Jamie smoothed down the hem in back, flicked a pleating of lace into place, and, standing back, nodded her head in satisfaction.
“Ye’ll do.”
Mara stared into the mirror, a slight frown between her arched brows. She bit her lips, bringing more color to them. “I think I’ll add just a touch of rouge. I look so pale,” she decided.
“No,” Jamie said emphatically. “Ye’re not Mara O’Flynn, the actress, but a supposedly well-bred English miss who’d not be wearin’ color on her cheeks. Besides,” she sniffed self-righteously, “I’ll not have ye offendin’ these good, Christian folk.”
Mara raised an amused eyebrow at Jamie. “And since when have we been caring what others are thinking, Mistress Jameson?”
“Since our livelihood’s been dependin’ on it, that’s how long. And anyway,” she added grudgingly, “I kind o’ like these Californians. They seem to be honest, God-fearin’ people, and they’ve been treatin’ me pretty fairly. To be sure, I can be doin’ anything I want to in their kitchens, and always someone willin’ to help me.”
“Well, ’tis praise indeed, comin’ from the almighty Jamie,” Mara commented, surprised.
“Lord love us, but was it praise from Jamie? Did I hear you right, mavournin?” Brendan spoke from the doorway. Having entered after using his special knock, he now stood before them with an incredulous look of comical disbelief on his face. “To be sure, ’tis a cause for celebratin’,” Brendan declared.
Jamie shook her grizzled head in resignation. “To be sure, ’twasn’t a cause for celebration the day the two of ye was born into the world. And namin’ ye after a saint, indeed,” she snorted, giving Brendan a quelling glance.
“Come along, Mara, me love,” Brendan said feigning an air of offended pride. “I’ll be damned if I’m goin’ to stand here and be insulted by little more than an Irish elf.”
Mara picked up a shawl of silver gauze woven with silk-embroidered arabesques and a drawstring bag of red silk. She gathered gloves and fan and, snapping the ivory sticks open, winked impertinently at Jamie from behind the sweep of red marabou feathers that she waved before her face.
Brendan took Mara’s elbow and escorted her to the party. As they entered and the light fell over them, Mara saw Brendan almost magically assume the role of a rather dandified gentleman as he changed his walk slightly, curved his lips almost poutingly, and angled his head just so. He stood tall and lean in his black, kerseymere trousers, cutaway evening coat, and cream-colored waistcoat of figured silk. His hair had been smoothed back with Macassar oil, the nutmeg fragrance scenting him slightly.
The change in Brendan was barely perceptible, but just enough to alter his character completely.
“Oh, how charming, I do love to dance the night away,” he murmured to Doña Jacinta, who greeted them warmly. “But you know, I was so fatigued after the afternoon’s jaunt,” he confided, pulling a heavily scented handkerchief from his pocket and delicately dabbing at his upper lip, “that I feared I wouldn’t have enough strength to attend this lovely soiree.”
Doña Jacinta made a moue as she frowned in commiseration, her expression anxious lest her most ardent admirer be absent. “I will see to all of your needs personally,” she promised. “A little red wine will do wonders for you. Come, we will sit over here where you may rest, Señor O’Sullivan.”
“Oh, please, you must call me Brendan, Doña Jacinta,” Brendan urged her as he gave her hand a slight, admonishing pat.
“I see that Doña Jacinta is entertaining Señor O’Sullivan,” Don Andres remarked as he came to stand beside Mara.
“Yes, she certainly is keeping him amused,” Mara agreed as she caught Brendan’s eye as he carefully sipped his wine while feigning attentiveness as he listened to Doña Jacinta’s confidences.
Don Andres stopped a servant passing by with a loaded tray of brimming wine goblets and handed Mara one. He made inconsequential conversation with her as his eyes roamed over his assembled guests. Then they returned to rest thoughtfully on her beautiful profile. She was so remote, so coolly detached. Yet there was nothing cold about her, Don Andres thought in puzzlement. There was, despite her aloofness, a smoldering passion in the depths of the golden eyes, a passion she could not disguise. It had yet to be sparked into life, he guessed.
“I am most pleased to see that your fall did not affect you adversely, for you are as beautiful as ever, Doña Amaya,” he complimented her, his dark eyes glowing as they gazed down on her pale shoulders.
“Thank you, Andres,” Mara said softly, a satisfied smile curving her lips slightly.
Mara watched over the brim of her wineglass as Brendan had a group of women laughing and hiding their blushes behind their fans at his entertaining actions while their menfolk guardedly stood nearby, their faces mirroring mixed emotions as they tried to figure out why this European gentleman seemed to have their women in the palm of his hand. Don Luís had returned from whatever business had kept him absent from the picnic and was now embroiled in yet another argument with Raoul. The young man was looking surly as he casually shrugged a shoulder in answer to some question. Doña Ysidora was overseeing the arrangement of food on a long trestle table. It was loaded down with heavy pottery dishes, stacks of china plates, sparkling glasses, bottles of wine, silverware, and bowls of fruit piled high with apples, oranges, pink-tinged pears, and strawberries.
Mara’s slightly bored gaze was caught and held as it would have traveled past a man standing apart from the group of laughing Californians. He was leaning indolently against the wall, his gaze arrogantly aloof as he surveyed the party, evidently looking for someone as his narrowed eyes moved impatiently, it seemed, from face to face. The stranger, Mara thought, wondering curiously, who was he.
She lowered her lashes and covertly watched him. She was partially concealed behind the half-turned shoulders of Don Andres as he talked with Doña Feliciana. The stranger was taller than the Californians standing around him, taller perhaps even than Brendan. He was dressed almost totally in black. He wore tight black trousers that molded his muscular thighs and were a shade above being indecent. A black coat of superfine stretched across a wide expanse of shoulder. His black satin waistcoat was embroidered in a silver floral pattern along the lapel, and in his snowy cravat he wore a black pearl breast pin.
Mara allowed a half-smile to curve her lips as she eyed the brutally handsome stranger. For the slanting planes of his face, the high cheekbones, square jaw, slight indentation in the chin, and the wide, sensuous mouth created a mask of bronze that looked as if it had been molded and beaten by the sun. Thick black hair curled back from a wide forehead above his slightly aquiline nose, and long, beautifully shaped fingers that were now curled around a casually held wineglass gave him a look of breeding. Surely a misleading characteristic, Mara thought uncharitably as she instinctively felt the unleashed power in the man, even across the room. In his own way he was as handsome as Brendan, but not in the same refined and classical manner. There was no tenderness in the chiseled features of his face, nor softness in the sinewy hardness of his lean body. Mara had forgotten to be discreet as she stared openly at the stranger, and now her frank appraisal was being returned by jade green eyes contemplating her intently. Mara waited for the usual expression of appreciation to appear in his eyes but was surprised and slightly piqued when a slow, insolent smile shaped his lips into little more than a derisory grin.
She glanced away, showing no sign of her discomfiture. A boorish provincial, no doubt, Mara speculated with a contemptuous smile, curving her lips as she took a sip of wine, but despite her intentions, her thoughts lingered on the stranger.
“You have not met our new guest, Amaya.” Mara heard Don Andres speaking to her. Turning with an abstracted air, she smiled politely up into the stranger’s brooding face.
Mara stared in surprise into his penetrating green eyes, wondering at the puzzlement she read in them. They were quickly veiled by thick black lashes. He was just as handsome u
p close, even more so as the raw power of the man reached out to envelop her. But Mara also saw harshness and cruelty in the face. There was an uncompromising quality in the dark green eyes beneath the heavy black brows, and Mara was suddenly thankful that he was no enemy of hers.
“Doña Amaya Vaughan,” Don Andres was continuing, “this is Nicholas Chantale.”
Nicholas Chantale stared down into Mara’s upturned face, a quizzical expression in his hard green eyes. “A pleasure, Miss Vaughan,” he murmured in a deep resonant voice. There was a mocking quality in it that struck a discordant note in her.
“Mr. Chantale,” Mara smiled slightly as she assumed her most haughty manner, one that had cowed even the most thick-skinned and ardent of her admirers into silence.
But Nicholas Chantale seemed unaffected by her coolness and the disdainful look she leveled at him. He continued to stare unwaveringly at her.
“Forgive me for staring, Miss Vaughan,” Nicholas said in a voice that was anything but apologetic, “but for a moment—well, I thought I knew you.”
Mara tilted her head encouragingly, but her expression left little doubt that he was mistaken. “I’m sure I would have remembered such a meeting, Mr. Chantale. I’m afraid I don’t even recognize your name.”
Nicholas Chantale nodded regretfully. “Nor I yours, Miss Vaughan. I am puzzled. It’s English, and I had assumed you were Californian?” he asked curiously.
“Doña Amaya is only half-Spanish,” Doña Feliciana explained with a supercilious look at Mara. “Her father was English.”
“But she bears the greatest resemblance to my dear sister,” Don Luís interjected as he joined the group.
“I see,” Nicholas murmured, a slight frown between his heavy brows. Mara received the distinct impression that he was disappointed about something as he stared at the family group around him that included Mara in it as Amaya Vaughan.
“You are from France, Mr. Chantale?” Mara asked him, wondering about the slight accent that she had heard before. “That is a long way to come to seek your fortune in gold,” Mara added, unable to resist taunting him.
“I am from New Orleans, mademoiselle,” he corrected her smoothly, “and I am a Creole. And indeed,” he added with a glint in his eye, “I intend to achieve certain goals while here in California.”
“You sound very confident, Mr. Chantale,” Mara commented dryly.
“I’m a very determined man, Miss Vaughan, and do not accept defeat easily. Occasionally I am faced with a setback,” he answered with a very Gallic shrug, “but ultimately I succeed in my desires.”
“How very fortunate for you,” Mara said with a polite but dismissing nod of her elegant head as she looked away from the Creole.
Chairs and tables had been pushed back against the walls, clearing a large space in the center of the room for dancing. The musicians had been playing softly in the corner of the sala, but now began a more lively tune as the diners were ready for more active entertainment. Mara stood, silently watching from the sidelines, content just to look on as the two rows of dancers formed and began to move from side to side, stepping intricately as they danced to the music of violins and fiddles. Mara smiled slightly as she saw Brendan’s foot tapping in time to the music, and a moment later she saw him with Doña Jacinta on his arm as he led her through the steps on the dance floor. Mara became uncomfortably aware of being watched and, glancing up, saw the green-eyed gaze of the stranger locked on her face. It wasn’t the ardent, longing look that she was accustomed to seeing, but a detached and perplexed one. He was certainly a cool one, Mara thought with a vague feeling of resentment as she stared at the arrogant profile now being presented to her.
“You will do me the honor of dancing with me, Doña Amaya?” Don Andres asked politely, his words breaking into her musings. “It would please mi madre greatly, as well as myself,” he added persuasively, misreading the frown on Mara’s face.
“Of course, Don Andres,” Mara agreed as she watched the couples now dancing around the room to a waltz tune. “I see I can at least dance to this and won’t embarrass you.”
“You could never embarrass me, Amaya,” Don Andres replied gallantly before sweeping Mara into his arms and onto the dance floor.
As they waltzed around the room, Mara caught sight of Brendan, who now had Feliciana in his arms, and as they passed by, he winked broadly at Mara before looking down at the dark head that barely reached his chest. No matter what the occasion or situation they might find themselves in, Brendan always managed to amuse himself, Mara thought enviously as she watched his laughing face. He never could stay despondent for long; there was always something to send him into high spirits once again. But long ago she had given up trying to predict his mercurial moods. Mara caught sight of the Creole as she swirled in Don Andres’s arms, and smiled thoughtfully, for he presented quite an intriguing puzzle. His reactions struck her as being too studied, too lazily indifferent, for he could not be as unaffected by her beauty as he would have her believe, Mara thought nonplussed. This had never happened to her before, and she could not believe it or accept it, for here was quite a challenge for her.
Mara smiled up into Don Andres’s face, flashing a smile that had devastated many an admirer and led him into vain expectations, and she was not disappointed in Don Andres’s reaction. It was like a soothing balm to her pride, injured by the sardonic Frenchman.
She was still smiling into Don Andres’s eyes when Don Luís stepped forward and, tapping the younger man on the shoulder, cut in, leaving Don Andres no other choice but to relinquish Mara to him. With a slow reluctance he dropped his arms and, bowing stiffly, moved aside for Don Luís.
“It would seem as though you have made a conquest of the self-reliant Don Andres,” Don Luís commented sarcastically. “Had I thought you would do so well, I would have contracted you to wed him, for under your spell he might even deed over Rancho Villareale,” he laughed.
“Why is it that you’ve little liking for Don Andres?” Mara asked curiously. “I thought all of you Californians were one big happy family.”
Don Luís eyed Mara suspiciously. “What has he been saying?”
“Why, nothing. In fact, Don Andres seldom mentions you.”
“So he has said little. Has he spoken of a certain item that belongs to my family?” Don Luís asked casually; yet there was an intent, almost expectant look in his eyes as he waited for Mara’s answer.
Mara shook her head. “He has never mentioned anything to me. Why, is it important?”
Don Luís hid his disappointment well. “No, it is of little importance except to me. It is a family heirloom which I would like to have to give to my wife; that is all. It had belonged to my sister and through a misunderstanding had been left in the care of Don Pedro, Andres’s father, under the condition that he give it to Amaya. So I must wait a little longer; that is all.”
“And how much longer must we be waiting, Don Luís?” Mara asked, “I can’t be promising for Brendan that he’ll be content to stay any longer. He’s getting restless,” Mara warned him.
Don Luís stared down his aquiline nose, his lips tightening into a thin, tight line. “And he also will not be getting paid, should he become too restless and decide to leave in the middle of the night,” Don Luís replied coolly.
“Maybe you should be worrying about having us gone from here because as Señora Villareale,” Mara taunted him, “I could make sure that your business deal never did reach completion.”
Don Luís’s dark eyes narrowed dangerously. “I think in future I shall have to devote more time to my niece. I do not want you building up false hopes; that would not do at all,” he said in a hard voice as he smiled down at her.
“Oh, I think we understand one another, Don Luís,” Mara said with an answering smile that did not touch the gold of her eyes.
“I am relieved, then, for I shall see to my part of the bargain, that I promise,” Don Luís declared haughtily, “only I cannot succeed without you fulfill
ing your part. So we are at what they call a stalemate, sí? We work together, and we both profit handsomely. Agreed?”
Mara reluctantly nodded her dark head. “Agreed, Don Luís.”
Don Luís smiled in genuine pleasure. “Do not fear, my dear, for all shall work out as I have planned; it is merely a matter of time and patience, and I have enough of that for all of us,” Don Luís said confidently.
The rest of the evening passed quickly and gaily, with Brendan fetching his fiddle and joining the musicians for a couple of rousing tunes that harmoniously blended many familiar Irish ditties and strange Spanish melodies into a unique concert, much to the pleasure of the appreciative, music-loving Californians. Brendan, as usual, was the star of the evening and thoroughly enjoyed taking his bows after his impromptu performance and basking in his much exalted position. The merrymaking continued until the pink edges of dawn drew the evening to a close and the revelers slowly made their way to their rooms, many reluctantly, Mara thought as she continued to hear laughter and voices from the sala across the courtyard even as she fell into a deep, untroubled sleep.
***
Nicholas Chantale stared thoughtfully through the iron grillwork of his window as the first blush of morning lightened the eastern sky, shading it into pink and mauve. He stared, unseeing, as he felt a wave of frustration wash over him. How could he have been so mistaken? He would have sworn that the woman had been the actress, Mara O’Flynn. He had searched the mining camps and finally the ranchos of the coastal range for her, certain at last that his quest was at an end, only to find a woman called Amaya Vaughan instead. What a fool he’d been to think that fate would have played into his hands so easily in that chance encounter.
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