Aztec Rage (48 page)

“They would have killed us,” I whispered in her ear. “We did the right thing.”

Relief was also flooding my body, which, in combination with our simulated sex act, made my aroused manhood rise even higher. In fact the hammer of my love was now throbbing poignantly, painfully with pent-up desire.

She must have felt the same way, because her flower suddenly, magically opened. Since it was unwise to separate—the French soldier could return at any moment—we had to make it look good, no? My garrancha, having a mind of its own, decided to make it look
very
good. Her secret treasure seemed to have the same idea. Her blossom not only opened but reflexively tilted up just as I instinctively leaned forward. Excitement once again overwhelmed my survival instincts, and before I knew it I was in her.

I moved my left hand onto her breast; the other went down between her legs to her trigger of passion. There, I teased and tantalized the tender bud of her passionflower with my finger. Moving my left hand to her delectable derrière, I was now lifting her off the ground a full foot at a time with each bump and pump of my powerful hips.

Perhaps we were relieved at having survived the French dragnet, energized
by the thrilling sense that we might live after all. Whatever it was, our desires and needs had overwhelmed us. We did not like each other—her hatred of me was indisputably homicidal—but that somehow made it better.

Dropping her to the ground, I fell on top of her in the alley. We had more leverage this way, and we were instantly banging at each other like hammer and anvil, as if all the demons in hell were struggling to escape our libidinous loins, as if our pelvises were weapons, battering rams in the siege-war of lust. She felt like she had steel plates in hers, and she pounded mine so hard it swelled and turned livid. None of which slowed me down . . . not with spasm after spasm after spasm of lecherous lust pumping out of me and out of her over and over and over and over.

Breathless, exhausted, covered with dirt, we finally rose, straightened our clothes and waited for the French to clear out of the street.

Kneeling, with my back to the wall, I closed my eyes and sighed when a knife was suddenly at my throat. Without moving, I gaped at the woman holding it.

“I would kill you for raping me, but Casio would be angry.”

Rape? Shades of Marina! I wanted to correct her false impression of our lovemaking; she had thrust her frangipani at me. I decided, however, not to argue with a woman as quick with a knife as she. Most women are soft and pliable after lovemaking. This one only got meaner.

I gently pushed the blade away from my throat. “I forgot to tell you Carlos's message for you. Just before the ghost left his body, he said to tell you that you're doing God's will, not committing a sin, but following the path God chose for you.”

She glared at me. “What more did he say?”

“That was all.” I grinned. “He never told me your sins, if that's what you are wondering.”

Rosa tapped the knife blade against her palm. “I have no sins, Señor Pícaro.”

Eh, I had a new name. A pícaro was a low-class rogue and scoundrel, a vile thief and defiler of women. She thought she was insulting me, but after having been called a lépero, bandido, traitor, murderer, and worse, being labeled a pícaro was not a slander.

SIXTY-SIX

G
OOD NEWS
,”
CASIO
told me effusively. “You can at last be a hero for your country.”

Associating with Spaniards had taught me that in their lexicon
dead
and
hero
were often indistinguishable.

“I am ready to serve the cause of liberty,” I lied.

“You're lying, of course. Rosa has already reported to me that you are a worthless scoundrel. Under ordinary circumstances, I would cut out your liver and feed it to my dog, but . . .” he paused and grinned, “your ability to dupe others and survive is phenomenal. You've managed to avoid the colony's hangmen as well as those in Cádiz and, so far, even those in Barcelona. Being a thief, a murderer, and a confidence man could be invaluable in this small war we wage against an overwhelming adversary. We will have abundant time to deal with your crimes after we've driven the French back over the Pyrénées.”

He told me that most of the battle plans Napoleon sends to his generals in command of armies in Spain come over the Pyrénées and through Barcelona.

“The emperor keeps his hands tight on the Spanish throat,” Casio said. “He allows his commanders little leeway, because they've suffered so many defeats at the hands of our regulars and guerrillas. We have information from a source at French headquarters inside the Ciutadella that a major campaign to sweep the resistance from our province will begin shortly. A general will carry Napoleon's orders to his field commanders in Barcelona. He'll attend a ball in his honor. The next morning he will assemble a group of high-ranking officers and give them their orders.

“The general, Habert, goes nowhere without his attaché case, which contains copies of the emperor's commands. We need to obtain a copy of those orders. The simplest method would be to ambush him and his escort, but then the French would know we had their plans.”

“You want to copy them without him knowing,” I said.

“Exactly. We need to slip one out of his attaché case, quickly copy it, and return the original. Naturally, it would have to be copied by someone who is fluent in French.”

“Many people in Barcelona speak—”

“True, but we asked for someone from Cádiz because of the high risk that our own people would be recognized. Besides, while we have many people who can speak a little French, few can read it.”

I now realized why Colonel Ramírez had chosen “Carlos” for the mission. Carlos had had a talent for slipping plans out of an attaché case, copying, and putting them back. Because of his known French sympathies, they wouldn't suspect him. If the plans included drawings of fortifications, Carlos could also duplicate them. Drawing was a talent I didn't have, and I, too, didn't read French as well as I spoke it. But these were not points to urge upon a man when my life was hanging by a thread and he held a dagger. To refuse the mission would be suicidal.

“How do I get my hands on the plan?”

“A noble woman who the French believe is sympathetic to their
cause—will give a ball in the general's honor. She is also, shall we say, a woman”—his smile at this point scintillated—”of charismatic charm and irresistible beauty. She will see to it that the plan is removed and replaced after you are through with it.”

I didn't like anything about his scheme. Where the general went with his attaché case, troops of French dragoons would follow close behind. I also suspected that Casio had other plots up his sleeve, and my survival wasn't part of the plan. My own suspicious nature and lack of confidence in the innate goodness of my fellow man led me to suspect friend and foe alike. Among other things, if the guerrillas really wanted the French not to know I'd copied the plans, they could dispel that possibility by killing me.

I felt a little like I did when the Mayan war chief ordered my heart served blood-rare as his main entrée.

SIXTY-SEVEN

W
E'RE POSING AS
servants,” Rosa told me.

The noblewoman's palace was half a day's journey from the city.

“French guards will watch the palace. Only servants will be able to move freely, and even we will be scrutinized. Their mistress is known for her . . . projets d'amours, as the French say.”

“She likes to bed men?” I asked.

Rosa growled something unintelligible but disparaging.

These Spanish noblewomen must be lusty wenches, I thought to myself. I had already bedded one of them in the colony, though she was of French blood. Could it be the same woman? I asked Rosa the name of the woman whose palace we were going to.

“That's not your concern.”

I didn't argue the point. For certain, the woman I'd met was not a Spanish patriot.

“You'll be working as a wine steward,” Rosa said. “Late in the evening, you'll carry brandy to her bedchamber and remain there in an adjoining room. She will entertain General Habert privately. She'll slip a sleeping powder into his brandy and call you when it's taken effect. You'll remove the campaign plan from the attaché case, quickly copy it, and put it back.” She grinned at me. “It's a very simple plan.”

I smiled and nodded, as if I were artless enough to believe her. I was to steal a military plan from a French general surrounded by French officers. A simple plan? My feelings about the plan could be expressed by a single word:
gallows!

For one thing the plan presumed that the French were fools. I didn't assume that French generals who had conquered most of Europe were incontrollable cretins.

“The French officers will be gambling and whoring.” Rosa eyed me narrowly. “Unless you want me to cut out your apple, you will behave yourself.”

What is it about me that made this woman's bloodlust boil over one minute and her passion ignite the next? I had incited many señoritas to amorous feats and peaks, but this was the first woman whose lust for me was intrinsically homicidal.

The noblewoman's home was palatial. It would have humiliated the viceroy's palace in Méjico City almost as badly as a servant's uniform humiliated me. It didn't fit.

“It's not my size,” I told Rosa. The jacket was too small, the breeches too tight and short.

She stared down at my male parts bulging in the crouch. “Can't you hide that thing?”

“It's being strangled.”

“Keep it under control, or I'll cut it off.”

There she went again, wanting to turn me into a
castrato
, a church choirboy who has had his cojones cut off to ensure he will never lose his sweet soprano voice. Women were not permitted to sing in church choirs, so the church turned men into women. Perhaps she desired men who sang with a voice higher-pitched than mine?

“Take this tray of wine goblets into the great hall,” she said.

As I came into the huge room, a French officer brushed by me as if I were invisible, arrogantly bumping my tray, spilling the wine. He walked away—no, strutted—without acknowledging his discourtesy.

Rosa was immediately in my face, hissing like a snake. “Stay in character, you fool. You look ready to challenge him to a duel.”

She was right; I should be looking for an escape route, not preparing to fight the French army. I put a blank-eyed smile on my face, hoping it would make me look harmless and stupid, and circulated.

What a life the conquerors had: fine food, fine wines, and the best-looking putas I'd ever seen. In one of the rooms, card tables had been set up. I noticed that most of the bets were placed with jewelry, gems that had obviously belonged to Spanish households. One officer, a captain of cavalry, announced as he threw a ring on the table that it was still bloodied from the finger he'd cut it off. The table erupted with laughter.

To the victors go the spoils, no? But from the way the guerrillas fought back, many of these arrogant bastardos would soon dine with the devil.

I was on my third tray of goblets and humility when the roomful of officers parted like the Red Sea and a woman of inexpressible beauty floated across the room toward me. Honey-hued hair down to her waist, dazzlingly
bejeweled, eyes that scintillated like sin itself, she was exquisitely accoutered in a silver gown of sheer pongee silk fit for a queen . . . or a countess.

The earth vanished beneath my feet. I stared into my open grave, certain my hell-forged soul had vacated my body.

“Keep moving with that wine,” Camilla, Countess de Valls, snapped at me. She stared at me, with that noble eye that sees through servants but doesn't acknowledge that they're human.

Swaying on my feet, I had difficulty breathing. Rosa was suddenly in my face again. “You heard the countess: keep the wine moving.!”