What a sad, ironic joke on the Falcons. Their own pedigree went back hundreds of years to Spanish nobility. There was no one as proud or snobbish about bloodlines as old Enrique Falcon. And here he was eager to accept this no-name mongrel of a Texan as his long-lost son.
She slapped one hand against the other in nervous agitation. Suppose she kept her mouth shut, let them marry her off to the Texan, and then one day the real Tony Falcon came home, what then? While everyone whispered that the kidnapped child had probably been murdered and buried immediately when the ransom wasn’t collected, her father and old Falcon had never believed it.
Or at least, they’d pretended not to believe it. The two always talked of the time the grown-up boy would finally come home. Suppose the real heir was alive and had amnesia? Suppose one day in far away New York or South America, a man suddenly remembered his past, got on a stagecoach and showed up here? If she was married in the church, she would be stuck with the Texan, even if that happened.
She leaned against the bedpost and thought about the birthmark. It looked real enough. How had the Texan known about it? How had he copied it so well? Someone else had told him the story. But who?
Monique. Amethyst blinked as she realized the obvious answer. Of course whoever had told Bandit about the birthmark was in this plot with him. She remembered the way Monique and the cowboy had looked at each other in recognition. Sí, the pair were in this together. Monique had no doubt heard the kidnapping story from some of the servants, had decided her paramour back in Texas looked enough like the missing son to pass himself off as Tony, and had sent for him. Now why would Monique want to do that?
Amethyst paused before the French doors, looking out at her balcony. It was a hot night. Slight beads of perspiration ran down her breasts to her nipples. They made her think of the hot wetness of Bandit’s mouth as he’d caressed them and she shivered again despite the heat. Amethyst opened the French doors, took a deep breath of the cool breeze. It blew her night dress teasingly against her body, her legs. But she did not go out onto the balcony. She stayed in the shadows of the doors.
Closing her eyes, she remembered his fingers stroking their way up her thighs to her womanhood, to her wet, velvet depths. Shameless wench that she was, she’d spread her thighs, urged his big hand still deeper, had opened her mouth in complete surrender, sucking his probing tongue deep into her throat. Her face burned with remembered passion and shame. That Texan had the ability to make her react like a puta.
She hated him for that, hated him for making her respond as no man ever had. Did Monique react that way to the big man, too?
She would have to tell what she knew. No, she couldn’t. Amethyst shook her head in an agony of indecision. Her own reputation would be destroyed when gossip got out about her and that Texan. Besides, with the future marriage canceled, Amethyst would be on her way back to the nuns, Monique would see to that. Gentle Papa was such a fool over the woman.
Amethyst folded her arms, staring out at the night, and considered the other alternative. Pretend the Texan really was the Falcon heir and marry him. That meant spending every night for the rest of her life locked in his embrace. As his wife, he would take her to bed any time he wanted her. Was that bad?
Amethyst, are you mad? She scolded herself again. Who knows what his background is, what kind of children he would sire? She imagined a cocky, blond boy, big for his age, but with violet eyes like his mother’s. She saw a little girl with her mother’s dark hair, the Texan’s pale eyes and a crooked grin. No, maybe they wouldn’t be like that at all. The Texan was as wild as a mustang stallion; there was no telling what kind of blood ran in his veins. Bloodlines were important to the Durangos and Falcons.
As she mused, she thought she heard a sound outside, shrugged. More sounds. Curious, she went out onto her balcony and looked around. Her eyes widened. Below Monique’s balcony, the big pinto stallion stood tied to the bougainvillea. There was no mistaking that horse.
She looked up just in time to see the shadow of a man entering Monique’s French doors. For a long moment, Amethyst stared in shock and disbelief; then she looked again at the stallion below. As full awareness swept over her, she fought the terrible urge to scream out in protest.
Damn the Texan anyway! Only hours ago, he’d been all over her with his hands and mouth, panting and hard . . . and unfulfilled. Now he had gone to Monique to satisfy his hunger for a woman. Those two were in this plot together! Through marriage, they intended to control both fortunes and yet carry on their obviously old affair.
Righteous indignation swept over Amethyst as she stood trembling on the balcony. At least she labeled it that as she grabbed a robe, put it on, and marched, stiff as a ramrod, out into the hall. Bandit had lied when he’d said he loved her. He intended to use marriage to Amethyst as a cover for his affair with her father’s future bride.
She’d show those indiscreet lovers! Amethyst marched down the velvet hall carpet, past Mrs. Wentworth’s door. The old woman snored loudly. At her father’s door, Amethyst smiled in spite of herself as she listened to snoring that made the house tremble. Grimly, she raised her fist to knock. She’d sound the alarm, take him down to Monique’s room to catch the two naked lovers in the act.
But even as she drew back her fist to pound on his door, she hesitated, listening to his snoring. Dear Papa. She loved him so. What she was about to tell him would hurt and humiliate a gentle man.
Amethyst paused, sighed, let her hand drop. Papa had suffered so many hurts: the loss of the older children, then Amethyst’s mother, and next dear Miss Callie, the governess everyone had expected him to wed. Certainly that marriage would have had Amethyst’s blessing. But in New Orlenas Romeros had introduced her father to the elegant, high-born Monique, who had come for a visit. Papa had seemed undecided. Then Miss Callie had come down with dysentery a few hours after the dinner to honor the visitor. Dysentery. What with the hot weather and sanitation so backward, it was a common a death everywhere.
Amethyst frowned. Spicy native food, maybe too much garlic. At least, that was the scent she remembered. Maybe it was just as well that Monique had been here to console Papa as Miss Callie had hovered between life and death. In any case he’d decided to marry the French beauty just as soon as they could make all the plans for the big wedding Monique demanded.
Amethyst looked up and down the hall. If she couldn’t tell Papa, just what was she going to do?
She’d confront the two shameless lovers herself! She shook her long hair back, squared her small shoulders, and flounced down to stand before Monique’s door. Now what? Barge right in and confront them, naked and startled in Monique’s bed? Amethyst played the scene in her head.
Aha! she would say as she stalked in and they jumped up. Aha, I caught you!
She imagined Monique smiling smugly, shrugging. Can I help it if he finds me more appealing, more satisfying than you, my dear?
And Bandit. He would reach for his clothes, smiling crookedly, and say, Sweet, it takes more than one woman to satisfy a man like me and you weren’t very cooperative in the garden. Now you just go on and tell everyone if you want; it don’t make me no never-mind. I reckon tomorrow you’ll be headed back to the convent. Yum! I’ll bet they saved you a dish of cold gruel. . . .
Amethyst fairly trembled with helpless rage, but she put her head against the door, listening. From inside came sounds of passion, the rhythmic creak of a bed. If he needed a woman, he could have slipped through Amethyst’s French doors just as easily as Monique’s. Was the redhead more exciting, more appealing to him?
Hot tears came to her eyes as she listened, fury commingling with deep hurt. She should scream, bring people running from all over the house.
Amethyst shook her head, blinked back the tears. That would only hurt Papa. The servants at all the ranches would gossip and laugh about it. Did you hear they were caught together? He’s engaged to the young señorita, but he goes looking for pleasure in the older woman’s bed.
&n
bsp; What was she going to do? What could she do? Amethyst hesitated a long moment before running back to her room and flinging herself down on her bed. She hadn’t planned on marrying him anyway, but how dare he plead undying love and then go to Monique’s arms! He doesn’t love me. He is only after prestige, money. Behind that door, he and his paramour must be laughing at what a silly little fool I was for believing his lies.
She beat her fists against her pillow, feeling deep hurt and betrayal. He’d stolen more than her virginity, he’d taken her self-respect. But he wouldn’t use her anymore Damn him! She’d make him pay!
It must have been nearly dawn when Amethyst heard a noise. She lay there for a moment, trying to decide what it was. Then she heard a horse’s hooves echoing.
She ran out the French doors onto her balcony. In the shadowy night, the big pinto loped away toward the Falcon’s Lair. While the moonlight gleamed on the white of the stallion’s hide, the man himself was a dim silhouette.
Long after the horse had disappeared over the hill, Amethyst stared after it. Now what should she do?
She had to fight a terrible urge to run to Monique’s room, attack her with her fists. Monique would deny everything, of course, would affect puzzled innocence though her nipples were still swollen from his kisses. The elegant, older beauty would laugh at Amethyst’s accusations, her jealousy. No, of course it wasn’t jealousy. She was angry at the pair for plotting against the Falcons, against dear Papa.
Amethyst went back inside, flung herself on her bed, and wept. Finally she dropped off into a troubled sleep.
Bandit rose early and went downstairs, flipping his lucky coin and whistling. He’d had a good night’s sleep, disturbed only by dreams of holding the petite brunette, of making love to her.
When he passed the library door, he paused, looked in. Old Señor Falcon sat behind his desk, reading the newspaper. Bandit tucked the coin in his pocket. “Papá?”
It was getting easier all the time to say that word, to let this fine old man become the father Bandit had always wanted, but never had. If he could have had any prayer in this world answered, it would be to really be related to Enrique Falcon.
“Ah, sí, Tony my boy, come in, come in.” Falcon waved Bandit into the room. “I was just enjoying the Monterrey paper that came this morning.” He tore out a small article, gave Bandit a searching look, then opened a drawer and put the scrap of paper in it and closed it.
Bandit grinned. “You get the Monterrey paper way out here?”
The Don Enrique shrugged, stood up. “Not often. A messenger from town brings papers along with the mail once or twice a month.”
Bandit laughed, leaned against the desk. “That must be pretty old news.”
Falcon stood up. He looked long at Bandit, then shrugged. “Old news is better than none here on this isolated spread.” He came around the desk, put his hand on Bandit’s shoulder. “Shall we join your mother for breakfast, my son?”
My son. For a moment, Bandit could not speak. His eyes filled, and he swallowed hard. How long had he waited for some fine man to call him that? How long had he wondered about, searched for, his own father? Of course his father was some nameless cowboy drifter or some Czech farmer who had paid for his mother’s charms.
But the coin. Lidah had pressed it into his hand as she’d died, had tried to tell him something.
He closed his eyes briefly. Once more, he was twelve years old, holding his dying mother in his arms in her soiled, wrinkled bed. Through the thin partitions of the Ace High, laughter and tinny piano music drifted, covering her dying gasps for breath.
Her eyes opened and she tried to speak. “Sokol . . .” She gasped. Her hand opened, and he saw she clasped the coin, knew how much it had always meant to her, although she’d never said why. “Find him, tell him . . .”
Sokol. Was it the name of a building, a town, a street? Would the boy find this man there? Tell him what? The little boy waited as she tried to speak, put the small gold piece in his hand, closed his fingers over it. “He didn’t come like he promised,” she said. “Find him, son, tell him . . .”
“Mother? Mother!” He hugged her to him, weeping wildly. She had mistreated him, beaten him when she drank as if the sight of his face brought back painful memories. But she was his mother, and now she was dead by her own hand and he was alone. No, not alone. A whore named Mona had opened her arms and her heart to him that night. . . .
The old man said something, bringing Bandit back to reality. Bandit nodded in agreement, but he had no idea what Señor Falcon had said. He clasped the gold coin in his pocket. Obviously it was just a common Mexican coin. Probably his nameless father had used it to pay for Lidah’s services. In that case, Bandit didn’t want to know.
Señor Falcon said, “Come along, my boy, the señora will be waiting for us.”
Bandit nodded and they went down the hall. The old man looked sideways at him. “You know the señora is in very poor health, don’t you?”
Was he hinting at something or was it only Bandit’s guilty conscience. “Sí.” Bandit nodded. “But she’s been looking better the last couple of days.”
“That’s true,” the old man said. “Your return has been all she’s lived for these sixteen years. Still any kind of a shock—a disappointment—might be more than her weak heart could take. It might kill her.”
Bandit paused in the hallway, looked at the regal, silver-maned old Spaniard. “You love her very much, don’t you?”
The man gave him a piercing look. “More than life itself.” His pale eyes burned with intensity. “I would kill the hombre who did her hurt.”
“As would I!” Bandit said fiercely and he meant it. He loved the gentle señora as he loved the elderly man.
They went out onto the patio under the fragrant bougainvillea to join her for breakfast.
“Mamá,” He leaned over, kissed her cheek, and she hugged him, motioned him to a chair.
“Tony, my darling Tony! Did you enjoy the fiesta last night?”
He thought about Amethyst in his arms in the swing, about holding her while they danced. “It was the most wonderful night of my whole life,” he said sincerely, flopping down onto one of the ornate wicker chairs. He was beginning to really feel like Tony Falcon. A guilty thought crossed his mind as he looked at the old couple. No, Bandit, you mustn’t think of that. That wasn’t your fault. . . .
Señor Falcon kissed his wife’s porcelain cheek, then motioned to the maid to bring coffee. “It was a lovely party, first one we’ve had in many years.”
Señora Falcon brightened. “Just making up for lost time. Wait ’til you hear what I’ve planned for the wedding festivities.”
Bandit reached over, patted her frail hand. “Mamá, I can hardly wait to unite these two families. Amethyst is more beautiful than I remembered.”
He watched the old lady drink her cocoa. Certainly even a blind man could see she was living on borrowed time. Unless a miracle happened, a year or two at most was all she had. He swore to himself he’d make those years happy.
Señor Falcon frowned thoughtfully. “My friend Gomez is talking of a double wedding.”
Bandit sensed the older man’s hesitance as he picked up his coffee cup. “You don’t approve?”
“I—I have reservations about the lady.” Falcon sipped his coffee. “I think she’s not as young as she says, and we know nothing about her.”
“She’s very pretty,” Bandit said carefully.
The old man shrugged. “I don’t know whether Gomez loves Mademoiselle Monique or is wildly infatuated with her looks and French background. We really expected him to marry Miss Callie.”
The Señora nodded sympathetically. “It was lucky Monique was here for him when the governess took ill and died so suddenly. But maybe Gomez will think it over, realize the woman might be a poor choice.”
Señor Falcon shrugged as if tired of the subject. Instead, he stared at Bandit. “It’s amazing how my brother’s clothes fit you so perfectly
.”
“Why should it be so amazing?” The old lady laughed. “Your brother is, after all, Tony’s uncle. I see no surprise that the two could wear the same clothes, look alike.”
Bandit sipped his coffee, avoiding her eyes because he felt so ashamed. She wanted to see the resemblance so badly, she saw it where there was none. Two big, blond men with blue eyes. That was all the resemblance there was. But the old lady saw with her heart, not her eyes. . . .
The maid brought big plates of fried steak, eggs with peppers, and tortillas, as well as bowls of fresh fruit. Never had Bandit eaten so well. It was wonderful to be Tony Falcon. After a time, he might begin to think of himself that way.
He finished and pushed back his plate. “Mama, do you mind if I smoke?”
She shook her head and he reached for a cigarillo, struck the match on the sole of his boot, savored the flavor.
The señora chattered on and Bandit nodded and smiled, not really listening, but pleased to see her so happy. But the old man’s gaze never left her face, and Bandit saw the fierce love in his eyes. Had Señor Falcon been expressing his own fears or warning Bandit?
Your conscience is getting to you, Bandit thought, and knew it was true. He didn’t want to hurt these people. They were the family he had never had, the family he’d always wanted. All he needed now was a wife and children of his own. Even the money and the prestige didn’t matter to him anymore. Could all this possibly last?
The señora said, “Tony’s clothes fit you well, dear, but we’ll have your papá’s tailor come out, make you some new ones and custom boots, too.”
Bandit smiled agreeably as he smoked, watching the pair.
The señor finished his coffee. “Tony, if you’d like to walk down to the stable with me, I have something for you.”
Bandit's Embrace (The Durango Family) Page 19