A Candle in the Dark (13 page)

The leader turned. His eyes glittered. “Ah, you are clever. I had forgotten about you.”

“Let her go,” Cain said. “Or your man dies.”

Esteban aimed the gun at Jiméne. “Then your friend dies.”

“He is not my friend,” Cain said, hoping he sounded as brutal and uncaring as Esteban did. “Shoot him if you like.”

“Oh?” Esteban raised an eyebrow. Then, before Cain could say anything, the leader pulled the trigger. He heard the crack of a bullet cutting the darkness.

Along with Jiméne’s yelp of pain.

“Jiméne!” Ana’s scream pierced his brain. Cain clenched his jaw. Damn. He couldn’t see, couldn’t tell how badly Castañeras was hurt, or if he was hurt at all. His knees began to wobble, but Cain tried to ignore it.

“A neat trick,” he said. With great care, Cain drew the scalpel along Juan’s neck. He heard the thief’s muffled curse, and, steeling himself, he cut a little deeper. “Let the girl go.”

When Esteban said nothing, Cain looked at him. “Don’t doubt me,
amigo
. He will die if you don’t let us go.”

There was a groan at the other side of the clearing. Esteban calmly pointed his gun once again in Jiméne’s direction. “Perhaps you do not understand—”

It was as if Ana saw a chance and grabbed it. She jammed her elbow into Juan, knocking him into Cain, and Cain staggered backward as the full weight of the thief was suddenly on him. The scalpel slipped, Juan’s scream filled his ears as the blade sliced into his neck, severing an artery. Juan collapsed, pinning Cain beneath him, and Cain’s face and hands were suddenly covered with blood. Blood that was spurting, pumping from Juan’s throat.

Cain struggled to push the body away, searching anxiously for Ana, but the whole clearing seemed to have erupted in chaos. He could see nothing, hear nothing but the report of the gun fired once, twice. Screaming echoed around his head, and he didn’t know whether it came from Juan or from someone else.

Christ, what was going on? Cain gave one hefty shrug, throwing an already dead Juan to the side, pulling himself to his feet.

What he saw stopped him in his tracks. Ana stood alone in the clearing, the pistol dangling from her hands, Esteban in a crumpled heap at her feet. The other man, Ramon, was gone, but on the far side of the fire, Castañeras sat, holding his arm and groaning in pain.

“Ana?” Cain croaked. Slowly, as if in a daze, she turned, staring at him with eyes so lifeless it seemed to paralyze his soul. Cain swallowed.

“You saved us,” she said. Her voice was hoarse, but he thought he heard something in her tone—a grudging respect, maybe, or even simple disbelief. She reached up and touched the bleeding scratch on her throat.

He stared at her and then glanced to the lifeless body at her feet. “What the hell happened?”

“She grabbed the gun, you stupid dog,” Castañeras growled, staggering to his feet, gripping his arm. “What did you think to do, asking him to kill me?”

Relief ran through Cain’s blood so potently he felt weightless. He couldn’t help smiling. “I’m sorry he didn’t kill you, you worthless swine.”

Jiméne stared at him, and then grinned back. “He has probably already done that,” he said. “I doubt I will live until morning.”

“We can only hope.”

“Stop it. He saved us, Jiméne. You should at least thank him.” Ana stepped forward, dropping the pistol.

She looked limp, almost shaken, and Cain watched in surprise as she turned to face him. Funny, if he hadn’t known better, he would bet she was in shock, and ready to faint. But this was the Duchess. Somehow it was impossible to believe he was even seeing this, hard to believe she would allow such a weakness.

She motioned bonelessly to Jiméne. “Fix him,” she murmured. “You know how.”

Then she swayed, dignity and aristocratic bearing crumpling before Cain’s disbelieving eyes. He rushed forward, catching her just before she hit the ground.

Something was holding her so tightly she couldn’t move. Something was
lifting
her—

Full consciousness hit Ana like a blow, and her eyes snapped open. She stared at the swarthy face bent over hers, seeing in a split second the concern in his eyes, and the fear.

Damn
. D’Alessandro was carrying her, touching her. D’Alessandro was seeing her weak and helpless—again. She pushed futilely against his chest. “Put me down,” she demanded.

“No.”

“I said, put me down.”

“I heard what you said. Christ, you just fainted.”

“I didn’t faint.” Ana struggled, and his arms tightened around her. He was strong, she thought, strangely so for someone who had so recently been unconscious. But her sense of reassurance disappeared the moment she felt him trembling. She noticed the pallor of his skin beneath the dark streaks of Juan’s blood. He was still drunk. For some inexplicable reason, the realization made her angry. Furious, in fact. “Damn it, D’Alessandro, put me down or—”

“Please do not fight.” Jiméne’s voice, weary and heavy with pain, came from a short distance away.

“There, you see?” D’Alessandro looked into her face, his eyes narrowed with censure. “If you’d relax long enough for me to dump you someplace, I could see to your friend over there.”

“Kindly do not hurry,” Jiméne said. “I am only dying.”

“Unfortunately, I doubt that,” D’Alessandro threw the words over his shoulder. He took a few steps and stopped, and Ana realized he was letting her drop—awkwardly. She slid down the length of his body until her feet touched the ground, one of his arms keeping her pinned close.

She felt the hard muscles of his lean frame, the heat of his skin, and for a moment, Ana felt slightly dizzy. She was still weak, she thought dazedly. Still confused.

With what force she could muster, she pushed away from him, and immediately lost her balance. She staggered backward, falling to her rump with a grunt of surprise.

“Christ,” D’Alessandro muttered, squatting beside her. He reached out, and before Ana could protest, he had his hand on her forehead. He peered anxiously into her eyes. “I thought you said you were all right.”

She wrenched away. “I
am
all right. I merely fell.”

“Please, keep talking. I am only bleeding to death over here,” Jiméne said. Ana glanced over at him. He was pale. One hand was clamped around his injured arm and the sleeve was red with blood.

“My God,” she muttered. She turned to D’Alessandro, and saw a flash of what she thought was fear in his eyes, but before she could say anything he was moving away from her, toward the leather-bound case laying near the burlap bags.

“Thank God they left this,” he said, snatching a bottle of brandy along with his case and the lantern, and moving back to them. “You’ll need it.”

“For what?” Jiméne sounded wary.

“For drinking,” D’Alessandro twisted off the cork and took a deep swig. “Both of us,
amigo
. This isn’t going to be pleasant.”

“If you are involved,” Jiméne said dryly, “I am not surprised.”

D’Alessandro smiled and carefully laid his medicine kit and the bottle on the ground. He placed the lantern close.

“Have you ever seen a gunshot wound?” Jiméne asked hesitantly. “Or do you just guess?”

Ana swallowed and licked her lips. “He’s a doctor, Jiméne.”

If possible, Jiméne’s face paled more. “A doctor? I did not know.”

“It’s not something we make public.” D’Alessandro turned to Ana, lifting one dark brow. “Is it,
querida
?” When she didn’t answer, he unbuckled the leather straps of his case and opened it.

Ana watched with fascinated revulsion as he took out the tools of his trade. The inside of the kit was roomy, despite its small size, with tiny compartments holding different bottles of medicines. He set aside a small, metal box perforated with holes—a leech box, Ana recognized with a shudder—and then lifted out the top layer, which was mainly medicines, and a small leather roll.

“You are really a doctor,” Jiméne said, shaking his head in disbelief as D’Alessandro unrolled the leather to reveal a range of knives and instruments.

“I’ve been called that,” D’Alessandro said casually. “And worse.”

He seemed nonchalant, but Ana didn’t miss the way he kept the brandy bottle close to him, or the quick, hurried sips he took before he handed it to Jiméne. Nor did she miss the way his fingers shook as they ran over the array of tools. He was taking such a long time, she thought maybe he was going to do nothing.

But then he reached for a pair of small, straight scissors. “Lie back, Castañeras,” he said briefly. “I don’t want you fainting on me.”

“I am a man, not a—”

D’Alessandro pushed him back gently. “Take a drink,” he instructed. “And lie back.”

Jiméne did as D’Alessandro instructed, and Ana felt a strange tension build in her chest as she watched her partner cut through the dirty mustard yellow of Jiméne’s frock coat and the once-white shirt below. The material fell away. Jiméne winced with pain as D’Alessandro picked at the wound with shaking fingers, clearing away the bits of cloth that stuck to the blood.

“Ana, come here,” he commanded.

She looked up in surprise. “What for?”

“I need your help.” He kept examining Jiméne’s wound. Then, when she didn’t move, he glanced at her questioningly. “Ana?”

Ana felt the revulsion uncoiling in her stomach, and she felt as if she had somehow frozen to the ground. “But I—”

“You’ll be fine,” he said. “Unless you plan on fainting again.”

“I didn’t faint. I fell,” she said, hating the feeble sound of her own voice.

“Come here.”

She saw Jiméne’s face, almost colorless with shock and pain, and reluctantly she walked over to them. D’Alessandro motioned for her to kneel beside him.

She obeyed hesitantly, keeping distance between them, and folded her hands in her lap. “What should I do?”

“Hold the lantern,” D’Alessandro said briefly. The fine sheen of perspiration that had broken out on his forehead gleamed in the lamplight, and his long hair fell into his face. He shook it aside impatiently, his full lips thin as he probed the wound. Ana shot a quick glance to Jiméne, who looked sick and ready to pass out. The brandy bottle lay abandoned by his side, and she reached for it with her other hand, holding it to his lips and forcing him to drink. Jiméne gulped quickly, gratefully, and slumped back again.

“Good,” D’Alessandro said to Ana. To Jiméne, he added, “Pass out if you like, Castañeras. It’ll ease the pain.”

“You—” Jiméne took a deep breath and winced. “You… do… not… have… the… gentlest hands.”

“No.”

D’Alessandro’s fingers were bloody. Ana’s stomach flipped as she watched him dig into Jiméne’s flesh, pushing aside the black powder-stained skin and ignoring the blood. D’Alessandro’s brow was furrowed, and sweat had begun to drip in tiny rivulets from his temples. His hands shook so badly now Ana wondered if he would stay conscious long enough to finish the job.

D’Alessandro took a deep, steadying breath and sat back on his heels, wiping his forehead with the back of his sleeve. He nodded shortly to the bottle in her hand, and without a word, Ana handed it to him. He gulped furiously, so quickly brandy ran over his chin to drip on his shirt. When he handed it back, he seemed calmer, his hands were steadier.

“One more time,
amigo
,” he said, his deep voice shaking slightly.

Jiméne nodded, and D’Alessandro began to probe again. “Hold the lantern closer, Ana,” he ordered. Ana reacted quickly, holding it so he could see, unable to take her own eyes from his bloodied fingers.

“Closer!”

His tone made her wince, the familiarity of its harshness slid over her skin. Ana’s stomach knotted, her fingers tightened on the handle of the lantern. Jiméne coughed slightly. Ana jumped. This was all too familiar, and she was filled with such sick revulsion she glanced away from D’Alessandro’s searching, focusing on Jiméne’s face in an attempt to keep her nausea at bay. The Panamanian’s eyes were closed, his breathing short and shallow.

Jiméne’s body went limp; she heard a sigh of relief from D’Alessandro. He sat back on his heels, closing his eyes for a moment before he stared at the misshapen piece of metal in his fingers.

“That’s the worst of it,
amigo
,”
he
said, tossing the piece away and wiping his bloody fingers on his frock coat. He reached in his kit for a pad of lint and some linen. “Get me some water, please.”

Get me some water
. The order was nothing new, the
please
faded off as if it had never been said. Ana swallowed, suddenly smelling the stifling scent of cigar smoke even though there was none in the clearing, suddenly hearing the coarse, demanding tones of the doctor who ministered to her dying mother.

She stiffened, unable to move, her nails biting into the palms of her hand as she stared at D’Alessandro. He glanced over at her, and instead of his dark brown eyes, she saw watery blue ones, bright with lecherous appreciation, promising hell…

“Ana? Get some water.” D’Alessandro’s gentle tones broke through the memory, and suddenly, it was gone. She took a deep breath, struggling to pull herself together. It was the attack that had unnerved her, she told herself. The attack, and watching D’Alessandro work. She was shaken, and on edge, and because of that she’d let her revulsion for doctors get the better of her. Because of it, she’d been weak enough to let the memory in.

D’Alessandro looked at her strangely, and Ana lifted her chin and got to her feet, avoiding his gaze.

She was trembling, and Ana clutched her skirt, trying to quell it. She glanced at the grisly bodies of Esteban and Juan, lying motionless only a few yards away, and her preoccupation with her old fear disappeared. How had she managed to forget? There was still Ramon, still the chance that he would come back. They weren’t safe.

She grabbed the bucket of water and hurried back to the two huddled on the ground, nearly throwing the bucket down. Water sloshed out, wetting D’Alessandro’s trouser leg, but he didn’t seem to notice. He concentrated so intently on cutting bandages, she doubted he even noticed she was back. She stood stiffly beside him, waiting for him to finish so she could tell him they had to go, watching impatiently as he bathed Jiméne’s wound with water and snipped away the frayed and blackened skin before he applied a wet dressing.