Mysterious Vows

“Tell me of your homeland.”

Sharp pictures exploded in her mind. Rapid-fire impressions, as if she were flipping the pages of a book. “So beautiful, lush and green. But so much suffering. Constant warring. Poverty in the cities. There is rain, much rain. Coffee plantations. Volcanoes rise like pyramids to the skies of the Mayan gods.”

Though she knew a great deal about the country, Guermina seemed exotic to her, not familiar as a homeland should be. Just as Spanish was a language she could speak fluently, but it was not her native tongue.

“Maria,” he said, summoning her attention. “Do you know the woman they call Truth? Her name is Juana Sabbatta. She is—”

“I know of her,” Maria said. Her senses prickled. This interview had made a foray into dangerous territory. “A journalist like yourself. A troublemaker.”

“A heroine,” he concluded. “Many people believe she is courageous.”

Her heart beat in double time. A twinge of pain in her forehead warned her that the headache might return. “What could Juana Sabbatta possibly have to do with Jason and me?”

His scrutiny was so thorough that she felt as if she were under a microscope. Then his gaze lifted. She detected a hint of surprise in his voice. “You really don’t know, do you?”

“I know very little.” That much was true. She couldn’t even remember her real name. Maria? Even her name was an alias. Maria was a lie.

Chip asked, “What makes a woman agree to be a mail-order bride?”

She shrugged. How would she know such a thing? Maria wasn’t even sure what a mail-order bride was.

“Come on, Maria. Help me out here. This is romantic stuff. When Jason placed ads in those Spanish newspapers, what caused you to respond?”

“I don’t know.” Had she responded to an ad? She couldn’t remember.

“Why do you suppose he selected you from all the women who wrote back?”

“I cannot say.”

The reporter’s face pulled into a frown. “At least, tell me the logistics. I assume that once you and Jason had decided to be married, he sent money—”

“Money?” she interrupted.

“Pesos. Dinero. For your trip to Maine. Tell me about the arrangements. How does a mail-order bride, like yourself, come into this country? Is there a broker?”

A sour taste invaded her mouth. A broker? From what Chip was saying, she had been imported to be a bride. Jason had advertised and she had answered. The idea disgusted her, and confusion flooded her mind. A mail-order bride?

Though she remembered nothing, she knew that was false. Her sense of pride and self-respect would never allow her to sell herself in marriage...no matter how terrible the circumstance. Why couldn’t she remember? Why hadn’t Jason told her?

She glanced across the room at him, sought the truth in his deep gray eyes. He was watching her carefully. But, of course, he would be. If what Chip said was correct, she was his possession, something he’d bought. It was no wonder that he had kissed her so passionately. She belonged to him. A mail-order bride. Bought and paid for.

What sort of man could do such a thing?

What sort of woman would agree to a forced marriage?

And tonight? When the guests had left, Jason would demand that she perform her wifely duty in bed. The spontaneous wonderment of their kiss became suddenly tawdry and cheap.

Chip was still asking his questions. His voice droned. He touched her forearm. “Maria?”

She jerked away from him. “I am not well,” she said. “I must lie down.”

“But I have a few more questions.”

“Not now.” Quietly she rose and slipped away, finding the small room where she had awakened before the ceremony. She closed the door and went to the window. Beyond a stand of coastal pines, she saw the shimmer of sunlight on water. The Atlantic Ocean was her horizon and her boundary. After everyone else left, she would be isolated on this island. With Jason.

“Maria?” Alice opened the door. “Are you all right? Um, cómo está usted?”

Maria shook her head. The dull aching was back. She sank to the floor beside the window. One hand reached up, rested on the sill, grasping toward freedom. How could she have sold herself? She was so ashamed. No wonder her mind had blanked out the past.

Alice sat on the wingback chair near her. “You’re homesick, aren’t you? Oh, Maria, I wish I could help you.”

But would she? Would Alice help her escape? It seemed doubtful. Alice was Jason’s sister. Her first loyalty would be to him.

“You’re very brave,” Alice said. “I don’t think I could do what you’ve done. Leaving my home and all. You must have been desperate to escape your country.”

Desperate to escape? Yes, Maria thought, I am desperate.

“But you’re very lucky,” Alice said. “Sometimes Jason behaves like a gruff old pelican, but he has a kind heart. And I do believe you will be good for him. After his first wife Elena died...well, he was devastated. I never thought he would marry again. He nursed her all by himself, you know. After the doctors had diagnosed her cancer and said it was hopeless, Jason took care of her—all alone—for months on this island.”

Maria imagined the horror of being trapped here. Dying and imprisoned on a cold island in Maine. Had his first wife been a mail-order bride? “Elena?”

“She looked a little like you. The long, black hair. She was Spanish, too.” Alice gave a little frown. “Well, I’m sure you don’t understand a word of what I’m saying here. I wish I could reassure you, but I guess that’s up to Jason. Now, do you want to lie down for a moment? Or should we cut the cake?”

The door swung wide and Jason maneuvered his way inside. Maria looked at him with new eyes. The tension around his mouth indicated to her that he was holding back his pain. His leg must be bothering him. He didn’t seem like a cruel man, but he was angry. It was strange, she thought, that she could read his emotions more easily than she could understand what was going on inside her own head.

“Leave us, Alice.”

“All righty. But I insist that the both of you come out here and cut the cake. Then the basic ceremonial duties are over, and Maria can rest.”

“We’ll be there shortly,” he said.

Alice left, and he crossed the room. His strides were labored. “Maria, you’ve got to be careful. These people may seem harmless, but we can’t tell. We can’t trust anyone. Not even the reverend.”

She stood, but kept close to the window, as far away from him as possible. Was the danger from other people? Or from him? He was the man who had bought her. Pure rage burned within her, hotter than a forge, but she tempered her emotions. Whatever Jason had done, she’d allowed it. My God, what had happened to her? What insane reasoning had led her to this point? “How could I have gone through with this?”

“What are you talking about?”

He reached for her, and she pulled away. Lithely she darted beyond his arm’s reach.

“Leave me alone,” she said. Her words were English. “Don’t touch me.”

“I won’t hurt you.”

But he already had. He had taken her name and her freedom. Though she’d agreed, though she had voluntarily repeated her vows before witnesses, the wedding was a sham. She glared defiantly. “You may have bought a mail-order bride, but I’ll never be your wife.”

“What the hell are you—” He took a step toward her, then stopped. “Never mind. Just come out here, cut the damned cake and let’s be done with this charade.”

“This charade, as you call it, is what you want,” she snapped. “This was your idea.”

“The hell it was. If I had my choice, I wouldn’t be here. Pretending.” He tapped his cane impatiently. “I’m not good at espionage.”

“Espionage?” She switched to Spanish again. This was dangerous. She needed to keep her guard up. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play stupid with me. You convinced Chip Harrington with that wide-eyed innocent act of yours. But you don’t have to trick me. I know the truth.”

“How dare you speak of truth!” It was all a lie. Every word, every gesture. He had contrived to bring her here, to keep her isolated on the island. “Will you force me to stay here?”

“Yes,” he said. “Until I receive different orders, you will stay with me.”

He went to the door and rested his hand on the knob. “We’ll cut the cake, then send everyone home. Pretend that you’re happy, my dear little bride.”

“Never. I will ask the reverend to take me back to—” To where? Where was home? “To a safe place.”

“I don’t know what Chip told you, but you’ve got it wrong, Maria. This island is your safety.” The hard expression in his eyes precluded further discussion. “You will do as I say.”

She could stand and fight, here and now, with little chance of winning. The wedding guests were all Jason’s friends. They would think she had a case of nerves. “Poor thing,” they would say, “she’s homesick.” And she did feel ill. She was weak. Her headache drummed in the back of her head. The muscles in her shoulders and back were taut.

“Maria,” he said. “I’m waiting.”

Later, she promised herself. Later, she would find a way off this cold island. She would regain her freedom.

With her head held high, she went toward him. He offered his arm, and she lightly rested her fingertips on his forearm. His nearness should have repulsed her. Instead she shivered with a purely sensual pleasure. His touch aroused her. Why did she find him so attractive? She should have seen cruelty in his arrogant profile, but instead she saw handsome, chiseled features. The very scent of him excited her. Perhaps she had lost her sense of reasoning along with her memory.

When they left the parlor and went toward the large dining room, the other people seemed dangerous to her. How could she tell what was right, what was safe? Their eyes, as they looked at her, seemed intrusive. Their voices grated on her ears.

“Smile, Maria,” Jason whispered.

Automatically her lips responded.

He led her to a table, to the three-tier wedding cake, and he lifted the knife. He prepared to make the first slice, but Alice stopped him. “You’re doing it wrong,” she said. “Both of you are supposed to hold the knife.”

He took her hand and placed it atop his. His flesh was warm, she thought, and hers was cold. Muerte. Cold as death. She must get away from this island where there was danger all around her, stealing her memories. But where would she go? Who could she turn to when she couldn’t remember her name or what had happened to her?

Her gaze focused on the miniature couple that stood atop the cake. Maria never thought her wedding day would be frightening and joyless.

They sliced the cake.

She tasted the sugary chocolate on her tongue as Jason held a piece of cake to her mouth, and she wanted to spit it out, to spit in his face, in the faces of all these false smiles.

“Now, champagne!” Alice said, directing the ceremonies again. She handed Jason and Maria their fluted glasses. “A toast, Jason.”

He lifted his glass and sunlight from the windows reflected on the rising bubbles. “On this wedding day, I welcome my guests to share in these ceremonies, to eat, to drink, to celebrate. I toast my bride, an admirable and beautiful woman who is far from her homeland, testing her wings, seeking a new life. I hope my home will be a comfort for her. My wish, for you, Maria, is everlasting peace and satisfaction.”

He held his glass toward her, and she tapped the crystal rim lightly before she took a sip.

The guests applauded.

“Maria?”

It was Alice, again. Didn’t the woman give up? Maria couldn’t imagine that there was yet another ritual.

“Maria, you must tell us what you wish for. Jason will translate.”

“No need.” Maria tilted her glass toward them, saluting them. In English she said, “I hope for memories...” Any memory, any chance of regaining her own past. “For fulfillment, for happiness, for freedom...and for truth.”

“For truth.”

She heard the voice of Chip Harrington as he repeated her words. In his eyes she saw a glimmer of recognition.

Chapter Three

The bedroom on the second floor was familiar. She’d been there last night. She’d slept in the bed. Maria stood in the middle of the room and tried to remember the details of the layout. The closet was to the right, and it was a walk-in closet with the racks cleaned and empty, waiting for clothing she did not own. She went to the closet door and opened it. Bare floors, barren racks with hangers. It smelled of cedar. There was a window that cast slanting light on the wood floors. It was exactly as she had remembered.

Relief flooded her mind. She had remembered! She clenched her fists, smiled in triumph. Though only slightly, her memory had begun to function again.

A full bathroom adjoined this room, and the tile around the sink was blue to match the flowered wallpaper. She hurried across the room and flung open the door. Right again! But she had to remember more. These were only details. Yet details would lead to full thoughts, then scenes, then a lifetime.

Returning to the bedroom, she stroked the quilted cotton of the green-and-white spread on the queen-size four-poster, then glanced toward the doorway where Jason was standing. Would he demand to sleep here tonight? To consummate their marriage?

Jason closed the door. With slow, tortured steps, he made his way to the green-curtained windows and lowered himself into a rocking chair. His injured leg stuck out straight in front of him. “Eddy Elliot was right,” he said. “You have no accent. You speak English fluently.”

“Eddy Elliot?” Had she met him?

“The senator.”

“Oh, yes. The man with the red face.” The man who had warned her. She remembered him very well.

Her mind was like a vast white canvas with one small corner filled in. She remembered last night and today. Other memories, from other times, appeared like dots in the distance. They would draw closer, she hoped, until the whole canvas was filled with the tapestry of her past.

“Maria!”

She turned toward him. What else would she recall about Jason? How much did she know about him?

He echoed her thoughts. “I don’t know much about you.”

“That’s the problem with a mail-order bride,” she said, masking her fear with flippancy. “You don’t have that nice, long courtship period to discover each other’s secrets.”

The returning memories had given her a sense of power. Ultimately she would recall everything and regain herself. Maria was sure of that. Maria? It wasn’t her name, but it would have to suffice until she heard the clear voice in her head telling her whether she was Danielle or Carolyn or Marta or Heather.

No, not Heather. She wasn’t a Heather or a Tiffany or a Mandy. Not perky. She’d never been bubbly and bouncy like a cheerleader. She had been studious, loved learning, got straight-A grades. She was an intelligent woman. An educated woman.

The thought pleased her. But if she’d been happy in her life, how had she come here?

“Maria, you must pay attention to what I am saying.”

“Why?” She sank down onto the edge of the bed. Her headache had faded, replaced by a dull pain in her upper back. She touched a tender area near her rib cage and winced.

“It’s dangerous,” he said. “You must know that. Just because you’ve left Guermina, you aren’t safe. There are people who don’t want you here in this country. There are people who want you dead.”

Why did he think she was from Guermina? That didn’t feel right, and yet she sensed that the rest of his statement was true. She was in danger.

My God, what had she done? She studied the chiseled planes of his handsome face. Her gaze lingered on the scar near his hairline. He had been injured, too.

Instinctively she wanted to trust him, to believe that they were on the same side. Why else would he be warning her? Her agile mind supplied a reason. It was possible that he was trying to frighten her to strengthen his hold on her, to make her dependent upon him. “Tell me what you know about me, Jason. Perhaps I can fill in the blanks.”

“How much do you know about yourself?” he asked sharply.

Did he know? Did he know how helpless she was? She tossed her head, masking her ignorance. “What do you mean?”

“Maria, I’m not a fool. It’s obvious that you have sustained some short-term memory loss. I don’t know how much or why. When I examined you yesterday, I found no physical evidence of head injury and—”

“You examined me?”

“Of course, I am trained as a physician and—”

“How much?” she interrupted him again. “How thorough was your examination?”

“Give me a break.” Abruptly he rose from the chair. “I might be crippled, but I haven’t stooped to the level of manhandling an unconscious woman. You were exhausted. You could barely make it from Elena to the house. There was no one else here. I wasn’t sure whether I should contact a doctor or not. I know nothing of your medical history.”

“What would you need to know?”

“Drugs,” he said. “Are you on any special medication?”

“No.” At least, she didn’t think so.

“Are you diabetic?”

“No.”

“This memory loss,” he said. “How far back does it extend?”

To birth, she thought. But she would not confide in him. He was clever and appealing, but she’d be crazy to trust him. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?” He matched her cold bravado with his own diffident arrogance. “Then tell me about yourself.”

“I do not wish to recite my life story. Tell me what you know,” she reiterated, “and I will fill in the blanks.”

“I don’t know much beyond your book. Truth. I have a photocopy of it. In Spanish. Not the translation.”

She had written a book titled Truth. Her recollection came into dim focus. The book was about Guermina, the corruption of power, the exploitation of her people, deals with American immigration officials, political scandal on a multitude of levels.

This book, she knew, was the key to everything. “Give me the copy,” she demanded.

“That would be unwise,” he said.

“Why?”

“You know the answer to that question. I have the book locked away in a safe place. The location is indicated on a paper that will be opened in the event of my death. Even if you and I are assassinated...the book will survive.”

Assassinated? “I must have this book. Where is it?”

“How did you learn English?” he countered. “You speak like an American.”

“Then I must have learned from an American.” She had no idea of how she’d gained her knowledge of language. Spanish or English. But it seemed right to add, “I have an ear for languages.”

“What others do you know?”

In flawless French, she said, “I am well acquainted with French though I have only visited that nation briefly. And, of course, Portuguese, because I spent some time in Brazil.”

Images flooded her mind. In memory, she observed herself laughing in an outdoor café. Utterly carefree, she tossed her hair and sipped at strong, rich espresso. Then she was joined by a woman whose dark eyes bespoke a depth of suffering. The woman didn’t belong there. The memory was painful! A physical ache tightened Maria’s chest. She felt as though she were choking, drowning.

When she spoke again, she used English.

“Tired,” she murmured. “I’m so tired.”

She lay back on the pillows, knowing that she must not allow her memory of that woman to become completed in detail. She had to fight it. If she remembered, she would sink back into the pain, the dire sense of helplessness.

But she heard the woman’s voice echoing in her mind, repeating a name: Jason Wakefield Walker. And there were directions: the marina near Boothbay Harbor. The Elena, a sailboat. Slip number eighty-six.

Her gaze snapped back to the present and she turned her head to stare at him. Had the dark-eyed woman been warning her against this handsome man?

Beneath the pillow, covered in fabric that matched the bedspread, she heard a crumpling sound. She reached underneath the pillow and touched a balled-up scrap of paper. A note.

Her fingers closed around it.

“Are you all right?” he asked. Slowly he came toward her. “Maria? What’s wrong?”

“Keep away from me.”

“I won’t hurt you.” He braced himself on his cane and gestured with his free hand. “I married you, didn’t I?”

“Yes.” She sat up on the bed to face him. “Yes. We are husband and wife.”

“And tonight is our honeymoon.” Sardonically he added, “I guess that makes me the luckiest man in the world.”

“Does my bedroom door have a lock?”

“Do you think that would stop me?”

“I would think that—if you’re a gentleman—you’ll respect my wish to be left alone.”

“I don’t believe you, Maria. You’re afraid of your real wishes. When you kissed me at the altar, your body responded to mine.”

“That meant nothing. It was a show.”

“Prove your words.” He caught hold of her arm. His grip was fierce and overpowering. “Kiss me now, Maria. Without passion. Without arousal.”

She stared into his storm-gray eyes. Part of her accepted his challenge. To kiss without excitement? Certainly she could do so. She had reason to believe that Jason was her enemy. Hadn’t he taken advantage of her already? Hadn’t he made her his mail-order bride? The very idea infuriated her. There was no sensible rationale for why a modern woman should have to barter with her heart. Not even to obtain freedom from an oppressed country. Her lips curled in a sneer. “You don’t excite me.”

“We’ll see.”

A part of her conscious mind wanted to kiss him because she remembered the pleasure of the first time. Of all her scant memories to be etched in vivid detail, that was the strongest. A kiss.

“Show me,” he said.

Standing close to him, she lowered her eyelids and lifted her chin. The light pressure of his mouth on hers was pleasant, but not overwhelming. She gritted her teeth, unwilling to show him that she enjoyed the contact.

His hand glided down her arm, leaving a trail of shivering sensation. He took her hand and placed it against his chest. Through the soft, white cotton of his shirt, she could feel warm flesh and the drumming of his heart.

His tongue flicked lightly across the surface of her lips. He kissed her cheekbone, her closed eyelids. He found her earlobe and nibbled.

She groaned with pleasure. This felt so indescribably right. His touch aroused her in ways that were uncontrollable. In the midst of her confusion she needed to cling to him. Her arms encircled him and she fitted her body against his. Her back arched as he nuzzled her throat.

Again he kissed her full on the mouth, and she surrendered to an explosion of desire that blanked her mind and erased any thought, except of him. Pure, tingling delight flamed within her. When he separated from her, she felt dazed.

“Are you all right, Maria?”

“I’m...” She fanned herself with her hand; struggled to regain her self-control. “I’m a little hot.”

“Don’t play with fire, lady. Or else you’ll be burned.”

As he moved slowly away from her, she felt annoyed with herself. And with him. He had no right to test these boundaries, wedding or not. And she had no business responding. Was this attraction the danger she feared so deeply?

Despite her brave thoughts, her voice stammered as she said, “I—I’m still locking my room.”

“Fine. All I promised was that you’d have a room to work and that you would be cared for. I’ll bring you a late dinner after the guests have left.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Later tonight, you will be.”

Before he closed the door he shot her a smoldering glance that, indeed, fueled her hunger. She was like a starving person, ravenous for his embrace, for the feel of his body against hers. The taste of him lingered on her lips. She craved his touch, the flames he kindled within her. Though she looked away, his gaze was branded in the forefront of her mind.