groping for the buttons of his shirt.
Abruptly, he tore his mouth away with a gasp. “No! Not here. Not now.”
She wanted to scream, Yes—dammit! Take me! Here! Now! She was about to burst apart at the seams. She didn’t care if the old woman was waiting outside, ready to walk in at any moment. Right now, she didn’t care if it was high noon in the center of a dusty pueblo . . .
The image of gawkers standing over them stopped her wild speculation.
I’m losing my mind.
She rolled to her side, turning her back to Blake, feeling aroused, frustrated, rejected, incredibly sad and not knowing why. She felt a cool chill run down her spine and realized the blanket had pulled away from the mattress and was now draped over her hips. She wasn’t about to feel around back there to cover herself for his sake. Let him look. Let him see what he’s missing.
“Good night, Blake.”
“Good night . . . Mrs. Edwards.”
At sunrise the following morning, Blake lay in his borrowed bed, his hands behind his head, his ankles crossed, staring at a spider creeping across the ceiling of a room similar to the one Cara occupied. A rooster crowed. Somewhere outside his window, dogs yipped playfully.
Had he slept at all? The entire night had seemed like one long, torturous endurance test of his iron will. How many times had he paced the floor instead of rushing back to her room? How many? A hundred?
When he had tried to sleep, his dreams had been filled with visions of her—waking, sleeping, laughing, loving. He had felt connected to her. An eerie, frightening, frustrating connection. His mind had filled with vivid images of sliding into bed with her and simply holding her body next to his. He saw her beneath him as he made love to her slowly, tenderly.
“I need you, Blake,” she had whispered in his dream, just as she had done in her room last night. This same scene played over and over in his sleep throughout the night. He would kiss her, losing all thought of control. She would reach for his shirt. He would tell her “no.”
But then the dream would take an abrupt turn from the reality of the previous night.
He would hear her cry out, “Yes—dammit! Take me! Here! Now! I don’t care if the old woman is waiting outside, ready to walk in at any moment. Right now, I don’t care if it is high noon in the center of a dusty pueblo.”
His dream included a very public display of intimacy that drew a perverse gathering. In the midst of their lovemaking, she would moan, “I’m losing my mind.”
Inevitably, the dream would end there. Each and every time, without fail, Blake was left with nothing but frustration and need.
The rooster crowed again. He shoved himself off the bed, relinquishing any notion of gaining another moment or two of rest. No, he would not get another full night’s sleep until he was rid of one Cara Edwards.
Or bedded her.
Chapter 9
Beneath dark clouds in the early-morning hours, Blake found little serenity for his restless soul as he passed by the companario—the bell-wall—and walked among the ruins of the great stone church. All that remained from an earthquake in 1812 was a section of wall and a single dome, one of seven. As he stood in the quiet hours of dawn, he thought of the forty Indians who had lost their lives on the very ground beneath his feet. He considered for a moment the strange twist of fate that had placed the victims in a house of worship, in a sanctuary of holiness, when their end came. What sort of divine reasoning was that?
For as long as he could remember, he had pondered the many unanswered questions about fate and faith. Here at the mission, he found himself asking again if there was a greater plan in life, in his life . . . or was everything merely a maelstrom of haphazard events, with each person fighting to make sense of it all?
A songbird caught his attention with a light whistling tune. Another answered. The melodious cheerfulness should have lifted his pensive mood. Instead, it merely nudged him to move on to other parts of the mission grounds.
Waiting for an appropriate time to check on Cara, he wandered about, picking up a stone now and then and tossing it a good distance. As often as not, he missed the object he had been aiming at. He wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t his usual self this morning. Tired, irritable, and wound up tighter than a watch spring, he did not deal well with idle time on his hands. He wanted to be on his way back to the ship. Even more, he wanted to be on deck under full sail in a fair wind.
You are lying to yourself, whispered a taunting voice.
If truth be told, he wanted only to see Cara, preferably awake and well. Nothing else seemed as important. Yes, he was still upset with her missteps and falsehoods. But his distrust was as ineffective against his carnal desire for her as an anchor that went down foul, failing to bring up a mooring ship with too much headway.
He distracted his mind with a casual inspection of the soap vats and brick kilns, tanning tanks and presses—most of which had sat idle since the Franciscans had been stripped of their authority over the Indians by the Mexican governor. The few Indians left at the mission stayed by choice.
Even after death?
Apparently so. That is, of course, if he were to believe Lupe’s story about the angel of mercy. Obviously Cara believed it.
Cara, again.
Every avenue of thought led back to her. Drawn like an ancient mariner to the siren song, he felt the ever-present tug to return to her.
He raked his fingers through his hair, then kneaded the tight muscles in the back of his stiff neck. With a glance heavenward, he scanned the gray clouds, hoping the weather would hold until he could take her safely back to the Valiant. Then what? Did he abandon her in San Diego before sailing for Boston? He should. Whether he would remained to be seen.
Shaking off the mental dilemma, he headed back, retracing his steps past the monastery, through long open-air corridors and past cloister arches. A sad loneliness echoed with his footfall, drifting out of every corner and crevice, twining around him with the scent of moist earth and wild rose and salt air. The melancholy call of a mourning dove accompanied his solitary walk.
When he was a few yards from Cara’s door, Lupe came out of the room, her face turned away from him. But when she looked back and gave him a polite nod, he saw she was another old woman of similar stature and dress. Perhaps that was why she seemed familiar. With a gentle smile, she hurried off, her short legs remarkably quick for her age. Rounding a corner, she disappeared as he knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Cara called. Opening the door, he found her lying in bed, propped up on one elbow, the blanket clutched to her chest. She had a sparkle in her brown eyes and healthy color in her cheeks. Her recovery had indeed been quick, as she had promised. “Good morning, Blake.”
“You look well.” His thoughts fell back to the previous night and the kiss that had prompted a long night of erotic dreams. He forced his mind away from the memory, determined not to venture into those deep waters again.
Searching for safer territory, he inquired about the woman who had just left. “Is she helping Lupe?”
“That was Lupe. She just left to get breakfast for me. There’ll probably be plenty to share—”
“The woman I saw outside your door was not Lupe.”
“Of course it was. You knocked not two seconds after she went out. You couldn’t have missed her. If it wasn’t Lupe, who else . . .?”
Gabriella.
&nb
sp; Blake knew her thought without hearing it. Her expression left no doubt of her speculation.
Cara cautiously asked, “Would you say she looks a little bit like . . . me? In the eyes, maybe?”
Mildly curious, he went to her bedside, sat down on the chair, and leaned forward. With a gentle grasp of her chin, he turned her head slightly from one side to the other and back. Taking into consideration the vast difference in age, he realized there was a striking resemblance in color and shape. This revelation unnerved him.
She is one of us.
His gaze locked with hers. Remembering the words Lupe had spoken yesterday, he stared at Cara for a long moment before he found his voice.
“Who are you? Who was that other woman? Tell me why it is you look like her, like these people?”
Cara slowly drew back, then slid down under the covers until her shoulders were completely covered, much to his relief.
“I am one of them, Blake. My ancestors are of these tribes. My great-grandmother was a Gabrielino who married a Mexican soldier. My mixed blood is also Luiseño and Italian. I’m quite a duke’s mixture, actually.”
“What about the Indian woman with your eyes?”
“Aunt Gaby?”
“Gabriella?”
She nodded.
“Cara, I am willing to accept the possibility that you have a relative here at the mission. But I cannot believe the woman I saw was a ghost. She was as real as you and me.”
With a frustrated sigh, she brought her hands up over her eyes. “I can’t explain it in any way that will make sense to you. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“No, I don’t suppose it would be easy to explain how it is that you have seen someone who has been dead over a year. Or how it is that I have seen her, too.”
Lowering her hands, she entwined her fingers and rested them on her chest. Staring at the ceiling above her, she stated calmly, “There are things I know. Things I see. Things I hear. Things no one else knows or sees or hears. Things that tell me how to help others, how to help myself.”
“Are you saying you hear people who are not there?”
Mystic Memories Page 12
