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“Please, my dear, please!” Orlanda held up a warding off hand that seemed to droop from the weight of the rings she wore on it. “If you think that Maddalena might put our Viscount in a better frame of mind, then you ought to be practical and sensible about it, should you not? And since you seem to have an attraction—or is it a weakness?—for him, perhaps...?” Orlanda raised delicate eyebrows that implied everything she had left unsaid, and Alexa, who had opened her mouth to make a hot denial, suddenly started to bite her lip.
“Well?” Orlanda said encouragingly. “Shall I send for Maddalena and have her go to him? After all, my love, I have my reputation to consider, you know. Since you didn’t suit him...”
“But that was only because I let him make me so angry!” Alexa said rather shamefacedly. “The next time...I mean... Well, I do not enjoy admitting defeat! And he is still here, is he not? This time I will be the victor, I promise you that, even if I have to swallow my own pride for the moment.”
Nicholas had been almost asleep, or perhaps he had been asleep and dreaming. Between the sweet-smoke-filled room and the constantly moving patterns that formed faces and pictures and places he had been in and some scenes he didn’t even want to remember, he had at some point felt, before he heard, the music. Only a guitar, which sounded very far away—so far as to almost be a part of his memories only; nothing he was really experiencing. He knew he had had too much of the pipe of deceitful dreams and that he should not have allowed himself to give in to weakness, but it was too late to think of that now, when he had reached the place where there was no boundary line between fantasy and reality. It was something like lying in the bottom of a boat and letting the current take you wherever it willed, not caring where or when the rocking motion would stop at journey’s end.
Where was it, this journey’s end? From here he would be going back to England, to ceremony and formality and rigid boundaries. Not his real world, which was something that not one of his recently acquired “friends” would ever understand, any more than they could ever have understood the kind of life and the way of life he had been brought up to. New Orleans—rich, sophisticated, aristocratic—and two years spent studying French and Castilian Spanish side by side with the art of dueling—pistols, rapiers or knives—had been an education in itself. Within the space of a few months he had taught himself how to get on and was accepted into the most exclusive circles. And in New Orleans he had met Teresa and had found it easy and convenient to fall in love with her and to agree with his uncles and his mother that it was not only time he married but an excellent match he was making as well, for Teresa’s dowry included property in New Orleans, Texas and California.
“She was beautiful and very rich and you loved her into the bargain. I would agree with your family that it was an excellent match indeed! And if the poor thing was frightened of marriage at first, surely you could have been a little more patient and understanding with her?”
“Dammit, you don’t understand! Patient hell! That first night, when I was drunk and knew damn well I was drunk, I left her alone after she st
arted to cry. And I left her alone for a whole week after that because she seemed so terrified of me. But then there came the night when I...I suppose the house slaves talked—God, I don’t remember now how it came about! But my father-in-law talked to me first, and then my two brothers-in-law, and then worse than that my friends, who even thought it was laughable that I hadn’t yet introduced my wife to her conjugal duties.”
“And you did, I suppose—and she did not—enjoy what took place?”
“Why should she have enjoyed it? Neither of us did, I suppose. In any case I grew tired of seeing her shrink away and almost shrivel up with fear and hatred every time she saw me in private. I lay with her only once more, and having made myself drunk does not excuse the fact that it was against her will. So I went back to California and to my ranch there, and by the time a year had passed, the house I was building was ready and I sent for her. She didn’t want to come to a wild, rough place like California, or to leave her family or friends and the softly cushioned life she was accustomed to in New Orleans; but I insisted and her family insisted, and so...”
“And so?” the soft voice insisted from somewhere beyond him and somewhere close to him at the same time, and he shrugged slightly.
“It isn’t a new story in that part of the country, especially if any of the Indian tribes decide to go on the rampage. She traveled with a large party, and they had soldiers with them as well as their own armed guards. I had sent some of my own most trusted vaqueros ahead as well, to guide them through the desert country, and it was one of them who survived long enough to relate what happened. They took her, you see, along with a few of the other women who were young and attractive enough; and they killed everyone else. I could have wished that they had killed her as well, especially knowing what I knew about the way that captive women are treated by the Apache.”
“But, for God’s sake, did you not have a search made for her if you did not look for her yourself?”
“Did I not? And did you know that the life expectancy of a captive female is usually no more than three months? Perhaps a few more if one of the warriors decided to take her as a wife; but she was so delicately nurtured and so— easily bruised! But I searched for her myself against the advice of her family as well as mine, and I offered rewards for her return; and in the end there was no trace to be found of her or any of the others, except the word of a Comanchero—one of those who trade with the Indians and buy their captured booty or exchange it for rifles and ammunition—who said she and two others had been sold to another tribe, he thought in Mexico perhaps. There was no point in searching after that....”
“But why, why? If she was alive and suffering, or if... Why, how can you be certain even now that she is not still alive?”
“Because I am certain she is dead. In fact, I made sure of it. And at the moment I am not sure why I have been dredging up some of the most unpleasant details of my sordid past for your benefit. Christ, I could have sworn you’d flounced off in a temper a long time ago—if I was not imagining that you were here in the first place!” Sleepy green eyes squinted narrowly at Alexa, who was sitting on the carpeted floor with her feet curled under her and her elbows resting on the silk-sheeted bed while she asked her rather indignant questions and received answers she did not particularly care for. But now, rising to her feet in one fluid motion, she managed a smile and a wide-eyed look at the same time.
“But you sent me away to bring you more wine, do you not remember? And here it is, in a silver bucket. Shall I pour you out a glass now that you are awake? Or would you prefer to have something to eat first? Another freshly filled pipe?”
She was wearing, now, a very simple gown that fell straight down from her shoulders to her ankles and was caught just under her breasts by a green satin ribbon threaded through lace-trimmed eyelets—much in the style of the Directory period in France at the beginning of the century, and very becoming on her too, as Alexa well knew. She held her smile when his eyes, after he had seemed to blink them into focus, traveled over her slowly with a frowning and somehow considering look before he shuttered them, giving her an indifferent shrug.
“I suppose it’s really not important whether I sent you away or you went of your own accord, for obviously I’m not at my best tonight. But since you’re here I suppose you might as well join me in a glass of wine, if you wouldn’t mind pouring it for both of us? And perhaps after that you could have some fruit and cheeses sent up—and order me a bath, unless men are permitted to join the lovely priestesses of Venus in theirs?”
Resisting the strong temptation to throw a glass of chilled wine in his sardonic face, Alexa handed him one instead; and when he held his glass up with a lifted black brow, she gritted her teeth and poured but a little of the wine into a glass for herself, glad of a chance to turn her back on him for a few moments.
“I think that perhaps you have misunderstood my position here,” she said finally when she was ready to turn and face him once more, trying to keep her voice even. “I am not one of your priestesses, and neither am I a maid, although if you really need a bath and a cold repast I suppose I could try to arrange for both. Was there anything else?”
“Yes. You might hand me that bottle of wine you are so sparing with first, and then you can bring yourself and your glass with you and join me in this comfortable bed. Perhaps you might persuade me to tell you even more sordid details of my evil past, since it seems to be of interest to you for some morbid reason.” Noticing her slight hesitation, Nicholas gave a harsh laugh. “By God! What in hell are you afraid of, if that is what accounts for your almost maidenly reluctance? If it’s rape, I can assure you I am not quite ready for such an act yet. The hashish I have been smoking must be remarkably pure, because some of its effects have not left me yet. Well?”
“Well?” Alexa countered lightly, seating herself just as lightly on the edge of the bed to prove to him that she was by no means afraid of him. What a ridiculous thought! “And here is your wine,” she added quickly, not liking the particularly caustic look he shot in her direction at that moment. “I’ll pour you some more...”
She had leaned forward, beginning to tilt the wine bottle over his glass, when he suddenly caught her wrist and held her there in mid-motion with her hair falling forward across her flushed cheeks and down past her breasts that were discreetly covered now, but by fine muslin and nothing else.
“I...I thought you wanted more wine,” Alexa stammered stupidly, feeling herself at a disadvantage, especially when he laughed rather unpleasantly when she tried to tug her wrist free.
“And perhaps something more than just the wine? I would not want you to think that I was entirely unappreciative of the efforts you’ve made to please—or your proficiency in the arts of seduction, not to mention your patience!” When Alexa only stared at him as if she had not guessed his meaning, he firmly removed the bottle of wine from her almost nerveless grasp and set it down on the table by the bed, looking down at her with a smile she liked even less than his earlier laugh.
“You are hurting my wrist!” she whispered almost automatically, without knowing why she had to whisper it. And she repeated in a more normal tone, “Patience! And what did you mean by that?”
“Why, only what is usually meant by the word, of course—my erstwhile mermaid! I think I have been floating on the soft mist-clouds of pipe dreams for a long time, and you are still here—even though I had thought you gone, perhaps forever. And yet when I began to realize that I was no longer dreaming the sound of my own voice or the things that I had been telling you—why, I began to ask myself questions, even though that took almost too much effort in my rather euphoric state. Have you ever smoked hashish, by the way? I believe it is very commonly indulged in in certain parts of India and the Middle East, although in China opium is much preferred.... What is the matter with you now?”
“I told you before that you were hurting my wrist!” Alexa gritted out with a commendable effort at self-control. ‘ “There is no need to be s
o brutal in your treatment of me and in your subtly ugly insults either. One would almost think that I had done you some mortal injury meriting revenge!”
