Spanish Serenade (50 page)

But they would have the time until then. They would have the glory. A year could be a long time. In a year, there could be a child. In two, there could be another. She would have something left of Refugio to cling to, some living chalice to hold the essence of their love.

If he was coming.

The song was ending. There were only a few notes more. She drew a deep breath, preparing to move forward from her concealment into the moonlight, to beckon to him.

And then the music ceased.

It stopped with a discord, a twanging violation of the strings that rasped Pilar's nerves to rawness and sent a shudder along her spine. She did not move. Disquiet echoed through her. She opened her eyes so wide they ached as she searched the dim corners of the courtyard.

What was happening? Who was out there? The urge to call out rose in her throat, but she held it back. She thought of going inside, of making her way downstairs and out into the courtyard. She hesitated, uncertain it was wise, almost sure her present vantage point was better.

Then there came the rustle of grapevine leaves from the far end of the balcony. They shook again, a movement that set the vines farther along near Pilar to quivering.

The agitation was too violent to be a lizard darting along the vines, or even the kitchen cat ascending them as it stalked some night creature. There was a man climbing up from the loggia below.

He was moving swiftly, without pausing to search overlong for handholds, as if he had done this before. He was hoisting himself up with the athletic ease of hard muscles and well-honed reflexes. It would take him only a moment to reach the balcony railing. Pilar took a step forward.

His head appeared among the vine leaves, a bobbing shadow. He drew himself upward, his broad shoulder muscles bunching with the effort. Reaching for the railing, he grasped it for support as he levered himself close enough to put a foot on the edge of the floorboards underneath.

Pilar moved with a quick tread, stepping into the shafting light of the moon. Her voice suddenly breathless, she called out in soft, tentative welcome.

“I'm here, Refugio.”

Below in the courtyard a man ran from the shadows. His head was bare, his features contorted with rage and fear, and he carried a musket in his hands.

“Get back, Pilar!” Charro shouted. “Stay out of the way!”

The man at the end of the balcony was moving now with urgent speed, disentangling himself from the concealing vines, lifting a long leg to put it over the railing even as he braced his hands behind him. In a moment he would vault the top rail and land on his feet on the balcony. Down below, Charro brought his musket up to his shoulder. He sighted down the barrel, ready to fire.

Pilar saw what was happening and could not believe it. A scream rushed into her throat, swelling it to bursting. It tore from her in shrill despair. “No!”

The musket shot cracked out, becoming a booming roar. Orange fire blossomed around the barrel, then was smothered by a cloud of dark smoke. Another musket boomed from a different quarter, and yet another. The vivid, blinding explosions shook the night and drowned every other sound in their thunder.

The musket balls whined, thudding into the man on the shadowed balcony. He grunted as he was flung backward with black splotches spreading on the white of his shirt. He caught himself with his hands on the railing, weaving. Then he released his hold and fell, heavy and lax, into the courtyard below.

Pilar heard the crash as he broke through the lattice over the patio area, then a solid impact as he struck the ground. She swayed, trying to catch her breath in her raw throat, trying to make her mind and her body obey her frantic will while red mist swam before her eyes and she could feel her heart draining.

“No,” she whispered, with a violent shake of her head. “No!”

Then as if released, she whirled and flung herself through the door of her bedchamber and across the room. She snatched open the inner door and ran with flying skirts to the salon where the stairs descended. She flew downward and out onto the loggia.

There, she slowed to a jerky walk, moving as in a daze toward where a man lay stretched on the ground with Charro and Enrique bending over him. Behind her the house was blooming with light as voices called out in distress and fear. Through a haze of tears she saw the maid Benita come running from a lower room, saw Señor Huerta walking from a dark corner of the courtyard with a smoking musket in his hand.

Charro turned his head as he heard Pilar approach. His face was gray and his mouth set in a straight line of pain. He straightened, stepping in front of the body. Putting out his hands, he tried to catch her arms, to stop her. “Don't,” he said, his voice thick. “Don't look. There's nothing you can do.”

She evaded him, refusing to meet his eyes, jerking the arm he caught from his grasp. She went to one knee beside the man on the ground in a billow of skirts. Her gaze, quick and desperate, ran over the spreading red wetness that colored the whole front of his shirt. A tremor ran over her, quivering in her hand as she reached and turned his face to light.

A small cry was forced from her, and after it a long, tremulous sigh. Tears spilled over her lashes, running in warm wet tracks down her face. She placed her hand on his forehead and brought it down slowly, gently, to close the staring, glazing eyes.

The men above her shifted. There was a soft tread behind her, then a figure knelt in swooping grace at her side. “I pray you are near, cara,” Refugio said, “to be the last thing on this earth I see, and to shut out the night for me.”

He put his arm around her shoulders, holding her tight against him for a long moment before he drew her to her feet. He was warm and whole and alive, though his face was drawn and there was darkness behind his eyes.

Charro took a step forward. “We had to shoot. Baltasar was going for Pilar again. God knows why — revenge, for the emeralds — but we couldn't take a chance.”

It was not only Charro, but also his father and Enrique who had fired. They carried their muskets or else had lain them down near the body. Refugio, Pilar saw, had no firearm. He had only the sword at his side. The leather strap that crossed his chest held a guitar slung behind his back.

“Shall I thank you for exacting my revenge for me?” Refugio said.

Charro blinked as a tide of angry color rose in his face. “It seemed necessary. You would not.”

“Maybe for a reason?”

“Yes, because you overflow with misplaced compassion, Baltasar tried three different times to kill you, and might have again the next time self-pity muddled his brain. He manhandled Pilar once, putting her life in danger, and was about to try more of the same. There had to be an end to it.”

“I don't think he meant to hurt me,” Pilar broke in, her voice husky. “He kept me from harm before, when my stepfather wanted me killed. No, I think he knew all of you were out here watching, waiting. I think Baltasar wanted—”

Refugio's arm clamped down on her shoulders, a warning pressure instantly released. His smooth voice intervened as she faltered. “Baltasar wanted a few of the emeralds, doubtless, to make his path smoother wherever he decided to go. It's the obvious answer.”

It might be obvious, but it wasn't correct. Baltasar, she was almost sure, had wanted to die, and had appointed the band his executioners. Refugio knew it as well as she; he had been there to hear the big man's whispered prayer that night at the jacal. To tell the band the truth, she saw belatedly, would not be a kindness. They had enough guilt and pain to handle without adding more.

Charro was shaking his head. “He might have hurt Pilar to get them.”

“He might,” Refugio, agreed, his voice flat with care and weariness.

Baltasar, Pilar thought, had also known that Refugio was not on guard, for he had heard him playing his serenade. He had given his leader, then, this one small mercy, perhaps in return for the manner of Isabel's dying — that Refugio need not share in the death. This also Refugio must know, and bear.

Pilar had thought once that she disliked the complicated mental processes of the man at her side. She was wrong. She loved the complexity that was so much a part of him, for within it were degrees of tolerance and understanding unknown to most. She had benefited from it as much as any, and would, pray God, again.

“It's over now,” Enrique said, the brusque words hiding whatever he might feel. “We should cover him, bury him, and make an end of it.”

“Yes,” Señor Huerta said with a glance toward where his wife and Doña Luisa hovered, with Benita beside them and the other servants nearby. He beckoned toward one of the Indian men, and also toward the guard squatting on his platform, watching the proceedings. They ran to do his bidding.

“This way,” his wife, the señora, said, indicating that the body should be carried into a small room used for guests on the lower floor.

Charro moved toward Pilar. His face was stiff as his gaze rested on Refugio's arm still about her, but he held out his hand. “Come, Pilar. This has been distressing for you. I will see you back to your room and your bed, and maybe find a glass of wine to calm you.”

“No.”

It was Refugio who spoke, the word simple, final. He did not release his hold, but kept Pilar at his side.

Charro searched his face. “You have no right to interfere. She is my betrothed.”

“Not any longer. I have a prior right, and I'm taking her with me.”

“Prior right? If you mean because you made her your mistress, I refuse to recognize it!”

“No, my friend. Because of promises and pledges made in two hemispheres, unblessed but no less binding. Because of nights shared and dangers met and two minds that leap as one to a single conclusion. Because she is beauty and strength and truth, and I have need of them. Because she holds my soul in the hollow of her hand and keeps it secure when there is no other who will, or can. Because I must. Because she requires it.”

Charro stood tall with the moonlight striking the prominent bones of his face and leaving his eyes in shadow. “I won't let you take her.”

“Stop me,” Refugio said quietly, and brought his sword sighing from its scabbard.

Benita screamed. Señora Huerta moaned while her husband swore under his breath. The men removing Baltasar's body put it down and stood watching, alert for orders.

Charro did not move a muscle though his chest rose and fell with his rapid breathing. His voice was strained as he made his answer. “I can command a dozen men with a single word. The gates are locked. There is no way you can win free.”

“Fighting is not a favorite pastime, but I can do it,” Refugio answered, his sword point steady and only inches from Charro's heart. “There are horses waiting beyond the wall, and Enrique will open the gate.”

The acrobat, as Charro turned to look at him, gave a shrug and a nod.

“I forbid it,” the son of the Huerta estancia said, “and my word is law here.”

“Not to me,” Enrique said in sorrowful, but measured contradiction. “Refugio is still, and will ever be, my leader. He is still El Leon.”

Charro's face tightened. He swung sharply toward Pilar and his eyes narrowed as he tilted his head, studying her pale face. “This was planned, then,” he said in grating tones. “I might have known. Did you?”

Pilar began to shake her head, but Refugio spoke first.

“The betrayal is mine alone. An abduction was planned for tonight, but the rest — was happenstance.”

“Conspicuously gallant, as usual, but yours is not the answer I seek. You don't protest, Pilar, nor do you beg to stay. If I misunderstood you when you said in front of the governor that you meant to marry me, you might have told me so.”

“You didn't misunderstand. It's just — I'm sorry, Charro. I thought it would be best for everybody. I was wrong.”

“Then you're going with Refugio?”

She made a small gesture of distress. “Please don't try to stop him. I couldn't bear that there should be any more killing.”

“But if you are unwilling—” he began urgently.

“No, not unwilling. Never — quite — unwilling.”

Refugio signaled with his sword to Enrique. The acrobat leaped to raise the bar of the gate. Step by slow step, Refugio drew Pilar back with him toward the wide opening. Charro moved after them with his hands clamped into fists and his jaws so tight the muscles stood out in relief. There was indecision in his eyes, however.

“Let them go, my son,” came the quiet counsel of Señora Huerta. “You have interfered enough.”

“Yes,” Benita said in tones laced with anger and gladness as she moved to Charro's side. “Let them go.”

Refugio did not wait for more. He swung with Pilar, sweeping her out of the courtyard toward where a pair of horses were tied to a hitching post. He threw her up into the saddle, tossed up her reins, then swung to his own horse. In an instant they had gathered their mounts and sent them pounding away down the long and dusty road that led to San Antonio.

They rode swift and hard. Pilar did not ask where they were going, she did not want to know. It was enough that she was beside Refugio, and the road ahead, silver in the light of the moon, was open before them. The moment was hers, as was the great, swelling exhilaration of love she felt inside her. Nothing could take it away, nothing change it. She would keep the memory always.