Sweet Savage Love

by Rosemary Rogers

  There was something primitive, elemental, about two men fighting with knives, although she could not have put it into words. Somehow, they had separated, were circling each other, bodies taut with the need to spring, fighting against caution that urged waiting. And somehow, she could sense these things, even if the guttural Apache tongue sounded strange to her ears. She knew that they taunted each other, promising each other death.

  Again she lifted the gun, and the hammer made a clicking sound, and the warrior sprang for Steve, his knife reflecting the sunlight so that it blinded her for an instant and again, she could not bring herself to fire.

  She heard a cry and a grunt, and the Apache fell backward, knife dropping from his hand. Half-dazed, Ginny saw Steve straddle his body, the knife flash upward and down even as she screamed to him, “Don’t! Oh, don’t!”

  He turned to look at her at last, with the blood oozing and trickling from the cuts on his body, and his knife all bloody as well, and his eyes were cold.

  “You wanted me to let him live with a knife wound in his belly? He was a warrior, and a warrior should die clean and quick.”

  Without a word, Ginny went back beneath the shelter of the wagon, staying there until again there was a cessation of the firing. While she reloaded for Carl, trying not to notice the reproachful look he gave her, her thoughts tumbled over each other. This was the second time she had seen him kill—and it was worse, much worse with a knife than it had been with a gun. And yet, those same hands had touched her so gently last night, that same body had lain over hers and become part of her—dear God, what kind of man is he? Am I insane to feel this way? And what, exactly, do I feel for Steve Morgan?

  She had time to think about it later—after the Apaches had gone, taking their dead. And this too, strangely enough, was because Steve, arguing firmly with Carl and Pop Wilkins, had insisted.

  “They’ll keep coming unless we let them take back the bodies of their fallen warriors, even though they know by now we’re too strong for them to take. One of you put a white cloth on your rifle barrel—they understand that—and I’ll parley with them.”

  “We’ve got them now—why should we be the ones to show the white flag?” Carl had been furious, but in the face of the sudden savage light in Steve Morgan’s blue eyes even he had given in sullenly in the end.

  And so the Apaches had gone, as suddenly and as silently as they had first come in the early light of dawn. And a few hours later, after Paco and Steve had ridden out and returned to report that it was safe to continue their journey, the wagons had begun to roll ahead, just as if nothing had happened.

  Two graves, piled with stones, had been left behind to mark their recent battle, and at least five other men who had been wounded rode in the wagons. As she rode in silence beside Sonya, Ginny remembered the short passages that Pop had read from the Bible, and tears stung her eyes again, as they had done earlier. Death and violence! They seemed so far from civilization, so far from all that was dear and familiar, and she realized now, more than ever, how wild and untamed this land still was, with its painted savages who belonged, surely, in another century; and its men who were equally as savage, killing casually and without conscience.

  She thought about Steve Morgan, and reason told her that he had had to kill the Apache, that it was only the fact that she had seen it happen that had frightened and revolted her so. And yet, it only forced her to realize that he was a killer by profession and must have chosen his own way of life. Honesty forced her to admit that he had attracted her from the very first, and that in spite of all her efforts to hate him and stay away from him she had been helplessly drawn by some strange yearning in her own body and nerves that she had not understood before.

  A grimace of distaste pulled at the corners of her mouth. Oh, God, she was no better than he, than any loose woman who had no control over her own baser emotions! How easily she had given herself to him—another conquest in a long line of them, no doubt. Well, he would not find her as easy again—not him, nor any other man.

  Deliberately, pleading exhaustion and a splitting headache, Ginny stayed in her wagon that night, letting Tillie bring her a cup of light broth that was delicious.

  “But—it almost tastes like chicken! How did you manage it, Tillie?”

  The girl grinned at her.

  “It’s rabbit—or somethin’ like that. Mist’ Morgan, he shot it and gave it to me. Said to tell you he was sorry you’re not feelin’ so good.”

  How dare he pretend concern for her now? She had an impulse to fling the cup of steaming broth at Tillie, but instead she said in a voice that was carefully casual, “That was kind of him. Is Mr. Carl all right?” Let Tillie think her main concern was for Carl—the girl always acted as if she knew too much.

  “Oh, Mr. Carl, he’s real worried about you! Real upset he was, until Miz Brandon calmed him down.” Tillie dropped her voice and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Heard him tell Miz Brandon how much he thought of you, miss! Ain’t that somethin’? You got the two best lookin’ gentlemen courtin’ you already—almost got in a fight a while ago, they did, when Mr. Carl said somethin’ about lettin’ those Injuns get off so lightly today…”

  Ginny sat up with a jerk, almost spilling the broth over herself.

  “They almost got in a fight? Oh, God, Carl won’t stand a chance against him if they do!”

  “Thought you liked Mist’ Morgan best.”

  The girl was sly—Ginny longed to give her a set down, but uncertainty as to whether Tillie had been awake last night and had seen her leave the wagon, made her bite back the angry words that sprang to her lips.

  “Mr. Morgan is—an unusual man, but he is not a gentleman. I’ll be glad when we finally reach El Paso.”

  But would she be?

  In the days that followed, Ginny was often to ask herself that same question. There were no more Indian attacks, and everything went smoothly, even the crossing of the Pecos River. Carl Hoskins made constant excuses to ride beside their wagon, and in the evenings, when they made camp he courted Ginny in earnest, undaunted by her flimsy evasions as to why they should not wander off into the darkness alone, or talk of anything as serious as an engagement between them.

  “But this is hardly a natural situation,” she would tell him, “and we do not really know each other yet. Besides, Papa would be furious with us both if he thought—”

  “Yes, yes, of course I understand! Ginny, I know you are right, and so logical, my stubborn little darling. But I have fallen quite hopelessly in love with you, and nothing will change my mind.”

  And she would think, if he only knew! How he would despise me—yes, he’d change his mind, all right. Perhaps he’d ask me to be his mistress then, but never his wife!

  Back in Paris, how glibly she had declared to her closest, most intimate friends that of all things, she would like to become a famous courtesan.

  “Marriage,” she had declared vehemently, “is only another form of slavery. Why should I have to put up with his mistresses and be saddled with a child every year, not daring to take a lover of my own? I would like to be able to choose my own way of life, my own destiny, like any man can, merely because he is a man.”

  How facile it all sounded now, and how naive! She lived in a man’s world, a world that put women on pedestals and worshipped them only as long as they conformed to accepted standards of behavior for women. Her virginity, that despised tiny piece of membrane that had sealed her away from any man but the right one, had been given away too lightly and too easily to the wrong man. And it galled her to think that he, Steve Morgan, had not even attempted to court her. He had made no declarations of love, no promises.

  “I want you—” he had declared flatly and uncompromisingly—not, as she might have wished to hear, “I love you.” No, and worse yet, he had not even shown her the respect due to her position or her inexperience. His kisses had been rough and demanding, he had treated her as if she were a cheap dance-hall girl, and she had let him, had
been crazy enough to want more, to allow him, of all people, to be the one to satisfy her curiosity.

  Ginny had been determined to ignore him and to avoid his presence as much as possible; but being feminine it irritated her unaccountably to find that far from seeking her out, or trying to coax her into a repetition of what she still thought of as “that night,” he seemed to keep out of her way quite purposefully.

  She was becoming used to Carl’s kisses now, although they did not stir her in any way, and she would not let him take any further liberties beyond touching his lips to hers.

  Still, there was a demon inside her that seemed to sit detached from the reasoning, logical part of her mind at times—nagging at her with the secret thought that she did not enjoy Carl’s kisses at all, and had certainly responded to Steve Morgan’s—that even now, on some nights, her body ached with the need for something, for the feel of lips and hands on her, for the sweet sense of dispossession she had felt when he had so craftily built her desires up until they were unbearable and then had slaked them with his body.

  Like the others on the wagon train, Ginny counted the days until they would reach El Paso, but for a different reason. The wagon train would stop for two or three whole days at El Paso, to rest the cattle and replenish their supplies. And it was here, if everything went well, that they would hear from an emissary of the Emperor Maximilian. Her father would be arranging matters from Washington even now—and if all materialized as he’d hoped, she and Sonya might find themselves journeying to Mexico City as guests of the emperor and empress.

  “You, Ginny, with your important connections at the French court,” and here her father’s eyes had twinkled at her, “you shall be my little Ambassadress. Remember to give your most special smiles to Marshal Bazaine, for he, as commander of the French armies, is the real power behind the throne.”

  It had all seemed so exciting, listening to her father tell of all his plans and his ambitions. Like something from a novel by Monsieur Dumas. She had imagined herself as the cloaked heroine, hurrying into danger on a vital errand—but the Indian attack had taught her, at least, the unpleasant fact that danger was by no means pleasant; that the thought of dying, even for a cause, was even more terrifying.

  Suppose they left the train at El Paso, using some trumped-up, last-minute excuse (but no, she thought annoyedly, there would be no need for that, there would be a message from her father waiting and he would have arranged everything, leaving nothing to chance, as was his way) what would happen?

  What would happen to the rest of them? Would Steve Morgan miss her presence, or wonder why she had changed her mind about California so abruptly?

  To Sonya, when they discussed it, it all seemed unimportant.

  “We do not even need to give them any explanations, Ginny dear. After all, they were hired by your father to take a wagon train and some cattle to California, not to question us! We will simply announce that we intend to stay on in El Paso because your father has changed his plans and will join us there. Or—or—well, we will think of something, I’m sure!”

  How wonderful to have Sonya’s sweet, unruffled nature—to be so very certain that nothing could possibly go wrong! But at least, she would tell herself firmly, she would not have to see Steve Morgan again; to be afraid of looking up and meeting his cold, sapphire blue eyes and feel herself jolted all the way down her spine by an unnameable, unthinkable yearning to feel his mouth against hers again, and hear his voice call her “love.”

  16

  On the last night they would spend out in the lonely, rugged Texas plains before they reached El Paso, storm clouds began to gather overhead, adding to the strange feeling of gloominess and depression in Ginny’s heart.

  Lightning slashed at the darkening sky overhead, and the rattling of thunder made Pop Wilkins predict pessimistically that cattle were nearly always spooked during a bad storm.

  “An’ them Texas storms is the worst of all I’ve seen,” he added. Carl, looking anxious, had hurried off with some of the men to see to their herd, and Sonya put Ginny’s moodiness down to the fact that she missed his presence by the fire. Trying to console her sullen stepdaughter, Sonya squeezed her arm and whispered that she would soon forget her depression when they reached El Paso.

  “And dearest, if you are thinking that Carl will forget you if we decide to travel to Mexico, then you must not—he’s told me himself how much he cares about you. In fact,” she added teasingly, “he’s even asked me to speak to your papa and feel him out! But I’m afraid that it will be you who will soon forget him if we visit the emperor’s court at Chapultepec. I hear it is magnificent, and there will be all the handsome officers from France and Belgium and Austria there—indeed, there’ll be diplomats from all over the world! Just think how exciting it’ll be, Ginny! All the balls and receptions we’d attend—and there’s even the chance that your father might decide to join us there, you know.”

  Ginny did not have the heart to spoil Sonya’s own excitement, but before she could frame some ambiguous answer she had felt his presence. Steve Morgan, who had avoided their campfire so assiduously on preceding nights had suddenly come up behind them, and now, without a word of apology he jackknifed his long legs to sit easily beside her.

  He walks as softly as an Indian, Ginny thought angrily, noticing that tonight he wore knee-high Indian moccasins instead of boots. Ignoring the unwanted thudding of her heart, she found herself wondering how much of their conversation he had heard. And how dared he come up so stealthily? How dared he calmly assume that she would not mind his sitting beside her?

  Biting her lip to hide her confusion, Ginny cast a warning glance at Sonya and faced him boldly.

  “Why, Mr. Morgan, you’re quite a stranger these days, aren’t you?” She caught the look of amusement in his eyes, the lifted eyebrow and stumbled on quickly, hating the betraying color that sprang to her cheeks, “Mrs. Brandon and I were just discussing how strange it is that we are so very close to Mexico. It is only across the river from El Paso, is it not?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Look across the Rio Grande and you’ll see Mexico. Nice country when they’re not fightin’ wars over there. You ladies ought to visit it sometime.”

  He said the words so calmly that it was hard to read any hidden meaning into them. But what had he meant by his suggestion that they should visit Mexico? As if she sensed Ginny’s slight hesitation Sonya stepped quickly into the breach.

  “I was telling Ginny how exciting it would be to have the opportunity of visiting the Emperor Maximilian’s court some day. I hear that Carlotta is an extremely beautiful and intelligent woman, and that they have done wonders for the poor, uneducated people there.”

  “Don’t know about that, ma’am. But sometimes I wonder if those poor uneducated folk in Mexico really prefer a foreign emperor to the president they elected themselves.” He caught the surprised glances of both women and shrugged. “Didn’t mean to sound rude, of course, but I reckon we wouldn’t like it too much if some other country sent their soldiers to keep order around here. In fact, we just got through fightin’ a war of our own to keep the country in one piece, didn’t we?”

  “Mr. Morgan,” Ginny said stiffly, her temper high, “I happen to know that the Mexicans themselves invited the French into their country to keep order. It was they who invited Maximilian and Carlotta to Mexico in the first place! Why, I have had the opportunity myself to talk with the very charming Señor Hidalgo in Paris, and he—”

  “Miss Brandon, I sure didn’t mean to make you mad!” The mocking lights in his eyes belied the smooth apology as he went on, every word enraging Ginny further, “An’ I’m certainly not qualified to speak as an intimate of Napoleon’s court in Paris. But I do know somethin’ about Mexico and its people.” He gave her a wicked look. “I’m sure you’ve heard it said that I’m a half-breed? Well, I guess that’s partly true, dependin’ on which way you look at it. My mother was Spanish, you see, and I was brought up in Mexico, ever since I was about f
ive years old.”

  “And you feel that qualifies you to be a spokesman for the Mexican people?”

  A trace of impatience came into his voice this time.

  “I’m not a spokesman for anyone but myself, Miss Brandon. But I do know it’s only the rich folk—the landowners who want to hang onto their big haciendas, and the Church, wantin’ to hang onto its lands and powers, and the crooked politicians—those are the Mexicans who wanted Maximilian!” He gave Ginny an unexpectedly bitter look that dumbfounded her. “Those poor uneducated people, ma’am, are the ones doin’ the fighting for their freedom and their country back from all the foreign powers that want to grab large chunks of it.”

  Unexpectedly, almost shocking Ginny, Sonya leaned forward to join in the argument. With her wide blue eyes fixed on Steve Morgan’s face, she said sweetly, “Why, Mr. Morgan, you surprise me! You talk like a man with a cause! Next you’ll be telling us you intend to go and fight for those—those Juaristas, or whatever they are called, who murder and mutilate French soldiers and innocent citizens and call it fighting for their freedom!”

  Ginny watched, feeling stunned, as two pairs of blue eyes met and clashed. It must be the storm, what had gotten into Sonya? A strange, taut smile stretched her blond stepmother’s lips, even though she shivered at a crash of thunder.

  “I had no idea you felt as strongly as you do either,” Steve Morgan said softly, and suddenly it was as if a shutter had come down over his face, leaving it bleak and unreadable.

  “I think this whole argument is pointless and stupid!” Ginny announced loudly, and felt as if she had broken some kind of spell that had held them all.

  “You’re right, of course!” Sonya said it quickly, with a little laugh. “My goodness, I can’t think what got into me!”

  “Maybe it’s the storm. Most women tend to get kind of nervous when there’s a storm coming up.”

  He said it casually, almost lightly, but Sonya’s face grew flushed and she gave a sudden exclamation, her hands tightening on the folds of her gown so that the veins stood out on them.