"You stink," he said as he hunkered down next to the manacled man.
A grin split the prisoner's face. "I like you, too," he said wryly.
Hakki returned the smile, realizing his mistake. He pointed toward the river. "You go to river, get washed. I take you."
The manacles rattled as they were lifted. "Sorry, won't reach. You will just have to live with my stink, like I do."
Hakki smiled again and held out a key. "Fletcher says you too worn out to run far. You come with me, I see you do not escape."
"He trusted you to guard me?"
Hakki stood. His height and build would have been enough to intimidate most men, but the prisoner was of even greater stature. "I spent many years guarding women of Sultan's harem. They much more sneaky than you." He went to the back of the wagon and crawled under to unlock the chain from the axel. He emerged with the chain wrapped around his narrow waist and locked in place. "Go."
His muscles protested, but the captive stood and moved toward the river. "Tell me about it."
"What it?"
A smile and then, "The Sultan's harem."
Hakki's dark face lit with remembrances. "Full of color. Many, many colors. Not like here. And music. Everything smell so sweet."
"And the women?"
Hakki grinned. "The most sweet of all."
"I'll bet," was the chuckled reply. "Where did you meet Miss Montrose?"
The black face became shuttered. "Constantinople."
They pushed aside underbrush as they neared the river's edge. "It's an odd place for a tour."
"Not tourist. She stay in Sultan's harem."
The prisoner tried not to show his surprise, but his pulse flickered wildly. "I see." They came to the edge of the river, and gently flowing water invited them below a two-foot embankment. A woman's giggle was heard from around a bend nearby. "How long was she one of the Sultan's women?"
Hakki frowned and pressed a hand to the captive's chest. "You ask too many questions. You wash now." A shove sent the man flying backward into the water where he landed in the shallows with a splash.
Looking out from under a dripping curtain of black hair, he frowned at Hakki's grin, then the humor of the situation overcame his irritation and he laughed. "Got any soap?"
* * * *
Upstream, Glee heard the deep rumble of laughter and paused while rinsing her hair. The sound had caused her breath to halt for a moment, as though anticipating another musical burst. It did not come again, however, and Glee resumed her task.
She didn't realize that she was smiling until Erdogan asked her what she was so happy about.
Her auburn brows crinkled. "I don't... Oh, stuff! Get the oil, Erdogan, and sing me a song, will you?"
His lips turned up and he uncorked a bottle of rose oil as his mistress stretched out on a pair of Turkish towels in the late afternoon sun. "Which one, mistress?"
She sighed and turned her cheek onto her bent arms. "Night-song Bird."
Erdogan and Amina exchanged glances. Night-song Bird was a love song, and Glee had never requested it or any other love song before.
As his hands stroked the oil into her pores, Erdogan's high voice sang the Turkish song with a sweet beauty.
Night-song bird, night-song bird seek ye no rest?
Have ye no lover to comfort thy nest?
Sleep in the sun,
Cold, only one.
A tear gives the shine to thyne eyes.
Night-song bird, night-song bird fly to the south.
Seek ye the nectar that sweetens thy mouth.
Seek ye the pleasure that kisses can bring.
Find ye a lover to hold ye in spring.
Night-song bird, night-song bird joy is thy due.
Thy heart is afire, thy spirit is new.
Lovers are one,
Souls touch the sun.
Sleep at peace, little bird, sleep at peace.
Night-song bird, night-song bird fly to the south.
Seek ye the nectar that sweetens thy mouth.
Seek ye the pleasure that kisses can bring.
Find ye a lover to hold ye in spring.
Night-song bird, night-song bird grieve ye no more.
Thy lover has gone where enchanted birds soar.
Chicks now are grown.
Burdens are flown.
Give thy spirit to God and be free.
Glee rolled to her back and let Erdogan melt her tired muscles like butter. She was half-asleep, daydreaming of tiny birds mating mid-air against the backdrop of a dark, starry night, when there was a crashing through the brush nearby. Hakki's voice called out, and she relaxed back onto her towels. Erdogan stroked oil over her belly as Hakki appeared at the edge of the small clearing.
"Mistress, I have distressing news."
Glee murmured and sighed as oil-coated hands smoothed her throat and moved down her chest. "What is it Hakki?"
"He is not Esteban Garcia."
"What? Who is not Esteban Garcia?" Erdogan kneaded her upper arms with professional detachment.
"The prisoner. Jake Fletcher's prisoner is not Esteban Garcia," Hakki repeated, his voice rising slightly, the only sign of his anxiety.
Glee's eyes opened and sought out Hakki. "Who told you this?"
"The prisoner."
She snorted. "And you believe him?"
Her guard nodded.
"Hakki, he's a thief, a murderer. He undoubtedly lies whenever the mood strikes him."
"No, mistress, I do not think so."
Glee rose to elbows and stared hard at Hakki. His ebony face was grimly set, black eyes hard and certain. "Merde! What am I supposed to do about it?" She stood and Amina held out pale pink silk pantalets for her to step into. "Does he have any proof?"
Hakki shook his head. "He says Fletcher took his clothing and sold it, and any proof was lost then."
A sheer pink chemise floated down to cover her breasts. "And we're just supposed to believe him, of course."
"He says he can prove it in California."
A faded green and white striped dress, four inches too big around, got yanked up as her voice rose in irritation. "But he's not going to California, Hakki. He's to be left in Salt Lake City."
Hakki's lips tightened.
Erdogan cradled his oil and towels tightly and cast glances between his mistress and the other eunuch. "What shall we do?"
"Do?" Glee retorted. "Stuff! I don't know what to do." She bit her lower lip and waited for Amina to finish braiding and pinning her hair before she bent to pick up her green silk scarf. "It seems to me that if he's not Esteban Garcia the authorities will figure it out in Salt Lake City."
Amina tugged at her arm. "And if they do not?" she signed.
Glee frowned. If the authorities were as ignorant as Jake Fletcher, the man whom they thought was Esteban Garcia was going to hang. "All right," she said, resigned. "I'll talk to him." She pinned each of her servants with a sharp gaze. "Will that make you all happy?"
There was a silent chorus of nods.
"Fine," she snapped. "Hakki, do you still have the key to his manacles?"
"Yes, mistress."
"Good. Avoid returning it to Fletcher unless you absolutely have to. If he takes it back, be sure to note where he keeps it. Bring this person who isn't Esteban Garcia to my tent two hours after Fletcher goes to sleep."
"You are very wise, mistress," Hakki said.
"Stuff! I've just invited a murderer into my home, and you call me wise," she grumbled. "A lot you know, Hakki."
The tall man grinned. "Yes, mistress."
* * * *
Glee made a false show of yawning and half-nodding after supper had been cleared away. She excused herself and retreated to her tent. All evening she had watched the tawny-eyed man like a hawk. What she expected to see, she didn't know. Some sign of mendacity, some flicker of malign purpose, she supposed. All she saw was a squeaky clean, entirely too masculine man silently eat his supper and then lean back against the wagon whee
l with his eyes closed.
Her nerves were strung tight.
Once inside her tent, Glee lit a candle and then paced like a caged animal, listening to the sounds of the tin plates being put away, the scuffle of boots as Hakki and Erdogan moved around the camp stacking this and packing that. Not long after, Amina came into the tent.
"We can see your shadow pacing in the candlelight."
Glee stopped and looked from the candle to the door flap. She raised her arms and yawned largely, dramatically, then told Amina to help her get ready for bed.
Bit by bit Glee was undressed. A diaphanous, white nightgown slid over her arms and head to settle, gossamer light, on her shoulders. She went through her normal routine, washing face and hands, scrubbing her teeth with a rough cloth, and rebraiding her hair into two long, thick plaits. For tonight, she stuffed the braids under a mobcap to hide their copper intensity. Nodding toward the candle, Glee slid into her bedroll.
Once the light was extinguished, she was up again, pacing. The wait seemed interminable, her patience growing thinner and thinner as the hours passed. Amina fell asleep in her own bedroll and was soughing innocently.
Just when Glee felt she might very well go mad with suspense, Hakki drew the tent flap aside and caught Glee's eyes in the dark. She moved to light a candle.
Hakki held the flap while the prisoner ducked into the tent. She blinked hard. Hakki must have given him a razor when they bathed, because his short beard was now gone. Long dark sideburns outlined the planes of his cheeks, emphasizing the square strength of his jaw. Without a moustache or beard, the sensuous fullness of his lips was apparent and Glee had to blink again to refocus on the whole of him.
His dark head pushed against the roof, proving his height to be six-feet-four or more, and Glee motioned for him to sit, hoping he would be less intimidating. He wasn't. He took a place on the end of her bedroll, and rubbed his red, scabrous wrists. Glee considered the size of his hands and she had to tamp down a surge of panic. She looked toward Hakki and caught the gleam of his scimitar as he moved out of the tent
Chapter 8
"T he chains were too noisy," he explained.
She nodded, apparently satisfied with the reasons for his freedom.
Señorita Montrose paced back and forth across the small tent, never realizing that the candle behind her illuminated her every plane and curve as though she weren't wearing the voluminous white nightdress. He watched her, unable to do anything else; fascinated with her mystery. Crazily, he had the nearly overwhelming urge to rip away the white cap she wore and discover what color her hair was. He knew it was long, thick. He'd watched her shadow as she brushed it out every night for the past twelve days. It fell to her waist like heavy silk.
His dark brows drew together. It was loco to be so concerned about her appearance. He should be planning his escape, not sitting here speculating about this tall, eccentric female with the turquoise eyes.
"Hakki has told me that you claim to be someone other than Esteban Garcia," she said in that breathy, low voice of hers. Her pacing stopped long enough for her to fix him with a hard look and twist the corners of her mouth upward slightly. "Were I you, I might wish to be someone else also."
"Sit, por favor. You are like a long-legged bird who searches for a meal."
She looked surprised, but sat at the other end of her bedroll, crossing her legs tailor-fashion and tenting herself in her nightgown. "Who are you?"
"Alejandro Jorge Christopher Valdez y Pacheco." He inclined his head in a mock-bow. "My American friends call me Alex."
“Pacheco? I know that name from somewhere.” Her brows knitted for a moment, and she chewed on a fingertip. Finally, she looked up at him. "Please, go on."
He stared into her eyes briefly, then admired the soft rose of her cheeks, the tiny cleft in her pointed chin. Alex shook himself mentally. "I was doing business in Boston-"
"Boston!" she squeaked.
"Si," he confirmed, somewhat more impatiently than he intended. "Do you know Boston?"
"My family is in Boston."
He smiled. "I have been to Boston many times, Señorita, and never have I met anyone like you."
A slow flush crept over her face. "I am away most of the time."
Alex's gesture swept over the tent. "Traveling?"
"Yes. My father was an author of travel-adventure books. We traveled all over the world together until his death in Constantinople earlier this year." Her long fingers fidgeted with the lace on her cuffs and it was obvious that she did not want to discuss herself. "You were saying?"
"What is your name, querida? Señorita Montrose does not suit you."
Again, she flushed. "I do not know what that word means, so I'd prefer that you did not address me so. My name is Glee Elizabeth Montrose."
"Glee?"
She nodded.
"It means sweetheart."
"No, it means happiness, joy-"
He chuckled and she looked up from her lap. "Querida. Querida means sweetheart, or sometimes beloved."
Flustered, she frowned and fussed with her cuff again. "I thought you meant glee."
"I know what you thought, niña." He put his hand over hers and pulled it away from her quickly tattering lace. Her fingers were like ice, but her eyes held something completely different when her gaze shot to his for the moment he touched her. Then it was gone, a flame either extinguished or hidden almost before it had been seen. Almost.
She snapped her hand away from his and her jaw jutted forward. "You may address me by my name, or you may get out and resume your former status. Is that clear?"
He forced his face to remain impassive, though he was unused to having women treat him disrespectfully. As head of his household, his mother and sisters always treated him with the utmost respect. His word was law in Asuymas y San Felipe. Alex's voice held a measure of irritation. "You are a very difficult woman, Glee Montrose."
"I do not deny it, Mister… Mister Pacheco." Turquoise met gold and sparked for a moment before she went on. "How did you come to be with Jake Fletcher?"
"El gringo estupido somehow has mistaken me for this criminal Esteban Garcia. I must assume that we look alike." He shrugged. "He hit me from behind and when I recovered I was tied to the back of a horse. The shackles came after I tried to escape for the second time."
"Is that when he shot you?"
Alex was surprised for a moment, but then remembered that both Hakki and Erdogan had seen the puckered pit of a scar on his thigh. He nodded. "I told him, of course, that I was not Garcia, but the fool is crazy. Desperate for money, I think, and Garcia is worth five thousand dollars."
She met his tawny stare bravely, giving him no hint of what was coming. "You must see my position in this," she said. "I have no more reason to believe you than to believe Fletcher."
Frustration welled up from his gut, churning in his stomach. What a fool to have thought she, a woman who was loco enough to get mixed up with Jake Fletcher, would see the truth of his words. He turned toward the candle so she could not see the fire of resentment he was sure was in his eyes.
"Fletcher is a pig."
She reached behind her and fluffed the little pillow there. "I am aware of your opinion of him, and I admit I have no liking for him either. I want to believe you, Mister, er..." She frowned. "Haven't you any kind of proof? Anything at all?"
"No," he stated flatly. "He took everything I had, coat, trousers, waistcoat, my watch, even my shoes, and sold them. They were replaced by a crude costume similar to this." He gestured to his clean but worn flannel shirt, the same one he'd worn since they'd left St. Joseph. "These, Glee Montrose, were new. Bought with your money no doubt."
Her white-covered head shook from side to side. "I'm afraid that I can't help you."
He stood abruptly, stooping slightly to avoid the roof, and then reached down to pull her to her feet. She pointed the barrel of a gun directly at his face.
He didn't move, half-bent toward her. "Do you know ho
w to use that, dama?"
She nodded, cocking the mechanism. "Something I picked up when in Australia. It's populated with criminals, you know." Softly, she called Hakki's name. The man strode in with scimitar drawn.
He smiled as he unbent. Something about the way she bit her full lower lip and the determined angle of her jaw was amusing, despite the circumstances. She was so like a half-tamed mustang. One minute she was docile, eating an apple from your palm, the next she was bucking you from her back. "This is not finished, sweetheart."
Under Wraps Page 8