The Daughter of Doctor Moreau(63)

She was still straddling him, and his member was growing hard again as she raked a nail across his breastbone and raised an eyebrow at him questioningly. He laughed.

“Fine, fine, do as you wish. By god, you are a stubborn girl.”

I didn’t use to be one, she thought. She did everything she was told. But now she was beginning to understand there was such a thing as choice and that there were ways to nudge her fiancé in the direction she wanted, like one guides a horse. Her father might think she’d parrot his words in Eduardo’s ear and Montgomery believe her na?ve, but Carlota was a quick learner.

He frowned, but only for a minute. Then he became interested in the motion of her nails and sighed. “You know, you look like a girl in a book I read as a child.”

“Truly?” she said, skeptical.

“It was The One Thousand and One Nights. Scheherazade sat together with the king and her hair was violet-black, the color of grapes, and her shoulders were bare.”

“When I was a child I had a book that made me afraid of being devoured by salmon.”

“Goodness! My book was better, then.”

“Why? Did you hope Scheherazade would tell you stories all night long?” she asked, leaning down, close to him, her long hair falling like a velvet curtain around his face.

“No. I don’t expect you to tell me stories.”

“We’ll be quiet, then.”

“Very quiet,” he whispered, brushing his fingertips against her lips.





Chapter 20


    Montgomery


The day was terribly hot, and even under the shade of his straw hat Montgomery felt the sun baking his skull. Montgomery and Cachito fed the pigs and the chickens; afterward he went back into the house, soaked a rag in a bowl of water, and dragged it across his sweaty brow.

When he’d accomplished this task Montgomery found his way to the courtyard for a smoke, sitting by a window. The gentlemen were playing the piano; he could hear the tinkling of the keys under Isidro’s hands and the sound of laughter. He could picture Carlota fanning herself. Their merriment was like a splinter under his skin, and he grimaced.

He took out the box of matches and turned it between his fingers while he rubbed his free hand on the back of his neck.

Before he had a chance to light his cigarette he heard a banging at the doors of the hacienda. He stood up and walked to the portón, his hand brushing the pistol at his hip.

“Moreau! Open up, Moreau!” someone yelled.

The racket continued, and Montgomery unbolted the decorative iron gate and then the postigo. The smaller door would allow people to enter on foot. He was not about to throw the double doors open.

“Finally!” Hernando Lizalde exclaimed, looking frazzled and dusty from the road.

Montgomery was not surprised to see him. He’d been expecting him each morning that week. But he still felt a sour taste in his mouth at the realization the letter had had its intended effect. Lizalde had come to fetch his brat of a son, and for once Montgomery was not glad to rid himself of Eduardo because he’d had a chance to witness Carlota’s happy smiles and the way she clung to the boy’s arm.

“Mr. Lizalde,” Montgomery said, stepping aside and allowing him in. Behind him came two men, and he spotted two more sitting atop their horses. “How can I assist you?”

“I’m looking for my son. Where is that rascal?” Hernando asked, briskly walking into the courtyard, his riding crop under his arm. His leather boots were like slaps upon the stone floor.

“I believe he is in the sitting room.”

“Take me to him. You two, wait here,” the man said, pointing to his companions.

Montgomery quickly catalogued the men, taking note of the two guns they carried. Hernando was also armed, the ivory handle of his pistol stark white against his dark clothes. Pistols for a man of this caliber were purely ornamental, but Montgomery was wary of the detail. “This way, sir,” he said without inflection.

When they walked into the sitting room, the first one to spot Hernando was his son. Eduardo stood up quickly and swallowed. Then it was Moreau who turned his head and looked in their direction.

“Mr. Lizalde,” Moreau said, leaning on his cane and standing, too. “What a surprise. I didn’t receive any letter saying you’d be by.”

“I didn’t send one,” Hernando said. His eyes were fixed on Carlota, who had been fanning herself on the settee and now sat still, her fan on her lap. Isidro had stopped his playing and leaned against the piano. A smile danced on his lips.

“You seem to be having a merry time.”

“Dr. Moreau is a good host, father,” Eduardo said, his voice straining to sound cheerful. “I’m happy to see you. Won’t you take a seat?”

The man did not. Atop the mantelpiece the French clock ticked and ticked.

“I didn’t say you could come here. I explicitly told you we’d visit Yaxaktun together, yet here you are.”

“I didn’t think it would matter.”

“It does.”

“Is something wrong?” the doctor asked. He looked surprisingly calm while everyone else seemed to be stricken with terror.

“I was going to be more measured about this matter, Moreau, but seeing as you have a complete lack of respect for me I might as well be direct and quick about it: your research is at an end. You are to surrender all those hybrids to me and get on your way,” Hernando said, and as he spoke he held his riding crop tight, swatting the arm of the settee where Carlota sat. The girl scooted closer to the other end, where Eduardo was standing.