A Candle in the Dark (26 page)

“Wait.” She responded before she could think, ignoring her own numbness as she shoved the sodden folds of her skirt out of her way and slid from the saddle. Her knees buckled for just a moment, blood flooded into her limbs in painful pins and needles.

As quickly as she could, she went to him, stumbling over the skirt tangling in her legs, nearly falling against his animal. Carefully Ana braced her hand on the mule’s neck and looked up at D’Alessandro.

He looked ill. His eyes were closed, and his hair hung in his face, clinging to his pale skin like inky shadows.

His breathing came harsh and uneven, and the fingers clenched around the saddlehorn trembled.

She moved closer. “Let me help you down.”

His eyes opened and he inhaled slowly.

“D’Alessandro, you have the food in your bags!” Jiméne yelled, his voice rife with irritation. “Hurry!”

D’Alessandro gave a short, breathless snort of a laugh. “Damn, he’s annoying.”

She held out her hand. “Let me help you.”

“Yeah.” He licked his lips, struggled to lift his head. “Christ, Duchess, I feel like hell.”

“I’m not surprised.” She grasped his arm, steadying him while he half slid, half fell down the mule’s side. The animal sidestepped anxiously, D’Alessandro crashed into her arms. She staggered back, catching herself, holding him upright.

He struggled for balance, his hands hard and heavy on her shoulders. Laughing slightly, he pushed shakily away. “Sorry,” he breathed. Wearily he rubbed the back of his neck as if the action somehow steadied him. “Usually I’m at my best in a woman’s arms.”

His words sent an odd shiver rushing through her. “Have you—have you eaten today at all?”

“D’Alessandro!” Jiméne nearly screeched.

D’Alessandro glared in Jiméne’s direction. “In a minute, you impatient bastard!” He looked back at Ana.

His glance was so unfocused it unnerved her. Ana took a step backward. She nodded toward the saddlebags. “You’d better get those to him before he decides to carve into Jose.”

He nodded and turned to the mule. Ana went hesitantly to her own mount. The mule needed to be unloaded, and she should help the others set up camp. But she suddenly couldn’t take her eyes off D’Alessandro’s unsteady movements. He could barely stand, and the fingers fumbling with the straps were clumsy and slow.

Every now and then, he rested his forehead on the mule’s heaving sides, gathering strength.

Worry surged through her, climbed into her throat until just watching him made it hard to breathe. His helplessness, his need, tormented her. Called to her.

She’d felt nothing like it since her mother died.

D’Alessandro moved from the mule, and Ana watched him stumble through the half darkness. He walked slowly, every now and then misjudging the distance to the ground and putting one foot down too hard. When he finally got to where Jiméne and Jose were preparing camp, D’Alessandro shrugged the bags off his shoulders and fell against a tree, sliding limply to its base.

Ana tightened her fingers on the saddle and turned away.

By the time the men had a fire going, and the smell of hot, thick coffee floated through their tiny camp, D’Alessandro was nearly unconscious. He still slumped against the tree, his chin resting on his chest, arms crossed. His soft, quiet breathing filled the shadows behind Ana, mixing with the crackling snap of the fire. In the darkness, they were comforting sounds.

It was truly dark now, the kind of heavy dark that existed only in the jungle—dense and shadowy, filled with sound and movement. After two weeks, Ana still didn’t like it, but at least she was used to it. And she felt safe tonight, with quiet, serious Jose keeping watch at the edge of the camp, arms akimbo, and D’Alessandro’s even snores familiar and soothing.

Ana stared into the fire, watching the steam from the rice stew lift the lid off the pot. Her stomach growled at the fragrant, spicy scent of rice and sausage. She was starving, so hungry it kept her eyes from slamming shut in exhaustion.

She glanced at Jiméne. His back was to her, his movements faintly illuminated as he fumbled impatiently through his saddlebags.

“Jiméne?” she ventured. When he said nothing, she tried again. “Jiméne, is it ready to eat now?”

He looked over his shoulder at her, the faint strain of irritation on his face. “How would I know? I am no cook.”

Jose pivoted on his heel. His heavy mustache dipped in a frown. “
Si, señora
, you eat.” He moved over to the fire himself, squatting beside it and lifting the lid off the pot. The camp filled with the mouth-watering smell.

Ana’s stomach growled again. She reached for the pile of tin bowls sitting nearby and held them out.

“You can eat later, Jose.” Jiméne shoved the saddlebags aside with a grunt of displeasure. He took the two steps to the fire and stood there, his one good hand planted firmly on his hip. “You have much to do now. We will leave before sunrise.”

“Before sunrise?” Ana stared at him in surprise. The path had been treacherous in the daytime. At night, it would be impossible. “You must be joking.”

“I assure you, I am not joking.” Jiméne said firmly. He spat a virulent stream of Spanish at Jose.

Usually calm, easygoing Jose spat something back. He rose from the fire, clanking the lid on the pot, nearly stepping on the bowls before he strode away.

Ana stared at Jiméne in surprise. “What did you say to him?”

He glared after Jose. “Nothing. He is a lazy, stupid—”

“What the hell is your problem, Castañeras?” D’Alessandro’s voice came out of the darkness, weary and annoyed.

Ana started. She swiveled around. “You’re awake.”

He cracked open an eye. “You have a remarkably firm grasp of the obvious, Duchess.” He glanced at Jiméne. “What is it,
amigo
, Jose do something to bother you?”

“He is a lazy—”

“So you said. You’ve been an ass all day. What’s wrong?”

Jiméne hesitated. “There is nothing wrong.”

“You
are
acting differently,” Ana said.

“You two, you know nothing—nothing!” Angrily Jiméne threw up his hand, spinning on his heel. Ana watched until the darkness swallowed him up, hearing his rapid pace to the mules.

She turned to D’Alessandro. The firelight glowed on his skin, turning it a pale apricot—the most color she’d seen on his face in days. His eyes sparkled in the firelight.

“Just tired,” he repeated thoughtfully. “I don’t believe him. Do you?”

“I don’t know.” Ana shrugged. She lifted the lid off the pot. The steam burned her face, formed instant tiny curls at her forehead. She reached for a bowl. “I know
I’m
tired. And hungry. You must be too. You haven’t eaten all day.” She ladled out the hot stew, carefully holding the tin bowl with the edge of her skirt. She held it out to him. “Here. Your dinner.”

“I’m not hungry.”

She knelt beside him. “You need to eat.” She shoved the bowl at him, nudging it against his chest until he took it from her. Then she laughed, shortly, nervously. “Listen to me. I sound like your mother.”

He stiffened. “Somebody’s mother, maybe. Not mine.”

“She didn’t care whether you ate or not?” she teased.

“She didn’t care whether I lived or not.” His voice was light, but Ana didn’t miss the underlying pain.

Curiosity burned like a white-hot flame inside her. Ana bit her lip. She wanted to know, but she knew if she asked, he would expect a secret in return.
And you can’t do it. You know you can’t
.

The thought mocked her, tormented her, and Ana looked away, staring into the dark jungle. “Eat your dinner,” she choked.

He leaned his head back on the tree and closed his eyes, pushing away the bowl of stew. “Christ, I don’t need food. I need someone to talk to me, Ana. Just talk to me.”

Fear and longing made her stomach tight. Ana couldn’t keep the wariness from her tone. “Talk about what?”

“Ah—anything. Anything.” He sighed. “Can you sing?”

She stared at him, taken aback. “Can I sing? No.”

“Just ‘no’? Not ‘I can, but not very well,’ or ‘I’m completely tone deaf, D’Alessandro, don’t be a fool’?” he mimicked her perfectly, Ana heard the familiar condescension in his voice. “Just ‘no’? Didn’t you ever sing when you were a child?”

“Did you?”

He lifted a brow and smiled wickedly. “In the church choir.”

“You were in a choir? How did that happen?”

He shook his finger at her, scolding. “Uh-uh, Duchess. Tit for tat.”

Ana stiffened.
Tit for tat
. Like choosing weapons for a duel. But his eyes were on her, urging her on, demanding—She swallowed. “I didn’t sing much as a child.” She hoped it would be enough, but he said nothing, waiting, and impulsively, she said, “My mother had a beautiful voice. But I—I don’t sing.”

“You sang lullabies for me.”

A hot flush moved over her skin. Ana glanced away, feeling uncomfortably naked. “I didn’t know you heard.”

“I did.” A husky admission, oddly vulnerable. “You have a pretty voice, Ana.”

She couldn’t help smiling; his words took away her discomfort. Ana looked back at him. “Not as pretty as my mother’s.”

He shrugged. “Prettier than my voice.”

“You sang in a choir.”

“For about one day.” He grinned. “I threw off the others so badly, they kicked me out.”

Ana laughed in spite of herself. “You cheated. Tit for tat, indeed. That’s hardly a secret.”

“A secret?” He looked at her questioningly. “Is that what we were doing, Ana? Telling secrets? I thought we were just talking.”

Heat worked its way over her face. There it was again, the slight chastising, the assumption that she should have known something she didn’t know, should have been something she could never be…

Ana swallowed. “Don’t mock me, D’Alessandro.”

“I’m not mocking you.” His voice was very quiet, the firelight made his face eerily somber. “You know I wouldn’t do that.”

No, he wouldn’t. She knew that even before he said it. He wasn’t like she was. Wasn’t cold and pragmatic and removed. Suddenly what had once seemed to be virtues were vices instead. A lump rose in her throat, made it impossible to speak even if she’d known what to say. Ana twisted her hands in her skirt, staring down at her fingers, trying to think of something, anything to fill the silence—

“I keep thinking of that Russian storybook you told me about,” he said gently. “The one with all the pretty pictures?”

She looked up, relief flooding over her. Relief and obligation. “Yes?”

“And I was wondering.” He ran a hand through his hair, leaned his head back on the tree. “I was wondering if you remember any of them—the stories, I mean.”

Ana stared at him, hands stilled, trying to figure out where this was leading. “Some. I remember some of them.”

“Think you could tell me one?”

“I’m not a storyteller.”

He smiled wanly. “You can’t sing, you can’t tell stories—what
can
you do, Duchess?”

I can be a whore
. The thought flashed through her mind before she could stop it. Ana looked away, feeling suddenly ashamed of a profession she’d accepted long ago. Ashamed and somehow lacking. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” she said.

“Call you what?”

“Duchess.” She waved her hand, dismissing it. “I hate it. I’ve always hated it.”

“Ana.” His voice was so quiet she had to strain to hear it. “I feel like hell. Tell me a story.”

She hesitated. His eyes were closed now, his mouth pinched and tight, his breathing shallow. She looked at the bowl of stew, sitting untouched beside him. “You should eat, you know.”

“I should be dead now, by all rights,” he replied hoarsely. “Eating won’t help.”

“It might,” she urged.

“The only thing that will help is a soft pillow and a glass of bourbon,” he said. “I guess since I don’t have one, I might as well get the other.”

Before she could protest, he moved, swiveling lying down, until his dark head rested in her lap. She felt the heavy, pressing warmth through the damp wool—a center of heat that spread upward into her hips, into her belly. Ana stared at him, frozen in place, unsure what to do, what to say. Her voice felt strangled in her throat. “What—are—you—doing?”

“Finding a soft pillow.”

“But I—”

“I need comfort, Ana. Comfort me.”

Touch him now
, she thought,
before he moves away, before you’re on the outside again
.

She stared down into his face, seeing the shadow of his lashes on his cheeks, the high, broad cheekbones chiseled by darkness, the fullness of his mouth. His hair fell in a heavy swathe over his forehead, and she lifted her hand, meaning to smooth it away.

She stopped just in time. Her hand hovered over his face, and she clenched her fingers, trying to force herself to move, to leave—to go to her bedroll and curl inside and forget he’d ever asked this of her, this display of caring she didn’t know how to give.

She yanked her hand back. He grabbed her wrist, stilling it, and when she looked down at him in surprise, he was staring up at her, his dark eyes glinting, bottomless shadows in the firelight. Then slowly, easily, he brought her hand down to his face, laying it against his cheek so her clenched fingers curled against his skin. Equally slowly, he pressed his thumb beneath her fingers, forcing them to open, to lie flat.

Ana felt strangled, her limbs like stone. She stared at her hand, white and pale against his face, and it felt disembodied, not a part of her at all. Except it
was
hers, she knew it was because the warmth of his skin burned, the rough stubble of his beard rasped against her fingers.

“It’s easy,” he whispered, his hoarse baritone moving over her like honey, soothing her nerves. “Just move it like this.” He took her hand, stroking it along his cheek, over his forehead, through his hair. “If you tell me a story, I’m sure you’ll even forget you’re doing it.”

“D’Alessandro—”

“Shhh. The story, Ana.”

He let go of her hand. But surprisingly, it kept moving. Clumsily, jerkily, but moving all the same, smoothing back his hair, threading through it.

“I remember one story,” she choked. It didn’t even sound like her voice, it came from so far away. “It was my favorite once.”