A Candle in the Dark (14 page)

By the time he finished, Jiméne was mercifully unconscious. D’Alessandro tied off the bandage and sat back, swiping back his long hair. In the lantern’s dim light, it pooled like shadow on his shoulders.

He took a deep breath and turned to look at her. “You all right?”

She nodded shortly. “How long before we can go?”

He shrugged and gestured at Jiméne with the bottle. “He’ll be feverish by morning. Probably have some infection. It might be days before we should move him.”

“Days?” Ana stared at him in horror. He was promising days—maybe even weeks—of danger. “That’s impossible.”

He threw her a quizzical glance. “Is it? Listen, Duchess, we joined Castañeras because you wanted it. We left Chagres because you wanted it. This time we’re doing what I want.”

Ana drew herself up. “You must have forgotten who hired you.”

“I haven’t forgotten. I also haven’t forgotten what you hired me for: to get you to San Francisco in one piece.”

“You’ve certainly done an admirable job thus far,” she said sarcastically.

D’Alessandro glanced at the bodies lying in the clearing. “I haven’t done so badly, and you know it.” He sighed and stared off into the darkness. “Though I have to admit you’re right, it’s not safe here. There might be others with Ramon. Better leave in the morning.”

His promise to leave filled Ana with relief, though she would have preferred to go now instead of waiting. But that was impossible, she knew. The jungle was dangerous in the daytime; at night they would never survive. Especially not with D’Alessandro drinking as if there were no tomorrow.

She looked pointedly at the bottle. “If we’re leaving then, perhaps it would be best if you—”

His cold smile stopped her dead. “I always get a little shaky after I work, Duchess.”

“And when you’re not working?”

He looked at her. His eyes looked dead, somehow, as if he had some deep pain that he didn’t allow himself to feel, as if looking at her made him angry enough to keep it at bay. His gaze suddenly made her feel colder than she’d ever felt before. And more afraid because his pain was too familiar. Too much like her own.

Ana bit her lip, clenching her hands into fists when she felt her fingers tremble. She turned to the fire. “Just be sure you’re sober tomorrow, D’Alessandro,” she said harshly. “Or I swear I’ll leave you behind.”

By the time the faint shafts of sunlight pierced the thick canopy of trees, Ana was short-tempered and tired. She had lain awake through the long night, haunted by the cacophony of jungle sounds, imagining the slightest noise or movement was Ramon returning. She was horrifyingly aware of the dead and rotting bodies nearby, even though she couldn’t see them in the darkness. But every time she tried to sleep, the memory of the attack came back to her so clearly it was if it was happening all over again.

Ana saw them clearly enough in her mind: Juan motionless in a pool of blood, Esteban’s chest blown open by the bullet she’d fired.

Her second murder. The words pierced her consciousness, even as Ana tried to ignore them. The second time she’d ended someone’s life.

“Damn!” The sound of D’Alessandro’s voice startled her and Ana’s eyes jerked open. A low-hanging, miasmic fog filled the clearing, making D’Alessandro’s legs look ghostly. But his jerky movements and bitten curses were anything but spiritual. He was applying blisters to Jiméne’s wound, muttering obscenities as the Panamanian tossed restlessly beneath his hands.

Her panic returned full force. Jiméne was feverish, as D’Alessandro had predicted, and it was possible they wouldn’t be able to leave. The thought sent an irrational and abominable rush of resentment through her, and Ana forced it away. Damn it, she didn’t want Jiméne to die, but they had to go—the sooner the better.

And D’Alessandro wasn’t helping. He was drunk, of course, in spite of her threats last night, and Ana tensed with displeasure. Damn, she wished she could do what she’d promised and leave him behind, but she and Jiméne needed him—and D’Alessandro knew it.

As calmly as she could, banking her irritation, Ana rose and sauntered over to him, wishing she could speed up the healing process.

“Shouldn’t you be bleeding him?” she asked.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Good morning to you too.” When she said nothing, he sighed and turned back to his patient. “I won’t bleed him yet. Not unless the fever doesn’t go down.”

“I see.” Ana watched skeptically for a few moments. Jiméne tossed his head back and forth, but he was weak enough that D’Alessandro’s hand on his shoulder kept his body still. And that had to be weak, she mused, since D’Alessandro’s movements were clumsy.

She leaned closer. “Maybe you should amputate.”

D’Alessandro paled. “Didn’t know you were a doctor.”

“I’m not, but even I know it’s what you people do. Isn’t it?”

“Not me.” He lifted the bottle to his mouth.

Her temper rose without warning. He was useless to her drunk. Useless and slow. Without thinking, Ana yanked the bottle away. Brandy spilled over his jaw and shirt, puddled on the ground. It took every ounce of strength she had to keep her voice even. “Listen to me, D’Alessandro. We need a plan.”

He wiped the brandy from his face slowly and calmly, but Ana didn’t miss the fury shining in his dark eyes. “A plan,” he repeated deliberately. “Suppose you come up with that, Duchess. It’s what you’re best at.”

His tone made her wince, Ana tried to forget the fact that, once again, D’Alessandro had made her lose her temper.

She’d think about that later, once they were gone from this hellhole. She glanced at the bodies of Esteban and Juan. In the fog, they were nearly hidden, but it didn’t stop the buzzards from finding them. The birds’ black shadows glided through the mist to tear noisily at the rotting flesh. She shivered with revulsion. “We should leave here now. You said it last night—Ramon might be back. Maybe there are others.” She waited for his reaction, and when there wasn’t one, she went on. “And much as I respect your… abilities… we’ve got to get Jiméne to some sort of civilization.”

Slowly, methodically, D’Alessandro laid another hot compress on Jiméne’s wound. The Panamanian jumped, though he remained unconscious. His muttering and thrashing increased.

D’Alessandro shook back his hair. He watched thoughtfully as his patient tossed and jerked.

He didn’t look at her as he spoke. “And how d’you propose to do that?”

“You’ll have to carry him.”

He stared at her in disbelief.

Ana lifted her chin and took a deep breath, trying not to betray her anxiety. “We’ve got to get him to Gatún. Even if he wasn’t sick, we’re in danger here. You admitted it yourself.”

D’Alessandro looked at Jiméne again. “Where’s Gatún?”

“What?”

He crossed his arms, rubbing his lip with his thumb. “Where’s Gatún?”

That silenced her. Ana stared at him. Where
was
Gatún? All she knew was that it was the first stop on the river route, yet she had no idea how far that was, or even where the settlement might be. Only Jiméne knew, and Jiméne was unconscious, perhaps too delirious to understand anything for days—even if he survived the fever.

She refused to think of Jiméne dying. He would get better, and everything would be fine. If he was lucky, he’d be unconscious until they got to Gatún.

Because they
would
get to Gatún. Her lips tightened with resolve. It didn’t matter where the damn city was. They had to reach it, and soon, because she wanted out of this jungle, she wanted to be safely in San Francisco and away from Ramon’s hunters and D’Alessandro. She would find the city because there was no other choice.

“I suppose we could just follow the river,” she said finally.

“Just follow the river?”

“Unless you have a better idea.”

D’Alessandro exhaled slowly, rising to his feet with a motion that was fluid for a man who’d been so shaky only moments ago. “Fine,” he said, walking to the fire.

Ana stared after him incredulously. “Fine?”

He glanced back at her, cocking a brow. “Is there something you didn’t understand, Duchess? I said fine. Get him ready and let’s get the hell out of here.”

Relief slid over her, making Ana feel almost faint. She had no idea why he’d agreed, and she wasn’t sure she really wanted to know. She spent no more time pondering it. He was doing what she wanted, that was all she cared about.

Ana paid little attention to D’Alessandro as she readied Jiméne for the journey, dressing him as warmly as she could in his torn and soiled frock coat and knotting one of their blankets around his shoulders even though it was sweltering. The humidity weighed on her like a stifling, damp canopy. She didn’t remember it being this hot yesterday, or this humid, but they’d been on the river then. No doubt it was cooler there.

By the time Ana gathered the burlap bags together and slung them over her shoulder, her wool dress was wet with perspiration, and tendrils of hair clung to her face and neck. The fog had lifted, and it no longer concealed the bodies in the clearing, nor the buzzards that flapped raucously about. Their dizzying movements and harsh caws nauseated her, and she gulped for breath.

It didn’t help. The air was so heavy it was difficult to breathe. It pressed down on her relentlessly, and she thought again about relinquishing the corset. It was impossible now; the knife rip Juan had made in her bodice was large and gaping, revealing the lower swell of a breast that was now safely covered by corset. She would have to mend it once she could get her hands on a needle and thread. It was too revealing, and the last thing she needed was the pointed stares it would draw. But now there wasn’t time.

She glanced at D’Alessandro, who sat watching her.

His gaze had been on her the entire time she worked, and she had ignored it steadfastly, refusing to meet his eyes or even wonder why he watched her with such steady determination.

Now she ignored it again, along with the disquieting feeling it gave her, and went to stand beside Jiméne. She adjusted the burlap over her shoulder. “I’m ready.”

“So I see.” He got to his feet. The buzzards scattered at the movement, but he didn’t even glance at them. “Then by all means, let’s go.”

Ana pushed aside the vines and brambles in front of her, no longer feeling the raw, red cuts and scratches on her hands. Long ago, she had tied the burlap bags around her waist, and their contents banged against her legs, bruising her thighs and hips. The wool dress clung to the middle of her back, beneath her arms and between her breasts, stained and wet with sweat.

Push on, push on, push on
. The words forced her onward even though she was exhausted. She couldn’t get far enough away from the clearing.

Wiping at the hair that tangled around her neck and fell into her face, Ana tried again to banish her fear. Everything would be fine. She was in control now, she could get them to Gatún quickly—hopefully before nightfall. The anxiety she’d managed to control last night and this morning was just below the surface, struggling to erupt, and she wanted a private place to let it explode, a place where she could sit and shake silently. The closest place to do that was Gatún, and she was desperately afraid it wasn’t close enough.

She would get them there by tonight if it took everything she had.

It just might do that, she thought, wiping her forehead, feeling grit roll beneath her hand. God, she was tired. So tired. And so damned hot… Ana clenched her jaw and glanced at the river curling at the bottom of the steep bank beside her. It tempted her, as it had for hours. But she knew that the moment she stepped toward it the howler monkeys would keen louder, and she would see the slow, unblinking eyes of alligators rising from the still water.

If she didn’t know better, she would think they were deliberately following her, torturing her on purpose—

The palmettos thrashed behind her, she heard the slipping, sliding thud of a crash.

“Dammit!”

Ana stopped, clutching her waist, taking the chance to grab a breath. She didn’t bother to look behind her. She would only see D’Alessandro stumbling, trying to right himself with a comatose Jiméne slung over his shoulders like a freshly killed deer.

She heard the
slip, crash, crunch
of D’Alessandro trying to right himself, the soft groan from Jiméne, and then the inevitable curse.

Ana sighed, once again moving forward. Her patience was stretched to the limit, and irrationally, she blamed D’Alessandro because it was taking so long. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t push him to go any faster. Drunk or not, with Jiméne on his shoulders, he simply could not do more than stagger along at a snail’s pace.

Ana frowned with annoyance. Without D’Alessandro dragging behind her, she would probably be in Gatún by now—•

Without him, she would probably be dead.

She refused to believe it. Yes, he’d saved their lives, but if it hadn’t been for him, they wouldn’t have been in the situation to begin with.

Another lie. D’Alessandro was the one who hadn’t wanted to leave Chagres so late in the day. He’d been the one insisting it wasn’t safe.

The knowledge galled her. He’d been right, and for the first time since she’d met him, she began to understand why Davey had recommended him for the job. D’Alessandro had survival instincts. As impossible as it seemed, she was beginning to believe he was much more capable of surviving in the jungle than she.

Ana lashed out at a vine, viciously pushing it aside. A sharp pain shot up her side, and Ana gasped and stopped short, trying to catch her breath. Her lungs felt strained, and she grasped onto a nearby palm as her head spun.

D’Alessandro stumbled to a stop behind her. “What’s… wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said. Ana forced herself to move forward, even though the sharp pain stabbed through her again, nearly choking her with its intensity. “Nothing.”

She slowed her step infinitesimally, praying D’Alessandro wouldn’t notice. The corset cut into her skin, constricting her lungs, and the air felt heavier and heavier. But gradually, step by step, her breathing grew more steady, the dizzy spells faded. She refused to say anything to him. It was one more weakness, and he’d already seen too many.