A Candle in the Dark (7 page)

He lifted his eyes, trying to see farther, into town, where Canal Street ran muddy and barely navigable and the one-storied houses with jalousies and tiled roofs crowded the roads below. If he tried, really tried, he could probably see his father’s house and the big, ugly warehouses of the sugar refinery surrounding it.

He didn’t want to try. Cain closed his eyes. He should go below and grab the bottle he’d started that morning. He could imagine it—the way it ran through his veins, heated his blood. One sip and he would no longer feel the pain, no longer wonder where his father was buried or whether his aunts thought about him at all. Another sip and maybe he could actually forget New Orleans.

Or maybe he would never forget. That was what frightened him most of all, the idea that he would never live a day without the shadow of his childhood hanging over him, that he would never cease to hear his father’s voice ringing through the dark emptiness of the house, demanding: “
Rafael! Rafael, come to me this instant
!”

For a while, you did forget
, a voice reminded him. Yes, once—once he had forgotten the nightmare of his youth. Once the memories had disappeared in the challenge of medicine and the belief that he could do some good in the world, in the unconditional love of a man who was more a father to him than his own.

But that’s all gone now. You killed it. You killed it.

Cain spun from the rail, searching the crowd gathered on deck for something distracting, something to make him forget they were anchored off the coast of the city of his childhood, waiting for passengers to be rowed out.

What he saw certainly distracted him, as it had distracted him every hour of the last five days. The Duchess—Ana, he corrected himself—was in the middle of a group of men, laughing and tossing her head as if she were the queen of some gay party. She wore the old rose wool as if it were silk, and her hair was adorned with that expensive gold comb that reminded him of a crown.

Jiméne, Jeb Wilson, Robert Jameson… The list went on and on. Since they’d stepped foot on board, she’d been the belle of the ball. He told himself it was because she was the only woman aboard besides the Mormon’s pious, untouchable wives. But it was more than that, and he knew it. She drew men. Almost despite herself, it seemed, because she never lost her shield of ice.

Especially with him. He remembered the way she’d looked at him after they’d fallen to the floor two days ago—as if he were just slightly more than a tedious irritation. For a moment he’d been unable to believe she could be that cold.

He smiled bitterly. Not anymore. He wasn’t sure why he even persisted in clinging to the illusion that he was protecting her. She could take care of herself—in fact, she
had
. Not only had she cut him dead that day, she’d ignored him every day since. More than ignored him. She had done her best to make him feel about two feet tall. Not that it was a hard thing to do, but his dear, sweet “wife” had done it better, and with fewer words, than anyone he’d ever known. Cain glanced back at the shoreline. Well, almost anyone.

Ana laughed. Cain turned his attention back to her rapt court, noticing sourly that her smile seemed genuine.

“Jiméne, are you sure you want to bury yourself in Panama? You should come with us.” Jeb stroked the stem of his pipe thoughtfully. “I could use another partner, and it looks like Robert isn’t going to be much competition for gold.”

Jiméne laughed, shaking his dark head. “No, no. I will leave the
oro del diablo
to you—with my blessing.”

“Then you, perhaps, Mrs. D’Alessandro,” Jeb urged. “Or does your husband have other plans?”

“I’m sure he does.” She smiled enigmatically.

Cain was startled when she looked above the crowd and caught his gaze. He realized that she had known where he was every second. Damn, probably knew he was watching her too.

“Where is D’Alessandro?” Jiméne asked, half angrily. “He should be here, at your—”

“There he is,” she said, gracefully extracting herself. “Please excuse me for a moment, gentlemen.”

Cain stiffened, feeling his expression settle into a tight, defensive mask. He wanted to turn and walk away, ignore her as she had ignored him and embarrass her in the bargain, but his feet were anchored to the deck, and his hand tightened on the rail. For a brief, uncontrollable second, he felt light-headed and nauseated, and he prayed that he could hold his ground in whatever battle she wanted to fight.

She approached slowly, gracefully, as if her mere presence should be an honor. The thought sent anger spiraling through him, anger that only increased when her gaze raked him and he felt instantly ashamed, knowing that once again, she compared him to Jiméne, and that the comparison was undoubtedly unfavorable. Cain was painfully aware of his stained and crumpled vest, his limp frock coat. Damn her, anyway.

“Hello, Duchess,” he said caustically. “Sorry I can’t curtsey for you, but I figure those three have done it enough for everyone.”

Something flickered in her eyes. Hurt maybe. Cain almost laughed at the illusion. Christ, there was no pain in her gaze. She was indomitable, as unfeeling as stone.

And her next words only proved it. “I need to inform you of our plans,” she said matter-of-factly, staring out at the horizon while her fingers moved back and forth over the highly polished wood of the guardrail.

“Our plans?”

“Yes. We’re two days from Chagres. I thought you should know I’ve decided to ask Jiméne if he will be our partner going downriver. From what Jeb Wilson tells me, we’ll need to be in groups.”

He stared at her. The ice in her tone, coupled with the emotional turmoil of the last few hours, made him feel unsteady. He thought again of the bottle downstairs, and licked his lips. “Groups? Three is a group?”

“Three to four is best, he says. I’d ask Jeb as well, but he’s already partnered with that fool Robert. I’d rather be alone with you than fight his advances all the way to Panama City.”

“How flattering.” Cain tried to ignore the insult in her words. “And I suppose Castañeras has promised to keep his hands to himself?”

She spoke carefully, as if trying to appease him. “You should learn to get along with him. He’ll be with us for most of the journey.”

“Fondling you?”

“You are disgusting.”

“I’m not the one hanging all over every man on the ship.” Despite himself, Cain reached out, running his finger down the rapidly healing cut on her cheek. “Just a warning, Duchess. Unless you want another attack like the one that caused this, I suggest you lose your harem.”

She jerked away, and he let his hand fall to his side. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do.” Cain said, working to keep his voice steady. “The others’re talking. About you and Castañeras.”

Her spine went rigid. “What do you mean?”

“They wonder why you spend so much time with him.”

“What do you tell them?”

He shrugged and stared at the horizon. “That we had a fight. That you don’t like the gambling.”

She swallowed quickly, stepping back, and he saw he’d shaken her composure. Probably she hadn’t expected him to come to her defense, and truthfully, he wasn’t sure why he had. He told himself it was because she’d hired him to do a job, but that wasn’t strictly true. He remembered the sneering words he’d heard, their suggestive innuendos. Christ, even a whore didn’t deserve that. Even the Duchess.

Beside him, she took a deep, shaking breath. “Thank you—for the lie.”

Her admission—and the sincerity behind it—surprised him. Cain smiled thinly. “It must’ve hurt to say that.”

She only looked at her hands, twisted together on the rail, and the submissive pose struck a chord in him.

“They don’t believe you’re my wife.” He went on recklessly. “Let’s leave Castañeras behind.”

She shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“I like him.” Ana looked at him pointedly. “And I trust him to get us to Gorgona safely.”

Cain froze. Her unspoken implication floated between them. “Which means you don’t trust me.” He clenched his hands on the rail.

“I didn’t ask you to be my guide,” she said in a sharp voice. “I only asked you to pose as my husband. Jiméne was born in this country. He knows what to do.”

“What about me?”

“What about you?”

He turned slowly, catching her gaze, seeing something in her eyes—guilt maybe, or uncertainty. But before he could speak, she looked away.

“All you need to do is keep pretending,” she continued slowly. “As long as Jiméne’s with us, you only have to worry about your next bottle.”

“Oh?” He felt suddenly cold, and the familiar pain settled in his stomach, cramping his gut, hurting so much he couldn’t stop the words. “Ah, Duchess, what kind of a man do you think I am?”

“I didn’t mean to insult you.” She paused, then added as an afterthought, “You are far too drunk.”

Cain shook his head. “Not too drunk,
querida
. Not yet.”
Too drunk
. Ah God, he wished. He wanted to be drunk right now, anything to forget her condemning eyes and frigid words. He staggered away from the rail, away from her, hurrying to get to steerage to paw through her valise until he found a bottle—and knowing it wouldn’t help, that nothing as easy as a drink could make him forget the truth he saw in her face—or the balmy, memory-tainted breezes of New Orleans.

She had never seen anything like the beauty of the tropics. Every night Ana went to bed thinking the water couldn’t possibly get any bluer, and each morning she was surprised when it was. The brutal beauty of the Cuban coast and the massive creamy walls of the fortress of Morro were sights she would never forget. The flying fish that followed the steamer were like something out of a fairy tale, and the soft singing of the men on the balmy, tropical nights almost made her believe in love. Almost.

Smiling wryly, Ana leaned over the guardrail. Now the coast of South America loomed beside them, the high hills covered with vegetation to the water’s edge, the Darien range of the Andes towering behind the coast with their summits in the clouds. The rocky promotory of Porto Bello grew closer, and she searched the hilly shoreline for the hidden entrance to Chagres, where they would leave the steamer for the overland journey to Panama City.

“
Carina
, there you are!”

Ana’s heart sank. Much as she genuinely liked Jiméne, it had felt good to be alone for once, to not have to watch her every step or pretend laughter and interest. Sometimes the ship reminded her of the brothel, with all the men hovering—constantly hovering. She turned, pulling away from the rail.

Jiméne smiled, brushing imaginary lint from his new mustard-yellow coat as he moved into place beside her. “I have been searching for you.”

She smiled tightly. “Have you? Why?”

“You wound me,
cariña
.” Jiméne melodramatically put a hand to his heart. “How can you ask such a question when you know just the thought of your smile brings me joy?”

Ana turned to look back at the horizon, too bored to even reply. She had heard it all before, a hundred times. It was a pity; when Jiméne wasn’t bemoaning her lack of interest, he could be quite entertaining. “How long until we reach the shore?”

“Not long.” Jiméne leaned against the rail and sighed. “Have you never been to Panama?”

“No.”

“It is a lovely place,” he said enthusiastically. “The jungle is beautiful—and deadly.” He smiled. “It reminds me of you, a little.”

“Me?” Ana looked at him quizzically. “Why is that?”

“Beautiful. Deadly.”

“Ah.” None of the lines were even original. How often had she heard those same things? At Rosalie’s, she’d been compared to a tiger from darkest India, a black widow spider—even a jeweled stiletto. It never changed. But at least she knew how to deal with these words. At least she knew what they really meant.

That was why she felt comfortable with Jiméne. He was like all those men she’d known in New York. Easy to handle and familiar. Safe. Predictable. So unlike D’Alessandro.

The thought of her partner sent a fresh stab of confusion through her. Unwillingly, her mind went back to the incident outside New Orleans. Seeing him like that, in so much pain, had bothered her. He’d seemed vulnerable and alone, and in spite of herself, a part of her had been drawn to it, understood it.

But his bitter anger had made her angry too. She closed her eyes a moment, remembering his flat voice that hid far more emotion than she wanted to hear, the feeling she had that her words had taken something from him.

He was the strangest man she’d ever met. What had he expected from her? The reality was that he was doing exactly what she paid him to do—he was around just enough to discourage the others. She had never expected more from him. So why did she feel as if she’d somehow disappointed him?

“
It must’ve hurt to say that
.” His words circled back to her. He was right, it had hurt to thank him for defending her, but what bothered her more was that he saw it. So she’d insulted him in return. Because it was safer, because his perception frightened her.

“… miss it,” Jiméne finished.

Ana pushed the image of her partner away, refusing to allow it to disturb her. She forced interest into her voice and looked at Jiméne. “I’m sorry, you were saying?”

Jiméne stroked his thick mustache. “Once again, you wound me. I was saying,
cariña
, how much I miss this place.” He glanced to the green hills. “I thought I would not, but I have. I am looking forward to seeing my home again, and my family.
Mi madre
, she is getting older. And I fear she has not been well.”

She heard the longing in his voice, and she knew he was waiting for her to ask the questions. Ana said nothing. Questions only led to questions, and she didn’t want to see the hurt on his face when she refused to answer his.

He sighed, then went on as if she had asked. “Though I do not miss Chagres. It is a place to be missed, a—how do you say?—a pig hole?”

“Sty,” Ana corrected, smiling a little. “A pigsty.”