A Candle in the Dark (9 page)

“What the hell are you doing?”

Robert looked at him distractedly. “Warding off the fever,” he said. He handed the bottle back to Ana, who took it gingerly. Like Robert, she poured a small portion into her hands and splashed it on her face, careful not to wet her hair, before she handed it back.

It was more than he could take. No one except himself cared if he was sober—and now, after Jiméne’s words, even he didn’t care that much. The yearning was too strong to fight.

“Give me that.” Cain snatched the bottle from Robert’s grasp and tipped it to his mouth. The rum was sweet and warm, and he gulped it thirstily, feeling better immediately. He handed the bottle back to Robert and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s what you do with rum, Jameson. You
drink
it.”

Behind Robert, Ana stopped. Her hands dropped to her sides, and she stared at him warily. “It doesn’t stop the fever?”

Smiling, Cain shook his head. “No.”

“What the hell do you know?” Robert demanded.

Ana wiped her face with her sleeve, her brown eyes glittering. “He’s a
doctor
, Mr. Jameson.” Her voice was heavy with accusing scorn, as if the word itself were blasphemy.

“A doctor?”

Cain shrugged. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

“But you never said anything.” Robert’s face clouded. “Even when Bartlett had that fever.”

“And have all of you begging for my services?” Cain laughed shortly. “Besides, Bartlett was only drunk, not sick.”

“A doctor.” Robert rubbed his chin, his eyes measuring. “Well, then. Perhaps you and Mrs. D’Alessandro would reconsider joining us? A doctor would be a good—”

“No,” Ana said quickly, stepping forward. “We’ve made our plans already, Mr. Jameson.” She sent a pointed glance to Cain. “And I would hate to add to your difficulties.”

The words sent a shaft of resentment stabbing through him. The rum in Robert’s hand seemed to glow. Cain struggled to speak lightly, nonchalantly. “As you can see, Jameson, my sweet wife has little regard for my talents. And in that, she is probably right.”

She frowned. “That isn’t what—”

“I have it!” Jiméne’s shout interrupted her, and the three of them looked toward the wildly waving Panamanian. “Ana, come now, they are ready to take us!”

She licked her lips and looked at Cain. “Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Slowly Cain rose, looking around for their luggage. He spotted their two valises and his medical case, along with a large leather trunk covered with canvas at Jiméne’s feet.

Ana was already halfway there, cutting through the crowd easily, hips swaying beneath the heavy wool skirt. There was actually a bounce to her step, Cain noticed. Since Jiméne had joined them, the panic he’d sensed the night they met had disappeared. Now she seemed eager—almost excited—to get on with the journey.

At first, he’d thought she relaxed because the threat of capture was gone. Now he wondered bitterly if it had more to do with meeting Castañeras.

Cain’s temples throbbed, his feet felt like lead as he dragged himself across the deck. Sourly he watched Jiméne throw the first valise over the side. Christ, the man was efficient. Probably it was too much to hope that the luggage would land in the water.

The bag landed with a steady thud in the bottom of the canoe. Jiméne glanced over his shoulder.

“We have the bungo for the trip,” he announced loudly, over the shouts of the others. “I have hired them to go downriver.”

Very efficient. Cain nodded wryly. “Wonderful.” He restrained the urge to send Jiméne flying over the side with the luggage. With his luck, Castañeras would probably land in the canoe. “It looks like you’ve taken care of everything,” he said sarcastically.

Jiméne nodded. “Everything,
amigo
.” He smiled. His eyes lit with challenge. “Even
aguardiente
for you. Jose says he has enough to hold you to Panama City.”

There was no doubt in Cain’s mind that Jiméne hoped Cain would get drunk enough to leave Ana to the Panamanian. A thin smile curved his lips. No point in disappointing the man. “
Muchas gracias
.”

“It is my pleasure.”

“I’m sure it is.”

Jiméne held out his hand to Ana. “This way,
cariña
.”

Cain stepped back, waiting while Ana moved through the gate, dodging those too impatient to wait. She settled herself in the boat gracefully, smoothing her skirts around her. Jiméne followed her quickly, shouting hasty orders to the burly boatman, motioning impatiently to Cain. The bungo began to slip away from the steamer; Cain nearly had to jump to make it.

He sat with a thud. The canoe rocked, and he glared at Jiméne.

The Panamanian smiled back. “Give the man a
Hale
, D’Alessandro. I have told him you are the one with the money.”

It was going to be, Cain thought, a very long trip.

One look at the town, and Ana’s excitement dissolved in dismay. Chagres was a cesspool. There was no hotel, nothing but two hundred or so open huts squatting on the mud flats. Naked children, pigs, and dogs ran through the hovels, scrambling up and down streets that had once been roughly paved and now were nothing more than ruts cut into the mud. Ruts filled with empty bottles and sewage that baked in the sun. The stench of it, mixed with the odor of pigs and stagnant water, hovered in the hot, humid air.

Ana tried not to breathe. She stared at the filthy village, at the buzzards that sat on the high, peaked roofs, watching lazily, waiting for something to die. The smell alone said they wouldn’t have to wait long. Ana thought a lifetime in the slums of New York had prepared her for the sight of poverty and squalor, but Chagres was worse than anything she’d ever seen. Against the rich green of the jungle around it, it was almost obscene.

It was nothing like she’d imagined it, nothing like she’d expected. The shores of Panama seemed so promising from a distance. But this—this was not a place that promised fresh starts and new beginnings.

She turned to her partner, ignoring for the moment the piles of luggage on the muddy ground surrounding her. “When do we leave?”

D’Alessandro glanced at her, frowning as if her question had taken him by surprise. He shrugged and swiped his heavy hair back from his forehead. “Castañeras said they’ll be ready to go by morning.”

“By morning?” Ana asked incredulously. “So what do we do?”

“Do?” D’Alessandro looked at her blankly.

“Well, we can’t stay here.”

“Of course we can.” He sat heavily on the lid of Jiméne’s trunk and uncorked his flask. “We have no choice anyway. They’ll leave when they’re ready.”

Ana glanced at the rows of canoes beached on the mud of the Chagres River shore. Their owners scurried around the open-air boats like ants, rethatching the canopies with split palmetto while vendors selling
aguardiente
harangued them from the shore. She pulled at the collar of her dress and wiped back a limp curl clinging to her cheek. It was hot. Hot, humid, lethargic. The breeze that had eased the heat on the steamer was absent here, even the heavy foliage of the jungle seemed to steam.

“We can’t stay here,” she repeated, frowning.

“I agree.” Jiméne walked up, sticky, stagnant black mud clinging to his once-shiny boots. “I have been trying to convince Jose to go, but he will not until morning.”

“It
is
late,” D’Alessandro said.

Jiméne scowled. “During the rainy season, they travel often at night. It is not unusual.”

D’Alessandro glanced idly at the line of bungos. “Oh? Then why is no one leaving?”

“They are lazy.” Jiméne nearly spat the words.

Ana stepped forward. Her disappointment made her irritable and edgy, and she wanted nothing more than to be in a bungo on its way downriver, feeling the breeze on her face again and retreating into the cool green of the jungle. The humidity here was oppressive, the village of Chagres stank, and D’Alessandro’s reluctance to agree with her and Jiméne was annoying. In fact, it was more than annoying. It was infuriating.

“It’s dangerous.” D’Alessandro tipped back the flask and swallowed.

“Why do you say this?” Jiméne’s dark brows came together, his mustache twitched. “
I
am the one who was born here,
amigo
. You know nothing of the jungle. Nothing!”

“Dangerous?” Ana pulled again at her collar. This damn corset was like being in an iron coffin. “What do you mean, dangerous?”

D’Alessandro regarded them both steadily. “Did you ask Jose why he wouldn’t go on tonight, Castañeras? Why he won’t go into the jungle after dark?”

“It is not yet after dark,” Jiméne retorted. “He is afraid, that is all. He is not a man.” He bit off a sound of frustration, turning on his heel. “Very well. Jose will not go, but there are others who will.”

“Why the hell are you in such a hurry?”

D’Alessandro’s comment stopped Jiméne. The Panamanian looked over his shoulder, and Ana saw anger and distress in his eyes before he turned again and marched off without answering.

“Something’s bothering him,” she said thoughtfully.

“He’s probably afraid he’ll get his coat dirty,” D’Alessandro said.

Ana glared at him, trying vainly to quell her annoyance. “Why don’t you stop being so disagreeable? Why shouldn’t we leave today?”

“Because, Duchess, it’s growing late. Traveling at night doesn’t appeal to me.”

“Afraid of the dark?”

“In an unknown place—a jungle?” D’Alessandro laughed shortly. “In a word, yes.”

“Jiméne says it’s safe.”

“Jiméne is a fool.” He shrugged. “If he wants to court death, let him.”

His words sent a nagging doubt through her, and Ana squashed it ruthlessly. She had to remember whom she was listening to. A drunkard. There was no reason to pay attention to his misgivings. After all, Jiméne was the expert, and if he said they should go, she was more than willing to trust him—especially because she too wanted out of this hellhole. D’Alessandro’s trepidation was no doubt a product of his drunken imaginings.

“He’s just in a hurry,” she said, brushing off D’Alessandro’s worries. “You make too much of it.”

“Maybe.” He shrugged, taking another swig before he tucked the flask away. “So what’s your hurry, Duchess? Why the rush to go on? So quick to be rid of me?”

She ignored his jibe, motioning to the village. “This is… I just want to get away from here.”

“You’re braver than I thought.”

“There’s no bravery involved,” she snapped irritably. “I’ve two big strong men to protect me, don’t I?”

“One anyway,” he murmured.

“Don’t insult Jiméne.”

“I was talking about Jiméne.”

His humor was almost more than she could bear. That was all she needed—a self-pitying drunkard. She shielded her eyes with her hand, looking toward Jiméne. He was talking with a burly boatman now, perhaps negotiating. With a sigh, she sank onto the trunk beside D’Alessandro.

“Relax, Duchess,” he said.

“Relax?” Ana snorted, moving away from him so they weren’t touching. She looked over her shoulder at the village. “God, what a pigsty.”

“What were you expecting? A grand hotel?”

“A bed would have been nice.” Ana had to admit that after spending eight days in a steamer hammock, she had looked forward to actually sleeping on a real mattress. No more swaying back and forth with the ship’s motion, no more aching back or numb shoulders.

“This isn’t going to be an easy trip,” Cain said mildly.

“Really?” she said sarcastically.

D’Alessandro rested one booted foot on his knee and leaned forward, as if trying to focus on something just beyond his sight.

Ana swatted at the dragging feather on her hat and looked down at the black, slimy mud beneath her feet.

D’Alessandro shifted beside her, and Ana looked up. He was still staring at the opposite shore, silently assessing something. Frowning, she followed his glance.

And saw for the first time the beauty of the jungle.

She’d been so appalled by Chagres that she hadn’t really noticed the wild opulence on the other shore of the broad, clear river. The high, steep hills sheltering the west bank were covered with orange and lemon trees, palms, banana, and plantain. Most of the plants she’d never seen before, never even imagined. Exotic orchids punctuated the green with vibrant color, and bright but terflies battled for attention. Quick, acrobatic buzzards circled through the palmettos and coconuts while multihued parrots screamed their disapproval.

“It reminds me of a fairy tale,” she murmured without thinking.

D’Alessandro looked at her. “A fairy tale?”

She nodded, not taking her eyes from the jungle. “I had this book when I was young, a book of Russian stories with pictures. This reminds me of it.”

“I didn’t know Russia had jungles.”

“I don’t know that it does,” she said. “But the pictures were so beautiful—” Ana stopped, suddenly realizing that she was talking to him, really talking. Telling him about a book she’d had when she was a child. Telling him about her life…

She stiffened, feeling strangely violated. She’d never spoken of even the most casual aspect of her life to anyone. Not in years. The more people knew about you, the more dangerous they were. And D’Alessandro was the most dangerous of all. He already knew too much about her, and here she was, volunteering information—again. Something about him made her forget she wanted to keep him firmly at arm’s length.

Her hands clenched in her lap. That was something she
hud
to remember.

“—so beautiful?” he prompted in the kind of tone that asked for an explanation. His eyes were dark and interested.

But she was not going to explain. Not anything, and the sooner he realized that, the better. Her life was her business, and she wanted to keep it that way. She turned away abruptly. “It was a book, that’s all,” she said. Her voice sounded stiff and unkind even to her. “Look, Jiméne’s returning.”

“So he is,” D’Alessandro said quietly, his tone edged with censure.

She looked up, watching Jiméne. His dark face was split by a white-toothed smile. Ana felt D’Alessandro tense beside her.