The Soldier and the Baby

by Anne Stuart

  “Not me, Sim,” he said, jumping from the boat and tying up the back end. “I’m too smart for that kind of trap.” Carlie was struggling to her knees, and he moved to loom over her. “Simeon McCandless, let me introduce you to Carlie Forrest and her young son, Timothy.”

  She glanced up at him, her blue eyes wary and doubting, but she had enough sense to keep silent. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Simeon—hell, he’d stake his life on Simeon’s worth, and had more than once—but the fewer people who knew the truth about the baby, the better.

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am. You picked an odd time to be traveling downriver.”

  “It wasn’t exactly a matter of choice,” Reilly said in his driest voice as he reached down to help Carlie out of the boat. He hadn’t wanted to touch her, but there was no way she could climb out of that small dugout without tipping everything into the water, including the baby.

  She landed on the dock beside him, lightly, the baby clasped capably in one arm. She looked like a natural mother, he thought distantly, gazing down at her. And she was a woman who’d turned her back on motherhood and sex.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. McCandless,” she said with studious courtesy.

  Simeon’s laugh traveled from the base of his huge belly. He was a British expatriate who lived life on the edge of civilization, and he was one of the few men Reilly really missed from San Pablo.

  “You’re too good for the likes of Reilly anyway, lass,” he said. “Come along to my place and we’ll get you and the baby settled. I have a native woman who cooks for me, and she’ll fix you up something nice and hearty while Reilly and I catch up on old times.”

  “It sounds lovely,” she said faintly.

  “Lovely it’s not, but it’ll do,” Simeon said. “And I promise, I won’t keep your man from you for too long.”

  “He’s not my—” she started to say hotly, but Reilly interrupted her smoothly.

  “She’s learned to be patient, Sim. Besides, I need to hear about what sort of visitors you’ve been having in this area. Any of Morales’s renegades been visiting? And what about the noble revolutionaries?”

  “Those stupid bastards,” Simeon said, spitting for emphasis. “Fortunately for them, they’ve kept to the west. They’re too mad to keep from killing and too damned stupid to keep from killing the wrong people. Morales has been in the west as well, near Dutchy’s place. You hear about Dutchy?”

  “Hear what?” It was a sign of just how dangerous his companion was to his state of mind. If he hadn’t been thinking about her bare feet on the dirt-packed path to Sim’s house, he would have realized that probably wasn’t the best question to be asking.

  “Dead, old man,” Sim announced. “Happened sometime last night or this morning. Single gunshot to the back of the head, I gather. Not that he’s any great loss, but it does seem strange that his good buddy Morales would suddenly turn on him. Unless it wasn’t Morales.”

  “Is that who they’re saying did it?” Reilly asked in a neutral tone of voice. He could feel the tension vibrating through Carlie’s body. There was no doubt that she thought he’d killed him and then lied to her.

  He was only slightly tempted to shove her against the nearest wall and confront her. If she thought he was capable of cold-blooded murder, so be it. It might make her walk a little more warily around him.

  It would be unlikely to encourage her to confide the truth in him, but since she didn’t seem in the slightest hurry to do so in the first place, who was he to care?

  “Come on, angel,” he drawled, taking her arm. “The sooner we get to Sim’s place the sooner I can have a beer.” He looked down into her eyes, expecting to see rage and disgust. What he saw instead startled him. Grief, pure and simple, and a numb kind of despair. The anger was there as well, cold and empty.

  “I have Scotch as well, Reilly,” Sim said cheerfully, missing the furious undercurrents. “I remember you were always partial to a good Scotch.”

  “I’d like some Scotch, too,” Carlie said after a moment in a strained voice.

  “Of course,” Sim said with perfect courtesy.

  “No, you don’t.” Reilly overrode her. “You’re too easy a drunk as it is. Two beers and you collapse. We aren’t wasting good whiskey on you. Particularly when we might have to hightail it out of here without a moment’s notice.”

  “Someone after you?” Sim questioned knowingly.

  “Who isn’t? If you’ve got a bed for the night and transportation north that’s all I ask.”

  “Why do you want to go north? That’s where most of the fighting’s been during the last ten years. There’s not much up there but a few burned-out villages.”

  “I left the plane up there.”

  Sim nodded. They’d reached the small frame house he called home. He pounded up the steps, past the empty hammock that stretched across the sagging porch, and paused by the dim interior of the place. “I’m sure I can arrange something. For the three of you?”

  He looked down at Carlie’s bowed head. “Can’t leave my lady behind,” he said deliberately.

  “I though you two weren’t...”

  “We’re not married,” Reilly said. “But we’re together.”

  “I’m glad for you, old man,” he said sincerely, heading into the house. “Just let me find us some glasses, and we’ll have a toast.”

  Not if you know what I ’ve landed myself with, Reilly thought ruefully. Sister Maria Carlos looked about ready to take a knife to him herself.

  He was damned if he was about to start making excuses to her. He wasn’t the one who lied. “You’ll be staying in the room at the top of the stairs,” he said. “Why don’t you take the kid and make yourself scarce? I need to talk to Sim.”

  “You lied.”

  “Bullshit.” He said the word deliberately, but she didn’t flinch.

  “You killed him. You murdered him in cold blood and then you lied to me ...”

  “Liars are the scum of the earth, aren’t they, honey?” he drawled. “I can’t say I’m any too fond of them, either, but now isn’t the time to argue about it. Just get your cute little butt upstairs and we’ll talk about it when I finish with Sim.”

  “ Finish with him? Are you going to take his Scotch and his hospitality and then kill him, too?”

  “The only person I’m interested in killing right now is you,” he said flatly, glaring down at her. “Now get upstairs before I take you there and give you something you’d regret even more than you regret last night.”

  “Bastard,” she said, her voice a furious hiss. It was probably the first time she’d ever uttered that word out loud, and her eyes widened in telltale shock at her own temerity.

  “Why, Sister Maria Carlos,” he drawled. “Such language from a Roman Catholic nun.”

  For a moment he thought she’d faint. She turned a dead white beneath the soft pink color of sunlight across her cheeks, and he was ready to catch her, and the baby, if she crumpled.

  But she was made of sterner stuff than that.

  She didn’t say a word. She simply turned her back on him, that narrow, straight back that he found so delectable, and marched up the stairs.

  And not once did she look back.

  * * *

  Chapter Thirteen

  * * *

  Carlie could hear them downstairs. Talking. Laughing. She hadn’t thought a man like Reilly could laugh.

  She lay in the center of the wide bed, awake, listening, waiting. The baby was sound asleep in a makeshift cradle, and Carlie was half tempted to wake him up, just for the distraction. There were too many things hurtling about in her mind, not the least of which was whether Reilly was going to come up and join her in that bed.

  It was a small house, she knew that. Two bedrooms—Simeon’s and the one she was in. There was no other place for him to sleep, and he was hardly likely to worry about her feelings in the matter, now that he knew she’d been lying even more than he could have imagined.

 
She ought to be able to sleep. She was exhausted from the three days of travel, from the worry, from the heat of the sun. She’d eaten well that night, thanks to the friendly native woman who was most likely shared Simeon’s bed as well as his kitchen, and she’d managed a decent sponge bath.

  Reilly hadn’t said a word to her since they’d arrived. Ever since he’d called her by her religious name he’d all but ignored her, leaving it up to Simeon to get her settled and fed. Even now, in the sultry heat of the jungle night, she still had no answers to her questions.

  Why had he killed Dutchy and then lied about it? And how did he know the truth about her? And had he known last night, when he’d…he’d...

  She slammed down the memory as heat suffused her body. She didn’t want to think about last night. About the restless, desperate feelings he’d ignited inside her. And what he’d done to resolve those feelings.

  The peace she’d fought so hard for seemed to be slipping away, and no matter how much she struggled, she couldn’t bring it back. She’d been away from the others for less than a month, she’d been out of the convent for no more than seventy-two hours. Already she knew there was no going back.

  At some point the voices below fell silent. At some point she slept, dozing in and out of a troubled, dream-filled sleep. She dreamed of guns and blood and sex, and when she awoke in the pitch darkness, alone, panic filled her.

  She climbed out of bed, pulling a pair of cutoff jeans under the oversize white T-shirt, and looked down at Timothy. He was sleeping soundly, and Carlie blessed the fates that had given her a peaceful, non-colicky baby.

  Except that he wasn’t her baby. She needed to remember that—she’d be giving him up soon enough, whether she wanted to or not, even if the very though made her convulse in pain. It was the right thing to do, and during the last few days she hadn’t much that was right or proper or dutiful. By tomorrow they’d reach the plane, and then they’d be out of San Pablo. Reilly would take Timothy to his rich grandparents, and Carlie would go back to Mother Ignacia. But she already knew she wouldn’t go back to stay.

  The night was silent, warm, and yet Carlie’s skin was chilled. The dream still haunted her. Dutchy, his eyes dark and empty, blood pouring from his wounds, had held out his hands to her, begging for help.

  There was no way she was going to get back to sleep without confronting Reilly. He might decide to take a gun to her, as well—so be it. If he’d killed Dutchy, then some of that guilt rested on her head. She needed to know.

  She had no idea where she’d find him. There were no clocks in Simeon’s house, few clocks in San Pablo, but Carlie had spent the years in the convent without timepieces, and shed learned to trust her inner clock. She knew well enough that it had to be around three in the morning. She crept down the narrow stairs. An empty whiskey bottle lay on its side on the rough table, two glasses, one empty, one half-filled, beside it. There was no sign of Reilly in the rough-and-tumble room.

  Maybe he’d decided to abandon them after all. Or maybe he’d simply gone off with Simeon’s friendly and decidedly well-endowed lady friend. Who in their right mind could resist someone like Reilly’s? That is, if they hadn’t already professed a religious calling. And even that hadn’t stopped her. All he had to do was put those hard yet gentle hands on her, put his mouth against her and she was lost.

  She pushed back her guilt and strange sort of sorrow. She couldn’t second-guess where he’d gone, and she didn’t want to go too far in search of him. She could still hear the baby if he happened to wake up, as long as she went no farther than the porch.

  The porch was what she needed. She picked up the half-full glass of whiskey, knowing instinctively it had been Reilly’s, and took a tentative sip. It was burning, foul tasting, sending tendrils of warmth through her chilled limbs. She took another sip, wandering out onto the front porch in the moonless night.

  It took her a moment to realize she wasn’t alone. Reilly lay in the hammock, seemingly asleep.

  She almost turned and went back inside. The idea of confronting Reilly no longer seemed such a good idea. Not when he turned her insides into a roiling mass of confusion.

  But she wasn’t a coward. The past three days had taught her that much. She moved toward the hammock and she saw that his eyes were open, watching her.

  “I should have known I couldn’t sneak up on you,” she said in a small, resigned voice.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t try. I might have cut your throat before I realized who you were.”

  The words hung heavily on the night air, and Carlie shivered once more. “Why did you lie to me?”

  “About what?”

  “About Dutchy. You killed him, and then you told me ..”

  “I didn’t kill him.” His voice was flat. “When I left him he was unconscious, tied to his bed but very much alive.”

  “I heard the gunshot.”

  “I’m not going to try to convince you,” he snapped. “You can believe me or not. I have no reason to lie to you. I’ve killed before in this life, and I’ll probably have to do it again. But I didn’t kill Dutchy.”

  The realization hit her then, astonishing as it was. Reilly was offended that she didn’t believe him. Even hurt. As ridiculous as it seemed, Reilly was angry that she didn’t trust him. But why would he even care?

  Carlie shook her head, wondering if the small sip of whiskey she’d taken had rattled her brain. “I do trust you, Reilly,” she said softly, carefully.

  “I don’t give a damn whether you do or not.”

  “Yes, you do,” she said, suddenly sure of at least one thing. “If you say you didn’t kill Dutchy then I believe you.”

  “You didn’t before.”

  “I do now.”

  “Why?”

  For a moment she couldn’t answer. He was lying stretched out in the old rope hammock, his feet bare, his shirt open to the night breeze, his eyes dark and derisive. He looked dangerous and very strong, and the longing that washed through her made her body tremble.

  She managed what she hoped was a cocky half smile. “Maybe because I know you wouldn’t lie to a nun.”

  He was not amused. He stared at her for a moment, as if considering the possibilities. “Come here,” he said.

  She ought to go right back upstairs, she knew it. “The baby might—”

  “You can hear the baby if he cries. Come here.”

  Her body didn’t seem interested in listening to her mind. She found herself standing beside the hammock, dangerously close to him. There was a soft night breeze, and it ruffled her T-shirt, danced through her hair. “I suppose you want me to say I’m sorry I lied to you,” she said nervously. “And you want to know why I entered the convent and why I didn’t tell you the truth. And you probably want me to tell you that—”

  “I don’t want you to tell me a damned thing,” he said. He reached out and took her wrist in his big hand, and pulled her down with him.

  She was too astonished to do more than put up a token struggle. Before she realized what was happening he’d tucked her up against the warm length of his body, cradled in the comfort of the old hammock. He held her there, lightly, his arms around her, her face nestled up against his shoulder. “Now go to sleep,” he said gruffly.

  She lay there, frozen, astonished. She waited for his hands to move, to stroke her once more, but they remained decorously still, and his body was calm, relaxed against hers, his breathing even, his heartbeat steady against her racing one.

  It was probably close to ten minutes before she accepted the fact that that was all he intended to do. Simply hold her. The realization brought a rush of relief and a surge of shameful frustration. She needed to be held, to know she was safe, that for just this moment she didn’t have to fight the world for Timothy’s sake. Just for now. Surely that was no great sin.

  She knew he wasn’t asleep, despite the evenness of his breathing. He lay peacefully beside her, but his body and mind were tuned to the night, to the creatures of the
darkness that were a hidden threat to their safety. Just as his body was tuned to hers.

  “You don’t want to know why I joined the convent?” she said finally, in a very quiet little voice.

  He didn’t answer for a moment, and she wondered whether she misjudged him, and he slept. And then his hand moved, long fingers threading through her shaggy hair. “I imagine it had something to do with seeing your parents killed.”

  She took a sharp breath. The words were so simple, and so painful. “They were missionaries. Not Catholic, but when the relief workers brought me down out of the mountains and took me to the Sisters of Benevolence, it seemed as if it were God’s will that I follow in my parents’ footsteps. To take their place.”

  “So that’s what you did,” he said, his voice a low rumble in his chest. His skin was warm, sleek against her cheek, and she resisted the urge to rub against him like a kitten, breathing in his scent. “You took their place. How long have you been there, Carlie?”

  He was so warm, so strong, as soothing as he was disturbing. She didn’t want to talk about it, but she was the one who’d brought it up, and she owed him some answers. “Nine years. It’s been so peaceful I never wanted to leave. I wanted to stay with the sisters, take my final vows and never have to deal with the real world. But then the revolution came. And Caterina.”

  “And me,” he said.

  “And you.” Her hand had slid under the open khaki shirt, crept up to his muscled shoulder. She could smell the tang of whiskey on his breath, mixing with the thick smell of the rain forest.

  “So what are you going to do now?” he murmured. His mouth was close to her ear, and she could feel the warmth of his breath as they rocked together in the narrow hammock. She was safe enough, she thought. Despite her limited knowledge of procreation, she knew people couldn’t make love in a hammock. Could they?

  “I’ll go back and join the sisters,” she said, trying to ignore the fluttering in the base of her stomach, the faint, clenching feeling between her breasts. “They’ve gone to a convent in Brazil. When we arrive in the States I can get in touch with the nearest diocese and they’ll help me. That is, if you’re still willing to take me back.”