Gallant Match

by Jennifer Blake

  His trousers, she was gratified to see, offered scarcely more concealment than her pantaloons. The weight of the water draining down his body dragged them low on his hip bones, exposing a considerable expanse of hard, flat belly with an arrow of dark hair pointing downward. Below that, scrupulously molded by wet fabric, was an outline she recognized as corresponding to the male member of stallions seen at pasture.

  Like some satyr of legend, half man, half beast, he lifted his arms that were circled by her wet garters and used both hands to rake his hair back from his face. The resulting furrows of wet hair relaxed into waves and wild ends that looked like a crown of tarnished copper leaves.

  The closer he came, the harder it was to breathe and more furious grew the race of the blood in her veins. Something about him, some untamed impulse in his face or purpose in his stride, made her breasts tingle and lower body ache with reckless yearning. She didn’t move, had no thought of retreat. Never in her life had she felt so alive or so in need of human closeness. The urge was so desperate that even the hint of menace in his approach could not disturb her.

  His movements slowed, came to a halt. She met his eyes, sustaining the steel-hardness in their silver-gray depths. Her lips parted, and she inhaled with a soft, tried sound that might have been either trepidation or anticipation.

  His gaze dropped to her mouth, and lower to where the shirt she wore had fallen open, revealing the enticing curves of her breasts above her corset cover and the drops of water that dripped from her hair to jewel their swells. It moved lower still, to her lap where she cradled her foot.

  “You’re bleeding,” he said abruptly.

  So she was, an ooze of red from under the leaves protecting her injury. Her voice had a trace of huskiness as she answered, “It’s just from being in the water.”

  The rigidity of his muscles eased, his stance became looser. “More than likely, though I should take another look. It must be sore to walk on, too. Maybe we had better stop for the night.”

  “Here?” She glanced around at the stone walls that enclosed the pool except for the slope down which they had gained access. The question was almost at random in the confused disappointment that gripped her. She had thought, had expected…

  But, no, it must have been only in her mind.

  He gave a quick shake of his head, looking past her shoulder. “This is the jaguar’s stomping ground and we don’t want to get between him and his watering hole. I thought I caught sight of a cave higher in the rocks above here.”

  “That sounds useful,” she said with some strain. “That’s supposing it isn’t his den.”

  His face remained impassive. “As you say. Best I take a look.”

  “I could go a little farther if necessary.”

  “A mile or two more shouldn’t make a difference. At least we have water here, and we may need the daylight that’s left.”

  He didn’t explain further, and Sonia didn’t ask. She had made her effort toward cooperation and was too grateful that it had been turned down, too desperate for the prospect of rest, to care.

  It was just as well they had not entered the opening he spoke of in darkness. It was not a cave, after all, but the overgrown doorway of what had once been a dwelling or pagan temple of enormous size. The stone blocks of which it had been built were tumbled and broken, leaving a usable space larger than the average room. Tree roots and vines covered the rubble, insinuating their tendrils into the cracks caused by storm and earth tremors so they grew down the walls inside. Lichen and fungi coated them in spreading crusts, almost obliterating the oddly convoluted characters and symbols that were incised into the rock. Lizards enameled in green, red and blue darted over the surfaces and spiders made nests like silken tunnels in the seams. And over it all hung a breathless, thunderous silence, as if something or someone long vanished would return momentarily.

  Kerr checked the dark and echoing interior. Turning back to where she waited just inside the door opening, he pronounced it safe enough. Though it had been used by animals in the past, he said, the signs weren’t recent.

  “I’ve heard tell of lost Indian cities,” he went on with a slow shake of his head as he studied the terrain around the opening. “Never expected to run up on one.”

  “You think there are other buildings?”

  “Bound to be.” He nodded toward where the ground rose behind where they stood. “That rock pile doesn’t look natural. Must be lots of other ruins farther on, half buried and covered over with all the greenery.”

  She shook her head in amazement as she stepped deeper into the shadowy refuge. There was fascination for her in the idea of all those who had lived here, who had laughed and cried, played, sung, loved, hated, fought and died. It may have been long ago but their spirits seemed to hover in the stifling heat and silence. To take shelter where they had trod seemed a sacrilege, yet also a privilege.

  How long she stood there, peering around the cool, dark space, absorbing its dusty mysteries, she didn’t know. When she looked toward where she had left Kerr, he was kneeling in a small area he’d cleared under shelter of the doorway. Before him was a pile of dry leaves, shredded bark and what appeared to be fibers from the hems of his trousers. His ruined pocket watch lay next to him while he held the thick, concave crystal from it in his hand, directing a ray from the sun through it and onto the tinder he had prepared. A small smile touched her mouth as she understood, abruptly, why they had needed sunlight enough to stop while it was still available.

  By the time she reached his side, a thin curl of smoke was rising from the pile in front of him. She dropped to her knees and leaned to blow gently on that hot spot. Seconds later, a tiny blaze appeared. They fed it with care, placing another leaf or two on it, a handful of rotted bark, a few twigs. When it was crackling, reaching upward for more fuel, she looked across the yellow-red flames and smoke, beaming.

  Kerr smiled back at her, his eyes silver bright.

  Perilous delight suffused Sonia. The two of them had survived enemy fire, drowning and jungle danger to find a safe shelter. To be alive was such a miracle. Inside her, some odd, internal barrier seemed to give way. Careless of the smoke and her damp hair strands that dangled near the small fire, she leaned impulsively to press her lips to his.

  He came to his feet in a single, swift movement, taking her with him, swinging her away from the flames. Releasing her just as fast, he spun away from her. “Keep it burning,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “But where—”

  She was talking to empty space. He was gone, and she was left to contemplate the difficulty of persuading a man to make love to her who was forever leaving her.

  It was dusk, and thunder was rumbling in a darkening sky to the southwest, when he returned. As before, there was no sound; he simply stepped out of the fading evening into the firelight where she sat.

  Hanging from one hand was what appeared to be a small, dressed chicken. He had cleaned and washed it, perhaps to keep the smell of the fresh kill a safe distance from their haven, but the green feather stuck to his shoulder was a fair indication of what was to provide their supper. His other hand held a handful of plantains. Clasped with them was a tree branch sharpened to a point and a sheaf of leaves that might serve as plates.

  It occurred to her, in the instant before she smiled her pleasure at his safe return, that no other gentleman of her acquaintance could have provided food and shelter with such lack of fanfare in this situation, much less have found water or offered protection for her bare feet. That he should have some skill as a woodsman was not especially surprising, considering his birthplace, but watching it put to use was still impressive. She owed Kerr Wallace her life, her comfort, her promise of safety. The degree of respect she must concede for these things was uncomfortable but also inescapable. Though it was best if it remained silent, she could not stint on it.

  Barely had their meal begun to roast on the spit Kerr arranged for it when lightning burned across the
heavens and rain swept down on them. It came in windblown, tropical fury, lashing the earth while the trees creaked and swayed and muddy rivulets snaked away on all sides.

  Sonia and Kerr retreated deeper into the interior of the ancient ruin. She sank down, putting her back to a dirt-encrusted wall while Kerr sat against what appeared to be a couch of stone located just inside the door, so closer to the glowing coals of the fire. An odd peace settled between them as they watched the slanting rain while absorbing the rich smell of roasting fowl that pervaded their lofty chamber. Food, water, shelter and someone to share them, these were the basics of life, she thought. What more did anyone need when all was said and done?

  “If people lived here once,” she said after a time, “I suppose they could again.”

  “You thinking of taking up residence?” Kerr broke a twig from a limb, one of a pile they had gathered, tossing pieces of it into the flames.

  “Would it be so bad?”

  “No balls, soirees, theater or opera, no baker or butcher, no modiste or milliner? How would you survive?”

  She closed her eyes, made weary by the mocking note in his voice. “I enjoy all those things, yes. But they aren’t necessary to me.”

  “So you think now. You’d miss them like hell if you had to do without for a few months.”

  “You may think you know me. I promise you, you don’t.”

  “Works both ways.”

  “Meaning I don’t know you? That’s difficult with someone who never speaks two words when one will do.” She stared out at the storm-tossed forest beyond their shelter, her contentment draining away to be replaced by infinite weariness.

  “You sure you want to know what I have to say?”

  The grim timbre of his voice drew her attention. His eyes were shuttered, his face like a mask gilded by firelight. “How can you think otherwise?”

  “That you asked doesn’t mean you’ll like what you hear.”

  “I think I must hear it anyway,” she said in quiet certainty.

  He flipped the rest of his twig toward the coals and leaned his head back against the stone behind him. His expression was reflective and a shade bitter when he finally began. “I told you about my younger brother—told you, too, about my old man’s one trip down to New Orleans. Andrew, named for General Jackson, was as much taken with the idea of the city as I was, maybe more. He used to talk of heading down the Mississippi the way some men talk about looking for El Dorado. It’s my guess that’s the reason he took up with a yahoo who hailed from New Orleans when he joined Lamar’s Ranger company in Texas. He wrote of the man and all the things he’d told him about the town, the way people lived there, how they thought, what they called themselves.”

  “The crème de la crème.” She whispered the phrase he had flung at her on the first night they met, though she feared an instant later that the interruption might have caused him to withdraw again.

  “You’re right, I heard it first from him. Andrew and his new friend got to be like brothers, or so he said. They shared mounts, rations, canteens—everything except bedrolls.”

  “He told you his name?”

  “Oh, aye, he did that.”

  She waited a second, but when he failed to give it, she did not press him. “Your father thought you should have gone with your brother, I believe you said.”

  “If I’d done that, he’d have had no need for a so-called friend. Or I might have died instead of Andrew.”

  “What happened?” she whispered, her voice blending with the falling rain that had begun to die away, tapering to a drizzle.

  “They were sent on the march to Santa Fe that became the Mier Expedition. It was a tough go from the first—hot, dry and plagued by attacks from the Comanche and Apache allied with Mexico. Truth to tell, it was a stupid blunder, that trek, a bid for glory by President Lamar that was bound to fail.”

  “And fail it did.”

  Kerr gave a short nod. “At Mier, where they were finally cornered. What was left of the force was rounded up and marched off to Mexico, destined for Perote Prison no great distance west of Vera Cruz. A bunch of them escaped the guards and went hieing off into the desert. That’s where it really got ugly.”

  “How do you mean?” She’d heard the story in part, but never the details.

  “They were low on supplies, sun-blistered, footsore and lost. A handful decided they were never going to make it the way they were going, but couldn’t talk the others into giving themselves up. So they took everything they could lay hands on and hightailed it. First town they came to, they bartered what they knew about the escaped prisoners to save their wretched hides.”

  “But…but not your brother.”

  “Not Andrew, no, but their ringleader was the man he’d called his friend. The man, not incidentally, who took everything with him that the two of them owned—mounts, rations, water. Especially the water.”

  “Your brother was left with nothing.”

  “Only the need for exoneration because some of the others thought he must have known about the trick but got left behind. Being Andrew, he had to do something to redeem himself. He convinced them he might be able to stop the deserters, bring them back. They gave him a horse and let him go. His horse was found later. He wasn’t.”

  “You think…you suspect he caught up with the others and they killed him?”

  “God knows. He may have been thrown or snake bit, might have drunk from an alkali spring, been killed by Indians or a dozen other things. But it would never have happened if not for the betrayal of Jean Pierre Rouillard.”

  Sonia drew a sharp breath, though as much for the abrupt denouncement of her betrothed as from real surprise. It stood to reason that he would be mixed up in the affair in some fashion. Once or twice, it had crossed her mind that he might because he had been a Ranger like her Bernard and Andrew Wallace, but the idea had seemed too terrible to contemplate.

  “I don’t understand it,” she said after a moment. “Jean Pierre said…I mean, he must have been recaptured at Mier with the others because he told me about Bernard, told me how he died.”

  “He lied.”

  “But he knew Bernard drew the black bean.”

  “He was told it by his Mexican friends, or else was with the Mexicans when the decimation of the Rangers was carried out. I give you my word he wasn’t among the survivors. I can do that because Andrew wrote before he went off on the trail of the deserters, giving what happened and where, naming names. He gave the letter to his captain, a man who drew a lucky white bean. He managed to get the note to Kentucky.”

  “I see.” Tears rose up inside her for the deaths of those two brave young men, Bernard and Andrew. Strong, smiling, full of life, they had ridden off to fight a war as they might have to some house party and never came back. Gone, they were gone as if they had never been, living only in the memories of those who had loved them.

  Yet the man she was to marry, the man who had betrayed them both, caused the death of both, still lived.

  “You are going to Vera Cruz to kill Jean Pierre.”

  “To force him to face me, sword in hand, and explain what he did and why.”

  “And then kill him.”

  Kerr looked at his hands that he had clenched into fists. “Probably.”

  “That’s the reason you have been so determined I must go through with this marriage.”

  “It is.”

  Pain tightened her throat, so it was a moment before she could go on. “The reason you laid hands on me, locked me in my cabin on the Lime Rock, kept me from finding a way to go ashore.”

  “That’s it,” he agreed, his voice even.

  “Forgive me, but I don’t see why it was necessary to accept my father’s offer of employment. Why could you not have simply boarded ship for Vera Cruz to find him?”

  “I’ve been on his trail for years now. Figuring he’d hang around Santa Fe after he deserted, I left Kentucky for Missouri, joined a caravan of traders heading overland and down the o
ld mountain-pass route. I was right, but your fiancé found out I was asking around for him. He took off across the border for Chihuahua. I followed, as you might expect. By the time I got there, he had disappeared again. I knew he was from New Orleans, figured he might go to ground there, so that’s where I showed up. I couldn’t get a line on him and was short of ready cash. It seemed reasonable to spend time at the trade of sword master, one that would let me earn my keep and give me contact with the men in the Vieux Carré who might know something of Rouillard. Now and again I’d hear he’d been in and out of town, or had been seen in Mobile, Havana, Galveston or somewhere in between. I checked out every lead but was always too late to catch up with him.”

  “So you didn’t know about Vera Cruz.”

  “I don’t think he was down here the first couple of years. He moved around, had no settled base. Later, I heard rumors about connections in the area. Then the word was that he had chosen a bride from New Orleans, one sailing to join him for the wedding. It seemed her father wasn’t anxious to make the trip and had a mind to hire an escort. If I could get myself hired so I showed up with the bride, there was a chance I could finally meet face-to-face with the man who’d caused Andrew’s death.”

  The simple way he put his long quest said more about the man than any amount of bombast and threats. It also said much about the depth of his feeling for those he loved.

  Sonia took a deep breath and let it out with a shake of her head. “You may be admitted to Jean Pierre’s house as my escort, but I will be surprised if he agrees to meet you on any field of honor.”

  “Could be I’ll have to find a reason he can’t ignore.”

  “Suppose,” she began, stopped, moistened her lips with her tongue and tried again. “Suppose you brought him a bride-to-be who was not as represented in the marriage contract?”

  He stared at her, his brows gathering above his nose in a scowl. “What are you suggesting?”