“Only that you admit to it.” A wry smile twisted his mouth as he stared at her, his eyes half-lidded and slightly wary.
“Well, why shouldn’t I? This is a night for confession, for the truth. No more ghosts, Steve.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right.” After a pause he said, as if to himself, “I haven’t always made the right decisions. For a long time I thought I knew what I wanted from life, from myself. It was enough to do what was right at the moment. If I hadn’t met you, maybe I would never have felt any differently. But you, green-eyes, changed everything.
“When I was in Cuba, I was told you were dead. Maria Felipa, Cuban leader Julien Zuleta’s daughter, took great pleasure in informing me of your death. I felt responsible. It didn’t matter that you weren’t with me when you had your accident. You were my wife, and I should have protected you, should have been with you instead of letting you go off with Andre Delery. I blamed myself for a long time. It ate at me…turned me into a man I didn’t know anymore. Hell, for the first time since I was a kid, I felt utterly lost and bereft.”
His eyes met hers. “I wanted you and knew I’d never have you again. It was the worst time of my life. I tried to forget you even though I knew that I couldn’t, that nothing and no one could replace you. But I still tried.”
When he drew in a deep breath, she put her fingers over his lips and shook her head. “I know. You told me about her. The woman you asked to go away with you. But now I’m here, and we’re together. Nothing can hurt us if we refuse to let it. Don’t, Steve, don’t tell me anymore. I can’t bear to hear it….”
Silence fell between them, the creaking of the schooner a familiar counterpoint. Water sluiced against the sides in a steady whoosh and the muted snap of canvas sails was like the beat of giant wings against the wind.
When he reached for her, it was the most natural thing to fall into his arms. This time their lovemaking was tender and sweet, an absolution and a benediction after confession. It was the first time in her memory that he had ever been so gentle with her, bringing her to release several times before he sought his own…whispering soft words that were erotic and loving at the same time as he touched and caressed her, kissing her eyes, lips and breasts until he slid inside her at last.
As the ship plunged into the waves in a wild rocking motion, his mouth moved against damp strands of hair that straggled over her cheek. “I love you, green-eyes. Don’t you know that?”
“Yes…oh Steve, yes!” Arching upward, she shuddered at the rough friction of his body inside her, the exquisite torment of his powerful thrusts. Inside the cabin, it was warm and stuffy, the humid air that filtered through the small round porthole over the bunk smelling of the sea and wind. It was a voyage into sensual discovery, an exploration of the senses and, ultimately, of their souls.
By the time the ship docked at Point Isabel below Brownsville, Texas, Ginny felt for the first time that she held a piece of Steve Morgan’s heart.
MEXICO
13
The Liberty docked at Point Isabel around midnight. The lights on the shore were dimmed by heavy fog, faint blurred pinpricks against black velvet shadows. They spent the night aboard ship, disembarking at first light the next morning, while their baggage was being unloaded.
Ginny waited in the warm morning air that pressed down like a heavy hand on her, the humid dampness clinging to her hair and face, filling her lungs. Seabirds swooped and cried over the harbor, a familiar melody punctuated by the groan of chains hauling baggage from the hold of the ship, and the bellowed orders of the stevedores unloading it.
Wagons rattled on wooden docks, lumbering vehicles that would carry Ginny’s trunks and personal belongings to Don Francisco’s hacienda. The things she had purchased in London shops to furnish their home, even some of the children’s new furniture and toys, would be stored until they had decided where to live. The Hacienda de la Nostalgia was her favorite home in Mexico, but Steve had suggested they inspect his new estates before they made a final decision.
“Hearst tells me that the rancho is situated in a prime location, and we may find it more accessible to the United States, Ginny.”
So she had agreed, reluctantly, for she truly loved the home she had been given as a wedding present, but they could always travel between the two homes if they chose to do so. So much depended upon the political situation in Mexico, upon the revolution that was still raging between Díaz and President Lerdo.
Frowning, she couldn’t help but notice that Steve had hired a villainous-looking group of men to escort their baggage train to Don Francisco’s hacienda.
“They look like bandits,” she said frankly, but Steve only laughed.
“I’ll be sure to pass on your compliment, Ginny.”
But then, she thought, watching him as he went to meet with the ship’s captain, he looked rather like a bandit himself, wearing his guns again, slung low on his hips and tied to his thighs with leather thongs. It reminded her of all the times she had seen him use those guns, his ruthless proficiency and dangerous reputation as a gunman. He seemed to have reverted once he wore them again, becoming as hard as he looked.
At his insistence, she had packed only a single leather trunk, a small one that held just her necessities, a few gowns and toiletries, for their journey. “I still don’t see why we cannot travel with the baggage,” she’d protested, but Steve was impatient.
“We don’t need anything hindering us, Ginny. Besides, I remember when you used to wear calzόnes and a sombrero and be glad to have them.”
“Yes, I remember that, too, but I’m not as foolish as I used to be,” she’d replied tartly. “And I have no desire to arrive at your grandfather’s hacienda dressed as a peasant.”
“Pack carefully then, because most of your trunks will go with the rest of the baggage. Paco hired dependable men to get it there safely.”
“I don’t understand why we can’t take it with us. It’s not as if it would be that much trouble. And why hire so many men to guard trunks full of clothing and household goods? What else have you got in there, for heaven’s sake?”
“I’d like to be there for my grandfather’s birthday fiesta, and if we have to drag your trunks halfway across the country we’re liable to miss it by a month,” he said in a mocking drawl, ignoring her question about the trunks.
Now curiosity prompted Ginny to inspect the baggage for herself, and she made her way down the docks to the stacks of wooden crates that were being loaded aboard heavy wagons. Long narrow crates that she’d never seen were being loaded, and she moved closer to inspect them.
To her indignant surprise, she was swiftly stopped by one of the guards.
“That’s close enough, ma’am. This is private property.”
“Excuse me, sir, but I am Virginia Morgan, and this is my private property that is being loaded.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know who you are. But I have my orders. No one is allowed near this cargo.”
Irate, she snapped, “What is your name, sir? I want to know just who is keeping me from my own belongings.”
“Butch Casey,” he said with a shrug that conveyed his indifference to her anger and her questions. “My job is to get your baggage to Mexico in one piece, ma’am.” The glance from his cold blue eyes was neither hostile nor cordial, but strangely wary.
“Just what else are you supposed to get to Mexico in one piece, Mr. Casey? Do you think I’m blind or deaf? I know how many trunks I have and how many wagons it takes to carry them. I may allow my husband to think I haven’t noticed there are a lot more crates than necessary, but I have.”
Casey’s attention was riveted on her; his head jerked in a nod. “That’s between you and Mr. Morgan, ma’am. Good day.”
Their brief confrontation only served to strengthen her convictions that there was much more going on than Steve would admit, but she did not ask him about it again. Recent experience proved he would only avoid answering.
She should be used to it by now, t
he mysterious events and secrecy. But why did Steve still feel he must be so…so furtive!
Ginny barely had time to catch her breath before they were on a steamboat up the Rio Grande to Roma, a town clustered on steep sandstone cliffs above the river. They disembarked, then continued by horseback up the rutted road that ran parallel to the Rio Grande; the twisting river formed the border between Mexico and Texas, shallow enough to walk across in places.
Though the journey was calm and uneventful, there was an element of tension behind Steve’s easy, casual manner that made her wonder why he and Paco had been in such a hurry to disappear once they reached Nuevo Laredo, leaving her alone with no explanation.
I suppose I should be glad that I’m staying in a nice hotel instead of someplace like—like Lilas’s again, she thought with a trace of irritation. Steve seemed to have a penchant for choosing houses of ill repute—where he was far too well-known for her preferences.
The American town of Laredo was just across the thin, sluggish red ribbon of the Rio Grande. Fort McIntosh faced Mexico, perched on the high bluff overlooking the river, a warning and reminder of former conflicts and the current friction. It seemed quiet, with no sign of civil unrest along the border despite the rumors.
Yet uncertainty dogged Ginny as she tried to rouse from the torpor brought on by the lull in their tiring journey. With some of the journey made by boat, it was not as arduous a trek as it once was, but it was still exhausting.
Sunlight seeped through half-shuttered windows in the whitewashed adobe walls to fill the room with heat. Ginny blinked against it, lethargic after her noon meal. She lay on the narrow bed alone. Steve was still gone. He was almost mysterious, evading questions with a careless ease that was infuriating. If she wasn’t so tired, she might have demanded an explanation. But every muscle in her body seemed to ache and she wanted to just lie on the soft feather bed until she could summon the energy to take a hot bath and wash away the trail grime that was no doubt imbedded in her skin forever.
God, how did I ever survive riding for days—weeks—in the dust and heat? It was so long ago now, as if it had been someone else who had ridden—had been forced to ride—at a grueling pace over brush-studded, arid land relieved only by an occasional seep hole. Hot in the deserts, cold in the jagged-toothed mountains that ringed the flat plains, her introduction to Mexico had been less than pleasant.
But now Mexico was so familiar. She remembered the first time she had seen this country, with Michel Remy. They had ridden along the contours of the Rio Grande then, too, but it had been south from El Paso. It had seemed such an adventure at the time, a high drama with gold hidden in the beds of her father’s wagons, gold meant for Maximilian to further his efforts to secure Mexico against the Juaristas—and to further William Brandon’s dream of creating an empire that would straddle the border of the United States and Mexico. She’d believed in her father then, in the dream that he could keep a foot in both camps and emerge unscathed and victorious. Ah, she had been so young, so foolish. And it had all seemed so romantic!
Riding beside the handsome French officer she had first met as a girl in France, it had seemed as if nothing could harm them, for they were accompanied by skilled French soldiers, and, after all, the Juaristas were only a ragtag bunch of guerrillas instead of highly trained soldiers like these picked by Marshal Bazaine himself.
But, in Mexico there were many deceptions, and she had quickly learned—as had Michel—that it was wise not to believe in appearances. The high rocks of a quiet mountain pass had suddenly sprouted menacing armed bandits, led by a blue-eyed bandido draped in crossed gun belts.
And her life had changed forever.
Ginny sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed and rose to cross to the window. She wore only a thin shift of white lawn, loose and cool as it swished around her bare legs. Sunlight pricked her eyes sharply, turning the air to molten gold as she pushed open a shutter to peer out at the street below.
It was quiet during the afternoon siesta, except for a few stragglers on the streets. Thick dust hung in a soft haze on the still air, heat shimmering up in iridescent waves. There were things about Mexico that would never change, even when politics and politicians changed fortunes and lives in the blink of an eye.
It was all so complicated, the tortured convolution of Mexican politics so frustrating and frightening at the same time, that Ginny tried to focus instead on the future—her future with Steve.
There were moments it seemed as if nothing had changed, yet everything had changed. She was so different…and Steve had changed in so many ways. Outwardly, he seemed to be an entirely different man, yet beneath the calm facade she sensed the same violent nature.
But there had been no confrontations between them, no heated arguments, not even when Steve suggested she go to Don Francisco’s hacienda instead of the rancho in the province of Chihuahua that he had purchased from Hearst.
“You can go on to my grandfather’s with the wagons and baggage,” he’d said, but she quickly refused.
“And be separated from you again? No. We’ll stay together and arrive together. Things have a way of happening when we separate.”
Shrugging, he’d only stared at her, amusement glinting in his dark-blue eyes. “Suit yourself, Ginny.”
“Don’t I always?”
Laughing softly, he had pulled her to him and kissed her, a swift, hard kiss that removed any objections she might have thought of.
“You won’t believe me when I say this, but you are so predictable when you’re unpredictable, Ginny.”
So now here they were, in Nuevo Laredo on the border of Texas and Mexico, instead of across the Meseta Central in the province of Zacatecas. So close to home, and yet still so far away.
Don Francisco planned a fiesta, of course, to welcome home his prodigal grandson. And Teresa would be there, the woman he had loved for so long—and who had given him a son to be claimed by another man. Richard. How ironic that the only other man to even slightly touch Ginny’s heart was Steve’s uncle. Did Don Francisco understand about Richard? But how could he, when she wasn’t certain she understood it herself?
Don Francisco had come to visit her at Richard’s soon after she had first been blinded. She recalled him gently asking questions of her, and she had detected the concern and sympathy in his tone even though she hadn’t been able to see him. He must have recognized that she still loved Steve, and been patient with her. What would he say when he saw her again?
Steve was his grandson, but Richard was his son. She had rejected one for the other. How strange that they were all so connected, even when unaware of the reasons, the true relationship. It must be a measure of the old man’s strength of character that they were so different, yet so similar, Steve and Richard both strong men in their own dissimilar ways. As was Don Francisco, an important man in Mexico even through all the political turmoil.
No doubt the fiesta would be a grand affair; guests would arrive from faroff provinces as well as neighboring haciendas. There would be music and dancing, wine—probably aguardiente as well—long tables of food, and all the aunts to fuss over Steve and scold them both for not bringing the children.
Thoughts of her children brought a familiar ache. It was terrible to miss them so much, even though she knew they were happy with Tante Celine. Sometimes at night she woke up, thinking she had heard Laura call out, or that Franco needed her. Then she would realize that it had only been a dream, that they were far away in the English countryside. It was comforting to know they were with Tante, and that Pierre would never allow them to come to harm.
And perhaps, by the time they join us here, I will at last be certain of Steve, of myself and our love…. Weren’t all the secrets behind them now? All the ones that really mattered? Yes. And while it was very annoying that he didn’t have enough confidence in her to confide the details of Jim Bishop’s plans, it wasn’t as important as personal honesty between them.
A clatter in the street below s
nagged her attention for a moment as a cart drawn by a small burro lost a wheel. The cart was piled high with produce for the market, and initiated an immediate flurry of activity as children suddenly appeared to snatch ripe melons from the cascading pile dumped into the street. Two men in wide, dusty sombreros stopped to help the driver right the cart and chase away the laughing thieves. Ginny watched idly, then it was quiet again, the excitement subsiding as the children vanished and the cart was propped drunkenly on a wheelless hub.
Restless, she closed the wooden shutters again to blot out the bright light and dust, then turned away from the window, stirring the sticky air with a small lacy fan she had bought at the French market in New Orleans. The heat was growing oppressive; a bath would cool her off, and she would have her gown pressed while she was bathing. Steve had said they were to have supper later at the fort across the river in Laredo.
She frowned. He’d been gone for hours. Just where was he? So many things could happen. She hated worrying, and there was no point in thinking about it any longer. It would do no good and only make her irritable.
A bath was brought up for her, hot steaming water with a sprinkle of scented salts, and she relaxed in the tub for over an hour, until the water cooled and she felt refreshed.
There would be few opportunities for baths for a time. The easiest portion of the journey was behind them. From here, the trip would be long, hot and hard, for they would have to cross the Sierra Madre Mountains on horseback, sleeping in small, rustic posadas along the trail and even on the ground beneath the moonlight and stars.
It was a trip she’d made many times, but it never got easier, she remarked that evening at the fort after supper was over and they sat out on the long porch of the dining hall where it was cooler.
Savage Desire Page 13