by Betina Krahn
“What’s happening?” Hart demanded of them as he pulled Cordelia out of the way. The only word he recognized was “soldados.”
“Soldiers?” Had they somehow wandered into the middle of the rebellion spreading across the country? Cordelia’s first concern was for her aunt. “Hedda!”
She fought her way up the passage to the nearest arch. From there she could see some people in the dining room scrambling for the exits, while those less fortunate were pressed against walls while a squad of khaki-clad soldiers tore apart the restaurant.
It took a minute to locate Hedda and the professor. They were inching their way toward an opening on the far side of the dining room. Hedda’s blanched face peered past the professor’s shoulder at the arch where Cordelia and Goodnight had disappeared. Desperate to signal her aunt, she waved until Hedda spotted her in the shadows.
Her heart sank as she realized the khaki-filled distance between them was impassable. The professor turned to follow Hedda’s gaze, then nodded to her and gave a faint jerk of his head toward the window.
“You can’t reach her,” Goodnight’s whisper came near her ear. “He’ll find a way to get her out safely. Come on.”
The minute she turned to object, one of the soldiers spotted the professor’s attention to the arches and followed his gaze to Cordelia. He raised his gun, shouting, “Yanqis— Americanos!”
“Now!” Goodnight barked, pivoting and lurching back down the passage, dragging her along.
They burst into the kitchen and ran smack into a pair of soldiers who had paused in the midst of the invasion to fill their bellies with the restaurant’s excellent fare. The rifles they had propped against the table beside them clattered to the floor, and food flew as they went diving for their guns. Cordelia and Goodnight were most of the way to the door before the soldiers’ greasy fingers found secure holds on the weapons. Crouching and dodging among the outraged cooks and terrified waiters and dishwashers, they cleared the door just as a shot was fired.
Behind them they could hear a voice booming orders and there were no more gunshots. They reached the main street and began to run, spurred by the sound of boots pounding the hard-packed dirt of the alley and then the brick of the street. They had no idea where they were or in what direction they were moving, but at least there was moonlight enough for them to keep their footing on the uneven paving.
They raced down one street and then another before Hart spotted a niche in a high stuccoed wall. He pulled her into it, only to find it already occupied by a young couple doing what young couples everywhere did on moonlit nights. A furious stream of Spanish set them scrambling back with a “Dammit!” and a frantic “So sorry!”
Hearing the sound of running closing in on them, Cordelia pulled Hart along with her into a nearby alley, narrowly avoiding two soldiers barreling down the street with rifles ready, clearly searching for them.
“What do they want with us?” she whispered as they pressed their backs against the wall. “We didn’t do anything.”
“We’re foreigners. We make easy targets.”
“Especially you.” She gave him a scowl. “I told you to slouch.”
Slipping from doorway to loggia to public fountain and then to other doorways, they made their way through an area that included mostly residences and shops before hearing raised voices that seemed to be moving quickly through the streets. Unwilling to take a chance, Hart spotted a set of steps leading up a hill and headed for it, looking for an opening. There was a stone wall supporting the lower half—
“Aaaaayyy!”
They found themselves nose to nose with an overheated caballero wearing a shirt half off his sweaty shoulders and a murderous glare. A girl’s tousled head and fierce black eyes appeared around his shoulder. “Vayase!” she hissed before she got a look at them. Her response afterward wasn’t much better: “Yanqui estupido! Vaya Ud. a paseo!”
“God Almighty!” Goodnight, incensed, glanced over his shoulder as they darted down the street and ducked into a recessed doorway. “Don’t these people have homes to go to? Do they have to do their ‘begetting’ in the streets?”
Pressed against a wall, she closed her eyes for a moment, trying to catch her breath. When she opened her eyes Goodnight was staring at her, breathing hard, his light eyes reflecting the moonlight coming from behind her. For a moment she was caught speechless, her mental functions occupied with calculations of the distance from her waist to his hands, from her breasts to his chest, from her lips to—
Voices approaching kicked her higher faculties back into operation and she glanced at the street, then at him in alarm. He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her over against the door, covering her with his body so that only her skirts could be seen from the street.
“Gun,” he said in a whisper so low she couldn’t tell at first if he said it or she thought it. “Where is your pistol?”
She was too busy trying to breathe and swallow to reply.
“Your purse?” He continued in a hoarse whisper, “A pocket?” He ran his hands down the sides of her waist. “This is not a good time to tell me you don’t really carry one.”
Her body began to tremble and her breaths came short and quick. He was suddenly above her and all around her, surrounding her with his heat and invading her thoughts with a low, provocative whisper that slid along her nerves like thick, hot syrup. She couldn’t tell whether she was reacting to the danger or to him. All she knew was that every part of her body was aching for contact with his and that at the moment—there in the dark Cuban night, with danger dogging their footsteps—all she could think about was what his lips would feel like against hers.
His head lowered.
“What are you doing?” she said against his mouth.
“I’m in Cuba,” he said, without the slightest trace of irony. “I’m doing as the Cubans do.” And he claimed her mouth.
Soft… his lips were soft on hers and his arms felt hard and very male as they clamped around her. Every irritation he had generated in her drowned instantly in the flood of pleasure that took its place. She rose onto her toes and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him closer, spreading her hands across his back. Strong, she realized with mild surprise; he was lean but well muscled.
Nothing in her experience with gentlemen of good breeding and respectful attentions had prepared her for the shock of being kissed passionately by a surly butler in a dark doorway while hiding from armed soldiers—and feeling the ground fall away from under her feet. She was buoyant, floating, drinking in the wine-scented heat of him, opening her mouth to his sensual probing, relishing the taste of him and the feel of his hard body against hers.
At the edge of her consciousness she heard laughter— male laughter—and what sounded like desultory comments in Spanish. It registered briefly that the soldiers had spotted them in the shadows and paused long enough to ogle what they were doing. After a moment, the laughter faded, but it was some time before the intensity of their kiss began to fade and the realization that the danger had passed ended it.
When they drew apart she was panting, feeling like she’d run a race for her very life. She looked up into his face, his angular, silver-eyed masterpiece of a visage, and felt her feet slam back down onto the pavement.
“Are they gone?” she managed, desperate to fill the silence looming between them.
“God, I hope so,” he said, taking a step backward, and then a second one. His eyes looked huge and startled, his surprisingly muscular arms were now limp at his sides. “I don’t think I could take much more of that.”
She watched him turn away and stumble to the edge of the alcove to look up and down the street. She blinked, wiped her mouth, and tried desperately to take a deep breath to clear her head. His words rumbled through her, banging on her pride as if it were a bass drum.
He couldn’t take much more of kissing her? It was that bad?
A moment later the absurdity of the conclusion struck her.
So it was that
bad, was it?
With the heat of her burning face hidden by the shadows, she pulled her dignity and self-possession back into place. Then she strode to the corner where Goodnight was taking a deep breath or two himself.
With a hostile gleam in her eye she stepped in front of him, hiked her skirts above her knee, and propped her stocking-clad leg against the corner of the building, blocking his way. Under his widening eyes, she removed a small revolver from the holster strapped to her thigh and inspected the chambers.
As she lowered her leg and her skirts fell back into place, she heard him suck two partial breaths in quick succession.
“You’d better stay behind me,” she ordered, giving him an incendiary glance while stroking the gun’s trigger with her finger. “Oh, and in case you get shot,” she said with vengeful earnestness, “you better tell me where you keep our money.”
January 24, Day 4
Bathing water for three: $2.00. Afternoon tea: $1.50. Dinner: ?
Found the university. Entire place could use a coat of paint. Found Arturo Valiente. More like a waiter than a professor, the way he dishes it up. Wretch pointed out there was a cat head in the drawings ——DO SAY——then announced he was coming along to look for it. Tried in vain to get O’Keefe to see what a bad idea that is. He took us to a restaurant, fed us stuff that turned my mouth inside out, and introduced us to a Yank on the government’s enemy list. Place was raided by government soldiers. Had to take to the streets.
Blasted woman really does carry a firearm ——strapped to her thigh! Just yanked up her skirts and hauled the damned thing out!! I nearly had a heart attack. God help me——every time I close my eyes for the next month I’m going to see her naked leg.
Note: Look for St.-John’s-Wort in local apothecary. Maybe salt peter.
Ten
Despite the uproar that accompanied Cordelia and Goodnight’s escape, the young officer in charge of the search had managed to prevent any more of the patrons from slipping away. His men slammed the great shutters closed just as the professor and Hedda were about to bolt through them. The pair was stuck with the other unlucky diners, under the scrutiny of a swaggering lieutenant who was determined to make his raid profitable.
“What do they want?” Hedda whispered to the professor.
“They look for rebels,” Valiente declared, watching the officer’s behavior and gauging his influence in the chain of command by his crude tactics. When the officer struck a brash student and ordered him taken to the palace of El Capitan General for questioning, the professor began to clap slowly.
“Bravo,” he said with a mix of superiority and disdain.
“Who the hell are you?” The officer stalked over, unholstering his pistol.
“One who agrees a firm hand must be taken with certain classes, if one is to make them respect authority.” He raked the officer with a pointed look.
Hedda held her breath.
“Name?” the officer barked.
“Professor Arturo Valiente of the University of Havana and the University of Madrid.” Mention of the Spanish capital registered with the officer.
“And her?” The lieutenant waved his pistol toward Hedda, who watched the professor’s provocative air with growing anxiety.
“I have the honor of entertaining a renowned archaeologist from New York, Miss Hedda O’Keefe. She is come to consult with me at the university.”
“New York?” The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed. “Americano, eh?” He stalked over to Hedda, who managed not to cower. “What do you know of your countryman, O’Brien? Did you see him here tonight?”
Hedda looked to Valiente for both guidance and translation, for she recognized the name and recalled meeting the captain earlier in the evening. Valiente’s emphatic neutrality as he translated warned her to say nothing.
“Please tell the officer that I am sorry, but I cannot be of help,” she addressed both the professor and the officer. “I know no one by that name.”
Valiente translated, adding for his part, “Now, if you will be so good as to release us, I must escort Miss O’Keefe to her hotel.”
The lieutenant, green as he was, had watched the professor and Hedda during the translation and detected more than words passing between them.
“No, I think she must stay.” He looked Hedda over with ominous interest. “Perhaps I can help her remember more.”
Valiente stepped in front of her, his shoulders braced and his chin up.
“You will let us go now,” he said, his voice full of restrained anger, “or you will find yourself in very large trouble, chiquillo.”
It was a calculated insult and it had a predictable effect. The lieutenant stuck his gun in the professor’s face, and the professor boldly slapped it away.
“I demand to be taken to the governor.”
Minutes later, Hedda and the professor were tossed into the back of a commandeered wagon and hauled through the darkened streets to the palace of El Capitan General. But the leader of Cuba’s Spain-supplied military was dining at the governor’s palace with a contingent of dignitaries from the mother country. The professor made such a point of his outrage that the lieutenant, on advice from his anxious superior, took them to the governor’s palace after all.
“Not to fear, senorita,” Valiente said, taking her cold hands as they rode through the moonlit night. “We do nothing wrong. The governor does not wish to insult America by detaining her innocent citizens.”
“Why are they looking for that man?” she asked, shivering with tension.
“O’Brien? He runs the blockade to bring guns and supplies to the rebels. They cannot catch him. It embarrasses the government.” He leaned closer to whisper, “He is a great hero among the people.”
“He was there tonight, at the restaurant,” she whispered back, on the verge of reminding him it was he who had introduced them.
“Surely not. The rascal would never be so bold as to appear in a such a public place.” The twinkle in his eyes gave her a very different kind of shiver.
She didn’t know whether to be troubled or reassured by the professor’s intrigue.
Soon they arrived at the governor’s residence and were bustled through a warren of corridors and increasingly elegant rooms to the governor’s study. When they were admitted and the governor greeted Valiente with a handshake and a smile, the lieutenant paled visibly.
“It is clearly a misunderstanding,” the professor declared magnanimously. “The lieutenant is eager to perform his duty. I am eager to protect my colleague, Senorita O’Keefe.” There he changed to English and introduced her as an explorer and archaeologist from New York University, who had brought him a marvelous Mayan piece to work on. It was unsettling how quickly and deftly the professor wove truth and half-truth into a tapestry of convenience.
“Mayan? Truly?” One of the governor’s guests—a tall, severe-looking man in an exquisite Spanish-cut suit— spoke up in English. “I myself have something of an interest in Mayan culture.”
He was introduced by the governor as Don Alejandro Castille, head of one of Spain’s foremost banking families. He insisted Hedda take his seat and sent the governor’s servant for some sherry to steady her nerves.
“A dreadful incident. I pray this will not mar your opinion of our dear Cuba,” Castille said, stubbing out his cigar and waving the others to do the same.
“Your excellency’s graciousness,” Hedda said looking from him to their host, “has already more than made up for the fright.”
The governor smiled and nodded at her gratitude, but it was Castille who continued the conversation. Clearly, he was a man of considerable power.
“How long have you studied Mayan culture, Miss O’Keefe?” he asked.
“Not long, actually,” she said, praying the truth of her statement would balance the lie that had prompted the question. “My specialty is in… other areas. But my niece and I recently came into possession of a rubbing that is quite promising. Knowing Professor Valiente to be th
e foremost scholar in this area, we came to consult with him.”
“A rubbing?” Castille settled on the arm of the stuffed chair across from her, swirling his brandy and attending to its bouquet. “On what sort of stones?”
“Very interesting ones,” Hedda responded, glancing at the professor, who was busy accepting a glass of brandy. “They seem to speak of an old legend about a Mayan spirit that dwelt in a cat.”
Castille, whose mouth seemed to be permanently compressed into a thin line, sat a bit straighter and produced a genuine smile.
“What legend? This interests me, you see, because my family owns much land in southern Mexico and I grew up hearing stories of the ancient ones.”
“I believe it concerns something called the Gift of the Jaguar,” she said. The professor cleared his throat and she glanced at his oddly impassive face. “But our work is preliminary. Perhaps in six months we will know more.”
“The story of ‘the Gift from the Jaguar Spirit’? Indeed, I have heard of it. How interesting. And you, Professor?” Castille turned to him with sharpened interest. “Do you think these ‘jaguar’ rubbings are authentic?”
The professor sipped his brandy before replying.
“I have confidence that our work together produces a valuable step toward knowing and understanding the ancient Mayans.”
Soon Castille paid their host the usual compliments for the lovely evening and insisted on seeing the professor and Hedda home in his carriage. He kissed Hedda’s hand before the professor helped her down from the carriage at the Hotel San Miguel. When Valiente climbed back aboard Castille’s coach, the powerful Spaniard fixed him with a rapier-sharp gaze.
“We must talk, Professor. About some stones and a large, spotted cat.”
Cordelia welcomed her aunt with a frantic hug in the lobby of the San Miguel and listened anxiously to Hedda’s account of her adventure. Outwardly she appreciated her aunt’s spirit and composure, but inwardly she was appalled by the danger Hedda had faced. Whatever the circumstances in their adventures, Cordelia had always been there to deflect the worst and emphasize the best.