Treasure of the Sun (13 page)

Katherine stood in the light of the porch lamps. An ache filled her, an ache she didn't understand. Walking through the grass to the edge of the porch, she leaned against the corner post and watched him return to his home. He didn't seem to notice her as he checked the hacienda's facade.

Disdaining the use of the stairs, he leaped the rail at the far corner, and extinguished the lamp. He walked to the steps and doused the lanterns that hung from the posts on either side. Only the candle above her head and the one in her hand still flickered. As his boots rang against the boards she was assailed with shyness. She turned away to compose herself, and turned back to find him watching.

Standing with uplifted face, she understood he'd always been aware of her.

Concern, pride and anger warred in him; his puffed and bloody mouth expressed his rage.

Without real comprehension, she held out her hand, palm up. She didn't understand her emotions; she didn't understand his, but she felt the need to offer something, if only her friendship. Leaning over the rail, he ran his two fingers over her cheek, hesitated, caressed her lips. Giving her a rueful smile, he put out the candle over her head and went into the house.

She stood alone, holding the only light in the yard, her hand against her mouth.

"What are you doing?"

Mr. Smith jumped as if Katherine’s words were a warning shot.

"Nothing! I . . . wanted some clean paper to write . . . my wife back in Washington, D.C."

She moved farther into the library and stared at the scattered documents on Damian's desk. She saw the splintered wood of the locked drawer. "Mr. Smith, you're getting a little confused. Two days ago you proposed to me."

"I never!" His indignation was a palpable thing. "Your own conceit made you think I was proposing. I wouldn't propose to a plain thing like you."

"Yes, I can't imagine your 'wife' would appreciate it," she agreed, quite unmoved by his insult. ''The other guests are leaving. Perhaps you should have asked for paper sooner.”

He spread his hands in an innocent gesture. "Shucks, the company was just so good, I forgot to ask. Then you and that don of yours were busy with leavetakings. I thought, 'Why bother them?' and came in here by myself."

"Shucks," she answered back, her voice laden with scorn. Taking a breath, she controlled herself. "It occurs to me you may have left the States because someone took exception when you went through his desk."

"A man needs to find some peace and quiet where he can write his mother, doesn't he?"

"Your mother?"

“I mean, my wife."

"Mr. Smith. Far be it for me to make accusations without justification, but in light of your recent confessions, I find myself suspicious of your presence here."

"Ma'am?"

With the precise pronunciation of a Boston lady, she spelled it out. "Perhaps you're nothing but a common thief.”

Mr. Smith took one giant step and loomed over her. "Little lady, that's a mighty big accusation. I don't like the way you're talking to me. Now I'm sure you want to apologize for that comment, and for hitting me the other day."

Her gaze traveled a long, long way up to the man's muddy eyes.

She was a lady. Hidden in the far reaches of her mind, she heard her mother's soft voice chiding her, urging restraint.

But he was trying to intimidate her, and she responded as if he were her Uncle Rutherford. Politely, emphatically, she spoke the truth. "A man who displays bravery only when confronted with a lone woman is not a man to be admired. What were you doing in Don Damian's desk?"

He snatched her wrist in his hand. "I don't think that's any of your business. I want an apology."

"Or what? You'll break my arm? You'll beat me?" Sarcasm sharpened her voice, and she could hear the challenge. "Better men than you have tried."

The pressure on her wrist increased; he bent it back. She glared, too angry to show pain as the bones ground together.

"Apologize," he demanded.

The ache expanded and became agony. Mr. Smith seemed to grow before her eyes.

A hand reached from behind her and grabbed Smith's elbow.

She barely noticed it in her haze of pain, but Smith yelped and dropped her wrist.

"I believe you are making a mistake, Mr. Smith."

Cradling her arm, Katherine knew it was Damian, yet his voice was so clipped and his English so precise she hardly recognized him.

"You will please leave now. Your horse, such as it is, is saddled and waiting for you."

Smith's hand dangled of the end of his arm as if he were disabled. If Katherine hadn't been hurt, she would have wondered what Damian had done. Instead, she watched with fevered eyes as Smith leaped out the door.

That same hand that had disabled Smith now took her shoulder and turned her around. Damian clutched her and shook her. "You, my dearest Katherine, will do me the favor of not attacking like a bantam rooster after a fox."

The blood in her veins froze in resentment. Who did he think he was? In a few short days, he'd stared at her as if he considered her his property, been angry with her, kissed her. She was in no condition to consider safety or propriety. "I am not," she pronounced in her clear, crisp tones, "your dearest Katherine."

"Perhaps not, but you are a lady." He spoke English, but his accent strengthened. "I never expected to hear you speaking so, using such manners. What would your family say?"

Without realizing, he struck deep into her soul, and her self possession shattered as it hadn't with Mr. Smith.

"You mean, 'what would your mother say?' Or perhaps, 'your mother didn't teach you very well.'" The bitter lessons of her Aunt Narcissa echoed in her tone.

Katherine sagged against his desk, and offered a tentative excuse and a tentative smile. "My Aunt Narcissa would tell you it's that streak of rebellious ingratitude that blemishes my character. No doubt she's right. I have found that being used brings out the worst in me."

He failed to respond with empathy or expression. "In the future, you will behave with a trifle more sense while under my roof."

The smile was wiped from her lips. "Would you have me let him rifle your desk? The man is convinced he'll receive your lands if-when!-the Americans welcome California into the fold. And what right have you to comment on my pugnacious tendencies, when your eyes are blacked and your lip's split?" His face darkened as she called attention to his injuries. She waved a hand at the chaos of papers Smith had created. "Did you believe I did this?"

"American ways are beyond my understanding."

At first, she could scarcely comprehend him. As the significance of his words found their mark, she found herself standing straighter, taller, with lifted chin and accusing eyes. "Do you believe I would search your private papers?" She walked behind the desk and jerked out the drawer with the broken lock. "Do you believe I would do this."

"You misunderstand me. American ways are beyond my understanding, for should a California woman come upon a thief in my desk, she would run for help." He watched her with compelling demand. "She wouldn't attack the thief."

"I am not yours to command, nor am I subject to your whims.”

"My whims?" His voice deepened, and she observed his eyebrows. They didn't curve across his brow as most eyebrows did, but slanted straight up. They added a devilish fillip to his countenance, and accentuated the impatience in his eyes. "You consider it a whim that I'm concerned about your well-being? That I wish you to avoid the broken bones and brutality that come with belittling a much larger opponent?"

Logic. How she hated its use in an argument. How like a man to interject it. "I think-" she drew a breath "-that you are concerning yourself with my well-being more than is allowed between employer and employee."

"I’m responsible for you in a way that has nothing to do with employment.”

She ignored that. “This might be a good time to tell you my plans."

"Your plans?”

"My plans to leave here."

"Ah."

All expression smoothed from his countenance, and he looked so bland she stumbled as she spoke. "I realize, I appreciate, your efforts on my behalf. I do not know if I would have survived this last year without the help and goodwill of your family, your servants, and you."

"I?"

"Of course, you." Irritation shuddered up in her, but she subdued it. "You were my savior, as I tried to explain to you just two nights ago on the balcony. But I also know you created the position of housekeeper for me, dislodging the qualified Leocadia from her work so I would have something to focus on until I was capable of functioning in society. That time has come." She was, she realized, rambling on like a lawyer. She hated it, but she sprang from a family of lawyers. When she was nervous, the pomposity she detested in her uncle sprang forth from her own tongue. "I also know that this is your favorite house. Yet since my arrival you've avoided this hacienda. I believe that if I were gone, you would feel comfortable once more with your family."

He turned away from her and picked up the statue created for him by the Indian artisans on his rancho. It was a female, naked except for her hair, which trailed down her back and over her shoulders. Her hands worked busily to braid one side; her face was tender and thoughtful. "My rancho in the Central Valley has represented a freedom to me this past year. I needed a place to grieve for my friend. I'm sorry if you mistook my desire to be alone for the desire to be away from you."

His hands roved over the dark wood, and her gaze followed, fascinated. Katherine had admired the work when it had been presented to him at Christmas. It was art at its purest, and she'd seen nothing wrong with the unclothed state of the woman. But now an odd feeling possessed her as, he examined the rounded hollows and belled hips with his fingers. He seemed to be taking an almost sensuous pleasure in the smooth grain; she felt as if she were intruding on a personal moment.

He caught her gaze. "I hope you will change your mind and remain with us. I promise you I will spend more time at this hacienda."

Something in those dark eyes reminded her of the bullfight, and she answered with care. "I don't believe that is the best solution. I can't stay here under your roof. No matter how ill-founded, the rumors would begin."

"My father makes an admirable duenna."

"I don't believe he will serve," she said austerely.

"No, I suppose not." Not a crinkle of amusement disturbed his face. "It's too late, anyway. The rumors have already swept Alta California."

"Oh, no." Her dismay was automatic. "A rumor like that could follow me."

"All the way to Boston," he agreed.

But she wasn't going to Boston. It hovered on the tip of her tongue, but some sense of self-preservation kept her from uttering it. Her plans were her own, she decided. She would remain in California, seek a position in Los Angeles, and send a letter to Don Lucian when she was well settled. Very well settled. "I must go at once."  

"As you say." He smiled amiably, without emotion, and placed the statue on the desk once more. "I win have to find another way to convince you to stay. Now I must go say goodbye to my guests. Will you come out?"

"Right away." For the first time, she realized how worried she'd been about Damian's reaction. As he left, a swell of relief swept her. He hadn't been angry or upset that she would leave his home. He really hadn't been upset.

He hadn’t been upset at all. Katherine chewed her lip as she opened the door to her bedroom. She closed it behind her, resting her head on the wooden panel. Her stomach had ached so much she hadn't eaten dinner. Uselessly, her hands clenched on thin air.

Leocadia had seen no reason to continue the pretense of letting her do the housekeeping, so Katherine had been reduced to a figurehead. She directed the servants in the cleaning and stowing of the party equipment, yet never dirtied her hands. It left a lot of time for thinking.

Damian hadn't been upset at all. Her relief had changed, twisted, become anxiety. Another scene with Emerson Smith. Another scene with Damian. Two such unpleasant clashes should have sent her into a black depression. Instead she worried and struggled with the inconsistencies.

Why had Damian been so untouched by her announcement? He should have been surprised. He should have protested and exhorted. Instead, he had been indifferent. That was out of character for a hidalgo whose courtesy extended to the lowest of his servants. He had made her uncomfortable with the confirmation of the rumors she feared. He had said he would have to find another way to convince her to stay. That almost sounded like a threat.