I can be your Hero Part 2

The late morning air was still cool when Cuba’s Captain General Ramón Blanco’s personal ornate carriage, bedecked in gold trim and draped with the finest silk curtains, turned up the winding private drive to his residence, carrying Elizabeth Ashley as its sole passenger.

The velvet upholstery cradled her like a throne, and the polished brass fittings gleamed in the sunlight, exuding an air of wealth and power. She ran her gloved hand over the plush armrest, as if testing the weight of the luxury that surrounded her.

The driver, in his neatly pressed uniform, reined to a stop in front of an official building where a footboy clad in the livery of the household stepped forward to open her door and extend a footstool for her.

Elizabeth descended lightly, her traveling dress brushing the polished wood with a whisper, and her emerald eyes taking in her surroundings. The impressive stone building with its Roman columns before her was an elegant, two-story structure, its three flags fluttering in the soft breeze—with that of Spain the highest, followed by that of Cuba’s and then the personal standard of General Blanco, the island’s governor.

Stepping down from the stool, she followed the doorman up the walk to the steps of the ruling house of Havana. She paused a moment on the outer patio, taking in the columns that supported the majestic arches of cut stone, while the doorman opened the doorway for her.

The invitation she had received from General Blanco requested she allow him to receive her upon her arrival. The letter, penned in an elegant, sloping hand, had left her with more questions than answers. What could he want of her?

How he had known she had even arrived was still unknown to her. Who told?

So far, she could inly hope it bode well for her. He had placed his own carriage at her convenience, and she was under the expectation of a very promising reception.

To the left of the doorway was a walkway veranda leading to the west wing, where it turned again around a corner. Ahead of her, the main doors opened up into the cool, marble-floored foyer with a parlor room beyond. The polished floors gleamed under the light that filtered through the arched windows, and the air carried a faint scent of orange blossoms—a subtle reminder of the gardens that lay beyond.

As she entered, one of the house stewards, with a face marked by years of service, approached her with a courteous bow as the doorman closed the doors behind her.

He politely inquired something in Spanish to her as he stopped before her.

Elizabeth handed him her invitation while looking past him to take in the parlor, its walls decorated with highly polished mirrors, reflecting the soft light and enhancing the room’s sense of space, while furnished in the decor of a waiting room. The parlor, with its mirrored walls and gilded frames, threw back her reflection at every angle, each one an image of a woman composed, self-possessed, and yet unmistakably confident.

The servant read the invitation, excused himself, and exited by the front door, heading towards the west wing and what was evidently the general’s office for conducting the affairs of state. Left alone to entertain herself, she entered the mirrored parlor with its many offered reflections to wait, stopping at the parlor’s south window to look out on the front drive.

After a brief wait, she heard the front door open behind her. She turned with the expectation of the returning servant or the Captain General himself. But the figure standing before her was not Ramón Blanco—it was him.

Captain Don Antonio Eulate.

Elizabeth nearly gasped in astonishment to see the handsome and familiar figure of the captain standing there instead. The sight of him was as sudden as a lightning strike, and just as electrifying.

Of remarkable presence in his elegant, dark blue, brass buttoned tunic and crisp white pants, he stood with his black scabbard and gold hilted sword slightly swaying and his eyes fixed upon her. It was those eyes—dark, sharp, and disarmingly perceptive—that held her captive.

In that moment, Elizabeth was keenly aware of her own breath, of the warmth rising unbidden to her cheeks. She found herself reliving that moment back in New York, on pier 'A', with him kissing her hand. She remembered him calling her forward from the pack of reporters to take her questions when no other man would ever do so.

Elizabeth caught herself once again admiring his appearance. He was, she admitted, the very picture of gallantry—a figure who seemed utterly at ease with the power he wielded. It carried with it an aura of adventure and magnetism, a combination that seemed almost to embody the romantic ideals of heroism that sent so many a woman’s heart to flutter.

Elizabeth felt her heart leap in amazement at ever seeing him again. His was the sort of confident, commanding air that other men found intimidating and women always find irresistible. One could have knocked her over with a feather at this completely unexpected, yet incredibly fortunate, opportunity. She never would have thought meeting him again possible. She smiled delightfully at him now, waiting for him to recognize her.

His practiced demeanor now and deep, penetrating eyes, conveyed a sense of acute intelligence and unspoken strength as he politely inquired. “Are you a friend of Mr. E.J. Ashley?”

The captain stood there, awaiting her response with a demeanor both courteous and expectant. Elizabeth was struck by the fact that he did not seem to remember her. The realization stung, and she felt a pang of disappointment—an unexpected, humiliating twist she hadn’t felt since girlhood. Her usual confidence felt momentarily shaken by his indifference. Almost at once, Mrs. Whitcomb’s warning about him came back to her. The entire incident in New York was forgotten by him.

No man had forgotten her before—not with her fiery hair and piercing green eyes. It hardly seemed possible. Yet it was just as obviously true and that he had not only done it but quite easily despite their having met twice before. He had taken their previous meeting as lightly as he had taken facing down the street mob of thousands.

Obviously, Mrs. Whitcomb was right about him. She remembered her saying Spanish sea captains were insufferable rogues and “not meant for people like us”.

Fine, she thought. If charm wouldn’t shake him, indifference would. Elizabeth moved to hide her disappointment by returning his steady gaze with what was now an equally cool look of her own.

“I am E. J. Ashley, Captain,” she said coolly, though the fire in her eyes betrayed her pique to be so easily forgotten by her. “Elizabeth Joyce Ashley,” she added.

Don Eulate raised his eyebrows at this unexpected news. He had obviously expected a man. Of course, he had. Clint Harris intended he assumed she would be a man by using her initials and not a woman, and Elizabeth derived a certain amount of pleasure in his dilemma.

“Were you expecting someone else?” she asked.

His look of surprise promptly changed to a most approving, pleasant smile.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” he confessed by explanation. “General Blanco had informed me you were a correspondent and so I naturally expected to meet one. The general is detained on business for the moment and asked that I entertain you in his absence.”

“I am grateful for your kindness,” Elizabeth said, choosing not to correct him in his belief that she was not a columnist. Sometimes it is better to let men discover their own mistakes, particularly when their heads are swelled with the exaggerations of the newspaper stories written about them. Did he believe it impossible that there could be women correspondents? Besides, that initial failure to remember her rankled more than she cared to admit.

“The gratitude is mine,” the captain assured her with distinctive charm and pleasantry. “It would be my humble delight and pleasure to show you the grounds while the general completes his affairs.”

“Thank you, captain,” she said. “However, this house is quite interesting in itself. When I see this lovely parlor, I cannot help but wonder if all the rooms are as impressive as this?”

A faint smile curved his lips, and Elizabeth hated how easily it disarmed her. “They call this the Salon de Espejos—the room of mirrors,” Captain Eulate explained as he stepped to her side. “It is the general’s pride.”

Her gaze lingered on one of the mirrors, where his reflection stood beside hers—close enough that she could almost feel his breath before she actually did. She felt the tug of his cologne and presence as if the air between them had grown charged.

“How pleasing it sounds. The Salon de Espejos! Do all the rooms of the house have such names?”

“They do, but you might find their translations somewhat dull, as each name corresponds to the room’s function. However, perhaps you might care to name some of the rooms yourself? If General Blanco approves of your titles, he will make the room known by that name forever on.”

Elizabeth smiled faintly, though she resolved not to let him charm her so easily. He was dangerous, not in the way of men who sought to harm but in the way of men who knew their effect and wielded it with precision.

“Really?” asked Elizabeth pleasantly in wondrous reply. “However,” she apologized, “I’m afraid I have never mastered Spanish. I would do your noble tongue an injustice.”

She dropped her eyes to him, a bit embarrassed by her admission she spoke no Spanish when he spoke English so perfectly, but he promptly came to her defense.

“I would hardly believe the lady is capable of any injustice, whatever the source. If you would like, I might serve as your interpreter in the naming of the rooms. In that way, you would have the benefit of knowing how it sounds.”

The captain was not easily put off, Elizabeth realized, and it forced her to change tactics in order to extricate herself from his company. She hadn’t come here to see him, regardless of how charming and handsome he was. He apparently hadn’t taken the hint when she declined to walk with him on the grounds.

“Your offer is very kind, but I rather suspect that a gentleman such as yourself would find my names laughable and it would force you to correct my errors before General Blanco in order to spare my embarrassment.”

“The lady not only underestimates her own abilities,” he said with his eyes meeting hers, “but mine in the interpretation. However, may I suggest a compromise? The park is near here and I’m sure the sight of you there would add beauty to everyone’s day. If you would allow me, I would be pleased to show you the way.”

Although his offer sounded sincere, Elizabeth once again resisted his charm. She wanted nothing to do with a rogue who couldn’t remember her face or whom offered her his services only upon the order of his commanding officer—no matter how pleasant he was.

“Such flattery, Captain,” she said, smiling innocently at him. “Whatever can be your purpose? Surely not another conquest to add to your... collection?”

For a moment, the captain looked at her blankly, clearly in an effort to bridge the gap left by his earlier lapse in memory, and then suddenly his eyes lit up with recognition.

“You!” He remembered. “You are the correspondent that wrote that piece about me!”

He had finally connected her name. She waited now to see what he would do about it.