by Tess LeSue
“You need to tell them that we’re leaving,” he insisted.
“I will.” Stone-faced, she went back to her sewing. She didn’t want to leave yet. Surely, one more day wouldn’t hurt . . .
“When will you tell them?”
“At dinner tonight.”
The mention of dinner made him even grumpier. They’d all been invited to a formal dinner downstairs in the courtyard. To say that Tom was unhappy about it was an understatement. The last thing he wanted was to be appearing veiled and acting the woman in front of the Reys.
“You have a death wish,” he snapped. “I’m not going.”
“Fine. We’ll say you’re sick.” She went blithely on with her sewing. “But it seems to me that a gentleman like Don Rey won’t be happy to let us leave tomorrow if you’re sick. He’s a good Catholic. He’s not about to let a gunshot nun-to-be go wandering into the wilderness, where she might die.”
He swore under his breath and resumed his pacing.
“It’s much better if he thinks you’re fit and well.”
Which he was. Rudely so. Tom thrummed with suppressed energy. He clearly wasn’t a man designed to recline in luxury. He couldn’t sit still for half a minute. Even at night he thrashed about, wrestling the sheets like they were his mortal enemy. She guessed he was so used to sleeping rough that comfort was anathema to him.
Either that or he was having naughty dreams.
She grinned at her sewing. It had been patently clear that seeing her bald head hadn’t dampened his interest at all. The man watched her every move, and his eyes got that smoldering look she’d seen back in Mariposa. Only this time, he was looking at her and not Seline. Emma knew that shouldn’t have pleased her so mightily, but it did. He gave her naughty dreams (such languid, loose, lovely dreams), so she thought it was only fair if he suffered too. Because, Madre de Dios, it was torture sleeping near him. It seemed ridiculous, because she slept near him on the trail. But it was worse in here. There was something about the privacy of it; once the curtains were drawn and the doors were locked, their room became a plush little cocoon. The hush of it, the sensual slide of the sheets against Emma’s skin, that charge that was always in the air when the two of them were alone together, the sound of his uneven breath, the warm masculine smell of him . . . Who knew that sleeping on a pallet on the floor next to a man could be so erotic? There was no touching, no talking, no kissing, no looking . . . but Emma spent every night loose limbed and lazy with desire. More than once she had an urge to join him in that big plush bed, an urge that was so strong she almost gave in to it. Tom. How many times had she almost purred his name? Had almost invited him to join her on the floor . . .
Yes, perhaps he was right. Perhaps the sooner they left, the better. It would put him in a sweeter temper, for a start.
“You know, I’m shocked you’d want to live in a place like this,” he said, giving her a spiky look, “being waited on hand and foot.”
She rolled her eyes. There he went grumbling again.
“By slaves.”
She stabbed herself with the needle. “What?”
“I would have thought slavery went against your grain. You being a nun and all.”
And that’s when Emma learned the truth about the armies of servants who had made her life so blissful these past few days.
“They’re indentured,” Tom explained. He seemed astonished that she hadn’t known.
“They’re what?” Emma was frozen.
That was when she learned the truth about Gran Rancho de Gato. She felt like she’d had the rug pulled out from under her. It was like learning that up was down. She’d been busy in Moke Hill these past few months and hadn’t kept up with territorial politics. Oh, she’d heard men talk in her saloon about California’s impending statehood in the fall, and the usual rubbish about the Mexicans, but somehow she’d missed the news that California was up and enslaving Indians now.
“Men like Rey have always had Indians working for them,” Tom told her. “Most not entirely by choice, but as of a few months ago, it’s law.”
“What do you mean it’s law?”
“Just what I said: it’s the law. Indian children are fair game for indenture; they got no rights. Any famer or miner or whoever can press an Indian kid into labor, so long as that farmer or miner is white. White-white or Hispanic-white don’t matter, so long as you’re not black or Indian. You must have seen them in Moke Hill? There’s Indians all through the goldfields, working people’s claims for them, keeping their camps.”
She felt sick. “Warming their beds?”
He flushed. “Yeah,” he admitted, “I guess that’s a true thing.”
Slaves. She looked at her pillowy bed and fancy room with new eyes. Oh God. All those young servants. Slaves.
“Did you know about this?” she asked Calla.
“Not about the law,” Calla admitted guiltily, “but I knew those kids didn’t look too happy to be here.”
Shame bit Emma hard. Why hadn’t she noticed? How could she have made those kids fetch and carry for her the way she had? How could she be sitting here all comfortable on a couch in the sunshine while they labored for her against their will?
The sound of the gate bell ringing cut through Emma’s swirling black thoughts. “What’s that?”
“Someone’s coming.” Tom threw his veil over his head and headed for the courtyard balcony. Their room didn’t face the front courtyard, so they couldn’t see who was riding into de Gato from where they were. Emma and Calla followed him as he stalked the galleried balcony that wrapped around the inner courtyard, until he reached the front of the house. Emma couldn’t help but notice the servants setting up the dinner table in the courtyard below. So many of them. She hated to think how many there were in houses like these all across California. How many heartbroken parents grieved their loss?
Ahead, there was a narrow passageway to a small front balcony, which overlooked the front courtyard and gate. The three of them stood, gripping the curlicue iron railing. Doña Maria emerged onto the small balcony beside theirs, the one that led to the Reys’ private rooms.
“Buenos días,” the mistress of the house said, smiling. Emma looked at her differently now too. It must have taken some servant hours to do her elaborate coiffure this morning.
“Ask her who’s coming,” Tom whispered to Calla. Emma could barely hear him over the clanging of the bell.
“You ask her, Emma,” Calla complained quietly. “I’m sick of talking to her, and she wants to practice her English.”
“I don’t care who the hell asks her,” Tom hissed, “just do it.”
Emma trod on his foot. He shouldn’t be talking at all; he couldn’t sound like a woman if he tried, and he didn’t seem to have any interest in actually trying.
“Excusez-moi, Doña Maria,” she started, trying not to show her newfound distaste for the woman.
“That’s French,” Tom hissed.
Emma pressed down harder on his foot. “You’re expecting visitors?”
“Visitors?” Doña Maria pursed her lips and seemed to struggle for a moment. Then she grimaced and looked at Calla.
“Los visitantes,” Calla supplied.
“Ah.” Doña Maria nodded, smiling. “Sí. Our . . . visitors. Our visitors the . . . our . . . Los vecinos . . .” Doña Maria gave Calla an apologetic look.
“It’s their neighbors,” Calla said, sighing.
Tom swore under his breath. Since weight alone wasn’t working, Emma stomped on his foot. She heard him grunt.
“How lovely,” Emma said politely, ignoring him. “Do they visit often?”
They watched as a group rode through the gates. They were mounted on glossy, expensive horseflesh. At the head of the group was an older man with the aplomb of a pirate. He tossed his reins to a servant boy and swung from the saddle, his teeth flas
hing white in his swarthy face as he greeted his host. Don Rey had descended to greet him; in this man’s presence, the aristocratic Don Rey seemed diminished somehow.
“Machado,” Tom groaned softly.
Since stomping clearly wasn’t working either, Emma pinched him. Annoyed, he grabbed her hand and kept hold of it.
“Doña Maria says Don Machado is their closest neighbor,” Calla translated. “He is the . . .” She paused, at a loss. She looked to Tom for help. “It kind of means leader? Law-keeper? Peacemaker?”
“Despot,” Tom suggested. He was speaking too quietly for Doña Maria to hear him, but he shouldn’t have been speaking at all. Emma glared at him.
“He’s come to collect the Georges,” Calla translated.
“What?” Emma snapped around at that.
“She says Don Rey is handing them over to Don Machado. He will punish them.”
Emma had a bad feeling. “Punish them how?”
“He’ll hang them,” Tom said quietly. “That’s what he does.”
Emma gripped the railing. Hang them? But they hadn’t done anything. Not really. Oh, she was certainly going to hell for this.
“Don Machado will dine tonight with us,” Doña Maria said in broken English. She looked to Calla to see if she’d said it correctly and beamed when Calla nodded.
Below, the Dons had turned to wave to Doña Maria. She waved gaily back. Don Machado’s gaze lingered on the trio on the balcony next to her, taking in the black garb and veils. He said something quietly to Don Rey, and they laughed. The hair stood up on the back of Emma’s neck. Oh yes, she had a very bad feeling about this.
18
DINNER SHOULD HAVE been lovely. They ate late, after a sultry darkness had fallen, at a long, festive table running down the central courtyard. The flaming torches sent shadows leaping in the archways and chased the bougainvillea blossoms with brassy light. A guitarist played and sang softly next to the fountain, the music blending with the splash of the water. There was Spanish wine, and the air was heady with the smell of roasting meats.
It should have been a wonderful night, Emma thought, feeling surly as she peered over the railing of the gallery and down at the table below. She had been looking forward to it. “Had” being the operative word. She could hardly enjoy it now, could she? Firstly, because all of those lovely smells were coming from a kitchen worked by stolen children, and secondly, because of the damn Georges. They were going to be hanged, and it was her fault. What was she going to do? She couldn’t see them hanged, not when they hadn’t done anything wrong.
Well, based on their reputation, they probably had done something wrong, somewhere, to someone. But that wasn’t enough of a thing to hang them on. You couldn’t kill a man because he looked dangerous and had probably committed a crime at some point. At least she couldn’t. And her conscience was paining her about it.
It kept paining her as she trudged downstairs with the others to meet their hosts.
“Hey,” Tom hissed, grabbing her firmly by the arm when she tried to hang back, “you ain’t going anywhere. You stay right next to me, you hear?”
“You’re supposed to be mute,” she reminded him primly. But she had to admit she was glad to find they were seated together. Calla and Anna had been put way down at the other end, near the mistress of the house; so she could practice her English, Emma supposed. Calla didn’t look too pleased about it. Emma was just glad she wasn’t with her. Not that sitting with Tom and making sure he didn’t give away his disguise was a picnic. The man was hopeless at acting like a woman. He strode about like he was still wearing his spurs.
“How the hell am I supposed to eat in this thing?” he muttered from under the veil as they took their seats along the table. They were squarely in the middle, away from their host at one end, and their hostess and Machado at the other.
“What do you mean how are you supposed to eat? Use your cutlery and chew with your mouth closed.”
Tom made a disgusted noise.
Emma tried to smile at the servant who pulled her seat out for her. How old was he? Fourteen? Thirteen? Younger? It didn’t bear thinking about. “Gracias,” she said three or four times. He nodded but didn’t meet her eye or smile at her.
“Your accent is atrocious,” Tom complained. He hadn’t waited to be seated. He’d yanked his own chair out and sat in it like a cowhand sitting on a tree stump.
“Stop talking,” she hissed at him. “And keep your knees together. You’re a lady, remember?”
She managed to keep a polite expression through their hissed exchange. She was well practiced in looking polite when she felt anything but. The chairs around her filled up with Machado’s companions and Don Rey’s sons, and she put her back into staying polite. She’d taken a severe dislike to the Dons and their ilk now. None of the men seated around her spoke English, which she supposed made her night easier. Once it was clear to all involved that they couldn’t converse, the men talked among themselves in Spanish, Tom played mute, and Emma was left to the food. And the food was good. Someone around here sure knew how to barbecue. Emma piled her plate high with roast pork and grilled steak and helped herself to corn on the cob and bread and stuffed peppers. She saw the men give her surprised looks. Undaunted, she put a whack of butter on her corn and reached for the greens.
“Food’s about the only pleasure a nun’s got,” she told them brightly.
She heard Tom make a stifled noise under his veil.
“Well, it is,” she told him. “And why ain’t you eating?” Ignoring his obvious disapproval, she loaded his plate too. “You just slip the food under the damn veil,” she scolded him quietly. “Women do it every day. There ain’t no reason you cain’t do it too.”
He trod on her foot under the table. She yanked her foot away and gave him a sharp kick. She heard his pained intake of breath.
“Don’t you go spoiling my dinner,” she hissed. “I’ve had a rotten day. Hell, a rotten year. The least you can do is let me enjoy some of this food.”
As she spoke, the servant girl who always came with their breakfast—the one who had tried to talk to her that first day they arrived—reached over her shoulder to pour her some wine. Emma flinched. She felt an inch high. Who was she was to be talking about having a rotten year? What did she know about rotten years? Nothing, compared to this girl.
She took a big gulp of wine. Tom’s foot found hers again and gave her a warning tap. She glared at him and purposefully drained the whole glass. Machado’s men were watching her agog.
“It’s good wine,” she told them. There wasn’t a commandment saying nuns couldn’t drink wine, so they could damn well stare all they wanted. She had nothing to feel guilty about. The servant girl topped her up, and she raised her glass in salute.
“You’ve had enough,” Tom whispered, leaning close.
“I’ve had one.”
“Which is enough.”
“I can’t hear you. You’re mute.” She ignored him and concentrated on the food. Even plagued by ill thoughts, food was a comfort. Wine too. Especially wine this good.
It was a shame to waste such a gorgeous night, she thought wistfully as she gazed down the table. The weather was balmy, the candles flickered and danced, the food was wonderful, and the wine was divine. If only there were no slaves, no Georges, no posses and no damn heavy, hot nun’s habit. She glanced at Tom, who was cutting his food into pieces but not eating much of it. If only this place was empty except for the two of them. If only he was out of that stupid black dress and into those tight pants of his. If only she was in one of her fancy dresses, with one of her even fancier corsets pushing her assets up all plump and on show. He wouldn’t be stomping on her foot then. Oh no.
Her thoughts were all over the place. How on earth had she gone from worrying about the Georges being hanged to showing Tom Slater her assets?
The stress of it
all was addling her wits. Or maybe it was the wine.
Try as she might, and she tried hard as she ate, she couldn’t think of a solution to the problem of the Georges. The night wore on, the men grew loose with drink, the musician had to sing louder to be heard and the platters were cleared away.
“It’s a shame you can’t talk, señora,” she sighed, resting her chin on her hand and giving Tom a rueful look.
He leaned close. “I want to go.”
“I bet. But we can’t go yet.”
“Why not?” It was amazing he managed to get the words out from between such gritted teeth.
“Because,” she said, as though speaking to a dunce, “we ain’t had dessert yet.”
He slumped back in his chair. She could feel the disbelief radiating off him.
“Don’t judge me,” she snapped. “You got no idea what it’s like giving up all earthly pleasures but food. You think it’s easy forgoing the sins of the flesh?” She cleared her throat. “Not that I’ve necessarily had them, mind you. But I can imagine what I’m missing.” She’d had too much to drink. Clearly. “A little pastry does much to soothe the soul,” she told him haughtily. For her sake, she hoped dessert came soon. She needed to stop talking.
“You have to admit,” she said, when the plates were put before them, “it was worth the wait.”
“Nothing is worth this,” he muttered. He’d grown tenser by the minute. He was also spreading his legs again. She rapped him on the knee to remind him.
“This is.” Emma lifted the edge of his veil and shoved a spoonful of custard cream in his mouth. She heard him sputter. No one around them noticed or cared. They were all yapping away in Spanish.
“This might be the best custard cream I’ve ever had,” she said breezily, spooning some into her own mouth. “And these fritters are worth dying for.”
“Buñuelos,” Tom said in a murmur so soft she barely caught it.
“I can’t hear you.”
“I know,” he grumbled. “I’m mute.”
“No. I mean I didn’t catch what you said.”