Shadow of the Fox

by Pamela Gibson

  “Is something wrong, Sorina? Is your dinner not to your liking? You seem eager to leave the table tonight.”

  She took a deep breath and willed her body to remain still. “You know why I cannot eat. You know why I have no peace. I am agitated, Abuelo, because you did not consult me before making your decision.”

  He resumed eating, chewing each bite with such thoroughness one would think the meat tough, instead of falling off the bone. Tía Consuelo sat in silence, her lips pursed. She signaled for a servant to serve the next course, a fruit compote with tiny English biscuits.

  Sorina’s eyes bored into her plate. Her hands ached from clenching them in her lap.

  “If you are finished, you may go to the parlor and await me there,” said Grandfather. “Your great-aunt and I have much to discuss about your engagement party. As you are not happy about it, we shall do the planning without you.”

  Sorina scraped back her stiff wooden chair and stood, her napkin falling to the floor. A servant quickly came over and retrieved it, placing it on the table next to her untouched dessert. She patted Grandfather’s shoulder. “I know you want what’s best for me. I need time to become accustomed to the idea.”

  “Do not take too long.”

  Nodding, Sorina walked out of the dining room and entered the parlor. She sat on the sofa and picked up her embroidery. She had learned to stitch while in England and found it calmed her when she was agitated.

  She checked the time on the large ormolu clock brought from France. It was close to ten o’clock. Occasionally, they ate earlier, but Grandfather liked to observe the Spanish tradition of dining late. At this pace, she would be late for her meeting with Lobo. Would he wait? Oh, yes. He would most definitely wait. Sending him a note signaled she knew him, despite his disguise. She hoped he was as anxious as she was. It would make him more eager to help her.

  Madre de Dios, what is taking them so long?

  As if willing them to appear, Grandfather strode into the room, his sister trailing behind.

  “Well, Sorina, are you ready to hear our plans?”

  “As I have no say in the outcome of this discussion, do what you will and tell me where to go and what to do.” Her tone was disrespectful, but she couldn’t help it. This was so wrong.

  “You are an ungrateful girl.” Tía Consuelo shook her finger. “Any other woman in Alta California, would be thrilled to be the bride of Antoine Santoro. But you? No. You must whine because he was not someone of your choosing.”

  “You allowed my mother to choose her own husband.” Why was she arguing? It was pointless. She should act meek and submissive and perhaps they would let her retire for the night.

  “Your mother’s was a love match,” Grandfather said. “Few marriages are. She happened to choose someone before anyone else spoke for her. And fortunately, her choice was suitable and I could agree to the proposal when it was made.” Grandfather sat in an overstuffed chair and lit a cheroot. “But your grandmother and I had an arranged marriage. We met on the day of our wedding, and while I cannot say we ever fell in love, in the traditional sense, we grew quite fond of one another. Arranged marriages can be happy ones, Sorina.”

  Her grandmother had died of a fever. Sorina had never known the woman, but her mother had told her stories about her kindness and optimism. She was buried in the churchyard next to the mission, in the shadow of the chapel where Father Junipero Serra first said Mass. As a child, she often visited the grave to put bright blooms on it. Now the grave of her grandmother went untended until the end of October, when families gathered to remember their dead.

  “I am weary, Grandfather. May I please be excused?”

  “Do you not take tea?” Tía Consuelo asked.

  “Not tonight. My head aches.”

  “From too much defiance,” her aunt said.

  Sorina got up, pecked the cheek of her grandfather and great-aunt, and walked sedately to her bedchamber. Once there, she locked the door, took off her dress and undergarments, and donned the freshly washed trousers and loose shirt of the peóns. She had a half hour to wait before she could safely depart. Unpinning her hair, she rebraided it into one long queue and tied a kerchief around her head. She filled the rest of the time pacing and when it was time to leave she donned a warm serape.

  The cliff was a half hour away on foot. But the night was bright. Low clouds shrouded the landscape and obscured the stars. Sorina stared at the ground as she walked, her head down, the serape draped snugly around her. What if Lobo didn’t come? Did he know the cliff path well enough to manage it in the dark?

  She worried too much. He was a man, wasn’t he?

  Oh yes, he was definitely a man.

  Reaching the top of the cliff, she stopped to listen to the waves pound onto the sand below. How she loved this place. From the time she could walk, her mother had brought her to the edge of the sea to play on the beach and to gather shells. Strings of seaweed became imaginary gowns when wrapped around a young girl’s body, and a handful of polished stones buried in the sand, became a treasure. But she must leave it now. She must travel far to the North and search for her uncle. And Lobo must be the one to take her.

  Breathing in the damp, salt air, Sorina shook herself free of her reverie and felt her way down the side of the slope to the sand below. Reaching the ground, she stilled, listening for a sound to indicate he was here. Water rushed onshore, then back, in an ancient rhythm. No other noise penetrated the fog. Finding a flat rock to the left of the path, she sat and waited, troubled thoughts swirling through her head.

  Am I being a coward?

  Running away to avoid an unwanted marriage was considered an outrage in Mexican society. The family patron was powerful and controlled his heirs. Her action would anger her grandfather—perhaps irrevocably. And her great-aunt would certainly lose face among the women she counted as friends. But her body cringed at the thought of Santoro putting his hands on her. And she would not allow him to inherit her grandfather’s ranch, or her father’s. No. She must do this.

  A horse snorted somewhere in the distance, but she heard no hoofbeats.

  Closing her eyes, she made the sign of the cross. Of course he would be silent. He was a spy. But he had come.

  Chapter 9

  Grainger walked his horse, careful to pick a quiet path through the boulder-littered beach. He couldn’t see far in the fog, but his senses knew Sorina was already there. Nearing the path, he stopped, tethered the horse, and walked the rest of the way. A slim form sat on a boulder, wearing the lightweight attire of the house servants. At least she had enough sense to wear a serape for warmth.

  As he approached, she stood and walked forward to meet him.

  “I know who you are.”

  “Do you, señorita?”

  “You are a man I met years ago in London at a ball given by Lord and Lady Everton. You are an American.”

  Grainger stepped closer and put his hand on her shoulder, giving in to the need to touch her. “You are surely mistaken, señorita. I am but a poor wrangler of cattle, grateful to be working for Señor Vega.”

  She removed his hand and laughed, making a melodic sound that combined amusement and incredulity.

  “Come. Let us risk a small fire,” she said. “There is no one about at this hour, and no trading ships due. I wish to speak to you about a matter of great importance.”

  She moved away toward rocks that formed a semicircle close to where the cliff jutted out into the water.

  “Do you have a match?”

  “Yes, señorita.”

  “Then place it here, where the driftwood is dry.”

  He reached down and found a small pile, setting it alight. It caught, but died. He lit another match, thanking himself for keeping a supply of matches in his vest pocket. This time the dry wood smoldered into flame, despi
te the dampness of the air. Sorina removed her serape and laid it on the sand. After seating herself, she fed the fire with tinder. She crossed her legs like an Indian, planted her elbows on her thighs, and leaned forward.

  “Who are you, Señor? I know you are called Lobo, but that was not your name in England. As I recall, we were not formally introduced.”

  “I told you. I am a vaquero working for your grandfather.” Grainger sat opposite so he could study her features. Why was she here? Surely it was not for an assignation.

  Tonight she wore her hair in a single braid down her back. The severe style made her eyes larger and her high cheekbones more prominent. But it was her mouth that drew him—full, perfectly curved lips, made for tasting. Right now they pouted, as if frustrated with his answers.

  He moved next to her, away from the smoke. Although not touching her, he was painfully aware of her scent and the fullness of her breasts under the loose shirt, outlined when she leaned over to put more tinder on the fire.

  Fighting a painful arousal, he shifted positions and moved back slightly. He was sure she would not notice his discomfort. She was an unmarried lady—an innocent—as she was in England. Then, she’d been little more than a precocious girl. Now she was a woman.

  “Let me ask you a question, Señorita. How is it that you are here? Do you not have a duenna who sleeps in your room like other young ladies? Are you so beyond the pale, your grandfather lets you roam the cliff tops in the night unaccompanied? It is dangerous. Many predators exist in these parts.”

  And one of them is sitting right here next to you.

  “I can take care of myself, Señor. But I am weary of playing games. So I am going to ‘lay my cards on the table’ as you Americans are fond of saying.”

  She shifted onto her knees and sat back on her heels, as if positioning herself to look into his face.

  “Today my grandfather informed me that I am to be married.”

  That was news. A feather of unease dusted the back of Grainger’s neck.

  “My felicitations, Señorita. Who is the lucky man?”

  She paused and locked her hands in front of her. “Antoine Santoro.”

  “Christ.”

  Had he said that in English? Blinking as the smoke shifted toward his face, Grainger stared back at her, watching her twist her hands.

  “I do not wish to be married. I wish to be taken to Santa Barbara to live with my uncle. And I need you to take me there.”

  He must have spoken in English, because she was now speaking that language.

  “I need to leave immediately after the fiesta in honor of my engagement. I will leave it to you to figure out how we shall accomplish this. I know you will be present. My grandfather considers you his most trusted outrider.”

  “And why would I do that? Why would I betray your grandfather’s trust and recklessly throw away my most excellent employment here?”

  She stared directly into his eyes. “I saw you on the beach. I saw you swim out to a boat and return with something in your hand. It was from an American ship. And you, Señor Lobo, are an American naval Officer. That much I recall.”

  She saw me? Then she was here on the beach that night.

  “You surprise me, señorita. You were out enjoying the midnight air? It was a hot day, as I recall. Did you come alone, as you did tonight?”

  “I frequently come here.”

  “And did you enjoy the view?”

  Was she blushing? He couldn’t tell in the light. She’d had a view, all right. The thought of her eyes on his naked body made him hard again.

  “I did.”

  Good God, she was a brazen one.

  “Would you like to see it again? . . . I am happy to satisfy a lady’s . . . desires.”

  She got to her feet and he stood with her. She was mere inches from him and her lips curved into a smile. He couldn’t help himself. Pulling her hard against his body, he reached down and covered her mouth with his own, forcing her lips apart so he could taste her, running his hands down her back to her taut bottom. Her breasts pressed against his chest. A faint scent of lemon soap lingered on her skin. When she didn’t immediately pull away, he wanted to loosen her hair, tear off her clothes and bury himself deep inside her.

  But he wouldn’t. He was an officer in the United States Navy.

  I’m not my father.

  Sorina broke the kiss and reached down, drawing a small knife up to his throat. Its point pressed into his flesh.

  “Now, señor, I must remind you that this is business. You will conduct yourself as the gentleman I know you are, and you will keep your hands off me. I have not yet completed my negotiation. Do I have your word that you will control yourself? If not, the meeting is concluded and I will have no other choice but to inform my fiancé of your identity. My grandfather might keep your secret. I believe his sympathies lie with the Americans. But Santoro? Let us not find out what he might do.”

  Fuck. He’d done it again. The vixen was addictive. And she had him. If Vega was told, he might be able to convince him to hold his tongue. But Santoro? He’d take him to his little hideaway and string him up on the spot.

  Grainger sat down again, a little further away, and studied the woman who now leaned against a rock. The knife was still in her hand.

  “It seems your ‘cards on the table’ are all aces, señorita. I need time to develop a plan and to make a few arrangements of a personal nature.”

  “You’ll do it?”

  “It seems I have no choice.”

  “By all means, take a week. The fiesta will be held at the hacienda of Juan Avila in the village of San Juan Capistrano. Many people will be invited and the event will take at least two days.”

  A week wasn’t very much time, but it was enough to allow him to get to Mitchell. They had to figure out how to get him out of this dilemma. If he and Sorina went missing at the same time, Santoro—and Vega, too—would have armed men after them within hours, men who knew the terrain better than he did.

  He didn’t like abandoning a woman to Santoro, but the needs of his country came first. If he was ordered to ignore her, he would.

  Sand smothered the fire and by morning, the tide would cover their tracks. When he turned to leave, Sorina stood by the path.

  “I will get a note to you in a few days,” he said. “We will meet here again. It is safest.”

  She bent to put on her sandals.

  He swallowed as the fabric of her thin, cotton trousers tightened, outlining the firm derriere he’d explored during the kiss.

  She straightened and addressed him again. Her voice was lower, softer, caressing his ears with words that made him feel like a man who had stolen bread from a beggar.

  “Thank you, Señor Lobo. You are a good man.”

  Chapter 10

  The dark night was made for spies.

  Grainger cast no shadow as he crossed the weed-infested quadrangle of the abandoned mission. He picked his way carefully toward the low-roofed building Mitchell favored. Forster hadn’t moved his family in yet, but evidence of refurbishment littered the courtyard. Tiles, taken off unused rooms, were stacked near a doorway. A pile of fragrant, freshly cut wood covered the stale smells of mold and age. Before long they would have to decide on a new meeting place.

  If I’m still alive.

  Anger churned inside his belly—anger at himself for being so smug as to think Sorina Braithwaite wouldn’t remember him—that he could blithely work on the ranch, gauging the sentiments of the local Mexican patróns toward Americans, while keeping an eye on Santoro. He’d learned much in the time he’d been here. Vaqueros gossiped around the campfires as much as the dowagers in the drawing rooms. Knowing what motivated their employers meant survival. Most kept their hearing sharp and passed their knowledge freely to others.<
br />
  He found the door with the cross above it by instinct. Thick clouds covered the sky, but he knew his way. Grainger gave the whistle that signaled his presence.

  No answer.

  Sidling through the doorway, he felt his way along the rough adobe wall to the end of the narrow room where a scarred wooden table was usually illuminated by starlight filtered through missing rafters. The candle was in place, but lighting it might alert someone to his presence. He would wait until Mitchell arrived.

  Leaning back, the uneven texture of the wall bit through his shirt. He’d chosen the garments of the peóns tonight, thinking to mingle later with the crowd in El Traguito, a popular cantina. Moving forward, he sat on the hand-hewn wooden chair and waited.

  Where the hell was Mitchell?

  This was an unscheduled meeting, hastily called after Grainger’s encounter last night with the little vixen on the beach. He’d used the emergency signal—a blue handkerchief tied to a post Mitchell passed every day when he exercised Avila’s horses. Surely, he’d seen it.

  A barely distinguishable footfall and a pinpoint of light from the tip of a tiny cheroot told him Mitchell had entered the room.

  “I got your message.” The deep voice addressed him from the wall, a short distance inside the doorway. “What’s happened?”

  “My cover’s been blown.”

  “How can that be possible?”

  “Sorina Braithwaite knows who and what I am.”

  “Does she now?” Mitchell chuckled.