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“But who says there will be any killing? Only if it’s necessary—and there will be enough for all. Why should we have to quarrel among each other like dogs?”
“I think the men we choose will have too much intelligence not to consider the advantages they are being offered against the disadvantages of attempting to be too greedy,” Mark said, and I put forward no more arguments for the moment.
Days passed. I realized, without having to be told, that we were not, after all, going to Boston. Another of Mark’s clever ruses. He had meant to come here all along, but his uncle would believe that we were still journeying slowly across the continent. Clever, clever Mark. I was constantly discovering new facets to his nature. Difficult, now, to believe that I had ever dismissed him lightly as his uncle’s errand boy; a weak, but good-natured young man, nothing out of the ordinary. I had seen only what he had meant me to see, of course. No, I must never underestimate Mark again, nor his infinite patience.
The strange thing was that I believed he actually loved me. I had become as much of an obsession with him as his dreams of power. It was not only the money that I had brought him; he really wanted me, and my approval of his plans.
Nevertheless I was careful. There were times when I was almost frightened, although I never let Mark see this. I was his wife, I submitted to his peculiar way of making love, and yet I held myself aloof. As I had warned him, I made no pretended response, but there were times when I wondered if my very coldness did not excite him more, as it had Sir Edgar.
“My lovely statue,” he whispered. “Someday I will bring you to life!” But in the meantime he seemed content with the nightly proof that I was indeed his possession, to be touched and handled as he wished.
I began to feel myself sinking deeper and deeper into the depths of a nightmare from which there was no escape. For all the solicitude I was shown I was a prisoner here. I was never alone. If Mark and John Kingman left the ranch house together, as they often did, there was always Monique, the perfect hostess to keep me company. And in spite of all my outward calm and resolution, I had begun to feel that I was living on my nerve ends.
This, then was the state of affairs when, late one afternoon, I heard Monique call out that we had visitors.
Forty-Two
I had fallen into the habit of resting each afternoon, just as Monique did. It provided me with an excuse to be alone for a little while, for Mark, if he was not out somewhere, would usually sit out on the trellised back porch with John Kingman, discussing business.
But on this particular afternoon Mark surprised me by coming quietly into the room, waking me out of the light doze I had fallen into. I must have sensed his presence. I opened my eyes to find him staring intently down at me.
“Why do you have to wear anything in bed? Only my eyes will ever see you here. Let me take it off for you, my darling.”
He bent over me, already beginning to slip off the thin chemise I wore. With a sinking heart, I recognized the telltale flush on his face, the ardent note in his voice.
A little later he whispered, “I cannot imagine a pleasanter way to spend a long afternoon than making love to my beautiful wife.”
I closed my eyes and willed the time to pass quickly, wondering how I could stand much more of this. And as if he meant to force me back to awareness, Mark began to kiss me.
It was with a feeling of reprieve that I heard Monique’s voice; and then, a few minutes later, her tap at the door.
“Do hurry, you two lovebirds!”
Over my protests, Mark tossed aside my crumpled chemise and began to hook me into the thin cotton gown I had worn that morning.
“Darling, you don’t need to feel ashamed of your magnificent body! Why must you be so modest? Look at the way Monique dresses. Besides, these are old friends. There’s no need to stand on ceremony.”
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as he hurried me outside. My face unnaturally flushed, my hair tumbled, my lips still bruised and slightly swollen from Mark’s passionate kisses.
I told myself bitterly later on that I should have been warned by the strange, barely suppressed note of triumph in Mark’s voice when he spoke of “old friends.” For when we went out onto the porch, Mark’s arm around my waist, the first person I saw was Lucas—and behind him Jesus Montoya, one eyebrow lifted as he surveyed my disheveled state, his mouth twisting in the same sardonic smile I remembered so well.
I couldn’t say a word. And after that first glance I couldn’t look in Lucas’s direction again—not then. I was only too conscious of how I must look, standing there with Mark’s arm holding me so possessively against his side. A pair of lovers,
fresh out of bed. I think I might have fallen if Mark hadn’t held me so tightly.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, of course,” Montoya was saying in his smooth, silky-soft voice. “My congratulations to you both.”
Lucas said nothing. And I—I wished that the earth would open up and swallow me.
I became aware that Montoya was staring at me curiously through heavy-lidded eyes.
“Thank you, señor. My wife and I are happy to see you,” I heard Mark say, and my own voice, repeating through lips that seemed numb: “Thank you…”
As if we had all been posing stiffly for a photograph before, there was suddenly the bustle of movement all around me. I heard John Kingman’s bluff drawl, Monique’s prettily accented voice; and Mark was helping me into a chair, his fingers lingering possessively on my shoulders.
I remember thinking: I must be calm, I must be calm! This is some new trick of Mark’s to make me give myself away… and I took a deep breath, trying to still the wild beating of my heart. “You see? I came as soon as I received your message. Jesus Montoya does not forget his old friends.”
Did I imagine it, or had Montoya’s coal-dark eyes flickered in my direction for just an instant?
