Anne Stuart's Out-of-Print Gems

by Anne Stuart

  Something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. Carlie descended the last few steps, fighting the temptation to go to him. Touch him. Hold him.

  “Is Timothy all right?”

  He nodded. “I trust the Shumi. They should be waiting for us downriver.” He moved to shoulder the two packs. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Where’s Dutchy?”

  “He won’t be bothering us.”

  “Why not?”

  He stopped beside her. He looked bleak and very, very angry. “Don’t ask.”

  She looked at his hands, expecting them to be stained with blood. They looked no different. She looked up at his face, searching for the mark of death, the emptiness of a lost soul in his eyes.

  But there was no difference. And little wonder, she reminded herself. He was a soldier, a man of death. This wouldn’t be the first time he had killed in cold blood. It wouldn’t be the last.

  She followed him through the outlying jungle as the dawn lightened the sky, heading toward the muddy, slow-moving river, grieving. It wasn’t that Dutchy was a worthy soul, but he was one of God’s creatures, and he didn’t deserve to be shot down like an animal.

  But even more, she grieved for Reilly. For his lost soul, and the choices he made.

  The sight of the baby, safe and smiling in a Shumi woman’s dark arms, brought a measure of relief to her. She pushed past Reilly, rushing to the baby, and the majestic woman handed him over with a smile and a voluble conversation about his wisdom, his appetite, his sturdy limbs and the magnificent future such a young prince had in store for him. Surely with a strong, brave father like the Anglo and a good woman like her, he would be blessed throughout his life, and would enjoy the blessings of many brothers and sisters springing forth from their fruitful loins.

  Carlie kept her back to Reilly, mentally thanking God he wouldn’t understand the Shumi dialect. In a quiet voice she thanked the woman for her good care of her son, hoping Reilly wouldn’t notice her conversant ability.

  She should have realized that Reilly noticed everything. The Shumi woman launched into a frank, well-meaning discussion of exactly what Reilly and Carlie should do if they desired another boy, or how best to achieve a female offspring next time, complete with appreciative remarks about Reilly’s no doubt remarkable proportions and skill as a warrior and a lover.

  It was sheer force of will that kept Carlie from blushing this time. That, and the knowledge that at least Reilly didn’t know what they were saying. And that he wouldn’t understand her polite reply, promising that she would do her best to let him come at her from the back, with her hands over her head and nothing but a belt of gigua grass around her waist if she were interested in having twins.

  “Your carriage awaits, milady,” Reilly drawled.

  Carlie turned, having composed her expression into one of polite interest. The politeness faded when she caught sight of the canoe. “We’ll die,” she said flatly.

  “I doubt it. The Shumi have been using these for over a thousand years. They’re small, but they’re well made.”

  “Yes, but they know how to steer them,” Carlie protested, holding Timothy so tightly he let out a soft little sound of protest.

  “So do I. Get in.” He’d dumped the packs in the center of the dugout, and there was another basket of fresh fruit and flat bread that was almost enough to entice Carlie into that barge of death. Almost.

  “We’re not going anywhere in that thing,” she said flatly.

  He looked at her, and she could feel the anger simmering in him, ready to snap. He was a man at the edge. She didn’t know how she knew, she didn’t know what had put him there, but with a sure instinct she knew she had to be very careful.

  Perhaps it was killing Dutchy. Even a man as hard as Reilly might have difficulty murdering in cold blood. Maybe it was something else. She just knew when he spoke in a quiet, clipped voice that she’d better listen.

  “You’ll get in the damned boat,” he said between gritted teeth, “or so help me God I’ll tie you up and drag you behind us. There won’t be much left of you by the time we get to our next stop, given the piranhas and the crocodiles that infest this river, but at least I wouldn’t have to listen to your infernal yapping.”

  He took a menacing step closer, and it was all she could do to stand her ground, the baby clasped protectively against her.

  “You’ll do what I say.” His voice was cold and dangerous. “If you think the baby’s in danger on the river, let me tell you that the alternatives are far worse. And the longer you stand about griping and moaning, the greater the danger is. Get in the boat.”

  Carlie got in the boat. It tipped for a moment, then righted itself as she sank to the floor, cross-legged, the baby resting between her legs. She bit her lip, keeping her gaze forward, as she felt the solid weight of Reilly land behind her.

  The Shumi waved them off, singularly unmoved by the battle they’d just witnessed. “Gigua grass,” one of the women called after them in the Shumi language. “Have your man wear some as well, around his—”

  “Goodbye,” Carlie called nervously, interrupting the cheerful graphic instructions.

  Reilly was right, of course. He did know how to handle the wide, slightly tippy canoe, and they slid through the water with surprising speed. Within moments they had turned a bend in the slow-moving river, out of sight of the Shumi.

  “They’ll be all right, won’t they?” Carlie asked after a moment. “Morales and his men won’t hurt them?”

  “Morales and his men won’t find them. The Shumi have twice their brains and half their bulk. They’ve had to deal with conquistadors and fascists. They know how to survive, how to disappear into the forest.”

  Carlie looked down at the baby’s peaceful little face. “You promise?” she demanded.

  Reilly began to curse. Colorful obscenities floated through the air, then were cut off with such abruptness that she turned to stare at him, sending the boat rocking dangerously.

  “Life isn’t fair, princess,” he said flatly. “And promises aren’t worth…squat. It’s about time you learned that.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. You can’t watch out for everyone. You can’t save the world. You can concentrate on saving your own ass, and that’s the way things work.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Beats the hell out of me,” he said.

  The river was noisy that early in the morning. The birds were having an early gossip, the howler monkeys screeched to each other across the treetops, the somnolent river made its own steady sound as the boat moved with the current. Timothy slept in her arms, serene and replete, and Carlie leaned back against the stack of supplies, gazing skyward. It looked so peaceful, so far removed from blood and death, and unable to help herself, Carlie shivered.

  “Did you have to kill him?”

  Utter silence from the back of the boat. Then, “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Dutchy. Did you have to kill him?”

  Reilly cursed under his breath, not quite loud enough for Carlie to make out the words. Another surprise—he hadn’t minded cursing in front of her before. “I didn’t realize you’d developed a fondness for old Dutchy. Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten in his way last night.”

  “He was a horrid, disgusting old man,” Carlie said fiercely. “But he didn’t deserve to die.”

  “Trust me, angel, he more than deserved it. Dutchy’s done more things, caused more harm than your vivid imagination could even begin to guess at. However, I didn’t kill him.”

  She turned, and the boat rocked perilously. “I heard the gun,” she said.

  “I shot at him. It scared the living…it scared him, which was what I wanted. After that it was a simple enough matter to tie him and leave him in a back bedroom.”

  “Did you leave the ropes loose enough so that he could eventually escape?”

  “Hell, no,” he said irritably. “But Morales and his men will be b
ack sooner or later, and they’ll find him. If the snakes don’t first.”

  “Reilly!”

  “Don’t worry, angel. Snakes are too smart to touch an old bastard like Dutchy. They wouldn’t want to get poisoned.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Reilly?”

  “Lie to you?” There was something in his voice, a combination of amusement and irritation. “Now why would I do that? I don’t like liars. Besides, isn’t lying a sin?”

  Alarm bells began to go off in Carlie’s brain, but she carefully kept her face forward. “I wouldn’t know,” she said. “I don’t spend my time thinking about sin.”

  “What about last night?” he taunted. “Was that a sin? Exactly what kind of religion do you follow? I presume you’re Catholic, since you spent that time with Caterina and with all those nuns. If I remember my childhood catechism properly, there’s a whole set of categories for each sin, isn’t there?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Were they venial sins or mortal sins, I wonder?” he said, half to himself. “There ought to be some sort of grade of venial sins. I imagine kissing you was only a second-class sin,” he murmured. “Touching your breasts would have been third class, making you come would have been bordering on major venial sin. But I imagine it would be a mortal sin if and when I actually did you.”

  “Reilly…”

  “But we weren’t talking about sex, were we? We were talking about death. I don’t give a damn whether you believe me or not, angel. But the fact of the matter is, if I’d blown Dutchy away, as I was sorely tempted to do, you would have smelled him. Death is ugly, and death stinks to high heaven.”

  “Don’t.” It was a quiet moan of protest, one she doubted he’d listen to.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I’d rather talk about sex.”

  Carlie clenched the sides of the boat. She heard the plop of water as a crocodile slid into the river, eyeing them out of beady little eyes. He started toward them, then seemed to think better of it, using his tail to swerve back, away from the small boat as it moved swiftly downriver.

  “Too bad,” Reilly murmured. “I was in the mood to shoot something.”

  “Where are we going?” Carlie asked somewhat desperately. “Do you have any sort of plan, or are we just wandering through the jungle, one step ahead of Morales and his men?”

  “Don’t forget the noble rebels. They aren’t any too friendly, either. Fortunately they’re to the south of us, and we’ll be heading north, once we reach our next stop.”

  “What’s our next stop?”

  He seemed to consider it for a moment. “I suppose I’ll trust you,” he allowed.

  “Big of you.” She couldn’t resist snapping back.

  “After all, there’s no one you’re likely to tell. Caterina Morrissey de Mendino would have been out for her own tail, but I’m not so sure about Carlie Forrest. Besides, I don’t intend to let you out of my sight.”

  “Reassuring.”

  “Isn’t it, though?” he said with false sweetness. “We’re heading due east to a small settlement called Cali Nobles. There’s a small trading post there, run by a man named Simeon. A much better sort than our friend Dutchy. I can count on Simeon to find us some sort of transportation north.”

  “North?” She hadn’t been in the hills north of San Pablo since the rescue workers had first taken her down out of the mountains. She didn’t want to go back.

  “That’s where my plane is. If we’re going to get out of here in one piece we need to get to my Cessna. Look at it this way, angel, at least you won’t have to walk. Or do you have a problem with flying?”

  “I haven’t flown in years.”

  “Oh, really. Then how did you get to San Pablo to visit your old school friend Caterina?”

  Damn him, she thought, savoring the first curse she’d uttered, mentally, in years. “By yacht, of course,” she said serenely.

  “Ah, yes, Transatlantic yacht. Remind me, Carlie. How long ago was that?”

  “Two months,” she said determined to bluff it out.

  “And one more question,” he said, paddling smoothly through the water.

  “Yes?”

  “Where do we find some gigua grass?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Carlie almost wished the trip downriver could have lasted forever. It was peaceful and quiet in the bottom of that little boat, with only the occasional whine of insects to disturb her calm.

  Reilly seemed to be suffering from a massive case of the sulks, though she couldn’t quite figure out why. He wasn’t talking to her, which was just as well. She hadn’t been able to come up with an answer to the gigua-grass question. Obviously he understood the Shumi language far better than she had imagined. He’d understood every word of the woman’s cheerful advice on procreation, as well as her agreeable responses.

  Fortunately the baby was growing more alert, and she concentrated her attention on him, talking in a low voice that she hoped wouldn’t reach back to the taciturn Reilly. “Did you miss me, little boy?” she murmured. “I missed you. I know you must have liked being taken care of, not being jostled around all the time. It won’t be too much longer before we get you home. You’ll have a grandma and a grandpa to love you and take care of you, you’ll probably have cousins and—”

  “No cousins,” Reilly interrupted from the back of the dugout. “Billy was their only child.”

  “Then they’ll love you all the more,” she assured the baby determinedly. “They’re probably just waiting to dote on you, sweetie. Though I hope your grandma isn’t too old….”

  “Actually, the Morrisseys can afford the best of everything for their only grandchild. Including the best of household help. He’ll be looked after by experts. And I doubt a high-powered Washington hostess like Grace Morrissey would care to be referred to as ‘grandma.’”

  She turned back to look at him, her concern for the baby overriding her determined avoidance of him. “They’ll love him, won’t they?”

  “They sent me down here to get him, didn’t they?” he countered irritably. “They were willing to foot the bill.”

  “They’re paying your expenses?” she questioned, oddly surprised.

  “No.” He gave the paddle a harder push, sending the canoe skimming through the water. “I owed Billy that much, and more. It was the least I could do.”

  She turned back to the baby lying across her lap, looking up at her trustingly out of those surprisingly brown eyes. “They’ll love you,” she said firmly, loud enough for Reilly to hear. “Or your Uncle Reilly will beat them up.”

  Reilly’s response was a muffled obscenity. “I’m not the kid’s uncle,” he protested.

  “You told me you and Billy were like brothers.”

  “We grew apart. People change. We had a couple of arguments.”

  “Still, you came after his wife and baby. You must have forgiven him.”

  “There was nothing to be forgiven,” Reilly said. “Just a parting of the ways. And don’t try to make me out as some kind of good guy. I happened to owe him for any number of things. This gives me a chance to pay my debt.”

  “You don’t owe me anything. Why are you taking me along if you’re not a good guy?”

  “You keep this up and I’ll toss you to the crocodiles,” he drawled.

  “Sure you will, Reilly,” she said, feeling suddenly, surprisingly cheerful. She looked down at the baby. “Your uncle’s a liar, sweetie. Don’t pay any attention to a word he says. He’ll look out for you.”

  She could practically hear Reilly’s temper simmer. It was a mildly entertaining diversion, to be able to annoy him so thoroughly, and these days she needed mild diversions. All this excitement was a bit too much for her placid heart to handle.

  Though she was beginning to wonder whether her heart was that placid after all. She’d taken the danger and adventure with surprising equanimity, and she’d survived her first taste of passion without dying of shock.

  Re
verend Mother Ignacia had always been frank about the sins of the flesh. She had maintained that God had given them all bodies to enjoy, and there was nothing shameful about pleasure. To be sure, it was better sanctified by God and a priest, but a pragmatic woman had to accept that life didn’t always work out so neatly.

  She’d listened to Carlie’s protestations that she had no interest in sensual matters, but she still refused to let Carlie take her final vows. Carlie was finally beginning to suspect why.

  She’d never had any doubt about Mother Ignacia’s wisdom and perception in other matters—why had she assumed that when it came to Carlie she’d suddenly lost her ability to see clearly?

  Carlie leaned back against the supplies, gazing out over the slow-moving river. The baby dozed peacefully, and behind her she could feel Reilly’s strong, steady movements as he propelled them through the water. It was a perfect time for reflection, to consider what she’d never dared consider before.

  Perhaps, just perhaps, she’d misunderstood her calling. Perhaps she really had been hiding, from memories, from pain, from life.

  She still wanted to hide. She wanted to be back in the safety and stillness of the convent, her body unawakened, her soul single-minded, her heart determined. There were too many choices out here. Too many distractions.

  Including the innocent child lying in her lap, trusting in her to keep him safe, to love him. And including the not-so-innocent man behind her. What did he want from her? Anything at all? And what was she willing to give him?

  The fear fluttered in her stomach once more, combined with a tightening lower down, a clenching of memory that came against her will, and she wanted to run.

  But there was nowhere to run to. Not in this crazy, war-torn country, not while she needed his help to protect the baby. She just had to get through the next few days, till they got out of here. Then, away from his distracting presence, back in the shelter of the convent, she could decide what she really needed in life.

  The thought should have soothed her. But somehow the idea of leaving this man, and this child, cut her to the heart, and she closed her eyes against the brightness of the tropical sun, and the sting of her own tears.