by Martha Hix
“Balderdash. Let me be brutally honest. You can’t see what happens anyway. Hearing about his fall will be just as satisfying.”
Silence. Several moments later, Olga put the glasses away and straightened her shoulders. “Okay, you win. I’ll leave him. Plus, anyway, Rafe has agreed to help spread the word that the Emperor Maximilian’s cousin had designs on Mexico, so I don’t have anything to worry about.”
While visions of having a second Hapsburg dying by the will of the Mexican people had a generous appeal, Margaret froze. Surely Rafe wouldn’t call trouble on Xzobal’s sanctuary. Surely he wouldn’t call trouble on the whole of Eden Roc! “Let’s hope and pray that we all get out of here alive.”
The Count of Granada fumed. He’d meant to bring down Delgado trash, but the tables were turned. Arturo’s mestizo nephew—Olga’s commoner lover!—controlled the situation.
Delgado knew about the spying and would use it against him. And he knew about Areponapuchi. Leonardo de Hapsburg y Borbón had sinned—murder heading the list—but he loved his wife. He wouldn’t have his countess knowing his baseness.
He wouldn’t have her knowing he’d lowered himself to debauchery, for Leonardo partook of any and all women willing to fornicate with him, even Helga the Dominatrix.
Olga must never know what a profligate I’ve become.
At dusk Rafe returned to his casita. He didn’t return to an empty cottage. In the unlighted room, Margaret quit the chair and glided toward him.
Anticipation played tasty havoc with his senses.
After standing the gift cane against the doorjamb, he pulled her into his arms. Her lips met his. He took her hand, guiding her to his bed, where he turned down the covers and then turned his attentions to the buttons of her clothes. Uncertain what she would say about his fight with Leonardo, uncertain how she felt about marriage to a rogue from the Sierras, uncertain about the future in general, Rafe kept her too busy for any talk beyond the bills and coos of lovemaking.
Afterward they lay joined, Margarita resting on top of him, her fingers twining with his chest hair; he whispered, “Thank you for the cane. It’s beautiful. Quite handy, too. In fisticuffs.” He stroked her back. “I love you. For being you.”
“I love you, too.” Her tongue traced the scar at his lip. “But where have you been? I was looking for you. Olga. She told Leonardo that she lied about your relationship with her.”
“What did he do?”
“He’s taken himself off somewhere. To lick his wounds, I’d imagine.”
“Good.”
“Rafe . . . I know you know about Leonardo’s clandestine activities. I trust you can appreciate what could happen here—we could be mobbed!—should word get out about Leonardo. Promise me . . .” She took his hand. “For the McLoughlins, for your brother, for Isaiah and his people, for you and me, promise you’ll keep mum.”
“That’s what I figured to do, all along. But it didn’t stop me from threatening Hapsburg. It’s all the ammunition we have to keep him at bay.” Rafe fingercombed her hair. “Querida, enough talk about family. I want to talk about you and me.”
“Excellent idea.” She nodded. “Rafe, what about me and you? What about forever after? This morning, we didn’t discuss what will happen, once we are shut of our duties.”
“Do you want to go back to New York?”
“No.”
He exhaled in relief. “Do you want to stay in Mexico with me?”
“I am so disposed.”
Thrilled at her answer, he teased, “Shall I say ‘I told you so’?”
“I would think you too noble for it.”
He laughed. His manhood stirring within her, he kissed her with all enthusiasm. His hands flat against the sweet buttocks that had filled out nicely, he chided, “You neglected something. You haven’t come right out and admitted exactly how you feel about me.”
“An oversight.” She smiled, her eyes dancing. “I love you, Rafe Delgado. Love you . . . love you . . . love you.”
Those beautiful words—so long in coming—soaked through him like the sweet rains of May. With ’Rita’s love, anything was possible. Again, he made love to her, showing all the gusto of a man besotted with love and adoration.
Later, though, he wondered what love meant to her. They had dozed, here in the dark of his room. Moonlight spilled across their awakening forms.
“Do you love me enough to be my wife?” he asked without preamble.
“For however long God gives me on this earth.”
“Then we’ll be together for a long, long time. But, ’Rita, my querida”—he buried his face in her hair—“are you willing to accept my way of life? The rebel’s life.”
“Yes.” She cupped his face within her hands. “But you’re wrong if you think I don’t want children. Can we handle both at the same time?”
“Querida, you and I can do anything!”
Laughing and jubilant, they kissed and kissed and did more than kiss. They kicked at the linens, tossing them here and there as they celebrated the fusing of their souls. Their mating was even better than past ones, and Rafe would have never imagined that could be so. What sweet witchery was she.
Later, much later, they reveled in the afterglow. Meaning to feed her his cache of sugar-frosted oatcakes (bribed from the native cook) by candlelight, he lit a wick. Their images blinked from the looking glass hanging nearby
He’d grown accustomed to seeing the years fall away from his visage, albeit salt remained in the pepper of his hair. Truth be known, he didn’t hold his looks in quite as much importance as he used to. Margarita had fallen in love with him at his worst, and her opinion was all that mattered. Further, because it didn’t bother her, it didn’t even bother him that his left leg was shorter than the right.
Rafe smiled at her reflection. Margarita had gone still. On a quirk of brow, she leaned closer, her eyes rounding, her hand flopping to the mattress. “You have a mirror.”
“Your cottage doesn’t?”
“No. I haven’t seen one anywhere on the premises.” She cocked her head first one way, then another. Disoriented, confused, she said, “Who is that in bed with you? That can’t be me.”
“It is. You’re beautiful. So beautiful. A face like a china doll. A body like—”
“My sister’s.” She made a funny face, then flinched. “It looks like my sister.”
“It’s not Olga. Or Charity.”
He scooted around, where he held her on his lap, his fingers twined with hers. He saw the girl he loved, whether she was old, young, or in between. There was a cloud of wavy dark hair—lustrous and shining—framing a beautiful oval face unmarred by time or tragedy. Her dewy lips were the tint of ripe berries, her thick-lashed eyes the sky of summer. He touched a kiss to her shoulder, feeling her quiver, and he smiled at the flesh that was now healthy and rosy.
He smiled at her reflection again. “I love the way you look and feel. I loved the way you looked and felt. For all the days of our lives, I will love the way you are.” He pulled her onto his lap and hugged her tightly. “You shouldn’t be surprised at being so lovely, sweet witch. We are at the Fountain of Youth.”
Unimpressed with her great beauty renewed, she returned his hug. He felt her hot tears of joy on his shoulder.
“Oh, Rafe, do you know what this means? I haven’t had a cough or a sweat in weeks. I’ve gained weight. I’m young again. I’m going to live!”
The next morning, after sleeping locked in each other’s embrace, Rafe still held Margarita in his arms. It was time to get down to the nitty-gritty of their strategies. “You’ve been in Mexico long enough to know that, away from Eden Roc, it’s no paradise,” he said. “Even here has its problems. ’Rita, there’s an enemy within these walls.”
“I know. Leonardo. But he’s off, pouting.”
“I don’t mean him. This spy is an Arturiano. Whoever he or she is, Tío Arturo is getting reports on our activities. And my uncle has been seen outside the walls.”
&n
bsp; She shuddered.
He continued. “We’ve got to get Xzobal to Topolobampo. And then there’s your mother. What do we do about Lisette?”
Sighing and grimacing, Margarita shook her head. “She won’t leave. I’ve asked her dozens of times. She doesn’t admit it, but I know she’s waiting for my father to rescue her.”
“We can’t wait a lifetime on the strength of her romantic dreams. This isn’t a fairy tale—this is life! We’ve got to move. And we’ve got to move soon.”
“Give me a few more days.” Margarita sat up, brushed a lock of hair from her temple. “I’ll do my best to talk her into leaving.”
“For the Gulf of California?”
“I—I don’t know.”
Determined to find a solution, Rafe studied on the problem. Ah, ha! “Margarita, querida, why didn’t we think of this before? We worry where we shouldn’t. Let’s ask your brother to see her home.”
“Tex? You’ve got to be joking. He’s so in thrall with Natalie, nothing outside of death will make him budge. Unless she goes along.”
“She’ll go along.”
But, as it turned out, Natalie didn’t go along with the plan.
Twenty-nine
Stars glittered like so many diamonds around the half moon. Crickets and locusts mingled with the cry of a faraway jaguar and the distant roar of the waterfalls. A native drummer spoke with his counterpart on the far side of El Ojo de la Barranca.
Looking up at the canyon walls, Natalie Nash murmured, “Fireflies. Look at them, Xzobal. Look at all the campfires up in the caves. They look like fireflies.”
Natalie lay naked on a bed of leaves.
The priest, in full cassock, sat well away from her.
“Aren’t you interested in fireflies?” She rolled to her side, drawing a knee up in yet another invitation. Nothing. What was the matter with him? “You’re weary. You’ve spent all day fretting over your brother and giving Margaret religious instruction. You barely touched your dinner. Exhaustion contributes to sapping the life juices.” Good Lord, you sound like Isaiah!
“This is a trying time for Rafael—for us all,” the priest replied. “And you make it hard for me, my child.”
“Exactly my intention, making you hard.” She took a long look at his long, long lines. “Remember tonight, between the yogurt soup and the bean pate? Did you enjoy it when I reached under the table and took hold of your big long . . . rood? I made it hard for you, didn’t I? And I could tell you liked it.”
“Natalie, get dressed. You’ll catch your death.”
“Do cover me up with something. Yourself.” Holding a heavy breast in each hand, she pointed them at him. No man had been able to say no to this bid. Xzobal might be a priest, but he wasn’t dead, for the love of Pete. She licked her lips and pinched her own nipple. “Why don’t you come over here, and we’ll see about saving my soul?”
He surged to stand. For a moment he hesitated, as if wrestling with the mortal and the spiritual. His fingers curled around the crucifix suspended from his neck, but not before the gold of it caught a ray of moonlight.
Turning on the ball of his foot, he retreated.
Natalie hissed an “oooh.” A slave to her passions, she wanted all the men. Tex for his money and family influence; Arturo for old time’s sake; Xzobal because of the lure of the forbidden. And, of course, Netoc, who couldn’t.
If those McLoughlin sisters weren’t fighting over Rafe, I’d corner him. He had eyes for Margaret and Margaret alone.
“Natalie Ann Nash, why don’t you settle on one and go after him?” she asked out loud.
There was no question as to the winner. She wanted to return to the United States, and Tex McLoughlin, the greenest and most gullible of all her choices, could help clear her name. Yes, Tex would be the man for her.
The next evening she invited him to the canyon floor.
He went willingly, enthusiastically. She made a lover out of a green fumbler that night, for he learned many lessons in the art of pleasing a woman. So in love he couldn’t get enough of her, he proved a quick study. He ought to be enough. Young, handsome, rich, randy as a ram, hung like a horse.
But she needed more.
She needed Xzobal. And she had him the next night. Almost had him. In his excitement he spilled himself too early. Desperate for relief, she called on Hipólito and two of the other servants. They proved the least memorable assignations of her four decades of life. More than anyone, she realized, she had a hunger for Netoc.
“Do you have a minute?”
His voice made a vapor cloud. A breeze ruffling the hem of his sashed robes, the tonsured cleric stood on the porch of his brother’s casita. Buttoning his britches, Rafe limped outside. The repaired crucifix again graced his bare chest.
“What the hell do you want at this hour of the night?” he asked sourly.
“Who is it, Rafe? What is it? Is something wrong?”
Love for his amante obvious, Rafe turned to answer. “It’s okay, querida. It’s my brother.”
“Oh, I’ll get dressed.”
Rafe pulled the door closed. “¿Que pase?”
“I’m going to leave Eden Roc.”
Rafe exhaled a tired breath. “Please. We’ve discussed this over and over, and my answer is still the same. Don’t.”
“But I have prayed over my profane passions. And I know I can’t stay away from Natalie. I want her, and the strength of my desire shames me.”
Lighting a cheroot, Rafe pointed out, “You were a hotblooded hombre, before your papá talked you into the priesthood. Maybe you ought to give up the church, and—”
“I won’t.”
“Then don’t. But you must be patient. Do whatever it takes to ignore Natalie.”
“Could you ignore Margarita? If she were forbidden to you, would you be able to keep your hands to yourself?”
Rafe tossed the smoke off the porch. “We’re not talking about me and ’Rita. We’re getting married as soon as we can get to a church.”
“When will we get to a church? When are we going to leave, Brother Rafe?”
“Soon.”
Margarita, wearing a thick woolen wrapper, stepped onto the porch. “Hello, Padre.”
“My child.”
Xzobal admired this beautiful lady. She was good for his loco brother. And the priest looked forward to joining their hands in marriage. Soon. “How soon is soon?”
“As soon as we can talk sense into my mother,” Margaret answered. “She keeps hoping for a miracle.”
Xzobal pitied the beautiful Lisette. The German woman longed to recapture the love faded by time and politics. He hoped her miracle would happen. “Do you propose that Señora McLoughlin accompany us to Topolobampo and onward?”
Rafe replied, “She’ll stay here until we can circle back for her. If she’s not willing to sail out with you, that is. That is what holds us back, Xzobal. She’s a stubborn woman, Margarita’s mama. Just as stubborn as her smartest daughter.”
Rafe kissed his woman’s cheek. “This one won’t leave Señora McLoughlin here. And Señora McLoughlin frets over Lady Hapsburg’s advancing embarazo. Then there’s the countess’s husband—I don’t need to explain him to you. Then there’s Tex. He refuses to leave unless Natalie goes with him.”
Natalie. So many of Xzobal’s problems would go away, if she went east or he went west. Nonetheless, he shuddered at the thought of never seeing her again. Which way should he turn? He said to his older brother, “You don’t need trouble from me.”
“That says it all. I’ve got a plate full of problems without you heaping more on it.” Rafe took his brother’s shoulder and shook it gently. “Promise me you won’t leave without us.”
Xzobal wouldn’t make a promise he couldn’t keep. He couldn’t stay, he couldn’t leave; he was a priest in a quandary. He considered all slants to the situation, and accepted that he would cause nothing but trouble for Rafael if he left. “I will stay.”
He prayed—and prayed
!—for the strength to stay away from those milk-white breasts, bee-sting red lips, and sinfully beautiful legs.
The power of prayer failed him.
Christmas came and went. The new year had just begun. Natalie began to assess her predicament. Tex was pressuring her to marry him, but she couldn’t bring herself to take that step. Already she’d grown tired of Xzobal—he was too staid for any sort of variety. He takes “missionary” seriously.
And then there was her father. She was sick to death of being around him. All the time he nagged her to stay here at Eden Roc, not to leave. Except for the various and sundry McLoughlins—and Sean, of course—Isaiah was so obsessed with keeping his daughter at home, that he’d refused to take any more guests.
He was a lovesick puppy around Lisette, hoping and praying that Gil McLoughlin would keep his distance, which the husband was doing. As of yet, Isaiah wasn’t privy to what Lisette had confided to Natalie tonight: Lisette had agreed to leave with her daughters. The party would make for the port of Topolobampo forthwith.
By their departure, Isaiah would become even more pathetic than usual, Natalie felt certain.
“I can’t stay,” she said to her reflection.
Youth and beauty stared back.
Natalie closed her eyes. Her mind’s eye drew a picture. Netoc as a young man, like the day under the waterfall when they had lost their virginity. Another picture invaded her thoughts. The Netoc of 1898.
He grew more feeble each day. Fearing she’d live to the age of Methuselah, she saw herself screwing her way into the next millennium. And never having peace of mind or body.
A warm wrap draping her shoulders, she left her cottage as the clock on her dressing table struck midnight. Her feet carried her to Eden Roc’s exit. When she opened the heavy creaking gate to the outside world, she saw that, as usual, as always, Netoc protected her.
A campfire hissed and popped near the gate house, where a group of old-looking men—she remembered most of them as children—were gathered, Netoc among them. They drank beer and laughed at someone’s joke.