Mysterious Vows

To Rick, the love I will never regret

Jason Wakefield Walker the Third—Wounded in a fight for independence, he enters a world of espionage and marries a mail-order bride.

Maria Ramos Hernandez—On the run from enemies too numerous to count, she hides out as a mail-order bride.

Juana Sabatta—The author of Truth, a fiery denouncement of international politics.

Chip Harrington—Though he runs a small-town newspaper, his beat is worldwide.

Edward Elliot—A state senator from Maine who aspires to higher politics.

Wally Babcock—The small-town reverend makes connections all over the globe.

Carrie Kelly—When she translates the works of Juana Sabatta, she is drawn into a web of espionage.

Alice Walker—After she organizes her brother, she is ready to take on the world.

Harvey Epsom—The publisher who dares to insult the establishment.

Mysterious Vows

Cassie Miles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Prologue

Helpless. Unable to move. Her body felt limp. Arms and legs, heavy as sandbags. Her eyelids opened, barely a slit. Beneath her cheek she felt the smooth tile that lined the edge of the swimming pool.

The men were still here. Though she was unable to distinguish words or sentences, she heard their voices. Their harsh whispers echoed in the silent summer night.

The gaunt man stood over her. The pointed toe of his boot dug into her rib cage and pain radiated through her body in dull waves. She couldn’t escape from him...could not move.

He nudged her again with his toe. Stop it, she wanted to cry. Leave me alone! But her voice was paralyzed.

He shoved at her body. Did he still have the knife? Did his dirty fingers still hold the syringe?

His hands were on her shoulder. The stench of him disgusted her. He rolled her onto her back and her long black hair tangled across her face. She was on her back at the very edge of the pool. If he pushed her into the water, what could she do? She was too weak to swim. She struggled to move, to fight back, but her muscles would not respond. Helpless! Unable to speak, unable to move. Her vision blurred. She saw her own right hand, weighted by an unfamiliar gold ring, reaching toward safety, trying to grasp...

Then she was falling. Down through the cold, she plummeted. Dead weight. The water consumed her as she fell, soaked her Levi’s and her T-shirt. She lost all sense of direction. Which was up, which way was down? The pool was dark, so dark. And cold. Shock trembled through her.

Can’t breathe. Frantically she flung out with her arms. Had they even moved? My God, was she going to die? A scream boiled up in her throat. No! If she opened her mouth, the water would pour down her throat to her lungs. Suffocating.

The cold roused panic, and she kicked. Her toe scraped the concrete bottom of the pool. Push, dammit, push off.

Her legs curled beneath her, and she thrust with all her might. She ascended, but so slowly. Her lungs ached. Her heart pulsed arrhythmically.

In a gush of relief, she broke the surface. Blessed oxygen flowed into her mouth. A breath, she gasped just one breath, before she was again exhausted.

One breath would be enough. One breath at a time, she would survive.

The liquid cold splashed around her in weak ripples, freezing her arms and legs until she floated motionless in the gelid darkness. With great effort, she turned her head to the side and sucked down a mouthful of air. Then another. Each breath was a desperate struggle.

Though she fought the exhausting paralysis, the cold penetrated to the marrow of her bones. And she felt death approaching. Muerte. Death. Softly, gently, the angel of death glided toward her, dancing on the shimmering blue water, coming for her.

It would be easy to give up. To accept death.

No!

Her body felt heavy as stone, yet she did not sink to the bottom of the pool. Though weak, she was still breathing. It was not her time to die. There were important tasks. Clinging to that hope, she kicked and her legs responded. Her head jerked back, and she began a slow and clumsy dog paddle.

The night was utterly silent.

The men were gone.

In dim moonlight she saw the edge of the pool and the metal ladder, less than five feet away. Beyond that was the chain-link fence and the locked gate that the men had broken.

Only five feet to the ladder. She forced her arms and legs, weighted by clothing, to stroke through the thick, dark liquid. Farther than a marathon. Impossibly far...but her hand grasped the ladder. Her fingers were weak, unable to hold. If she sank again, she would never find the strength to hold on. A sob racked her body. She couldn’t give up. Not yet. She pulled herself up. Every muscle in her body strained.

Night air blasted her face. Shivering, she lurched toward safety, dragging her body halfway out of the pool. Her legs were leaden. She could not feel her feet. Fighting desperately, she clawed her way to safety. Her teeth chattered, and she tasted blood in her mouth.

But she’d made it. She was alive. Still breathing.

She looked back at the mirrored surface that should have been her tomb. And she saw...herself.

Her body was still in the water. She was floating facedown with her long black hair spread around her head like inky tentacles weighing her down.

How could that be? She looked down at her legs, encased in wet Levi’s. Her numb fingers plucked at her clammy T-shirt and twined in the red scarf that encircled her neck like seaweed.

Her hand rose in front of her eyes and she pointed toward the center of the swimming pool. She was there.

Was she dead?

Her mind went blank. Darkness overwhelmed her.

Chapter One

The June sunlight sparkled on the waters of the marina near Boothbay Harbor. The weather was idyllic, as temperate as it gets on the coast of Maine, and Jason Wakefield Walker turned his face upward to catch the warmth. The sun hovered directly overhead, above the masthead of his twenty-five-foot yacht, Elena. The masthead weather vane indicated a light wind from the north. It was noon. He had been waiting since seven o’clock this morning.

His source had left no communications since yesterday. Therefore he assumed there had been no change in plan. His assignment was to wait, however impatiently, for the arrival of Maria Ramos Hernandez.

He sat in the cockpit of the Elena and stretched his long legs in front of him. The sun’s heat penetrated his khaki slacks and eased the constant ache in his injured left leg. It felt good, but Jason was not yet ready to gracefully accept small pleasures. He’d lost too much. Silently he cursed the fate that had broken his body and reduced him to this position.

He was nothing more than a messenger boy. Waiting and sitting when there was so much more to be done.

“Jason!” His older sister, Alice, called to him as she marched surefooted along the marina walkway and stopped at the Elena‘s slip. Hands on hips, she glared at him. “What are you doing? Just sitting here?”

“Thinking.”

“Wasting your time away,” she accused.

“Not at all,” he said, glancing at his cane. “Moments of quiet contemplation befit a man in my position.”

“Well, excuse me, Mr. Socrates, but there are some of us who still try to get things done.”

Alice was a human whirlwind who was always busy—giving orders, organizing, cleaning and planning. Long ago, Jason had learned that the best method for dealing with this human cyclone was to take cover and wait until she passed.

Rapid-fire, she rattled off a list of very important tasks. “Have you done all that?”

He nodded.

“Oh? Then, I guess the rest is up to me.” Her forehead puckered in a frown. “She’s not here yet, is she?”

“No,” he said simply.

“Where is she?”

“Maria will be here.”

“I simply cannot believe that you gave her such ridiculous directions.” Teasing, she impersonated his low baritone, “`Meet me at the Boothbay Marina, slip eighty-six.’”

He shrugged.

“Why didn’t you meet her at the plane? Or her bus? It’s the least you could do, Jason. After all, she’s coming here all the way from Central America.”

“She didn’t want it that way,” he lied. He had never spoken to Maria. Only to his source.

“I wonder why. Proving her independence?” Alice theorized. “Maybe she needs to show you that she’s capable of getting around by herself. That’s good. That’s the sort of woman you need.”

“Maybe.”

A windy sigh gusted through her lips. “Oh, Jason. I’m still not comfortable with this. I wish you at least loved this woman.”

“We’ll learn to care about each other and take care of each other,” he said. “Isn’t that what marriage is about?”

“But this? A mail-order bride?”

Jason repeated the cover story that he’d told so many times. “I need a woman on Passaquoit Island. Especially now. With my injuries, I need someone around. I don’t have the time or inclination to shop for a wife. That was why I placed all those advertisements in Spanish newspapers. I’m delighted that a suitable woman has responded.”

“You could hire a nurse—”

“I don’t need a nurse.”

“A housekeeper, then. Why marry the woman?” She frowned. “You’re so eligible, Jason. Thirty-five, single, and fairly well-off. You could still be a doctor, you know, if you went back to medical school and finished your internship. It wouldn’t take—”

“Alice, stop.”

“It’s just that I know so many nice ladies that would make marvelous wives.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“A mail-order bride,” she muttered. “I’ve never heard of such a ridiculous, antiquated concept. And where is she? It would serve you right if she didn’t show up. Tomorrow is the wedding, you know.”

“She’ll be here,” he said.

Of that, he was confident. Maria’s life depended upon fulfilling this complex plan.

Alice checked her wristwatch. “I’ll be with the caterers. I hope you’re doing the right thing, Jason.”

“So do I.”

The afternoon dragged. Slowly, the sun rode the clear blue skies. Wavelets monotonously lapped against the hull, washing away the minutes. He’d already done the chores and cleaning that maintained the Elena in shipshape condition. And, contrary to what he’d told his sister, there was only so much quiet contemplation he could stand.

Using high-powered binoculars, Jason spied on the woodpeckers in the pines and the gulls overhead. He watched the fishing boats retrieve the day’s catch from lobster traps. And he surveyed the shoreline, again and again, looking for Maria.

If something had gone wrong, how would the source contact him? Jason had never met this person. His only source was a voice on the phone and an occasional letter. They had not discussed the possibility of Maria not showing up.

Late in the afternoon, a Friday afternoon, activity picked up at the marina. The graceful sailboats, the sleek motorcraft, the festive party barges received their inhabitants.

Jason far preferred the solitude. The fewer witnesses, the better. From his pocket he took out a one-page letter, the only message he’d received directly from Maria. Though she was an accomplished journalist, English was her second language and the sentences, written in neat script, seemed halting.

Dear Mr. Walker,

My intense gratitude belongs to you. For your proposal and protection, I thank you so much. We shall succeed in our journey. We must.

Between the lines he saw bravery and strength of character. Maria was willing to sacrifice everything for patriotism, for the love of her small Central American country and hatred of injustice. He hoped the privacy and protection he could offer would be sufficient.

At dusk he scanned with his binoculars and saw a woman standing immobile on the shore, staring through the forest of sailboat masts. A family, toting picnic baskets, separated to walk around her. She took no notice.

Maria? She wore Levi’s and a T-shirt. Her long black hair was yanked back in a ponytail. Though she carried no luggage, she wore a red scarf around her throat.

Jason’s heart took a leap. The red scarf was the first signal of recognition.

She stumbled as she walked along the planks of the pier. Even at this distance, he discerned the slump of her shoulders and a drag in her step. The woman appeared to be exhausted, which was not surprising. If this was Maria, she’d just completed a journey of more than two thousand miles.

As he observed her progress through his binoculars, Jason found himself hoping that this was the woman he had been waiting for, the woman he would wed. Despite her exhaustion, she seemed to be reasonably attractive, and his pride was appeased that he would not be stuck marrying an ugly woman. Even if the mail-order marriage was nothing but a cover story, he would be required to introduce her as his bride.

She entered the marina, passed the boathouse.

Using his cane, he climbed out of the cockpit and stood beside the slip. After waiting so long, he felt like running toward her—as if he could run. But the instructions were clear. She was to come to him.

She stood beside the marker for slip number eighty-six, turned her head and looked up at him. Her eyes were an odd shade of hazel, almost green. Their pale color stood out dramatically against her dusky complexion.

Without saying a word, she held up her left hand and he saw the heavy gold ring inscribed with branches of thorns and a golden rose.

“Maria?”

She looked puzzled but nodded. He held out his hand to help her into the boat. Her touch was cold, trembling. He asked, in Spanish, if she was all right, if she needed anything.

In Spanish, she replied, “Sleep. I must sleep.”

He guided her into the cabin, and she crawled onto the V-berth in the forward hull and thanked him. Before he could question her to find out why she was so late, she was unconscious, curled up on the bed, sound asleep.

In repose, her features were delicate. Thick lashes formed dark crescents on her high cheekbones. Her lips parted as she breathed shallowly.

Her journey had been difficult, he thought. But she was here now, and he would make certain no one harmed her.

While she slept, he motored back to the island. There was a need for haste, and no time for sailing, so he did not hoist the dolphin sail on the Elena‘s mast. They crossed the twenty-two miles of open sea to Passaquoit Island at a smooth, even clip.

* * *

THE HEAVY MIST that blanketed her mind parted, showing light, but her eyelids were closed. Was she dead?

She was falling again, struggling up from liquid darkness. She must be dreaming, but her sensation was utterly real. She struggled against the paralyzing weakness, fought to shake off the cloying miasma that suffocated her. Falling.

She felt an arm at her waist. On her shoulder.

She was not alone.

The hands tightened their grasp.

Her eyelids snapped open. The profusion of light and color startled her. There was sunlight pouring through tall windows. Not darkness. She gulped air, filling her lungs. Her heart throbbed painfully beneath her rib cage. And her head— Oh, God, her head and shoulders ached.

“Maria, cómo está usted?”

She looked into the eyes of a stranger. In Spanish he repeated, “Maria, are you all right?”

“Muerte,” she murmured. Death. The angel of death had been so near she could feel its chilling embrace. “Where am I?”

“On the island.”

An island? She had no recollection of how she’d come to be here. Her mind was blank. Something terrible must have happened, something that had spun her life out of control.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I am your husband-to-be. You are my bride.”

Her husband? Surely that could not be possible. The man was lying to her. She had a vague sense of other men, dangerous men who wanted to kill her. Was he one of them?

She sat bolt upright on the sofa where she had been reclining. Her head rang with fierce pain. Thunderbolts crashed inside her skull. She groaned. “My head.”

“Don’t you remember?” he asked.

Her instincts warned her to play along with him, to tell him what he wanted to hear. “Sí, I remember.”

Her fingers coursed down the length of white fabric of the dress she was wearing. Simple lace at the neck, polished cotton, long sleeves and a full skirt. A wedding gown.

Without knowing how or why, she’d dropped into a strange reality. And she was about to be a bride.

“Maria. We need to do this now.”

He spoke Spanish with the fluency of a native, but she detected an American accent in his inflection and tone. His words were slower than a native speaker’s. “We need to get started,” he said. “We need to get this ceremony under way as soon as possible.”

“What ceremony?” She saw impatience in his dark gray eyes.

“The wedding.”

Her head was pounding. She raised her fingertips to her temples and massaged lightly. Her forehead felt like it might explode.

“Are you ill?” he asked.

Dying, she thought. The misery spread to her neck and shoulders. Yet she said to him, “I will survive.”

“I don’t understand why your head hurts. I’ve examined you thoroughly. You have some bruises and a cracked rib. But I don’t see evidence of a head injury. Do you have a history of migraines?”

“No, but I need an aspirin. Please. Por favor.“

He took her hand. From a small vial, he tapped a blue-and-white capsule into her open palm and passed her a glass of water that had been standing on a table beside the sofa.

Though the pounding in her head threatened to consume her, she hesitated. What had he given her? A drug that would destroy the remnants of her brain? Suspiciously she demanded, “What kind of pill is this? What will it do to me?”

“I told you before,” he said. “I gave you some of this pain medication last night. I use it for my leg, but it seems to work on your headaches.”

If she’d taken one of these capsules before, she should have remembered. But her memory was gone, erased.

“Take it,” he ordered sharply. “There isn’t time for you to have a headache.”

She didn’t know this man. But the pain behind her eyes was so intense that she would have to risk the medication. She couldn’t begin to think until this agony subsided. She tossed back the capsule and washed it down.

“Listen carefully, Maria. No one must suspect there is anything wrong. Comprende? Do you understand?”

She lay back on the sofa, concentrated on breathing evenly while she waited for the pain to lessen. Why was he calling her Maria? That wasn’t her name. It was... An involuntary sob shuddered her body. Her name was...

Oh, God, why couldn’t she remember this basic, essential piece of herself? Calm down. Try to think.

She heard someone else enter the room. A woman.

In English the woman asked, “Is she all right?”

“She’ll be okay, Alice. Don’t worry.”

“I don’t think she’s well. Last night and this morning, she had a weird, blank look. Like she was awake, but not conscious. You should call off the wedding.”

“Maria will be fine. She’s tough. Comes from a tough country.”

“Well, it looks to me like something more serious than a case of prenuptial jitters.”

“Leave this to me.” His voice was harsh. “I know what I’m doing.”

The woman hovered above her. “Maria?”

She opened her eyes. Though it wasn’t her name, she would be Maria.

“Maria, do you need a doctor?”

“I’ll make that decision,” the man said. “Please leave us, Alice. We’ll be ready soon.”

When the woman backed away, Maria wanted to call out to her, to tell her that she needed a doctor, needed to talk to someone in authority. But what would this man—this stranger—do if she caused a problem?

“You’ll be all right,” the man said. “Close your eyes and let the medication work.”

Gradually the aching began to fade. Her mind felt more clear. She sat up, turning her head slowly so she wouldn’t jar the fragile relief.

The man sat in a wingback chair next to the sofa. In spite of his obvious impatience, he was very handsome. There was an aristocratic sculpting to his features. Near his hairline, where his thick, dark hair swept back off a high forehead, she saw the start of a faded scar that extended to the brow above his left eye.

She sensed that she ought to know him, but her memory didn’t seem willing to function. “Cómo se llama?”

“My name? You want to know my name?”

He regarded her with a mixture of astonishment and irritation. Too angry, she thought, to be a caring husband. Why had he brought her here? Who was he?

Her eyes squeezed shut, then she opened them again. She needed to think, to create logic from the crippling confusion that churned inside her brain, making her stupid, foolish, ridiculous. She had to proceed intelligently if she hoped to survive. Of that much, she was certain.

More information. She needed to gather facts.

The small room where they sat was furnished with dark wood antiques, but the wallpaper was light, patterned in gray fleur-de-lis. Sunlight poured through the lace curtains at the windows. They were alone, but she heard the mumblings of other people outside the closed oak door.

“I can’t call off the wedding,” he said. “I promise that the ceremony will be brief. You can get through it, then go upstairs to your room and sleep.”

“What will I be called,” she asked, rephrasing her earlier question, “when we are man and wife?”

“You will be Mrs. Jason Wakefield Walker the Third.”

An impressive name. But she had never heard it before. “And this will be my home. This...island.”

Outside the windows she saw scrub oak and pine. There were only a few wildflowers in splashes of yellow and red. The foliage was not typical of a tropical island where Spanish might be the native tongue, and yet she had spoken only Spanish.

“Please, Maria, try to concentrate.”

“Upon what? Tell me again.”

He sighed and began speaking in a low baritone. In spite of his obvious irritation, the sound of his voice was gentle and soothing.

Though she tried to listen and compile enough data to understand, a darkness rose up behind her eyes and she could feel herself tuning out. Was her delirium an effect of the capsule he’d given her? She stared blankly while he mentioned immigration and their enemies. In a dull voice, he concluded, “It is your assignment, today, to convince our guests that you are delighted to be my wife.”