Savage Enchantment (11 page)

She should have known! Why hadn't it occurred to her that he was the leader of the band of renegades? -- insurrectionists, Aguila had called them. El Cóndor, the vaquero,
el jefe.
They were all one ... Simon.

For all her good intentions to remain awake, he had come upon her as silent as the Indian he looked now, staring fiercely down at her, his burnished skin glinting in the early morning sun that streamed through the curtained doorway. From outside came the fait stirrings of the awakening
ranchería.

"You!" she hissed with all the venom that coursed through her as she jerked to a sitting position.

Simon grinned a sudden lopsided smile, looking almost boyish with wet hair that glistened as if he had just bathed. The breechcloth barely covered his nakedness. Kathleen's gaze fell to the rigid muscular thighs as he dropped the curtain back in its place and moved further into the wickiup. Embarrassed, she quickly raised her eyes to his face and saw the amusement displayed there.

"I hope my wife has rested well."

"Your wife?" she sputtered. "I'll never be your wife, Simon Reyes! You're the lowest, the vilest human being -- no, I take that back. You're not even human. You're an animal that --"

"You mean,
mi vida,
those tender words you swore before God, and the marriage papers you signed, meant nothing?"

"Don't call me that --
mi vida!"
she shouted. "I'm not 'your life.' Or your wife either! I'm nothing of yours!"

A sarcastic grin curved Simon's lips. "I'm under the impression, from Renaldo's report, that you're my prisoner."

"How did you find me? I was careful -- Estrellita didn't leave tracks. And when are you going to make them let me go?"

"Your horse didn't leave tracks. You did." He held up a torn strip of white cotton material. "On a sumac shrub."

He tossed it to her and crossed to the far corner, where he dropped the saddlebags that were slung across one shoulder. Kathleen looked up from the ragged patch she held and warily watched as he haunched over the saddlebags and drew out a razor. He rose and faced her.

"And as for when I'm going to let you go -- I'm not. You're my wife, Kathleen .. and you'll pay the price for using my name -- your wifely submission."

"I won't."

The slashed brow raised in mock surprise as his long, brown fingers rubbed the beard-stubbled jaw. "Where will you run to next? Back to Woodsworth? How long do you think a lone female would survive in California? Don't you know the only other American woman in the California territory is Larkin's wife? Yesterday should've proved to you what your chances are alone out here."

"I'll take that chance any day against staying with you."

"Oh? My men'll be glad to hear that. Women are scarce here -- and an American woman, well ..."

Kathleen gasped. "You wouldn't let them!"

Simon crossed to her and stood above her. "Wouldn't I? he asked softly. "Do you dare test me?"

The image of the wild mustang she had watched him break flashed through her mind. She saw again the frothing mouth, the broken spirit. Kathleen's head dropped to her chest with the realization of the power the man held over her.

As if recognizing her submission, he said, "I'll send Concha to you with some breakfast -- and clothing. When I return this afternoon, I want you dressed as a woman -- as befitting my wife. Do you understand me?"

Kathleen's head swung up. Simon waited. She looked away. "I understand you," she said stiffly.

The green eyes, as ever startlingly light against the wall, shaken, but grateful for the reprieve of even one day. Much could happen in the span of a few hours. A careless guard. A sympathetic heart swayed. She had only to stay alert. And something to eat would certainly help her strength.

The rumblings of her famished stomach had grown to audible dimensions when Concha entered with a cup of steaming coffee and a plate of
carne asada,
a thin steak the Indian broiled on a
parilla.
Following behind Concha was a little girl of maybe three years with straight black hair and the largest brown eyes Kathleen had ever seen. In her pudgy arms she held a mound of clothing as carefully as if she were carrying fine chine.

"Buenas dias, niña,"
Concha said,
"Dormes bien?"

"I slept all right," Kathleen replied, resenting the woman's cheerfulness. After all, the woman was there by her own volition. Concha hadn't been roped and tied like a calf and dragged half way across California to have a cutthroat burn his brand into her -- as Simon would do that evening.

Kathleen shuddered at the thought of the horror that awaited her. Better to be executed -- quickly -- than to be slowly, bit by bit, degraded in body and spirit. And when Simon had used her, what then?

With a woman's intuition, Concha placed a roughened hand on Kathleen's shoulder, and said softly, "Don't be afraid,
niña.
El Cóndor, he's a good man. He's like all men. And," she added as an afterthought, "he's like none other. But if you do as he says, he'll be kind to you."

Kathleen picked dully at her food and wondered how many other women Simon had kept there. And if they had stayed of their own accord or, like herself, been forced to stay by Simon's sheer strength of will. And it chagrined her that he had yet to use physical force on her. Her memories alone of that one night in La Palacia were sufficient to reduce her to a cringing heap at his feet, and she detested herself, even more than him, for her weakness.

The food that had smelled so appetizing settled like a lump of cold mush in her stomach, and she put it from her. Concha had taken the clothing from the toddler and, depositing it in one of the baskets on the wall, was about to depart. Not wanting to be alone with her thoughts, Kathleen detained the woman.

"The child, Concha -- is she your daughter?"

"Sí, niña.
Chela, tell the lovely lady
hola."

The little girl stared solemnly at Kathleen, blinked, and then shyly stuck out one small hand.

"Hello, Chela," Kathleen said, charmed by the tiny creature. "Her father -- is Armand?"

"Sí,
but she has all my looks," Concha said. "I hoped so much that she'd have Armand's red hair."

"She's beautiful as she is, Concha." Kathleen released the child's hand and turned to Chela's mother. "How did you come to be here? With these-these
bandidos?"

Concha looked at the American girl evenly. "You mean how did I get to be a camp follower, little one? And we are not
bandidos.
We are revolutionaries."

The woman moved to the doorway and, pushing aside the curtain, stood looking out at the camp's activity. "I'm here because I'm half-Indian and was separated from my parents -- like all Indian children -- at eight years to be trained in the mission. I was to be taught the domestic duties so that I could serve in some Castilian household. Hellhole! Bah!" she spat, slinging closed the curtain and whirling to face Kathleen. "Instead -- at ten -- I was taught how to please the mission's
soldados.
My sister Hermelinda was more fortunate. She died of the disease the white men brought -- the smallpox."

"I'm sorry," Katheleen murmured, knowing her words were of no comfort to the woman.

"I survived," Concha said stoically. "And that was enough. Armand found me and took me away."

"Your mountain man?"

"Sí.
His parents were French. He ws born in the Klamath mountains of Alta California. All his life he's trapped for furs. Until the officials in Mexico City proclaimed that foreigners were unwelcome in California -- only those of Spanish blood."

Concha snapped her fingers. "So, Armand rebelled -- like many others -- to fight for freedom. And me ... I fight alongside
Mi hombre."

"Freedom." Kathleen half-muttered the word to herself. She had not realized wht a precious commodity the abstract word was. Until twenty-four hours ago.

Kathleen rose to tread the earthen floor, feeling suddenly as restless as the caged cat. "You speak of freedom, Concha, and yet --"

"Don't ask that of me,
niña.
Don't ask me to help you escape. I'm pledged to our cause. Give yourself time. It won't be as bad as you think."

"That's easy for you to say. You're here because you want to be. You're here with the man you love. You're not held against your will by someone whose very nearness you abhor!"

Concha's dark eyes opened wide. "You are still a child then. Or else you would see --"

"See what?" Kathleen snapped. "That he is a mercenary man that takes what he wants with no consideration for any but himself -- that will stop at nothing to gain his ends ... even forcing me into marriage to protect himself? No, you're wrong, Concha. I see that Simon -- for that is the name I know him by -- is a cold, callous brute. With a total disregard for anyone else's feelings. He knows nothing of the higher form of love, but will rut like the beasts of the fields."

Concha shrugged her strong, peasant shoulder and threw back her head and laughed. "I think,
niña,
it is you who knows nothing of love."

Kathleen turned on Concha. "If being raped and mauled by him is a demonstration of love, then I want nothing to do with it!"

"We shall see," the woman replied. "We shall see."

As the morning lengthened, the air grew stifling within the wickiup. At last Kathleen could bear no more and cautiously stepped outside the doorway. Surprisingly, she found no guards to bar her exit.

She paused to survey the
ranchería.
It looked much s it did the day before. Children laughed and chased each other through the fields of riotous wildflowers. The women busied themselves in basket-weaving with their nible hands working the bundles of tule reeds at their feet. Only the men were missing except for the few mostly hoary Indians, who sat beneath the shade of the scrub oaks and talked of olden days, better days.

No one paid her heed. There was no one to hamper an escape.

With an idle saunter, Kathleen moved past the doorway and down a slight incline that sloped away to the back of the wickiup. Less than fifteen yards ahead of her lay the protection of a grove of madroña evergreens. And from just beyond came the sound of some tumbling mountain stream. She had only to follow it as it snaked to the west, and she would eventually make her way back to the coast. Kathleen looked about her, seeing the forest's red, edible berries and wild oranges and plums. Surely these would sustain her.

But what most sustained her was the thought that she had the rest of the day before Simon would come looking for her. Time enough for a good head start.

The near taste of freedom was as heavenly as water to a man lost on the Mojave. So when the red-haired guard with a double belt of bullets crisscrossed about his torso and a fearsome-looking Hawke plains rifle resting in the crook of his arms stepped forward. Kathleen could have attacked him out of sheer frustration.

"Madame
is looking for something?" the guard asked, a polite look of genuine concern wrinkling the mustachioed face.

"I only wished a bath," she said, trying hard to control the fury that seethed just beneath her stilted manner even as she noted the guard had addressed her by the title reserved for a married woman. So, Simon had already let it be known she ws his wife.

Suddenly the guard's hand moved to the rifle's trigger as his eyes shifted from Kathleen to something behind her.

"It's all right, Armand," Renaldo said, stepping forward.

Kathleen turned on the young man. "Am I allowed no privacy for a bath?" she demanded.

"But of course, señora. When you are ready, I'll have one of the women bring you soap and your fresh clothes from the wickiup."

She searched the thin face for any sign of ridicule, but there was only kindness in his steady gaze. Kathleen could but nod her head curtly. Brushing past the guard, whom she supposed was Concha's lover, she founced off in the direction of the rushing water.

In a glade rimmed by scented firs she came upon the stream. It plummeted down from the mountains over a multitude of miniature rocky falls, surging in foaming eddies into a crystal-clear pool. The sunlight filtered like gold dust through the high branches. There was a peaceful quiet, broken only by the ouzel, a water thrush which flitted about in the spray and chirped his song of joy.

Kathleen stood there, transfixed by the untouched beauty of the scene; awed, after the brick-civilization of Boston, by the pristine work of nature.

If it were not for the scurrilous savage that called himself her husband, thereby imprisoning her, she would have sought to remain forever in that glorious shelter. But, as it was -- Kathleen shrugged, not wanting to think beyond the moment.

She shed the dusty pants and shirt and cautiously tested the water with one dirt-streaked foot. The water ws cold but refreshing. Slowly she began to wade in, letting her skin adjust to the chill. But as the sound of someone approaching reached her, she quickly slid under the water. When she surfaced, strands of hair plastered to her cheeks, a young girl, obviously very pregnant, stood on the mossy bank. Her dark brown hair was caught Indian fashion in a single braid at the nape of her neck.

The girl smiled shyly. "I'm Margarita,
señora."

Because the girl's Spanish was poor, Kathleen answered uncertainly, "My name is Kathleen."

Margarita, whose high cheekbones were tinted with the dusky hint of Indian beauty, set the clothes down within Kathleen's reach and handed her the bar of soap. "I know who you are, señora. My brother, Temcal, told me your name. He says you are like the first golden moments of spring."

She turned to leave and Kathleen called out, "The men -- when will they return to camp?"

Margarita's bright eyes, reminding Kathleen of a squirrel's, looked at Kathleen curiously. "Near dusk ... if all goes well."

Were the men away on some raid? Kathleen wondered. Oh, God, that Simon would be killed!

When the young girl had disappeared among the trees once more, Kathleen busily scrubbed the accumulated dirt from her hair. How long it seemed since she had last had the luxury of curing tongs. And from there, her mind drifted to other comforts of civilization -- to once more idly muse over the pages of one of
Godey's Lady's Books
...

Reluctantly she put the nostalgic memories from her and finished her bath. It was already afternoon. By the time she dressed and dried her hair, it would be time for Simon's return.

And she meant to be ready for him. No, she could not yet escape him. The guard had proved she was better watched than she supposed. But she would fight Simon with the very weapon he threatened her with -- six. She would gain the advantage on him. And when she had lulled his suspicions, then would be the time to escape. No matter how long it might take. She would wait.

Her hands balled beneath her chin, one hand rubbing the tightened knuckles of the other. How long would he keep her waiting?

She rose from where she sat with her legs tucked beneath her and crossed to the doorway, her skirts swishing about her bare ankles. In the rapidly dimming twilight she could just make out Simon's form, taller than the others, standing near one of flickering campfires. She returned to the blanket and drew her knees up under her chin, hugging her ankles against the evening's approaching chill. The waiting was torture. What would Simon do to her? What demands would he make of her?

Suddenly he ws there. She had not heard him enter. But his presence in the small room was overpowering. Slowly she raised her eyes, following the magnificent male torso, naked but for the leggings and breechcloth, until her brandy-colored eyes locked with the green ones.

"Come here, Catalina."

As ever, his familiar use of her name in Spanich infuriated her. She bounded to her feet, forgetting all her plans of feigned submission. Her clefted chin jutted forward with indignation. "You have no right to --"

In two strides Simon stood before her, so close she could smell the campfire wood smoke that still clung to his bronzed skin. In his hair was the black tailfeather of the condor.

"Must I remind you that you're no longer entertaining a gentlemanly caller in your Boston parlor? That you're my wife -- and under Mexican law you have no rights."

Her eyes fell under the relentless flame in his. "You had best kill me, then," she whispered faintly.

"No," he said, taking her shoulders between his hands. "I'd be admitting defeat then, Kathleen. I want your willing submission."

Icy perspiration congealed in every pore, but she faced him boldly. "Never!"

He laughed softly, and his laugh unnerved her more than anything he could have said. One hand, stained with fresh blood, came up to cup her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. Kathleen shuddered. The desire she saw flaming in their steely depths turned her weak with disgust. Each separate nerve in her body tingled with an awareness that appalled her, that sickened her with the knowledge of his intentions.

She tried to turn away, but his ironlike grip held her immobile. His lips lowered slowly, leisurely over hers, and she writhed with horror in his arms as his tongue thrust inside her mouth and took its pleasure.

She twisted her head free with a sob. "No!"

"I could almost believe you were a virgin that night," he whispered huskily, and lifted her trembling body in his arms. His lips scorched hers as he lowered her onto the blanket. His firece embrace that joined the length of her body with his own warm,s trong one drained her of all power of resistance.

Her clothes fell away easily beneath the sureness of his demanding hands. She shrank under the ardent gaze that traveled over her nude body like a consuming fire.

Then his hot mouth pressed on hers, drugging her like an opiate. But as his dark head slipped lower to bury itself between the rose-tipped peaks of her breasts, Kathleen cried out -- only that once.

"I'll never forgive you, Simon! Never!"