The Bastard (8 page)

He
wasn't
altogether surprised to find himself taking the road to El Doblez. More than once, in bed with his wife,
he’d
found himself wishing that her
unarousing
, almost child-like body had Stella's voluptuous curves. Stella White lingered in his mind like an interrupted dream. They
weren't
finished with one another and he knew it. He thought she must, too.

In a way, his continuing thoughts of her were an annoyance, one he wanted to rid himself of so he could concentrate on what was most important--improving the rancho.

Stella lived at the summit of a hill above the cantina, the rear of her small adobe house overlooking the ocean. This morning
she'd
arisen earlier than usual to sit on the back veranda, sipping black coffee and trying to decide if she had anything important enough to write in the journal she kept erratically. Not a hell of a lot was worth an entry.

Was she to put down, "Enjoying the view from my veranda, soon I'll join
Lucita
in the cantina to prepare the day's food?"

Two years ago in
Mexico City
, when
she'd
told Fernando's family, gathered around his coffin like vultures, that all she wanted was the house and the cantina in El Doblez, they hadn't believed her.

What they did believe was that Fernando was dead because of her, that she was a harlot and deserved nothing. The first was true, the second arguable. As for the third--she damn well meant to get something tangible for putting up with her husband for as long as she had. Fernando had been a beast, not a man, and she bore scars to this day from his beatings.

Stella's lover, the army officer
who'd
dueled
with Fernando and killed him, had immediately deserted her by arranging a transfer to Vera Cruz. Her lover's decampment meant she needed some means of support; she
couldn't
afford to walk away with nothing.

She chose the place in El Doblez because it was the only property Fernando had owned that was outside
Mexico City
and it
was also
the least valuable of his holdings. She wanted no long legal wrangle with his
relatives,
she could hardly wait to get away from them. She gambled that
they'd
decide the El Doblez house and cantina weren't worth enough to bother about and she'd been right.

Fernando had won the place gambling and had never bothered to visit El Doblez. Stella hadn't known what a miserable little outpost the town was
nor
how hard she'd have to work to scrounge a living from the cantina. Still, with
Lucita
and Pablo Gomez's help, she managed.

If she
was
able to manage her life as well as the cantina, everything would be fine. Because
she'd
vowed never to marry again didn't mean she hated everything about men--there was at least one thing about them she liked too well to give up.
And
that brought trouble.
Go to bed with a man once or twice and he thought he owned you.
Like Juan
Bastanado
, who glowered at every man who so much as glanced at
her.
Sooner or later
he'd knife one of them and then there'd be a mess.

As if she
didn't
have enough problems, this damn kid had been dumped on her.
What on earth
was she to do with Angelica in this hole?

She heard someone climbing the hill and set down her mug of coffee.
It better
not be Juan--she'd threatened to shoot him with an old pistol of Fernando's if he bothered her again. Over was over.
Didn't
he realize she meant what she said? Stepping off the veranda, she eased around the corner of the house to
take a look
and her breath caught.
Diarmid.

She'd
thought he wouldn't be back after his wedding.
At least not so soon.
What nerve he had! Yet the sight of him warmed her in all the right places, urging her not to turn him away, even though she
didn't
allow men to come here, only to the cantina.

She walked around the house and intercepted him before he reached the entrance. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

 
"Good day to you, too," he said, smiling. "I came to see you--and a pleasant sight you are."

Stella wore loose fitting, brightly
colored
cotton gowns--the dress of poor Mexican women. The clothes were comfortable for working and their style suited her, as she well knew. In El Doblez, who cared what was fashionable?

"Nicely said," she told him. "But now that you've seen me--"

She had no warning of what he meant to do. One stride brought him close enough to pull her into his arms. He cut off her words by kissing her, his hands cupping her buttocks to hold her firmly against him.

Oh
yes! Stella thought as she gave herself up to enjoyment of the embrace. Not now and not here, but definitely yes.

Pulling reluctantly away from him she said, "I don't care to provide gossip for all of El Doblez."

"No one will see us inside your house," he said softly.

The heat in his eyes made her legs weak but she
didn't
mean to make it easy for him. "I've heard you're a married man," she said.

He brushed away her comment with a sweep of his hand. "That has nothing to do with us and you know it."

Obviously
he wouldn't be easy to manage. Was it possible to risk honesty with any man?
Perhaps, to a point, with this one.

"I don't allow men in my house." She spoke levelly.

His smile was devastating. "Up until now, you mean. Stella, I need you, I can tell you want me, don't deny us."

Somehow
she'd
let herself get within his reach, his hands were on her shoulders, drawing her to him. He was right, her desire for him increased with each passing second. What harm could another kiss do?

Suddenly he froze, his fingers digging into her flesh painfully for an instant before he released her. She saw he was staring over her shoulder toward the house.

"Who's that?" he demanded.

Stella turned her head. Angelica, in a pale blue dressing gown, stood in the open front door looking at them.
She'd
forgotten all about the girl.

"Angelica Davison."
Stella's voice was a bit tart as she gauged Diarmid's reaction to the girl. "She's a relative of mine--second or third cousin, something like that."

"My God, she's beautiful."

Stella frowned at him. The girl might be
pretty enough
in a languid sort of way but she sure as hell wasn't beautiful. Before she could think what to say, Diarmid stepped around her and strode toward the front door.

Diarmid felt as though
he'd
been struck by a thunderbolt from the sky.
No, from heaven.
Angelica
was well named
, she looked like an angel. Her eyes, blue as a wind-washed sky, widened as he approached and her pale, delicate fingers rose to twist a strand of her dark hair. It
wasn't
black like his but a deep rich brown, the color and the sheen of polished walnut.

Her lips, pink and soft, opened in surprise as he stopped in front of her and, with his forefinger under her chin, tipped her face up.

"Yes, it's true!" he exclaimed. "You're the very image of my mother."

Angelica began to laugh, a charming sound, like bells chiming. Realizing
she'd
misinterpreted his words, he tried to amend them. "I mean when she was young.
My
mother, that is. She was the most beautiful girl in Ross-shire. She posed for a portrait when she was sixteen and you never saw--" He broke off, remembering how the portrait had burned with the house.

Angelica stepped back from him and called to Stella. "Imagine--I remind him of his mother!"

"I heard." Stella's voice, from behind him, was cool. "Angelica, this is Diarmid Burwash. He runs a large rancho south of El Doblez."

 
Angelica smiled. "I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Burwash."

I
own the rancho, he wanted to tell her.
It's
as good as mine.
Somehow
he felt it was important to impress Angelica.

"It's nice to meet someone around here who isn't Spanish or Mexican
,"
Angelica went on. "I had no idea El Doblez would be like--well, like it is. You must excuse me now, I didn't expect callers so early or I'd have been dressed more suitably."

He watched her glide away from him, her blue gown brushing the tiled floor. How gracefully she moved.

"If ever I saw a stricken man, it's you," Stella commented dryly.

He blinked, focusing on her. For some reason she now seemed overblown to him, like a rose past its bloom--her hair too blonde, her amber eyes too bright, the color of her dress too garish. His desire for her had totally disappeared.

"What's Angelica doing in El Doblez?" he asked, ignoring what Stella had said.

Stella spread her hands. "I've inherited her. She has no money and nowhere else to go."

"What do you mean?"

"Her uncle, who was also her guardian, hoped to recoup his financial losses in the east by sailing to
San Francisco
and investing in land there, bringing Angelica with him. He died of a fever as the ship rounded the
Cape
. In his belongings, Angelica found a letter
I'd
written to his wife, a cousin of mine, when I first arrived in El Doblez. Cousin Abigail was dead even then, but I
hadn't
heard. Anyway, no matter how distant our relationship,
I
was the closest relative, so Angelica spent her remaining money to come here. So it seems I'll have to find some way for her to earn her keep."

"You can't put
a young lass
like her to work in the cantina!"

Stella shrugged. "She's eighteen, a year older than Trina, my serving girl. If I must support her, she'll have to help out in the cantina."

"But Angelica is--she's a delicate
lass
. She needs to be protected from men like those I've seen in the cantina."

"She'll learn."

"I won't have her working there!"

Stella smiled one-sidedly. "And just how do you plan to prevent it?
I
doubt if your wife would agree to you adopting Angelica. Of course, you might talk one of your unattached friends into marrying her."

"No!"

"Do you mean you have no unmarried friends?"

"Angelica--she's--" He broke off when he realized what
he'd
been going to say. That Angelica was his. That if any man married her,
he'd
be the one.
Fine words from a man who already had a wife.
A wife who was with child.
What was he to do? Somehow, he had to find a way to make Angelica his. Not just in bed, no, she was too fine a
lass
for that. He meant to possess her, but when he
did
it would be as his wife.

He wished he could carry her off to a safe place and keep her there until he decided how to undo what
was done
and start over with Angelica.

"For God's sake don't look so forlorn," Stella snapped. "Do you take me for a callous fool? As long as she's under my roof, I mean to see nothing bad happens to the girl."

Diarmid clasped Stella's hand. "I don't know what's happened to me," he mumbled. "I've never felt like this before."

"Love doesn't care how hard it hits."

He stared at her.
Love?

Stella grinned, seemingly restored to good
humor
.
"My, how the mighty have fallen.
Never mind, you'll get over it in time." She leaned to him and kissed him on the cheek.
"Adios, Diarmid."

He rode back to the rancho and, for the first time,
didn't
feel the thrill when he crested the hill and saw the valley spread below. He wanted the land,
he'd
never give it up, but he also wanted Angelica. How could he have both?