The Daughter of Doctor Moreau(19)

“You don’t know enough about the world to pontificate about it,” he said, unable to suppress a laugh.

“Really? What do you find so enticing about the city? That you can lose all your wages on a game of tute or baccarat?” she asked, her voice hot as a coal.

He knew her fury was not directed at him, that she was angry at Lupe, and it was because he was walking next to her that he now faced the brunt of that anger, which must be turned somewhere. He nevertheless stopped in his tracks and stared at the girl. He didn’t insulate anyone from the knowledge of his vices, but he didn’t want them tossed in his face like stones.

Moreau liked to think his daughter, like the gentle bees of the peninsula that stored their honey in round sacks of black wax, lacked a stinger. But Montgomery knew her words were not always sweet, and at times she stung him all the same.

“One insult a day is quite enough for me, Miss Moreau,” he said. “Two is more than I will bear on an empty stomach.”

She looked immediately contrite; she often was when she was involved in some small mischief. Regret came easy to her. “I’m sorry,” she said, her fingers falling gently against his arm, grasping his sleeve. “Forgive me, Monty.”

The endearment was so unexpected, so rare, that rather than be cross he merely nodded his acknowledgment, and they walked in silence. She seemed rather miserable, but he didn’t add a thing. He did, however, look at her.

It was impossible not to look at her. In the city, the women who commanded the highest prices at the best brothels were the whitest ones. Girls of milk and honey. But it was obvious that Carlota’s mother had been no whey-faced lady. Carlota’s skin was healthily bronzed, the hair tumbling in a thick wave to her waist was jet-black; the honey was in her eyes. And yet she would have made the finest courtesan in the city, and Montgomery might have spent his wages not on tute or baccarat, as she’d chided him, but on a different sort of pleasure.

She had only to stretch herself upon a divan to become an odalisque, and when she moved it was with such utter grace, with such delicious poise…

Not that he ought to be thinking about Dr. Moreau’s daughter in those terms, which is why he kept his mouth resolutely shut on the walk back, wishing they had not started that damn conversation and she hadn’t touched his arm.

When they reached the house, she went inside and he dawdled by the entrance, resting on one of the built-in masonry benches. He hadn’t been long there when a group of men on horseback appeared in the distance. Without haste he stood up, then walked inside and fetched his rifle. Carlota and Lupe saw him and raised their faces, looking curious.

“What is it?” Carlota asked.

“Stay inside,” he replied, and he walked out, past the decorative iron gate, back through the strong wooden doors and to the bench. They were not expecting visitors and he was wary.

It was a party of six. Two young men dismounted. They did not wear the white cotton shirts and trousers of a laborer but were instead attired in the way of city folk. Their dark clothes were inappropriate for the heat of the jungle; their stiff-collared shirts and fancy, embroidered waistcoats seemed outright ridiculous. Rather than sporting something similar to Montgomery’s Toquilla straw hat, which protected him from the sun, they had donned dark felt hats with upturned brims.

Montgomery wondered if they weren’t cooking themselves alive underneath their grandiose outfits. When Montgomery went out of the house and ventured into the jungle, especially in the rainy season, he might don a long leather coat and a pair of worn chamois gloves. But he didn’t wrap his fingers in soft kid leather, nor did he resemble a dandy out for a stroll.

“Is this Yaxaktun?” one of the young men asked, taking off his hat and handing it to one of his companions. His hair was a light brown and his eyes were green. He had a perfectly trimmed mustache to match his immaculate clothes and new leather boots.

“That’s right,” Montgomery said. His rifle was resting casually on his lap.

“We’re on the trail of an Indian raiding party. Have you seen anyone go by?”

“Where are you coming from?”

“From Vista Hermosa.”

“What are you doing this far?”

“You know it?” the young man asked, now tugging at his gloves, which he also handed to his companion. He ran a hand through his hair.

“I know it,” Montgomery said, nodding. “It’s pretty far for a casual horse ride.”

“It’s no casual ride. I told you, we’re on the trail of an Indian raiding party.”

Not dressed like that you’re not, he thought, and then he frowned, remembering something he’d heard a while back. That Lizalde’s son was coming for a visit. Could this be him? The family owned so many haciendas that it was hard for Montgomery to remember if the doctor had said he’d be at Vista Hermosa or not. But it would make perfect sense. It was the nearest hacienda to their ranch. Montgomery normally obtained supplies from other places; therefore he wouldn’t have known if the young mister was lodging there even if he’d been visiting for a whole month already.

“We’ve had no trouble here,” Montgomery said, eyeing the two ostentatious rings on the young man’s right hand.

“Well, we’ve noticed the signs over at Vista Hermosa, and they were headed this way. We thought we’d see if we could catch up with them. They’re like rabid dogs. You wouldn’t want them wandering around, would you?”