The Soldier, The Nun and The Baby (Anne Stuart's Greatest Hits Book 2)

by Anne Stuart

  “Reilly...”

  “But we weren’t talking about sex, were we? We were talking about death. I don’t give a damn whether you believe me or not, angel. But the fact of the matter is, if I’d blown Dutchy away, as I was sorely tempted to do, you would have smelled him. Death is ugly, and death stinks to high heaven.”

  “Don’t.” It was a quiet moan of protest, one she doubted he’d listen to.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I’d rather talk about sex.”

  Carlie clenched the sides of the boat. She heard the plop of water as a crocodile slid into the river, eyeing them out of beady little eyes. He started toward them, then seemed to think better of it, using his tail to swerve back, away from the small boat as it moved swiftly downriver.

  “Too bad,” Reilly murmured. “I was in the mood to shoot something.”

  “Where are we going?” Carlie asked somewhat desperately. “Do you have any sort of plan, or are we just wandering through the jungle, one step ahead of Morales and his men?”

  “Don’t forget the noble rebels. They aren’t any too friendly, either. Fortunately they’re to the south of us, and we’ll be heading north, once we reach our next stop.”

  “What’s our next stop?”

  He seemed to consider it for a moment. “I suppose I’ll trust you,” he allowed.

  “Big of you.” She couldn’t resist snapping back.

  “After all, there’s no one you’re likely to tell. Caterina Morrissey de Mendino would have been out for her own tail, but I’m not so sure about Carlie Forrest. Besides, I don’t intend to let you out of my sight.”

  “Reassuring.”

  “Isn’t it, though?” he said with false sweetness. “We’re heading due east to a small settlement called Cali Nobles. There’s a small trading post there, run by a man named Simeon. A much better sort than our friend Dutchy. I can count on Simeon to find us some sort of transportation north.”

  “North?” She hadn’t been in the hills north of San Pablo since the rescue workers had first taken her down out of the mountains. She didn’t want to go back.

  “That’s where my plane is. If we’re going to get out of here in one piece we need to get to my Cessna. Look at it this way, angel, at least you won’t have to walk. Or do you have a problem with flying?”

  “I haven’t flown in years.”

  “Oh, really? Then how did you get to San Pablo to visit your old school friend Caterina?”

  Damn him, she thought, savoring the first curse she’d uttered, mentally, in years. “By yacht, of course,” she said serenely.

  “Ah, yes, Transatlantic yacht. Remind me, Carlie. How long ago was that?”

  “Two months,” she said determined to bluff it out.

  “And one more question,” he said, paddling smoothly through the water.

  “Yes?”

  “Where do we find some gigua grass?”

  * * *

  Chapter Twelve

  * * *

  Carlie almost wished the trip downriver could have lasted forever. It was peaceful and quiet in the bottom of that little boat, with only the occasional whine of insects to disturb her calm.

  Reilly seemed to be suffering from a massive case of the sulks, though she couldn’t quite figure out why. He wasn’t talking to her, which was just as well. She hadn’t been able to come up with an answer to the gigua-grass question. Obviously he understood the Shumi language far better than she had imagined. He’d understood every word of the woman’s cheerful advice on procreation, as well as her agreeable responses.

  Fortunately the baby was growing more alert, and she concentrated her attention on him, talking in a low voice that she hoped wouldn’t reach back to the taciturn Reilly. “Did you miss me, little boy?” she murmured. “I missed you. I know you must have liked being taken care of, not being jostled around all the time. It won’t be too much longer before we get you home. You’ll have a grandma and a grandpa to love you and take care of you, you’ll probably have cousins and—”

  “No cousins,” Reilly interrupted from the back of the dugout. “Billy was their only child.”

  “Then they’ll love you all the more,” she assured the baby determinedly. “They’re probably just waiting to dote on you, sweetie. Though I hope your grandma isn’t too old.”

  “Actually, the Morrisseys can afford the best of everything for their only grandchild. Including the best of household help. He’ll be looked after by experts. And I doubt a high-powered Washington hostess like Grace Morrissey would care to be referred to as ‘grandma.’“

  She turned back to look at him, her concern for the baby overriding her determined avoidance of him. “They’ll love him, won’t they?”

  “They sent me down here to get him, didn’t they?” he countered irritably. “They were willing to foot the bill.”

  “They’re paying your expenses?” she questioned, telling herself she shouldn’t be surprised.

  “No.” He gave the paddle a harder push, sending the canoe skimming through the water. “I owed Billy that much, and more. It was the least I could do.”

  She turned back to the baby lying across her lap, looking up at her trustingly out of those surprisingly brown eyes. “They’ll love you,” she said firmly, loud enough for Reilly to hear. “Or your Uncle Reilly will beat them up.”

  Reilly’s response was a muffled obscenity. “I’m not the kid’s uncle,” he protested.

  “You told me you and Billy were like brothers.”

  “We grew apart. People change. We had a couple of arguments.”

  “Still, you came after his wife and baby. You must have forgiven him.”

  “There was nothing to be forgiven,” Reilly said. “Just a parting of the ways. And don’t try to make me out as some kind of good guy. I happened to owe him for any number of things. This gives me a chance to pay my debt.”

  “You don’t owe me anything. Why are you taking me along if you’re not a good guy?”

  “You keep this up and I’ll toss you to the crocodiles.”

  “Sure you will, Reilly,” she said, feeling suddenly, surprisingly cheerful. She looked down at the baby. “Your uncle’s a liar, sweetie. Don’t pay any attention to a word he says. He’ll look out for you.”

  She could practically hear Reilly’s temper simmer. It was a mildly entertaining diversion, to be able to annoy him so thoroughly, and these days she needed mild diversions. All this excitement was a bit too much for her placid heart to handle.

  Though she was beginning to wonder whether her heart was that placid after all. She’d taken the danger and adventure with surprising equanimity, and she’d survived her first taste of passion without dying of shock.

  Reverend Mother Ignacia had always been frank about the sins of the flesh. She had maintained that God had given them all bodies to enjoy, and there was nothing shameful about pleasure. To be sure, it was better sanctified by God and a priest, but a pragmatic woman had to accept that life didn’t always work out so neatly.

  She’d listened to Carlie’s protestations that she had no interest in sensual matters, but she still refused to let Carlie take her final vows. Carlie was finally beginning to suspect why.

  She’d never had any doubt about Mother Ignacia’s wisdom and perception in other matters—why had she assumed that when it came to Carlie she’d suddenly lost her ability to see clearly?

  Carlie leaned back against the supplies, gazing out over the slow-moving river. The baby dozed peacefully, and behind her she could feel Reilly’s strong, steady movements as he propelled them through the water. It was a perfect time for reflection, to consider what she’d never dared consider before.

  Perhaps, just perhaps, she’d misunderstood her calling. Perhaps she really had been hiding, from memories, from pain, from life.

  She still wanted to hide. She wanted to be back in the safety and stillness of the convent, her body un-awakened, her soul single-minded, her heart determined. There were too many choices out here. To
o many distractions.

  Including the innocent child lying in her lap, trusting in her to keep him safe, to love him. Including the not-so-innocent man behind her. What did he want from her? Anything at all? And what was she willing to give him?

  The fear fluttered in her stomach once more, combined with a tightening lower down, a clenching of memory that came against her will, and she wanted to run away and hide..

  But there was nowhere to run to. Not in this crazy, war-torn country, not while she needed his help to protect the baby. She just had to get through the next few days, till they got out of here. Then, away from his distracting presence, back in the shelter of the convent, she could decide what she really needed in life.

  The thought should have soothed her. But somehow the idea of leaving this man, and this child, cut her to the heart, and she closed her eyes against the brightness of the tropical sun, and the sting of her own tears.

  Why had life suddenly become a tangle of questions, needs, demands and desires? Everything had seemed so simple back at the convent. Before Reilly walked into her life, and threatened everything she believed in.

  What in hell …God’s name was she going to do?

  * * *

  It was a strange and novel sensation for Reilly, this urge to wrap his hands around her throat and strangle her. He wasn’t a man prone to violent fantasies; he simply did what needed to be done. If that need included violence, he would do it, without undue hesitation or recriminations.

  He knew perfectly well why he wanted to strangle her. Dutchy was out of the way, but he’d been quite voluble once Reilly had fired that bullet close enough to crease his filthy suit. And Dutchy had been mad and drunk enough not to consider the benefits of discretion.

  “So how does it feel to pork a nun, Reilly?” he’d demanded thickly as Reilly had lashed him to the old iron bed with the filthy sheets.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he’d said, yanking the ropes unnecessarily tight.

  “Your little lady friend. I thought she looked familiar, but it took a while before it came to me. She came from the convent, didn’t she? Our Lady of the Perpetual Virgin, or whatever it was, right? Bet she was real tight.”

  He slammed Dutchy back against the bed, his hand around his wattled neck, ready to press the life out of him. “You’re crazy, old man.”

  Dutchy wheezed in laughter, too drunk to realize his life was hanging by a thread. “You mean she didn’t tell you? I wouldn’t have thought she could put anything over on you—you’re getting soft, Reilly. It’s no wonder you’re getting out of the game.”

  “You must have gotten into some bad whiskey,” Reilly said between gritted teeth. “That, or the jungle’s finally gotten to you.”

  “I even know her name,” Dutchy said. “She was the only young one there, and I make it my business to keep track of all the young white women in the area. Sister Maria Carlos. Her parents were those missionaries that were killed a number of years back. But what I can’t figure out is where the baby came from.”

  He pressed against his throat, just a bit harder. Dutchy’s eyes began to bulge, and he gasped for breath.

  Reilly timed it perfectly. Just until Dutchy passed out. Then he stepped back, watching him, and he realized he was shaking.

  He should kill him, of course. Sooner or later, most likely sooner, Morales would come back and put two and two together. With Dutchy’s pickled brain but still-sharp eyes, they’d come to their conclusions even more quickly, and now that Dutchy had managed to find out about the baby, things were getting too damned dangerous. The best way to protect the baby and the woman as well, would be to kill him.

  He looked at the old man. He was the scum of the earth, and he certainly had earned death many times over.

  The problem was, Dutchy was right. He had grown soft. Ten years ago he wouldn’t have hesitated, and Dutchy would have already breathed his last.

  But he’d seen enough death, enough killing to last him the rest of his life. He was going to take his chances. If they moved fast, they’d be out of reach before Dutchy started blabbing, safely up in the deserted village of Puente del Norte, ready to fly out of the country.

  Of all the places, why had he chosen Puente del Norte to land? Fate wasn’t making things any easier for him, or for the woman sitting in the front of the canoe.

  Reilly looked at the top of Carlie’s head. The short dark hair was lightening in the sun, streaked with gold among the dark brown. He didn’t know whether she’d fallen asleep, but at least she’d ceased that soft, loving murmur she directed at the baby.

  The sound of her voice, her damned nun’s voice, should have infuriated him. It did, but it also crept under his skin and pulled at him, making him horny and crazy and wanting to hit something.

  He’d left the Catholic church years ago, but he still knew that a nun was off-limits. And much as he wanted to discount Dutchy and believe the man’s words were all lies, he knew he couldn’t. There were too many things pointing straight at that unpalatable truth, including her total unfamiliarity with her body’s sexual potential. The way she kissed. The way she looked at him. The way she walked and talked, totally without sexual guile.

  At first he’d assumed it was some act of a well-bred tramp like Caterina Morrissey—a sham innocence meant to be alluring, and he’d had to admit that it was.

  Knowing it was real innocence should have destroyed any random traces of lust left in him. Unfortunately, life didn’t work like that.

  He looked at her sun-streaked head, bowed low over the baby, and he thought about the taste of her mouth, the wetness he’d coaxed between her legs, the perfect fit of her breast against his hand. He looked at her, and he still wanted her. And nothing, not decency, not charity, not wisdom, could still the desire surging through his body

  He told himself he wouldn’t do it. From now on it was strictly hands off. No touching, no loaded comments, no cursing if he could help it. She’d made her choice, and he wasn’t able to offer her any reasonable alternatives. They were two people, thrown together for a few days in a dangerous situation. It was no wonder his hormones were running high.

  Once they made it out of here, once she was safely settled wherever the rest of her …sisters were, he’d get beyond it. He’d spend a little extra time in D.C., looking up a few old friends. His buddies were always trying to match him up, and this time he’d let them. He needed a woman, not a girl! Someone a little older, a little more experienced, should wipe away Carlie’s memory in no time.

  He knew when she’d fallen asleep. When her tense shoulders relaxed, her entire posture softened and a faint, watery sigh drifted back to him. She’d been crying, he realized belatedly, with a pang he quickly stifled. Why had she been crying, for God’s sake? Over her imagined sins?

  The sun was growing brighter overhead, and he steered the dugout closer to the riverbank and the protecting overhang of greenery. She’d already absorbed enough sun on her pale skin—he didn’t want her burned. It would slow them down, he added to himself. Lying to himself.

  Damn, damn, hell and damnation. And then he found he still maintained a sense of humor. For all that his cursing was uncharacteristically mild, it was all too accurate. Hell and damnation would be awaiting him, for messing with a nun.

  Particularly since he still wanted to mess with her, quite badly. He wanted to finish what he had started, and he didn’t want to think about white-and-black robes, and vows of chastity. He wanted to think about the look in her eyes, the scream she’d made, pressed up against his shoulder. He wanted to see whether he could make her scream again.

  He reined in his imagination with steely control. She’d been trouble enough in her other incarnations. As Caterina Morrissey she was a selfish tramp who was looking for a meal ticket, as Carlie Forrest she wasn’t much better. But Sister Maria Carlos was the worst of all. The sooner he was out of this mess, the better. He’d head straight to his mountaintop and stay put, and nothing, but nothing, would make h
im come down.

  After he got thoroughly and satisfyingly laid, of course. He needed to get this particular woman out of his mind, out of his blood, out of his fantasies. And it would take another woman to do it.

  Hell, he might not wait until he got to D.C. If Simeon could find someone for him, he’d take care of his little problem right then and there, and too damned bad if the holy sister didn’t like it.

  There was no way he was going to pretend that he was in anything else but a foul mood that day on the river. He pulled alongside the riverbank for a brief stop, made the bottle for the kid when needed and grudgingly partook of the bread and fruit the Shumi had packed for them. But he wasn’t about to indulge in any social amenities, and she seemed perfectly willing to accept his disapproving silence.

  Hell, she was probably used to silence, he thought bitterly. What kind of vows did they take? Chastity, he knew that one for sure, and it was a thorn in his side and his conscience. Poverty and obedience. Well, she’d flunked the last one, but if she was supposed to keep silent she was doing a good job of it.

  They reached the tiny landing of Cali Nobles by late afternoon. It wasn’t much larger than the small outpost where Dutchy lived, but Simeon was standing on the rickety wharf in the dying sunlight, his eyes shaded with one beefy hand, looking toward them.

  “I damned well don’t believe it,” he bellowed heartily. “I thought you told me nothing in God’s name would ever bring you back to San Pablo?”

  Reilly controlled his instinctive wince. “I decided I missed your blue eyes, Simeon. Not to mention this lovely peaceful climate.”

  “Yeah, sure,” said Simeon, grabbing the end of the boat as it drifted toward the dock and taking a good long look at the woman in the front. “And who’s this? You decided to experience the joys of marriage and fatherhood after all?”