She didn’t answer. Her attention was fixed on the bower under the trees. There Damian, Fray Pedro, Mr. Larkin and Alcalde Diaz waited. That was where she wanted to be. She wanted to speak her vows, to tell Damian how she felt about him, to make love with him. Like a veil lifting, she could see into the future. See the years of sleeping together, serving each other, adapting to each other until they were the one entity the romantics spoke of.
She knew what it would cost him to sign his lands over to her. He was a hidalgo, a Spaniard, a man, and he trusted her with everything that was his. Once he’d made the decision to deed her the lands, his main concern had been the speed with which the papers could be drawn up. They were ready, waiting in the study for their signatures, but right now Damian wanted to get married.
She wanted it, too.
Each moment she waited stretched her temper. This delay had gone on long enough. Deciding her geniality had been extended beyond its limits, she tugged at Don Lucian, subtly at first, then with greater energy. “Come on,” she demanded, “or I’ll go by myself.”
“She’s giving the orders even before the ownership has been transferred,” Ricky teased. “Watch yourself, Don Lucian. Soon you’ll be serving her dinner, dressed in an apron.”
“It would be an honor,” Don Lucian said with gallant good nature. He raised his eyebrows significantly as he stumbled sideways under her propulsion. “I have to go now.”
They stepped out, moving in the direct line that she set. When she heard the galloping hooves and the shout, “Katherine,” she only increased her speed.
“Katherine!”
She swung around. Lawrence Cyril Chamberlain brought his prancing horse to a halt only a few feet from her and dismounted in a tumbling haste. “Am I in time?”
“You’re in time to see me wed.” Her chill should have warned him.
“Katherine, you can’t do this.”
She wanted to shout at him, but instead she stared at Lawrence. His colorful clothes no longer matched, as if he’d mixed the remnants of his Boston wardrobe with apparel bought in California. His tall hat and red toupee had disappeared. His nose had been broken, its elegant hook knocked sideways. Worst of all, he was sunburned, his fair skin peeling in flakes. Benignly, she asked, “Who do you think’s going to stop me?”
Lawrence blinked. “Why, I am.”
Still in a voice of rationality and moderation, she asked, “Do you think you can follow me around, badger me, kidnap me, and still influence me to return to Boston?”
Desperately ignoring the interested group that surrounded him, he heaved a shaky sigh. “Can’t you see this is no place for a gently bred woman? Look at what it’s done to me.”
She pressed her lips together to curb her smile. “It’s done nothing like that to me.”
“Yes, well . . . you do look appallingly healthy.” Glancing around, he took her arm and tried to lead her away. “I didn’t want to tell you before, but Father said to promise you anything if you would return. Please, Katherine, we would treat you like a queen. I guarantee it.”
She shook her head. “Lawrence . . .”
“Don’t say no. Please come. You must know I can’t return until I bring you. Don’t you feel sorry for me?”
“I always have, but I still won’t come back.”
He glared, but it had no effect. The Californios pressed closer, and he whispered, “This isn’t your home. These aren’t your people.”
“Lawrence . . .”
As the pity in her voice deepened, his own voice rose. “They’re all mean and horrible.”
The sympathy she felt for Lawrence melted, and she warned, “Lawrence.”
He didn’t read her correctly, too agitated by their audience and his own looming failure. “They’re crude and ignorant, with their horses and their misplaced arrogance. They’re—” he waved his arms, searching in the air for the right word “—they’re barbarians.”
She took the tattered remains of his cravat in her hand. With a slow and steady pressure, she pulled him down to her eye level. “Barbarians are people who exploit their helpless relatives. California is my home. Californios are my clan. And Don Damian de la Sola is my love. You can go back to Boston and tell my uncle and aunt I’m never coming back. Or stay here, if you’re too afraid of your parents, but stay away from me.”
Warm arms caught her from behind and spun her. Damian laughed down at her, bright with joy. “You love me.”
“Of course.” The pleasure in his face brought tears to her eyes. “Didn’t you know it?”
“Yes.” He lifted her and swung her in a circle until all the blood rushed to her head and her laughter joined his. “Yes, I always knew it.”
She’d said it at last. She loved him, and as loudly as she was shouting, there wasn’t anyone who didn’t know.
Putting her down, he invited, “Let’s go get married.”
She tucked her hand in his. “Let’s go get married.”
30 June, in the year of our Lord, 1777
I am sending the others away. I am sending this diary to Fray Pedro de Jesus. I am sending Fray Lucio back to the mission.
He will arrive, I know it. That is Cod’s plan for him.
For me? God’s plan is more complex, more circuitous. I will stay here in this cave until I die. My leg is gangrenous. I, of all people, recognize the signs. There is no doubt. The poison pumps through my system and an odor grows from the ulcer where the muscle and bone are clearly visible.
Yet even now, in my defeat, my trampled pride stirs. What other person would be strong enough to bear what I must bear? Whom God loves, He chastises. Light a candle for my soul, little brother, for I’ll long be in Purgatory for my sins.
Would that I had a chance to redeem them.
Thus ends the first attempt to convert the Indians of the interior. I fear no other expedition will be sent unless my brothers return and retrieve the gold the Indians brought us. Greed is an evil that can be turned to good; when we bring the treasure forth from its resting place, we will surely be allowed to return and continue God’s work. I wait for that day. I will always wait for that day.
—from the diary of Fray Juan Estévan de Bautista
Chapter 26
As Katherine crossed the porch, she heard Fray Pedro de Jesus call, “My daughter.”
He sat in the cool shadow in a chair with a footstool. A plate of food sat untouched at his elbow.
She sank down on the stool beside his feet. “Yes, Padre?”
Adjusting his spectacles over his ears, he said, “My daughter, I found more joy in the ceremony I just performed than in any other in my long life.”
She smiled. “I told you we would wed as soon as we could.”
“So you did.” He chuckled. “So you did. But I sent you to a place that many men have found a tomb, and I didn’t know if you would be able to marry. I prayed for you and for Damian after you left me, knowing that if you died, you would die in a state of grace, yet not wanting the blossom of your love cut down in its youth.”
Leaning forward, she wrapped him in her arms. “Thank you, Padre.”
His wrinkled head dropped onto her shoulder, and she realized how much he’d pushed himself to leave San Juan Bautista to marry them.
His body was bony beneath the cassock and he shook with a fine tremor. “I knew my prayers had been answered when God spoke in my ear. He told me that . . . Fray Juan Estévan had been redeemed and laid to rest. Is that true?”
She stared at the old man, at his big brown eyes, so sad and wise. “I believe it is.”
“Bless you.” He squeezed her hand hard and sat back. A tear trickled down his cheek. “All these years, I have been lighting candles for my brother, hoping he would see his way.”
She handed him her handkerchief, and he snuffled into it. “Your brother?”
“My brother in Christ,” he clarified.
“I couldn’t help but wonder.. . you seemed to understand this long-dead man. He came to you a
fter his death. And coincidentally, you both came from Majorca.” She watched him, a half smile on her face. “He was your brother in truth, wasn’t he?”
The old man fumbled, coughing. “When we take our vows, we renounce the world. Everyone becomes our brother.” He peeked at her and sighed. “You appear to be unconvinced. Very well. Yes, Fray Juan Estévan was my brother.”
“You don’t resemble each other at all,” she said, remembering the spirit in the sickroom. “Except for the light in your eyes.”
He leaned forward, his gaze sharp. “Have you seen him?”
Biting her lip, Katherine wished she had never mentioned her suspicions, but nothing could get past Fray Pedro. He’d had too many years of reading faces.
“I see you have.”
She leaned forward and whispered, “I used to be plagued with nightmares. Nightmares filled with blood and death and corpses of those I love. I haven’t had a nightmare since I saw him.”
Beaming as if she’d given the ultimate praise, he said, “He wasn’t a bad man, you know. Only proud.”
“Did you say he was a curandero?” she asked thoughtfully.
Fray Pedro nodded. “Yes, indeed.”
She kissed his hand and rose. “Light a candle of thanksgiving, Padre. Fray Juan Estévan de Bautista is indeed at rest.”
Greeting the guests as she entered the hacienda, she climbed the stairs to her room and shut the door behind her. She reached under the bed and pulled out the cowhide bag Julio had brought up onto the mountainside. Holding it with care, she entered the attic and found Tobias’s trunk. She knelt beside it. Pulling the leather strapping loose, flipping the latches, she opened it.
Inside were the rocks Tobias had saved, the newspapers, his watch-working instruments. She touched them all with tender hands. Reaching inside the bag, she pulled out the intricate silver watch she’d worn as a memory of him. One last time, she wound it up. Still it wouldn’t work, and so without accompaniment she sang,
“He was laid to rest in the lower chancel,
Barbara Allen all in the higher;
There grew up a rose from Barbara Allen’s breast,
And from his a briar. . . .”
She shut the watch. Wrapping it carefully in the papers, she nestled it in the toolbox.
From the bag she next pulled out a tattered brown book. She wiped the dirt from it and opened it. The scrawl of a man long dead met her eyes. As she leafed through the fragile pages, she saw that some of the entries were written with ink, some with a native substitute, but all were signed with the slashing signature —Fray Juan Estévan de Bautista.
“Katherine?”
She heard Damian summon her from the bedroom, and she hurried to place the diary beside the watch. She shut the chest, locked it, called, “I’ll be right out.” Maybe someday one of her granddaughters would find the trunk and all its booty. She didn’t begrudge that unknown girl the adventures that would result, but her own adventure had just begun.
In the attic room, she found Damian frowning over the burned mark on the window sill. “We’ll have to have this sanded and painted.”
She touched the rough black his cigar had left that night he’d come to her. Mixed in her mind was the stench of smoldering paint, the amber glow of Damian’s naked body, the emotions he made her feel that night, his demands for honesty. That night was the end of her old life, the beginning of her new life. That night marked her reawakening, with its pains and confusions and sweet, sensuous joys.
Watching her finger as it stroked the scorched line of his last cigar, she said, “I think I’d like to leave it here.”
His hand closed over the top of hers. “We’ll see it every night before we go to bed.” She gazed up at him. “Our children will ask us about it every time they look out the window.”
“Will they?”
“If we’re to use this as our bedroom.” He grinned into her eyes.
“Are we?”
“I think so.”
“Yes. For the time we are here, we’ll use this as our bedroom.” Her own smile blossomed. “That’s why I had your clothing moved up here earlier today.”
He caught her around the waist and pulled her against him.
“What will we tell our children when they ask?”
Hooking his arm around her neck, he said sternly, “We’ll lie.”
Laughing, she leaned into his chest. “I’ve been thinking. Do you think we could go to live in your home in the Sacramento Valley?”
“Hmm.” He leaned over her neck and breathed deeply. “You smell wonderful.”
“It’s close to Nueva Helvetia, you said, and that will protect against any Indian attack.”
He nibbled her skin and whispered close against her ear, “They’re a danger, but yes, Sutter’s presence would probably protect us.”
His hand pressed her hips up to his, and she squirmed against him. “We’d never have to be bothered by gold again.” Her voice dropped as her control slipped.
“God, no. Never again.” Damian leaned back and smiled at her, tugging at the comb that held her hair. “All the gold I want is right here. Our treasure is our lands and our heritages.”
Daringly, she added, “And each other.”
He caught her mouth in an approving kiss. His palm no longer burned through her skirt with its hard pressure; now her body fought to get closer to him, fought the restraint of her petticoats and moved against his hips. Right now, the press of his body against hers filled her with a pleasure only equalled by the press of his lips against hers. He lifted her in his arms, carried her to the bed. “My wife,” he said hoarsely.
She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him down with her as he laid her on the mattress. “Yes, and Damian?”
“Hmm?” As her use of his first name, and only his first name, penetrated his lustful daze, he jerked his gaze to hers. “What did you call me?”
How foolish to feel shy now. So much had happened between them; they’d faced so much together. Yet, the words wouldn’t come. She couldn’t maintain her smile; it kept slipping away beneath his serious mien. He waited; she cleared her throat. “Damian?” she squeaked. “Damian.”
“Al fin!” he sighed.
“At last?”
In his characteristic gesture, he stroked his mustache. “Does this mean I have at last reached a plateau above the one occupied by your hero, John Charles Frémont?”
She pushed his hand away and ran her fingers along the trimmed edge at his upper lip. “There’s room for only one hero in my life.”
“And who might that be?” He chased her fingers with a kiss.
“The man who thought I was worth more than treasure and gave his childhood dreams to keep me safe.”
“I’ll always keep you safe,” he vowed. His fervency that brought tears to her eyes, and his light touch along the scar at her throat contrasted with the weight of his body on hers. “I have you now, and God willing, I’ll keep you. Pray that you never want out of our marriage, for I have wed you in a ceremony blessed by every agency in California and heaven.”
“Damian.” She savored the word, like a new flavor on her tongue. “Damian, surely California and heaven are synonymous.”
About the Author
CHRISTINA DODD’S novels have been translated into ten languages, have won Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart and RITA" Awards, and have been called the year’s best by Library Journal.
Dodd is a regular on the USA Today, Publishers Weekly, and New York Times bestseller lists.
Christina loves to hear from fans.
Visit her website at www.christinadodd.com.
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Praise for the Phenomenal
Christina Dodd
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getting better and better.”
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; romances never fail to please.”
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Books by Christina Dodd
THE PRINCE KIDNAPS A BRIDE
THE BAREFOOT PRINCESS
MY FAIR TEMPTRESS
SOME ENCHANTED EVENING
ONE KISS FROM YOU
SCANDALOUS AGAIN
MY FAVORITE BRIDE
LOST IN YOUR ARMS
IN MY WILDEST DREAMS
RULES OF ATTRACTION
RULES OF ENGAGEMENT
RULES OF SURRENDER
SOMEDAY MY PRINCE
SCOTTISH BRIDES
(with Stephanie Laurens, Julia Quinn, and Karen Ranney)
THE RUNAWAY PRINCESS
THAT SCANDALOUS EVENING
A WELL FAVORED GENTLEMAN
A WELL PLEASURED LADY
A KNIGHT TO REMEMBER
ONCE A KNIGHT
MOVE HEAVEN AND EARTH
THE GREATEST LOVER IN ALL ENGLAND
OUTRAGEOUS
CASTLES IN THE AIR
TREASURE OF THE SUN
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1991 by Christina Dodd
ISBN 978-0-06-104062-7
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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