Gallant Match (20 page)

He came to his feet in a single, swift movement, taking her with him, swinging her away from the flames. Releasing her just as fast, he spun away from her. “Keep it burning,” he said over his shoulder. “I'll be back soon.”

“But where—”

She was talking to empty space. He was gone, and she was left to contemplate the difficulty of persuading a man to make love to her who was forever leaving her.

It was dusk, and thunder was rumbling in a darkening sky to the southwest, when he returned. As before, there was no sound; he simply stepped out of the fading evening into the firelight where she sat.

Hanging from one hand was what appeared to be a small, dressed chicken. He had cleaned and washed it, perhaps to keep the smell of the fresh kill a safe distance from their haven, but the green feather stuck to his shoulder was a fair indication of what was to provide their supper. His other hand held a handful of plantains. Clasped with them was a tree branch sharpened to a point and a sheaf of leaves that might serve as plates.

It occurred to her, in the instant before she smiled her pleasure at his safe return, that no other gentleman of
her acquaintance could have provided food and shelter with such lack of fanfare in this situation, much less have found water or offered protection for her bare feet. That he should have some skill as a woodsman was not especially surprising, considering his birthplace, but watching it put to use was still impressive. She owed Kerr Wallace her life, her comfort, her promise of safety. The degree of respect she must concede for these things was uncomfortable but also inescapable. Though it was best if it remained silent, she could not stint on it.

Barely had their meal begun to roast on the spit Kerr arranged for it when lightning burned across the heavens and rain swept down on them. It came in windblown, tropical fury, lashing the earth while the trees creaked and swayed and muddy rivulets snaked away on all sides.

Sonia and Kerr retreated deeper into the interior of the ancient ruin. She sank down, putting her back to a dirt-encrusted wall while Kerr sat against what appeared to be a couch of stone located just inside the door, so closer to the glowing coals of the fire. An odd peace settled between them as they watched the slanting rain while absorbing the rich smell of roasting fowl that pervaded their lofty chamber. Food, water, shelter and someone to share them, these were the basics of life, she thought. What more did anyone need when all was said and done?

“If people lived here once,” she said after a time, “I suppose they could again.”

“You thinking of taking up residence?” Kerr broke a twig from a limb, one of a pile they had gathered, tossing pieces of it into the flames.

“Would it be so bad?”

“No balls, soirees, theater or opera, no baker or butcher, no modiste or milliner? How would you survive?”

She closed her eyes, made weary by the mocking note in his voice. “I enjoy all those things, yes. But they aren't necessary to me.”

“So you think now. You'd miss them like hell if you had to do without for a few months.”

“You may think you know me. I promise you, you don't.”

“Works both ways.”

“Meaning I don't know you? That's difficult with someone who never speaks two words when one will do.” She stared out at the storm-tossed forest beyond their shelter, her contentment draining away to be replaced by infinite weariness.

“You sure you want to know what I have to say?”

The grim timbre of his voice drew her attention. His eyes were shuttered, his face like a mask gilded by firelight. “How can you think otherwise?”

“That you asked doesn't mean you'll like what you hear.”

“I think I must hear it anyway,” she said in quiet certainty.

He flipped the rest of his twig toward the coals and leaned his head back against the stone behind him. His expression was reflective and a shade bitter when he finally began. “I told you about my younger brother—told you, too, about my old man's one trip down to New Orleans. Andrew, named for General Jackson, was as
much taken with the idea of the city as I was, maybe more. He used to talk of heading down the Mississippi the way some men talk about looking for El Dorado. It's my guess that's the reason he took up with a yahoo who hailed from New Orleans when he joined Lamar's Ranger company in Texas. He wrote of the man and all the things he'd told him about the town, the way people lived there, how they thought, what they called themselves.”

“The crème de la crème.” She whispered the phrase he had flung at her on the first night they met, though she feared an instant later that the interruption might have caused him to withdraw again.

“You're right, I heard it first from him. Andrew and his new friend got to be like brothers, or so he said. They shared mounts, rations, canteens—everything except bedrolls.”

“He told you his name?”

“Oh, aye, he did that.”

She waited a second, but when he failed to give it, she did not press him. “Your father thought you should have gone with your brother, I believe you said.”

“If I'd done that, he'd have had no need for a so-called friend. Or I might have died instead of Andrew.”

“What happened?” she whispered, her voice blending with the falling rain that had begun to die away, tapering to a drizzle.

“They were sent on the march to Santa Fe that became the Mier Expedition. It was a tough go from the first—hot, dry and plagued by attacks from the Comanche and Apache allied with Mexico. Truth to
tell, it was a stupid blunder, that trek, a bid for glory by President Lamar that was bound to fail.”

“And fail it did.”

Kerr gave a short nod. “At Mier, where they were finally cornered. What was left of the force was rounded up and marched off to Mexico, destined for Perote Prison no great distance west of Vera Cruz. A bunch of them escaped the guards and went hieing off into the desert. That's where it really got ugly.”

“How do you mean?” She'd heard the story in part, but never the details.

“They were low on supplies, sun-blistered, footsore and lost. A handful decided they were never going to make it the way they were going, but couldn't talk the others into giving themselves up. So they took everything they could lay hands on and hightailed it. First town they came to, they bartered what they knew about the escaped prisoners to save their wretched hides.”

“But…but not your brother.”

“Not Andrew, no, but their ringleader was the man he'd called his friend. The man, not incidentally, who took everything with him that the two of them owned—mounts, rations, water. Especially the water.”

“Your brother was left with nothing.”

“Only the need for exoneration because some of the others thought he must have known about the trick but got left behind. Being Andrew, he had to do something to redeem himself. He convinced them he might be able to stop the deserters, bring them back. They gave him a horse and let him go. His horse was found later. He wasn't.”

“You think…you suspect he caught up with the others and they killed him?”

“God knows. He may have been thrown or snake bit, might have drunk from an alkali spring, been killed by Indians or a dozen other things. But it would never have happened if not for the betrayal of Jean Pierre Rouillard.”

Sonia drew a sharp breath, though as much for the abrupt denouncement of her betrothed as from real surprise. It stood to reason that he would be mixed up in the affair in some fashion. Once or twice, it had crossed her mind that he might because he had been a Ranger like her Bernard and Andrew Wallace, but the idea had seemed too terrible to contemplate.

“I don't understand it,” she said after a moment. “Jean Pierre said…I mean, he must have been recaptured at Mier with the others because he told me about Bernard, told me how he died.”

“He lied.”

“But he knew Bernard drew the black bean.”

“He was told it by his Mexican friends, or else was with the Mexicans when the decimation of the Rangers was carried out. I give you my word he wasn't among the survivors. I can do that because Andrew wrote before he went off on the trail of the deserters, giving what happened and where, naming names. He gave the letter to his captain, a man who drew a lucky white bean. He managed to get the note to Kentucky.”

“I see.” Tears rose up inside her for the deaths of those two brave young men, Bernard and Andrew. Strong, smiling, full of life, they had ridden off to fight
a war as they might have to some house party and never came back. Gone, they were gone as if they had never been, living only in the memories of those who had loved them.

Yet the man she was to marry, the man who had betrayed them both, caused the death of both, still lived.

“You are going to Vera Cruz to kill Jean Pierre.”

“To force him to face me, sword in hand, and explain what he did and why.”

“And then kill him.”

Kerr looked at his hands that he had clenched into fists. “Probably.”

“That's the reason you have been so determined I must go through with this marriage.”

“It is.”

Pain tightened her throat, so it was a moment before she could go on. “The reason you laid hands on me, locked me in my cabin on the
Lime Rock,
kept me from finding a way to go ashore.”

“That's it,” he agreed, his voice even.

“Forgive me, but I don't see why it was necessary to accept my father's offer of employment. Why could you not have simply boarded ship for Vera Cruz to find him?”

“I've been on his trail for years now. Figuring he'd hang around Santa Fe after he deserted, I left Kentucky for Missouri, joined a caravan of traders heading overland and down the old mountain-pass route. I was right, but your fiancé found out I was asking around for him. He took off across the border for Chihuahua. I followed, as you might expect. By the time I got there, he had dis
appeared again. I knew he was from New Orleans, figured he might go to ground there, so that's where I showed up. I couldn't get a line on him and was short of ready cash. It seemed reasonable to spend time at the trade of sword master, one that would let me earn my keep and give me contact with the men in the Vieux Carré who might know something of Rouillard. Now and again I'd hear he'd been in and out of town, or had been seen in Mobile, Havana, Galveston or somewhere in between. I checked out every lead but was always too late to catch up with him.”

“So you didn't know about Vera Cruz.”

“I don't think he was down here the first couple of years. He moved around, had no settled base. Later, I heard rumors about connections in the area. Then the word was that he had chosen a bride from New Orleans, one sailing to join him for the wedding. It seemed her father wasn't anxious to make the trip and had a mind to hire an escort. If I could get myself hired so I showed up with the bride, there was a chance I could finally meet face-to-face with the man who'd caused Andrew's death.”

The simple way he put his long quest said more about the man than any amount of bombast and threats. It also said much about the depth of his feeling for those he loved.

Sonia took a deep breath and let it out with a shake of her head. “You may be admitted to Jean Pierre's house as my escort, but I will be surprised if he agrees to meet you on any field of honor.”

“Could be I'll have to find a reason he can't ignore.”

“Suppose,” she began, stopped, moistened her lips
with her tongue and tried again. “Suppose you brought him a bride-to-be who was not as represented in the marriage contract?”

He stared at her, his brows gathering above his nose in a scowl. “What are you suggesting?”

“Think,” she recommended. “A bride can be returned to her family if she has more…experience in the bedchamber than might be expected. I haven't that, which seems an unlucky state of affairs at this stage. But it might, perhaps, be…arranged.”

His gaze flickered and he turned to stare into the gathering darkness. Quiet fell in which the crackling of the fire and drip of rain from trees seemed to jar the eardrums. He swallowed with a quick slide of his Adam's apple in his taut throat. “I promised otherwise.”

She tilted her head, her gaze on his rigorously averted face, or what she could see of it in the firelight. “A promise made to whom? Not my father, for he would not have insulted you by requiring it. Not to Jean Pierre since he has no idea you're coming. If it was to me, then I release you. Who else is left except you? And if it was made to your own self, then what was the purpose?”

“I couldn't take so underhand a revenge.”

“Very noble, though where is the harm if I have no objection? Or did you intend to sacrifice me by waiting until after the wedding to confront him?”

“Sacrifice?”

“You can't think,” she asked with precision, “that I look forward to the wedding night.”

He still would not look at her, though his lips made a flat line in his face.