Stronger Than Passion

by Sharron Gayle Beach

  “All right. Now lie still . . .”

  He untied the knot behind her head and the cloth slipped away. She licked her sore lips with a tongue that was nearly dry, like the rest of her mouth.

  “This is an outrage, Señor Malone - one which I hope you will explain!” Her voice was a husky, furious whisper.

  “I won’t. Now, listen to me, or I’ll replace the gag.”

  After pausing to test her silence, he continued. “I know that General Santa Anna wrote to you from Havana. Where are those letters? Did you keep them? Tell me the truth.”

  She stared at him in shock. Whatever she had expected, it wasn’t that! Of what importance were those half-forgotten letters?

  Obviously, of great importance. He was serious, dead serious. His eyes glittered unnaturally.

  “Santa Anna is my cousin by my marriage,” she murmured, “and a friend. Of course he wrote me letters . . . but there was no reason to keep them; they were ordinary letters, I threw them away as soon as I read them. Why would you want them?

  “Was Santa Anna your lover? Is he still?”

  “Do you mean - lover, or .. . . what do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean, no woman is that innocent; although I admit you put on a damn good act. Did you ever sleep with him? Did he ever touch you here . . .” He laid a hand directly and unconscionably on her breast.

  She cried out, the heat from his hand searing her through the thin muslin. She squirmed against the pressure, unable to do more with her hands tired above her; only to find that the friction of her movements made the sensitivity even worse.

  “Did he touch you here?” Malone persisted.

  “No! Stop!”

  “How about here?” His hand switched to her other breast.

  “No! Dios, stop . . .”

  Why was he doing this? Had he gone mad? Now, his mouth grazed hers, the touch feather-light. She turned her head to escape, blinking back tears of humiliation.

  “Did he, Señora?”

  “No, no - do you want to hear it again? No! Santa Anna was never my lover!”

  “Where are his letters?” His lips sought her once more, and the kiss this time was harder. His beard scraped her, his tongue went probing, in a way that took her breath until he stopped. His hands cradled her face, holding it still. “The letters, Christina?”

  “I don’t have them! You’ve looked, haven’t you? They’re gone, destroyed . . .”

  “Destroyed?”

  He raised up. His hands left her as well. When she looked at him, in defiance and confusion and outraged dignity, his expression was cold.

  “You destroyed the letters.”

  “I threw them away, yes. Now go! Or I’ll have you hunted and caught before you can leave Mexico!”

  “I’m sure that’s what you intend anyway.” Why was he staring at her like that - angrily, as though she were the contemptible one? His jaw was set with a kind of bitterness she couldn’t begin to understand. His attitude was now judgmental, condemning of her! When he -

  “One day, Patrona,” he said softly, sarcastically, “I hope you realize what a dangerous fool Santa Anna really is. A killing fool. But then, maybe you don’t want to know, and wouldn’t care if you did. I’ve known plenty of women like you before - only concerned with collecting ‘friends’ in high places. Although, if I were you, I wouldn’t count on Santa Anna remaining in power for long. America is going to win the war with Mexico, and Santa Anna’s going to be out of a job - if he isn’t dead.”

  He leaned against the bedpost for an instant.

  “Goodbye, Señora. And thanks for the hospitality.”

  He walked to the door, opened it, and left the room.

  Oddly, Christina didn’t even think to cry out for help until it was far too late to attempt any pursuit, and Jim Malone was long-gone.

  He had, she discovered later, taken the maid Dorotea with him. What he left behind remained intangible, but disturbing just the same.

  Chapter 3

  For the last mile, torchlight brightened the roadway. For ten miles, in four directions, soldiers patrolled the area, scaring away robbers and providing honor guards to the most distinguished travelers. Peasants lined the road in the early evening, gaping at the variety and splendor of the vehicles, while the local Indians sold food and pulque.

  They were all coming. The influential; the schemers; and the curious . . . all were en route to pay homage to the man of the moment, actually the man of many moments. Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna - the Savior of the State, once and future President; a man alternately admired and vilified, around whom controversy swirled with all the vigor he could place into the stirring. A man who seemed to typify, all at once, both the glory and the vainglory of Mexico.

  Most of the guests were invited, but some were not. They came from Mexico City, Vera Cruz and Puebla, from haciendas four days distant. As all Mexico seethed with anxiety over the war and how to wage it, as the government raged ineffectually over money and the lack of it, as the generals argued amongst themselves, and the soldiers wondered how ammunition and supplies were going to appear so they could fight at all . . . somehow, hope had to rest with Santa Anna. Everyone felt that he alone could manage to straighten things out. He had done it before - - he would do it again. Viva Santa Anna! He would drive the invaders off Mexican soil!

  Gracious El Encero, Santa Anna’s favorite abode, shone with a white-washed lustre that reflected its master’s own. Christina observed the house from several yards away through the window of the carriage, during the slow queue up the drive to the front of the house.

  Don Ignacio del Rivera, the Condé de Castillo, sat across from her, not bothering to - as he put it caustically - “gape at the show.”

  The Condé was not fond of Santa Anna, his own relation. He had always considered him vulgar.

  Yet Christina was cautiously excited at the prospect of seeing him again and basking in his charisma, which would wear on her soon but which now, after two years of deliberate seclusion from any frivolous diversion, seemed refreshing. As did the party itself, with its distinguished crush of guests. She refused to allow Don Ignacio’s disgruntled temper to spoil her enjoyment.

  She wasn’t aware the Condé was making a study of her until she turned from the window and caught him at it.

  She smiled, and reached across to take the dignified old grandee’s hand. “I am prepared for all this, really. It is time.”

  Don Ignacio’s gruffness did not conceal his concern.

  “It is time for a great many things, my daughter. Not the least of which is finding you another husband. This incident with the Yanqui has only convinced me even more. Since you refuse to live in my house, you must have another man.”

  Christina removed her hand and made a face.

  “I don’t want to marry. I only want to go out in society again.”

  “I certainly don’t blame you for not wishing to remarry, after having endured the immature caprices of my son for three years. I certainly did you a disservice in arranging your removal from Spain to marry him, didn’t I?” His slight smile was full of regretful irony. “Felipé was never enough of a man nor a master, not for you. And that was not the least of his many faults. However, this time I have a gentleman in mind for you who will look after you as you deserve.”

  “I don’t need looking after! You know that my estate is in good condition.”

  “Of course it is, my dear. You are an excellent Patrona. Yet war is coming, no matter how foolish it all is, and you need a younger man than I to protect you and defend your property. You need Luis Arredondo.”

  “Luis?” She laughed. “Luis will never remarry, either.”

  “Oh yes, he will. And it is you he wants. He wrote to me, Christina. He asked for my blessing.”

  “I can’t believe it! You misunderstood him.”

  “No, I did not.”

  Just then the carriage jolted to a stop. They had reached the house; it was time to alight.


  The Condé caught Christina’s arm before she could move, his grip strong for a seventy-year-old man. “If Luis speaks to you tonight, do not refuse him immediately.”

  “Very well. But he won’t.”

  *

  The grounds and the interior of El Encero were decorated on a military theme, and as Christina and the Condé ascended the small flight of stairs that led up to the gallery and into the entrance hall, they passed several banners proclaiming victory and a host of servants disguised as soldiers. Santa Anna had evidently spared no expense on this party; the music of an orchestra wafted in from somewhere and vied with the nosier sounds of a roving mariachi band, while all of the rooms that led off of the large foyer were brightly lit, and crowded with card tables, refreshments and huge bouquets of flowers. An inordinate amount of weaponry, however, adorned the walls, speaking reminders of Santa Anna’s present occupation.

  Christina and Don Ignacio were separated by the tide of people rushing to greet them. The Condé’s cronies and a few sycophants herded him into one of the card rooms, while Christina was carried by a voluble wave into the ballroom. Unused to crowds, and to being casually touched, she found herself overwhelmed by the fascinated attention she was receiving. She had forgotten what a social success she had been before, due more to her noble Spanish ancestry than to her marriage into a leading Mexican hidalgo family.

  The Mexican upper class had apparently either not known, at the time of her marriage, of the profound disgrace her father the Marquès had thrown his relations, or they did not care; since her bloodlines, disgraced or not, could be traced to royalty. Snobbery was rampant in this formerly colonial country. The Condé had his son . . . now, Mexican society was more than happy to welcome the widowed Christina de Sainz - formerly the Señora! Por Dios, it is the Señora de Sainz!”

  “Christina! How wonderful you look, Niña.”

  “You have neglected us for too long, too long.”

  The glad cries came at her from all sides, accompanied by hugs and kisses from ladies whom she barely remembered, and speculative salutations from gentlemen who regard her somewhat differently than they had while Felipé was still alive. Or, was that her imagination? Yet this all seemed bewildering somehow, and stifling. Hadn’t she wanted this, though? This attention, the conversation . . .

  “Christina, querida, you honor us - it is good to see you out.”

  She tilted her head up sharply, recognizing the deep masculine voice that murmured in her ear.

  “Luis!” Her forced smile widened to become genuine, pleasure making her eyes glow to a gold-dotted green. “I thought you were still off at your mines.”

  “Me? Trade this - ” one hand gestured grandly, “impressive gathering - for a few pesos of silver? Surely you know me better.”

  Luis’s smile was mocking, but his deceptively lazy gaze held only warmth as he shook his elegant head in respect. “At least you must be aware of my intense devotion - to you. Not to this.” At her laugh, he added seriously, “I knew you’d be here.” He took her arm and gradually eased her away from the eager group that surrounded her.

  Christina smiled to herself, pleased to be rescued, and happy that her rescuer was this man in particular, despite the Condé’s ridiculous words about him earlier. Luis Arredondo, Marquès de Lara y Briheuga, a widower himself, had been her friend since her beginnings here. They moved outside, onto a gallery. She leaned against a vine-clad pillar, head thrown back, white throat exposed to the night air. “I haven’t been in such a crush since Felipé’s funeral procession.”

  “Do not bring him up tonight.”

  “You never liked him, Luis. Don’t forget you admitted it once.”

  “Yes - and he died a week later. Then you refused to speak to me for months. Your feelings of guilt began then and have trapped you for two years.”

  Christina’s head snapped up and she pushed away from the pillar. “I will not quarrel with you.”

  “By all means don’t. I’ve no intentions of quarreling. I simply want to point out that the spoiled boy you were married to does not deserve the sainthood with which you’ve endowed his memory.”

  “I have not!”

  “Querida, Felipé ignored you completely! One of his fighting cocks would have made you a better husband.” Luis took her hand in both of his, rubbing at the coldness of her palm. “It is tragic that he died so young, I agree. But his own stupidity killed him. And I will be so crass as to say that you are better off now.” She tried to pull away, but he gripped her hand tighter. She glared at him with stricken eyes. He finally sighed, and released her.

  “Forgive me. I won’t speak of him anymore.”

  In the pause that followed, Luis scrutinized Christina and she allowed him to do so while she recovered her sense of equanimity. After a few moments, she looked up at his lean face and murmured, “I must go inside now, I haven’t yet spoken to our host.”

  “Santa Anna can wait a little longer. I want to tell you how beautiful you are, as I meant to when I brought you out here. When did I see you last? Six months ago?”

  She smiled. “Yes. You visited without my permission.”

  “But you were glad to see me, weren’t you?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You are lovelier now, I believe, since you have decided to come out into the world. Even in that dark dress!”

  “It is the pearls.” She wore the entire collection of Rivera pearls, consisting of six gradually lengthening ropes, two cuff bracelets, earrings and a headdress that was wound up in her dark hair, and took the place of the traditional high comb and mantilla. The pearls were worth a fortune and had once belonged to a Moorish princess. She had adorned herself with them tonight to please her father-in-law; and to enliven her simple lavender silk gown, which was the newest evening dress she possessed, but not very grand. This impromptu fiesta had caught her unprepared; it was fortunate she had recourse to magnificent jewelry.

  “As you say - perhaps.” Luis grinned down at her. “I’ll take you back inside now, if you will permit me to make one last statement.”

  At her amused and wary nod, he said softly, “I want you to enjoy yourself tonight and break as many hearts as you wish, including Santa Anna’s. But please be considerate of mine. It is yours, you know, and has been for years.”

  “Oh, come, Luis.”

  “Let’s not argue now, we can do that later in the evening when you are in more of a mood to listen to me. And you will listen.”

  “Will I?”

  “Oh, yes! I have important things to say to you, things which should have been said two years ago. They will amuse you, if nothing else.”

  “We’ll see, I suppose,” she murmured. Had Don Ignacio been correct? Did Luis intend to propose marriage?

  They had no further talk for the time being. As soon as they reentered the main Sala, which was converted into a ballroom, they emerged into a noisy crowd determined to divide them.

  Someone handed Christina a glass of iced champagne and she sipped it gratefully, responding to various introductions and re-introductions and wondering where she could find her host - and hostess, of course.

  Then a man bowed before her whom she recognized with faint dislike. Colonel Angel Manzanal; Santa Anna’s aide, and his posturing ape in everything, including an amorous interest in her. She had been forced to rebuff the colonel on two prior occasions when his attentions had become annoying.

  “The General has sent me to find you, Señora. He languishes for your company.”

  In this throng? She doubted it. But all she said was, “Then perhaps you should take me to him, Señor.”

  She excused herself from the nearest guests. The Colonel took her arm, which was disturbing enough; but as they made their way towards the rear of the Sala, Manzanal’s black eyes persisted in glancing down at her, while he paid her thoroughly outrageous compliments. Really, she would have to speak to Santa Anna about him.

  They reached the outskirts of a select grouping of more dis
tinguished company, and Christina knew that Santa Anna sat at its heart. She bowed to several rich hacendadoes, a few wealthy merchants and industrialists, a former President and several others whom she believed were members of Congress. She passed through a knot of uniformed minor generals, all talking furiously. Finally she reached Santa Anna - seated, due to the loss of one of his legs in battle, on a throne-like chair nestled in a setting of potted palms and other assorted greenery.

  He caught sight of her and broke off his conversation with a man who wasn’t in the least familiar.

  “Christina!”

  He rose laboriously, his wooden leg keeping him erect as he stood and extended his hands. “My dear cousin, welcome to El Encero! Gentlemen, this is my cousin the Señora de Sainz, who has neglected to visit me since my return, until tonight.”

  Santa Anna’s normally melancholy countenance now exuded gallantry and roguish charm. Christina curtsied, and then extended her own gloved hands, which he took and kissed, one after the other.

  “How terrible you are, my dear, to deprive me of your lovely self until now.”

  “Am I to understand that you have been unoccupied this last week?”

  “I am never too busy for my favorite cousin. And I expect you to visit me again, soon, before I leave for the capital, so that I may speak with you in private about certain things.”

  Many of the surrounding listeners smiled at that. A few turned their backs discreetly, knowing the general’s reputation with the ladies. But several gentlemen remained in a semi-circle around Santa Anna and Christina, observing them unashamedly. One of them, the smiling thin-faced man whom Santa Anna had been originally talking with, even interjected himself into their conversation.

  “I believe, Señora, that the general covets your silver,” he said in lazy, British-accented Spanish.

  Santa Anna’s smile froze. His black eyes slanted toward the Englishman. “Señor, you must not anticipate me.”

  “But I have no silver, Señor,” Christina said, hoping to avert Santa Anna’s predictable anger at the interruption. “My husband’s lone mine was used up years ago.”