Sweet Savage Love

by Rosemary Rogers

  That was it—those eyes! He’d seen them watching him before, over the barrel of a gun. Just once, and very long ago; but Tom Beal never forgot a man who’d managed to get the drop on him.

  He cut sharply and rudely across the Frenchman’s speech, taking a step forward, with his hand dropping to the butt of his gun.

  “You—I’ve seen you before someplace, mister. We’ve tangled somewhere, sometime.”

  “Now Beal…” the Frenchman began as the big American looked up in surprise, as if he’d been startled out of his drink-sodden stupor.

  “Did you say Beal?” The man’s voice was filled with sudden, drunken rage. But he didn’t reach for his gun, as Beal had sensed he might. The unexpectedness of his shout startled Beal just as much as it had startled the others, losing him the split second he needed to pull his gun. That, and the quick movement of the man’s hand as he flung the glass of wine at Beal’s face.

  Steve Morgan’s body followed the movement of his hand as he lunged across the table, falling onto Beal as the table caught the surprised gunman across the belly, splintering like matchwood. Off balance, Beal had fallen backward, and now, before he could move, a fist crashed into his jaw—hands caught him by the hair, pounding his head mercilessly against the hard adobe floor.

  “Beal, is it? You goddamn son of a gun—think I wouldn’t recognize any dirty bastard that tried to run off with my wife? Only reason I didn’t kill you then was she made me promise I wouldn’t, but by God, you’re still after her, and I’ll kill you for sure this time!”

  It was the last thing Beal remembered before the blackness closed over him—a blackness laced with crimson streaks and agonizing pain.

  When the table crashed over, Ginny screamed with real fear and sprang to her feet. D’Argent, completely astounded, stood with his mouth open, unable, for a moment, to comprehend what was happening.

  “M’sieur—m’sieur, stop! Have you gone mad? For God’s sake stop—you will kill him!”

  He stooped, attempting to drag the infuriated American off the unconscious mercenary. The imbecile—he was obviously insane—what was the matter with him? Had he really recognized Beal, or was it the raving of a drunken maniac?

  With a bellow of rage, the American swung his arm backward as D’Argent tugged at it, sending the Frenchman staggering. Before he could recover himself, the American had sprung to his feet and now caught his wife, who had been about to scream, by the shoulders. He shook her roughly as he swore at her.

  “You cheating tramp! You led him on—flirting with him, smiling those sly smiles at him when you think I’m not looking, like you do with every man you meet. Like you were doin’ this evening with the lieutenant here, and don’t think I didn’t see what was goin on, you bitch!”

  The woman was gasping with shock and terror, fighting for breath. The pins flew from her hair, clattering to the floor and her hair spilled down over her shoulders.

  “No—don’t!” she managed to whimper, “please—don’t!”

  D’Argent’s French gallantry was outraged. The drunken idiot! He had gone berserk. Mad with jealousy, he didn’t know what he was doing!

  “Stop it! I insist that you stop it! M’sieur!” He noticed with relief that the faithful Sergeant Pichon had come running from his quarters and now stood staring in astonishment.

  “Oaf!” d’Argent yelled in French, “the imbecile American is out of his head—he will kill madame! Can’t you do anything but stand there gaping? Come and help me!”

  Together, they finally managed to catch the American’s arms and pull him away from his sobbing wife. With a little shocked moan the girl dropped into a chair, hands up to her throat. D’Argent had expected to have difficulty in holding the big man still, as blind with rage as he seemed to be, but the moment they had him held fast he seemed to slump against them, swaying unsteadily on his feet.

  “Not—not my fault—” he mumbled sullenly. “She always drives me to it—drink—only thing that helps—always men—”

  “It’s not true! Don’t believe him, don’t believe anything he says!” the girl stormed, her eyes like green fire. “He’s a wicked, evil man. He hurt me!”

  “Madame—madame I beg you not to upset yourself! Your husband is drunk, he is not capable of rational behavior. I am afraid I will have to put him in jail—for your own sake, of course, as well as for the sake of all the innocent people of the town—my men—”

  Just in case the American decided to lose his temper again, d’Argent snatched the Smith & Wesson .44 from the man’s holster and stuck it through his own belt. He smiled reassuringly at the dishevelled woman, who now stared at him in a startled fashion.

  “Jail!” she repeated, her voice strange, and the lieutenant hastened to soothe her.

  “Do not worry yourself, I implore you! We will only keep him there overnight, until he is sober. It will teach him a lesson, madame, one he richly deserves, you must admit.” He turned to look warningly at the American. “And you, monsieur, if you’ll give me your word that you’ll give me no more trouble, I’ll allow you to walk to the jail with me like a gentleman, with no manacles on your wrists. It is for madame’s sake, you understand? But I must also warn you that I will have your own gun pointing at you all the way there, so we’ll have no more violence, if you please!”

  “Jail—” the girl said again. She sounded stunned. “You’ll really put him in jail?”

  “Believe me, madame, I must! For reasons of discipline, you understand? But—” his voice dropped slightly and he spoke now in French, the message in his eyes clear “—after I have the matter taken care of I will return here, to escort you personally to your hotel. You need not worry, I will look after everything.”

  She blushed, biting her lip and he congratulated himself again for having found her. What a beauty! And especially now, with her hair all loose—he’d make her mad for him with his caresses—he’d be very careful, very tender—

  Her words brought him back to reality, she was asking something of him.

  “If you don’t mind, I would like to go with you, to make sure he’s safely locked up. He’s dangerous. I’d like to see him behind bars!”

  D’Argent smiled to himself. So! Now she had decided she hated her husband. This was even better. Perhaps he could persuade her to come with him to Mexico City—it would be nice to have a mistress again, particularly a woman as lovely as this one. Getting rid of her husband would be easy—let Beal have him, when Beal had recovered consciousness!

  Monsieur Gray seemed to understand that he was in trouble. He was very quiet now, and shamefaced; his head hung abjectly. As he stood swaying on his feet, the man was almost pathetic.

  “No—no more trouble—promise you—” he muttered, the words slurred. “Just wanna sleep, tha’s all—sleepy—”

  “I promise you, monsieur, you will sleep well in my jail tonight! You will have a Juarista for company, and I’m afraid they all smell bad, but it will not matter—we will execute him very early in the morning, so you may sleep as late as you wish!”

  D’Argent smiled conspiratorially at the woman, but she continued to look rather sullen. Anger had left color flaring along her cheekbones that only rendered her even more attractive.

  “I must seem him safely in jail,” she persisted.

  “Come along then, madame,” d’Argent said. “And you, m’sieur, it is only a short way. Walk slightly ahead of me, if you please, like so.”

  He turned his head to look with disgust at the broken table and crystal—his best linen stained with wine. Beal lay on his back like a dead man, only his shallow, ragged breathing showing that he still lived. This drunken American would no doubt be very sorry that he had attacked Tom Beal. Ah, well—he deserved whatever Beal and his partner decided to do to him!

  “Pichon—you will stay and clean up this mess,” the lieutenant instructed. “And do it swiftly, for I will be back as soon as I hear what this Juarista has to confess. And—you might as well see to Beal as well. P
erhaps a cold compress for his head…”

  “Oui, M’sieur le Capitaine. At once!”

  Pichon came belatedly to attention as the lieutenant glared at him—how dare Pichon presume to promote him? When his superior officer left Pichon could not help sighing as he gazed around the room he had tidied earlier.

  Lucky Lieutenant d’Argent! He had the foolish husband at pistol point, walking ahead—and an arm about the waist of the pretty wife. A true Frenchman, that d’Argent!

  23

  The entrance to the jail, as d’Argent had stated earlier, was no more than fifty feet from the door of the jefe’s house that the lieutenant had commandeered for himself. Nevertheless, walking very slowly behind the shambling, hangdog American, d’Argent managed to whisper a stream of bold compliments in his companion’s ear. She did not reply, but she had permitted him to put his arm about her waist, and he did not think she would balk too much at allowing him further liberties later on.

  “You are much too beautiful to be wasted on this clod of a man, dear madame! You need someone to appreciate your charms, your so-lovely lips and body. Believe me, you should be dressed as you deserve, in the finest gowns, with jewels in your ears and around your neck. I’m not the kind of man who believes in beating a woman—I’d rather storm your citadel, Ginette, with kisses. I’ll show you—I’ll make you happy tonight, I swear it!”

  “Monsieur!” Her whisper sounded almost pleading, and d’Argent laughed, squeezing her waist, sure of his victory.

  “There’s no need to pretend with me, little one. I’ve wanted you ever since I saw you at the window, your hair falling over your breasts, just as it is now. I knew then how it would be with us.” Carried away, d’Argent waxed poetic. “You’ll have no complaints of me as a lover, cherie. I’ll be gentle I swear it! And if you’ll stay with me, I’ll be generous.”

  The big American coughed suddenly and seemed to stumble, and d’Argent jabbed the pistol viciously into his back, hoping it would hurt. He realized that the woman had drawn away from his arm and was staring at him with tears of emotion shining in her eyes.

  “You actually believe all the terrible things this—this canaille said about me! You really think I’m a cheap woman, don’t you?”

  He tried to calm her. Why were women so sensitive?

  “But no, my sweet! You misunderstood me. Of course you are a lady, and I’ll treat you as one. But believe me, I don’t blame you for preferring any other man to this one.”

  Again the pistol jabbed harshly into his captive’s back, driving him up the three shallow steps that led up to the door of the jail. He hoped the girl would not prove difficult at this stage—after all, she had encouraged him quite obviously, what did she expect?

  “Come come, my little one, you must not think I don’t respect you,” he said soothingly. “Tonight I’ll show you just how much respect and yes, admiration I have for you—for that beautiful body you are hiding under a gown that does not do you justice.”

  He replaced his arm around her waist rather roughly and pulled her along, knowing that some women preferred to be dominated and used thus by a man. And the next moment he had decided smugly that his judgement had been right, for she stopped protesting and came with him quite meekly.

  The man known as Blue opened the door with his gun at the ready, a look of relief replacing the surprised one he’d worn when he saw the staggering, drunken prisoner the lieutenant had brought along.

  The jail consisted of only two rooms—a makeshift office, and a large cell. The walls were of thick adobe, with the thick iron bars of the cell door and tiny window embedded into them. Behind the barred door, on a makeshift wooden bunk, a man sat hunched over; a dirty serape wrapped around his shoulders.

  As the Frenchman and his captive walked inside the man in the cell jumped up and came to the bars, shaking them furiously.

  “Americano—gringo dog! I won’t share a cell with a dirty gringo!” he began yelling.

  “Shut up, you filth!” Blue shouted angrily, his fist raised threateningly.

  What happened next was a blur—just like a nightmare and just as unreal, when the Frenchman looked back on it.

  The big American—falling drunkenly against the bars as d’Argent pushed him forward. Falling, and throwing Blue off-balance as he did. One moment, Blue had been standing on his feet, head turned to shout at the Juarista prisoner. And the very next instant he lay writhing helplessly on the hard-packed earthen floor, clutching his groin and moaning like a sick animal. It was the bearded American who had done it, his drunkenness disappearing as his knee slashed wickedly upward, maiming the other man.

  And now, his eyes cold and hard, his vacuous mask dropped, he held Blue’s gun in his hand as he faced d’Argent with his back to the cell.

  “Better drop that gun you’re holding. Hesitate and I’ll gut-shoot you.” Still stunned by what had happened, d’Argent dropped his gun. The clipped, businesslike voice went on giving orders.

  “Ginny—you get those keys and unlock the door. And try to hurry it, baby, we’re sitting on a powder keg.”

  Silently, moving like a puppet, the girl walked forward, kneeling gingerly by the gasping, retching man on the floor to take the keys from his belt. Without being told again she unlocked the cell door and the prisoner walked out grinning; casually bent to pick up the gun d’Argent had dropped.

  “Remind me to kiss you when we get far enough from town, Ginny,” he said softly as he passed the girl. She stared at him blankly—d’Argent thought afterwards that she had looked as if she was in a trance.

  A few minutes later, leaving d’Argent and Blue bound and gagged; locked in the cell; three people walked casually and slowly down the steps of the jail. One was a woman. They mounted horses, and they rode openly out of town. Since the American and his wife had been guests of the lieutenant, none of the men under his command did anything to stop them.

  Once they had left the outskirts of the town, they rode very fast. Neither Steve nor Paco spoke, although it was apparent, after a while, that they knew in which direction they would travel.

  Ginny still felt dazed. Her tawdry yellow dress was unsuitable for riding astride, but the saddle on her horse would permit no other alternative. Her bare legs felt cold, and after a few hours her whole body felt stiff and numb. Still, she did not complain, or beg that they stop to rest. And after all, if the French came in pursuit, they would be looking for her too. It seemed unreal!

  They were riding into the foothills again, into pitch-dark, forbidding-looking terrain. Sometime during the night they stopped to rest the horses in the shadow of an overhanging cliff, and Ginny had barely strength left to stumble over to a boulder, which she leaned her back against, her eyes closed. Steve had lifted her off the horse—he’d given her his black jacket to wear against the night chill, and a canteen to drink from. But now he and Paco, merely darker shadows that merged with other shadows, talked softly together.

  She was too tired to listen, too tired to want to. The jacket smelled of cigar smoke, and the smell made her headache worse. She felt as if her skull would split open if she moved her head.

  Why hadn’t she done what she should have done? D’Argent’s manner towards her would have soon changed if she had told him who she was, and that she was a prisoner. Or would he have preferred not to believe her, for his own reasons? And why had she meekly followed Steve’s curt orders and made herself a wanted fugitive too? She tried to tell herself it was only because she did not want Paco to be tortured and executed. Paco—but what was he doing here? Of course he had to have known Steve’s plans from the beginning, he was a thief and an outlaw too, in spite of—in spite of—she was suddenly aware that Paco was standing over her, that he was thanking her; telling her he was leaving now, going in a different direction.

  “Perhaps we’ll meet again soon,” he said. “Who knows? And you were wonderful,” he added. “I’m grateful.”

  She murmured something—she could not remember what she had sa
id. But suddenly he was gone, and Steve was bending over her, his hands surprisingly gentle as he helped her to her feet.

  “We’d better get moving, bébé,” he said quietly. She glanced at him strangely. He’d called her “bébé,”—a French word? But then, it was only a word, and a man could pick up a word or two of any language easily enough.

  He helped her up into the saddle and she said tonelessly, “How far this time?”

  She saw him shrug in the darkness as they put their horses into a canter.

  “Depends on how fast we can travel. We’re going to come out into some flat country now, and I want to put as many miles between us and our friends back there as possible first.”

  “I have a terrible headache!” she said suddenly, with the first sign of emotion she had shown since they’d left the town. He laughed unfeelingly.

  “It’s probably a hangover, Ginny. You drank too much champagne.”

  She wanted to scream at him, hurl insults and abuse at him, but it would take too much effort. She relapsed into a sullen silence, closing her eyes against the pain that lanced through her temples with each movement of the horse.

  Their travelling during the next forty-eight hours followed the old pattern that Ginny had been forced to become used to. Riding at night, hiding out somewhere to sleep during the hottest part of the day. The only other humans they encountered were an occasional peasant—a vaquero guarding a small herd of incredibly scrawny-looking cattle.

  Once they had left the foothills behind them the country seemed to undulate, to stretch endlessly before them. And all this land, Steve explained briefly, belonged to the big landowners—the hacendados. His voice had sounded almost bitter, making her glance at him sharply. At times like this, she would remember that he had a Mexican mother, and wonder—was that why he was mixed up with the Juaristas? Had he felt deprived and cheated in some way?