Gypsy Lady (62 page)

A
tremor went through her body and, a pathetic catch in her
voice,
she asked painfully, "Would it have mattered if I'd had other
lovers?"

His
arms tightened painfully, and thickly he muttered, "It would have mattered
like the devil! Once I possessed you, I never would have been able to stomach
the thought of others having lain with you! How I suffered from the very idea
of you and Adam being lovers!
Mon Dieu,
it
doesn't bear thinking of!"

Pain
spreading like a canker in her body, she lay in his arms savoring these minutes
of bittersweet joy—they might be the last she would ever know with him. She attempted
to tell Jason of Davalos's act, but the words refused to speak themselves.
Then Jason's mouth sought hers, and for a second she responded with all the
love and longing in her young, ardent body; but as happened before when Jason's
kiss deepened and his hands began to caress her—shudderingly, horrifyingly it
wasn't Jason any longer! The lips, so warm against hers, were Davalos's and the
terror and loathing they evoked shook her body. Uncontrollably she began to
shake, and with revulsion screaming in her every movement, she thrust herself
violently out of Jason's embrace.

Startled,
he stared at this white-faced, wild-eyed creature before him. "What's the
matter?" he asked, puzzled, and made to reach for her.

Sick
with dread, unable to control
herself
, she sobbed,
"Oh, my God! Don't touch me! I can't bear it when you do!"

His
face frozen with stunned disbelief, Jason demanded sharply, "What the hell
are you talking about?"

A
paralyzing iciness spreading with each passing instant, Gathering tried again
to speak, but her tongue refused to obey. And patiently, like an adult with a
particularly shy child, Jason asked, "What is it?"

Her lips
trembled traitorously, but the words stuck until finally, bluntly, she said,
"I can't tell you. Please don't ask me."

Narrowed
eyes mercilessly raked her face. Softly, deliberately, he said, "Not good
enough. You don't tell me you love me with one breath and the next push me
away.
like
I was going to rape you."

She
flinched at the words, and suddenly impatient with her, Jason pulled her into
his arms. It was hell for both of them when the sick loathing that again
overcame her flashed damningly across her delicate features.

Tearing
herself from his embrace, she flew to the door and like an animal at bay faced
him, her violet eyes tortured. Driven to explain away the incredulous, dawning
anger in his face she moaned, "Oh, Jason, it's not
you!
It's Davalos! He—he—" She was not able to say
the words, but her meaning was unendurably clear.

All
color fled Jason's face, leaving it shockingly white,
his
green eyes glittering in its paleness. Intent upon her own misery she didn't
see the anguish in their depths—She only heard the iciness of his voice when he
rasped, "He raped you?"

A
tiny, tormented nod was her answer. She couldn't bear to look at his face, to
see the disgust and censure that would be there. Braced against the door, she
cried silently inside, unaware of the weary little monologue she muttered
aloud.

"I
fought him, but he tied my hands. It was like a nightmare, and I couldn't stop
him. I wanted to die—he only did it once—thank God! I think I would have killed
myself if he had touched me again."

She
raised her head and stared into his eyes, flinching at what was revealed in
their green depths. She saw the white-hot anger and fury in his face and
completely and utterly misjudged the reasons for it. She couldn't know of the
raw pain that clawed at his gut at the sudden sharp knowledge that she had been
forced to endure such degradation because of him. Nor did she guess that at
least some of the blazing anger was directed at
himself
for not having protected her better, for not having kept her safe from danger
that morning at Terre du Coeur. He cursed his own stupidity for not suspecting
what had happened and felt sick inside at the thought of what she had suffered
—and all because he had lost control and snarled when he should have cajoled.
His hands clenched into fists, thinking with painful clarity of Davalos daring
to take her against her will, and his mouth grew thin and ugly. Seeing it, Catherine
could bear it no longer. "Oh, my God, Jason it wasn't my fault! I'm only a
woman, and my hands were bound!" The words were flung at him angrily, and
now weeping uncontrollably, she threw herself down on the bed.

At
her actions, his own anger fled, and he was left with only a desire to comfort,
to take her into his arms and reassure her of his love and to somehow erase
the shame and pain of what had happened.

He
reached out to touch her and Catherine, on the verge of hysteria, slapped his
hand aside. Glaring at him, she spat, "Don't touch me! Don't ever touch me
again! I hate you! Do you understand—
I hate you!"

And
at that moment Jason believed her, retreating instantly behind a cold
exterior. It was an endless night for both of them. Catherine, lying dry-eyed
after that first outburst of tears and staring at the wooden beams, wished the
iciness that radiated from Jason would freeze her numb so she could no longer
feel anything.

Wearily,
she dragged herself from the bed the next morning and with dull eyes watched as
Jason packed. "We're leaving for Terre du Coeur?" she asked flatly.

His
own face stony, he said, "There is no reason for us to stay here
now." And Catherine was certain her heart shriveled and died in that
instant.

It
didn't take Jason long to pack everything, and after saddling the horses they
mounted silently and left the hidden valley, each mourning the loss of the
bright happiness that had seemed theirs for that short while. There was no
conversation between them, for they had nothing to say. And Jason, tortured by
Catherine's expression, found relief
of a sorts
by
dwelling upon Blood Drinker, his thoughts winging to the Cherokee as they made
their way steadily towards Terre du Coeur.

Blood
Drinker had no need of Jason's thoughts, for his own scheme for Davalos was
rapidly approaching fruition. He had found the Spaniard effortlessly, and his
emotions hidden behind a blank façade, he had offered bluntly to guide Davalos
to the gold the Spaniard coveted so desperately. Suspicious, Davalos had
hesitated until Blood Drinker had said scornfully, "You will never learn
of it from Jason. Nolan is dead, and I am the only one who can guide you to
it."

His
black eyes narrowed, Davalos asked, "Why will
you
show me?"

Blood
Drinker raised one eyebrow and with apparent candor admitted, "You will
plague Jason until you possess it. Jason does not desire the gold, but if you
will share it with me evenly, I will show you the way."

Hiding
his elation and secretly laughing at Blood Drinker's stupidity, Davalos had
agreed smoothly. The soldiers had never known the reasons behind their lieutenant's
actions—they had merely followed orders assuming that Jason had committed some
crime against Spain and that capturing his wife had been a stroke of luck that
could be used to make him give himself up. They followed blindly wherever
Davalos ordered them, but when he commanded them into Comanche territory, there
were frightened mutters that grew with every mile they traveled —and their
fears were not lessened by the fact that their guide was none other than
an
Indian himself!

Impassively,
Blood Drinker led the way, never saying more than was necessary, until one
night he motioned to Davalos that he wished to speak privately with him. Striding
a little distance from the others, he asked, "Will you share it with
them?" A vehement shake was his answer.
"Absolutely
not!
What would
they
do
with it?" Davalos asked contemptuously.

Blood
Drinker, his eyes curiously gentle, inquired, "How then do you propose to
keep it from them if I lead you to it?"

"Is
it near?"

A slow affirmative nod from Blood Drinker.

"Very
near?"
Again another nod.
Davalos, his eyes
gleaming with avarice demanded, "Show me!"

"The others?"

Davalos
bit his lip. "If we leave while they're sleeping, you can show me, and
then we can rejoin them before they become suspicious."

Blood
Drinker nodded indifferently, and so while the others slept that night, they
crept away. For two hours, they rode in silence until Davalos complained,
"I thought you said it was near."

"It
is,"
came
the quiet reply. Another hour passed,
and dawn was lurking just over the canyon's rim when Davalos snapped, "How
much farther? We'll never make it back without the others knowing we've been
away and up to something."

Appraisingly,
Blood Drinker slowly looked up and down the canyon. In another hour the sun
would be shining high
overhead,
and smiling faintly,
he noted the dry, barren plain before them. They were miles from nowhere, deep
in Comanche territory, and there was no doubt the sleeping Spanish soldiers
left behind would find it impossible to track them through the canyons into
which he had led Davalos. He stopped his horse suddenly and when Davalos drew
abreast struck him with the butt of his rifle like a striking snake. The butt
caught the unprepared man full on the chin, and like a crumpled sack of meal,
he fell to the ground.

Smiling
now, an ugly smile for such a handsome face, Blood Drinker worked swiftly,
rapidly stripping Davalos of every vestige of clothing, and then methodically
he laid the unconscious man, spread-eagled, on the sand and with ease bound his
wrists and ankles with dampened rawhide. After driving four stakes, which he
had carried concealed in his bedroll, deep into the canyon floor, he secured
the rawhide to them. Satisfied, he watched the sun rise, blazing and hot over
the canyon rim, and almost gently he nudged Davalos awake.

Davalos
awoke, and fear widened his eyes as he stared up into the face of death—knowing
it was death that stared back at him out of the Indian's eyes. Blood Drinker
squatted down beside him, and almost lovingly he slowly cut away Davalos's
eyelids, completely unmoved by the Spaniard's screams. The eyes, now
unprotected, were left open to face the mercilessly burning sun, and from the
shade of an overhanging cliff, Blood Drinker sat and waited patiently for
Davalos to die. The man's pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears as stonily Blood
Drinker waited silently for his self-imposed vigil to end.

The
way he had chosen for the Spaniard to die was not pleasant, but then Davalos
was not a pleasant person; and knowing the grief this man had caused, Blood
Drinker was satisfied. This was the only way for him to die. By dawn on the
third day, Davalos was barely alive, and Blood Drinker, his face revealing
little, squatted once more by his side and said softly, "It is not good
for a man to die without knowing why. I kill you this way not for Nolan's
death, who Jason loved as a brother, but because you dared to strike at Jason,
my
brother. You see," he went on almost gently, "we
cannot live knowing you are a blade at our backs, and I chose this way to
punish you a little before death for the anguish you have caused my
brother." The gentleness vanished, and if Davalos's eyes, long since eaten
out by the desert creatures, could have seen, terror would have been reflected
there as the Indian purposefully fingered the long, razor-sharp knife in his hand.
His hand rested for an instant on Davalos's genitals, and then he said clearly,
"For my brother's wife," and the blade slashed downwards, and
Davalos's scream of agony echoed down the canyon. Without a backwards glance,
Blood Drinker left the wreck of the dying man lying in a slowly widening pool
of blood and mounted his horse and began the long trek home.

He
arrived at the plantation well ahead of Jason's time limit of two months.
Riding in just at dusk one evening, he stopped at the big house, meeting Jason
on the steps—a Jason clean-shaven and once more dressed as a gentleman. They
stared long and hard at each other, and Blood Drinker finally said quietly,
"It is done."

Jason's
hand tightened on his arm, and he asked after a moment, "Do you wish to
tell Catherine yourself?"

The
taste of what he had done strong in his mouth, Blood Drinker said, "No.
Tell her only that he suffered for what he had done."

Thoughtfully,
Jason watched the Indian ride off in the direction of the bunkhouse, and slowly
he entered the house. The three men, Guy, Adam, and Jason, had been enjoying
their after-dinner wine when word of Blood Drinker's return had been brought,
but Jason did not rejoin them in the dining room; instead, he walked to the
big salon where Catherine, dressed in a pretty gown of green silk, sat talking
animatedly to her mother.