Sweet Savage Love

by Rosemary Rogers

  “Are those miserable vermin your railroad builders?” one of the Austrians asked. “Well, here’s part of the railroad, and I suppose those anxious-looking men are your French engineers!” another officer replied.

  “I’m surprised that any of them has the strength to lift a pick, much less one of those heavy sledgehammers!” Agnes said with a shudder. “Poor devils!”

  Ginny continued to smile at something the colonel had said. Really, she didn’t want to be bothered all day by thoughts of men chained like animals, having to work their miserable lives away in this heat! She heard Agnes say petulantly, “I do feel sorry for them, but I wish their guards wouldn’t let them stare so! Fancy, they probably haven’t seen a woman in months—and in spite of the rags and those heavy chains I’m sure they’re quite dangerous!”

  At the moment, Miguel Lopez had picked up Ginny’s hand and was kissing it. “You’re the dangerous one,” he murmured. “Who can blame any man for wanting to stare at you?”

  “And you’re far too bold!” she said, but her voice didn’t sound angry, and she was smiling when she said it.

  Well content for now, Lopez dropped her hand, but continued to ride by her side all the way into Orizaba.

  42

  The Emperor Maximilian’s little hacienda near Orizaba was every bit as beautiful as Ginny had been led to believe, with its meandering streams, great old trees and profusion of tropical vines and flowers. And yet, as the first week dreamed by, she found herself filled with a strange discontent, almost a feeling of malaise.

  After all, except for the really beautiful scenery around here, was it any different from the city? Here were the same faces, the same ceaseless round of forced gaiety. Only the emperor himself seemed withdrawn and serious—always closeted with Father Fischer, or one of his generals. He had not yet made up his mind what he would do. He spent his time in a dreamy-eyed fashion, arranging picnics for a few chosen guests, or writing endlessly in his study, leaving his guests free to amuse themselves. And Ginny found herself growing tired of this endless round of amusements.

  Michel still had not come, and she hadn’t heard anything from him—not a line! As for Miguel Lopez, he was constantly in attendance, she could not turn without finding him at her side, alternately bold, sly, sarcastic and charming. Their friends began to take it for granted that the handsome colonel would be Madame du Plessis’ escort wherever they went; whether it was to Cordoba to visit the colony of settlers from the southern United States, or to Orizaba itself—now full of foreigners and diplomats, all waiting to see what Maximilian would decide to do. Would he abdicate? Or would he decide to do what his poor Carlotta had wanted and remain as Emperor of the Mexicans without the support of the French? It would be foolish, Ginny thought, if he did anything but leave, in the face of the recent Juarista victories. But one could never tell, with poor Max. She had begun to call him that too, picking it up from Agnes. Yes, poor Max—poor vacillating man!

  Agnes was constantly nagging at her friend to do more with herself, to act more cheerful, smile more often.

  “Are you pining for your Michel? It doesn’t seem possible. You’re not in love with him are you?”

  “Oh, Agnes, of course I love Michel! Why else would I marry him?”

  “For security and a title perhaps?” Agnes threw back at her saucily. Then, catching sight of Ginny’s perturbed expression she went on more gently, “Oh, come on my love! Pray don’t look so gloomy! We’re here to amuse poor Max, aren’t we? Why won’t you let yourself be amused as well? Take a lover—perhaps that’s what you need. There’s always Miguel.”

  There was, indeed, always Miguel. She grew almost too weary of fending off his advances. He was always snatching at her hand, stealing kisses, swearing his devotion one minute and the next, chastising her for her coldness and her cruelty.

  “Are you really marrying for love, beautiful one?” he asked her one day, when they had gone out riding together. “Or is Captain Remy merely substituting for a ghost? Is that the secret of your coldness?”

  “What do you mean? You’re always talking in riddles, Colonel!”

  She looked at him almost wildly, her small teeth worrying her lower lip. His laughter was a trifle cruel.

  “Who do you think Agnes entrusted with that letter you sent to Renaldo Ortega? I’m the only person who has what you might call ‘connections’ in both camps, my dear! Don’t glare at me that way, of course I read it! All the young hidalgos in those parts are well-known Juarist sympathizers—how did I know that you were not a spy? Of course, I didn’t really know you then, did I? Since then, I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to learn as much as I can about you.”

  “You—you’re really vile! What did you hope to gain by all this—this spying into my private life?”

  Furiously, Ginny glared at him as if she hoped her looks would strike him dead. Instead they only moved him to amusement and he smiled at her, revealing perfect white teeth under his slim mustache.

  “Rage becomes you! And in answer to your question, I wanted to—shall we say—understand you better? Yes—who would have thought that the fashionable, sophisticated young Madame du Plessis once careered around the countryside as the hostage of a villainous outlaw? Or that her charms melted even this dangerous character in the end, so that he married her? Much more interesting, I thought, was the fact that you didn’t even spend your wedding night together.”

  “Stop it!” she gasped. “What do you expect to gain by all these—these revelations? I know very well what happened to me, and I choose to try and forget it!”

  “All of it, querida? Even the undying love you declared for your husband?”

  “Leave him out of it! What are you driving at with all this?”

  “I was merely trying to explain why you fascinate me. I know you’re a lady, it shows all over you. And yet, underneath—yes, what is underneath? It intrigues me to know that once you were a soldadera, a—if you’ll pardon my bluntness—little girl who had many, many unpleasant experiences forced upon her. I ask myself, is she as passionate as she seems to be when she abandons herself to wild gypsy music? Is she capable of giving herself completely and without reserve? You see how you’ve been tormenting me, Ginette!”

  She had begun to stare at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes, as if she was seeing him for the first time.

  “What kind of man are you? Don’t you have any scruples at all?”

  “When it comes to what I want—none at all, I’m afraid.”

  She suddenly kicked her heels into her horse’s side, sending it leaping forward with a bound.

  “I won’t listen to any more,” she called over her shoulder. “Please don’t bother to pursue me any longer!”

  But he followed her, still laughing.

  “We’ll see, little enigma, we’ll see!”

  So Colonel Lopez was closing in for the kill—and there was still no sign of Michel.

  As she dressed rather halfheartedly for a tertulia to be held outdoors that evening Ginny found herself wondering for how long she could continue to resist the man’s concentrated stalking of her. He must be crazy, she thought. Fancy going to such lengths to find out all about me—it’s only because he isn’t used to rejection that he continues to hound me.

  Agnes was escorted by her husband, the Prince du Salm this evening, and as Ginny descended the low stone steps that led out into the gaily-lit ornamental gardens, she saw that Miguel waited with them, his usual rather sarcastic smile flashing as he caught her eyes.

  “Isn’t it lucky that you have such a devoted admirer, darling!” Agnes said in her high voice. “You’d have had no fun at all if you moped around waiting for Michel!”

  “Ah, don’t be so cruel as to remind this vision of loveliness that she has a fiancé,” Miguel Lopez exclaimed in an exaggerated fashion. “I’m sure no one could adore her as much as I do.” He took her hand and bent over it, his lips lingering far too long, seeming to burn into her flesh. “You did promise me al
l the waltzes, did you not, madame?”

  With Agnes and her husband leading, they strolled out to join the emperor’s party.

  As she always did when she was a trifle nervous, Ginny drank too much champagne. When they danced, Miguel held her too tightly, whispering his innuendos in her ear until she felt breathless.

  “I’m beginning to think you’re afraid of me,” he whispered. “Or is it of yourself? You’re more of a challenge than any woman I’ve met before, mi alma. Won’t you let me find out if I can melt that icy little heart?”

  The light-headed feeling she always got from champagne made her laugh.

  “Oh come, Colonel Lopez! Just think how disappointed you’d really be if I gave in too easily—the hunt would lose all its savor then, wouldn’t it?”

  “Does that mean that you do intend to give in at some time? Or only that you’re playing cruel games with my devoted heart?”

  Something like a premonition seized her for just an instant and she said in a quiet voice, “I think you are the one who enjoys playing games. You frighten me just a little bit, you know!”

  He laughed delightedly, squeezing her waist.

  “That’s a good sign, little cold one. It proves, at least, that you’re not quite indifferent towards me.”

  She wasn’t quite certain how she felt about the devoted, attentive, and yes, handsome, Colonel Lopez. He never left her side once that whole evening, and later when at the emperor’s especial request Ginny kicked off her shoes and danced by the pool, she was still conscious of his eyes on her body. They seemed to watch—and to wait. But what did he want, apart from another conquest to add to his already formidable list of conquests?

  He was perfectly frank with her later, when he had seized her boldly in his arms after her dance was over; carrying her wrapped in his cloak like the prize of some medieval knight in spite of her struggles and cries of angry protest.

  “Colonel Lopez—Miguel—have you gone completely mad? Put me down—where are you taking me?”

  His voice, for once, sounded quite serious.

  “Tonight, whether you knew it or not, you danced for me, querida. You were aware of my eyes, and your body offered itself to me—teased me, challenged me. Tonight, at last I take up that challenge!”

  “Don’t—stop it!” She struggled furiously, but he only laughed. “Do you realize what this will do to my reputation? You know that all the guests—all our friends saw you carry me off in this ridiculous fashion like a…”

  The words choked in her throat when she saw where he was taking her. The tiny, deserted summerhouse they had discovered one day on one of their rides. He had said then, very casually, “What an ideal place this would be to make love! Look, the roof has fallen in, and the moon could watch…”

  He carried her inside and laid her on the improvised divan he had created there, with cushions and soft silk and velvet coverings.

  “A couch of love for a lovely courtesan—you’re a fit prize for any Eastern sultan’s harem, little Ginette!”

  She was frightened of the determination she read in his face as he slowly began to undress—and of her own weakness at this moment. Oh, if only his eyes had been a darker blue, like a stormy sky—his hair jet black like an Indian’s! Yes, then—then she would have thrown herself at him, as wild with desire as he appeared to be. Why did she always have to think of Steve when she was with another man?

  “You’re so silent—don’t be afraid. Little flower—little green-eyed gypsy!” He came to her, his voice low and ardent, and she felt his fingers against her skin, numbing her first shamed reaction of withdrawal. He mustn’t haunt me any longer, she thought wildly. I must, I have to forget him—I’ll never have him again.

  And so, with something close to a sob, Ginny gave herself to Colonel Miguel Lopez, that puzzling, persistent man. His reaction, after his breathing had slowed and he lay quietly by her side, was even more puzzling to Ginny.

  “So—it’s true after all. You’re one of those—a born courtesan. I had hoped for something different from a woman of your unusual background, Ginette!”

  “What?” She raised herself on an elbow and stared uncomprehendingly down at his set face. “What do you mean? What is wrong with you now?”

  “With me! Why nothing! Except I’m not the sort of man who likes to be fobbed off with a sugar tit—a mechanical, rather resigned bodily reaction with the mind completely uninvolved. Yes,” he added fiercely, throwing a leg over her to keep her still, “yes, little one, I, Miguel Lopez have known enough women to understand that for a woman the involvement of the mind, even a little bit, as well as of the heart, is everything. It is what adds warmth and passion to this kind of embrace. But there was no true warmth in you tonight—your dancing was a lie, just like your feigned passion!”

  “Oh!” she gasped angrily, “but you expected far too much then, Colonel Lopez! You carried me off here tonight just as if I was a prize of war! And I gave in—surely you didn’t expect more of a woman you yourself called a born cortesana! Really—your arrogance and your conceit are insufferable!”

  “And I also find it insufferable that there is so much wasted passion, such wasted potential hidden inside you somewhere, chica! No, don’t try to get free yet—at least let’s have some honesty between us now, for a change, eh? Are you capable of that much?”

  His face, with a fixed, sneering smile, seemed to loom over hers and she turned her own away.

  “Oh, Miguel, please! What more do you want of me? That I should force some emotion I can’t feel any longer? Is that what you want me to admit?”

  “Admit the truth, querida! Yes, admit it to yourself, if not to me! You are not in love with Captain Remy—if you had been you would not have left Mexico City, and you would not have played your teasing games with me. But have you ever really loved? Are you capable of it? Or is it your husband who’s spoiled you for any other man?”

  “Yes!” she cried wildly. “Yes, then, if you must know, if you will torment me! I loved him, and I still do. Is that what you had to know? Is it?”

  “So that’s the secret to your puzzle. Perhaps I should have guessed it before—there were enough clues, were there not? Half the men in the city at your feet, and you’re in love with a ghost. Or is he a ghost? Are you sure of it?”

  She stared at him fixedly, her face becoming pale. She was suddenly deathly afraid—suddenly quite positive he was going to tell her something really terrible—something she wouldn’t have the strength to face.

  “What’s the matter? You’ve gone quite white. Don’t you want to hear the good news I’m about to give you?” Miguel Lopez’s voice softened, almost to a purr of cruelty. “You ought to be grateful I’m such a softhearted fellow that I can’t bear to see a beautiful woman suffer. Prepare yourself for a pleasant shock, madame. Your husband is alive.”

  For a long time, as she continued to stare up at him, Ginny could hear the repetition of his words in her numbed brain.

  “Your husband is alive…alive….”

  She gave a sudden shriek of pure agony and began to struggle wildly under his pinioning body.

  “Oh God! Don’t lie to me! No—not about that! Why must you torment me so? I tell you I saw him die! The execution squad—I saw it, I saw it! Do you think I don’t wish I hadn’t? I prayed that I could have died too. Oh, my God, if I weren’t so weak I’d have killed myself.”

  “But that would have been such a pity, little one! Think of all the experience you’ve gained—think how joyous it will be to be reunited with this paragon of a man again! Only—” his voice grew slower and more thoughtful and she waited for the further shock she somehow knew he would deal her “—only I’m afraid that by this time there might not be much manhood left in him. I’m afraid we do not treat Juarista prisoners very well in our prisons here. Perhaps now he wishes that they had executed him!”

  43

  Steve Morgan was alive only because his body insisted upon survival. It was as simple as that.

&n
bsp; He had very few recollections of the nightmarish, jolting ride; lying manacled hand and foot in the bottom of a wagon; when he had wondered distantly, in his few moments of lucidity, why he was still alive. After a while, he had relapsed into a black delirium of pain and feverish darkness, overshot by occasional flashes of more agony. Sunlight had almost blinded his eyes once; another time, someone bent over him—hands touched his back, intensifying pain, and he heard, with shame, his own scream of agony resounding in his ears as the blackness swallowed him up again.

  Later, as his body began to heal and some power of understanding returned to his mind, he found that he had awakened to blackness; worse than that of unconsciousness. He was in a cell, alone, and his arms and legs were still manacled with lengths of chain; his arms behind his back. The floor of his cell might have been stone—it was cold. The only movement possible to him was crawling, and even for that there was no space, for the cell was hardly wide enough to take the length of his body.

  His mind tried to remember what had happened, why he was here, but he felt too weak to make too much effort, and kept drifting off to sleep or unconsciousness. Once, during that first day of lucidity, a tin plate with some kind of slop on it that he couldn’t even see was thrust through a small opening at the bottom of the door. He heard a voice call, “If you are alive, gringo pig, you’d better eat.”

  He was suddenly very hungry. He felt the uncontrollable knotting of his belly that told of emptiness, the saliva in his dry mouth as he crawled to the plate and ate from it like a dog, uncaring about anything but the assuagement of his terrible, gnawing hunger.

  He ate, and slept again, and after a while the guards came for him and half-carried, half-shoved him down a dimly lit corridor to the prison doctor.

  “So! You’ve decided to live, eh, blue eyes? It’s a good thing you have a strong body—it’s healing well.”

  The doctor was a slim young creole in the uniform of the Imperial army. He smiled rather contemptuously under a pencil thin mustache.