Wild Sierra Rogue (5 page)

In those days, the awful truth according to Charity hadn't overly bothered her. From gossip about his participation in sexual orgies, Charity and her then-lawyer Hawk linked him to the Gonzáles silver-smuggling ring. Well, Rafe knew about the operation, but he'd somehow kept his hand out of it.

In the wash of Rafe's appearance in Texas came more gossip, little of it complimentary. Outside of his public persona, he was a shadowy figure in Mexico, known for amorous excesses and accused of crimes against the wealthy, including his own family. And still Margaret didn't find him loathsome. Her loathing came later. After . . . Olga.

When the Countess of Granada arrived from Spain too late to lend moral support to Charity, she became dazzled by Rafe's notoriety from his bullfighting days. And he fell for her. Obviously he liked his women prim, married, and on the simpleton side.
Margaret McLoughlin, shame on you, decrying your poor afflicted sister
.

“Is that all you've got to say, Sis?”

“I really have said enough.”

She wouldn't mention the evening—in the shadows of the Alamo—when she'd allowed Rafe to think she was his adored. Nor did she mention what happened the next night, when Olga—her clothes torn, her lips bloodied—had run crying to Margaret with a horrible tale of assault.

“Sis . . .” Tex abandoned the apple. “You okay?”

“Yes! And you were right a while ago. Rafe is the reason I'm touchy as an old cook.”

Margaret jumped up and marched across the room to tug pins from her hair. She set a brush to the mass, and as she yanked, she wanted to shout,
I don't want any part of Rafe Delgado!
To be attracted to her sister's attacker was just too offensive to consider.

“Delicious. Simply delicious. Do help yourself to a bite, Señor Delgado. I think you'll love it.”

Her eyes the hue of milk chocolate, her voice as sweet as any Margaret McLoughlin had ever heard, Natalie Nash offered apple strudel, but the come-hither invitation meant something altogether more enticing. After all Tex's fawning over the buxom Miss Nash, her breathy dinnertime attentions were reserved for Rafe and Rafe alone.

“I do have a sweet tooth.” Wearing a finely cut suit of clothes, not to mention deceptive innocence in his eyes, Rafe continued to accept worship as if he were a veritable pasha of the East. And, surprisingly, that worship had come to him without so much as a mention to his fame of bygone days.

They sat at a candle-lit table for six in the Edelweiss's dining room, Margaret next to Tex, who had made a point to seat Natalie at his right. Rafe sat opposite Margaret. Rounding out the sextet . . . a middle-aged couple from the train, Mr. and Mrs. Elwood Ashkettle of Beaumont, Texas. The Ashkettles—or at least the distaff side of them—provided a rapt audience for The Great Casanova Come Alive In West Texas.

“Such a handsome man as you, you ought to have some nice lady baking goodies for you.” Her old-fashioned sausage curls bobbed like mad loose springs as Sally Belle Ashkettle spoke, giving Natalie a chase for the blue ribbon when it came to cooing and oohing at every word Rafe had to utter, mutter, or blurt.

Margaret jabbed a fork into her own piece of apple strudel, previously untouched, afterward uneaten. She took a dark look at the black lock of hair falling over his forehead.
What's the matter, Rafe? Lose your comb?

All of a sudden, Margaret felt a hairpin shifting. Darn. She thought she'd mastered this back-combed style. Her mud-brown wavy hair, she supposed, was just too heavy or too long, or both, for the Gibson girl roll. Yes, she had tried a new hair fashion, had even added a bit of hair cream for artificial highlights. It didn't have anything to do with Rafe, the reason Margaret experimented. She did it for Tex, didn't she? Anyway, she could have been wearing a wimple for all Tex or Rafe noticed, so intent was their scrutiny of Natalie Sloe Eyes.

As well, Mr. Ashkettle seemed to have trouble keeping his mind on finishing his meal; he was likewise engaged.

A female diner—she appeared to be on the sweet side of twenty—sashayed by their table and just happened to brush against Rafe. “Oh, my goodness gracious, sir. Do pardon me.” Was it an accident that her handkerchief drifted to the floor, compelling the Great One himself to lend assistance?

Other women paid court. If Margaret had eaten her dinner, it would be coming back up. Besides herself, was there a female in this room who wasn't under his spell? Doubtful. Of course, they didn't know him as she did. No one except for the principals and Margaret knew what Olga had suffered, that Rafe had nearly wrecked her marriage to one of Spain's lesser ranked yet eminently influential royals, Leonardo of the Houses of Hapsburg and Borbón.

Margaret took another look at the dining room. Natalie wouldn't be shocked to know about Rafe. And that redhead two tables over, she didn't look as if anything would shock her.

What was it that called for all this adulation? Ordering herself to be unbiased and unprejudiced, Margaret set her fork down to take an assessing look at Rafael Delgado. His facial features were acceptable if not laudable, his scarred mouth giving him a rather sinister mien. Margaret, whose tastes used to run to pipes and tweeds, had never found rakish scars cause for collapse, not even during the madcap period of her infatuation with him.

Watch it, Margaret
—
think unbiased.

Except for not being bowlegged like a lot of cowboys, his physique was no better, or no worse than a hundred hands who had worked the Four Aces Ranch over the years.

Rafe was no youth.
Who'd want one?

His curling black hair, clipped short and brushed back from his temples, didn't contrast with the tanned, olive skin. Swarthy and somewhat Moorish-looking described this son of Mexico. The Delgados and their collateral lines must have hailed from Andalusia, if she was any judge of Spanish descent, which she was, given her years of study in the Iberian discipline. Yet those piercing eyes hinted at an ancestor from the north of Spain, Castile or Soria or maybe even the Basque region.

Did Mesoamerican blood flow through Rafe? she wondered. Again she studied the subject, answering her question with a silent, “Don't be preposterous.”

According to Great-grandmother Maisie (she always looked for blue blood, even claimed a link to the fabled Scottish kings Duncan and Robert the Bruce), the Delgados had arrived in Mexico with Cortés, and owned land exceeding the size of Vermont, New Hampshire, and Connecticut put together. They rode in gold coaches and had their finger in all aspects of commerce, agriculture, and mining. To keep the line pure, their marriages were arranged with as much care as that given to royalty. The Delgados were as close to royalty as Mexico got.

But Rafe's middle name was Cuauhtémoc, the same as the last Aztec emperor. Interesting. Conceivably, it wouldn't be so awful, being in Mexico, Margaret decided. It would provide the perfect opportunity to see how Spanish blood had spread in the aftermath of Cortés's sixteenth-century conquest.

“Margaret, you're being uncommonly quiet this evening.” Rafe ignored his harem and sipped port. “Don't you wish to say anything?”

Candlelight, golden and soft, accentuated the dark shadowing of a jawline incapable of being close-shaved, but she'd drop her drawers to him as well as to the morning traffic at Grand Central Station before remarking on his appeal. “I've nothing to say.”

“But you were staring, Margarita.” He leaned toward her, cocked his head slightly. “And from your expression . . . Are you dyspeptic?”

More than a tad. “I'm fit as a fiddle.”

“You won't stay that way if you don't eat. And you didn't eat your dinner. Do you want something different? Waiter!”

“No! Please no.” Her eyes going to and fixing on her own dessert, Margaret cut a piece and forced it into her mouth.

“Pay her no never mind,” said Sally Belle Ashkettle. “She's one of those shy types. Unsociable. They like to be left alone.”

Margaret took no offense, since she didn't care what the woman thought, but Tex growled. And Rafe chuckled, a deep sound. “Señora Ashkettle,” he said, “you are quite wrong. Señorita McLoughlin is not shy. I promise you.”

“How gallant, sir. I myself have always admired gallantry.” Sally Belle smiled, then shoveled a heaping forkful of apple pastry into her thick-lipped mouth. Her lip rouge had smeared during the first course, some of it having ended up on her chins, both of which bobbed as she chewed. “What kind of woman are you partial to, sir? Did I mention that I made my debut in—”

“Pum'kin, you made that debut thirty years ago,” her husband cut in. “Pass the butter.”

“Elwood, you are ever so rude.” From the motions of her body as well as the lamentable Elwood's, Sally Belle kicked her spouse beneath the table. Not missing a beat, she said in a shrill, affected voice, reeking of ambitions above her background and circumstance, “You speak English ever so nicely, Mr. Delgado. Have you lived in these United States a long time, if you please?”

“Eight years this December.”

“Do you have a family?”

“No, señora. No wife, no children. I do have a poor little mother in Chihuahua city. And my one brother—well, Xzobal is a man of God.”

The grand inquisitor, Tomás de Torquemada in bouncing sausage curls, kept her beady eyes pinned on Rafe. “What made you leave Mexico, pray?”

He picked up his wineglass, twirling the contents. A momentary, almost imperceptible shadow flicked in his eyes. No one seemed to notice that flicker, save for Margaret, though who couldn't notice his pearly flash of teeth accompanied a smile that moored to Sally Belle's simpering grin?

“The ladies are more lovely in Texas,” claimed he.

To Margaret's way of thinking, Sally Belle had nothing on him when it came to an affected voice. Gone was the western inflection and verbiage, which he seemed to be able to turn on and off at whim. His enunciation took on a certain Don Juanish quality under circumstances such as these, not to mention that accent getting thicker and richer with each passing moment. Add “fake” to his list of failings, she decided even before he said, “It was for the lovelies such as you, Señora Ashkettle, that I left my country.”

Sally Belle giggled like an imbecile.

Really?

Actually, even knowing he spoke lies, many women would respond to such blather. Most men didn't even bother to lie. Thus, it would be easy to fall prey to such a rascal. Poor Olga. No wonder the dimwit had been gullible enough to allow liberties that led to attack.
Remember when you yourself stepped into his arms? You allowed him more than a few liberties. If you hadn't been interrupted, he would have done more than stroke your private places with his fingers.
She squirmed on the chair, recalling how it felt to learn the excitement of truly living.

“. . . In Texas, pretty lady.”

Margaret missed the first of his latest to Sally Belle, but her anger rose, most of it directed inwardly for being such a nincompoop back then. Besides, enough was enough of his twaddle.

“Oh, please.” This was strung into several syllables that drew everyone at the table's attention. “Why don't you tell these nice people the real reason you stayed in Texas? The pickings were better here. Such as a certain benevolent gentleman providing stock for your ranch. Correct?”

“Maggie! You promised to behave.”

Rafe's smile vanished. His nostrils flared. His eyes shot silver; it was hot molten metal that blistered Margaret, yet his voice was cool as tin in a February snowstorm. “Margaret, for shame, making up stories like that. If you don't watch out, people will think you escaped from some lunatic asylum.” A strange expression, akin to a realization, flashed on his face. “Is that where you were?”

“Most certainly not And I stand by my words about you.”

“That's your prerogative. But if I said too much about that generous hombre, I'd be forced to mention how I came to know him. I'm sure these
nice people
don't want to hear about a female smuggler's escapades.”

“Oooh, I do!”

This came from the world's most seasoned debutante. Natalie and Mr. Ashkettle seemed wholly in agreement. Appearing on the edge of despair as he ogled the object of his unrequited affection, Tex swallowed and exhaled. And Margaret could have bitten her tongue. What was the matter with her, broaching a subject that lent itself to an airing of Charity's dirty laundry?

Anyway, what good had it done?

Margaret breathed in relief when Tex changed the subject, asking Natalie, “Where are you headed?”

“Home.”

“Where's that?”

“South of the border.” Natalie didn't so much as glance Angus Jones McLoughlin's way. Anew, like hot glaze on rum cake, her gaze melted into Rafe, who looked as if he could use a cooling off. His furious glare remained squarely on Margaret.

Her remark was uncalled-for.
The libertine deserved
it.
She ought to apologize.
Don't grovel.

Tex leaned toward Natalie and commented on her remark. “By golly, ain't it a small world? We're on our way to Mexico, too. We'll leave the train in El Paso to catch the southbound Mexican North West out of Juarez. Any chance you're making our connection?”

She waited a moment—to give Rafe a chance to comment? When he remained mum, she answered, “None that I know of.”

“But I thought you said you're going into Mexico.”

“Please don't let my plans concern you, Mr. Jones.”

“Call me Tex. And Miss Nash—” Grinning, Tex took a big sip of coffee. “Nash sure does ring a bell. Why, I'll swanee. You any kin to Isaiah Nash down Chihuahua way?”

She swung her gaze to Tex. Annoyance spilled across her dazzling features. “What if I am?”

“Isaiah Nash is proprietor of Eden Roc. My moth—” He shot a quick glance at Margaret. “My soon-to-be mother-in-law is staying at that health retreat.”

“I imagine she'll enjoy herself immensely.”

While Natalie may have said this, Margaret suspected an undercurrent ran through the words. What if something was amiss down there? Mother could be in trouble!

The mysterious siren dabbed her lips with a napkin. “If you'll excuse me, I believe I'll call it a night.”

All three men rose. All three stumbled over their boots to see Natalie to the staircase leading to her room. How many years had it been since a man stumbled and fumbled to escort Margaret anywhere? Lord, it couldn't have been a decade, could it? What silly, ridiculous thoughts. She could find her own way into or out of any given situation, and didn't need some salivating buffoon leading the way.

Sally Belle spoke. “Would that we could be as lovely and young as Miss Nash . . . wouldn't you agree, Miss McLoughlin? But then, you already have luck on your side. You've landed a fiancé young enough to be your son.”

Stunned and hurt, Margaret wanted to cry. But she wouldn't. Instead, she said, “Why don't you give your mouth a rest, Mrs. Ashkettle? Why don't we
both?”

Like Natalie, she'd had enough for an evening. Margaret rushed from the table, but didn't return to her room.