FEVERDREAM

By brig
bliteheart42@aol.com

RATING: mild PG for a bit of naughty language, and adult situations.
SYNOPSIS: A mysterious visitor to Santa Elena finds Colonel Montoya in the grip of a terrible fever...
DISCLAIMERS: Queen of Swords and its characters, except for my OFC, are the property of Fireworks Entertainment and anyone else with a legal claim. No money is made by me for writing this stuff.

~~~~~

PART ONE

He was dying.

Luis Ramirez Montoya lay in his large comfortable bed, its fine linen sheets sodden with his sweat, and looked at the carafe of water sitting on the small table only a few feet away. He had tried several times to reach it, but found himself too weak to sit up.

The servants . . . they've all run off. A great weariness washed over him. None of them had any reason to stay beyond the hold I had on them . . . I must be the only one left in the house.

The thought made him anxious, a feeling he pushed away. There was no need for worry; he would rest until he was better, then clean himself up and take control of the situation . . .

. . . if he didn't die first.

He closed his eyes as a trickle of sweat made a slow path down the length of his neck.

Dying here so far from home had never occurred to him. He had always assumed that once his empire was built and his fortune made, he would return to Spain, find himself a suitable wife, sire a few sons and do as he pleased, following his father's path.

"I don't expect much from you, Luis. Just a small success now and then, in place of this constant parade of failures."

His father stood at the bedside, tall and impassive.

"You're such a disappointment to me. I expected more from a child who was given every conceivable advantage."

"This can't be . . . " Montoya closed his eyes in disbelief. "You're dead."

"I've bought you a commission in the army, Luis. It's your last chance to make something of yourself and become a true Montoya. Do you understand me? Fail and you need never return home . . . "

"Senor Montoya."

It was no longer his father speaking. With slow caution he opened his eyes.

A woman stood by the bedside. She was rather small and unremarkable looking, with regular features and a wealth of golden brown hair pinned up in a thick coronet braid. She wore a coarse white apron over a blue dress, as unornamented as a nun's habit.

"Senor Montoya," she said again.

"Who are you?" he demanded, attempting once more to sit up. The exertion caused a coughing spasm. Immediately she was at his side. Slender, callused fingers held his wrist even as she felt his forehead with her other hand, her palm cool and dry.

"What . . . what are you doing?"

"Shh . . . " She glanced at him with a slight smile. He saw that her eyes weren't black as he had first thought, but a dark blue as clear as a sky at twilight. After a moment she placed his hand on the coverlet and let go of his wrist.

"Your pulse is a bit fast and you've obviously got a fever." Her Spanish was fluent and held just a trace of accent. "You're dehydrated and in need of a bath--"

"Who are you?" he asked again, suspicion taking over. He could never be too careful. "Senora--"

"My name is Lucy Sparhawk. I'm here to take care of you."

Montoya stared at her in astonishment.

"Are you mad?" he snapped. "A woman taking care of a dying man?"

She had the effrontery to smile, her dark eyes full of amusement.

"First off, you're not dying. Second, where I come from, women do many things. One of them is to care for sick people."

Her voice had a musical quality he found soothing, almost hypnotic. It seemed to ease him somehow... With an effort he shook off her words.

"You will leave now," he informed her with cold authority, and ruined the effect by giving a tremendous sneeze.

Before he could draw another breath his face was being wiped with a cool, damp cloth. Vaguely he knew he ought to protest, but couldn't bring himself to do so. Her ministration felt . . . good.

"Drink," the quiet voice urged. A glass was put to his lips. He drank eagerly, a small part of him amazed at the expenditure of energy required for such a simple action.

"Who sent you?" he whispered when the glass was taken away. "Are you working with Helm, is that it?"

She hesitated--only for the briefest of moments, but Montoya felt it, and filed it away for future reference. Her small hand came to rest on his shoulder.

"Yes. I will not harm you," she said, and something in the tone of her soft voice told him she was speaking the truth. She patted him, a familiarity for which he should have had her horsewhipped in the square.

"Now that's settled, let's get you cleaned up." Her cheerful voice grated on his nerves.

"Leave at once," he growled, and coughed, wincing as pain gripped him.

"Now Senor," she said in admonishment, and eased him to his feet. Montoya found himself being guided to a chair. "Sit here while I remake your bed, and then we'll see to your bath."

She was indeed shorter than he; the top of her head didn't reach his shoulder. But her arms were strong and wiry, supporting him with ease.

"Just for a few minutes," she reassured him as she helped him into the chair.

He watched as the woman stripped the bed and pillows. Occasionally she would look at him and smile, her rather plain features softening; she worked with a brisk economy of movement that held its own grace.

"Back in a moment," she told him when the bed was finished, and left the room. Montoya attempted to stand, his legs unsteady.

"Grisham!" he called, trying to raise his voice. "Grisham!"

But he only succeeded in starting up the racking coughs once more. When the spasms subsided he collapsed, spent and shaking.

"Stubborn," the woman said in resignation. She stood beside him, a large basin full of water in her hands. There were linen towels draped over her arm. "I couldn't manage the hip bath, so this will have to do."

She set everything by the bed, then came back to him. When she would have helped him up he pushed her hands away in indignation, furious with himself for trembling in weakness.

"No!" he rasped. "Brazen woman! Have you no shame? Keep your hands off me! Let me die in peace, damn you!"

He closed his eyes on yet another coughing fit, hoping she would be gone when he looked again. No such luck; the woman stood in front of him now, so close that the hem of her skirt brushed his feet. Her arms were folded across her chest; all the gentleness had vanished from her features, leaving behind lowered brows, a soft mouth set in grim, uncompromising lines, and eyes that blazed chill blue fire at him.

"Senor Montoya," she said in glacial tones, "For the last time, you are not dying. Nor are you getting out of being washed, put into a clean nightshirt, given some medicine and helped to your bed, where you will rest until I tell you otherwise, do I make myself clear?"

"It is not proper for you to see a naked man," he returned. She sighed.

"I've seen more naked men than you could shake a stick at," she said with brutal candor. "You're all variations on a theme and believe me, any possible vicarious thrills I might get out of viewing your manly charms, I'll keep to myself. Now," and the quiet voice took on an edge of cold steel, "bath."

Montoya considered this incredible speech. She meant every word, that much was obvious. He was too sick to fight her at the moment, but perhaps in a day or so, especially with the help of the medicine she had mentioned ...

He sighed and slumped down in the chair, lowering his gaze. "Very well," he said with pathetic meekness.

"Huh!" The woman snorted in obvious disbelief at his dissembling. She unbuttoned a cuff and began rolling up her sleeve, revealing pale skin and a surprising amount of slender muscle. When the other sleeve was done she moved to help him out of the chair. Though he knew she was still annoyed with him, her touch was as gentle as before.

It stayed that way through a most remarkable experience . . .

~~~~~

PART TWO

Lucy pushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes and glanced over at her patient. He was sleeping at last, though his fever hadn't yet broken.

If I were home I'd be charting right now, she thought with a smile. Pulse a bit thready and fast, temp--well, my best guess would be about one hundred and two, breathing a bit congested but lungs sounding fairly clear, at least by way of putting my ear to his chest. Pupils equal and reactive. Patient is diaphoretic and complaining that women weren't meant to view naked men--so how does he think his mom and dad managed to make him?

She chuckled to herself and leaned back in the chair, ignoring the creak of dry wood.

Pompous ass. A cute pompous ass though.

Of their own volition her thoughts returned to the previous hour's activities . . .

The disrobing process had taken only a few moments, rather to her surprise. He submitted to her touch, eyes closed as she drew the damp nightshirt away from his body.

There wasn't an ounce of fat on him anywhere; his chest was broad, his hips narrow, and the purely female part of her mind admired the firm, neat backside and long thighs. He was built with spare elegance, as lean as a greyhound.

He sat down on the towel-draped bed, the movement revealing just a glimpse of a dimple in those tight cheeks, and suddenly Lucy had a flash of him on a dance floor in a pair of worn 501s, shaking his bonbon for all he was worth. The image was so ludicrous she giggled aloud, though she bit her lip in a vain attempt to keep the sound from escaping.

Montoya's eyes flew open. The pale depths held a cold annoyance.

"You find something amusing?" he asked. Lucy sobered instantly, though the humor of the image remained.

"Forgive me, Senor," she said. "I wasn't laughing at you, far from it."

He closed his eyes once more, dismissing her.

"Get on with it," he said, his arrogant tone diminished by weariness. Lucy tucked a towel about his hips, then picked up the washcloth and began the bath.

With great care she soaped his neck and hunched shoulders, moving the cloth in firm but gentle circles over the smooth skin, and had the satisfaction of feeling him relax under her touch. She worked her way down the long back, keeping a slow, steady rhythm, kneeling as she started on his chest.

Wax on, wax off, she thought, and smiled, wringing out the cloth. When she would have returned to her work trembling fingers clamped over her wrist.

"If you persist in finding me to be an object of amusement, I will ask you to leave."

Lucy didn't try to pull away. His hand wasn't soft and slender as she had thought it would be; his fingers were muscular and blunt, the pads callused, as was his palm.

"Why do you presume I am laughing at you, Senor?" she asked, and lifted her gaze to his. The bloodshot eyes narrowed with scorn.

"What other conclusion is there?"

She saw faint bitterness in those winter shadow eyes, saw too he had been laughed at; it had lodged deep in his heart, never to be forgotten.

"If you must know," Lucy said, "I was thinking that you might have seen women in this position," indicating her kneeling figure with a small gesture, "but I'd venture none of them ever offered to wash your knees."

She gave him her best cheeky grin. His eyes widened with astonishment--and then he laughed. Just a dry bark that turned into a vicious cough quickly enough, but he was still smiling a little when it subsided at last. Lucy wiped the sweat from his face, admiring the long straight nose and mobile mouth.

"Senorita," he protested as she rose to put a towel about his shoulders.

"What? Stand up please," she helped him to his feet and turned him around.

Oh yes, that behind was a beauty! Can't drive nails with a tack hammer, she thought, and nearly bit her lips through to keep another giggle from surfacing. She took his hand and put the washcloth in it, then guided it over the small round curve of his buttock. He understood what she wanted from him and began half heartedly scrubbing. Lucy clucked and moved his hand.

"You'll wear a hole in your skin if you stay in one spot like that," she scolded, and took the cloth away to rinse it out. "Here, like this . . . that's it . . . now the front." She took her hand from his and busied herself while he washed a more intimate area.

"Done?" she asked briskly after a few moments. "Good. Sit down before you fall down."

"You should not know of such things," he said weakly as he obeyed her.

"What do you mean, Senor? Everyone knows about gravity," she said with a smile, covering him with the towel once more. "Now I'm going to work on your legs. Let me do the lifting . . . that's it."

He watched her as she put a towel over her skirt and brought his foot up into her lap.

"Where did you learn your skills as a healer?" It was an innocuous query, but she could feel the intensity behind it despite his weariness.

"I was taught at school," she said vaguely.

"Senorita, you are evading my question."

"On the contrary, I answered it, Senor. "

"Not to my satisfaction . . . " His voice trailed off as she began to work her way down the long shin to his foot. When she would have begun patting him dry he pulled out of her grasp.

"You obeyed the letter, but not the spirit. What school would take a woman as a student?"

"A very good one," Lucy said, and recaptured the errant foot, setting it back in her lap."Save your strength, I won't answer your questions until your fever has broken."

She looked up at him, all innocence and practicality. Montoya sighed. He wasn't strong enough to spar with her, not yet. Her touch was sure and gentle, lulling him into a dangerous complacency. He really ought to . . . ought to . . .

" . . . ought to wash your hair."

He found himself standing while the woman put a clean nightshirt on him. He tried to push her away when she began to button it, but somehow instead she was holding his hands, guiding him to a chair. As he sat down his head was tipped back; the rim of a basin pressed up against his neck, even as warm water sliced through his hair.

"Mmmmm . . . " Had he made that noise? Alarmed at his lack of control, he tried to sit up, only to be held down with small, firm hands.

"We're not done yet. I haven't used any soap."

After a moment a pleasant, earthy scent filled the stale air. Lavender--and rosemary as well, he recognized its savory edge.

"I'm going to smell like a roasting chicken," he muttered. Above him the woman gave a soft chuckle, her fingers kneading his scalp.

"Better than smelling like an old sock," she said, and he knew she was smiling. Her touch was almost magical; it was as if he truly had nothing to fear from her . . .

Lucy finished rinsing away the shampoo and gathered up the thick locks, wringing them out with care before blotting them dry with a towel. Her patient was on the verge of sleep now, his features drawn with exhaustion. She got him on his feet and to his bed. From a pocket in her apron she extracted a small brush; it took only a minute or two to bring order. Free of its bindings and allowed to dry naturally his hair had a slight wave, the ends turning up a bit; it gleamed like dark auburn silk in the sunlit room. Lucy hid a smile at the thought of El Colonel struggling with an unruly curl or two . .

"Done," she said quietly, and folded back the bedclothes, helping to lift trembling legs, placing pillows where needed. When he was comfortable she gave him more water, then gently placed a compress on his forehead. At its cool touch he relaxed even more, the lines in his face smoothing out.

"Try to rest," she told him, but he was already asleep. In the big bed he looked younger, more vulnerable. Lucy bent down to adjust the compress. On a sudden impulse she pressed a light kiss to his cheek.

"Sleep well," she whispered, and jumped as the bedroom door flew open.

"Who the hell are you," demanded the tall figure in the doorway, "and what the hell do you think you're doing?"

~~~~~

PART THREE

Lucy glanced at Montoya. He stirred but did not wake. She got up and moved to the door as silently as she could.

"Quiet!" she hissed at the man, and beckoned him into the outer room, closing the door but not shutting it. The man grasped her shoulder, his dark eyes intent.

"Explain yourself," he said, his clipped words like small sharp stones flung against her skin. "Just what do you think you're doing?"

"Isn't it obvious? I'm trying to bring his fever down," she said, fighting the urge to shrug free of his grip. "Nothing more dangerous than some simple nursing skills, Doctor."

His gaze sharpened.

"How do you know who I am?" he demanded. "And for the last time, who are you?"

His voice rose on the last few words. Lucy glared at him.

"Keep yelling at me and you'll wake up my patient," she said, making her warning plain.

"If you don't start answering some questions I'll bring the bloody roof down!"

She stood silent, giving his extended arm a pointed look. With a muttered oath the doctor let go.

"Well?"

Lucy kept her gaze steady.

"If I told you the truth you wouldn't believe me," she said. "Let's just say I'm someone qualified to help in this situation and leave it at that, shall we?"

She dipped her hand into the other pocket of her apron and withdrew two bottles, then held them out.

"Here," she said, her tone losing its sharp edge. "These will do the sick ones more good than you or I ever could."

"You expect me to use those on your word alone?" He shook his head, all the while watching her. She lowered her hand.

"All right then. My name is Lucy Sparhawk. I'm a healer--we used to be called wise women long ago. I've been working with herbs for over twenty years. This," she showed him the green bottle, "is made from white willow bark, although in a form more concentrated than just an extraction or tincture. It will reduce fever and any inflammations and relieve pain. This," she brought up the other bottle, "is for the children who are sick. It's a different herb, since the first one can make them very ill." She kept her voice calm and steady. "Please take them."

He kept on looking at her, his changeable eyes full of mistrust. "It isn't what you've told me that has me worried," he said at last, "but the gaping holes left by what you didn't say, now those are fascinating."

"Oh for God's sake!" Lucy snapped, her temper worn to the breaking point. "I'm not here to kill everyone in this backwater blink town, you fool!" She put the bottles down on a side table, then turned to face him.

"Listen to me. You have an epidemic on your hands, and people will die. Do you understand me? They will DIE unless you accept some help! And here is help looking you in the face, and you can't bring yourself to use it to save lives!" Despite her best efforts she felt herself beginning to shake. This was too close, far too close to everything that had happened in the last three years . . .

"Life is sacred," she whispered, more to herself than to him. It had been her mantra for months now, a blessing and a curse in one. "So hard to preserve it . . . When we get the chance to save lives we should do so." Through a film of tears she looked at the bottles.

"Please," she said softly. "Take the medicine and use it. I can keep watch over Montoya here, that frees you to care for those who need it the most." She turned her gaze to his.

"Please," she pleaded.

Robert looked into the haunted blue eyes, unable to do anything else. He heard the despair behind her words, the self-recrimination of a healer who has faced death and found herself inadequate.

Without another word he moved to the table and picked up the bottles, holding them to the light streaming in from a nearby window. One held a dark liquid, the other small white pills.

"How do I use them?" he asked after an awkward silence. The woman let out a small sigh.

"Give the adults two of the white pills about every eight hours until the fever breaks. If you can get them to eat something or drink some milk or broth when they take them, so much the better. Children under twelve get a teaspoonful of the liquid every six hours until the fever is broken." She looked away from him. "There should be enough for everyone. I have more with me here if you need it."

He nodded and made as if to leave, then turned, but she was already gone. Only the trailing edge of her skirt showed as she slipped through the bedroom door. Helm followed her, noiseless as a cat.

She was bending over Montoya, taking the compress from his forehead to wring it out in the basin by the bedside. She patted the sweat from his face, wrung the cloth out again, folded it and placed it back on his brow. The relaxed casualness of her movements bespoke long acquaintance with caring for the ill. Though he knew Montoya didn't deserve it, the man was being well looked after . . . and Miss Sparhawk was right, she would keep the Colonel occupied so he could help those who needed it the most.

Helm closed the door and left, the bottles clutched carefully in his hand. He hadn't dared to let himself hope before, but this odd meeting had brought back a cautious optimism, despite the fact that he had no idea who their benefactress was. He only knew that his intuition had spoken in its wordless way, telling him he could trust her. That same intuition had gotten him through more encounters with death than he could remember . . .

He hurried across the street to his dusty office where patients waited, drooping with heat and fear.

~~~~~

PART FOUR

Montoya woke to the rumbling of his empty belly. He opened his eyes to find the room lit by a single lamp, the walls hung with soft shadows. He struggled to sit up and something fell in his lap--a white cloth. He took it in his hands, then looked up at a quiet knock on the door. It opened to reveal his mystery woman, bearing a footed tray with two pitchers and a covered plate. She set the tray down on a low stool by the bed. In the yellow lamplight she looked younger, her honey-brown hair shot with threads of copper and gold. Without asking she poured a glass of water and gave it to him.

"I brought you some dinner," she said when he had finished.

"Is anyone left in the house?" he asked, reluctant to hear the answer.

"Well, I haven't seen any servants since I came here this morning." Her palm rested on his forehead. He could smell soap and a warm scent he knew was hers. "We'll manage." She smiled down at him.

"I think your fever has broken, Senor," she said. "How do you feel?"

"Tired," he admitted, "but my head is clearer now."

"And you're hungry," she added, her smile widening.

"Yes," he said, and sat up a bit more as she turned and picked up the tray, settling it across his lap.

"Beef broth," she announced, "and scrambled eggs. Tomorrow we'll see what we can do about something a little more solid."

She removed the cover to reveal the eggs and poured him a cup of broth from one of the jugs. The smell made Montoya's mouth water, but ingrained mistrust sent his glance over to the woman. She looked back at him, the picture of serenity.

"Go ahead," she nodded. "It isn't poisoned, although I guess you'll just have to take my word for that."

He paused with the cup halfway to his mouth. Had there been too much innocence in that soft voice? He regarded the broth with suspicion. It smelled all right, but . . .

A quiet chuckle from his nurse sent the cup back down to the tray.

"You are far too easy to tease, Senor," she said, and put her hand over his to lift the mug back to his lips. "There's nothing wrong with the food."

He sipped a mouthful and found it rich and savory. The rest followed, and he made short work of the eggs as well. When he was finished the woman--what was her name again? Linda, Lucella . . . Lucy, that was it--gave him two small white pills with a half-glass of water, then set aside the tray. Much to his irritation she washed his face and hands.

"I'm not a child," he said, and turned his head away. "Are you going to blow my nose for me as well?"

Her blue eyes danced with amusement.

"Are you in need of that service, Senor?" she asked, the very essence of politeness. Montoya glared at her.

"I am not."

"Good," she returned. "How about a trip to the commode?"

"I'll get there myself," he growled, and pushed back the bedclothes to swing his legs out. The exertion left him dizzy but he persevered, sliding over to stand on shaking legs. One step forward--

He found himself slipping to the floor, unable to stay up.

"Stubborn," the woman--Lucy--said, and shook her head in resignation. Her slender arms were about him, lending support. "Come on."

He was not spared the humiliation of having a woman watch as he urinated. Indeed, if he hadn't reached first it probably would have been her hand on his--

"Dictator," he muttered, trying to pull his nightshirt down before she got ideas about washing him.

"Back to bed," she said with a briskness he could have done without.

"I have a town to run," he protested.

"Not for another day or two. You couldn't even sit up at your desk, Senor, let alone ride a horse or go for a walk."

"Tyrant," he grumbled as he was helped back into bed, not wanting to admit she was right. "Petty despot."

"All that and more," she agreed without a trace of concern. "You haven't begun to find out how cruel and relentless I can be." Her hand smoothed his pillow before he lay back into it. "Comfortable?"

"Yes," he said with reluctance. She smiled, her dark eyes bright with humor. It left her looking young and saucy and passing pretty . . . There were dimples at the corners of her full mouth. Montoya realized in a sort of horrified fascination that he wanted to kiss one.

"Good." Her warm, musical voice was as beautiful as her smile. "Go to sleep, Senor. When you wake I'll have some breakfast for you."

He closed his eyes as she straightened the bedclothes, let his breathing become deep and slow. It wasn't long before he felt her bend over him. Her fingers brushed his forehead, trailed to the pulse in his neck. She came closer; his sense of her movement was strong now--she was hovering, indecisive. And then her lips pressed a feather-light kiss to his cheek. Montoya almost chuckled. So it hadn't been a dream earlier after all . . .

Lucy jumped as her patient turned his head. Their lips met, and his were warm despite the chapped skin. She knew she ought to pull away . . . but there was a sweetness in his touch she would never have expected.

His beard brushed her chin as he kissed the corner of her mouth. When she finally pulled back his eyes were closed once more, but now he wore a faint smile.

So he felt he had bested her, did he?

She was ready to rail at him for his boldness--and then common sense took over. Perhaps it was better to let him think he had won, at least for now. Besides, She had kissed him first . . .

"Goodnight, Senor," she said in a repressive tone. If anything his smile widened a bit, but he said nothing. Lucy stared down at him with suspicion, then sat in the chair by the bed. On a quiet sigh she tipped her head back a bit.

"You are tired."

She shifted in the hard seat. "Yes, a little."

"There is a sofa in my office."

"I'm all right where I am, thank you."

"If I need you I'll call." He sounded impatient. "Go and rest."

"Such solicitude," she said dryly.

"Now who is being stubborn?"

He had a point. Lucy got up, feeling awkward.

"If you need me--" she began.

"I will call for you. Now go."

It was a comfortable sofa, she had to admit. Lucy curled up on the soft cushions and closed her eyes, giving in to weariness for the first time since her arrival. Just a little while, she told herself, just an hour or two and I'll be all right . . .

~~~~~

PART FIVE

Grisham entered the silent manor with some caution. It had been almost three days since he'd abandoned Montoya; he hoped the fever had done its job and killed the bastard off, leaving him free.

Freedom . . . he savored the word. Free to do as he liked, at long last. It wouldn't be much of a challenge to take what he wanted from the pueblo--Montoya had the population pretty well under his thumb. All that was left was to step into the role of shepherd/ruler, and the sheep would follow . . . until he tired of it all and moved on to greener pastures.

The door to Montoya's office was open. Grisham approached it slowly and peered inside.

A young woman lay on the sofa, asleep. She was rather plain, but her figure was passable, and the quality of her clothing indicated she was more than a servant or maid.

Grisham went into the room in near silence. She looked English, although she could be Spanish. She certainly wasn't a native, not with that hair . . .

As he came toward her the tip of his boot tapped the leg of the desk. In an instant he found himself looking into wary blue eyes.

"Who are you?" he demanded, taking the offensive. "What the hell are you doing in here?"

"I've been tending Colonel Montoya." She spoke English with a pronounced American accent. Grisham frowned.

"You're working with Helm?"

"Yes." Her cold gaze swept over him. "Your little plan didn't work, Captain."

Grisham felt his stomach tighten.

"And what little plan is that?" He moved forward a few steps. If he could distract her with an argument he would get close enough to--

"Don't even think about it."

He heard the warning note in her tone and grinned. Nothing but bravado there.

"Or what?" he asked, his grin turning to a leer. "You'll box my ears?" He shook his head and advanced a few more steps. "A nice try, but I still want to know . . . "

He lunged at her. She jumped up and started to move away but wasn't quick enough to escape his grasp. Grisham laughed and pulled her to him.

"Who the hell are you?"

He felt her knee come up fast between his legs and clamped them together hard, holding her in place. She winced and he laughed again.

"Very resourceful." He let his hand rest on top of one breast. It was warm and soft and round, malleable under his hand. He squeezed it just to see her flinch once more. Relishing her helplessness, he bent his head, intending to take a kiss--

"Let her go."

Montoya stood in the opposite doorway. He wore a rumpled nightshirt, his hair unbound and curling, but his eyes were clear and cold as glacier ice, the fever-flush gone from his cheeks.

"Sir," Grisham said. "I found her in your office--"

"I said let her go."

With reluctance he released her. She stepped back--and then her hand came up in a flash to strike his cheek, hard enough to make his ears ring.

"Touch me again and I'll kill you," she promised in a low voice. She moved away from him but did not go to Montoya, as he had half-expected. He started for her, intent on teaching her a lesson she would never forget-

"Grisham!"

The word was whipcrack sharp. He stopped, clenching a fist, and turned to face his master.

"I would also like to have a question or two answered," Montoya said, his tone now quite mild. "For instance, your whereabouts for the last three days?"

"Sir--"

"And the sudden disappearance of my servants at roughly the same time as your own desertion?"

"I didn't desert you!" Grisham protested with some heat. He made an effort to collect his disordered thoughts. "Colonel--"

"You hoped the fever would kill him if you drove the servants off and left him alone," the woman accused. "When I came here no one was looking after him. There's evidence everywhere of interrupted tasks . . . You frightened them away, didn't you?"

"Well?" Montoya asked when Grisham hesitated. "Is this true, Capitan?"

"It isn't!" he lied, and glared at the woman. "I've been out tracking the Queen of Swords as you ordered, sir. As for your servants . . . " he shrugged. "They probably left because they were afraid of getting sick." His voice took on a hard edge. "And what do you really know about this woman? She could be lying for her own reasons."

Montoya's shrewd glance slid from Grisham to the woman.

"That might well be true," he said, "but she took care of me while you were out chasing your own tail. I assume you were unsuccessful, as usual?"

Grisham knew a familiar surge of fury and pushed it back down deep inside. Now was not the time to give in to impulse . . . not yet.

"We lost her in the desert," he admitted. "She took Helm's medicine with her. I'm sorry, Colonel--"

"No need." A faint smile touched Montoya's lips. "Miss Sparhawk used her own remedy on me, and my fever is broken." The smile turned wintry. "Disappointed, Capitan?"

"I'm delighted you're feeling better, sir," Grisham said with wooden politeness. The woman snorted but said nothing. He bit back a retort and held himself still, pondering ways and means of making sure this creature somehow disappeared from the pueblo. Perhaps she could go exploring and have the desert swallow her up . . .

"You may go," Montoya was saying. "Return later this afternoon."

"Sir." Grisham saluted and turned on his heel to stride out the door, livid with rage.

Damn the woman for interfering in his plans!

~~~~~

PART SIX

Lucy finished transferring the last of the fried ham from the skillet to the platter and wiped her hands. It had been something of a struggle to get the stove going again, and she wasn't quite sure what the Colonel usually had for breakfast, but the ham was the only safely edible thing she had found in the pantry. Besides, it went well with the eggs she'd collected from the hens earlier.

She covered the platter and set it on the tray, along with some fresh water. She had looked for coffee beans or even some loose tea but there was nothing of the sort on the kitchen, and of course there was no milk or juice. Water would have to do.

At least it all smells good, she thought as she headed back up to the bedroom. I can leave him well-fed and almost back to normal. She smiled a little, but was surprised to feel some sadness as well. Her time here was finite, she'd known that from the beginning, but to actually come to the end of her stay, brief as it had been . . .

You don't belong, she told herself as she knocked on the bedroom door. You have other responsibilities, you're needed elsewhere. Don't forget that.

"Come in."

He stood by the bedside table, drying his face with a towel. In the short time she had left him he had put on a crimson brocade dressing gown, the cuffs turned with blue velvet. He had even managed to tie his hair back in its usual smooth style; not a single auburn curl in sight.

"Senor," she began, but he waved her to silence.

"Please, I'm quite recovered." He eyed the platter in her hand. "For me?"

He was obviously hungry, though he ate perhaps a third of what she had cooked.

"You must still rest today and the next few days," she warned him as she collected up the remnants of his breakfast. "If you try too much too quickly--"

"Yes, yes," he said with some impatience. "I have some questions, senorita."

"I'm sure you do." Lucy sat down and lifted the cover off the platter of fried ham to snitch a piece.

"You may fire when ready, Senor," she said rather indistinctly, chewing. Montoya sent her a quelling look, which she ignored.

"Why did you think Grisham was the one to drive off the servants?"

"It stands to reason." Lucy licked ham juice from a finger. "Forgive me, Colonel, but he has no great love for you--"

"But how do you know that?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"You observe the man for--what? Perhaps five minutes? And you are able to come to such incisive conclusions?"

"I have eyes in my head, don't I?" Lucy said. She demonstrated the truth of this statement by openly admiring the curve of her patient's backside as she filched another piece of ham. Montoya gave an exasperated sigh.

"Who are you?!" he demanded. "You have the manners of a streetwalker, and yet you take care of me as if I were the King himself--then you assault my Capitan! You produce potions that cure a high fever within hours, as well as conjure up a perfect plate of fried ham and eggs. . . "

"Speaking of which," Lucy said with a cheerfulness she didn't really feel, "I'll take these down to the kitchen and clean them up." She stood and picked up the platter of food as well as the dirtied dishes and utensils, aware she was being frowned at.

"You haven't answered my questions, senorita." The threat in the light voice was pronounced. Lucy smiled, unperturbed.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," she said, and slipped out the door, her smile widening to a grin.

Montoya glared after the retreating figure, then sank down into a chair. He wasn't quite as strong as he had pretended to be, which irritated him. He should be able to overcome any illness on his own terms. He had too much to do, too many items on his agenda...

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back for a moment. Whatever medicine she had given him, it was an immense help; his mind felt clear for the first time in days.

I can't believe I trust her, he admitted to himself with great reluctance. Yet I do. There's something about her that inspires trust, and she isn't even aware of it . . . a true innocent. He settled back a bit. She's almost a worse danger than the Queen of Swords. Damn them both!

He was just on the edge of dozing when he caught a faint noise from somewhere on the lower floor of the manor--a crash, and then silence.

Montoya sat up, listening. The quiet continued for too long. There should have been sounds accompanying a domestic accident--the scrape of the broom straws against the tiled floor, the clatter of feet going back and forth . . . and somehow he was certain Lucy would relieve her feelings by scolding who-or-what-ever had caused the mishap.

He went to his bed and took the pistol out from under his pillow, then moved to the door and down the hall to the stairs. He used the ends of the treads to avoid squeaking boards and headed through the formal dining room to the kitchen.

The door was open a bit. Montoya stood next to it for a moment, then gave it a gentle push.

Grisham and Lucy stood in the middle of the room. The platter of ham lay on the floor, pieces of pottery and meat scattered everywhere. Grisham held Lucy by the arms. The front of her dress was torn open and her neat braid hung half undone down her back; he was kissing her, forcing her head back as he pulled her to him. She did not struggle or try to escape, but Montoya saw the muscles in her arm tense and knew she was marshaling her strength.

On a wave of fury that surprised him, he moved forward and pressed the nose of the pistol to the soft spot just under the angle of Grisham's jaw.

Grisham ground his teeth against the soft lips of the woman in his arms and felt her wince. She lay passive in his grip, almost limp, and he congratulated himself on another spitfire tamed. All it took was a little physical persuasion . . .

He reached for her breast, remembering the feel of it in his hand, and wondered if he'd left bruises. Perhaps he ought to check . . . and add a few more.

"Grisham."

The Colonel's voice was light, almost friendly, but Marcus knew better from long experience. He lifted his mouth from the woman's, tasted blood even as something cold and smooth pressed into the hinge of his jaw--the business end of a pistol.

"Let her go. Now."

Marcus hesitated.

"Sir--" he tried, and felt rather than heard the hammer cock back.

"NOW, Capitan."

With reluctance he let go of his quarry. She moved back from him, one small hand pressing the torn flap of cloth back up over her chest.

"Upstairs, senorita." There was no gainsaying the authority in the Colonel's voice. The woman moved out of Grisham's field of vision, face averted. He was satisfied to see she was shaking.

"Capitan," Montoya admonished. The barrel of the pistol pushed in a fraction deeper. "Pay attention."

"Yes sir," Grisham said through his teeth.

"You have work to do. It is not getting done with you molesting my physician's assistant."

"Sir--"

"I would suggest you go about your business. If I find you here again in any capacity other than as my commanding officer, there will be," the barrel tilted up a bit, "trouble. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir." He said it with as much insolence as he dared. Montoya laughed, but there was no humor in it.

"You try my patience, Capitan." The pistol was removed. "Get out."

"Sir." Grisham turned to leave. He caught a glimpse of Montoya out of the corner of his eye. The Colonel was plainly at the end of his strength; the pistol wavered, then pointed at the floor. Marcus let himself drift closer to the man. If he could just get the pistol out of Montoya's grasp, he could make it look as if the woman had killed the Colonel in retaliation for--

"Good morning, gentlemen."

The doctor stood in the back door, leaning against the frame. His shrewd dark eyes took in the scene without comment. Grisham felt his face grow warm with the heat of an unwelcome blush.

"Doctor Helm," Montoya acknowledged. "A fine morning indeed. What brings you to the kitchen door?"

"No one answered at the front when I knocked. Several times." Helm glanced at the pistol in Montoya's hand, brows raised. "Problems?"

"Of course not, Doctor. The Capitan and I were discussing the day's agenda." Montoya smiled a little. "We agreed that my interests would be best served if he spent less time at the manor and more on the trail of the Queen. Isn't that so, Capitan?"

"Doctor," Grisham said, terse with repressed fury. "You'll excuse me." He nodded and left the kitchen, pushing through the back door on a silent curse.

"Well," Robert said as he watched the Captain head out into the yard. "I seem to have arrived at an opportune moment. What was that all about?"

"Come upstairs with me please, Doctor." The affable tone in Montoya's voice had disappeared. "Miss Sparhawk might have need of your skill."

Lucy gained the quiet of the office and closed the door behind her, then leaned against it. Her shoulder ached from the wrenching it had received when she had first struggled to free herself from Grisham's hold; nothing serious, only strained muscles, but it still hurt.

She sat down and let go of the flap of fabric covering her chest. Under the torn cloth lay darkening bruises that ached nearly as much as her shoulder. Involuntarily she remembered the feel of Grisham's hand on her breast and shuddered. He'd been intent on rape before he killed her . . .

"This would have to happen just before I'm about to leave," she half-whispered.

Thank god Montoya had brought the pistol with him!

The thought of the Colonel downstairs alone sent her to her feet even as a knock sounded at the door.

"Miss Sparhawk?"

"Doctor Helm?" she asked in genuine surprise. "Wh-what are you doing here?" Fear gripped her. "The Colonel--is he--?"

"He's all right--about half a flight behind me on the stairs, as a matter of fact. May I come in?"

Without another word Lucy unlocked the door.

"I wanted to let you know how well your medicine--" He stopped, eyes widening when he saw her torn dress and disheveled hair. Instinctively he started for her, then stopped when he saw her take a step back.

"What happened?" he asked. The gentleness and concern in his low voice was almost her undoing, but she forced herself to stay matter of fact.

"Grisham attacked me. I think he was planning to--to do away with me first, then go after Senor Montoya." She sighed. "You must find some way to get the servants back and keep an eye on the Colonel, Doctor."

"Me? But--aren't you keeping watch here?" He guided her to the sofa and she sank down on it, trying very hard not to tremble. Reaction was beginning to set in . . .

She was about to answer him when Montoya came into the room. He looked exhausted, and his hand shook as he placed the pistol on his desk. Lucy watched him with anxious concern as the doctor examined her, his lean features creased with concentration.

"There's some bruising, and I think your shoulder is injured."

"I'll be fine." Her hand flew up to cover her exposed skin when she saw Montoya looking at her. His grey eyes narrowed and he came closer, frowning.

"What happened?" he asked harshly. Lucy turned her face away.

"Answer me!"

"Colonel, stop shouting. The senorita has been through enough." Helm took her hand in his, his touch gentle. Lucy looked up into hazel eyes bright with understanding and quiet compassion.

"I am not shouting!" Montoya moved a few feet closer. "She . . . she isn't badly hurt, I hope?"

The doctor sighed. "Miss Sparhawk needs some liniment for her shoulder. I'll fetch a bottle from the office, if you will come over here and sit with her while I'm gone."

To Lucy's astonishment Helm gave her a wink, then turned his head to glare at Montoya.

"Well?" he demanded. "Are you going to help or just loiter about as if you were waiting for a coach?"

Lucy bit back a hysterical giggle as the Colonel approached with obvious reluctance. The doctor unfolded himself to stand, stretching as he swallowed a yawn, and Lucy looked, really looked at him for the first time. His clothes were filthy and his hair lay in lank, dusty locks against his skull; there were dark circles under his eyes, and lines of weariness in his face . . . but she sensed a peace of mind that hadn't been there before. As a fellow healer she understood why; the medicine she'd brought had saved lives. She envied him the experience.

"Senorita," Montoya sat on the sofa, putting a safe distance between them. His grey gaze flickered over her, then settled to a point just above her left shoulder. Helm snorted in amused disgust. He grasped Montoya's hand, turned it palm up, and placed Lucy's hand atop it.

"Right then. Back with the liniment," he said, and took himself off.

Luis dared a glance at the woman sitting next to him. Her gaze was downcast; one hand still held the torn cloth up over her chest to preserve modesty. She said nothing, but he could feel her trembling.

"You are not--Grisham didn't harm you in any other way?" he ventured. She shook her head, but to his dismay her trembling increased and her fingers tightened on his.

"Senorita," he began, and she toppled into him, her forehead coming to rest on his shoulder. Reflexively his arm came up to keep her from falling and she moved closer, huddled against him. She was smaller than he'd thought--hardly more substantial than a sparrow; this new frailty in her made him exceedingly nervous.

"Senorita," he said again, "please . . . "

She drew a sobbing breath but did not attempt to cling to him, or even put her arms around him. She only sat there, drooped to his shoulder like a wilted, shivering flower. Montoya tightened his hold with caution, his hand on her elbow.

"Lucy," he whispered, feeling--oh God help him!--protective. Every warning voice in his head was shouting at him to stop this before it progressed to something even worse, something he couldn't deal with or predict or control--

Too late.

She resisted a bit when he lifted her face to his.

"Open your eyes," he said softly, and looked down into two pools of deep blue flecked with gold. The unwavering sadness he found there hurt him in a strange way he didn't want to examine too closely.

"I'm sorry," he heard himself say, with some internal astonishment. "Lucy--"

"Luis."

She reached up with a trembling finger and touched his bottom lip, silencing him. Her soft lips followed her finger, brushing over his mouth as if she wasn't quite sure what to do. He brought his hands up to cradle her face, deepening the contact to an intensity of sweetness he had never felt before in his life.

For a single moment he was aware of nothing and everything at the same time--the light fragrance of her clothing, the silent sunshine streaming in the window just beyond them, the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears . . . but all he cared about was the feel of her lips against his, as if he were some love struck virgin schoolboy, full of ludicrous ideas about romance.

And then she was standing somehow, looking at him with a tear-streaked face. In her hand was a small object, something wrapped in brown paper.

"I have to go," she was saying. "Here," and she put the object in his hand before turning away.

"Wait!" he said sharply, but she was already in the hall, closing the door behind her. He caught it just as it started to latch shut, followed her into the hallway--

--and found it empty.

Montoya stared at the empty space around him, uncertainty touching a chill hand to the base of his spine. There was no one on the landing or stairs; she couldn't possibly have gotten down the steps with the slight head-start she'd had.

He stood there for a moment longer, then went back into his office and sat down on the sofa. It was where Helm found him when the doctor returned.

"Where--?" he began, but Montoya waved him to silence.

"Gone," he said. "Disappeared. I looked for her . . . not a trace. Except for this," and he looked at the little package in his hand. Helm sat opposite him on a corner of the desk, his dark gaze impassive.

"Why don't you open it?" he asked after a moment, and set the bottle of liniment on the desk. "It might contain some explanations."

The knotted string was easy to break, and once it was gone the paper fell away to reveal a small book bound in brown calf with gilt edges. Montoya opened it to find an inscription on the frontispiece. It was written in a small, firm hand.

EX LIBRIS
Luis Ramirez Montoya

Veni vidi vici
but lilies of the field know best, Your Majesty.
L.S.

He turned the page and stopped, eyes widening.

Color blossomed everywhere on the creamy vellum--indigo and clear green, rose and soft yellow, violet and scarlet and a hundred other shades. They twined around the neat letters of the text in the shape of flowers and animals and people, stars and planets, earth and sky, the images enhancing the substance of the writing in a way both pleasing and subtle.

"What is it?" Helm had seen the hesitation.

"A book of hours. It's hand-written and illuminated . . . this must have taken her months." His gaze traced the line of a delicate flowering vine, the stem edged with the thinnest line of gold. "Exquisite."

The doctor hopped up from his perch and moved to stand by Montoya's shoulder, studying the pages displayed. "You think she did this?"

"I do." There was no way to explain how he knew, but he didn't care.

"Well," Helm said presently, "I guess I'd better see about finding your servants and getting them back here. Maybe a few guards as well."

"You would do this?" Luis tucked the book into his pocket. He could explore its beauties and secrets later on, when he was alone.

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Colonel." The doctor grinned. "I'd suggest you get some rest. It's been quite a time, these past couple of days."

The memory of soft lips came to Luis. That too he put away, for remembrance in quiet hours. His fingers touched the edge of the book.

"Quite a time . . . oh yes."

~~~~~

EPILOGUE

Lucy settled herself comfortably on the bench, legs tucked beneath her, and picked up her pencil once more. The light in the conservatory was beginning to fade; she had perhaps an hour left before it was gone and she would have to leave.

Without conscious thought her gaze returned to the flowers gilded by a small patch of sunshine about three feet from where she sat.

Verbena hastata, she cataloged, a habit ingrained from her days as a student. Antiperiodic, diaphoretic, emetic, expectorant, tonic, vermifuge, vulnerary . . . it'll look good in that capital V at the beginning of Chapter Three.

She scribbled a note to herself about the color of the blossoms; it was going to be a hard shade to capture since the flowers were small to begin with, and they were a deep violet-blue, but Becca would be thrilled with their inclusion in her herbal's illustrations. She often prescribed blue vervain in place of harsher herbs . . .

Lucy let her hand move over the paper as her eyes traced the long, serrated leaves and narrow blossom spikes. She ignored the occasional intrusion of other visitors. Few of them noticed her, and if they did happen to glance her way, the sketchbook in her hand was self-explanatory. She was left alone, for the most part.

Not today however. With vague awareness she sensed someone sitting down on her bench--and not at the other end either, but right next to her. She kept on working, then gasped with annoyance as a hand reached out and flipped the book shut. Indignant, she turned on the person, ready to launch into a scolding.

"Ah, chastising me for my behavior already, senorita? I've only just sat down."

It was him. Neatly dressed in black with a spotless white cravat and dark red waistcoat, he looked well-rested and even a bit tanned. Grey eyes danced with triumphant amusement.

"You're gaping like a fish out of water," he said with real sympathy, "though I don't know why you are surprised to see me."

Lucy closed her open mouth with a snap and set her sketchbook aside.

"Took you long enough to get here," she said, and sent him a haughty look, longing to touch him. "I guess I should have given you more clues in the first chapter."

His answer was to take her hand in his. At his touch she shivered with delight. Gently she loosed his hold and put her fingers to his cheek.

"You are well?" she asked, dropping her pretense of irritation. He nodded, smiling.

"And you?" She had never thought to hear concern for her in his voice.

"I'm fine. Luis, you know you only have a short time here . . . "

"Yes." He smiled, and her heart bumped against her ribs. "Will you show me your world then?"

"Don't get any ideas about starting an empire," she warned as they rose from the bench together. "We have enough would-be emperors as it is--and besides, you were meant for better things."

Montoya turned to face Lucy. She looked up at him, her heart-shaped face glowing with light from the last rays of the setting sun, her dark gold hair threaded with lines of fire. It sparked in her blue eyes, showing him the shadowed depths and the love hidden there. And it was love, of that he had no doubt, though he had not encountered the emotion before. He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and laughed. It held a rueful edge.

"Trying to change me already," he said. "Woman's eternal quest. Ah well, no matter. There are other matters to attend to. Though I do have one question."

"Yes?" she prodded him when he stopped. "What is it?"

"There is a word," he paused to get it right, "re-cre-ationist?"

Lucy's eyes opened wide, and then she looked down at the floor.

"Where did you hear that word?" she asked. Her tone was neutral, but Luis was immediately suspicious.

"Nearly everyone I met here used it." He bent to look into her eyes. "My English is basic, but even so I have never--why are you laughing?"

"I'm not," she denied. "It's just that--well--let's say I think our first stop will be the Men's Wearhouse. I'll have to heat up some plastic, but the results will be worth it."

He blinked. Nothing she had just said made the least bit of sense, but something told him not to worry, he was in good hands. Though the ride would probably be more exciting than he might prefer . . .

"Lay on, Macduff," he said, and she laughed. Her hand tightened on his arm gently.

"Actually Luis, my mother's family name is Macleannen. I make a mean bowl of oatmeal. If you play your cards right, you might get to find out just how good it is, tomorrow morning . . . "

THE END