Savage Enchantment (6 page)

"You can't really blame Francesca for preferring Simon Reyes over the Russian officer." Doña Arcadia said.

"Why do you say that?" Kathleen asked, with an inflection of casual interest.

Doña Arcadia's dark brown eyes regarded Kathleen wisely. "Well, you must admit that Simon is not as handsome, but --"

The woman's eyes took on a speculative look as Simon turned to find Francesca at his side. He seemed to give the girl his full attention, and a slight smile hovered at the ends of his long lips.

"There's something about him," Doña Arcadia resumed. "His tough defiance -- and his genuine interest in women ... when he asserts himself ... that makes his rough masculine looks undenyingly attractive."

Kathleen arched a sceptical brow.

"Well, never mind," the other woman said, "You'll find out."

Kathleen's gaze strayed to Simon. Dressed in a jacket of black silk, a richly embroidered waistcoat, short breeches with white stockings, and deerskin shoes made by his Indian workers, his lean, tall physique did indeed cut an impressive figure.

But, unlike Francesca, Kathleen had no intention of succumbing to the ranchero's rugged attractions.

Amelia brushed out the golden hair of her young mistress. The lovely
maestra
had already, in one short month, captured the affection of all of Valle del Bravo.

Everyone, that is, thought the plump, brown girl, except
el patrón.
A pity, she mused. For though Señor Simon looked as ferocious as Satan himself, he had been more than fair in his dealings with the servants since he came to Valle del Bravo.

And the
maestra
-- Amelia looked in the mirror at the reflection of the young lady who sat dispassionately before her. Although the
maestra
was gentleness itself, and very patient in the hours she spent teaching them, there was something about her -- a fierceness that matched
el patrón's.

Perhaps it was the way the violet eyes slanted -- or the tawny mane that framed the golden face.
La señorita
reminded Amelia of some cat that would come down from the mountains to drink from the ponds ... never to be tamed, only subdued by a mate of equal spirit. Yes, she was glad that
el patrón,
on his return from the Escandón fiesta, had told her to care for the
maestra
during the long months of fiestas ahead.

Simon Reyes occupied Kathleen's thoughts too. Why did she feel so uneasy around him? Not since that rainy night at his cabin had he been anything but polite to her, though in an almost mocking way. True, he had probably heard the gossip spread by those two spinsters -- and had seen her on the beach with the detestable Aguila. But was that any reason to judge her -- when his own past seemed just as open to speculation.

And believing her to be a woman of easy virtue -- or worse -- what could Simon have been told by Nathan Plummer to make him change his mind and return to interview her?

However, Simon's poor opinion of her was little to worry about, since she rarely saw him anyway. He was always gone, often for days at a time. And, fortunately for her, on the days he did spend on the rancho, he would ride out early in the morning with his vaqueros to hunt wild horses or round up stray cattle, the
cimarrones,
and not return until late at night.

And that was another thing. Kathleen noticed that in spite of his Spanish surname, Simon did not adhere to many of the Latin customs, such as taking the heaviest meal in the middle of the day. Rather, after his return, he would bathe, then dine alone at the long, heavy table of oak.

But that night, after Amelia left Kathleen, things were to be different. There was a timid knock at Kathleen's door as she brushed her teeth before the pine-framed mirror over the bureau. She pulled the lawn wrapper about her.
"Sí?"
she asked.

"Perdóneme,"
Amelia said, opening the door slightly and sticking her round, pigtailed head through the aperture.
"El Patrón
would like to see you in the dining room."

"At this hour? It's almost ten, Amelia. Can't it wait until tomorrow?"

Amelia's eyes widened, and she opened her mouth, then closed it. Of course, thought Kathleen, no one keeps
el patrón
waiting. "Tell Señor Reyes I'll be there in five minutes,
por favor."

Amelia bobbed her head in relief.
"Sí,
Señorita Catalina."

Kathleen put on one of three day-dresses Amelia had made up for her in the weeks since the fiesta, a lilac batiste with ribbon sashes, and pinned her hair up in a chignon, but did not bother with the spectacles, in her haste to dress.

She realized it would be the first time Simon had seen her without the disguising glasses, but in the dimness of the scented candlelight she doubted whether Simon would notice. Yet from the far end of the table she saw the scarred brow raise in mild amusement.

"Yes?" she asked, ignoring the twitch of his lips. "You wanted me?"

"Take a seat, Kathleen. Maria Jesus'll bring you something to eat."

No, thank you. I've already eaten."

Kathleen noticed that he looked tired; the lines around his mouth seemed harsher, deeper. And against the whiteness of the linen shirt, his face, normally as bronzed as an Indian's, looked pale.

"I asked you to sit," he said evenly. The green eyes, as fathomless as mirrors, watched her, waiting.

"Very well." Kathleen took the seat at the end opposite Simon, remaining silent as Maria Jesus brought in another plate. Kathleen took a few tentative bites, noticing that Simon did not eat much either, though he consumed a great deal of the sangría from the decanter Maria Jesus had left on the table.

When the strain of the silence began to grate on Kathleen's nerves, Simon spoke. "The workers -- what have you taught them so far? Are they willing to learn?"

Kathleen put down her fork. "At first they were hesitant. Especially the older servants. The first week Maria Jesus refused to come to the arbor. Declared she was too old. But she comes now and listens, though she still won't participate."

"And Diego?"

"Diego's quick, you know. He and Amelia seem the most promising. He's picked up English remarkably fast. And since he's started coming, I've found that after the
comida
some of your shepherds and vaqueros steal into the arbor during the siesta hour instead of resting.

Kathleen leaned forward, her great purple eyes shining with pleasure. "They sit quietly, like Maria Jesus, not saying anything. But I know they're assimilating most of what I say. DO you realize, Simon," she went on eagerly, "what could be accomplished if only ten of the Indians who work for you learn to read and write? Think of it! With an education they could raise themselves out of the squalid --"

Kathleen broke off, aware of the inscrutable expression in the eyes that watched her so closely.

"You're a surprising woman."

Kathleen was unsure how to take the statement. "I ... Thank you," she concluded awkwardly, putting her napkin on the table. "If you'll excuse me -- if that's all, I'd like to --"

"No, it isn't. I want to talk with you about your job."

"you're not satisfied/" she asked, perplexed.

"As tutor -- sure. But I want you to take on an added task -- mistress of the hacienda."

Simon nodded at the portrait of Doña Delores that hung on the far wall. Kathleen had never liked the portrait and found it hard to believe that the heavyset woman with the faint shadow of a mustache over the bitter line of the lips was the famed beauty Father Marcos had mentioned.

I'd hoped Doña Delores would stay on as mistress here, but she died shortly after I arrived." His face grim, he went on. "Since everyone seems quite enchanted with your ... charms, I'd like for you to be responsible for the household -- to see that all runs smoothly at the fiestas that'll be held here."

"Until another tutor can be brought out?" Kathleen lifted one slim brow.

The corners of Simon's lips curved in a lopsided grin. "So you're reminding me of the nasty behavior I displayed at the mission? Yes, until another tutor can be brought out."

Kathleen rose. "Then I'll bid you good night."

Simon nodded, and she left the room, savoring the fleeting moment of triumph.

Once in bed, Kathleen found she was too excited to sleep. Her impulsive flight from her father and Edmund was working out far better than she could have hoped for. She was actually enjoying the simple life of the rancho and even found Simon pleasant to work for at times.

Hours later she still lay awake, wide-eyed and restless. She had long since discarded the thin coverlet as the heat seeped through the thick adobe walls. The moon splattered slanted patterns on the tile floor, beckoning her outside.

Once more Kathleen slipped into the wrapper at the foot of the bed and, softly throwing open the veranda doors, followed the silvery path of moonlight outside, across the cool tiles to the wrought iron railing.

There was not the smallest breeze, and her tangled curls lay damply against her neck, hanging heavily to her waist. With a movement as graceful as the mountain cat Amelia had compared her to, she stretched, lifting the mass of spun-gold hair over her arms, high off her back.

Something made her turn, made her aware of another's presence. In the shadows she saw only the red glare of a cigar tip, but she knew it was Simon who silently watched her.

"I-I didn't know anyone else was about," she murmured to the darker shadow. She pulled the wrapper tighter about her. "I couldn't sleep. The heat, I'm not used to it."

"It's the still before the Santa Ana," Simon said, getting up from where he sat on the wooden bench. He came to her side and tossed the cigar over the railing so that the red tip arced in the blackness of the night like a shooting star. "The desert winds -- the Santa Anas -- they come the last of May. The ocean breezes suddenly halt, and the hot, dry winds come whirling down the canyons, through the passes, and rush out into the valleys."

"You talk like you've been in quite a few of these Santa Anas."

Simon glanced at her sharply. "Once is enough. The winds are harsh and burning. They rip off palm leaves, snap branches, and topple over eucalyptus trees. They bring so much dust and heat that no one dares make a light -- even a stove."

Intrigued and drawn by the low, even cadence of his voice, Kathleen unconsciously leaned on the railing close to Simon.

"How long do these winds last?"

"A few days. After the winds stop, there's a celebration to coincide with the roundup. During the day, there are rodeos and the branding of the calves. And at night, barbeques and dancing."

"It must all be quite exciting," she said softly.

"You'll find out for yourself," Simon said, rising from the railing. "Unless you decide to run away again."

Kathleen looked up quickly. How much did he know? But the rough-cast face in the moonlight was enigmatic. The heavy-lidded eyes held hers, as if calmly waiting.

"I'd better go back inside," she said in a husky whisper, feeling more like a silly schoolgirl than a grown woman. "It's late."

"Come here, Kathleen."

She froze in the act of turning away. His hands were warm on her shoulders as he came up behind her, pulling her against him. "Are you afraid?" he whispered at her ear.

Kathleen's breath was as bellows in her lungs.
Yes!
she wanted to cry out.
I'm afraid to submit to the demand of your kisses ... to the power man holds over woman ... and the pain.
But the words never reached her lips.

Simon turned her to face him, and his mouth closed over hers. For a long moment Kathleen stood immobile against him. There was the heavy, sweet smell of sangría on his breath.

Then, as his lips left hers and roamed over her face, lightly tracing a trail that came to rest at her ear, Kathleen's legs began to tremble. She felt a warmth spread throughout her belly. To keep from sagging, she caught at his shoulders and felt him wince.

Instantly she drew away. "What is it, Simon?"

"It's nothing. I was hurt riding herd today. Diego tended to it this evening."

But Kathleen's left hand came away damp and sticky. "Your wound needs to be rebandaged."

Simon chuckled in the darkness. "I'm kissing you, and all you can think of is tending a wound?"

But he submitted and let her lead him to the kitchen. While he removed his shirt, Kathleen lit a candle and searched through the shelves for a clean cloth. When she turned around, Simon was sprawled in the rickety chair at the table. In the light of the candle the hair that matted the wide expanse of chest shone like the glossy pelt of some forest creature. She colored faintly as she realized she was staring at his naked torso with fascination.

Briskly she moved to him, laying th ecloth and scissors on the table. "It won't take long," she said in a businesslike voice.

Kathleen still trembled from Simon's kiss. She was angry -- at Simon for taking advantage of the fact she was hired help, at herself for letting her emotions get out of control. It could be disastrous for her if she should be forced to leave the sheltering hideaway of the hacienda.

Ignoring the lips that curled in faint amusement, she gently pulled at the old bandage, clotted with blood. Once, when the cloth adhered to the skin, she quickly stripped it away, knowing it must hurt. But Simon said nothing, only watched her.

"Simon, you've been grazed by a bullet!"

"One of the vaquero's guns went off."

Kathleen picked up the candle, holding it close so that she could see while she deftly stanched the slow trickle of blood. As she finished, her gaze involuntarily strayed to the muscled column of Simon's neck. For the first time she marveled at the beauty in the masculine physique.

Then the candle began to shake in her hand as she stared unbelievingly at Simon's earlobe.
Dear God, no! It couldn't be!
But yes, there it was. In the light of the quivering candle could be seen the slight indentation in the lobe. A pierced year.

You!" The single word came out as hot and blistering as the Santa Ana. "You're the vaquero at La Palacia!"

She would have killed him then; would have buried the scissors in his heart. But Simon was swifter. In one liquid, quick movement he caught her wrist in a steel grasp as she lunged for the scissors.

The candle fluttered out on the floor.

"I'll kill you, I swear!" Tears of anger coursed down her cheeks. "I'll make you pay for what you did to me, Simon Reyes! You're4 a loathsome, bestial savage!"

Simon laughed softly as he jerked her against him so that the scissors fell to the floor with a clang. "I seriously doubt that you'll kill me, Catalina. For, where would you run next? Or don't you know that rewards were posted today in every town on the California coast" -- one side of the lean lips lifted in a cruel smile -- "for information leading to the whereabouts of a Miss Kathleen Whatley."

He shoved her from him. "Yes, I'm your vaquero, and you,
mí vida,
are Kathleen Whatley, are you not? What crime are
you
running from?"