A Candle in the Dark by Megan Chance Page A

into the dark water.
    “Ambrosio!” D’Alessandro yelled, reaching for the pole. “
iQue hace
?”
    The bungo shuddered to a stop. The current swirled around it, lapping against the plants dragging into the river. A few feet away Ana heard something slide into the water.
    Her fingers clenched on the side of the boat. She glanced up just in time to see Ambrosio break the surface, his dark hair streaming into his face.
    He yelled something quickly in Spanish.
    Jiméne blanched. “
Dios
.”
    Behind them, Ruben lurched to his feet. He chattered something to his partner, who answered just as quickly.
    A shiver went up Ana’s spine. She turned to D’Alessandro. “What is it? What is he saying?”
    D’Alessandro’s eyes were dark and unfathomable, his voice emotionless. “We’ve hit a snag. It’s done some damage.”
    “Damage? What does that mean?”
    “It means, Duchess, that until they fix it, we’re stuck,” he said, grabbing the abandoned brandy bottle from the floor and tipping it to his mouth. “Looks like you won’t be getting a bed tonight after all.”

Chapter 7
     
    It took them half an hour to find the clearing that was only a few yards from shore. Apparently whoever created it had left only recently. Palmetto branches still lay severed and rotting on the ground, and the small firepit in the center had not yet been overgrown. Still, in the darkness it was a miracle they’d found it.
    Ambrosio had lit a lantern, but the dim light only made the jungle at the perimeter of the clearing seem encroaching, silently malicious. Ana looked across the clearing at Jiméne. The others had gone to fix the boat—D’Alessandro with them—leaving Jiméne to protect her, though what there was to protect her from she didn’t know.
    Still, she was glad she wasn’t alone. The unfamiliar jungle was unsettling, and, if nothing else, talking to Jiméne was a way to pass the time.
    Near the perimeter, Jiméne lifted one of their supply bags and pawed through it. “There is plenty of food,” he said. “You will have everything you need to cook dinner.”
    “Cook dinner?” Ana laughed shortly. “You may not want to eat when I’m through. I can’t cook.”
    Jiméne stared at her as if she’d suddenly grown two heads. “You cannot cook?”
    “No.”
    “But—but all women cook!”
    “I don’t.”
    “But—” Jiméne sank to the ground, the bags of food falling limply beside him. The bewilderment in his face was almost laughable. “I do not understand. How is this possible? You had servants, then?”
    Ana restrained an urge to laugh sarcastically. “Servants? But of course we had servants,
monsieur
.”
    Jiméne looked sheepish. “You tease me,
amiga
.”
    “You are easy to tease,” she said, kneeling beside him on the swampy loam.
    “It is only that you surprised me. I have never met a woman who could not cook.”
    “Well, now you have.” Ana reached for one of the bags laying beside him and weighed it in her hand. “What will you be making for dinner?”
    His laugh sounded strangled, and Ana glanced at him in surprise.
    “I must admit I cannot cook either,
cariña
.”
    “You can’t?”
    Jiméne shook his head. “No. It was always my sisters who cooked. Or
mi madre
.” He grew suddenly quiet, his smile died, and Ana sensed distress. But before she could say anything, he forced a strained grin. “What about you, Ana? How is it you do not cook? Did not your mother teach you?”
    “No, she didn’t.” Ana deflected the personal question with practiced ease. “Really, Jiméne, surely you know
something
about cooking? Didn’t you ever watch your mother?”
    Jiméne shrugged. “Once or twice, perhaps. Most of the time, I worked with
mi padre
. He was only
un labrador
, a—a—” He scrambled for the word. “A farmer. We were poor. My brothers and I had to help…”
    He chattered on, oblivious of Ana’s silence as he moved about the clearing, lighting a damp, smoky fire and setting out a