Nan Ryan (31 page)

“Nothing!” Montillion spoke the word aloud as he reread the telegram.

“What is it, Montillion?” The baroness, tying the sashes of her night robe, had heard the commotion and come into the room.

“The princess,” he said. “She’s on the way to El Paso.”

“Thank God! She’s unhurt?” asked the anxious lady-in-waiting.

“She better be!” said Montillion, hurrying to the writing desk to compose his reply.

To the uniformed boy waiting with his hands clasped behind him, Montillion said, “I’ll be sending two wires, young man, and I want your word that both will be delivered by midnight.”

“Sure thing,” said the boy, and when he left he carried two important messages.

One was to Hantz Landsfelt telling him to stay in El Paso, to go straight to the Texas Rangers headquarters and explain what had happened, and then to wait right there for Her Royal Highness to arrive. The second was addressed to the officer in charge at Ranger headquarters in Ysleta.

When the boy had gone, Montillion turned to the baroness Richtoffen, exhaled heavily, and said with relief, “Start packing.”

Nodding, she didn’t question him. Holding the lapels of her robe together, she turned away without a word.

Moments before midnight, after making her final San Antonio appearance, the ginger-haired, dreamy-eyed actress playing the part of the princess returned to the Menger Hotel. Surprised by all the bustle inside the well-lighted suite at this late hour, her expression immediately changed. A tremor of alarm raced through her, and she gave Montillion a questioning look.

“Good news at last,” he exclaimed happily. “Princess Marlena is alive! She’s alive and probably unharmed! Isn’t it wonderful!”

“Yes,” Robbie Ann managed to reply, feeling as if someone had pulled the world out from under her. “Just wonderful,” she murmured. Forcing herself to smile, she advanced farther into the room. “I suppose this means curtains for me. Show closed for good. End of the road. Pack up my grease paint and go.”

“No, not quite.” Montillion smiled warmly at her. “As we speak, the princess is en route to El Paso. So we will alter our planned course. Instead of going from here to Galveston where we were to board the royal yacht for Hartz-Coburg, we will depart for El Paso tonight. Within the hour.”

“Where does that leave me?”

“You will go to El Paso with us,” he told her.

“Why?”

“In case the princess does not show up as soon as expected, you can continue to play her part. I’m sure I can schedule a rally or two in El Paso and—”

Interrupting, Robbie Ann said, “Monty, has it occurred to you that the Texas Ranger who took the princess might have been looking for me?”

“It has. Yes, it has,” said Montillion with no emotion.

Robbie Ann lifted her bare shoulders in a shrug. “And I suppose you expect me to tell you all about it.”

“No,” said Montillion. “No, not until you’re ready.” He smiled, and added, “If and when you ever wish to speak of it, I will listen and do my best to understand.”

Her brows drawn together, she said, “I … I’ve made some mistakes.”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” he said, kindly. Then, “I’ve grown very fond of you.” He paused, added, “When all this is over and the princess is back where she belongs, I shall do my best to help you. If indeed you are in some kind of trouble, I’ll see if there is anything we can do diplomatically to straighten things out.”

She brightened a little. “You’d do that for me?” Then she shook her head and asked, “Why?”

Robbie Ann looked at him with those enormous emerald eyes, so like the eyes of Princess Marlena, and Montillion was tempted to tell her the reason. The real reason. But he did not.

He said only, “My dear, I’ve just told you. I’ve grown fond of you and I want you to be happy.” Smiling, he said, “You are a beautiful, intelligent young woman, who is, I believe, basically a good, decent person. Perhaps all you need is a new start, a new set of friends. Perhaps Galveston would be better suited to your amazing acting talent. I understand they have several excellent theaters and a large thes-pian community.”

“No kidding?”

“You could travel to the seaside city with us on the royal train. And I could write some letters of introduction for you. How does that sound?”

“Not as good as being princess,” she admitted with a sigh, “but better than any other offers I’ve had lately.” Her expression somber, she asked, “If I go to El Paso with you, you won’t … tell anybody about me? You won’t turn me in to the Texas Ranger, will you?”

Montillion looked at the pretty young woman with whom he had spent the past three weeks and felt a deep paternal tenderness toward her.

“No, my dear child. I would never do that.”

33

Midnight at Tierra del Encanto
.

Upstairs in the many-roomed hacienda, Princess Marlena paced back and forth before a pair of tall double doors thrown open to the warm June night. A nearly full white moon sailed high in the cloudless heavens, its luminous light spilling across the balcony outside and into her darkened bedroom.

From the flower-filled courtyard below came the tinkling splash of the continuous fountain and the soft romantic strumming of a lone Spanish guitar. The subtle scent of roses mingling with bougainvillea sweetened the still night air. The room’s big bed had been turned down, the colorful counterpane removed. Spotless silky white sheets and a half-dozen pillows in lace-edged cases looked silvery in the moonlight.

But the pacing Princess Marlena was not ready for bed.

She was still fully dressed, was still wearing the white lace and blue-skirted evening gown. Her ginger hair was still coiffed sleekly atop her head. When she came upstairs two hours ago, she had waved away Consuela’s offer of assistance, assuring the smiling young servant that she was perfectly capable of undressing herself. Which wasn’t entirely true, since she had never attempted it and had no idea if she could actually manage.

But she had been so certain that Virgil would follow her up within minutes, and she hadn’t wanted Consuela to bump into him and embarrass them all. As it turned out, there had been little danger of that happening.

After Consuela departed, the excited princess had debated whether she should leave the lamps lit or turn them off. She anticipated the minute when Virgil would walk through the door and sweep her up into his powerful arms. She shivered deliciously and decided that the special moment would be more romantic in the darkness. She swept hurriedly around the room and turned out all the lamps, casting the room into a seductive blend of radiant moonlight and cloaking darkness. Tense from head to toe, she had then stood in the very center of the large shadowy room, anxiously awaiting Virgil’s gentle knock on the door.

Minutes had passed and he hadn’t come. The princess was puzzled. Then an hour had dragged slowly by, and a terrible sinking feeling intensified. Now it was midnight, and two torturous hours had elapsed since she left him and the don downstairs.

He wasn’t coming.

Had never intended to come. She had been a silly child to think that he would. Those boldly sensual looks across the table had been nothing more than teasing flirtation. He had made her think he desperately wanted her. He didn’t want her. He just wanted her to want him. Another feather in his cap. Damn him for his cruelty.

Facing the inescapable, the princess realized she should get undressed and go to bed. But she wasn’t sleepy. She was restless. Confused. Yearning. Disappointed.

Downstairs in Don Amondo’s book-lined library, an equally tense Virgil Black swirled the amber contents of his brandy snifter in his warm palm. He flicked the ashes from his second cigar of the evening and glanced—for the hundredth time—at a heavy jade-and-gold clock resting on the don’s mahogany desk.

At least a half-dozen times in the past couple of hours, Virgil had attempted to call it a night, pleading extreme weariness. Each time the don had looked as disappointed as a child and had pleaded with him to stay for just a few more minutes.

“
Por favor, amigo,
” Don Amondo had appealed to Virgil. “You come to visit so seldom, allow me to enjoy your company a while longer. It is still quite early. Let me pour you another brandy.”

Since he was a guest and Don Amondo was ever the gracious host, Virgil had relented. But he was miserable. Much as he usually enjoyed the don’s company, he could think of nothing but the beautiful woman waiting for him upstairs.

If she was still waiting.

Maybe she had grown impatient and had given up. Maybe she had tired and gone to bed, was now sound asleep. Maybe he had read her wrong, and she wasn’t really expecting him. Maybe she didn’t even want him to come, wouldn’t allow him inside once he got there. Maybe he should go straight to his own room and forget about her.

He couldn’t do that. The temptation to hold her in his arms was more than he could resist.

“… so what do say,
Capitán
?” Don Amondo asked as the clock struck midnight. “
Capitán
?”

Snapping out of his desire-induced trance, Virgil realized the don had asked him a question, but he had no idea what.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking sheepish. “What did you say?”

“That I am getting awfully sleepy now myself,” Don Amondo said, raising a hand to stifle a yawn. Then he smiled at Virgil and said, “You must be as well. You haven’t heard anything I’ve said for the past half hour.”

“Forgive me,
amigo,
” Virgil said. “The truth is I am about to fall asleep where I sit.”

The don rose. “We can’t let that happen.”

Virgil came to his feet. The two men walked out of the library and down the wide center hall toward the front of the hacienda. Side by side they climbed the broad staircase, and reaching the second-floor landing, the don, his lids growing heavy, said, “You know your way, don’t you? Same room where you always stay.”

Nodding, Virgil said, “Good night, my friend.”

“
Buenas noches.
” Don Amondo turned down the silent corridor of the hacienda’s north wing. The family wing.

Virgil went in the opposite direction, down the southern guest wing. His heart slamming against his ribs, he could hardly keep from breaking into a trot as he walked briskly down the silent, shadowy corridor. When he reached the next-to-last door, he stopped and lifted a fist. But he lowered it without knocking. He felt as if all the air had been sucked out of his lungs.

No slice of light showed beneath the door. She had gone to bed, to sleep. She hadn’t waited for him.

Virgil exhaled heavily and turned away. On legs of lead he went on down the hall to the very last door. He entered the familiar room and closed the door quietly behind him. Inside the distinctly masculine room with its dark heavy furniture and stone fireplace and fully stocked bar, a lone lamp burned beside the turned-down bed. Virgil extinguished it.

His eyes narrowed, he moved to the bar in the semidarkness, lifted the stopper of a leaded liquor decanter, and poured himself a stiff bourbon. He drained it in one long swallow and set the glass aside. The straight whiskey burned its way down into his chest, but it was nothing compared to the fierce heat plaguing his body. An invasive, tormenting heat that could not be alleviated by stripping off his clothes.

Grimacing, Virgil impatiently unknotted the scarlet silk neckpiece tied at his throat. The knot undone, he let the colorful scarf hang loose around his neck. He unbuttoned his white silk shirt midway and drew a deep, slow breath in a futile attempt to relax his taut limbs. He raked a lean hand through his night-black hair. He pinched the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes.

And saw her face.

He opened his eyes and stalked around the darkened bedroom like a caged animal, every muscle in his tall, lithe body coiled as tightly as a watch spring. He silently cursed the bewitching beauty who had gazed so invitingly at him throughout dinner, had led him to believe that she wanted him. That she could hardly wait for the two of them to be alone together.

Virgil stopped pacing, shook his dark head.

She didn’t want him. She wanted him to want her. She wanted to tease and toy with him, then turn him down flat. Virgil’s innate distrust of women fueled his growing doubts. He had been a fool to think she wanted him the way he wanted her. Damn her to hell! She was beautiful, but cruel. Fascinating, but pitiless. The consummate mistress of deceit.

Virgil stopped pacing, took a cigar from a gleaming silver case that sat atop a drum table, and lit it. Feeling as if he might suffocate, he crossed the room to the open double doors. He stepped out onto the balcony, seeking a much-needed breath of fresh air. He stood in the moonlight smoking the cheroot, cursing himself for his weakness, cursing her for stirring emotions in him that he had, until now, deliberately eluded.

The princess saw him the minute Virgil stepped out onto the balcony, and for a moment she stopped breathing entirely. She watched unblinking as he walked to the railing. She stared helplessly as he stood there calmly smoking a cigar, its hot tip glowing orange in the moonlight.

There was no question but that it was he. That magnificent physique. Those firm masculine features. That inky black hair. He was an arresting figure of a man who would appeal to any woman. To all women. He certainly appealed to her.