Savannah Heat (41 page)

In the meantime, he had to find Silver. Most likely she’d be with General Hernández, had been for quite some time. Morgan’s stomach knotted. Fighting down an image of Silver being brutalized by the short but muscular man, he hurried along the rough stone wall of the pyramid where the tunnel had emerged. He stopped near the corner.

“According to Paco,” he said to Saxon, “the owner’s suite of rooms is upstairs in the north wing of the hacienda. Since the general seems to fancy the good life, chances are that’s where he’ll be.”

Corporal Saxon nodded.

“Follow me, stay quiet, and stay low.” They had blackened their faces and clothing with soot so they’d be less easy to spot. Now, as they crept farther into the ruins, Morgan glanced up at the sheer rock walls of the pyramid that towered above them, at the crumbling corridors overgrown with thorny weeds
and vines, at the trenches that had once been part of the entrance to a temple, and thanked God for another small advantage.

The ruins provided the best cover they could have asked for. They were eerie, yes. Pervading and humbling and ghostly. But they also supplied doorways to endless vacant chambers a man could duck into, empty defensive moats, tall stone figures, and huge granite arches—dozens of places to hide.

Jacques had a better than average chance of reaching the prisoners, if Paco was right about where they were. Morgan’s job would be tougher. He and the gangly young corporal would have to make their way across the open fields between the house and the ruins. Midway, a tall guard tower, once a water tower built to protect the fields from fire, surveyed the area from above.

Still, there were sisal plants and drying racks, even a few old bales of fibers that would help disguise their movements.

Crouching, ignoring what that bent position did to the pain in his ribs and the pounding in his head, Morgan darted from one location to the other. With Saxon close behind, he headed straight for the tower, meaning to disarm the men inside and then angle over to the house. As they ran then crawled, crouched, then ran again, Morgan prayed for Silver’s safety.

She was clever, he told himself firmly. She would think of a way to hold the general at bay until he could get there.

Surely she knew he would come.

Just a little bit longer
, he thought.
You can do it. I know that damnable determination of yours
. Morgan cursed the lateness of the hour, changed position once more, and moved closer. He hoped to hell that
for once Silver would keep her temper in check, keep her fury aimed at the general—and not try to battle the entire Mexican Army.

“Come,” the general said, extending his hand, his voice rough with desire.

Lifting her chin, Silver forced a smile in his direction, but her eyes surveyed the room, looking for something—anything—that might help save her. Then she saw it: a massive brass candle holder resting beside the big four-poster bed, its candle burned down to just a few inches and threatening to sputter out. If she could distract him, keep his attention until she could grasp it, she could use it as a weapon.

Silver accepted his hand, hiding her revulsion at how damp it felt, and let him lead her to the bed. The general tossed back the covers, exposing the smooth white sheets, sat on the edge, and removed his slippers. Silver climbed up on the mattress, trying to work her way toward the candle holder on the opposite side, but Hernández caught her ankle and dragged her back, rumpling the sheets. She hadn’t even gotten near.

“Do you not wish to see my body? I assure you, I am quite a virile man.”

That was the last thing she wanted. “Of course, General Hernández.”
I can hardly wait
.

“It would please me to hear you call me Alberto—at least while we are alone.”

“Alberto,” Silver repeated softly as the general untied the sash of his dressing gown. Her eyes went wide when she discovered he was naked underneath. Naked and aroused.

Oh, God
. Silver felt the heat in her cheeks and glanced away. Hernandez merely chuckled.

“I am pleased to see,
querida
, that you are not so
well schooled as you pretend. It will give me great pleasure to assist your education in the art of making love.”

Though he wasn’t very tall, Alberto Hernández had not lied about his masculinity. His thick chest glistened with curly black hair. His waist and hips were stout, but corded and hardened with muscle. His shaft, blunt and thick, rose in arrogance. Silver fought down the bile in her throat.

He came to her slowly, kissing her, pressing her down in the soft feather mattress. Silver inched backward, forcing him to follow, determined to reach the candlestick that now seemed her only salvation. Her legs thrashed wildly, and she moaned, but with each feigned moment of passion, she inched her body closer to the opposite side of the bed. The general’s hand squeezed her breast, bared it, and began to massage her nipple. His other hand shoved up the black silk nightgown and began to knead her bottom.

Silver silently cursed him, but she thrashed and arched and gained nearly a foot toward her weapon. The general threw a thick leg over her slender one. Silver strained and moved. His tongue thrust down her throat, disgusting her. A few more inches, and she could reach it. She let him kiss her, ignoring the bitter taste of him, desperate her attempt would not fail.

“Let her go.” The deadly tone of the words were punctuated by the murderous click of a hammer being cocked. Hernández whirled toward the sound. “Make one wrong move, Hernandez, and you’re a dead man.”

For an instant Silver just gaped at the men who stood near the back of the room. Behind them, the curtains billowed softly, the doors open wider than
before. Morgan had never looked more grim. The general reached for his dressing gown.

“Leave it,” Morgan warned.

“But surely you do not wish me to—”

“I said leave it!” Reluctantly the general let it drop.

Still, Silver did not move. Not until the young blond man beside Morgan swept her with a look that reminded her of her partial nudity. Only then did she swallow the lump that had risen in her throat and adjust her skimpy black garment in an effort to cover herself.

“Are you all right?” The words were clipped and brittle, Morgan’s eyes running over her black silk nightgown, taking in the tangled mass of her hair, then glancing to the rumpled sheets. The candle beside the bed cast a seductive glow, and the pillows looked crumpled and used.

“Yes,” she whispered, but her throat had closed up, and the ache felt so painful she could barely say the word. She knew what he was thinking. Dear God in heaven, she knew!

He picked up the general’s dressing gown and tossed it to her. “We’ve got to hurry. There isn’t much time.”

Silver pulled it on quickly and tied the sash. Tears stung her eyes and blurred her vision as she moved blindly across the room. She needed Morgan’s comforting arms around her. Needed to tell him what had happened, make him understand, yet she knew without doubt he would not.

“You will fail, Major Trask,” Hernández warned while the blond marine bound his wrists. “Just as you did before.”

“Not this time, General.” The young soldier finished
tying the general’s feet, bound him to a chair, and stuffed a gag into his mouth.

“Let’s go,” Morgan ordered. “Corporal Saxon, you cover the rear.”

Silver paused only long enough to gather her clothes and roll them into a bundle. The three of them silently hurried to the balcony and climbed the trellis to the ground. When Silver stumbled over the too-long robe, Morgan caught her arm and pulled her up against the adobe wall of the building. Brusquely he leaned down and tore a length off the robe and then off the nightgown.

“Put your sandals on.” Every word sounded clipped and cold. Not a trace of warmth touched his voice. With shaking fingers, Silver put on the flat leather shoes, and they started back across the fields toward the prison.

“What about the tower? Won’t the guards up there see us?”

“They’ve been dealt with,” was all he said.

They had just reached the tower when the shooting started. Morgan cursed roundly. “Move, damn it! We’ve got to reach the tunnel!”

Mexican soldiers poured out of tents and sheds that served as makeshift barracks. Pandemonium broke out as each man darted for cover or tried to find the direction in which to return fire. A tall Mexican soldier, shouting words in Spanish, grunted as a lead ball slammed into his chest and he fell at Morgan’s feet.

Gripping Silver’s hand, Morgan sidestepped the body and dragged her relentlessly through the melee of half-dressed men, horses, wagons, and cannon being readied to fire. Where to aim did not seem quite certain.

“This way.” Morgan pulled her into the dark interior
of a crumbled stone building. Saxon flattened himself against the wall on the opposite side of the doorway.

“What is this place?” Silver whispered, noting the hieroglyphic inscriptions carved on the walls, the serpents, and evil-looking creatures that watched their every movement with hostile granite eyes.

“Some sort of Mayan temple. The place has been abandoned for centuries.” It was the most he had said, but he sounded so detached it made her feel worse than ever.

“Morgan, I want you to know—”

“Not now.” With that he grabbed her arm and guided her out of the roofless building. They moved through rock-walled corridors thick with scrub, vines, and bushes and finally reached the side of a pyramid.

“Take her into the tunnel and wait for me there,” Morgan instructed the corporal. “I’m going after the others.”

Saxon nodded. Silver glanced around but saw nothing until the corporal indicated a low dark bush. Pulling it out of the way, Silver saw an opening about four feet high. She shivered at the thought of going in, got a last quick glimpse of Morgan’s broad shoulders as he rounded the corner out of sight, then ducked and stepped inside. The shooting seemed to go on forever; then she heard the sound of running feet.

In minutes men began pouring into the tunnel, some on their own, others being assisted, a few being carried. By now Saxon had lit a torch and some of the others did the same, quickly moving off down the passageway. Silver didn’t budge. She wasn’t leaving until Morgan arrived.

She heard him before she saw him, and there was
relief in his voice. Three men ducked into the tunnel ahead of him. One she recognized as Jacques, the other, a tall dark-haired man who had to be Morgan’s brother, and Cookie, grinning from ear to ear.

“Knew the cap’n would find ya,” Cookie said to her with a touch of pride.

“It is good you are safe,
chérie.
”

“Let’s go,” Morgan urged before she could respond to either of her friends. He gripped her hand and pulled her along the tunnel, slowing only when she threatened to fall. She heard the sound of rats nearby, felt one touch her foot, and stifled an urge to scream.

“It isn’t far now,” Morgan assured her with the same reserved detachment as before. Silver forced one foot in front of the other, driving away thoughts of spiders and snakes and the bugs that grew in profusion in the dank tunnel’s depths.

Then she smelled it—a whiff of clean air. In moments they stood outside the opening but lingered only an instant. Morgan yanked her forward, off into the woods, and swung her up on the back of his big sorrel stallion, waiting where he had left it. His brother stepped on a rock and settled himself behind her.

“Get her back to camp,” Morgan said to Brendan.

“Not to worry, big brother.” But the lightness sounded forced in Brendan’s voice.

“What about you?” Silver asked. “Aren’t you coming with us?”

“I’ll be right behind you.”

Brendan whirled the stallion, and that was when she noticed his left arm hanging limply by his side. For the first time she realized the man in back of her could barely hold on. He was injured, and thin to the point of starvation.

“Give me the reins,” she commanded. “Just put your arms around my waist and hold on.” For a moment he seemed uncertain. “Trust me, Brendan. I’ll get us both out of here. Just show me which way to go.”

“Morgan says the camp is that way.” Wearily he lifted his good arm and pointed toward a trail that led northwest. “Morgan’s helping some of the others. He’ll meet us at the midway point.” Exhausted from his efforts so far, Brendan slid his arms around her waist and his head slumped onto her shoulder.

Silver ignored the rifle fire, the sound of Mexican soldiers searching through the undergrowth, and the cries of the wounded whimpering into the darkness. Instead she urged the big horse along the overgrown path, giving him his head, letting him choose his footing. As Morgan promised, he joined them an hour or so along the trail, silently slipping in behind them to protect the rear. They reached the camp—and safety—sometime later.

Jacques helped Brendan down and then helped Silver. Morgan was nowhere to be seen.

Against all odds they had done it. Successfully freed the Texian prisoners and gotten away with a minimum of casualties.

All except Buckland. Constantine Buckland was missing. He had not been among the men in the prison. The man called Ram, who along with Morgan and Buckland had been tortured, believed that Buckland had been given a room in the hacienda for his “much-appreciated cooperation.”