A Candle in the Dark (21 page)

Frowning, she sent him a pointed glance. “Well?”

Well
? It dawned on him suddenly that she was waiting for him to lead the way out onto the floor. He pushed himself away from the wall, lost his balance, and promptly fell back again.

“You’re too drunk,” she said.

“No.”

But of course he was. He knew he was too drunk to even walk, but the need to touch her, to look at her, was too great for him to back down from the challenge. Clumsily he moved from the wall and stumbled out onto the floor, pushing past dancers to an empty space on the floor. The music was a waltz; he vaguely remembered the steps from a time long ago, but the dim memory, combined with the drink, made him awkward, and when Ana finally came into the circle of his arms he tripped over her feet.

Frigidly she moved away, standing there in the middle of the floor with the other dancers swirling around them. Cain thought he saw a flush moving over her skin, but in the dim candlelight it was hard to see. What wasn’t hard to see was the icy anger in her eyes.

He reached out, she jerked away. “Don’t touch me.”

“Ana, I—”

“Don’t call me that.” She swallowed, her shoulders went rigid as she backed off the floor.

He wished he could let her go, wanted to just let her run from the house and leave him there, drunk and bereft and alone. But he couldn’t. Outside, the drumbeats grew louder. Blood pounded in his ears. He closed his eyes, trying to think, to concentrate, and when he opened them again, she was staring at him warily, with something that looked like panic.

Boom boom boom
. Christ, the drums were loud.
Boom boom boom
. He knew the natives were outside, dancing their own dances while the
alcalde
and his guests moved to the sedate and sentimental rhythms of the waltz. Hot, pounding dances of joy and celebration. Dances of abandonment.

Dances he wanted Ana to see.

“Come with me.” He didn’t wait for her permission, merely grabbed her hand and pulled her stiffly behind him as he wavered through the crowd. He was distinctly aware of the fact that she could pull away from him easily—he was too drunk to stop her—but she didn’t. She stumbled along behind him as he wove his way through the blurs of color, the laughter, the voices, and pulled her out into the moonlit night.

The smells seemed especially rich and pungent tonight. The sickly sweet perfume of orchids filled the air, along with the heavy scents of smoke and roasted pork and sweat. Warm breezes caressed Cain’s skin, fluttered his hair back from his face. He tightened his fingers around Ana’s hand, not turning to look at her, moving inexorably toward the sound of the drums.

Then he stopped. There, in a large, grassy clearing, the natives danced in the moonlight. They formed a circle, moving in a slow, lazy shuffle to the rhythm pounded by two men on cocoa-tree drums. A small Spanish guitar wound sweet and soulful through the beats, casting a melody that pulled at Cain’s heart and yanked at his soul.

The women danced, their thin cotton chemises sliding sinuously against their hips and breasts, their dark hair loose and falling over their faces. Necklaces fashioned of gaudy, bright colored ribbons and beads bounced around their necks, flowers fell from their hair.

“
Ña, ña, ña
,” they sang in a strange nasal monotone.

Twisting, shuffling, the moonlight falling over their bodies in cold shadows.

The drumbeats grew louder, more potent, and the women danced faster, moving their hips in a primitive, erotic rhythm. “
Ña, ña, ña
.”

“My God.” Her voice, a mere whisper of sound behind him, cut through the spell.

Cain turned, unable to keep the smile from spreading across his face. “Dance with me?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she pulled her hand away and crossed her arms over her chest, staring at the dancers as if he didn’t exist. No, he thought, more as if she didn’t want him to exist. More as if she was consciously shutting him out, putting up the wall.

He didn’t want her to do it this time. Without thinking, suddenly desperate to keep her icy disdain at bay, Cain twisted around, grabbing her arms, pulling her close. “Don’t do it, Duchess,” he pleaded. “Let me in. Please, let me in—”

She stared at him. In the moonlight he saw the fear in her gaze, the panic. It felt like a knife blade between his ribs. Frantically she twisted in his arms, yanking away so violently her hair tumbled to her shoulders. The orchid behind her ear fell to the ground.

“What do you want from me?” Her voice was thin, shaking. He heard her bewilderment and panic. “What do you want?”

But before he could answer, she spun away, racing across the grass until she was nothing but a speck of bright shadow in the moonlight.

She lay awake. It was very late, but she couldn’t sleep. The music had faded long ago, but it still rang in her mind. Tormenting her. Reminding her. She couldn’t believe what he had done, wouldn’t believe it. Even when her arms felt hot where he’d touched her, even when she saw again the painful need in his eyes, she refused to believe it had happened. His voice twisted in her mind. “
Please, let me in. Let me in. Let me in
…” And with it came the sound of the drums. The hungry, thrumming drums that sent her blood racing… God, she thought she would go insane with it.

It seemed suddenly horribly ludicrous that she had ever thought him safe. But then again, had she? All she remembered was thinking he was dangerous, knowing she needed to stay far away from his penetrating eyes and his questions.

She’d thought keeping him drunk would keep him away, but now Ana knew she’d only been lying to herself. Since their journey started, he had come closer and closer, threatening to smash the wall she’d built around herself. With every touch, with every word, he cracked it a little more.

The images rushed through her mind: D’Alessandro combing her hair with gentle hands, D’Alessandro saving her from Esteban and Juan, D’Alessandro holding her while she shook through the night. Damn, she
should
have run away in Gatún and left him the damn tickets. She’d known then how dangerous he was to her.

But she thought she could control him, and now she realized she couldn’t. Drunk or not, he would keep pushing her, gradually breaking through her emotions until she was vulnerable. Until she cared about him.

In fact, the drunkenness made him worse. It made him brave. Brave enough to ask her to dance. Brave enough to say the words “
Let me in. Let me in. Let me in. Let me
—”

Ana shook her head frantically, trying to purge the echo from her mind. She had to do something, anything…

Jiméne’s suggestion crashed into her thoughts, and Ana grabbed hold of it like a bright, shining beacon. There was no other choice, really. Even if it didn’t work, even if sober he was no better than he was drunk, at least Jiméne’s plan would give her a few days to grab control, to mend the hole D’Alessandro had put in her emotions.

Determined, she rose from her hammock and moved through the darkness and the other sleeping bodies. As quietly as she could, she shoved aside the canvas sheet that separated the men from the few women and stood there, her eyes searching the darkness for Jiméne’s familiar form. She spotted him in moments and made her way to him, kneeling beside him to shake his shoulder.

“Jiméne,” she whispered, bending closer. “Jiméne, wake up.”

He stirred, groaning. Then, when he realized who she was, he sat up so quickly he nearly smacked into her. “Ana?” His voice was groggy with sleep and surprise. “What do you—”

“Shhh.” Ana licked her lips. She wished she could push aside the edge of desperation dogging her, but she couldn’t. She heard it in her own voice, along with the panic she couldn’t shake. “Jiméne, I’ve changed my mind. Let’s do it.”

“Do it?” He blinked and rubbed his eyes. “You do not mean—?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “We’ll do as you said and tie him to a tree.”

“Oh. D’Alessandro.”

Ana frowned at his disappointment. “You’ve changed your mind?”

“No, no, I—” He took a deep breath. “I am sleepy,
cariña
, that is all.”

“Then we can?”

“Of course.” He nodded. “I am glad, very glad you have changed your mind. Tomorrow, then.”

Ana nodded, scooting away and rising. “Good.” She wanted to sound glad, but the word came out so weak and thin that Jiméne stared at her.

“What is it, Ana?” he asked, suddenly wide awake. “What is it that made you change your mind?”

“Nothing,” she said, stepping back. “Nothing at all. It’s better for him, as you said. Much better.”

She moved away before he could ask any other questions, before he could see how vulnerable she felt, and alone. And lonely. God, so lonely.

She came to him that morning. She was part of a dream where they were at his father’s house in New Orleans, just outside the big iron gates that separated the house from the road. The gates were open, as they’d never been in reality, and together they looked at the long expanse of grass and trees, smelled the sweet perfume of wisteria.

A door opened in the wall of the house—a door where there’d never been one before—and his mother stepped out. Aging but still blond and beautiful, leading one of her many young lovers, flashing challenge to him with her eyes. The world gave way beneath his feet and rolled, twisting and turning until he couldn’t find his balance. He grabbed for the gate and suddenly it was gone. Everything was gone, whisking past him in bright rainbows of color, untouchable, unreachable. Unstoppable.

Then, suddenly, Ana was there, reaching out to him, a steady vision in a world gone horribly awry. He grabbed for her hand, but she was just beyond his reach, and the harder he tried, the farther away she went—

“D’Alessandro.”

The whisper cut through his consciousness. The dream fled. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“D’Alessandro.” Ana touched him, pressing his shoulder, gently shaking him. His stomach twisted, pain pounded into his brain, slicing through the vague fuzziness.

“Wake up.” Her voice was insistent this time. No more gentleness, simply hard-edged impatience and… and something else he couldn’t quite identify. Regret?

He rolled onto his side, dislodging her hand, reaching automatically for his flask. He had the cork out and gulped it in one fluid, practiced movement. The raw rum burned down his throat, settling like a soothing balm on his stomach. He didn’t want to open his eyes. Even though he was still slightly drunk, he wasn’t drunk enough, and until he got to that point, he knew his head would throb.

Before he even finished drinking, she pulled the flask from his hand, and his eyes snapped open. Light pierced his brain and he groaned, shutting them quickly again and then barely cracking them to see her.

“Good. You’re awake.” Her face looked harder than usual, her eyes emotionless. She had been leaning over him, but now she backed away as if touching him was more than she could bear. “Come with me. Jiméne’s waiting.”

“Waiting?” Cain struggled to one elbow. The hammock tilted sickeningly beneath him. “Waiting for what?”

“For us.” She started to walk away, then stopped. “It’s time to get started. Hurry. We’ve got to leave right away.” Her voice sounded stiff, strangely so.

Cain frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“Don’t be absurd.” She looked at him over her shoulder; for a moment he thought he saw distress in her eyes.

Cain stiffened. Last night. Christ, again there was a black hole, a nothingness where memory should be. He remembered getting ready to go to the
fandango
, but not leaving, not anything after that. He swallowed, his mouth dry, and reached again for the flask, but it was in her hand.

“Duchess,” he croaked. Clumsily he tried to sit up. The room spun and he closed his eyes, rubbing his temples. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For last night. For whatever I did.”

“You don’t remember.” Her voice held vindication, a relieved satisfaction that was so strange he stared at her. The hardness of her face had relaxed, and in that moment he knew that he
had
done something, something he never would have dared sober—though it was true it had been so long since he was sober he couldn’t honestly remember what he would have dared.

“No. But whatever it was, I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” The words were soft, so much he barely heard them, and she walked stiffly to the door. “Hurry.”

So
am I
. Confusion rattled through him, bringing with it an intense distress. Christ, what had he done? He didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to reveal the depth of his drunkenness, but his need to know made cold sweat break out over his skin, made him long for drink so badly he didn’t know if he could move without it.

But he did move. As quickly as he could, he climbed from the hammock and hurried after her. He felt unsteady; his knees sagged, his head pounded. Once or twice he tripped over the poor souls who had the misfortune to sleep on the floor. But finally he made it. Blinking, he stepped from the Hotel Française into the blindingly bright Gorgona sunshine.

She walked quickly ahead of him, and Cain followed, feeling as if he were running some sort of gauntlet. Natives ran back and forth over the dusty street, chasing squawking chickens, squealing hogs, and naked children. Macaws and buzzards screeched above his head, slashing across his vision in streaks of color. He stumbled over rocks and nearly fell when a dog dodged in front of him, but Ana didn’t even turn around or lessen her step.

They headed away from the Chagres, and for a moment Cain wondered why, until he remembered that from this point on they no longer followed the river. Mules. Something about mules. He wracked his brain, trying to remember what it was Ana had said. Something about hiring mules to take them through the jungle to Panama City.

Cain’s stomach turned. Christ, mules. He wondered if he could even stay aboard one, much less ride it the entire way to Panama City. “Duchess! You didn’t forget
aguardiente
, did you?”

“Forget?” Ana turned, frowning. “No, I didn’t forget.”