by Anne Stuart
“Do what?”
He paused, staring at her in baffled frustration. “Leave,” he said impatiently. “Vamoose. Split. We’re out of here. We’re history. ¿Comprende?”
“Si, ” she said in a cool voice. “Spanish and English I understand. I’m just not too sure of the other stuff.”
“Yeah, right,” he muttered under his breath. “Keep quiet and stay close. And do exactly as I say.”
“Yes, my lord and master,” she retorted.
He didn’t deign to answer her. He simply swung off down the narrow trail that led through the swampy undergrowth, with her following behind. She had more than enough time to think about her uncharacteristic behavior.
In nine years she’d never spoken in such a snippy tone. As far as she knew, she’d never felt the annoyance, the defiance that her reluctant rescuer brought out in her with nothing more than one of those long, calculating looks. She’d cursed, too, the word slipping from her as if it were entirely natural.
She was coming back to life, and she didn’t like it. It was no wonder the Sisters of Benevolence had built their convent deep in the heart of the jungle, away from the annoyances and distractions of civilization. The sooner Carlie found her way to the sister house in Brazil, the happier she would be.
Timothy would be fine. He had grandparents with money and privilege to look after him. She had no qualms about any blood tests—Caterina had made a halting, stumbling last confession to Carlie at the end, since there was no priest around, and while there had been any number of men before she met Billy Morrissey, she insisted that the baby was her husband’s.
It would be hard to give the baby up; Carlie was honest enough to admit it. In the past few weeks it had felt as if Timothy were her own, his sweet, soft body fitting perfectly in her arms, and the bond had grown so strong she’d almost forgotten Caterina’s sad, short life.
But he wasn’t hers. Her life was with the Sisters of Benevolence, and sooner or later she would be able to convince Reverend Mother Ignacia of that fact. Timothy’s life was back in the States, with his father’s family.
She kept her eyes trained on the man ahead of her as he led the way deeper into the jungle. The sooner she got away from him the better. She knew perfectly well why she was suddenly full of frustration and temper, why blasphemies and more were simmering in her brain.
Convents existed to keep men and their distractions out. Women were much better off alone, away from the annoyances of the male sex. And that was what Carlie wanted to be—safe, alone, away from Reilly.
Unbidden, Mother Ignacia’s words returned to her. Was she running away from something, rather than running to the sisters? She didn’t want to be a coward, or someone with a weak vocation.
“This might be for the best,” Reverend Mother had said. And Carlie could only trust her wisdom.
She would put up with Reilly’s overbearing, disturbing presence. She would get safely away from San Pablo, relinquish Timothy and follow her calling, secure in the knowledge that it was a strong and true one.
She would weather these temptations and triumph.
Though why she should think of someone like Reilly as a temptation was a mystery. He was an attractive man, even with that long hair and unshaven face, but she was immune to such things. He was a strong man, when she needed strength, but he was a man of violence. She had seen enough violence to last her a lifetime.
The nightmares had stopped only in the past few years. Peace had finally come, and now it was being ripped away from her. She didn’t want to remember. Didn’t want to relive the day in the mountaintop village of Puente del Norte, when she could hear the screams, smell the thick, coppery smell of her parents’ spilled blood washing down the streets.
She wanted nothing more than to run away and hide. Again, Reverend Mother’s words rang in her head.
She would survive. She would accept Reilly’s help, for her sake and the baby’s. From now on she would be unfailingly polite, docile, obedient, as the sisters had taught her to be. Unquestioning, she would do exactly as Reilly ordered her, knowing that he would keep them both safe.
She would pull her serenity around her heavy-laden shoulders like a silken robe, and not a cross word would pass her lips. She managed a smile, thinking of the statue of the Madonna they’d left behind in the convent.
A branch thwapped her in the face as Reilly brushed ahead of her. “Watch what you’re doing!” she snapped.
And somewhere, the Madonna laughed.
* * *
Chapter Four
* * *
The man wasn’t human, Carlie decided three hours later. It was that simple. He was some sort of genetic mutation, produced by the American government to replace human soldiers in the field. No man could keep going, impervious to the heat, to the bugs, to the thick, sucking sludge at their feet, or to the weight of his pack, which probably had to be three times what she was carrying.
She was accustomed to the heat. Accustomed to pacing herself. Her pack was evenly balanced, and the baby slept snugly in his sling, content with the world and the no doubt thundering sound of Carlie’s heartbeat beneath his tiny ear. Even so, the sweat was pouring down her face, her shoulders ached, her legs trembled and her feet were undoubtedly a royal mess.
There had been no shoes to fit her. The sandals that the sisters wore would provide little protection in the jungle, and she’d had to make do with Caterina’s leather running shoes. Which would have been fine, if they hadn’t been two and a half sizes larger than what Carlie would have normally worn.
She wouldn’t have thought overlarge shoes would cause blisters. She was discovering she was wrong. The huge shoes were rubbing her skin raw, and she’d gone beyond pain into a kind of numb misery, plodding onward, only the sight of Reilly’s tall, straight back giving her something to focus on and despise with a kind of blind fury.
“We have to stop.” She had no idea how long they’d been walking, deeper and deeper into the swampy muck to the east of the convent. It was dark in there, and the trees so thick overhead that sunlight could barely penetrate. It was a true rain forest—the air hot and liquid, and the bush an overgrown tangle that Reilly hacked their way through.
He stopped, so abruptly that she barreled into him. He absorbed the force of her body, casually, and she registered once more how very strong he was. She found that strength alarming.
“Can’t handle it, princess?”
His drawling tone shouldn’t have annoyed her. After all, he was mocking the person he thought she was. He didn’t know he was accusing Sister Mary Charles, a woman dedicated to poverty, chastity and obedience, of being a spoiled brat.
Nevertheless, the mockery rankled. “I can handle anything you can,” she snapped back. “But we happen to have a baby with us. Timothy needs to be fed, he needs to be changed and he needs to be unstrapped from this contraption for a few minutes.”
“I don’t hear him complaining.”
“That’s because he’s little enough that the rhythm of my footsteps is keeping him asleep. Sooner or later he’s going to wake up and make it very clear how fretful he can be. He’ll also probably leak through all the layers of clothing, and I don’t have that many changes of clothes. I don’t want to spend the day reeking of baby pee in this temperature.”
He turned to look down at her. “You sound pretty fretful yourself,” he observed with a faint smile. “Okay, we’ll rest. Half an hour, and no longer. We already got a much later start than I planned. You were the one who overslept.”
“You were the one who didn’t wake me,” she retorted instantly, and then stopped, appalled. What would Reverend Mother Ignacia say if she heard her? How many times would she have to remind herself of the vows she wanted to take? Hadn’t she learned docility, obedience, the simple shouldering of responsibility whether it was deserved or not?
But Reilly didn’t make her feel docile, or obedient, and she wasn’t about to take responsibility for his decisions. She was out in the wo
rld, among men, thrust there by the vagaries of fate. For as long as she remained she might as well give in to temptation and let her emotions run free. For the next few days she’d give herself permission to feel anger. Fear. Tenderness. For the next few days she would give herself permission to live.
“True enough,” he said, unmoved by what she considered to be a show of astonishing bad temper. He unshouldered his backpack and dumped it on the thick jungle floor, then reached for hers.
She backed away, suddenly nervous, but his hands clasped down over her shoulders, holding her there.
“Easy,” he said, his voice roughly reassuring. “I was just trying to help.”
She forced herself to be still, cradling the baby against her while he released the straps. The sudden relief as he lifted the pack from her shoulders was dizzying, and she swayed for a moment. Then he touched her again.
“Careful.” This time his hands were on her bare arms. Rough hands, the skin callused. The hands of a man who worked hard.
She didn’t stumble when he released her, but it took an enormous amount of effort not to. She sank down on the thick forest growth and released Timothy from the sling. He looked up at her out of sleepy blue eyes, opened his mouth in a yawn that swiftly turned into a mighty howl of fury.
“I know, precious, you’re hungry, you’re wet and you’re hot,” Carlie murmured. “Let me get these nasty things off you and we’ll get you something to eat.” The soft clear sound of her voice stilled his rage for a moment, and he stared up at her as she deftly, efficiently stripped the tiny diaper from him, then fastened a new one. The convent had had a small supply of disposable diapers, and Carlie had crammed every last one of them in her backpack. She had no idea how long they’d last, but for the time being she had every intention of using them.
“How does that feel, little man?” she cooed, scooping him up. “Is it nice to have clean diapers and not be jiggled around all the time? Now just keep your temper for a few minutes while I make your bottle and...”
A bottle appeared in her line of vision—in Timothy’s limited line of vision as well, and he immediately voiced his noisy demand. She took the bottle, settled back with Timothy sucking noisily, then allowed herself a glance at Reilly.
“Thank you for getting the bottle,” she said grudgingly.
“The sooner the kid gets fed the sooner we’ll get back on the trail,” he said, dismissing his actions.
Sweat was trickling down into Carlie’s eyes, and she blinked it back as she looked down at the baby lying in her arms. He’d gotten bigger, stronger in the past few weeks. He was getting ready to smile, to hold his tiny, wobbly head up, to face the world. And she wouldn’t be around to see those advances.
He made a squeaking sound of protest as her arms tightened around him involuntarily, and she immediately loosened her grip, feeling guilty. She couldn’t give this child what he needed. And he couldn’t give her what she needed. Even if it felt as if all she ever wanted lay wrapped up in his tiny body.
She glanced over at Reilly again. He’d thrown himself down on the mossy undergrowth, and he was busy searching through his pack. He had a kerchief tied around his forehead, his dark hair was pulled back and his khaki shirt was unbuttoned in deference to the wicked, soaking heat. She found herself staring at his chest, surreptitiously.
She hadn’t had much experience in looking at men’s chests, but she knew instinctively that this was a prime specimen.
His skin was smooth, muscled, dark with tan and sweat. He was lounging there, unconsciously graceful, as he tipped back a canteen of water, and she watched the rivulets escape the side of his mouth and drip down his strong, tanned neck. She licked her lips.
She should have known he wouldn’t miss that action. He rose, effortlessly, as if he hadn’t been trudging heavy-laden miles through the jungle, and held out the canteen for her.
She couldn’t take it from him without letting go of the bottle, and she knew very well just what the baby’s reaction would be to that. She considered refusing, but despite the liquid air her mouth and throat were parched.
He didn’t move, just waited. It was a challenge, she knew that instinctively, though she wasn’t quite sure what was behind it. Control? Or something even more unsettling?
He put the canteen against her mouth and she drank, deeply, tasting the metallic flavor of the canteen and the warm, chemically purified water. Tasting his mouth, one step removed from hers.
Without a word he took the canteen away from her when she’d finished. And then he squatted next to her, reached out and calmly fastened his spare bandanna around her forehead, brushing her hair back from her face.
Her eyes met his, reluctantly, and for a moment she sat there in the sultry heat as something strange and disturbing flashed between them. Something intimate, with his open shirt at eye level, the baby in her arms, the quiet all around them.
She needed to break that moment, and quickly. She didn’t understand it, and it frightened her. Or perhaps it was the fact that deep down she did understand it that was so terrifying. “Thanks,” she said, tossing her head in the arrogant manner she’d seen Caterina perfect.
He blinked. For a moment his dark eyes shuttered, and then he rose, surging upward as if he were desperate to get away from her. “We need to keep moving,” he said. “You want me to carry the baby for a while?”
“He’s my child,” she said instinctively. “I’ll carry him.”
Reilly shrugged. “Suit yourself. Let’s go.”
She started to protest, then glanced down to see that Timothy had fallen asleep in her arms, happily replete. She racked her brain for some way to delay, then gave up. The sooner they reached their destination, the sooner she could do something about her feet. Besides, hadn’t she spent the past nine years of her life hearing stories of the blessed martyrs? Men and women who’d endured far worse than sore feet for the sake of their faith.
She wasn’t doing this for her faith, but for the safety of a child, which was surely of equal value in God’s eyes.
She waited until Reilly’s back was turned before she rose, unsteadily. By the time he turned, instantly alert, she was composed, with Timothy settled back in the sling.
Reilly had her pack in one hand, holding the monstrously heavy thing as if it weighed no more than a feather. She braced herself for the added burden, forcing herself to give him a cool, unmoved look.
He was almost impossible to fool. He took in her defiant expression, her no doubt bedraggled appearance, and a faint smile skimmed across his mouth before vanishing once again.
“I’ll carry your pack for a while,” he said, shouldering it effortlessly.
“You don’t need to baby me,” she said instantly.
“I’m not. I’m trying to maximize our speed. We’ll move faster if you aren’t dragging your feet.”
She could barely lift her feet, but by sheer force she kept her gaze on his face. “How much farther are we going?”
“Today? At least another ten miles. With this kind of brush that’ll take us the rest of the day. Think you can handle it, princess?”
She didn’t move. “Why don’t you like me, Mr. Reilly?” she asked in a bewildered voice. “What have I ever done to you?”
“I don’t dislike you, lady. I don’t even have an opinion.”
“Now that’s a lie,” she said flatly. “You’ve got plenty of opinions, and you formed them long before you showed up at the Convent of Our Lady of Repose.”
“As I said, you’ve got a reputation.”
“And you believe in reputations?”
He surveyed her for a moment. “Tell you what, lady. I’ll forget about your reputation and judge you by your actions. Okay?”
“Judge me? What gives you any right to judge me?”
“It’s human nature.”
“That doesn’t make it commendable. And my name’s not lady. It’s Carlie.”
“Better than Mrs. Morrissey,” he agreed, and there was no missin
g the faint barb in his voice. “Okay, Carlie. Let’s get moving. I don’t want to have to stop again.”
“Tough,” she said flatly, like the sound of the word. “Timothy will need to be changed and fed.”
“And if we don’t stop?”
“I’ll let you carry him if he gets really soaking. And he’s got an amazing set of lungs. Unless you think we’re the only human beings in the jungle.”
His mouth thinned in irritation, and she knew she had him. “We’ll stop in two hours. No sooner.”
Years ago, when she’d been brought down from that mountain village where her parents and all the villagers had been slaughtered, she’d found herself able to lock her mind away in a dark, safe place, so that nothing could touch her. She brought that place up again as she walked, mile after miserable mile, keeping pace with Reilly’s fiendishly long legs. Timothy slept on, not even giving her the tiny respite another feeding would have afforded her, but she found she was grateful. If she stopped, and sat, she might never get up again.
It was growing steadily darker, some distant part of her brain told her, but she paid little heed. Until she was suddenly halted, and it took her a moment to realize that Reilly had turned and stopped her, his hands on her forearms.
She looked up at him, dazed, uncomprehending. “We’re stopping for the night,” he said harshly.
She blinked, then looked around her. There was no sign of a vehicle, no sign of civilization. Merely a sluggish stream winding its way through the undergrowth.
“Why?” she asked.
He’d already dumped both packs. His hands were gentle as they reached out and released the baby from the sling. Timothy was suddenly, furiously awake, but Carlie was beyond noticing. “Because you can’t make it any farther.”
From some place deep inside she managed to summon up a trace of indignation. “I can keep going....”
“Maybe. But you wouldn’t be going anywhere tomorrow. Enough of the early-Christian-martyr bit, Carlie. Take your damned shoes off.”