This wasn’t what she had expected. Madeline followed the man called Joseph up the circular staircase, her brows lifting at the sight of a Gainsborough landscape decorating the first landing. By the time she was shown to her room, Madeline was baffled and more than a little uneasy. This place was not exactly Newgate. Eyeing the slipper tub full of steaming, lavender-scented water and the beautiful silk gown lying on the bed, she commented, “Sir, I don’t understand. This is not how they build a prison in my country.”
Bushy gray eyebrows lowered as Joseph’s green eyes shifted uneasily. “Señora,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I offer you a bit of advice. No matter how well he treats you, never, ever forget that Castle Perote is a vile and loathsome prison. Horrible things go on beneath the floors of the fortress. Despicable.” Madeline shivered as the door to her room closed behind him. The bathwater looked warm and welcoming, and she needed to chase the chill from her bones, as well as to wash away the dirt. As she settled into the luxuriant heat and slathered lavender soap over her skin, her thoughts dwelled on the man she had yet to meet.
The governor of this prison had not gone to the trouble to have her kidnapped and transported thousands of miles to allow her the pleasure of a scented bath and beautiful clothes. And although it may involve comforting luxuries, his plan—whatever it was—most certainly had ties to the devil.
Because as long as she lived, Madeline would never forget the sound of Brazos’s voice as he repeated this man’s name. Salezan. Damasso Salezan.
She tried to picture the man. Thick and swarthy, certainly. Probably with beady eyes and a hooked nose. He more than likely had lines of excess on his face and dirt beneath his fingernails. Well, she’d managed many men in her time. Salezan would be no different. “I’ll simply have to escape before he can set his devilish schemes in motion.” True, her attempts to flee had met with failure so far, but she wasn’t about to quit trying.
“I never admit defeat,” she declared, staring at a soap bubble hugging her knee. Well, except for Brazos. She’d given her very best efforts for those two weeks, and still he’d intended to leave. Defeat tasted bitter, but she took comfort in the fact that it took a man of Brazos Sinclair’s caliber to manage the victory.
Splashing away the bubble, she swallowed the lump that had suddenly appeared in her throat. Maybe when this was all over, she could convince her game-loving husband to change the wager to the best two out of three. But that would have to wait. She had other troubles to deal with at the moment.
Quickly, she bathed and dressed, then spent the remainder of her hour gazing out the window, searching for a weakness in the battlements. Certainly, the prison appeared impregnable, but experience had taught her that few things in this world were totally secure. After all, she’d found a way into the earl of Wentworth’s castle; surely she could find a way out of Damasso Salezan’s.
Patience, Madeline, she told herself. It was one of the most valuable tools of any thief. That and careful study. Over the years, she’d spent many an hour preparing and watching, waiting for the precise moment to strike. The circumstances were no different here. Her moment would come. It had to come—she had a family now, and there was no way a devil named Salezan was going to take that away from her.
She repeated the words over and over as she left her room, prepared to meet her enemy. She almost tripped when she noticed the figure waiting at the foot of the staircase, a bright, welcoming smile playing across his face. He wore a dark blue soldier’s uniform with gold stripes and fringe and gleaming gold buttons. In one hand, he held a single red rose, which he offered to her, saying in a cultured tone of voice, “Welcome, Señora Sinclair, I have so looked forward to meeting you. My home is your home.”
Damasso Salezan was the most handsome man Madeline had ever seen in her life. He all but took her breath away. As she stared at him, the single word that came to her mind was light. His hair was a burnished gold, his skin fair and without blemish. And his eyes—oh, his eyes were the blue of the sky on a crisp winter morning, only they twinkled like stars in the night. He could have introduced himself as the angel Gabriel, and Madeline would have believed him. “Mr. Salezan?” she asked, her voice sharp with disbelief. He smiled at her then, and had she been a lesser woman, she would have swooned at his feet. He was a god.
No, she reminded herself. He is a devil.
Salezan took her arm and escorted her into the dining room, where a long mahogany table was laid with Irish linen and silver of all shapes and sizes. Silver goblets, silver cutlery, silver serving platters. Silver vases held bouquets of roses, and even the paintings on the wall were encased in silver frames. The only items on the table not made of silver were the plates—they were made of gold.
Madeline’s knees were feeling a bit weak, and she gratefully took her seat. Poteet was nowhere to be found. Retreating to the defense of good manners, she smoothed her napkin onto her lap and waited silently while her host sat down. Salezan nodded for dinner to be served, then said, “So, Señora Sinclair I trust you found your room to your liking?”
His beautiful home, his gentlemanly manners, his exquisite smile; suddenly, she could stand no more. Straightening her spine, she lifted her chin and demanded, “Why have you brought me here? I demand to be told of your plans.”
He lifted a single brow, and although his features remained schooled, a hard light entered his eyes. “Please, madam, we do our best to maintain a sense of civility while we dine. Business matters can wait until after our meal. Now, try the soup. I’m certain you shall find it delightful.”
Business matters, Madeline silently repeated, her stomach churning to such an extent, she’d have thought she was back aboard ship. Patience, Madeline, remember.
Salezan served a seven-course meal. He inquired about the political situation in France and the latest trends in fashion at the English Court. Little questions he asked betrayed an unsettling knowledge of how she’d occupied her time during the journey from Galveston to La Réunion.
She refused to allow herself to speculate about what he knew of her personally. It wouldn’t do for him to be aware of her relationship to Rose or to Julian Desseau.
Madeline forced herself to eat. Having missed so many meals in her youth, she knew always to take advantage of such opportunities. Also, she practiced her patience, confident he’d get around to the topic of her interest in his own good time.
He told her about his years spent in England at Oxford. Madeline couldn’t hide her surprise, something he took in stride and, in fact, laughed about. “My mother, you see, was English. It is from her that I get my coloring. However it is the heritage of my father’s family that has guided my life.”
He paused, obviously waiting for Madeline to inquire about his father. She chose to sip her wine instead. These minor rebellions were dangerous, but necessary for her state of mind.
Salezan frowned, then said proudly, “My father was half Spanish, half Karankawa. It is a fine and noble heritage. Are you at all familiar with the Karankawa, Señora Sinclair?”
“No, I am not.”
A demonic light entered his eyes, and he sliced a bite of his beefsteak, speared it with his fork, and brought it to his mouth. “Funny, your husband is well versed in the history and practices of the Karankawa peoples. In fact, one might say he has an intimate knowledge.” He put the meat into his mouth and chewed it, smiling. Not understanding why, Madeline shuddered as she sipped her wine.
At the end of the meal, Salezan rose from the table and said, “We could adjourn to the parlor for coffee if you so desire, Señora Sinclair. But you do appear rather anxious, and it might aid your digestion if we attend to our business immediately. It’s entirely your decision, my dear.”
With precise movements, Madeline set aside her napkin and said, “I prefer to learn of what you have planned for me.”
Anticipation shone brightly in his brilliant blue eyes. “To my study, then.” He led her toward a room a few doors down the central
hallway. Madeline smiled weakly as they walked past Joseph, who watched her with a pitying gleam in his eyes. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to rush through the front door and flee whatever awaited her in Salezan’s study.
The governor turned a silver doorknob, paused, and gestured for Madeline to enter before him. She walked into the room, then stopped abruptly and gasped aloud as she beheld the life-size and very lifelike painting that dominated the room.
The tall, well-muscled, barbaric man was depicted stark naked, but not unadorned. Pieces of cane perforated the nipple of each breast and his lower lip. A tattoo stretched from shoulder to hip, and in one hand he carried a bow as long as he was tall. But it was the object held in the other hand that at once attracted and repelled the eyes. It looked to be a human arm, hacked off above the elbow, bleeding and dripping into a pool of red at the savage’s feet.
Madeline turned her head and focused on the pottery vessel sitting atop a table against the wall as Salezan said, “Magnificent, isn’t he? He is Capoques, painted from the description in Cabeza de Vaca’s journal. I commissioned the painting myself.” Salezan took his seat behind his desk and motioned for Madeline to sit in the red leather armchair opposite him. As she did so, he opened the lid of a silver box and withdrew a cheroot. He lit it, took a drag, then leaned back in his chair and exhaled a stream of woodsy-scented smoke. “Señora Sinclair; I am in your debt. Feel free to make any request, and it shall be granted to you—within reason, of course.”
“Release me.”
“Now, my dear, I did say within reason. The debt I owe is substantial, but not without limits.”
Madeline’s fingernails nervously scratched the leather upholstery. She drew a deep breath and said, “I don’t understand.”
“Your husband stole something from me,” Salezan said, frowning at the lit end of his cheroot. “An object of great value.”
“Brazos stole something?” Madeline didn’t believe it—not after all of the grief he’d given her.
Salezan’s hand lifted to rub his upper arm. He said, “Yes. He absconded with my wife. I believe you have met her? My Juanita Marie?”
For a moment, Madeline drew a blank. Then she matched the Spanish pronunciation with the Texan drawl she’d grown accustomed to and thought, Juanita Marie. Juanita. Brazos’s Nita was Salezan’s wife. “Oh, my,” she breathed.
His chuckle soured the air. “Yes. Oh, my.” He took another drag on his cheroot. “You see, Madeline—I may call you Madeline, may I not?—a confrontation between your husband and myself has been inevitable, but it has taken on a certain élan with you as part of the drama.” He gestured toward a sheet of paper lying on his desk. Madeline could see Brazos’s signature scrawled across the bottom. “Your husband has sent me an invitation to join him at a certain silver mine in South Central Texas, but I prefer to do my business from here. You are my lure, Madeline. He will come for you.”
Immediately, Madeline began to shake her head. She stifled a hysterical laugh and said, “No, no, he won’t. You misunderstand our relationship, Governor Salezan. Brazos intends to divorce me. He’ll not bother with chasing after me.”
Shrugging as though he were unconcerned, Salezan said, “I know Sinclair. He will come. You are his wife. He is responsible for you.”
“No.” Madeline stated it crisply and decisively. If there was one great truth in life, it was that Brazos Sinclair would never return to Perote. What man embraces a trip into hell for the sake of a person for whom he feels only lust? Not Brazos. Why, even if he had the slightest inclination to do so, he’d never make it aboard a ship to sail here. No, Brazos wouldn’t come for her.
But Julian Desseau would. Her father had traveled the Atlantic for Rose; he’d surely sail the Gulf of Mexico for a daughter he’d only recently discovered. All she had to do was wait and perhaps make initial efforts toward an escape attempt. Of course, the waiting might not be easy. Salezan had yet to mention just what he had planned for her while waiting for Brazos to arrive. Her stomach churned, and she almost groaned aloud when a new thought hit her.
Almost everyone believed that Brazos and Juanita had been lovers. Certainly, the Mexican beauty’s husband would think no differently.
Salezan chuckled again, drawing her gaze. He was all brightness and light; beautiful. She wondered absently if perhaps Satan had been the same before being banished from heaven. Softly, she asked, “What did you do to him?”
“Sinclair?”
She nodded. Her hands twisted nervously in her lap as Salezan extinguished his cheroot in a silver ashtray and smirked. “He does not relish returning to Perote, eh? I cannot understand, he was treated in such a special manner during his stay with us. Tell me, madam, what has he told you of Perote?”
“Nothing,” Madeline snapped. “He says nothing. But he dreams—” She broke off, the glimmer in Salezan’s eyes indicating his pleasure in her information.
“Dreams?” Damasso repeated after a moment. “He suffers nightmares, perhaps?” He leaned back in his chair and grinned maliciously. His voice was a smooth, seductive purr when he asked, “Tell me, my dear, does he scream in his sleep? Break out in a sweat? Perhaps”—his eyes took on an unholy gleam—“perhaps he has hurt you?”
Fury misplaced any sense of caution she possessed. “You, Governor Salezan, are a beast.”
He laughed loudly, clapping his hands and rubbing them gleefully. “No, señora, don’t you see. It’s your husband. It always has been. He is the bestia, and he returns. Our games will resume. I find I cannot wait.
“The bestia has always been my favorite.”
THE STEAMER Lucky Linda chugged south along the coast of Mexico, carrying a skeleton crew and a handful of passengers. Just days ago, she’d been docked at the wharves in Galveston waiting to take on passengers for the biweekly run to New Orleans. But in the dead of a moonless night, the new owner escorted aboard four silent passengers and established them in the finest of cabins before ordering the lines cast off. The captain was told to set a course for Vera Cruz, Mexico.
On the afternoon of the first day out, the steamer’s twin stacks belched smoke as black as Brazos’s mood into the pristine sky above the Gulf of Mexico. He paced the Texas deck, halting on occasion to stare blankly at the streamers of soot trailing behind the boat, as he envisioned his future. “There are times in a man’s life when the idea of dying has a certain undeniable appeal.”
“You are not going to die,” Tyler Sinclair said, coming up behind him and holding a glass of blended whiskey in each hand. Passing one to his brother he said, “If you up and did something dumb like that, then I’d be the one stuck with unloading this boat you purchased for an exorbitantly high price. Surely, if you’d taken a little more time, you could have conceived a better plan for making the trip to Mexico. Really, buying a boat to transport four people.”
“Five,” Brazos replied. “Don’t forget Rose.” He sipped his whiskey, then shut his eyes to enjoy the false warmth stealing through his icy heart. He added, “I’ve plenty of money, Ty. What I don’t have is time. Besides, like they say, you can’t take it with you.”
Tyler swallowed his drink, then reared back and flung the empty glass out over the gray gulf waters. “If you get yourself killed during this little excursion, I’ll never forgive you, Brazos. In fact, I’ll make you a promise—right now. Knowing how much you enjoy ocean travel, if you go do something stupid, I won’t rest until I’ve retrieved your carcass. Then I’ll do like the Vikings used to do. I’ll lay you out right here aboard the Lucky Linda, stoke up the fire, and send you sailing off into eternity instead of burying you beneath solid ground.”
“You’re all heart, brother,” Brazos replied dryly.
“Stop bickering, you two,” Sister Cecilia called from a deck chair, where she sat holding Rose on her lap. “If Mother could hear you, she’d slap you both. We are in a dangerous situation here, and it is no joking matter. I’m growing weary of this senseless quarreling. The whole idea of
this trip terrifies me.”
The brothers exchanged looks of chagrin, then Brazos handed Tyler his empty glass and sauntered over to his sister. Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to her cheek and said, “Don’t worry, Sister Sis. I promise that you’re not in any danger aboard the Lucky Linda. That’s one reason I bought her in Galveston. Salezan has an army in Texas, but I don’t think he’s scraped together a navy—yet, anyway. For him to have learned about Madeline, I figure he had spies on us along the trail. With you and Rose here, I don’t have to worry about you.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about, Brazos. It’s you. I’m frightened to death at the thought of your returning to that place.” She touched his arm. “Are you sure, Brazos? Isn’t there some other way you could help Madeline without going back. Besides, how can you be sure she’s still…still …”
“Madeline will be all right.” Brazos spoke through gritted teeth, his gaze leaving his sister’s concerned countenance and seeking out the man at her side. Julian Desseau’s face was ashen. The man had aged twenty years right before Brazos’s eyes since he’d listened to Brazos’s expurgated version of his dealings with Damasso Salezan. “She will,” Brazos insisted. “Maddie will be fine. She’s a survivor.”
Sister Cecilia murmured platitudes, but Desseau simply stared at Brazos, fear adding a hard edge to his brown eyes. Eyes so much like Madeline’s.
Brazos muttered a curse, then abruptly turned away and tramped down the stairway to the hurricane deck. Stopping beneath a gingerbread arch, he wedged his boot between two spools on the railing and stared out at the water. “She is a survivor,” he repeated. But the chill that had haunted him since returning to the cabin to find Madeline missing grew colder with every puff of black smoke rising from the Lucky Linda’s smokestacks.
He was scared witless at the thought of what Damasso Salezan might do to his wife.
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