“I find myself curiously puzzled that you should have brought the girl here. You are usually more discreet—or should the word be cautious?—about your peccadilloes. Have you considered that for once you might have fallen in love?”
Steve’s eyes narrowed just a fraction at the unexpectedness of the question, but his face stayed expressionless.
“I had not given it much thought, sir. Perhaps, since we’re to be married it might be more convenient if I were to feel some—affection, instead of dislike for her.”
“It might be even more convenient if Ginny felt the same way, would it not?” Don Francisco said, and the conversation was ended.
Stripped, with his body immersed in water up to the waist, Steve Morgan was hardly in the mood to enjoy either his bath, or the attentions of the pretty Juana. The knowledge that Jaime stood on guard outside his door was frustrating enough—the thought that he was actually to be treated as a prisoner, with no freedom of movement, was intolerable. To make matters worse, there had been the meeting with Ginny. What was there about her that constantly had him losing his temper? This afternoon he would have dearly enjoyed striking her—slapping her into silence, and then flinging her backward onto the bed with all her brand-new petticoats thrown over her head while he exacted an unwilling, but inevitable response from her squirming body. That’s what he should have done, and would have done if his grandfather had not forced him into a ridiculous position. How amusing Ginny must think it all! He gritted his teeth when he thought of the way she’d stormed at him.
Juana’s soft, commiserating voice interrupted his black thoughts as she exclaimed with shock and pity over the weals that criss-crossed his bare torso.
She bent over him with her large black eyes soft with concern, and her full, unbound breasts were fully revealed under the thin cotton camisa she wore. Clearly, Juana did not wear more than the barest minimum of clothing, and just as clearly, she did not care if he knew this.
Her fingers trailed across the marks on Steve’s chest.
“Ah, Señor! They must hurt, no? I can get some salve, it will not take a minute…”
It was almost habit that made Steve take her hand and move it to his lips, tickling her palm with his tongue.
“It’s not salve that I need,” he whispered against her fingers, feeling them tremble uncertainly before she pulled her hand away with a nervous giggle.
“Señor! And you to be married so soon!”
He cursed inwardly. So it was to be soon, was it? It seemed as if everyone here knew more about his own wedding than he did. He felt trapped, and very angry—there had to be a way—some way out!
Aloud, Steve said insinuatingly, “‘Soon’ is a long time away from today and now, pretty thing. And you have beautiful black eyes—a man could easily lose his honor in their depths.”
She giggled again, more from nerves than anything else, and almost imperceptibly, she leaned over him.
Steve smiled at her with his lips, but his thoughts were bitter. Honor! Why had that particular phrase sprung to his lips? “No honor” his grandfather had said, and he was right, of course. Honor was nothing but an empty word, used by old men to cover weakness. A man did what he had to do or wanted to do, as long as he was prepared to take the consequences of his actions.
It was possible, that this little Juana might be persuaded to find him a weapon. It would be easy for her to smuggle one in to him. And in any case, she was an attractive wench—her breasts were quite beautiful…Almost without thinking, his fingers were pushing the loose blouse she wore down off her shoulders, freeing her really magnificent breasts. He heard her gasp softly as he bent his head and pressed his mouth against the hollow between the mounded flesh. Her skin was warm, and a small vein pulsed under his lips.
“Why don’t you take those uncomfortable garments off and join me in the bath? There’s room in here for both of us…”
His tongue found her nipple and her fingers tangled themselves in his hair.
“Ohh—Señor!”
Neither of them noticed, after a while, that the water had become cold, and the floor was wet from their splashings.
30
Don Francisco’s carriage was large and comfortable, but the journey to the Sandoval hacienda took almost two hours, and seemed long and wearisome.
For most of the trip, Steve Morgan maintained an inscrutable silence, leaning back with his head against the cushioned backrest, his arms folded across his chest. He answered politely enough whenever either his grandfather or the Señora Ortega addressed some question to him, but for the most part he kept his eyes closed, as if he were unutterably weary—or bored. He had already explained shortly that he had been riding all day and was rather tired.
“It’s the same with all you young men these days!” Tia Maria exclaimed, sparing him any further explanations. “Too weak—leading soft lives! In my day a caballero thought nothing of travelling over a hundred miles merely to claim one dance with his sweetheart. And chaperones were stricter in those days too, the only chance a girl had to converse with a young man was during the dancing. But we all made the most of it, I can assure you! We’d dance till dawn, without feeling the least tired!”
Tia Maria’s voice droned on and on, carrying almost the entire conversation, with the Señora Armijo adding an occasional comment of her own.
Don Francisco, seated next to Steve, frowned out of the window to hide his growing anger from the ladies, and Ginny, looking ravishing in her new gown, said hardly a word.
Under the cover of her own garrulity, Dona Maria wondered more than once what was wrong between the two young people. They certainly acted most peculiarly for a young engaged couple. She had even had to insist that Genia add a touch of coral rouge to her cheeks to give them some color, and as for her grandnephew, he seemed hardly his usual gay, devil-may-care self. She wondered if Esteban was sulking because he had not been permitted to have his novia sit next to him…and certainly, it was strange that her brother had not suggested it but had seated himself firmly next to his grandson. There was something strange going on here, something she could not put her finger on. For instance, why were two of Francisco’s vaqueros, armed to the teeth, escorting them tonight? Was some trouble expected? Still, she was too tactful to ask, so she continued to chatter.
Steve, although he pretended to nap, was only too conscious of their armed escort. His escort, Jaime Perez, and Enrico, another of his grandfather’s vaqueros, had dogged his footsteps constantly since he’d set foot in the house. The taste of rage was as bitter as gall in his throat when he was forced to realize that even at the fiesta they would still be there, following wherever he went, watching him like hawks. How was he going to explain being in such a stupid, inconceivable situation? And above all—he had to talk to Bishop privately; how could he arrange it now? The only bright spot in his day had been Juana. Sweet, passionate, helpful Juana. The knife she had given him was her own, carried for her protection.
“The men here—they are always trying to grab me!” she had told him fiercely. “Pah! I despise them—pigs! Now they know that I will kill them if they try, and they leave me alone—me, I give myself only when I please!”
The knife she had given him was concealed in the lining of his high-topped, silver ornamented boot—he could feel it against his right calf. So much for his not being allowed a weapon of any kind!
With a mental shrug and a return of his old self-confidence, Steve decided that he would take care of each problem as it arose. He had, after all, escaped from jails before, and even, once or twice, from a lynching mob. When he was ready, he’d escape his watchdogs too. But right now, his other problem was Ginny.
Without her being aware of it, Steve opened his eyes a fraction and studied her from beneath the cover of his lashes.
He had to admit it—she was exceptionally desirable tonight. The stolen gown suited her far better than it would have the lovely Danielle. And he had recognized his mother’s opals—blazing like pale
fire on her ears and around her throat. She was really a beautiful woman—a pity she had turned into such a nagging shrew. But could he blame her for it? He had to admit in all honesty that most of the fault was his. The same thought that had irritated him with its repetition all day came back to nettle him now. Why had he brought her with him so far? Why did she, of all women have the power to annoy him so intensely that he lost his normal self-control and felt, at times, that he could easily strangle her with his bare hands? And why, goddamn it, did he keep desiring her in spite of it all? She brought out the worst in him, and obviously the same was true the other way around. She could be charming, flirtatious, even spontaneously affectionate with other men. He had watched her fuss over Carl Hoskins—throw her arms around Michel Remy and offer her mouth for his kiss. It would have been the same thing, over again, with Lieutenant d’Argent, if he had not intervened.
Unconsciously, Steve had begun to frown. Damn Ginny! Damn her female guile and duplicity! One moment she was soft and kittenish and yielding, and the next a wildcat. He’d had to watch her every minute, and as soon as his back was turned she had wormed her way into his grandfather’s good graces, agreeing quite meekly, no doubt, to marry him, just so that she could have her revenge. And then she’d dared threaten him with the scandalous life she’d lead once she was his wife. Well, they would see about that, he thought grimly. He’d marry her because he had promised to do so, and leave her at the altar. The abandoned bride. Let her face that scandal. His biggest mistake had been to keep her around long enough for her to become a habit—but habits could be broken and the world was full of beautiful women—women who didn’t scream at a man that they hated him, loathed him, before they gave in and enjoyed what was inevitable.
Ginny was being unusually quiet tonight, when she should have been excited and triumphant instead. Again, Steve flicked a sharp, shadowed glance over her. Like Don Francisco, she appeared to be studying the countryside that rolled past the windows of the carriage. Her face looked quite calm and composed, and the slight color in her cheeks and on her lips was becoming. But he remembered suddenly how cold her hand had been when she’d held it out to him so unwillingly earlier that evening. Even when he had kissed it formally, complimenting her extravagantly on her appearance in an effort to needle her into showing her temper, she had refused to rise to the bait and had swept past him with a murmured “thank you, Steve—you’re too kind.”
A sudden, extremely unpleasant thought suddenly made him catch his breath and sit up straight, prompting Don Francisco to remark testily that he supposed they should be honored that his grandson had finally deigned to honor them with his attention.
“But anything you say always has my attention, sir,” Steve responded mechanically, and was rewarded by a glowering look from under the old man’s bushy white eyebrows.
Tia Maria glanced from one to the other of them sharply and began to talk volubly again, addressing herself to Ginny this time, so that the girl was forced to turn her head and give the older woman her polite attention.
Glad of the respite, Steve relapsed into his brooding reverie again, but the ugly suspicion that had popped into his mind quite suddenly a moment ago kept nagging at his mind.
Good God! Could it be she was pregnant? Was that the reason why she had let herself fall in so eagerly with his grandfather’s plans to marry them off? And was that the reason for her changing moods, the alternation from abandoned, passionate mistress to hate-filled antagonist?
He looked at Ginny then, opening his eyes lazily, giving her a long, searching look that she could not fail to notice. No, her waist seemed as slim as ever, her breasts no fuller. He was imagining things—he almost laughed out loud—a guilty conscience? Perhaps, if he’d ever possessed a conscience.
The carriage had slowed down, and there were lights ahead—myriads of tiny, dancing flames that looked like fireflies; suspended against the inky blue night sky.
It took Ginny a few seconds to realize that the fireflies were tiny paraffin lights that lined the top of the tall walls they were approaching. Two strong lanterns swung from a carved iron archway, and the gaudily dressed, smiling vaqueros who stood there called out greetings as the carriage rumbled through.
Ginny could hardly believe her eyes—the magnificent grounds were ablaze with lights from Japanese lanterns, making them a veritable fairyland. More lights streamed welcomingly from every door and window of the enormous house they were now approaching. There were throngs of people everywhere, standing in groups or strolling around. As the carriage rolled to a stop and they alighted, Ginny could hear music. Small bands of mariachi players wove their way between the guests, and from somewhere came the high, plaintive sound of a flamenco singer.
Far to their left, lights that were brighter and larger than the lanterns showed through the trees, and Ginny could barely make out what appeared to be the outline of a huge arena. Noticing her stare of surprise Dona Armijo whispered that it was a bullring—later perhaps some of the younger men would want to try their prowess with the bulls.
“Yes, and sometimes they put on exhibitions of their riding skills to impress the ladies,” Tia Maria said with a sniff. She added in a disapproving tone, “there have even been duels fought there. Our young men are very hot blooded.”
“Hotheads would be more correct,” Don Francisco snorted. They were at the foot of the wide stone steps leading up to the main entrance to the house, and he offered his arm politely to Ginny. But before she could take it she heard Steve say teasingly.
“Surely, sir, you would not deny me the opportunity to escort my novia inside? Perhaps the knowledge that she’s mine will keep some of those young hotheads at bay.”
Under the teasing there were undercurrents—instinctively Ginny would have held back, but Steve had already taken her arm firmly and was leading her up the steps. Don Francisco had taken his sister’s arm, his face wooden with anger, and Dona Armijo trailed behind.
They were in the main hall now, and Ginny felt herself caught up in the rush of introductions, of embraces from the ladies, bows and handkissing from the men. She seemed to be borne, like a tiny cork, through a sea of faces, all smiling; some enviously. Voices beat against her ears, congratulating her, congratulating Steve at having chosen so well.
Here were the wealthiest people in the province—the oldest families. Outside, in the carnival atmosphere created by the lights and music, the patios were also crowded, but with younger people—guests from as far away as Mexico City. Once, as she passed an open French window, Ginny even caught a glimpse of uniforms—French, Austrian, and Belgian. She felt her heart falter, and then beat faster. Suppose—just suppose Michel was here? Or the horrible, pompous little Lieutenant d’Argent? Unconsciously she had stiffened, raising her head proudly. After all, why should she be afraid? It was Steve who had everything to fear, not herself.
She was relieved that as they moved through the crowd, Don Francisco and his sister stayed close. When Señora Armijo suggested that Ginny should give her her shawls and she would take them upstairs for her, Dona Maria left her brother’s side and tugged at Ginny’s arm.
“Come along, love—you can tear yourself away from Esteban for a few moments. Let me introduce you to some of the ladies who are among my oldest friends, they are all so anxious to meet you!”
All this time, she had felt as if she and Steve had moved and smiled and spoken like actors on a stage. He had said all the right things, his voice holding nothing but tender regard and pride. There were even times when she had imagined his hold on her arm tightened possessively; especially when some of the younger men, his friends, paid her elaborate compliments. But that was ridiculous! Steve was just a good actor, he enjoyed masquerades.
Dona Maria was leading Ginny with her now, her voice alternately explaining and scolding. Glancing back over her shoulder once, Ginny had seen Don Francisco put his hand on Steve’s arm—was she imagining that they were engaged in some kind of argument? But she had no time for mo
re imaginings. Señora Ortega was explaining that the older people, the more staid and conventional families, preferred to stay indoors. Instead of dining al fresco style outdoors, Don José’s most honored guests and his closest friends would dine in the enormous main dining room of the house. They would dance later in the big sala to a more sedate band than the one playing outside in the patio.
“If Esteban has any sense at all he’ll steal outside with you,” Tia Maria commented. “I really don’t know what’s wrong with that young man this evening, his behavior goes from bad to worse I’m afraid! Perhaps you can change it—I’m sure you’ll be an excellent influence, dear.”
“Oh, yes, I hope so,” Ginny murmured dutifully. She hardly knew what she was saying. Even while she was being introduced to a bevy of dark-costumed older women who held court in one of the smaller drawing rooms, Ginny could feel her mind whirling, full of questions that had no answers.
That afternoon she had thrown herself on her bed, hoping to sleep, but rest was impossible. Then Carmencita, the more talkative of her two maids, had come sidling in with a cool drink for her, and had stayed to gossip, her eyes shining with excitement. She had seen Dona Genia’s ball gown, it was so lovely, all the servants were talking about its magnificence. She had commented that Don Esteban was in a bad mood—there had been an interview with el patrón behind closed doors…and she herself had heard from Juana that el patrón had been so angry he had struck his grandson with the whip he always carried…did Dona Genia know that her novio was not permitted to wear his guns any longer? And Jaime and Enrico followed him everywhere, now.
“He’s a wild one, that Don Esteban! We’ve heard that he’s killed many men with his guns. El patrón would not like that!”
Seeing Ginny’s expression Carmencita added pacifically that she was sure Dona Genia knew of all this already, she must forgive her for gossiping.
“Don’t stop, now you’ve started!” Ginny retorted, sitting bolt upright in bed. “Who is Juana, and how does she know so much?” She was too angry at the moment to care if she did sound jealous.
Sweet Savage Love Page 37