He's good at playing games, to see what sort of reaction he can get. Just like
Quentin.
The thought of Quentin cleared her mind at once. A rogue her brother might be, and recklessly
whimsical, but he was no criminal. She apologized silently to Quentin for the comparison.
"I presume you'd like to bathe before dinner," Tomás said, as if he'd commented upon the
weather. "Asuncion will be happy to help. Come."
Whatever else he might do or say to discompose her, he hadn't lied about Don Pablo's
hospitality. Asuncion set about fussing over Rowena like a mother hen. Her attitude was
respectful but without formality; she carried herself like one still surrounded by the wealth
Tomás implied she had lost. She hung a blanket over the open doorway of a small, square room
adjoining the sala or main chamber of the house, providing Rowena with complete privacy to
wash with the use of clean rags, rough soap and a tin tub filled with warm water. She hadn't felt
so wonderful in ages.
She did what she could to freshen her clothing as well, rinsing out her spare drawers and
chemise, and then had time to rest. The room was unfurnished save for a little table, a
cupboard, a crude bench, and rolled blankets or mats set along two of the walls. One deep
window, its sill awash with bright potted flowers, let the last daylight into the room. In its very
simplicity was an unforeseen beauty. Outside she could hear the children of the village laughing
and preparing for the baile after dinner.
Children. She closed her eyes and let herself sag against the wall. The high, happy voices
reminded her of the babies she longed to have—children who would certainly never know
poverty. Not like these. Was Tomás so terribly wrong to want to help people who did not enjoy
the privileges of the rich?
Yes. There were ways other than stealing and killing; she and Cole had funded several
charitable organizations in New York. Any good Tomás did was undone by the methods he
employed to achieve it.
What had driven him to this life, and to such hatred of Cole MacLean?
You don't care, she told herself desperately. You don't care at all.
During a long hour of uncomfortable reflection, the scents of exotic cooking penetrated every
room in the casa. Rowena's mouth was watering when Asuncion came to fetch her.
Once A Wolf – 19th Century Werewolf 02
Page 61 of 275
The dining area was dominated by one big, battered table obviously built by someone with a
rudimentary knowledge of carpentry. The chairs did not match. The plates were chipped and
the cutlery plain, but Rowena knew that the Valdez family had set out its very best for her and
Tomás.
Three children, two young women, and a middle-aged man joined Don Pablo and Asunci6n at
the table. Tomás declined the head seat and guided Rowena to the center of the table, where
they would be surrounded by their hosts.
Aware of her deficiencies in language and her unfamiliarity with the ways of Tomás's people,
Rowena tried not to let her nervousness show.
She was the one at a disadvantage here. Surely these folk didn't know she was an unwilling
captive, and she had no way of telling them. Tomás could say anything he liked with-out fear of
contradiction.
It seemed that he wished to test her. He would learn that she could pass any devious trial he
set her.
Tomás named each of the elements of the meal: tortillas, frijoles, mutton in a stew with red
chile sauce, and coffee. Everyone was courteous but informal; Rowena couldn't remember the
last time she'd dined so casually, or on such unusual fare. There was much genuine warmth and
chatter among the family members, and she felt an ache of un expected longing. Meals at
Greyburn—or with Cole—had never been like this.
She was just about to take a spoonful of the mutton stew when she realized that Tomás was
watching her with keen anticipation. She took a careful bite and stopped. Slowly she swallowed
and turned to him with a
Quentin.
The thought of Quentin cleared her mind at once. A rogue her brother might be, and recklessly
whimsical, but he was no criminal. She apologized silently to Quentin for the comparison.
"I presume you'd like to bathe before dinner," Tomás said, as if he'd commented upon the
weather. "Asuncion will be happy to help. Come."
Whatever else he might do or say to discompose her, he hadn't lied about Don Pablo's
hospitality. Asuncion set about fussing over Rowena like a mother hen. Her attitude was
respectful but without formality; she carried herself like one still surrounded by the wealth
Tomás implied she had lost. She hung a blanket over the open doorway of a small, square room
adjoining the sala or main chamber of the house, providing Rowena with complete privacy to
wash with the use of clean rags, rough soap and a tin tub filled with warm water. She hadn't felt
so wonderful in ages.
She did what she could to freshen her clothing as well, rinsing out her spare drawers and
chemise, and then had time to rest. The room was unfurnished save for a little table, a
cupboard, a crude bench, and rolled blankets or mats set along two of the walls. One deep
window, its sill awash with bright potted flowers, let the last daylight into the room. In its very
simplicity was an unforeseen beauty. Outside she could hear the children of the village laughing
and preparing for the baile after dinner.
Children. She closed her eyes and let herself sag against the wall. The high, happy voices
reminded her of the babies she longed to have—children who would certainly never know
poverty. Not like these. Was Tomás so terribly wrong to want to help people who did not enjoy
the privileges of the rich?
Yes. There were ways other than stealing and killing; she and Cole had funded several
charitable organizations in New York. Any good Tomás did was undone by the methods he
employed to achieve it.
What had driven him to this life, and to such hatred of Cole MacLean?
You don't care, she told herself desperately. You don't care at all.
During a long hour of uncomfortable reflection, the scents of exotic cooking penetrated every
room in the casa. Rowena's mouth was watering when Asuncion came to fetch her.
Once A Wolf – 19th Century Werewolf 02
Page 61 of 275
The dining area was dominated by one big, battered table obviously built by someone with a
rudimentary knowledge of carpentry. The chairs did not match. The plates were chipped and
the cutlery plain, but Rowena knew that the Valdez family had set out its very best for her and
Tomás.
Three children, two young women, and a middle-aged man joined Don Pablo and Asunci6n at
the table. Tomás declined the head seat and guided Rowena to the center of the table, where
they would be surrounded by their hosts.
Aware of her deficiencies in language and her unfamiliarity with the ways of Tomás's people,
Rowena tried not to let her nervousness show.
She was the one at a disadvantage here. Surely these folk didn't know she was an unwilling
captive, and she had no way of telling them. Tomás could say anything he liked with-out fear of
contradiction.
It seemed that he wished to test her. He would learn that she could pass any devious trial he
set her.
Tomás named each of the elements of the meal: tortillas, frijoles, mutton in a stew with red
chile sauce, and coffee. Everyone was courteous but informal; Rowena couldn't remember the
last time she'd dined so casually, or on such unusual fare. There was much genuine warmth and
chatter among the family members, and she felt an ache of un expected longing. Meals at
Greyburn—or with Cole—had never been like this.
She was just about to take a spoonful of the mutton stew when she realized that Tomás was
watching her with keen anticipation. She took a careful bite and stopped. Slowly she swallowed
and turned to him with a
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