"Give me the
aguardiente
," Brant
told Celia.
"
Con mucho gusto
," Celia said and
handed him the wicker-covered bulbous flask.
"My, my," Brant mocked. "A young lady
like yourself―cussing. You need your mouth washed out, Annie Maren."
With one free hand, he grabbed Anne's jaw and
squeezed, forcing her mouth open. Then he began to pour the fiery liquid
between her lips.
Anne gasped and sputtered and tried to turn her
head, but Brant held her firmly.
"
Dios mio
, Brant," Rafael swore,
"
déjala
! What's got into you?"
There was a sudden stillness in the room. Hard brown
eyes glittering like an Indian's clashed with the flashing jet black ones of
Rafael. Brant's voice was deceptively gentle. "Do you want to fight me for
her also,
mano
?"
The muscles in the slim brown jaws tightened, but
Rafael, in soft, Spanish-accented English, only said, "I would not destroy
our friendship. I would only remind you that you are no longer living among the
Tonkawas."
Celia laid a caressing hand on Brant's bronzed
shoulder. "
Querido
, are you not to meet this man,
Señor
Ezra, in San Antonio tonight? Why do we not all go there together? We can
celebrate this Flores discovery, can we not?"
Anne squirmed beneath Brant, furious that she should
be ignored while the three discussed their plans. But Brant's thighs held her
pinioned. His eyes flicked from Rafael and Celia down to her. A slight smile
curved his long lips. "Maybe you got a good idea,
niña
," he
said, rising and hauling Anne up by her wrists.
Celia stamped her sandled foot. "I am no longer
a
niña
, Brant Powers!"
Brant released Anne with a negligent glance at the
dark red liquid that ran down the cleavage of Anne's heaving breasts. "So
I've noticed, Celia." His hand tipped up the young girl's chin. "Get
your rebozo and the buckboard then. You'll celebrate like a woman tonight with
the rest of us."
His gaze swung to Rafael, as if seeking the
brother's consent, but Anne felt the tension between the two men. The handsome
young hidalgo shrugged his approval, but his Latin eyes were on Anne, mirroring
his intense curiosity about the relationship between his friend and the lovely
young hellcat Brant had brought back from Iron Eyes' camp.
"I will have Juana find something clean for
you,
señora
," Rafael told her with a small bow, indicative of
Spain's old world charm. As if, she thought, she were a lady of the royal court
and not the gypsy wench she knew she must resemble at that moment.
And it was at that moment that the roles for the
four were imperceptibly delegated for the evening.
XVI
The four of them were to be actors there in the
smoke-hazed barroom section of the gaudy Military Plaza Hotel. Celia and Anne
were the only two women present, with the exception of a heavily rouged and
scantily dressed middle-aged woman whose job, it appeared to Anne, was to
entertain the customers.
Anne wrapped the red woolen rebozo more tightly
about her shoulders, trying to shield her daring display of golden décolletage
from the admiring gazes of the men there. Yet all the while her own gaze roamed
about the large room, taking in the plushness of it all―the raucous
laughter, the gilt-framed mirror running the length of the bar, and the brass
trumpet that shrilled from the gallery above. She found the atmosphere
seductive―reminiscent in its own way of the lush, tropical nights when
the faint beat of the native drums could be heard across the island when, she
knew instinctively even as a child, lovers would come together in sensuous
rites as old as the voodoo drums.
Only the chilling look in Brant's eyes dispelled the
amorous illusion. He, too, she thought, was an actor. He looked different now―dressed
in the leather chaps with the red bandana knotted above the faded blue shirt,
and the pistols trapped to his hip. His long, saddle-brown hair had been clipped
by Juana, so that it lay in thick swirls at the nape of his neck and over his
ears, with the sideburns jutting down the lean jaws. And, Anne noted sourly, he
had shaved.
As Celia had apparently also noticed, for her
forefinger lightly traced the tattoo on Brant's chin. She leaned close to him
with a teasing smile, breasts swaying enticingly beneath her own low-cut
blouse. But though Anne could not hear what she whispered―she could see
Brant's long lips part in a half smile, could see the narrowed eyes regard the
young girl with a lazy interest. And she could see the rapid pulse beat at
Celia's throat.
"You do not drink your tequila, señora?"
Rafael asked softly.
Anne tore her gaze away from the intimate scene before
her. "No, I'm sorry, Rafael. I don't like it." She set the glass from
her, still conscious of the bitter
aguardiente
Brant had forced her to
drink. Her head ached with a stifling feeling.
"Don't be upset," Rafael said. He nodded
at Brant and Celia. "
Mi amigo
is usually not this way. Perhaps it
is the tequila," he offered, knowing it was not. His friend had often
drunk as heavily and could still put a plug through a bottle at fifty paces in
one rapid draw―though Brant did seem to drink more than was usual
tonight. And what was between these two―his friend, and this enchantress
with the hair like polished copper and eyes like the blue-gray light of brandy
flames?
"You do not mind, Rafael―I mean that your
sister ..." Anne faltered, embarrassed. She had not intended to be rude.
Rafael sipped at his drink. ''That Celia flirts like
a
puta
?
No
,
señora
," he smiled sadly. "It's her
way―with no mother to bring her up, and now only me." His voice
lowered to an undertone. "She is half in love with Brant―and me, I would
like very much to have him as
mi cuñado
."
Anne caught Brant's gaze on Rafael and herself. His
expression was inscrutable, yet she shivered as if in premonition. "You
must drink your tequila, Annie," Brant said, his tone light and even.
"It's rude as a guest of Rafael to refuse to drink with us."
Gray eyes locked with brown ones, but Anne's bravado
gave way in memory of only a few hours earlier when Brant had forced her to
drink. Would he do so now―in front of everyone?
Coming to her aid, Rafael, resplendently handsome in
black tight pants and a short jacket decorated with silver conchos, lifted his
own glass. "A toast," he said. "To our Republic."
He handed Anne her glass. "And to the play
tonight," he said softly.
Anne lifted her glass, and her eyes met Brant's over
its rim. Defiantly she tossed down the fiery liquid. To cover the gasp at the
burning sensation in her throat, she leaned close to Rafael, turning her face
from the other two, as if in personal conversation. "The play, you
said?" she asked breathlessly.
Rafael's black eyes sparkled with laughter at her
reaction to the tequila. "
Sí
,
señora
."
"Anne," she prompted, her eyes smiling
with the conspiracy.
"You must be aware of the performance tonight,
Anita." Her name rolled from Rafael's tongue, making it sound like a title
to royalty.
Anne looked at Brant, who sipped at his drink while
his eyes, that never seemed to reveal anything, swept over the room with
detached interest. Was he waiting for Ezra, she wondered. Or was he merely
biding his time ...waiting for something else?
"Yes, I've noticed," she murmured, taking
another drink. The tequila, it wasn't so bad now. Once it burned its way to the
stomach. It settled there, pleasantly warming the body. Anne pulled aside her
rebozo. In fact, it was awfully warm, too warm in the crowded room.
Neither Rafael nor Brant missed the gesture. Or the
other men in the room near enough to see the glint of perspiration on the
peach-toned skin. Incredible, Rafael thought. Never had he seen skin of that
delicious hue―and like satin, so that a man wanted to reach out and touch
it. And, he thought wryly, no doubt risk a bullet from Brant.
"I've already assigned the roles," Anne
told' Rafael. "You, my friend, are the dashing Caballero." She
glanced over at Celia, whose dark eyes danced at something Brant said, her
small, pearl-like teeth parting in an inviting smile. "And your sister is
the Seductress."
Anne's forefinger played absently along the rim of
her glass, and Rafael felt the hardening of his loins. "And Brant,"
Anne continued in a whisper without looking up, "he's the Stalker."
"And yourself, Anita?"
Anne looked up now, focusing glittering gray eyes on
the aristocratic face so near her own. "Myself? I don't know. The
Observer, perhaps."
"Oh, no,
cara mia
. You are most
certainly the Catalyst."
Sangre de Dios
, he was half falling in love
with her himself. Was she worth risking Brant's friendship? Worth courting
possible death? He must. be getting a little drunk himself. Already his sister
swayed, tilting her head to rest on the arm that Brant laid across the back of her
chair. And this
amante
of Brant's―was she indeed that, Brant's
mistress? She obviously was not used to drink. The gray eyes were glassy. The
soft lips moist―with invitation?
And Brant? Was he drunk? Rafael doubted it. The
brown eyes were sharp in spite of the half closed lids and the casual way he
sprawled in the chair.
Rafael's suspicion was confirmed when Brant suddenly
seemed to spring alert, a brief smile touching the lips. And then Rafael saw a
large, bearded man making his way through the maze of tables.
"Brant!" Ezra called, grabbing Brant's
hand and pumping it. Brant introduced Ezra to Rafael and Celia, whose eyes
widened as they traveled up the gigantic frame to the bearded face and the eyes
that regarded her good-naturedly.
Ezra's gaze lingered on the small, lovely girl before
it fell on Anne. "You found her!" he exclaimed.
"Ezra," Anne said warmly. "I didn't
think to ever see you again."
"Miss, you're the prettiest sight my eyes have
seen in two weeks―your sister excepted," he said to Rafael. He
turned back to Brant, taking a seat between Rafael and Celia, and leaned
across the table on folded arms. "Vicente Cordova's our man in the eastern
part of Texas, Brant. I've just come from Chief Bowles' camp, and the Mexican's
been there, stirring up trouble like a fox in a chicken coop."
"We need proof he's one of the agents before we
can return to Sam," Brant said, taking up the glass again.
"Shit, Brant! Old Sam wouldn't care about the
proof. He'd shoot Cordova and Flores like the terrorists they are."
"You're forgetting our Congress, Ezra,"
Rafael said. "We can't afford to have another war with Mexico―at
least not without proof of Mexican interference. With proof―then we might
be able to persuade the United States to offer their aid."
Watching Rafael's face, Anne thought how strange it
was he did not consider himself a Mexican but a Texian in spite of his Spanish
heritage. But then was she not now a Texian in spite of her Scottish heritage?
And there were the Swiss and French and Irish settlements scattered through
Texas―foreigners who must also feel the same loyalty for their new
homeland as Rafael did. A loyalty: she would certainly never feel.
Sensing Anne's gaze on him, Rafael turned to her.
"Will you dance?" he asked, wondering at his own bravery―or was
it disloyalty?
Startled, Anne looked at the dance floor. Only one
couple danced there, the middle-aged woman and an unshaven, bleary-eyed man in
a beaver hat who looked like an itinerant salesman. The two moved drunkenly to
the trumpet's slow, discordant music. Anne's glance slid to Brant, who was
deep in conversation now with Ezra, and Celia, whose head rested in the hollow
of Brant's arm. "Why not?" Anne told Rafael.
The tequila, she thought―it was stronger than she
had supposed. If it were not for Rafael's hand at her elbow, she was sure she
would stumble. But no, Rafael seemed to propel her easily among the tables. And
when he took her in his arms, he held her firmly, supporting her, so that the
two of them danced with a natural grace. Once, when she missed the step, he
caught her to him until she again moved in time to the music.
"Thank you, Rafael," she whispered. He
was
handsome―though not like Colin. It was the first time she had thought of
Colin in days. Up till that time she had not let Colin enter her thoughts
because he was too special for the woman she was, now―a woman who had
lived with the Indians like some animal, who had given herself to her mercenary
rescuer, again like some animal. But when she once again wore the dresses of a
lady, when she was once more Anne Maren, then ...then she would go to her love.
"Of what do you dream?" Rafael asked.
"Your thoughts are far―" but he broke off as Brant was suddenly
there. So, his friend was not as absorbed by the talk of Mexican terrorists as
he had thought.
Brant's lips curved in what Anne would hardly have
called a smile. "It's time you turn in, Annie sweet."
Her hand stiffened in Rafael's gentle clasp. Her
chin tilted up at Brant rebelliously. "I'm not sleepy."
"But I am―and I wouldn't like to leave my
bride to the mercy of these ... gentlemen."
"Bride?" Rafael asked, his face
registering shock.
Anne's gaze swept over the crowded, smoke-filled
room, not missing the hungry eyes that watched her from the bar and the gaming
tables. She did not even bother to look to Rafael, whom she knew could not help
her, or Ezra, who sat enraptured by Celia's sparkling black eyes.
Wordlessly Anne accepted Brant's hand―the
lesser of two evils.