Treasure of the Sun

by Christina Dodd

  Starting at the tips of his deerskin boots and ending on the fringe of his gold-trimmed sombrero, she surveyed the young man. Her survey failed to dent his conceit, and he posed for her. She scowled at him. “I need a favor, if you please.”

  “My heart is in your hands.” He placed his hand in the starched ruffles of his shirt and bowed slightly.

  His slurred speech, his open flirtation engendered in her a suspicion. “Have you been drinking wine?” She stepped aside, avoiding his hand as he snatched at her black cap.

  “Si, señora. Don't you approve of drinking wine, either?” Her maneuver was unsuccessful; he snatched the mob cap and stuck it in his pocket.

  “Not in such a young man,” she said. “What do you mean, ‘either’?”

  He swayed close to her, and the sweet smell of the grape fanned her face. “Madre says you don't approve of any of us.”

  Slapping at his fingers as they went pursuing her hair pins, she complained, “I don't know what you mean.”

  Cabeza leaned back on the step and almost overbalanced. Katherine grabbed him by the lapel and stood him upright. The boy didn't seem to notice, preferring to explain, “You never come out to dance with us. You don't wear the lace mantilla my mother gave you. You frown at us all the time.” He peered at her. “Like now.”

  “I certainly do not! Ladies never frown.” She frowned harder. “I like you all very much. I do not believe in making friendships that must be broken when I leave here.”

  “Leave here?” Distracted, the young man stared at her in astonishment. “This is your home.”

  “No, strictly speaking, my home is in Boston, in the United States of America. I'm a stranger here. I speak your language with an accent.”

  “No, no, no.” He sighed.

  “I have different customs, different ways.”

  “Charmin g and old-fashioned.”

  “I must leave here,” she concluded.

  “Leave?” He seemed to be stuck on the word. “You can't leave.”

  “I assure you I can leave when I choose.”

  “Haven't we made you welcome? Haven't we become your family?”

  Cabeza seemed insulted, and she hastened to affirm, “Indeed, everyone has been most generous, most kind. But you must admit I'm out of place here. I'm like a blackbird in a nest of cardinals and finches.” And chattering magpies, she added to herself, but she wouldn't for the world hurt Cabeza's feelings by saying so.

  He crooned, “Your golden hair alone, señora, earns you a place among the most beautiful birds in the world. We call you Sunrise.” He peered at her slyly. “Didn't you know?”

  “What nonsense,” she said with brisk decision. “I know what I am. I own a mirror.”

  “I suspect, señora, that your mirror is distorted.” He sounded sure of himself, rather amused by her bluntness. “On e day soon you'll learn the right of it.”

  Katherine controlled her annoyance at being chided by such a young man. “I've been saving the generous salary Don Damian has paid me this last year. I've almost earned enough to support myself for an extended period of time. I'll be gone soon.”

  “Does Don Damian know about this?”

  “We've never spoken of it, no, but I'm sure he realizes I can't stay here in his hacienda forever,” she answered. More than that, she realized he wanted her gone. He wanted her gone, and she had worked to that end. “But this is of no moment. I wish you to take a message to him. I need to see him at once. I'll wait for him in the library. Can you tell him that?”

  “For you, señora, I can do anything.” He bowed deeply and staggered. He walked backwards, eyeing her with the masculine eye of a young roué, and mumbled, “You've been saving for passage home. This explains why you hide that magnificent figure behind those old mourning clothes.”

  Katherine whirled on her heel. Her hair tumbled down, her pins scattered on the tile floor by Cabeza's inquisitive fingers. Slipping into the dim room they called the library, she sat on the fainting couch, and pulled her hair over her shoulder. With her fingers she combed and braided it. Prepared for the inevitable loss of her pins, she pulled a ribbon out of her apron and secured the ends.

  It made her uncomfortable to realize there had been speculation about the way she dressed. It distressed her to realize there was motivation to the gift of clothing she had received. She wished Tobias were here; he'd tell her how to handle this situation. Reaching into the pocket at her side, she pulled out the massive watch that had been Tobias's. She smoothed her hand over the gold and silver decorations on the cover. It was a work of art and her dearest remembrance of her husband.

  Tobias had been a watchmaker, a hardheaded Swiss who had come first to Massachusetts to ply his trade. Restless, he'd moved on to California, drawn by the lure of new lands, new legends, new explorations. That had been one of the things that had drawn her to him—that mix of total practicality and impossible visions.

  Sometimes, before Tobias had died, she had dreamed impossible things. A dream had drawn her to California. A dream had grown with her wedding, blossomed during the short week of her marriage. And all the dreams had withered in the blood in the street.

  It was time to go away, to leave her friends in this warm, golden land and find a new place. The dream was dead.

  She popped the catch on the watch and the cover sprang open. Music filled the air, and she smiled. Such an unusual song for her pragmatic Swiss to build into his watch. “Bonnie Barbara Allen,” with its tragedy of lost love and the tune that brought tears to her eyes. In her pure voice she sang softly,

  He was laid to rest in the lower chancel,

  Barbara Allen all in the higher;

  There grew up a rose from Barbara Allen's breast,

  And from his a briar.

  And they grew and they grew to the very church-top,

  Until they could grow no higher,

  And twisted and twined in a true-lover's knot. . . .

  A prickle on the back of her neck brought her to her feet. She swept the room with an anxious look and saw only the dark drapes, the heavy furniture, the small dim branch of candles. She looked again, and saw him.

  His black coat and trousers blended with the curtains, his face was a dark blur. Like last night, they were alone, but this was different. Today his eyes glittered, alive in a way she'd never seen before, and the upward slant of his eyebrows seemed pronounced and demonic.

  “Don Damian,” she stammered, uncomfortably aware that he'd been observing her as she braided her hair and sang. She tucked the watch in her pocket. “I didn't hear you come in.”

  He took the step forward that brought him to her side.

  Too close. She stammered, wishing he looked less like an apparition of night, wishing he would remove his mesmerizing gaze from her face.

  Hurriedly, she said, “I asked for you to say—”

  He picked up her hand and put it to his mouth. “Say nothing, Catriona,” he whispered. “We will speak our words in other ways.”

  The warmth of his lips shocked her. His gesture shocked her. And the small nip of his teeth against the pad of her thumb made her jump, made her tug at her hand.

  Catriona? Who was Catriona? “Oh , Don Damian. You've made a mistake.”

  His other hand reached out to her mouth and he covered it. They stood like matching statues: hand to mouth, mouth to hand. “Catriona, it's you who've made a mistake.”

  Chapter 3

  There was no doubt; anger held Damian in its grip. He repeated, “Say nothing.” His mouth slid up to her wrist, and he pressed his lips there against the thundering pulse. She felt his breath as he murmured, “Or I’ll find another way to seal your lips.”

  She stood frozen to the floor. He slid his mouth up her arm to her elbow, and she cursed the open sleeves she wore.

  His mustache brushed the tender skin at the inside of her elbow, his tongue tasted her, and that was too much. She objected, “Don Damian! I must tell you—”

  He’d been waiting
for her words. His hand encircled her shoulder; he pulled at her, wanting her against him.

  She planted her feet, determined to resist, but for the first time she discovered how Damian towered over her. She discovered he could jerk her up on her toes with one hand at her waist; she discovered when his fingers cupped the back of her head she couldn’t move it.

  She discovered his muscles in the press of his body from her chest to her knees.

  She didn’t like this.

  She didn’t like the way he overwhelmed her good sense with pure intimidation. She didn’t like the scent of him, of tobacco and brandy and mint, or the strength of his body emphasized next to the vulnerability of hers, or the sight of his face so close against hers.

  She didn’t like the patience he exhibited as she looked and clutched, or the way the frozen parts of her body tingled at the thought of tasting him.

  She didn’t know what to do. She’d never dared to dream of such an experience. His lips were too close; only a fool would open her mouth to remonstrate. Yet the patience she noted still lurked there, a faint smile, then the whisper, “Catriona.”

  She forgot her wisdom. “I’m not—”

  He swooped on her, as she’d known he would.

  He tasted as smoky as she suspected. He wielded his tongue like a weapon in a siege while she fought him. She decided, unemotionally, to go limp.

  He bent her over his arm, tucked her head in his shoulder, and kissed her until she kissed him back. The world became a place of total darkness, untouched by any color, yet whirling all her senses into a pool of pleasure. It worked like a drug, changed her from plain Katherine Anne to a creature of the senses.

  Her hands lifted to his hair and clutched at it. It slid silky between her fingers, and she twisted it like a rope to hold his head close to hers. She liked the texture of it; she wanted to massage it with the flat of her palm, but she feared to release her hold. She feared he’d remove his mouth.

  Craving flowed from his mouth to hers, a craving that tightened the muscles of her stomach. Then solace came, a teasing morsel for her appetite. Then craving again, stronger this time, building on her previous desire, carrying her up, bringing her body to rigid attention.

  This time he didn’t feed her. He left her wanting, tearing his mouth from hers. With his thumb on her jaw, he tilted her head back. His lips pressed against the hollow of her neck; she struggled and cried out. She was sensitive there. No one ever touched her there. This man used his tongue and his intoxicating breath, and the sensation wasn’t ticklish. It wasn’t laughter she felt, but a surge of pure heat to her body.

  How could such a kiss radiate from her face, her neck, extend down her limbs? How could it seek and find the center of her body? A sound struggled to escape her, a release of emotion such as she’d never imagined she’d desire.

  She suppressed it, but he seemed to know. She could feel his emotion vibrating in his arms. She could feel it lifting her off her toes. Then her body was laid on the fainting couch.

  A crafty movement, done by a master. Done slowly enough that she wasn’t alarmed by the perception of falling, yet quickly enough that she knew what was happening and was alarmed—alarmed by the message he transmitted.

  With a sigh, she lifted her heavy eyelids and gazed on him. His thin face revealed harsh satisfaction. “Catriona, do you understand what this means?”

  She said nothing, mute with emotions she’d never imagined.

  “Do you understand?” he insisted. “You’ll never go away from me now. I’ve been biding my time, waiting for you. Listen. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

  Oh, she heard. She was his, to do with as he liked. She couldn’t move unless he allowed it; she couldn’t call out or it earned her a kiss. She couldn’t refuse his passion, for his passion reduced her intelligence to less than a whisper.

  Never taking his eyes from hers, he lifted his knee and pushed it between her thighs.

  “Do you understand?” he whispered.

  It was too much. For her body, chaste too long; for her dignity, tattered as her dress.

  “Understand this!” She jerked back, then forward, bashing him under the chin with her head. Her blow didn’t land as it should, for he’d been watching her too closely and read her intentions. But it gave her a chance.

  He cursed and caught at her.

  The wiry child she’d been had learned her lessons well. In her fights with her cousins, she’d been defeated many times, but only when all four of the boys and both girls had jumped her at once. This fight against one man was almost even when he couldn’t wield his most potent weapon—her own sensuality.

  One of her fists tapped his Adam’s apple before he leapt back. One fist twisted in his shirt collar. If his knee hadn’t been so firmly tucked between her legs, she would have had the use of her whole body. The knee held her skirt; the skirt held her waist. She dragged herself to one side, then the other.

  He captured one flailing wrist. “Catriona. Hellcat! How many times I have called you that in my mind!”

  He captured the other hand; she lifted herself in one giant convulsive effort, one huge bid for freedom. She heard the rip and gasped in dismay.

  He heard the rip and smiled a slow and wicked smile.” A new dress, my Catriona. You must have a new dress now.”

  Bound by a torn dress that would tear more if she moved, secured by her hands in his hands, she cried, “Don Damian! You must listen!”

  His white teeth flashed. “Tomorrow I can listen.”

  “Listen,” she urged again, and he lifted his head.

  “Don Damian!” The call came from outside the patio door. “Don Damian, you must come. We’ve run out of wine.”

  “Only two more days to go.” Katherine comforted the servants as she helped them carry the platters of fruit, cheese, and empanadas out of the kitchen and toward the empty banquet tables under the trees.

  “Two more days and we can start cleaning up,” Leocadia said with a pucker of her lips. “That will take days and days and days and days.” And to the others, “Space those plates evenly, you fools!”

  Katherine grinned at the lady who’d been housekeeper before her. “I can always trust you to view the bright side.”

  Leocadia’s Indian blood kept all expression from her features; her Spanish blood sang in her articulate voice. “Three gigantic meals a day, plus the little tidbits they eat all the time. Don Damian replaced me because he thought I couldn’t handle it any longer. I carry fifty-three years on my shoulders, and he thinks one fiesta is going to crush me.”

  With a thump, Katherine placed her platter on the tablecloth and put her arm around Leocadia. “You know he just moved you aside to give me a place where I could stay. You know he just fed a sop to my pride.”

  Not a muscle moved in her face, but Leocadia’s brown eyes slid sideways to examine Katherine. “I knew. I didn’t realize you did.”

  “I didn’t know for sure until just now, when you said so.” She smiled at Leocadia’s grimace, the woman’s acknowledgement that she’d been trapped by Katherine’s cleverness. Con soling her, Katherine said, “Why else would he replace a trusted servant? You’re healthy, the hacienda is so organized it runs itself, and the patron is not a man who would remove a faithful servant for no reason, so. . . .” She shrugged.

  Leocadia plucked a grape from the bunch on the plate and offered it to Katherine. “Eat. You need something to fuel that too-gifted brain of yours.” She shooed the half dozen maids. “Move, move. The evening meal is finished, the evening snacks are on the table. Now we must clean and prepare for breakfast in the morning.”

  Groans of gigantic proportion swept them, and Katherine turned to go back to the kitchen. Leocadia stopped her. “Stay. As you’ve said, we don’t really need you. You can mingle with guests, visit a bit. Perhaps you can find Don Damian and discuss your position as housekeeper.”

  “No!” Katherine erupted in instinctive rejection. Calming herself, assuring herself that no one kn
ew of the unfortunate incident in the little library, she repeated, “No. Don Damian’s too busy with his guests to waste time with me.”

  Leocadia didn’t smile, but Katherine suspected amusement lurked beneath her impassive surface. “Don Damian always has time for me. Surely I’m of less importance than the woman privileged in his company. But if you’ll not converse with him, perhaps you can find an American and have a chance to speak your own language.”

  “I doubt it. There aren’t many Americans here.”

  “There are too many Americans here.” Her mouth puckered. “They hover like giant moths, waiting to settle and devour the cloth of Olir world.”

  “I don’t want to talk to a moth.”

  “But you’re the flame that draws them.” Leocadia nodded over Katherine’s shoulder, then melted into the evening.

  “Miz Maxwell.”

  Katherine clenched her teeth and pivoted. “Mr. Smith. Is there something I can get for you?”

  “The pleasure of your company.”

  The man towered over her. He was too much of everything. Too tall, too thin, too pleasant, too hearty. He gave a little bow. His long torso seemed ready to topple over, but he never spilled a drop of his beer.

  He smiled at her from his immense height, displaying bad teeth. “These Spanish señoritas are all so short I feel like I could squash them beneath my heel. It’s good to see a woman who is tall enough to speak to.” His gaze roved over her as if the compliment wiped out the insolence of his gaze.

  She smiled, a stiff, tiny movement of her lips. His flattery was nothing more than an unjust disparagement of the people she found so attractive, and she was offended. “Señorita Vietta is much taller than I. Perhaps you’ll enjoy your friendship with her.”

  “Don’t know who she is.”

  Startled, she raised her brows. “I saw you speaking with her.”

  “Not me,” he insisted.

  “No doubt you didn’t realize who she was.”

  “I haven’t talked to no Vietta.”