A Candle in the Dark (10 page)

“A knight in shining armor,” he murmured under his breath.

The moment Jiméne was close enough to speak, Ana was on her feet. “Well?”

“We have a
cayuca
,” he said triumphantly. “The men are waiting for us now. I had to pay them more, of course—”

“Of course,” D’Alessandro broke in.

Jiméne glared at him. “But they ask for only a moment. Then we will leave.” He motioned towards the river. “Come with me now, eh? We must help load.”

With his words, Ana’s excitement came bounding back. They were leaving. Thank God. D’Alessandro lumbered to his feet and followed Jiméne down to their waiting bungo. Ana trailed behind, hiking up her heavy skirts so they didn’t drag in the mud, waiting with bated excitement while the two of them worked with the canoe. Yes, everything was going to be fine now.

Jiméne and D’Alessandro slipped and slid as they pushed the twenty-five-foot bungo through the mud and shoal water to the bank. By the time they had the bungo readied and the luggage stowed, the late afternoon sun was starting to fade, though it was still brutally hot. Jiméne’s bright coat was spotted with mud, and D’Alessandro was sopping wet. Gingerly Ana made her way to the boat, stopping just at the edge of the river.

D’Alessandro sat on the side of the bungo, his boots half submerged in the water. He barely spared her a glance as she neared. Instead he wiped his dripping forehead with his sleeve and turned to look at a sweaty, disheveled Jiméne.

“So now what, Castañeras?” he asked. “Where are these men you hired?”

Jiméne mopped his face with a delicate handkerchief. “They have gone to get supplies,” he breathed. “They will return soon.”

“Soon?”

“Yes, soon,” Jiméne snapped. “Unless you do not want to eat, let them do as they will.”

D’Alessandro looked up at the sky. “If they don’t hurry, it’ll be dark before they get back.”

“So?” Jiméne shoved the handkerchief into his pocket angrily. “Then we will travel at night. It is done often during the rainy season.”

“You said that before. I didn’t know it was the rainy season.”

Jiméne glared at D’Alessandro. “It is not.”

D’Alessandro lifted his feet over the side of the boat, easing backward until he was beneath the palmetto canopy. He propped one foot on the seat and leaned back. “
Querida
,” he called to her, patting the space beside him. “Come in out of the sun.”

The offer was inviting. Sweat was gathering beneath the brim of her hat, and Ana felt the trickle of it down her spine. Shade would be worth anything, even sitting next to D’Alessandro. Nodding shortly, she lifted her skirts and took the few steps into the water.

Jiméne lunged forward, nearly losing his balance when the boat rocked at his sudden motion. He jumped over the side, and Ana winced as his splashing drenched her skirt.

“A gentleman,” he said, never taking his eyes from D’Alessandro as he helped Ana into the bungo, “helps a lady.”

“A gentleman,” D’Alessandro pointed out, “probably sees that she’s dry when she gets into the boat.”

Ana put a hand to her temple and settled herself into the canoe, trying to ignore their bickering. She could take anything for a short while, as long as they got started quickly. “When did you say the men were returning, Jiméne?”

“They will hurry,” he promised. “We paid them a fortune to be sure.”

“Good.” The shade felt better, but her hat was sweltering and she wanted nothing more than to fling it into the river. It and the corset had been a godsend leaving New York, but she knew already that wearing them for the rest of this journey would make it a living hell. Tonight, when they rested, she resolved to take the whalebone contraption off and leave it behind. The dress was big enough to wear without a corset, and there was no point in torturing herself.

And as for the hat… Ana pulled at the satin bows and tugged the stiff silk from her head, closing her eyes in relief as air touched her heavy hair. But the thick chignon was nearly as bad as the hat. Tendrils escaped, clinging to her neck and cheeks, and she felt for her gold comb, wondering if she had enough time to redo the heavy bun.

She sighed, turning slightly in the seat, and met D’Alessandro’s gaze. He was staring at her, his dark eyes lit with amusement. Ana had the feeling he was laughing at her, and she snatched back her hand, burying it in her lap.

“Why don’t you braid it?” he suggested.

“Braid it?”

“Seems to me it would help.” He smiled. “But then, I guess it would be beneath you, wouldn’t it? Only farm girls braid their hair.”

His tone annoyed her—precisely because what he said was true. She would never have considered such a common style. Even when she was young, she never braided her hair. Her mother—

Ana swallowed, pushing away the thought before it could begin. “I don’t know how to braid,” she said finally.

His eyebrows rose in surprise. “No? I thought all little girls could braid.”

“Apparently not.”

“No, apparently not,” he mimicked. He leaned back, never taking his eyes from her. “What kind of a little girl were you, Duchess, that you had a book of Russian fairy tales but you never learned to braid your hair?”

His question shocked her, and Ana felt a tight knot grow in her stomach.

“There they are!” Jiméne’s sudden shout stopped her retort in her throat. He leapt to his feet, the bungo swayed at his quick movements. “
Dios, en el último minuto. Las bogus
—the boatmen.”

Ana looked ashore. Two men walked toward the boat, their muscles straining beneath their coarse canvas shirts. Each wore a large-brimmed hat and carried bulging burlap sacks, though other than that they were very different. One was big, strong-looking and swarthy. The other was more wiry, and his deep brown skin was nearly the color of the river mud.

Once they grew close enough to hear, Jiméne shouted orders in rapid-fire Spanish. It didn’t seem to move them at all. The bigger man looked at the other and shrugged.

“
Poco tiempo
,” he said lazily. “
Poco tiempo
.”

“What are they saying?” she asked.

D’Alessandro leaned close. “Castañeras is trying to get them to hurry,” he translated in a low voice. “They’re telling him they’ll get moving in a little while.”

“A little while?” Ana’s protestations died as the two men approached the boat. With no thought to who sat inside, they shoved the burlap bags under the seat. Ana heard the unmistakable sound of clanking bottles.

D’Alessandro sat up a little straighter beside her.

Ana leaned forward until she could see Jiméne. “Jiméne, did these men bring bourbon?”

“Most probably it is brandy,” Jiméne informed her. He moved about the bungo, shoving things out of the way in an obvious attempt to hurry the boatmen. “It is necessary for them,
cariña
. They will refuse to go without it.”

Ana closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Thank God.
Brandy
. Perhaps D’Alessandro would get so drunk he would pass out. The thought made her feel good for the first time in hours.

“¡Ten piedad, piedad de mis penas!” The
tenor and alto of the boatmen rose together. The sound echoed over the river and then disappeared, muffled by the dense, darkening jungle. Then they laughed uproariously, passing the brandy.

Ana watched sourly and then looked away. They had been like this for the last two hours of the journey, seemingly oblivious to the close, threatening beauty of the darkening jungle. The cries of monkeys and parrots were growing louder, but in spite of that, the jungle had an oppressive, silent feel. Rather like an animal stalking its prey, Ana thought uncomfortably. And it was stiflingly hot—the air was heavy and soft. The thick, cloying denseness pressed in on Ana, and she tightened her fingers on the side of the boat. The boatmen were so drunk she didn’t trust either of them to navigate the river, which was a labyrinth of twists and turns. Islands formed suddenly in the center, strange whirlpools and eddies swirled around snags and quickly rising logs. And every now and then, one of those logs would bubble and raise its snout to take the form of an alligator.

Ana suddenly wished that she hadn’t insisted on going forward tonight. The dirty huts of Chagres town seemed more appealing with every mile. But it was too late now. She’d made the decision, and there was nothing left to do but live with it. Ana straightened, lifting her chin determinedly.

“Decided something, have you, Duchess?” D’Alessandro asked.

Ana twisted to look at him. “What are you talking about?”

“You get that look,” he explained. “The one that usually means you’ve decided something.”

Ana ignored his irritatingly perceptive comment. Instead, she gave him her best disinterested stare. “Why don’t you go to sleep? You look as if you could use it.”

He glanced at Ambrosio, who poled smoothly and silently at the bow. “Yeah. Why don’t you tell me a story? That should keep us entertained.”

“Ask one of them.” She gestured to Ruben, the boatman at the stern. “I’m sure they’ve plenty.”

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “I’d rather hear one of yours.”

She turned away. “I don’t know any.”

“No? What about your Russian storybook?”

The words sliced through her. Ana fought the sudden lump in her throat. “I don’t remember the stories.”

“Just the pictures?”

“Yes.” Damn him, anyway. As much as she could, Ana kept her memories sealed tight, refusing to even look at them herself. They were a vulnerability, a dangerous habit she had worked hard to forget.

And yet now, only a few simple words brought the memory back. Yes, she remembered the pictures, and the stories, and the way her mother had whispered the unfamiliar Russian names as if they were magic. As if they held some wonderful promise…

She tried to swallow the grief that welled up at the image, refusing to think of it, just as she’d refused to think of it for years. “If you want stories, I suggest you make them up yourself.”

“But I—”

The bungo swerved suddenly, cutting D’Alessandro short, forcing them both to grab the sides for balance. Jiméne tumbled forward, and he scrambled back into his seat, his distracted look gone.

“
¿Qué hace
?” he shouted.

The boat scraped along the shore, branches from the overhanging trees clattered on the canopy, and vines trailed over Ana’s arm. She shrank away from the side, staring at Ambrosio in confusion. The boatman’s muscles strained with the pole. Then, suddenly, he dropped it and dove over the side into the dark water.

“Ambrosio!” D’Alessandro yelled, reaching for the pole. “
iQue hace
?”

The bungo shuddered to a stop. The current swirled around it, lapping against the plants dragging into the river. A few feet away Ana heard something slide into the water.

Her fingers clenched on the side of the boat. She glanced up just in time to see Ambrosio break the surface, his dark hair streaming into his face.

He yelled something quickly in Spanish.

Jiméne blanched. “
Dios
.”

Behind them, Ruben lurched to his feet. He chattered something to his partner, who answered just as quickly.

A shiver went up Ana’s spine. She turned to D’Alessandro. “What is it? What is he saying?”

D’Alessandro’s eyes were dark and unfathomable, his voice emotionless. “We’ve hit a snag. It’s done some damage.”

“Damage? What does that mean?”

“It means, Duchess, that until they fix it, we’re stuck,” he said, grabbing the abandoned brandy bottle from the floor and tipping it to his mouth. “Looks like you won’t be getting a bed tonight after all.”

It took them half an hour to find the clearing that was only a few yards from shore. Apparently whoever created it had left only recently. Palmetto branches still lay severed and rotting on the ground, and the small firepit in the center had not yet been overgrown. Still, in the darkness it was a miracle they’d found it.

Ambrosio had lit a lantern, but the dim light only made the jungle at the perimeter of the clearing seem encroaching, silently malicious. Ana looked across the clearing at Jiméne. The others had gone to fix the boat—D’Alessandro with them—leaving Jiméne to protect her, though what there was to protect her from she didn’t know.

Still, she was glad she wasn’t alone. The unfamiliar jungle was unsettling, and, if nothing else, talking to Jiméne was a way to pass the time.

Near the perimeter, Jiméne lifted one of their supply bags and pawed through it. “There is plenty of food,” he said. “You will have everything you need to cook dinner.”

“Cook dinner?” Ana laughed shortly. “You may not want to eat when I’m through. I can’t cook.”

Jiméne stared at her as if she’d suddenly grown two heads. “You cannot cook?”

“No.”

“But—but all women cook!”

“I don’t.”

“But—” Jiméne sank to the ground, the bags of food falling limply beside him. The bewilderment in his face was almost laughable. “I do not understand. How is this possible? You had servants, then?”

Ana restrained an urge to laugh sarcastically. “Servants? But of course we had servants,
monsieur
.”

Jiméne looked sheepish. “You tease me,
amiga
.”

“You are easy to tease,” she said, kneeling beside him on the swampy loam.

“It is only that you surprised me. I have never met a woman who could not cook.”

“Well, now you have.” Ana reached for one of the bags laying beside him and weighed it in her hand. “What will you be making for dinner?”

His laugh sounded strangled, and Ana glanced at him in surprise.

“I must admit I cannot cook either,
cariña
.”

“You can’t?”

Jiméne shook his head. “No. It was always my sisters who cooked. Or
mi madre
.” He grew suddenly quiet, his smile died, and Ana sensed distress. But before she could say anything, he forced a strained grin. “What about you, Ana? How is it you do not cook? Did not your mother teach you?”

“No, she didn’t.” Ana deflected the personal question with practiced ease. “Really, Jiméne, surely you know
something
about cooking? Didn’t you ever watch your mother?”