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Inn of the White Horse had to offer.
    Davalos. He said the name softly to
himself, feeling again the shock of recognition he had felt earlier this
evening when he had glanced up and there, just beyond the main room of the inn,
he had seen his one-time boyhood friend. That Davalos had not expected to see Jason
was obvious from the start he gave, his Spanish black eyes widening in dismayed
surprise, and the haste with which he had plunged outside. Jason had risen to
follow him, still not quite able to believe that it was indeed Bias Davalos.
After all, Virginia was a long way from Spanish New Orleans, and Davalos was an
officer in the Spanish army—that fact alone should have precluded his sudden
appearance in American Virginia.
    Frowning in the darkness of
the room, Jason admitted it was an accident that he had decided to stay
overnight at the inn instead of returning to Greenwood, his father's estate,
this evening. His horse had thrown a shoe and Annie, the woman who lay at his
side had proved to be as accommodating as he remembered. Dusk had been falling
by the time the new shoe was in place and rather than face the fifteen mile
journey in the cold and the dark to his father's home, he had sent a message on
to his father that he would be delayed and would not arrive until morning. And
there was the knowledge that Annie was waiting for him. So, if things had been
different, he would not have been at the inn and would not have seen Davalos.
    Knowing sleep was
impossible, Jason rose from the warm quilts of the bed
and with that jungle-cat grace peculiarly his own, he stalked naked to the
wooden- shuttered window. Undaunted by the chill of the night air, he threw
open the shutters and leaned his arms on the sill, staring out at the
landscape.
    The moonlight filtering in
made him an arresting study of silver and black. His black hair appeared silver
in the deceiving rays of the moon; the green of his eyes was shuttered and
dark; his nose, the high cheek bones and the frankly sensuous mouth were bathed
in silver; his chin and the hollows of his cheeks were in stark black, making
his face at once handsome and yet unyielding and harsh in the waning moonlight.
The corded muscles of his arms stood out, the moonlight caressing the gold and
emerald band that encircled one arm, and the fine black hair of his chest
stirred lightly as a faint breeze blew in from outside.
    Jason, lost in his
thoughts, was unaware of the coolness that swept into the room. Still frowning,
he wondered again of Davalos's presence. It could have been coincidence, he
thought slowly, but somehow he doubted it. There was some sixth sense that
warned him of danger, and he wondered suddenly, bleakly, if Nolan had experienced
the same feeling of unease before he had left on that last fatal trip to the
Palo Duro Canyon. For a moment Jason's finely cut mouth twisted in half-healed
pain as he remembered that Nolan was dead—dead by Davalos's hand.
    Oh, Jesus, he thought
angrily, you fool, let it be. Nolan was a man, and he'd known the risks. But
stubbornly, Jason's mind wouldn't let it rest, seeming to take perverse delight
in reminding him of the ugly incident, almost enjoying the hurt it created.
    Nolan was dead—as were all
the men who had accompanied him On the journey,
except one. And that one survivor had recently returned to tell a tale of
betrayal and horror—a tale that was vehemently denied by the Spanish government
in New Orleans. But Jason believed it—he knew Davalos and knew what Davalos was
capable of.
    Jason's fist clenched, and he cursed the fate that had arranged that he
be gone from the country when Nolan had left New Orleans. But it did him little
good—he was honest enough to admit that he and Blood Drinker would not have
been part of Nolan's expedition under any circumstance. And even if he had
been in New Orleans, he would not have known soon enough that Davalos had
cleverly convinced the governor that Nolan was actually a spy, that Nolan