Page 24 of Sweet Savage Love

24

T he knife wound, when Ginny looked at it later, appalled her. A deep, wicked gash in his side, under the arm—but Steve told her calmly as she washed it clean that he had survived worse wounds than this one.

“Lucky my rib deflected the blade, or you might have found yourself all alone out here,” he mocked her gently.

“You’re not angry?” she said with surprise as she pulled strips of cloth tight across his chest. He shrugged, wincing as he did so.

“Guess I had it coming. And it’ll teach me not to be careless with that knife in future.” He gave her a strangely thoughtful, measuring look. “Nor with you either. I underestimated you, Ginny. And that streak of stubbornness in you.”

She moved away from him sullenly, and stood with her back to him. She was aware how ridiculous she must look, wearing nothing but his shirt and a clumsy skirt improvised from a blanket.

“I suppose I underestimated you too,” she said waspishly. “You speak French after all, and all this time, all these months you let me think…” She bit her lip in vexation, remembering some of the things the French lieutenant had said to her. Why had Steve pretended? And how was it that he spoke such good French?

“Suppose we don’t underestimate each other any more, then.” He’d come up behind her, she was uncomfortably, tinglingly aware of his presence at her shoulder, but refused to turn.

“Ginny—” his voice was almost a sigh, surprising her. “Look—if you’ll just be patient for a while, maybe things will work out. I was going to tell you back there, when you took off like a wild thing, that by evening tomorrow you’ll be someplace safe. No,” he added hastily, when she swung around to confront him, “not a room over a saloon, or a place like Lilas’. A house. Belongs to a friend of mine, but you’ll have it to yourself. There’ll be a woman to take care of you, too.”

“And you? You’re going to leave me somewhere alone while you…”

“I would have thought you’d be relieved to be rid of me for a while!” His voice had turned flat and emotionless again, she could not tell what he was thinking. She was silent, waiting for him to continue.

“I have to go to Mexico City, Ginny. There are a few arrangements I have to make. And I can’t take you with me, for obvious reasons. But when I get back—”

“ If you get back!” she flung at him. “ If!! You’re a hunted man, Steve Morgan, and well I know it. Do you really think you’ll be able to ride boldly into Mexico City, of all places, and come back out alive?”

“I’ll come back. But even if I don’t—my Cousin Renaldo will see to it that you’re delivered safely back to your father.”

He would tell her nothing more, even though she alternately pleaded and stormed at him. Nothing that she really wanted to know. He would send her back to her father as soon as he returned, he promised her that much at least. Wasn’t it what she wanted? And if he didn’t come back, Renaldo would see to it. Renaldo was not really his cousin, he admitted. More nearly a kind of uncle, although they were almost the same age. “But in Mexico we call all our relatives cousin or uncle,” he said carelessly.

Well, at least he had promised to set her free, Ginny thought, leaning against him in the old way, sitting up straight again when she felt his almost imperceptible wince of pain. But along with the thought of freedom came a kind of fear, almost a kind of reluctance she was not ready to consider yet. When she did go back, what then? How would they all react—her father, Sonya, everyone who knew what had happened to her? I’ll go back to France, she thought at last, and tried to force herself not to think after that.

The foothills behind them were turning purple with evening when Ginny saw the cattle. A sizeable herd of them, this time, grazing peaceably in the long twilight shadows. And where there were cattle….

She shrank against Steve when she heard the sound of drumming hoofs. The two vaqueros, gaudily-colored neckerchiefs knotted around their brown throats under wide brimmed sombreros, reined up alongside them. They wore guns, both of them, and one of the men had his rifle at the ready, so they were obviously mistrustful, but before she could do more than draw in her breath sharply, they had pulled off their hats, waving them crazily, with their faces breaking into broad grins of recognition.

“Don Esteban!” one of them shouted. “We did not know you were coming!”

“ sí, but I told Diego, I said no one else rides that way—and Don Esteban would not miss the birthday fiesta of el patrón. It has been a long time, no?”

Their eyes touched Ginny, slid away politely. For once she was relieved that Steve did not stop to talk at length. He grinned back at the men and made a joking comment about the fiesta and his thirst for aguardiente.

“But I cannot meet my grandfather or my friends looking like a ruffian—I will look for you tomorrow, my old friends, and share some pulque with you. Until tomorrow.”

“ Hasta manana. ” The words were the essence of Mexico, Ginny thought rather wryly. Everything waited on tomorrow. And what would hers be?

To cover the embarrassment she had felt when the vaqueros rode up she asked Steve quickly, “Who were they? Did you know them well?”

“Very well. I used to ride with them, and get drunk with them sometimes. They’re my friends.”

“But they called you Don Esteban,” she persisted.

“Oh.” She could feel his shrug. “Don’s a courtesy title. Like calling someone mister in the States. Did you expect me to be something more than a poor vaquero? Does it disappoint you?”

“Since I’ve learned to expect the worst from you you could hardly disappoint me,” she retorted; but curiosity and the desire not to think about the place to which he was taking her made her persist in her questioning.

“Still,” she went on thoughtfully, “I would hardly expect an ordinary cowboy to have as much education as you seem to have. Or to speak fluent French either.”

“Ah, Ginny!” There was a faint tremor of laughter underlying his voice, “I’m afraid I am a disappointment. I never had any formal schooling, you see. I picked up what I could from books and hearing how people talked. And as for the French—I learned it from a French whore in New Orleans. Does that satisfy you?”

She did not believe him—she longed to ask him questions about his American father, but his last statement silenced her. A man like him! Frequenting whores—it was obvious he’d had no dealings with decent women in his past. Her back had stiffened involuntarily, and she felt his arm tighten around her waist.

“No need to be jealous, love—that was long before I met you. And perhaps you can teach me something too.”

His meaning was unmistakable but she refused to rise to the bait and sat in sullen silence until she saw the grove of trees.

They were tall, and looked very old, even in the deep blue light of late evening. Somewhere, she heard a dog barking, and lights showed between the trees as they rode closer. A strange feeling of desolation, almost of déjà vu swept over Ginny, and she heard herself sigh. A grove of trees, welcoming lights, somewhere ahead a house. Perhaps it had been home to Steve once, but she was a stranger. In spite of the odd feeling of familiarity, this place was not familiar to her. And this cousin, what kind of a man was he? How would he react to her presence?

There was no more time in which to ponder. They were through the grove of trees now, following a curved driveway that led to the house. Ginny had the vague impression of tall shrubs lining the driveway; the heavy scent of some night blooming flower hung in her nostrils.

A shallow flight of steps lit by twin lanterns, led up to a narrow porch that extended all the way around the two storied building. Expecting something smaller, Ginny was surprised first by the size of the house, and then by the sudden, unexpected presence of two armed vaqueros who seemed to materialize out of the shadows. Two dogs, barking wildly, ran ahead.

“I suppose I smell different,” Steve said dryly. Raising his voice slightly he called, “Sit, damn you, you hellhounds!” The barks turned to whimpers as the dogs obeyed, their tails swishing now.

“It’s Don Esteban!” one of the men said. “We were half expecting you, senor, but it’s so late, and the fiesta began yesterday…”

“Where the hell is my cousin? Renaldo! Isn’t he here?”

Steve slid off the horse, tossing the reins to one of the grinning men, and Ginny felt herself lifted off and held close to his chest.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” she found herself whispering, “you’ll not take me in there to meet your cousin like this?’

The door opened, and light streamed out, silhouetting the tall and rather stooped man who stood there for an instant, and then ran lightly down to them, his arms outstretched in greeting.

“Esteban! I had a rather garbled message a day ago, but I couldn’t make sense of it. I was half afraid you’d be in Mexico City by now. But it’s so good to see you.”

“I cannot return your abrazo, Renaldo. You see, I have a guest for the little house. It’s unoccupied?”

By this time the man stood before them, but neither his manner nor his tone of voice betrayed any surprise or dismay.

“It’s unoccupied, of course. I hoped you’d come, so I made sure of it. By now, Rosa is waiting there, and you’ll find I had everything kept ready.”

“In that case, I’ll take my friend there directly. She’s tired, and rather embarrassed at meeting you when she’s not at her best, I think. You’ll be introduced later.”

Ginny’s blush burned her face and neck. If she had not been so mortified she would have burst into angry tears. How dare he expose her this way? How dare he refer to her so lightly as his “friend”? A Frenchman would refer to his mistress as his “ petite amie ”—no doubt the phrase had its equivalent in Spanish! And so that was to be her role!

“You’ll join me for a drink later, then? I’ll expect you.” She could not help sensing the rather embarrassed look that Renaldo threw in her direction. No doubt the poor man was wondering whether he should address himself to her or not. But Steve gave him no chance to do so, for he was already walking with his long, easy strides along the side of the house, carrying her lightly in his arms as if he had not been wounded at all.

La Caseta, the little house. Later, by daylight, Ginny was to think how aptly it was named.

It stood some distance away from the larger estancia, nestled in a tiny clearing in the trees where one would not expect any house to be. A crazy-paved walkway connected the two dwellings, and in spite of the darkness, Steve was as surefooted as a cat.

The door stood open, with warm lamplight spilling out, and a fat, black-haired mestizo woman stood aside, smiling shyly as Steve carried Ginny inside, walking through the tiny, miniature living room, turning to the left, and bending his head under a low-arched doorway as they entered the bedroom.

The bed was enormous—probably, she thought, the biggest and most comfortable-looking bed she had ever seen. A brightly colored, handwoven spread had been turned back to show white linen sheets. Patterned curtains that matched the bedspread had been drawn to cover the window that seemed to run almost the length of one wall.

This room, of course, was the focal point of the whole house. It was much larger than the living room, the floor was entirely covered by a kind of soft matting that substituted for a carpet, and instead of doors the arched doorways were covered by heavy draperies.

Steve bent over to deposit her on the bed and suddenly, surprisingly, Ginny felt nervous. She actually did not want him to leave her yet!

“Wait,” she said when he turned to go, and there was a puzzled, almost startled look in his dark blue eyes as he turned back to her.

“Aren’t you anxious to be rid of me?” He started to smile, his eyes becoming lazy as they narrowed very slightly. “Ginny, can it be—”

“Stop playing games with me!” she snapped, and then, irrelevantly, “you’re bleeding again—you had better get that gash taken care of.”

Almost indifferently he put his hand up, grimacing as he touched the warm stickiness of blood where it seeped through the makeshift bandages.

“Oh, yes, I guess I am. Well, Renaldo will see to it. Was there anything you needed, love?”

“I’m hungry, and I’d like to wash, and I need some clothes.” She said it flatly, angry with herself now, and angrier with him.

“Rosa will get you anything you need. There’s a bathroom back there,” he nodded his head towards a curtained archway she had thought to be merely an alcove. “Tomorrow, you’ll be able to see the patio, and the rest of the house, if you’re interested.”

He hesitated, and then bowed to her politely, and ridiculously formally.

“Sleep well, Ginny.”

Rosa, when she bustled in, fussed over Ginny like a mother, her shy smiles hiding her normal curiosity. In spite of her rather unprepossessing appearance, and her inability to speak anything but Spanish, she also proved an excellent lady’s maid, and for the first time in months Ginny felt spoiled.

The bathroom had a sunken Roman bath that made Ginny open her eyes wide in surprise.

“It’s big enough for two—” Rosa said, and Ginny felt herself blush again. She had thought the same thing, and the unwanted thought embarrassed her. Rosa helped her bathe, rubbing her body with scented soap, washing out her hair and exclaiming at its coppery length and beauty. Afterwards, in the bedroom, Rosa massaged her aching, tired body very gently with cologne, and Ginny felt some of the weariness and stiffness leave her.

Her light supper, which she ate while wrapped like a Polynesian in a soft cotton blanket, was excellent—and accompanied by a light white wine which she found dry and delicious. For dessert there was fresh fruit, packed in ice, and Rosa hovered nearby, urging Ginny to eat more, clucking that she was too thin.

Afterwards, in the bedroom, Rosa brushed Ginny’s still damp hair in front of the full length mirror that hung there, exclaiming admiringly as she did.

“The Senorita is very beautiful—such hair, such pretty soft skin. Tomorrow I will bring some pretty clothes—the Senor will be pleased.”

The reference to Steve reminded Ginny vividly that after all, she was nothing but his prisoner and plaything. She could not help wondering where he was and what he was doing. Had he gone to see the mysterious grandfather to whom those vaqueros had alluded? And why was he so mysterious about all his relatives? She thought bitterly that they were probably all Juaristas —it was surprising that the French were so blind when it came to landowners. Perhaps Rosa would tell her more—all she wanted to know, in fact. But she’d have to be careful, letting the woman suspect nothing. She was far too tired tonight, though. Perhaps tomorrow morning. She did not even remember the exact moment she fell asleep—only half-recalled Rosa’s voice coming to her from a distance, asking if that would be all.