“Help me on with this, will you, Jamie?” Mara said as she pulled the boot over her toes, sliding her foot down inside.
Jamie had picked up the left boot but dropped it to help Mara in her struggle. Wiggling her foot successfully down inside the boot, Mara started to reach down for her other one when she drew back with a scream. Two exploring claws appeared out of the mouth of her boot as the rest of the body of the scorpion crawled from concealment. Mara jerked her feet up on the bed as she stared in horrified fixation at the tiny pincers waving in the air and the curved, poisonous tail poised dangerously behind.
“Oh, my God,” Mara whispered shakily as the many-legged creature moved slowly across the floor. “What the devil is that thing?”
“Whatever ’tis, it isn’t goin’ to be with us for long,” Jamie promised with a threatening glint in her gray eyes. Swiftly she picked up the empty bowl on the table and allowed the scorpion to crawl inside. Then, without wasting any time, she scurried over to the window and tossed the wicked-looking creature out the window between the bars guarding it against larger trespassers.
“That horrid thing nearly scared the life out of me,” Mara said breathlessly. “And how did the creature get into my boot?”
Jamie shrugged as she gave the offending boot a vigorous shake. “That I’m not knowin’. Critters creep into places ye wouldn’t be dreamin’ of lookin’, but it won’t be happenin’ again,” she said as she held out the boot for Mara’s hesitant inspection.
With a delicate shiver Mara allowed her foot to slide down inside the dark confines of the boot. Then, getting to her feet, she stamped her foot securely in. Picking up her gauntlet-style gloves, she made her way to the door, her nerves frayed as she short-temperedly snapped her whip against her thigh. “’Tis a cursed, inhospitable place.”
“Warned ye and Brendan about that when we first sailed into the bay,” Jamie grumbled. Then she called after Mara, “And don’t be disturbin’ Paddy. He’s finally asleep.”
Mara acknowledged Jamie’s injunction with a casual wave of her hand as she made her way to the stables, her mind already dwelling on the ride with the Creole and the fashion in which she would deal with him. Of the outcome she had no doubt, for he would become as infatuated as all of the other fools she had captivated. He was no different from other men.
They rode westward from the rancho toward a line of low, rolling hills spotted with clumps of live oak and flowery buckeye, its blossoms looking like giant white candles amid the emerald leaves. As they climbed higher out of the valley, they passed the neatly laid-out rows of a vineyard. The squat vines were being cultivated for the sweet wine they would ultimately yield.
Mara glanced across at Nicholas Chantale and had to admit reluctantly that he rode magnificently astride a shiny, full-chested roan stallion with a flowing mane and tail. The Creole easily guided his spirited mount past outcroppings of rock and through eroded slides of loose gravel and dirt. His thighs rippled with muscle as he pressed them against the flanks of his horse and the muscular strength of his sun-darkened forearms, revealed by rolled-up sleeves, belied the gentle touch of his hands on the reins. The green eyes beneath the brim of his hat were no less a green than the leaves of the wild blackberry growing across the woodlands and climbing in vines up trunks of oak and pine.
Mara followed Nicholas toward a grove of gnarled oaks and the inviting shade from their wide branches. Several tall fir trees rose above the canopy of branches as if standing sentinel over the small, secluded copse. Spread out far below them in overlapping, straggling rows were orchards of apples, peaches, plums, and apricots. Behind the rancho were the vegetable gardens that supplied the Villareale table.
Nicholas had already dismounted as Mara rode into the cool shadows of the trees. He was waiting to assist her in climbing down. He reached up and Mara felt his hands slide around her waist as he lifted her from the saddle. She placed the palms of her hands lightly against his shoulders and slid into his arms. Their faces were even for a moment as he held her stationary against his chest and allowed his gaze to linger on her face. Mara noticed the fine lines spreading from the corners of his eyes and the thickness of the black lashes that fanned their limpid greenness. She slowly traced the classic outline of his firm lips with her eyes until his mouth curled into an amused sneer. Mara jerked her startled gaze away and struggled to the ground. He released her immediately—as if he could not wait to have her out of his arms, Mara thought with a haughty raising of her chin. She walked away from him feeling, oddly enough, at a disadvantage.
Nicholas watched her intently as she wandered around the glade, his glance missing nothing about her, from the dusty hem of her skirt to the jaunty angle of the straw bonnet.
Mara turned and caught the speculative gleam in his eye and decided to give him something to speculate about. A slow smile curved her lips and she sauntered across to the base of a massive oak tree where one of the twisted limbs curved downward and swept the ground, creating a natural bench of smooth bark. Mara sat down on the mighty branch, smoothing her skirts modestly as she made herself comfortable and leaned back against a profusion of shiny green leaves, only to sit forward again as she felt their prickly edges.
Nicholas smiled as he leaned against the sturdy trunk of the oak. “Magnificent tree, isn’t it?” he asked casually.
Mara nodded as she cast a disinterested look at the dome of interlocking branches above her head.
“You don’t strike me as the outdoor type, Miss Vaughan,” Nicholas continued conversationally. “I see you more at home in, say, London or Paris.”
Mara smiled thoughtfully. “I seem to present a puzzle to you, Mr. Chantale. Does that bother you?”
“Not really, mademoiselle” Nicholas replied with a glint in his eye. “I enjoy solving problems.”
“And you always succeed in finding a solution. How very confident you are,” Mara said smoothly. “But I’m afraid I shall have to disappoint you, for I have no secrets,” she said directly, her tawny eyes wide and unshadowed.
“Did you never know anyone named Julian?” Nicholas asked suddenly, his body tense as he waited for Mara’s reaction. His eyes never left Mara’s face.
“Julian?” Mara pondered, a doubtful look on her face. “I think not,” she replied innocently, for the name truly meant nothing to her. “I’m sorry, but as I told you, I’ve led a very quiet life in the country. Is he a friend of yours?”
“It is nothing important,” Nicholas lied, hiding his frustration. No expression of guilt or deceit had crossed her face at the mention of Julian’s name. “Are you to become the next Villareale bride?”
Mara was caught off guard by that question and stared at him in surprise. “That is something which will be decided by Don Andres and myself. We have reached no decision yet.”
“I’m sorry. I had thought you’d come out to California with the express purpose of wedding our handsome ranchero. And unless I am mistaken, he would not find it objectionable.”
“Possibly,” Mara told him noncommittally, “but as I said, I have not made up my mind yet. Now—I wish to speak of this no more,” she said imperiously.
Nicholas inclined his head to her wishes. “Certainly, mademoiselle. What do you wish to speak of?”
“Shall we talk of you, m’sieu?” Mara invited softly. “For instance, did you leave a broken-hearted sweetheart or wife and family behind when you left New Orleans to seek your fortune in California?”
Nicholas grinned widely. “When you want to know about someone, Miss Vaughan, you certainly speak bluntly.”
“Why should I not? Subterfuge is only useful when one is being secretive. It’s far more expedient to be direct.”
“I agree, only some people cannot resist the temptation to mislead others.”
Mara smiled, enjoying the exchange. “Ah, but you are guilty of that yourself, m’sieu, for are you not avoiding my questions this very minute?”
For the first time warmth entered Nicholas’s eyes, so
ftening their crystalline quality. “I stand rebuked,” he laughed as he pushed himself away from the tree trunk and sat down next to Mara on the natural bench. Its gentle sloping caused his thigh to press against the length of hers as he placed his arm along the limb behind their backs. He showed no inclination to give her more space.
“But in answer to your question, I did not abandon a wife and family, nor did I leave a legion of broken-hearted females behind.”
“Now that I cannot believe,” Mara teased him as she looked up into his hard face, then glanced away uncomfortably under the close scrutiny of his jewel-bright eyes. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her neck. He laughed.
“You flatter me, mademoiselle,” Nicholas spoke close to her ear. “But had there been a woman such as you in my arms—then, perhaps, I would never have ventured this far.”
Mara kept her gaze locked on the chaparral-covered hill in the distance, ignoring the seductive persuasiveness of his voice. She demanded, “Come now, you don’t mean to tell me that a man like yourself had no lady love to regret his leaving New Orleans?”
“There was no one of importance, and I have not seen New Orleans in fifteen years, mademoiselle,” Nicholas answered harshly.
At his abrupt answer Mara glanced at his face and was surprised to see a brooding look cross it. It seemed to be an expression of more than bitterness and anger. There was a quality of sadness in it as well, but the look passed quickly and was replaced with one of derision.
“Now you, on the other hand, must surely have left many an unhappy young man who had thought he had your favor?” Nicholas inquired softly. “One as lovely as you must have many admirers.”
Mara frowned slightly. “You seem determined to cast me in the role of a coquette. I wonder what she would do if she were here with you in the seclusion of this shady grove,” Mara speculated, her golden eyes innocently holding his as she pretended to be puzzled about such a situation.
“If she were indeed with me, she would not have to worry for long about what she would be doing next,” Nicholas answered, “for I would leave her in little doubt of what would be expected.”
Too late Mara realized that she had set a trap for herself. His meaning hit her and she felt his arm move behind her and caress her shoulder as he firmly but gently turned her to face him on the narrow seat of the tree limb. His other hand moved from her waist up along the row of buttons securing the front of her cambric shirt beneath her riding jacket, lingered against the soft throat before lightly cupping her chin. Nicholas’s green eyes were partially veiled behind his lowered lashes, but she could still see the glint in them as he lowered his lips to hers.
Mara prepared herself to feel the pressure of his mouth against hers but was surprised when she felt his lips against her throat and his hard fingers moving to her nape as he arched her throat backward, exposing the smooth, bare column to his lips. Mara gave an involuntary shiver as his mouth moved along her throat, his breath tickling the fine hairs on her nape before his mouth caressed her ear, touching it with his tongue before moving leisurely on to press kisses across her cheeks and eyes, closing them to feel the thick fringe of lashes. When his mouth finally closed over hers, it was cool and hard, not hot and moist like so many of the others’ had been. They had been anxious, and impatient to touch her, but the Creole was taking his time, seducing her with slow, deliberate passion. Both his arms now held her wrapped close to his chest, pulling her from her seat as she leaned against him, her hips pressed to his lap. Mara felt herself relaxing and was surprised she felt none of the disgust and revulsion she had always felt before when one of her admirers tried to make love to her. When she felt his tongue seek her mouth, she stiffened against it. His lips left hers, caressing her face instead, teasing her with languorous kisses. Then, to her dismay, she found herself wanting to feel the touch of his lips against hers, and for the first time in her life she sought a man’s kisses. Mara opened her eyes, her lids heavy with passion as her mouth clung to his, but they flashed wide at the triumphant expression she now saw on Nicholas’s face. Angrily, Mara struggled to free her mouth from his demanding lips, pulling away from his arms as she jumped to her feet. Turning her back on him, she walked over to the edge of the shade, her eyes burning from more than the glare from the sun-parched earth.
Nicholas watched her curiously as he continued to lounge against the tree limb. With a frowning sigh, he got to his feet. At the sound, Mara turned abruptly and stared at him. Her straw hat was sitting at a precarious angle on her sleek head as she eyed him warily, and he was surprised to see an oddly vulnerable look about the mouth he had just caressed.
“You don’t kiss very well,” he said brutally. The childish dismay on her face irritated him into hurting her in retaliation for his momentary feeling of discomfort.
Mara’s head jerked back as if she’d been slapped. Drawing a deep breath, she replied coldly, “And did you expect I would? I am not from the streets of London, Paris, or Liverpool—places you have apparently frequented, rather than the salons of gentlefolk. You offend me, sir,” Mara said frigidly.
Nicholas bowed slightly. “My apologies, Miss Vaughan,” he said coolly as he rescued her gloves from the ground. “You are correct, it would seem, for I have spent too many years away from polite society. I should have recognized a lady when I met her.”
Mara watched him approach her, his long, muscular legs quickly covering the distance between them. He held out her leather gloves, but Mara hesitated an instant before reaching out. Then, grasping them firmly, she snatched them away. But before she could step away she felt his hand against her cheek, then it was quickly and efficiently straightening her hat.
“Your bonnet was crooked,” Nicholas explained shortly.
“I think we’d better ride back to the rancho,” Mara replied. She avoided his eyes and walked away from him to her mount.
“Will you allow me to assist you, Miss Vaughan?” Nicholas asked softly, but there was an angry glint in his eyes that Mara missed.
“Certainly,” Mara assented haughtily, a disdainful expression on her flawless features. “I’ve no intention of walking back.”
“I’ll try to control my rakehell lusts, ma’am,” Nicholas said mockingly as he placed his hands around Mara’s waist and lifted her easily onto the back of her horse. “But can you maintain your decorous behavior, I wonder.”
Mara glared down at this insolent Creole, her gloved hands fingering her whip dangerously as anger smoldered behind her tawny eyes. She considered her next action with relish.
“I wouldn’t, mademoiselle” Nicholas warned as he stepped out of reach of the whip. “Then you would have firsthand knowledge of what goes on in bordellos and bawdy houses.”
Mara’s hand clenched on the butt of the whip as she turned her horse around, his haunch brushing against Nicholas’s chest. “Well, you’ll not be getting satisfaction here, Mr. Chantale, for you’ve come to the wrong woman this time,” Mara told him with a contemptuous smile. She touched her heels to her horse’s flank and trotted from the concealment of the grove.
Mara heard the thundering of his horse’s hooves before she saw him. He rode up beside her as she galloped across the hillside. She continued to ignore his presence until they entered the narrow mouth of a ravine and Mara’s horse stumbled on the eaten-away sides of the undermined surface and slid into Nicholas’s mount. Mara fought to steady her horse, pulling up on the reins as his head nosed the dirt and he whinnied nervously.
As she brought him under control, Mara turned an angry face to the Creole who’d managed to gallop clear of her floundering mount. Losing complete control of her temper now, she lashed out at him.
“What the divil d’ye think you’re about, crowding me so close,” Mara cried out in wrathful indignation.
Mara halted her tirade abruptly at the look of amazed wonder crossing his features.
“My, my, the little lady certainly has a way with words,” Nicholas said coldly, a steely glint
in his eyes. He stared at her pale face, cruel satisfaction hardening his mouth.
“You will forgive me,” Mara said, recovering. “But I thought, as you were more accustomed to gutter language, it was the only way to make myself understood.”
“Oh, I think I understand you perfectly, Miss Vaughan,” Nicholas replied with an inscrutable smile.
Mara shrugged away a feeling of disquiet and urged her horse into a canter. They rode toward the rancho, her thoughts centering on the score she must settle with the arrogant Creole. Settle it she would, she promised herself as she rode through the gates of the rancho.
But those sentiments were harder to act upon than she’d thought, Mara admitted later that evening as she sat beside Paddy’s bed telling him stories until he dozed off. The evening had been disconcerting. All her scheming had gone for naught as she helplessly watched the Creole flatter Feliciana. He ignored her completely and played the smitten suitor to the inexperienced Californian. How could she succeed in making a fool of the Creole when he acted as though she did not exist?
Mara looked down at Paddy’s sleeping face. He was still hot, but his breathing seemed easier.
Mara stood up, stretching in tiredness before she tucked the covers around Paddy’s shoulders and tiptoed from the room, leaving a sleeping Jamie undisturbed.
Mara paused at the edge of the gallery, leaning against one of the posts as she stared up at the clear black sky where a scattering of stars shimmered in the darkness. She wandered beyond the eaved overhang and silently made her way into the courtyard. The rancho was quieter than usual. A few laughing voices drifted to her from the outer courtyard, but most of the guests had retired for the evening. Mara sat down on the bench that curved around part of the fountain and trailed her fingers in the cool water. She stared across at the darkened windows of the room occupied by the Creole. She wondered if he were within and what he was doing. Was he thinking of her?
Laurie McBain Page 17