Wild Sierra Rogue (27 page)

Rafe scratched that mangled canine ear. “I should have slammed the door in Margarita's face, when she showed up at my
vacáda.
But, damn, my little friend, can you imagine all I would have missed, if she weren't around?”

Harping. Nagging. Fault-finding.

To her credit, she'd done something he hadn't been able to do. She'd gotten him to Mexico. And here he was, sprawling on a rich man's bed and partaking of a routine allowed only to the most privileged. No telling how long he'd be here. Olga had been informative, where Margarita should have been. Their mother had no intention of going back to her
viejo
, and her most exasperating daughter—whose name started with an
M—
had ideas to escort her back across the Chihuahuan Desert. Naturally, she hadn't mentioned any of this to Rafe.

The witch.

And she'd conveniently forgotten, it seemed, about Xzobal. Did she propose they traipse all over Mexico with a hunted priest in the entourage?

What happened to her promises for the revolution? “Down a sinkhole.” He uttered the most basic and vulgar curse in the ensemble of his vocabulary, both in English and Spanish.

If there was anything good going on, it was that Arturo had been lying low. But how long would that last?

Caballo whimpered, then bestowed another kiss.

Rafe cringed.
“Sabe Dios
—God knows—if it weren't for her, I wouldn't have to put up with you.”

A whimper of injured canine dignity placed guilt where it ought to be. “You're a good
niño.
I'm glad you're with us. When I send for 'Rita's cats-heyyyy, you're gonna love chasing those cats—I'm gonna send for Frita. Remember your mamá?”

Merdo
. What was he doing, thinking about collecting a menagerie? Margarita wasn't a settling-down lady, and Rafe had several scores to settle. The first? Having a few words with Margarita about switching places with her sister.

Rafe had gotten his aching body off the bed, had somehow dragged that aching body to the door, before he had second thoughts. If she loved him-and she'd never once said it, not even in the throes of passion—she would have made mention of her shameless rotten lie, where they could chuckle over it. Or made love in its honor. Eventually.

But no.

He got back in bed and pulled man's best friend close to his chest. “While I'm getting my strength back, I'll stay away from her. I've got other things to keep me occupied. Like with eyes and spies. And Xzobal.”

“Leonardo, must you be insistent? Why aren't you thankful I've let you back in this
casita?”

Actually, Olga hadn't let him in. Her husband had gotten a key from one of the easily corruptible minions, probably that lecherous Hipólito. Every time she had the misfortune to pass the churl, he crooned, “Ay,
mamacita.”

Thankfully Rafael had taken his leave of her quarters before the count arrived. She didn't wish any trouble on the only man who'd made her want nasty things.

A disgusting hand pawed at her. “Please let me, Olgita, my little Olga.
Por favor.”

“Go to sleep. It's very late.”

“I've been gone for two months, yet you still hold yourself away from me. Oh, I knows. You're still upset about . . . about, well, you know to what I refer. My temper—I'm sorry for it.”

Upset? She hated him. And it had nothing to do with the rape he'd perpetrated on her, which had happened just before he left to perform the wicked business of spying. Two months ago. No, she didn't hate him for violating her person as well as the womb that sheltered her child. Her hatred had been building for years.

His hot breath on her shoulder, she felt his nasty poker drilling at her thigh. He smelled sweetly sweaty, traces of tobacco smoke and the animal stench of fornication clinging to his skin. Attar of roses combined with those other ghastly odors.
He's been to that awful Areponapuchi place.

Too bad he hadn't gotten his fill there, because Olga had no interest in helping him out. The only man she'd consider was Rafael, yet he'd shown no interest in being naughty with her. He claimed to love Maggie; Olga feared it was true.

Wasn't this what she'd set out to accomplish, a match of her beloveds? She'd been noble enough in Granada, at the Alhambra.

Leonardo had never allowed her to return to Texas on her own, even when she had her eyesight, but after everything had fallen into place for their voyage to Mexico and ensuing stay here at Eden Roc, she'd schemed to get Rafael here. Just to be near him, she'd told herself.

It wasn't until her fingers had touched him that the truth climbed up to grab her throat. She wanted him for Olga. That's why she'd begged his silence about her lie. She wanted to keep the peace, while working on winning his love again.
A hopeless plan, I'm coming to believe.

A slobbering kiss drew her attention as well as a shiver of revulsion.

“Was your trip successful?” she asked her husband, aspiring to a subject that would sidetrack his doggedness and her tortured truths. “Did Arturo Delgado allow you to do your will with the spies?”

“Don't say spies. It's such a vulgar word.”

She found it vulgar that he would spy against his wife's country, but what did she know? Being a commoner in the courts of Europe had given her an education. While those in trade were scorned upon, those whose fathers had built their fortunes on pushing cows from Texas to Kansas were considered even less desirable than the garbage pickers of Delhi. Their Imperial and Royal Majesties treated her as if she were refuse on their jeweled slippers. Which hurt her pride. She wanted so desperately to please those around her. She basked in the sunshine of favor.

There'll be more than a mere scandal, once Leonardo's activities come to light.
She had passed a secret to Rafael that could and probably would do her husband in. So be it. It would be the first step in his final payment . . .

His debt had begun years ago, when she'd returned to the shores of Iberia. Leonardo had refused her pleas for a divorce, so she had concocted the rape story. Why? To keep him from venting his fury on her and the—

Her recollections were interrupted as eager fingers started gathering her nightgown up her leg. “My beautiful countess . . .”

“I'm very tired. And my eyes hurt.” Rafael had been advising her to go ahead with surgery to ease her discomfort.
Don't think about him. Or about losing your eyeballs.
“The pain has been very bad.”

“Would you like some of your sleeping powder?”

How he lied with his attentive tone. That was the Count of Granada, nothing but a lie. Immune to punishment, thanks to his rank. And he put on such a good show as devoted husband and prospective father.

She cringed, imagining his eyes on her. “Leave me alone. Go to sleep.”

Once, kindness and patience were your way.
That was before Leonardo, in one of his dreadful fits of temper, had yanked Rafael Delgado's beautiful girl-child from her crib, then dunked the wailing babe's face in a golden chalice filled with wine. He held her until she cried no more.

The pit of darkness was Olga's world, yet she saw all the vivid colors, all the shades and shadows, as if her vision were perfect.
Oh, my little girl. If only I could have saved you!

Leonardo thought he was so, so clever, thought that Olga knew nothing of his crime. Outside the window of the Alhambra, his mother and brother had gagged her, had pinned her arms, had chloroformed her, lest she save her bantling.

The dowager countess had justified it all by saying, “Leonardo loves and reveres you. Yet you sinned against him! You forced my son into putting your bastard out of her misery.”

Her baby hadn't deserved punishment for her mother's sin! Olga damned her in-laws. And she laughed when a carriage overturned the next month, mortally injuring both the Dowager and her younger son. Even before their deaths, Olga had vowed to make her murdering husband pay—and pay with the greatest amount of suffering—for saying he'd rear the babe as his own, then killing her instead.
He's been paying. And he will continue to pay.

It was this lust for vengeance that had kept her from returning to Rafael in 1890. She'd spent these years making Leonardo wish he'd never been born. Soon, her plans and schemes would come to a great and grand conclusion. Soon, the Mexican people would know that yet another devious Hapsburg was using their country to further his Spanish causes.
Like mad dogs, the Mexican peasantry will chew the Count of Granada to shreds.

She snickered.

Her biggest regret in being sightless? That she couldn't see Leonardo's face when he tumbled into the kennel of his own corruption.

“Olgita . . .” Her husband moved away to sit on the edge of the bed and light a cigarette. The smell of smoldering tobacco nauseated Olga. His breath rushed out as he said, “I'm not taking the ambassadorship.”

“Why?”

“I think we should return to Madrid. So my son will be born on Spanish soil. I've arranged for us to leave. Oh, by the way, Arturo Delgado will be accompanying us.”

She couldn't see, but her other senses were more sharply defined, and visions of his fear came to her. “Arturo Delgado? You can barely abide the man.” She waited a moment. “What is he blackmailing you with?”

“Blackmail? Crudity from my own wife? Have you learned nothing from being in the company of royalty?”

Who was the blind one here? “Leonardo, you may not believe it, but I never knew intrigue, backbiting, and treachery until I married you.”

She wormed her way to the far side of the bed, presenting her back and praying for the peace of sleep. She dozed, but came awake with a start when he shook her shoulder.

Leonardo spoke, a strange inflection in his voice. “I thought you said the other guests departed today.”

“All but the Watsons and Sean Moynihan. The Watsons leave tomorrow. I don't know about the Irishman.”

“They aren't the only guests, it appears.” Dead silence fell before Leonardo insisted, “What . . . what is this? Olga—
what is this!”

“What are you talking about?” She heard something, something that sounded like the links of a small chain pinging together.
Oh, no!
When she'd reached out to Rafe, the chain had broken and then—

“This crucifix,” her husband demanded. “Who does it belong to?”

“I have no idea. One of the maids must have dropped it.”

A moment passed. “I don't think so. Unless Rafael Delgado has taken to cleaning chambers.”

“Really, Leonardo, you're being silly.”

“Am I? It's engraved right here on the back. ‘To my brother Rafael Delgado from María Carmen.' ” Leonardo grabbed her wrist, yanking her across the bed. “He's here. You've enticed your Texas lover to Eden Roc. I will kill him. With my bare hands.”

Enjoying his anguish, she tossed his favorite expression back at him. “Leonardo, that is so vulgar.”

 

 

In the wee hours of morning, as the Tarahumara natives began to beat their drums to beg the sun to rise, the voice of reason had a stern talk with Margaret McLoughlin.

Just because he hadn't fallen to her level of yelling and screaming, who was to say Rafe had no passion for her? She had a roaring passion for him, yet she'd backed off, so who could say his thirsts for her had been slaked? Considering the lovemaking they had shared . . . Considering the ties that went beyond making love . . . Considering their cumulative state of physical dysfunction . . . she couldn't be that wrong about Rafe.

She jumped from bed to collect herself and the tools of peacemaking.

As dawn broke, she found him in a small clearing behind the calisthenics pavilion. The other guests had finished exercising, had gone on to the falls. Rafe lingered. He wore cropped white
huipils
that contrasted to his olive complexion and dark hair. Sitting on the ground with his hairy legs stretched out in front of him, he bent toward one foot, then another. Each movement etched agony and popped sweat on his face. When he caught sight of her, he leaned back on his elbows and took a series of restorative breaths.

His crucifix was missing, she noticed, and wondered why

One eye squinted, he hoisted his gaze. “About last night . . .”

“I apologize for it. I've been awful. I hope Eden Roc can heal my head as well as my body. Further, I'm sorry for breaking your walking stick.” She brought her hand from behind her back, extending a crude cypress cane. “It's not fancy, but maybe it will do until I can get you a proper one.”

He took it, rubbed the sweat from his brow, and smiled. “I'll put it to good use. Where did you get it?”

“I, uh”—she shrugged—“my father taught me to whittle.”

“Is there anything you can't do?” he asked, awed.

“I'm not very good at conducting a love affair.”

“Come here.” He winked and crooked a finger at her. “Come sit beside me.”

Facing him, she knelt and rested her palms on her thighs. Loam, grass, and perspiration mingled in her nose, as she offered, “Let me rub your leg.”

“Which one?” he returned, innuendo in his voice.

“The one that took the bullet.” She glanced at the angry red scar. He'd always have a limp, but the outcome could have been much, much worse. Hoping he'd be able to cope with his handicap, she touched the prickly hair of his shin. “I'll grant I'm not as good as Helga at this sort of thing.” Her blue eyes met the silver of his. “But I do have enthusiasm on my side.”

“No. You wouldn't be as good as Helga. You'd be better than that big blond cow. Much better.” His fingers on Margaret's jaw, he rubbed his thumb on her chin, then up to her mouth, and slid it behind her lips to stroke her teeth. “It's not a rubdown I want from you,
querida.
I want to get some honesty between us.”

She nodded.

“We can't stay here forever. As soon as we're patched up, we've got to move out. It appears we have a conflict, though. You want to take your mother to Texas, I want to see my brother to Topolobampo. I won't bend, Margarita. Your mother must put her pretty butt on a ship out of Topolobampo. They can sail up to California, then she can take a train from there.”

“I don't think she'll agree.”

“Then we'll have to leave her. Arturo's got a spy inside Eden Roc. I think it may be Netoc. We tempt the devil, if we don't get out of here forthwith.”

“Rafe, I refuse to leave Mama here. I promised my father, and—” She searched his expression. “Rafe, why do I think this has nothing to do with ‘honesty'?”

“Doesn't it?” He rearranged his legs, wincing. “I went to your sister's cottage, yes. She lured me there by appealing to my sympathies over her blindness and loveless marriage.” He rushed on. “I didn't stay but a couple of minutes. But I won't lie to you, I had some thoughts about refreshing my memory in certain areas with Olga.”

Margaret cringed, but tried to hide it. Hurt clogged her throat. “It . . . it's to be expected. You've loved her for forever and a day.”

“You're good at jumping to a conclusion.”

“What do you mean?” She stared at him, aghast. “Are you saying you don't love her?”

“I'm saying you've been lying for years.”

She studied the flint of his gaze. “What do you mean?”

“If I had a bullet for every time I agonized over you, I could arm a revolution.”

He took hold of her wrist and pulled her fingers to his hot groin. A surge of desire went through her, yet no passion was building in him. He lay slack beneath her fingers. And the razor's edge of hostility scored his expression.

“¿Como fue?
How was it . . . the first time a man touched you here?” He put his thumb on her breast. “Were you in love? Is that why you would've spread your thighs for him? Or were you so desperate for
la cópula,
that any overheated hombre would do?”