Sweet Savage Love

by Rosemary Rogers

  But even when the wagons had stopped for the night, in a protected barranca, and he lay with Concepción in his arms, both of them exhausted momentarily from their love making; Steve found himself thinking again, reluctantly, about Ginny. She should have expected his sudden departure, of course. She had even encouraged it, earlier. But had it been quite fair to abandon her so publicly, with the wedding announcements already sent out? There were a few vicious tongues who might enjoy making capital out of a secret marriage and his sudden disappearance. And since when had he had any qualms about what was fair and what wasn’t?

  Incredible! The truth pierced him like a shaft and made him curse himself savagely. Fool! Since he still desired her he should have brought her with him. She was his, even if he decided to have nothing more to do with her once his desire was slaked; and he’d kill any man she decided to take on as a lover!

  When he reached that point in his thoughts Steve discovered that he was scowling balefully into the darkness. This was ridiculous, of course, and from a practical angle it was just as well he had left her behind. She had become a habit, that was all! And of all the countless women he’d known and used and forgotten, she alone remained a challenge. Well—it was over. He had recognized the trap he was falling into, and would take care to avoid it. The thought that he, of all people should be lying awake at night mooning about a woman like a lovesick calf was really insufferable.

  Steve sat up and Concepción stirred sleepily, trying to trap him in her arms again.

  “Querido—where are you going? I’m cold…”

  “I’m just thirsty, for God’s sake! All that wine and tequila I was drinking last night, I guess.”

  “Well, hurry up! I’m wide awake again. Isn’t that a pity? Are you going to give me something that will make me sleep?”

  “You’re the greediest bitch I’ve known. Don’t you ever get enough?”

  But he was grinning when he came back to her. Before he could lie down again Concepción came up on her knees with a lithe, pantherish movement of her body, her arms clasping him around the waist. Her long hair tickled his thighs and his reaction to her ministrations was inevitable.

  “Hmm…” Concepción whispered after a while, a gurgle of teasing laughter underlying her whisper, “que grande! Hombre, you are as greedy as I, sí?”

  He found his breath coming faster—as a lover, Concepción was like no other he had known. She was a woman who made no pretense at coyness. She’s the kind of woman I should stick to, Steve found himself thinking, in a way she’s like me—she knows what she wants and takes it.

  After a while he twisted his fingers in her hair, pulling her head backward. In the faint, diffused light of the Mexican night he could see her eyes gleaming with a steely kind of sheen. She put her tongue out at him, and he began to laugh, pushing her backwards, feeling the immediate response of her wild, warm body. No complications here. She was as natural as an animal with its mate, and gradually, as their half-savage, half-playful lovemaking continued, Steve found his mind letting go as his body took over.

  It was near dawn, and Steve felt as if he had only just fallen asleep, when he heard the pounding of hooves. He had rolled away from Concepción, for both of them had become overheated and were covered with sweat—he fell asleep lying facedown, knowing that Concepción was quite capable of waking up in a few minutes and wanting a repeat performance. Habit kept his ear against the ground, and he heard the horse, and knew that only one rider approached, so that he was dressed already when Jaime Perez, one of the best trackers in the province, rode down the barranca.

  Steve listened to the man’s urgent, panted-out story almost incredulously. His first thought was that his grandfather was playing some kind of trick on him, determined to get him back in the fold by any means, fair or foul. Impossible! Even that wily, clever bastard Devereaux wouldn’t dare. But as Jaime continued to talk, Steve felt the beginnings of a cold, frustrated rage that almost blinded him. By God, it did make sense. Devereaux was cleverer after all, than any of them had given him credit for. His logic was really beautiful—and inescapable. Ginny would be released if he gave himself up. It became, in essence, a matter of honor—what else, in this crazy half-Spanish country? And if he didn’t, Colonel Raoul Devereaux would make sure that everyone soon learned that Esteban Alvarado was content to hide behind his wife’s skirts and let her suffer for his crimes. And in any case, could he really bear the thought of her locked up as a prisoner, at the mercy of men like Tom Beal? Devereaux chose to show a surface veneer of benevolence and sophisticated gallantry, but Steve had learned enough of the man’s methods since he’d been appointed military governor of Zacatecas province to know that he was completely unscrupulous.

  He became aware that he had buckled on his gun belts while Jaime was talking—that the man was looking at him with a strange expression on his face. What did Jaime really think?

  “Señor—” there was a slight hesitation in Jaime’s voice, and his face suddenly contorted. “I did not want to bring you this message.” Again he hesitated and then his words came out in a sudden rush. “Do not go, Señor! They will not dare to harm the Señora—it is all a bluff! But if they take you…”

  From somewhere behind Jaime, Concepción flung herself against him, arms clutching, and Steve could feel the trembling of her body, although her eyes were stormy as they glared into his.

  “It will be the firing squad—that is what they do with those suspected of being revolutionaries! You fool! Idiota! Are you really so tired of life? You know this man is right—they will not dare harm a Señora, a lady. Are you so crazy about her then that you must rush to her at the risk of your own life? I won’t let you go.” She looked around frantically at the silent men who now ringed them. “Well? You’re his friends, no? Won’t you stop him?”

  “Concepción!” To silence her raging, Steve kissed her half-open mouth and was surprised to taste the saltiness of the tears that trickled down her face. “Behave yourself,” he said after a moment, deliberately hardening his voice.

  “I won’t! Damn you! If none of these—” her scornful glance swept the silent faces around them “—will do anything to stop you then I will!”

  “Stop having hysterics, you know it doesn’t work with me.” Steve pulled her arms from around his neck and stepped back cautiously. She looked so furious, and at the same time so desolate that he smiled at her tenderly.

  “Querida, they haven’t executed me yet. I’ll see you again.”

  “Let him go!” Sanchez’s voice roared out roughly. He grabbed his daughter’s arm and held her firmly in spite of her struggles.

  “Stop him, stop him!” she screamed.

  Steve was already saddling his horse, and even Jaime had fallen silent now, although the grief in his normally impassive face was plain to see.

  “And how would you stop him, stupid niña?” Sanchez said with heavy sarcasm. “Would you shoot him yourself before the French soldados do so, eh?” He continued roughly, “It’s a matter of honor, muchacho. You wouldn’t understand.”

  Steve heard Concepción’s screaming invective in his ears long after he had ridden out of the barranca.

  “Honor, shit! I spit on his honor! He goes for her, that green-eyed woman who is more of a bitch and a whore than I am! sí. I know it, I felt it from the first time I saw her! You fool, you fool, she isn’t worth it, you’ll find out, just wait and see.”

  He got back on the road again, that beaten-down ribbon of dirt that masqueraded as a highway to Zacatecas. From there it continued south-east to Salinas and San Luis Potosí, which was where he had been heading when he started out. The sudden thought struck him that he probably wouldn’t get any place beyond Zacatecas, after all, and a slightly bitter smile twisted his mouth for an instant. Well—c’est la guerre. And a firing squad was better than hanging at that.

  Steve gave the horse its head, letting it take him at its own pace. Why not enjoy the ride while he could?

  “He goes for he
r, that green-eyed woman.” Ginny—Ginny—she had become an obsession with him, why not admit it? Ginny in all her moods, like the ocean he might never see again—worse than a tropical storm sometimes, and at others as calm, as deep and dreamy, as unfathomable as the ocean at its best. My God, he thought suddenly, I was in danger of falling in love with the woman, and I didn’t even know it. What a trap!

  Steve Morgan, who had always prided himself on his cold detachment from emotional entanglements now found, as he galloped towards Zacatecas, that the prospect of seeing Ginny again was almost worth facing a firing squad for. If they were going to execute him in any case, they would probably allow him a few minutes alone with her. He could take her in his arms and taste the wonderful texture of her lips again, and feel her small, perfectly shaped breasts pressing against his chest. He’d tell her—yes, what did it matter now? Before they killed him, he’d tell her he loved her.

  35

  Ginny had not been able to sleep at all in spite of the fact that the colonel’s quarters boasted a surprising degree of luxury, and his bed was wide and soft. Colonel Devereaux had, in fact, been surprisingly kind and considerate once they had left the lights of the Sandoval hacienda behind them.

  She must not worry too much, he told her, patting her hand in an unexceptionably paternal manner. “We all lost our tempers, but these matters have a way of working themselves out. Don’t think I blame you, my dear young lady—your loyalty to that no-good ruffian is really admirable.” He had added more softly, “But does he deserve it, eh? Does he appreciate what a brave wife he has?” Almost to himself the colonel added under his breath, “We shall see—yes, we shall see.”

  He had maintained an amiable flow of talk, only occasionally interspersed with admonitions that she really must be sensible, she must see her loyalty was misplaced—she must understand that she had placed him in a very embarrassing position by her stubborn refusal to speak. “In front of that young capitaine of the Legionnaires too—it was really too bad of you, madame, you left me with no alternative, surely you can see that?”

  For the rest of the time he asked her only questions that good manners forced her to answer—questions about her father and stepmother, and about the people she had met in New York and Washington. Once, he shot her a sharp look as he mentioned that Michel Remy, his wounds healed, had obtained Marshal Bazaine’s grudging permission to join a fighting regiment; leaving the comparative safety and luxury of Mexico City in order to battle the armies of Diaz and Escobedo.

  Ginny stirred restlessly, throwing the covers off her suddenly overheated body. She felt her head throb pitilessly.

  What time was it? How long had she lain here with her thoughts torturing her? All night long—or what had remained of the night when they reached Zacatecas. By the time they had arrived at the French headquarters the feeling of trancelike unreality that had kept her isolated from these distastefully unpleasant circumstances had begun to wear off. It had been all she could do to keep her lips from trembling, to maintain an air of haughty disregard. She had even had the almost overwhelming temptation to burst into tears.

  But in the end Ginny had maintained her self-control by sheer effort of will, pushed on by her pride. She had even managed to thank Colonel Devereaux for the use of his quarters and the loan of a nightshift and robe belonging to his young wife.

  “Sometimes she surprises me by riding down here to spend a night or two with me,” he had confessed, his eyes twinkling. “A very passionate young woman for her age, my little Dona Alicia…”

  Ginny had not felt in the mood to make any comment.

  Now, the thought that she lay in the colonel’s bed, that very same bed he had shared so many times with his wife, gave her an indefinable feeling of disgust.

  What’s going to happen? What does he really intend to do? White-hot bars of sunlight slanted through the closed shutters, and imagining the heat outside made Ginny feel slightly sick. The reflected glare of the sun made her headache worse, and hearing the French bugles a few hours ago, as the soldiers drilled in the courtyard below, had done nothing to help her impression of being somehow marooned, here in this hot little room.

  Ginny sat up with an effort and reached thankfully for the small water carafe that a sullen-looking Mexican woman had left by the bed. The water was tepid and tasted horrible, but it helped the intolerable dryness of her throat.

  How absurdly theatrical this all is! Ginny thought suddenly. Any minute now, I’ll wake up and find I’ve been dreaming, and I’ll laugh and tell myself what an absurd dream it was. She was reminded forcibly of the Opera in Paris—some of those melodramatic plots that had never failed to make her giggle at their sheer improbability. But here she was, actually involved in a plot that rivalled that of any play she had watched!

  Only last night she had been married, abandoned by her husband, and arrested as a revolutionary! It was really too comical! The thought that Steve might even consider giving himself up to save her she brushed aside as being absurd. Steve wasn’t the nobly unselfish type at all. He was cold, hard, ruthless and completely calculating. By now, he was probably several miles away, congratulating himself on having arranged matters so cleverly. He’d married her and gotten rid of her—and if he happened to hear what had taken place afterwards he’d probably laugh. Yes, no doubt he’d be vastly amused to think of how the tables had been turned on her. That she would have to be the one to pay for his crimes.

  Ginny found herself wondering again what would become of her. Was this room to be her prison? Would they question her again? Was it possible that Colonel Devereaux would really go so far as to execute her as an example? No—no, of course he would not dare! Don Francisco would undoubtedly get in touch with all his most powerful friends—with her father as well. She’d be saved—but did the urbane colonel intend to give her that much time?

  She had a sudden, unwanted vision of Steve’s dark, unsmiling face—the way his hard blue eyes could suddenly soften when he was in a tender mood, or become piercing and darker when he was angry. He had been angry last night and she had been delighted to think that she might actually have made him jealous. Such a ridiculous thought. She meant nothing to him, except as a convenient plaything—an object for the slaking of his masculine desires, no more.

  There was a rattling at the door, and Ginny swung her legs over the side of the bed, reaching hastily for the robe she had tossed on the chair beside it.

  “Señora—con su permiso…”

  The Mexican woman came hurriedly into the room, telling Ginny that she must come with her at once, el colonel desired her company downstairs.

  “But—but I’m not dressed yet! My gown, where is it?”

  The gown had been taken to be pressed, and the colonel must not be kept waiting. The robe would do, and the Señora must come at once.

  Ginny was reminded, forcibly and unpleasantly, that she was, after all, a prisoner. She looked at the woman’s hard face and noticed for the first time that she looked like a female warden. That stocky, strong body, the muscular arms…no doubt she’d be dragged downstairs like a common criminal if she hesitated. Better to cling to what shreds of dignity and pride still remained.

  Although her face was flushed with humiliation and pentup anger, Ginny stood up silently and tied the sash of the robe tightly around her waist. There was no time to do more than drag her fingers through the tangled mass of her hair before the woman grasped her arm with strong, bony fingers and led her outside.

  Two French soldiers who had been standing just outside the door snapped to attention as she passed them, carefully averting their eyes from her obvious deshabille. Ginny could hear their heavy boots clattering down the narrow stairs behind her, through the sudden pounding in her ears.

  The woman opened a door, pushing Ginny ahead of her, and she found herself in a small, surprisingly bright and cheerful-looking little room, with sunshine pouring in through the windows. How incongruous it all seemed! Here was the colonel himself, informally dre
ssed in a Chinese brocade dressing gown embroidered with fierce dragons. He beamed at her over a table laden with a typically French breakfast that made Ginny’s mouth water in spite of herself. Brioche, fresh yellow butter, steaming, fragrant coffee—an enormous omelette that looked as if it had only just been brought to the table. She couldn’t believe it!

  “Ah, come in, madame, do sit down! I trust you slept well?”

  Ginny moved forward on leaden feet, hearing the door close gently behind her. What did this all mean? What was the urgency for her being dragged here so summarily?

  “It occurred to me that you might be hungry, my dear young lady—I wondered, later, if you had had the time to sit down to supper last night, after all. Come, don’t look so upset! Please do sit down, and we’ll have a nice, informal talk after we’ve eaten, eh?”

  He came around the table to pull out a chair for her; as gallantly as if they had been at some formal dinner party. Keeping her eyes fixed on him disbelievingly, Ginny sat down, her hands moving automatically to pull the robe more closely across her breasts.

  Colonel Devereaux’s eyes glittered with amusement.

  “My dear madame! Why hide such treasures? I assure you, that if I were not such a happily married man I’d do more than just gaze on your beauty, but as it is, I thought we could become friends.”

  “Colonel Devereaux!” Ginny tried to put all the scorn she could muster into her voice. “I am surprised, sir, that you would think so.”

  “But I’ve jumped to no conclusions, madame, let me assure you! You are a Frenchwoman, yes, there’s no mistaking it this morning—you’re exceptionally charming with your hair loose, if I may say so. Come, chère madame, let us have no more evasions between us, hein? There’s no need to pretend any longer that you’re nothing but a naive little American—we French are a much more intelligent and sophisticated race, are we not? We could help each other. Believe me, you’ll find the emperor’s court at Chapultepec a much more exciting place than the hacienda of Don Francisco, where you’d be followed around by a duenna….”