Mysterious Vows

The door closed with a click.

She could not stay here. If she allowed herself to be consumed by this inappropriate desire for a stranger, she would never escape, would never learn of her own life. She needed to concentrate, to remove her mind from thoughts of Jason and imaginings of how it would be to make love with him.

Love? What could she know about love? She was a mail-order bride. Love was not a requirement for this position.

In her closed fist she still clutched the balled-up scrap of paper. Was it a clue? She unfolded the edges and read the words scrawled in Spanish. “You are in danger. Look in the bedside table.”

She pulled open the drawer of the small oak table. Inside was a package of tissues, a sachet of fragrant potpourri, and a gun.

* * *

JASON AVOIDED the wedding revelries that had taken over the lower floor of his house and went to his office where he tried once again to reach his source by telephone. Fifteen rings. No answer.

“Damn.” He’d been told that Maria would stay with him, assume his name and slide unnoticed into the bureaucracy. He had all the necessary documentations and certifications, including a couple of fake identity papers in case they needed them immediately. None of the papers had a photograph. As far as he knew, there were no pictures of this woman.

With any luck, according to plan, she would attain U.S. citizenship before anyone was wise to the fact that Maria Ramos Hernandez was the real name of the fiery journalist, Juana Sabbatta.

Jason had promised that he would marry her. He would give her his name as protection and would keep her safely hidden away on remote Passaquoit Island.

The plan had seemed fairly simple, but he needed contact with his source. Maria was a handful. Not at all what he had expected. Her beauty surprised him less than her diffident attitude. Not that he wanted her to fawn on him and lavish him with praise, but a simple “thank you” would have been nice.

“Damn the difficult woman!”

Rising from the chair behind his desk, he noticed that his right desk drawer was slightly ajar. Though this room had not been locked, the door was closed. Had someone been in here? One of the wedding guests?

The desk drawer glided open when he pulled. Inside, all his papers were in order. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed.

He closed the drawer with a snap. His instincts warned him that something was wrong. Though he might have left the drawer open himself or Alice might have been in here, he didn’t trust simple explanations.

He reached beneath the middle drawer of his desk. On the right side, far enough back to be hidden from view, was the compartment he had built himself. The wood felt smooth and cold to the touch. The compartment was empty. His Beretta was missing.

A dark tension clenched his gut. Trust no one. Danger was everywhere. Though his instructions had been to arrange a typical wedding ceremony, it might have been a mistake to allow all these people onto the island.

Quickly he went to the locked cabinet at the rear of his office. He had other guns, mostly rifles. He took out a flat automatic pistol, checked the clip, then slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. Maria! He had to get back to her!

Surely no one would be fool enough to harm her while all these witnesses were present in the house. But he couldn’t be sure. He had to protect her, against her will, if necessary. Jason took a key chain from his desk drawer. There was scant safety in locked doors, but the locks would, at least, be an obstacle.

Armed and alert to danger, he paused outside his office to lock the door. His first goal was to get everyone off the island as soon as possible. Once he and Maria were here alone, he could protect her more thoroughly. This house was a fortress, built to withstand the battering winds off the northern Atlantic.

He hobbled up the staircase again to the second floor. Looking down the length of the wide hallway lined with oil paintings of Wentworths and Walkers, he saw that the door to her bedroom was standing open. Was he already too late? If anything had happened to her...

His fingers closed around the handle of the pistol. Moving stealthily, masking the tap of his cane against the hardwood floor, he approached her room. He heard the murmur of voices. Then there was a lilting sound, delicate as wind chimes. Maria’s laughter. He had never heard her laugh before.

With his hand still on his pistol, Jason stepped around the doorframe. The scene that confronted him appeared innocent enough. Maria, radiantly beautiful in her wedding gown, sat in a chair by the window. In the opposite chair was Reverend Wally Blaylock, chattering away in Spanish. He waved to Jason. “Come on in. I was just warning Maria about shopping in the local market where the citrus fruit is never quite perfect but the berries are marvelous. And never buy frozen lobster in Maine. They need to be fresh and live, even if they are difficult to control.” He glanced at Maria. “I had the creatures all over the back of my van.”

She smiled brightly, and Jason thought her happiness was a wonderful sight. The sparkle in her eyes captured the essence of sunlight shimmering on clear waters. He wished, someday, that she might look upon him with a smile in her eyes. But for now... “I’m surprised, Wally,” Jason said. “I didn’t know you were so fluent in Spanish.”

“I’d hardly call myself fluent. But I did spend several years as a missionary in Latin American countries. I was even in Guermina for a while.” He reached over and patted Maria’s knee. “Your homeland is very wonderful.”

Jason felt an irrational surge of jealousy. Wally Blaylock was a reverend, not a priest. He was unmarried, and he was flirting with Maria. “Wally, what are you doing here?”

“I came to say goodbye to the bride. I’m heading back to the mainland and taking the majority of your guests with me on the big boat.” He rose to his feet and beamed down at Maria. “It’s been a real pleasure.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “Gracias.”

Jason stepped aside so the reverend could leave the room.

“And you,” the reverend said to Jason. “You be sure to bring this young woman into town. Stuck out here on the island, Maria could die of boredom.”

Alone again, Jason closed the door. “I thought you were ill?”

The laughter fled from her face. She averted her gaze, stared through the window. “I couldn’t be rude to the reverend. He’s very nice.”

“Maria, you don’t know that. Your enemies are everywhere. Don’t you understand? You’ve got to be careful.”

She said nothing, but her chin lifted stubbornly, daring him to tell her what to do. This expression of suppressed anger was one he’d become accustomed to. What was the use of talking to her? She didn’t understand! “All right,” he said. “You wanted the bedroom door locked? Fine. I’m locking you in.”

“What? You can’t do that. You can’t keep me prisoner.”

“Watch me!”

He left the room, fitted his master key in the lock. It fastened with a neat click. There! She ought to be safe until he saw that everyone was off the island.

* * *

SHE LISTENED to the tap of Jason’s cane as he went back down the hallway. Had he really locked the door? She gripped the doorknob and tried to twist it. Locked tight! How dare he lock her in her bedroom! His behavior was ridiculous and archaic, locking her up as if she were a medieval princess. What was next? A chastity belt? This was more than an affront to her pride. His behavior bordered on cruelty. “Bastard!”

How could he treat her like this?

Through the slightly open window she heard the distant sounds of people preparing to depart. She hurried to the window of her bedroom prison and stood there, peering out. At the far end of the house the wedding guests were making their way outside into the sunlight.

Maria tried to push the window higher, to open it. If she leaned out, waving and screaming like Rapunzel in her tower, Reverend Blaylock would return. He was a kind man. He would help her. Or would he?

She knew there was danger. The note had warned her. Eddy Elliot had warned her. Jason had repeatedly insisted that she was not safe.

“Jason.” She gritted his name through clenched teeth. She couldn’t trust him. He was the danger. And the others? Without more information, she couldn’t be sure. It was safer to trust no one, to keep a low profile. She would escape from this room, this damned island, by herself. Then she would be free to disappear onto the mainland. But where? How?

She paced the room. She had no money. No clothing except for the wedding gown she was wearing.

If she went to the police, what could they do? She had no name, no identity except for Maria Ramos Hernandez. She paused and corrected herself. She was Mrs. Jason Wakefield Walker the Third. And from what she’d ascertained, Jason was an important man in this part of the world. The police would contact him to pick up his hysterical bride who was spouting a fantastic story about not knowing who she was or where she came from.

She couldn’t go to the police.

Back at the window, she watched the guests following a footpath to the edge of a bluff. Their brightly colored wedding clothing contrasted with the bleak landscape that was only occasionally marked with patches of wildflowers and shrubs. Beyond was the cold, gray sea, another barrier to her freedom. But Jason had a sailboat. She could steal it, aim toward the shoreline, which was not even visible from here. How far was it, how many miles, to freedom?

It didn’t matter. She would escape, take the boat. The Elena. It was named for his first wife who had suffered and died on this island. A cold shudder went through her. Was this Elena’s bedroom? Had she passed away upon that bed?

Confusion whirled in her brain. The aching had returned. Not a devastating pain, but a monotonous, unending throb. Threats were all around her. She was surrounded by danger. Muerte. The overwhelming darkness that she had evaded crept closer.

“No,” she whispered. She would not succumb, would not quit.

First, she needed to get out of this room. If she forced herself through the small opening in the second-story window and dangled from the sill, the drop would still be more than ten feet. Too far. She couldn’t risk injuring herself, making herself even more helpless.

She peered outside. Unfortunately there were no handy trellises or sturdy trees that she could climb down. The vegetation on this windswept, rocky island was sparse. Nowhere to hide.

She tried the door handle again. Could she break the lock? These doors were old, but heavy.

Pick the lock? Maria didn’t recall a background that included that type of talent. She had to think, to use her wits. The bathroom attached to this bedroom had no separate door into the hallway. And the closet?

She pulled open the door and checked that window in case there would be a way to climb down. But there was nothing. Only the wavering sunlight of late afternoon. Soon it would be dusk, then nightfall. Then Jason would come to her room. He had promised dinner. And what else?

The thought of his kisses wakened a new fear within her. He was masterful. He was strong. How could she resist him? And yet, how could she allow herself to be overwhelmed? If she made love to him, she would be more of a captive than before.

Her gaze lifted upward. From the ceiling of the closet a cord dangled from an overhead hatch. She tugged hard on the cord and a ladder descended. There must be additional storage in the attic. And possible escape.

Before climbing up and out of her bedroom prison, she raced to the bedside table and grabbed the pistol.

Chapter Four

“I want to see her,” Alice said, “before I leave.”

“Maria is sleeping,” Jason replied. “She’s exhausted.”

Alice closed the door to his office and confronted him angrily. “I’m going to give you some free advice, dear brother.”

He knew very well that it would do absolutely no good to protest. Jason settled back in the chair behind his desk and braced himself. When Alice had an opinion, it would be stated come hell or high water. “Yes, Alice?”

“Don’t be overprotective of Maria. She’s not an invalid like Elena was. Please, Jason, you must listen to me. I know you adored Elena, but she was a very sick woman. Taking care of her turned you into a recluse.”

Though he didn’t like to hear it, he knew she was right. Elena’s drawn-out death had changed him. Watching her die slowly, unable to help her, had stolen his spirit. After she’d passed away, he had flung himself headlong into his work with the rebels of Guermina. The people of that country had called him courageous. They had not guessed at the truth: he didn’t care if he lived or died. Without Elena, his life was over.

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