Rafael and Ali did not return to the house for the noon meal as expected. It was late afternoon before they put in an appearance.
Catherine had finished her own packing, putting her things away in one of the spacious armoires. Wandering into her husband’s bedchamber, she had noticed his portmanteau gaping open. Shirtsleeves and breeches legs dangled over the sides, as if he dressed hurriedly, pulling what he wanted from it by touch in the dark. From straightening the contents of the box, she progressed to unpacking it. She smoothed the shirts, folding them and placing them in neat piles, and shook out the frockcoats and pantaloons.
When the door opened with an abrupt swing behind her, she turned, clutching a stack of starched cravats to her chest.
Ali came into the room then stood aside for his master to enter before closing the door behind him.
A frown drew Rafael’s brows together as he saw her. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Unpacking,” Catherine answered, feeling, unreasonably, as if she had been caught prying into something that was none of her concern.
“There is no need. Ali will see to it.” He threw himself down upon the chaise lounge, lifting one foot so the valet could help him off with the calf-high riding boot.
“It was nothing. There is nothing else—” Catherine began.
“Isn’t there? I would have thought, from the state of this house, there is a great deal to be done,” he said irritably. “Don’t stand there, crushing my cravats. Put them down somewhere.”
With a lift of her chin, Catherine tossed them onto the bed. “About the housekeeping, there are a few things I need to ask.”
“Later, if you please. I am starving, and more than anything else in the world, I would like a hot bath to remove the smell of horse. At any rate, I expect Ali could tell you more than I. He has been here trying to cope with it six months or more. Considering the results I would say he makes a much better valet than a housekeeper. It is doubtful even he will give you satisfaction.”
Though the valet remained silent, Catherine thought a flicker of compassion crossed his face as he glanced at her.
“I will be most happy to serve you in any way I can, Madame,” he said quietly.
“Thank you, Ali. If you could wait upon me in the morning in the ladies’ sitting room, I would be grateful.” Glancing at Rafael, now unbuttoning his shirt and stripping it from his waistband, she asked, “You ordered the bath?”
Rafael nodded. “And a little something to eat now, before dinner. I forgot to tell them to serve it here, rather than in the dining room. Would you mind?”
“Not at all.” Accepting her dismissal, she passed out of the room as Ali reached to hold the door open for her.
It was not necessary to wait until morning to speak to Ali. Rafael had not finished his impromptu meal before a message came from Giles Barton for him.
Catherine, nursing a small glass of sherry at Rafael’s command to keep him company over his meal, watched him scan the missive.
“What is it?” she asked.
He tore the note across four or five times and dropped the pieces among the crumbs on his plate. “Nothing to cause you concern. I must go to Cypress Bend.”
Catherine was not deceived. He was keeping something from her, something important if he could be induced so readily to forget his fatigue. As she watched Ali dress him at speed in a coat of blue superfine and cream doeskin breeches, she had time to wonder what it could be. Her mind turned to Fanny, but only for a brief moment before she dismissed the idea. Rafael was not the man to come running at any woman’s behest, nor was Fanny the type to presume upon their friendship. On the other hand, a discussion of crops or estate management with Giles scarcely called for a hurried evening visit. Perhaps she was refining too much upon the matter, showing her vanity in thinking it would take something weighty to draw Rafael from her. The note may have been no more than a reminder of the drink due her husband from Giles.
Still, when he had gone, she could not help moving to the window to watch him ride away down the road that was little more than an overgrown bridle path along the river and through the swamp to Cypress Bend.
“Do not fret, Madame. He will return safely.”
At the voice behind her, Catherine turned away. She had almost forgotten the presence of the silent moving valet. “I’m sure he will,” she returned.
Ali went on with his work, picking up the towels, the strewn clothing, and finishing the job of putting away Rafael’s belongings that Catherine had begun. She was only in his way, she saw. Moving toward the door of the connecting bedroom, she paused only as Ali coughed, a small sound to attract her attention.
“Madame wishes to dress for dinner?”
The evening seemed suddenly flat, stretching long and monotonous ahead of her. To dress without a man to appreciate the effect hardly seemed worthwhile, and Rafael could not be expected back in time for anything more than a late supper. As she hesitated, searching for a polite way of saying no, he went on.
“One of the housemaids would be honored to assist Madame. Shall I ring?”
Catherine shook her head. “I think not. I am not particularly hungry. Something light on a tray will suit me well enough — though you may leave the bathtub, if you will?”
“I will see to it, Madame, with pleasure. But—”
“Yes, Ali?”
“Madame should have a personal maid; a maid to run small errands, see to your comfort, and to the care of the clothing. That one, that Hattie, in the wash house is very well for the linens and the clothing of houseservants, but she has no idea of the care of delicate fabrics. In addition, a maid lends consequence, weight, to the position of mistress of the house.”
“You are convincing,” Catherine said with a wry smile. “However, my husband has promised to find someone for me. Perhaps he will remember in a day or so.”
“There is a woman, such a one as I am sure would suit Madame. Her name is India.”
Catherine, wise in the ways of servants, sent him a quizzical glance. “This woman, this India, means something special to you?”
A smile came and went in his heavy lidded eyes, and he inclined his head in a faint gesture of respect. “She is my soul,” he said, “the moon of my desire. You are surprised, Madame? Surely you guessed. But no, it is my words, n’est ce pas? You will know, Madame, that I was born and reared in the desert of North Africa. My father was a Bedouin, my mother an Ethiopian. In my ninth year, my father, the Rif, the chief of our tribe, was killed by my uncle. I was carried into the desert to die, but my cousin, a youth of ten more summers than I, was greedy. He sold me, instead, to a slave caravan. My native tongue, so many eons ago, was Arabic, my religion Moslem, though now I have taken the god of my master. My India, I fear, is a pagan, but I hope still to persuade the priest, when next one comes, to bless our union.”
“There is something I don’t understand. My husband spoke, just now, as though you had been here at Alhambra for some time. I quite understood that you were with him in his travels; indeed, that you were with him in New Orleans when he first returned from abroad.”
“That is so, in part. Six months ago Monsieur Rafe had word from Monsieur Barton of the near ruin of the plantation, and the suspected venality of the man he had left in charge. Before he acted, however, he wanted proof, proof that might not be available if he himself came. Too many were interested in his past activities for him to arrive quietly. He sent me ahead. I came, saw what was happening, and reported. It took some time before Monsieur Rafe could arrange the permission for his return. When he landed at last at New Orleans, I journeyed to the city to serve him, and explain the events here more fully. After three weeks in the city, Monsieur Rafe instructed me to return and prepare for his arrival with you. I regret, Madame, that the task was so poorly done.”
“I’m beginning to have some understanding of your difficulty,” Catherine said lightly. “And I’m certain you did the best you could under the circumstances.”
The avowal was disconcerting, its sincerity was also touching. “Thank you, Ali,” she said simply. “The time may come when I will need a strong right arm. In the meantime, please don’t think that I blame you.”
“Nor, I think, must you blame the others,” he suggested. “They are tools, frightened tools. My India could not be used so, for being a pagan of the clean deep woods, the fields and streams, she worships the sun, the giver of life. She has no need nor fear of the magic of the darkness.”
Frowning, Catherine said, “I don’t think I understand.”
Before he could answer, the door was thrust open unceremoniously and Solange walked into the room.
“Where has my brother gone?” she demanded in sharp tones.
Without answering her, Catherine said to Ali, “About the matter on which we were speaking, if you can persuade my husband, I will abide by his decision.”
“Very good, Madame, and I will not forget your dinner tray or bath.” With his most formal bow Ali took his leave. The door had closed behind him before Catherine turned to Solange. “You were saying?”
“I was asking for my brother!” Solange spit the words out, her face mottled with indignation at being forced to wait behind a servant for Catherine’s notice.
Catherine had not meant to antagonize the girl further, only to remove Ali from her field of fire. Taking a tight rein on her temper, she asked, “Did no one tell you? Rafael received a message from Cypress Bend.”
“A message? What kind of message?”
“Something about a wager,” she said, having no intention of revealing that she did not know herself. “You know men and their debts of honor.”
“At this time of the evening?” Solange said in disbelief.
Managing a smile, Catherine answered. “Yes. I do not expect him back until quite late. Was there something special you wanted to speak to him about?”
“No — no,” the girl said, looking away. “Nothing special. But I do think he could have told me.”
Conscious of something near sympathy at the forlornness of her tone, Catherine replied, “I expect he would have, if he had known you would be upset. You must remember that he has lived for only himself these last years, and is not in the habit of accounting for his absence.”
Solange nodded. Then a sly look entered her narrow eyes. “How understanding you are, to be sure. For myself, I would not care to have my bridegroom ride away and leave me, scarcely a week after the wedding. Are you wise to keep him on such a long chain? I confess I would be tempted to shorten it in your place, especially with a man like Rafe, a man with the instincts of a hunter. The Navarro men have always enjoyed the chase, you know. However, they are prone to become bored with their prey once it is firmly within their talons. Of course, you will be all right, so long as Rafael does not try to bring his new quarry home — as my father did.”
“Who told you that?” Catherine asked sharply.
“How can I say? I don’t remember. Did you think such a topic too raw to sully my young ears? That is foolish beyond permission, Catherine. I do not doubt that I could tell you a thing or two, for all your married state.”
“Indeed? More of Madame Thibeaut’s instructions, I suppose?”
“Madame Ti feels that for a girl to be ignorant of these things is folly.”
There was truth enough in that, though Catherine, for all her inexperience, knew it was not the complete answer. The desire of a man for a woman, the joining together of their two bodies in that desire, was not the unpleasant thing Solange had been given to understand. Before Catherine could find the words to convey this thought the girl had turned away, placing her hand on the door knob. A mocking smile grew on her face, giving her a fleeting resemblance to her brother.
“Madame Ti says also that a woman who trusts a man is a fool who deserves her betrayal.”
Ignoring the malice of that thrust, Catherine allowed a reflective expression to color her voice. “Some man must have hurt your companion when she was younger. It is a great pity, Solange, for your sake.”
“Your pity is not needed,” Solange cried, her face flushed with sudden rage, “only your absence!”
As the girl slammed from the room, Catherine sighed. Had she reached her at all? It seemed doubtful, considering the strength of Madame Thibeaut’s influence. How had she gained such control of Solange and the servants? If it was a control based on fear, of what were they afraid? The magic of the darkness? Did Ali mean, could he mean, black magic?
~ ~ ~
The door of Catherine’s bedchamber swung open to crash against the wall. Rafael stood in the opening, framed in a gilded nakedness by the candlelight in the room behind him. Catherine sat up in her bed, her eyes wide and startled in her pale face. She had known her husband had returned, for she had heard him moving about in the other room, heard the closing of the door as Ali left him. She could not account, however, for the anger evident in the lithe lines and planes of his body, or the menace in his cat-like stride as he moved toward her.
“What is it?” she asked, deeply ashamed of the thread of sound that was her voice.
Rafael made no sign that he had heard.
A frisson ran along her nerves. Her composure splintered before the lynx-wild fury that raged in the black caverns of his eyes. She swung away, whipping back the covers. Her arm was caught in a cruel vise and she was hauled against him. A hand raked through the tangled mass of her hair, twisting it, dragging her head back, raising her face to meet the hard pressure of his mouth as it descended upon hers. An instant later the breath was crushed from her lungs as she was hoisted over his shoulder with his arm clamped about her knees. A red haze of pain before her eyes, she felt herself carried from the room.
She was flung through the air with a force that snapped her head back, and as she landed on the softness of a mattress there was the taste of blood in her mouth where her teeth had cut her lip. Her chest heaved and she drew a gasping breath, then Rafael was beside her, his hands firm and demanding on her flesh. With a rending sound, her nightgown gave way, and his warm, hard body covered her. She moved her head from side to side in a feeble negation that went unheeded. Her fingers curled into claws, digging into the corded muscles of his arms. Then a shaft of cool sanity struck her, and with it came comprehension. Her hands fell away to relax upon the sheet. With her eyes closed, she lay passive, her mind drifting away into nothingness, to return only when he rolled away from her.
They lay in silence for long, panting minutes. Abruptly he turned back and drew her against him with a fierce gesture.
“You are my wife, Catherine,” he said, his voice low but intense against her ear. “Forget it, or ignore it, at your own peril.”
“I am not likely to forget,” she answered when the constriction in her throat had eased.
“Why this remove to a separate room then?”
“I — I understood the Navarro men sleep alone.” She had very nearly said that Solange had told her, but the memory of Fanny’s words concerning Rafael’s attitude toward his sister prevented her.
“My father did, at my mother’s insistence, which is one reason I have pledged never to have such an arrangement in my own marriage.”
“And the other?” she asked daringly.
“A continual need of you, chèrie, a need that eats at my entrails, destroying the power of will or containment. It is stupid of me, I’m sure, to tell you so, and yet, perhaps I owe you that much.”
“You owe me nothing,” Catherine said, fli
nging one quick look at him before lowering her silken lashes again.
Heaving himself up on one elbow he asked, “Do I not? Deny then, if you can, that you resent me. That you withhold something of yourself from me always.”
“I am not aware of it,” Catherine said in a voice stifled by acute embarrassment.
“You lie. You know it very well, and I do not refer to what you suffered so gallantly just now,” he said with soft sarcasm.
Casting him a look of accusation, Catherine shook her head.
“I can think of a number of reasons, but none of them are totally satisfactory. Shall I enumerate? The first is a basic coldness of disposition, a fault I have been at great pains to disprove — to my complete satisfaction,” he added with a faint smile. “The second,” he went on, reaching up to take a lock of honey-gold hair and draw it down across the fullness of her breast. “The second is a deep resentment of our first encounter which led to our marriage. This might be overcome, given time and patience. The third possibility is — the memory of another man.” He frowned. “You will not be surprised, I trust, if I find this the least acceptable. And then, there is one other—”
“Please,” Catherine said with a shade of desperation.
“Do you still deny it?”
The bright mockery in his eyes was like a goad. “You have the free and legal use of my body,” she said, her amber eyes flashing. “What more do you want?”
“Everything, my elusive yellow-haired witch. Everything you have to give.”
“While you give nothing in return?”
For a moment his expression was grave, then he smiled. “I give only as much as you are able to take.” He paused. “Did you really think that I preferred to sleep alone?”
His change of subject — if it was indeed a change — was disconcerting. Was it meant to be? But she must answer literally. “You gave every sign of it last night,” she said after a moment.
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