His hands roved over the dark wood, and her gaze followed, fascinated. Katherine had admired the work when it had been presented to him at Christmas. It was art at its purest, and she’d seen nothing wrong with the unclothed state of the woman. But now an odd feeling possessed her as he examined the rounded hollows and belled hips with his fingers. He seemed to be taking an almost sensuous pleasure in the smooth grain; she felt as if she were intruding on a personal moment.
He caught her gaze. “I hope you will change your mind and remain with us. I promise you I will spend more time at this hacienda.”
Something in those dark eyes reminded her of the bullfight, and she answered with care. “I don’t believe that is the best solution. I can’t stay here under your roof. No matter how ill-founded, the rumors would begin.”
“My father makes an admirable duenna.”
“I don’t believe he will serve,” she said austerely.
“No, I suppose not.” Not a crinkle of amusement disturbed his face. “It’s too late, anyway. The rumors have already swept Alta California.”
“Oh, no.” Her dismay was automatic.” A rumor like that could follow me.”
“All the way to Boston,” he agreed.
But she wasn’t going to Boston. It hovered on the tip of her tongue, but some sense of self-preservation kept her from uttering it. Her plans were her own, she decided. She would remain in California, seek a position in Los Angeles, and send a letter to Don Lucian when she was well settled. Very well settled. “I must go at once.”
“As you say.” He smiled amiably, without emotion, and placed the statue on the desk once more. “I will have to find another way to convince you to stay. Now I must go say goodbye to my guests. Will you come out?”
“Right away.” For the first time, she realized how worried she’d been about Damian’s reaction. As he left, a swell of relief swept her. He hadn’t been angry or upset that she would leave his home. He really hadn’t been upset.
He hadn’t been upset at all. Katherine chewed her lip as she opened the door to her bedroom. She closed it behind her, resting her head on the wooden panel. Her stomach had ached so much she hadn’t eaten dinner. Uselessly, her hands clenched on thin air.
Leocadia had seen no reason to continue the pretense of letting her do the housekeeping, so Katherine had been reduced to a figurehead. She directed the servants in the cleaning and stowing of the party equipment, yet never dirtied her hands. It left a lot of time for thinking.
Damian hadn’t been upset at all. Her relief had changed, twisted, become anxiety. Another scene with Emerson Smith. Another scene with Damian. Two such unpleasant clashes should have sent her into a black depression. Instead she worried and struggled with the inconsistencies.
Why had Damian been so untouched by her announcement? He should have been surprised. He should have protested and exhorted. Instead, he had been indifferent. That was out of character for a hidalgo whose courtesy extended to the lowest of his servants. He had made her uncomfortable with the confirmation of the rumors she feared. He had said he would have to find another way to convince her to stay. That almost sounded like a threat.
She shrugged uneasily. Surely not.
Untying her crumpled apron, she tossed it on a chair. She unpinned the broach that held her white collar and winced. Her wrist was still tender, and she muttered, “He was right. I have to stop attacking ten-foot-tall bullies.” Now that she no longer faced Damian, she admitted his reproof was justified. More than justified, deserved. A broken wrist healed poorly, if at all, and her unthinking anger was a poor excuse for seeking one.
Someone had lit the candle on her bedside table. Leocadia, she supposed. Her dressing screen protected the flame from the window’s breeze, and the glow turned the polished wood of the bed and the floor amber. It pleased her eye and drew her gaze to the corner. Collar in hand, she came farther into the room.
There, spread out on her bed, was a dress. She closed her eyes, and opened them again. Yes, it was definitely a dress. A pretty dress.
The wishes of the previous day rose up to haunt her. She took a fold between two fingers and rubbed it; the texture was fine-grained and smooth. It was a cotton muslin of green stripes alternating with tiny flowers. She picked it up by the shoulders. The neck was plain cut and a kerchief of white lace fluttered to the floor. The sleeves were puffed; tiny buttons shaped like flowers ran up the back. The skirt flared in yards of material.
Holding the gown against herself, she stepped in front of the gilded mirror. In a spasm of pleasure, she exclaimed, “It’s beautiful.” She twirled with it once, hugged it, laid it back on the bed. Keeping her eye on it as if it could disappear, she unhooked Tobias’s watch from her waistband. Tenderly, she put it in the drawer of her bedside table. She stripped her black garment off so quickly she never noticed the pain in her wrist. The flowered dress slipped over her head and she fussed with the sleeves to set them correctly. With her hands at her back, she held the bodice tight around the waist.
“Such an attractive woman,” she said aloud. Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight. Her hair—she reached up and ripped off her cap. The pins went flying. Her thick hair reflected the candlelight in glints of gold. The low neck of the dress combined with her hands-in-back pose brought her bosom up over the top of the bodice. The kerchief would be needed.
The Spanish señoritas would find Katherine Chamberlain Maxwell a competitor when next they met. She would buy a fan. Ivory, with green ribbons threaded in it. She imitated a señorita’s flirtatious pose with the imaginary fan. She lifted her skirt to display her shapely ankle. She fluttered the fan before her face, batted her eyes and murmured, “Por fawn, querido. “
She looked ridiculous.
She dropped her hands, stopped her posturing. The face in the mirror looked embarrassed, and she lifted her chin. She was a sensible American woman, out of touch with the fiery-tempered Californios. “Well, that’s that,” she said bracingly, lifting the dress off. She hung it with care on a dowel, her hands lingering on the kerchief. Her petticoats followed. Her shoes required patience, for the strapping laced around her ankle had knotted. She worked it until her leather slippers rested side by side against the wall. With a sigh, she went to stand back in front of the mirror for ruthless self-examination.
Plain yellow hair with no curl. Plain green eyes. Freckles marching across the bridge of her nose, down her chin, across her chest. A plain body, with a medium-sized bust, a small waist made smaller by her plain white corset, and medium-sized hips. Legs that were too long for her body. Even the wide lace at the bottom of her pantalettes couldn’t disguise that. Plain Katherine Anne trying to act the coquette was as laughable as an old mare pining for a young stallion. Her eyes wandered to the hook where the fine dress hung. “I can’t keep it,” she said aloud. “I’ll give it back to him.”
“He won’t take it.”
She jumped and screamed. The deep voice came from the shadows by the wall. She strained her eyes, and a lucifer flared. Damian sat in her cushiony chair, a cigar between his fingers, his dark gaze fixed on her. He rested on his spine, his legs stretched out straight. He should have looked relaxed, but his heels were braced against the floor. Braced, to keep him from flying at her. He lit the cigar and shook out the light.
Putting her hand on her chest to still her thumping heart, she quavered, “What are you doing here? Are you mad? Today you tell me there is gossip about us. Tonight you’re in my room?” Her voice gained strength. “What are you doing here?”
“So many questions,” he chided.
“And what do you mean, ‘he won’t take it’? Your father understands I can’t accept charity.”
“My father didn’t give you that dress. I did. My father’s not the one who tore your widow’s weeds.” He drew on the cigar and the tip glowed brightly. “Remember, my Catriona?”
She leaped towards her wrapper, still hanging on the wall, and his hands closed on her shoulders before she had taken two
steps.
“You enjoyed it.” His breath was smoky; his voice a deep growl.
She tried to jerk around, but he wouldn’t allow it. He kept one hand firm on her arm, the other tangled in the strings of her corset.
“No, my Catriona. I’ve already made the acquaintance of your fist. I heartily approve of its use on a certain Señor Smith, but my throat is still tender from your caress.”
She stomped back with her heel, but he leaped up and avoided her.
Chuckling, he said, “Yes, you’re lethal from the back as well as the front. No doubt about it.” He let her go.
Swinging on him, she drew herself up with steely dignity. She glared as fiercely as she could, imitating her aunt’s haughty expression.
She wished that he were just a little shorter. A little shorter, not quite so broad of shoulder, and not so like her dream of the devil and temptation. His white shirt was open, all the studs that held it gone, and his carved mahogany chest shone in shadow and light. His cuffs were rolled above his elbow. The muscles of his arms revealed his inclination for hard work. He wore no stockings, no boots, and it bespoke an intimacy she feared. “You are in my bedroom. You have no right in my bedroom.”
“Sometimes a man takes his rights.” He stepped back to his thin cigar, smoldering on the tin pan that had never been in her room before, and lifted it to his lips. He studied her defiant posture. His gaze lingered on the swells of her breasts, and his eyes, when he raised them, held amusement and appreciation. “You’ve woken up at last. Haven’t you?”
Rage and fright faded beneath his inviting smile, but she replied to only the words, not the meaning. “I wasn’t asleep.”
“Weren’t you?”
She understood his message, and she held herself stiffly erect to combat the croon of his voice.
“You’re awake now, aren’t you, mi querida? Completely awake. You’ve been a butterfly, hidden away in a cocoon, protected from the winds of life. Now the time has come. You’re crawling out and spreading your wings. All your nerves are exposed. You don’t know if you’re ready to face the world.” He stepped forward. His hand rose and stroked her cheek. “Yet beauty isn’t meant to be hidden, and you’re so beautiful.”
She wanted to laugh his words to scorn, but how could she? The woman she saw in the mirror didn’t seem to be the same woman reflected in his dark eyes. Sincerity and admiration shadowed the tender curl of his mouth. He practiced seduction with his smooth Spanish-accented English, with the smoky scent of his breath, with the unveiled appreciation of his countenance—and she, like any credulous girl, believed him.
She sighed deeply, and the corset that held her in its tight clasp slipped. Startled, she grabbed at it, looked down and wondered why the garment had failed her.
His chuckle caught her off her guard.
She peeked at him, and remembered his nimble fingers caught in her laces. Pride brought her chin back up. “Is that my function, then, to provide you with diversion?”
“You’re diverting in your innocence.” His words were meant to soothe, but the white flash of his grin told another story.
“Innocence, indeed, if I thought you rescued me from my distress for sweet friendship’s sake. Is this the payment I make to you for your kindness?” She nodded towards the big bed. “Do I reimburse you in the traditional way?”
His smile vanished, but not his understanding. “I told you before, gratitude has no place between us. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for Tobias. Everything I do tonight has nothing to do with Tobias. This is between you and me. Between the woman who wants to leave and the man who would keep her here. If there is obligation involved, it will be my obligation.”
“I beg your pardon?” Astonished, she glared with a lady’s indignation.
“Such dignity,” he admired. The smile tugged at his mouth again. “I expect to find pleasure in that bed tonight. I expect to give you even more pleasure than I receive. That is obligation, is it not?”
“You conceited—do you think I’m tamely going to take you to my bed?”
“Tamely? No, there will be nothing tame about it.” He ground the cigar out in the tin plate, stalked toward her like a big cat on the prowl.
23 May, in the year of our Lord, 1777
Fray Patricio and I risked our lives in the burning chapel, rescuing the holy vessels we had fashioned from the gold the Indians gave us. We put the vessels in a chest and ran with it to the river. There we met Fray Amadis and Fray Lucio, and together we hid in the reeds. Constantly wet and hungry, we followed the river west. Our prayers availed us, and that river joined a much larger river flowing north. From there we could see the mountains, and we fled over the plains to the foothills.
It was then that the Indians spotted us. They have bedeviled us ever since. We live in fear of the unknown, buoyed only by our determination to carry the gold back to the mission. There it will be received as proof of our success.
—from the diary of Fray Juan Estévan de Bautista
Chapter 7
She stumbled back, but he reached out to her and lifted her protective hands away.
Pain shot through her wrist, and she muffled a groan. He dropped her hands as if they burned him. “Did I hurt you?”
His concern was so sincere, his distress so obvious, she assured him, “No, it’s only a twinge.” Then she cursed herself. If she were a clever woman, she would have moaned and complained until he left her from guilt or disgust.
His gleaming eyes noted her bravery and her mistake. With care he gathered her fingers in his and brought her hand close to his face. “Ah.” He sighed. “The injury of a valiant woman.” He probed the swelling. “It will heal, but I’ll be careful.”
“What are your injuries?” With a jerk of her chin, she indicated the bruising of his face. “Are they the injuries of a valiant man?
An ironic smile curved his lips. “Not at all. They were the results of stupidity, pure and simple.”
As he spoke, her other hand crept up surreptitiously. Seeking protection, she hitched the corset up, but he noticed and ordered, “Let it go. That thing won’t protect you. It will only get in our way.”
“‘That thing’ is a corset,” she replied fiercely. “True ladies sleep in them to protect their bell figure.”
“Then you’re not a true lady.”
She repeated the phrase as if it were a prayer. “I beg your pardon?”
“When you first came to Rancho Donoso, I guarded your door every night. Every night, you cried out in your sleep. I would check on you. Your corset was always on the chair, and when the nights grew warm, you discarded your nightgown, also.” Embarrassed by his revelations, exposed by his memory, grateful for his care, she looked up. Right above her, his face was noble and sure and possessive. He let go of her wrists, reached around her as if he had every right, and loosened her corset strings until the traitorous garment could slide down. He tugged, and she let him push it to the floor. “Step out,” he demanded.
Picking it up off the floor, he set it on a chair. “The rest is up to you.”
She took a breath, the kind of deep breath her corset forbade her. “Do you think I’m going to disrobe for you?”
Stepping up against her again, he said, “Not without persuasion.” He swung her up on the high mattress. She wiggled back, and he let her go until she found the middle of the bed. Then he vaulted onto the mattress and wrapped his arms around her.
She protested, “Hey!” but he held her close against his chest. Just held her, accustoming her to the feel of him.
It wasn’t what she expected. She expected fire and struggle, not such a feeling of solid inevitability. His bare chest tickled her cheek. His heartbeat thumped in her ear. Involuntarily, her body relaxed. Sternly, she brought it back to attention. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you seek to leave me.” His reply took her breath with its simplicity and candor.
“I don’t understand. There’s never been anything between us.
Only friendship, and I have many friends who never expect to bed me.”
“You are an unobservant woman. Your male friends would love to find heaven in your arms, but your own lack of interest stopped them. Most men need encouragement to seek out a woman.”
“You’ve already seen how poorly I encourage.” She burned with humiliation as she remembered her performance before the mirror.
She couldn’t see his face, but she heard no laughter in his voice as he agreed. “No, the light flirtation is not for you. Your dignity doesn’t encourage it.”
“What is it about you that needs no encouragement?”
“A man doesn’t choose to be struck by lightning.” He sounded wry and resigned. “But he thanks God when he is.”
She pushed at him and he sat up obediently. She didn’t expect that, and she lay there, staring at him, until his gaze wandered down her form. Then she scrambled to her knees. There was a readiness about him that discouraged flight, yet she was aware of her dishevelment. The neck of her chemise drooped, her pantalettes rode up over her knees. She ought to look around for a way of escape, but it seemed smarter to keep Damian under observation.
“You stare at me so warily, Catriona.” His lids drooped over his eyes. “What do you expect me to do?”
“I don’t know.” She pushed her hair from her eyes. “What are your plans?”
She watched in horror as his hand cupped her breast. Shock hit her like a dash of cold water. Why did he touch her there?
Why did the contact bring her pleasure?
She didn’t move as his fingers moved over the cotton to find her nipple. Only when he began a slow circling did she come alive, dashing his hand from her. “How dare you?”
Scrabbling away, she kicked at him when he grabbed her ankle, but he held her firm and demanded, “Why the alarm? Why now?”
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