Shadow of the Fox Read online

  Table of Contents

  SHADOW OF THE FOX

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  SHADOW OF THE FOX

  Mission Belles Book 1

  PAMELA GIBSON

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  SHADOW OF THE FOX

  Copyright©2018

  PAMELA GIBSON

  Cover Design by Laura Bemis

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN: 978-1-68291-752-7

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  To the late Jim Sleeper,

  Orange County, California, historian,

  who knew a good yarn and how to spin it.

  Acknowledgments

  I want to thank the entire Soul Mate team for their encouragement and assistance, especially my editor, Debby Gilbert. Thanks also to my husband, Mark, who beta reads everything I write. Finally, thank you readers. I hope you enjoy this new series. If you do, please consider leaving a brief review. It means a lot.

  Prologue

  London, 1844

  Sorina Braithwaite slipped out the terrace door and scanned the garden for its darkest corner. It wasn’t her nature to hide, but the sting of her aunt’s words brought hot tears to her eyes.

  Ill-mannered, rebellious, unteachable, gauche. Lady Everton had listed her niece’s faults to an avid audience of sympathetic matrons, not knowing her niece was standing in a nearby alcove.

  She wanted to go home to Alta California, and run barefoot along the beach, her hair streaming behind her. But that was precisely why her Mexican grandfather had sent her to her father’s sister. After her parents died, she’d developed a wild streak that seemed to control her behavior. He hoped in England she would become more biddable and eventually contract a good marriage.

  I’m sorry I let you down, Grandfather.

  She glanced over her shoulder to make sure her sharp-eyed cousin hadn’t noticed her leave the ballroom. Madre de Dios! How they watched her, as if she were a wild creature that had escaped its cage.

  The strains of a Strauss waltz followed as she fled between the hedges. Her destination was the rose garden, one of her favorite places. When the fragrant smell of the blooms reached her, she paused and sank onto a stone bench. Hidden from view she could gather her dignity and contemplate her failures, refreshed by the scent of plants and the sound of splashing water in a nearby fountain.

  She had tried to become a proper English lady, but there were so many rules. Her head ached trying to remember them all. Defying propriety, she sometimes rose from her bed at night, stepped out onto her balcony clad only in her night rail, and breathed in the crisp air. She’d close her eyes and try to evoke the sound of pounding surf and the feeling of power and awe she felt every time she stood beneath the sandstone cliffs and watched waves crash onto shore.

  If her parents had survived the smallpox epidemic she’d still be there.

  They had not.

  After nearly seven years, her heart still hurt when she thought of them.

  She stilled as footsteps approached. Had her cousin Sofia been sent to find her? She hoped not. The peace of her surroundings soothed her, like her maid’s gentle fingers stroking her scalp after brushing her hair. She did not want to go back to the stifling room yet.

  A man came into view, the gold buttons of his uniform catching the light. His face was in shadow, but Sorina knew who he was. She had watched him all night, entranced by eyes the color of English violets and a mouth that curved up at the corners in an easy smile.

  He’d caught everyone’s attention the moment he walked into the ballroom. Dressed in the blue and gold of the American Navy, his back was ramrod straight, making him seem taller than the other gentlemen in the room. He walked with sure, deliberate steps as he bowed before his partners, flashing that confident grin as he led them onto the dance floor.

  Sorina, sitting in her usual place among the chaperones and wallflowers, had not been one of them.

  “Should you be out here alone?” He did not move from the tree he lounged against, but spoke across the fountain.

  “I am escaping the barbed tongues of serpents.”

  He must have heard the catch in her voice because he came closer. “Did someone insult you? Tell me his name and I’ll run him through with my sword.”

  He was laughing at her and it made her feel worse. “It was not a man.”

  She lowered her eyes to her gloved hands. Speaking to a stranger was not done. Madre de Dios, she was breaking another rule.

  He moved around the fountain and sat beside her. “A woman insulted you? I’m afraid I cannot challenge a woman to a duel. What did she say?”

  Surprised to find her hand in his, she studied his ungloved fingers. “I am too willful, too spirited, too brash. I am an antidote.”

  Her tongue seemed to have a life of its own. She should rise and hurry back to the ballroom. Unchaperoned ladies do not talk to men in dark gardens, even in Alta California. But it felt good to bare her soul and the stranger listened.

  His fingers squeezed hers.
“Words can hurt, but they’re someone else’s opinion. Only you know what’s in your mind and your heart. Shrug them off. Tell yourself, ‘I’m clever and strong and I can get through anything.’ Believe in yourself and you’ll be fine.”

  “You sound like you know what you’re talking about, señor.”

  His smile disappeared.

  “I do, and I’m happy to say I’m a survivor, just like you will be.”

  The mellow timbre of his voice washed over her, its sound a soft accompaniment to the tinkling water of the fountain. He let go of her hand. “Shouldn’t you get back to the dancing? Your partners are probably searching for you.”

  “I did not dance beyond the first two sets.”

  “Do you not like to dance?”

  “I was not asked.”

  “Now that’s hard to believe.”

  This was such an improper conversation. Could he see her blush in the dark?

  He laughed again, a deep rumble that made the corners of her mouth turn up in response. He rose, made a courtly bow, and held out his hand. “Would you grant me the honor of this dance?”

  The face that smiled down on hers had eyes that flashed with merry sparks in the moonlight and cheeks that curved into a dimpled chin. She put her gloved hand in his as he raised her from the bench and led her out to the wider walkway.

  A firm hand touched her waist. The other brushed her fingertips and guided her in time to the lilting melody, heard from the open doors of the ballroom.

  She closed her eyes and drank in the clean scent of soap. He spoke only with his body, which brushed hers from time to time in the turns. She’d never been held this close by a man and the warmth that stole into her body made her tingle in intimate places.

  Instead of moving away, as a lady should, she inched forward, hoping their bodies would touch and she would experience that strange fullness in her breasts once again.

  But the music ended and he led her back toward the bench. His hand was warm through her glove, as he drew her along the hedge-lined path.

  What am I doing? What if someone sees us?

  A lady would go back.

  Tonight, she didn’t care. She did not want to be a lady.

  He stopped near the fountain. Water splashed over the edge of a series of bowls, creating its own music. She glanced behind her at the house. Light spilled out of the windows, casting shadows over the hedges that hid them from view. Muffled voices and occasional laughter came from the open doors of the ballroom. A few guests strolled out onto the veranda.

  The handsome stranger touched her cheek, turning her face toward his. Her breath caught when he tilted her chin and searched her eyes, as if waiting for the answer to a question. Did he expect her to be coy, to look down demurely, and push him away? He gave her time to do this. Instead she boldly stared at his mouth, daring him to use it.

  “You are too much temptation.” His lips met her temple, as light as the touch of a raindrop.

  She sighed as he kissed his way to her ear, and then to her mouth. Not knowing what to do, Sorina kept her lips pressed together. They softened as his tongue ran gently over them, as if wanting to coax them open, but not wanting to frighten her. Overcome with a need she didn’t understand, she parted her lips, allowing entrance.

  He tasted of champagne and forbidden delights that one dreams about in the dark. When he broke the kiss, she wanted to sway into him, close her eyes and give in to the warm, hungry sensation she had never felt before, a feeling that threatened to consume her.

  A tinkling laugh nearby brought her out of her trance.

  Eyes wide, she stepped back, appalled at what she’d done. Madre de Dios, her aunt was right. She was a hoyden, unfit to be called a lady.

  Turning, she fled into the darker recesses of the garden, regained her composure, and strolled sedately back to the house. It was an effort, but deep breaths helped.

  Only you know what’s in your mind and your heart.

  The words of the stranger were still with her, as was his scent and his touch.

  He wasn’t among the guests making afternoon calls the next day. Nor did he visit the following week or the week after.

  He was gone.

  And she didn’t even know his name.

  Chapter 1

  Two Years Later, Late July 1846, Rancho de Los Lagos, California

  Sorina Braithwaite tapped her foot beneath her voluminous skirts, hoping to hide her impatience.

  She’d planned to sneak down to the seashore today, disguised in the loose shirt and trousers of a house servant, her hair stuffed under a wide sombrero, a book in her hand.

  Instead, her grandfather had forced her to attend Señora Santoro’s afternoon tea, make small talk with women looking for husbands, and pretend to be one of them. Oh yes, she knew what this was about. Antoine, the Santoros’ only son, was in the hunt for a rich wife.

  Barely suppressing a shudder, Sorina surveyed the mantilla-clad heads around her, deep in conversation, and sighed in relief. Many eligible senoritas were here. The unlucky one would not be her.

  A Chopin etude wafted through the crowded room providing a soothing counterpoint to the strident chatter around her. What could all these women be talking about . . . needlepoint, the steps to la raspa, Santoro?

  “He’s quite handsome, do you not think so?” Her seatmate focused on Antoine, who pretended to be a gentleman by turning pages of music at the pianoforte for his sister. “And so kind.”

  He’s a puffed up toad.

  “Indeed, Katarina. A real credit to the family.” Sorina struggled to keep sarcasm from her tone. She was in company, after all. But her seatmate wasn’t listening. She seemed transfixed by the short, pompous man all these women believed to be a paragon of his species.

  Sorina knew better.

  Antoine stood as the music ended and led the clapping for his sister’s musical effort. His gaze drifted around the room and his lip curled in a smirk.

  “Oh, my goodness. He’s coming over here.” Sorina’s breathless companion fanned herself vigorously, the device fluttering like the wings of a dying moth.

  He stopped in front of their settee and made an exaggerated bow. “Señorita Braithwaite. What a pleasure to see you.” Turning his attention to her companion, he raised an eyebrow. “I have not yet made the acquaintance of your beautiful friend. Please introduce me, before my heart takes its last beat and I expire on the spot from longing.”

  Dear lord, please let me help him expire by sticking a butter knife into his ribs.

  “Antoine Santoro, may I present Miss Katarina Markova. Katarina . . . Señor Antoine Santoro.”

  “I am enchanted to meet you,” Katarina said, extended her gloved hand as he leaned down and brushed the air above her fingers with his lips.

  “The pleasure is mine, dear lady.”

  Instead of moving on, he rearranged a pillow and sat down next to Katarina. It was common knowledge her Russian father was a wealthy fur trader. Always looking for the right opportunities, Antoine was known to ooze charm, especially when there might be something in it for him.

  “You have a delightful name, Katarina. It almost rolls off one’s tongue, like a fine wine.”

  Her companion giggled, her eyes huge behind her fan.

  And I am going to suffocate if I don’t get fresh air.

  Excusing herself, Sorina forced a tight smile, gathered her ample skirts and flounced through the parlor doors to the garden. Her duenna glared from across the room. As an unmarried lady, Mexican society required her to have a chaperone. Fortunately, it was her Great-Aunt Consuelo, her grandfather’s maiden sister. At the advanced age of sixty, she napped frequently and retired early, inadvertently giving her charge the freedom she craved.

  Today the interior garden, enclosed on all
four sides by the rooms of the Santoros’ lavish hacienda, resembled a painting. Blooming fruit trees spread a carpet of pink and white blossoms over the tiled pathways. Sorina spread her skirts over a wooden bench and sat facing a clay fountain. Two swallows argued and splashed in the upper bowl, their loud chirping preferable to the insipid conversation in the drawing room.

  Footsteps crunched on the pebbled path behind her. “Are you ready to depart? We need to make haste if we are to be home before nightfall.”

  Without looking up, she knew it was her grandfather. Don Jose Lorenzo de la Vega’s loud gravelly voice always helped her find him, even at the grand balls they occasionally attended in El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora de la Reina de Los Angeles where blaring trumpets in the orchestras often made conversation difficult.

  She stood and patted her hair, making sure the braids twisted and pinned over her ears had not come loose. “Yes, Abuelo. I have been ready for the past hour.”

  “Then gather your great-aunt, say goodbye to our hostess, and let us be off.”

  He strode down the path toward the door to the sala, leaving her to follow at the pace of a turtle.

  Well-bred ladies do not run.

  She’d learned that rule and a thousand others when Grandfather put her on an English ship in the care of an older couple and sent her to live with Papa’s sister in faraway London. He’d thought in England she would have a better chance of contracting a good marriage.

  She shuddered at the memory.

  She’d been a misfit there—too willful, too spirited, too brash—and was sent home in disgrace. She still winced at the memory of the labels she’d earned and the stern lectures she’d received from her relatives.

  Apparently, she took after Papa, the rebellious member of the family. Her English aunts and uncles couldn’t wait to tell her how shocked they’d been when dear Stephen had run off to sea instead of becoming a curate, as they all expected. Why would the younger son of an Earl marry a Mexican girl barely out of the schoolroom in far-off California?