Treasure of the Sun (6 page)

Her hands lifted to his hair and clutched at it. It slid silky between her fingers, and she twisted it like a rope to hold his head close to hers. She liked the texture of it; she wanted to massage it with the flat of her palm, but she feared to release her hold. She feared he'd remove his mouth.

Craving flowed from his mouth to hers, a craving that tightened the muscles of her stomach. Then solace came, a teasing morsel for her appetite. Then craving again, stronger this time, building on her previous desire, carrying her up, bringing her body to rigid attention.

This time he didn't feed her. He left her wanting, tearing his mouth from hers. With his thumb on her jaw, he tilted her head back. His lips pressed against the hollow of her neck; she struggled and cried out. She was sensitive there. No one ever touched her there. This man used his tongue and his intoxicating breath, and the sensation wasn't ticklish. It wasn't laughter she felt, but a surge of pure heat to her body.

How could such a kiss radiate from her face, her neck, extend her limbs? How could it seek and find the center of her? A sound struggled to escape her, a release of emotion as she'd never imagined she'd desire.

She suppressed it, but he seemed to know. She could feel his emotion vibrating in his arms. She could feel it lifting her off toes. Then her body was laid on the fainting couch.

A crafty movement, done by a master. Done slowly enough she wasn't alarmed by the perception of falling, yet quickly that she knew what was happening and was alarmed-alarmed by the message he transmitted.

With a sigh, she lifted her heavy eyelids and gazed on him. His thin face revealed harsh satisfaction. "Catriona, do you understand what this means?"

She said nothing, mute with emotions she'd never imagined. “Do you understand?" he insisted. "You'll never go away me now. I've been biding my time, waiting for you. Listen. Do you hear what I'm saying?"

Oh, she heard. She was his, to do with as he liked. She couldn't move unless he allowed it; she couldn't call out or it earned her a kiss. She couldn't refuse his passion, for his passion reduced her intelligence to less than a whisper.

Never taking his eyes from hers, he lifted his knee and pushed between it her thighs.

"Do you understand?" he whispered.

It was too much. For her body, chaste too long; for her dignity, tattered as her dress.

"Understand this!" She jerked back, then forward, bashing him under the chin with her head. Her blow didn't land as it should, for he'd been watching her too closely and read her intentions. But it gave her a chance.

He cursed and caught at her.

The wiry child she'd been had learned her lessons well. In her fights with het cousins, she'd been defeated many times, but only when all four of the boys and both girls had jumped her at once. This fight against one man was almost even when he couldn't wield his most potent weapon-her own sensuality.

One of her fists tapped his Adam's apple before he leapt back. One fist twisted in his shirt collar. If his knee hadn't been so firmly tucked between her legs, she would have had the use of her whole body. The knee held her skirt; the skirt held her waist. She dragged herself to one side, then the other.

He captured one flailing wrist. "Catriona. Hellcat! How many times I have called you that in my mind!”

He captured the other hand; she lifted herself in one giant convulsive effort, one huge bid for freedom. She heard the rip and gasped in dismay.

He heard the rip and smiled a slow and wicked smile. “A new dress my Catriona. You must have a new dress now.”

Bound by a torn dress that would tear more if she moved secured by her hands in his hands, she cried, “Don Damian! You must listen!"

His white teeth flashed. "Tomorrow I can listen.”

"Listen," she urged again, and he lifted his head.

"Don Damian!" The call came from outside the patio door.

"Don Damian, you must come. We’ve run out of wine.”

"Only two more days to go." Katherine comforted the servants as she helped them carry the platters of fruit, cheese, an empanadas out of the kitchen and toward the empty banquet tables under the trees." 

"Two more days and we can start cleaning up, Leocadia said with a pucker of her lips.”That will take days and days and day and days." And to the others, "Space those plates evenly, you fools!"

Katherine grinned at the lady who'd been housekeeper before her. "I can always trust you to view the bright side."

Leocadia's Indian blood kept all expression from her features; her Spanish blood sang in her articulate voice. "Three gigantic meals a day, plus the little tidbits they eat all the time. Don Damian replaced me because he thought I couldn't handle it any longer. I carry fifty-three years on my shoulders, and he thinks one fiesta is going to crush me."

With a thump, Katherine placed her platter on the tablecloth put her arm around Leocadia. "You know he just moved you aside to give me a place where I could stay. You know he fed a sop to my pride."

Not a muscle moved in her face, but Leocadia's brown eyes sideways to examine Katherine. "I knew. I didn't realize you did.”

“I didn't know for sure until just now, when you said so." She smiled at Leocadia's grimace, the woman's acknowledgement that she'd been trapped by Katherine's cleverness. Consoling her, Katherine said, "Why else would he replace a trusted servant? You're healthy, the hacienda is so organized it runs itself, and the patron is not a man who would remove a faithful servant for no reason, so. . . ." She shrugged.

Leocadia plucked a grape from the bunch on the plate and offered it to Katherine. "Eat. You need something to fuel that too-gifted brain of yours." She shooed the half dozen maids. “Move, move. The evening meal is finished, the evening snacks are on the table. Now we must clean and prepare for breakfast in the morning."

Groans of gigantic proportion swept them, and Katherine turned to go back to the kitchen. Leocadia stopped her. "Stay. As you've said, we don't really need you. You can mingle with guests, visit a bit. Perhaps you can find Don Damian and discuss your position as housekeeper."

"No!" Katherine erupted in instinctive rejection. Calming herself, assuring herself that no one knew of the unfortunate incident in the little library, she repeated, "No. Don Damian's too busy with his guests to waste time with me."

Leocadia didn't smile, but Katherine suspected amusement lurked beneath her impassive surface. "Don Damian always has for me. Surely I'm of less importance than the woman privileged in his company. But if you'll not converse with him perhaps you can find an American and have a chance to speak your own language."

"I doubt it. There aren't many Americans here."

"There are too many Americans here.” Her mouth puckered. "They hover like giant moths, waiting to settle and devour the cloth of our world.”

"I don't want to talk to a moth.”

"But you're the flame that draws them.” Leocadia nodded over Katherine's shoulder, then melted into the evening.

"Miz Maxwell.”

Katherine clenched her teeth and pivoted. “Mr Smith, is there something I can get for you?"

"The pleasure of your company." The man towered over her. He was too much of everything. Too tall, too thin, too pleasant, too hearty. He gave a little bow. His long torso seemed ready to topple over, but he never spill a drop of his beer.

He smiled at her from his immense height, displaying bad teeth. "These Spanish senoritas are all so short I feel like I could squash them beneath my heel. It's good to see a woman who is tall enough to speak to." His gaze roved over her as if the compliment wiped out the insolence of his gaze.

She smiled, a stiff, tiny movement of her lips. His flattery was nothing more than an unjust disparagement of the people she found so attractive, and she was offended. "Senorita Vietta is much taller than I. Perhaps you'll enjoy your friendship with her."

"Don't know who she is."

Startled, she raised her brows. "I saw you speaking with her.”

"Not me," he insisted.

"No doubt you didn't realize who she was.”

"I haven't talked to any Vietta”.

He leaned closer to her, and she stepped back from the wave of beer fumes. Suppressing the desire to wave her hand in front of her face, she agreed, "As you say. Try the empanadas, they're still hot from the oven." To her relief, his eyes lit with greed and he moved aside to survey the food.

"Well, thank you, ma' am. What a good idea.” He put his glass on the white cloth that covered the trestle table. His large hovered over the plate, touched first one turnover, then another, swooped on the largest and carried it to his waiting mouth. Watching her from the corner of his eye, he said, "I'm a big man, and these morsels hardly dent my appetite.”

"I'm sorry," Katherine apologized with not an ounce of true remorse. "I'm responsible for the food. I'll speak with the cook have something special made up for you."

He choked on the flaky crust and coughed. She handed him his glass of beer. He drained it, eyes watering. "I didn't mean that. You do a wonderful job, making all these foreigners happy. I know you gotta feed them what they want. But it's a far cry from real American food."

"Real American food," she said thoughtfully. "For me, real American food means baked beans with brown bread. Would like me to fix some?"

"Well, I don't know." He floundered, seeking the correct tone of conciliatory humor. "I don't rightly know if I've had them."

"Yer the Pilgrims at Plymouth ate baked beans and brown bread almost from the first winter."

"The Pilgrims didn't land down by where I live." He smiled with wholesome good humor.

"I see." She couldn't place his accent, and asked with real curiosity, "Where are you from?"

"From Washington, D.C.," he said with pride. "The pulse of nation. I was born there. I was raised there. I love that great city, and I know as much about the capital as any man alive. If you have any questions about our government, you just ask me. I’d be glad to explain it to you."

"Whatever made you come west, sir?"

''Oh, the urge to travel just struck me." He shrugged uncomfortably, burped loudly. "Not bad manners, just good beer." He brayed with laughter and she watched, fascinated, as his long arms flapped in merriment. "These folks sure do serve up the fixin's, don't they?"

He'd avoided her question. She wondered what crime he’d committed, and against whom. In California, it wasn't uncommon to find that the man who worked as a trapper or store manager or farmhand had left a warrant behind for his arrest. It amused her to ask, but she wouldn't push.

After all the warrant could be for murder.

"Yes the Spanish are very hospitable," she acknowledged. "It’s almost a shame we're gonna run them out." He sounded reflective, but not a bit sad.

"Run them out'?"

"Well, sure. You didn't think we'd let them keep this bit of land did you? If we don't take it, sure as hell-excuse me ma'am-sure as heck the English'll grab it."

Remembering what Don Lucian had told her, she challenged. "Don't you think the Spanish will have a word to say about that?”

"Nope. Why, look at them!" He waved a hand at the chattering groups of gaily dressed folk. "Lazy as bedamn. Won't fight for anything. Every time they have a battle about one thing or another, they never fire a shot. They solve everything with their proclamations and their endless talk.”

"Some people would find their insistence on peace admirable."

"Sign of spinelessness. Don't even know how to fire a gun.”

"Not at another human being. She heard the snap in her voice and modulated her tone. "Yet the bears walk warily."

"That's another thing. They're always tying a bear to a bull and watching them tear each other to pieces. Savages!”

"Ah." Katherine leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. "They're savages if they watch animals kill each other, but they're spineless if they refuse to kill each other."

“Yes." He beamed at her. "You do understand."

She settled back with a sigh. If there was anything worse than a rude and ignorant man, it was a rude and ignorant man who didn't realize he'd been bested in an argument. "Most of the Spanish-“

"They aren't Spanish, they're Mexican."

"Mexico holds California, that's true," she conceded. "I understand they've held California as a province for over twenty years but many of these families came directly from Spain. The Mexican government has done little in the way of administration."