Stronger Than Passion

by Sharron Gayle Beach

  “Oh? That’s not what I had understood, but then I may of course be mistaken.”

  Santa Anna spoke rather coldly. “I believe I see the British Ambassador just arriving, Señor. You must take him my felicitations.”

  Once he was gone, Santa Anna’s sullen expression brightened. “Diplomats!” He waved a hand insouciantly in the air. “Of course, we hope to have England on our side in the coming conflict.”

  That statement brought forth clamorous questions from nearby listeners about the war with America, which led Santa Anna to assume a posture of extreme dignity - possible as much through his impressive braid-laden military costume as well as his solemn expression - and reply, “My friends, my friends! Be assured that the Yanqui invaders will be swiftly and brutally driven from the hallowed soil of Mexico!”

  “Viva Mexico!” someone shouted.

  “Viva Santa Anna!”

  But one of the other generals came forward and asked, frowning, “How will you accomplish such a feat, Señor, when there is not money for war? How will you arm the troops and feed them?”

  Santa Anna stiffened. “Who needs money when the very heart of the Mexican is pure gold? We are rich, amigos, rich in spirit in loyalty, in hearts filled with patriotism. Will any true Mexican stand idly by and allow his country to be overrun by savage Norté Americanos? No! Never! We will fight, fight to the death. We will die to the last man rather than become the slaves of the enemy!”

  Some cheers greeted this speech, yet the response was mixed, for this was no audience of simple-minded peasants, to be swayed by oratory. But a mainstream feeling of optimism seemed to brighten the atmosphere, expanding throughout the house as Santa Anna’s words were circulated and passed on. Everyone present knew that despite the general’s propensity for grandiosity, his specialty was in performing the feat of raising and equipping soldiers on nothing but his own will. He had done it before; he would do it again!

  Then came a quiet British-accented voice from somewhere behind Christina. “Is it true that the Norté Americanos allowed you through the blockade on some secret promise?”

  Santa Anna scowled, and just as swiftly smiled again. “That is a terrible rumor, no doubt begun by them.” He was obviously attempting to spot the man who had spoken. “The Yanquis respect me completely and are fully aware of the consequences to be expected on my return. In fact,” he improvised, still unable to discover the man, “I recently uncovered the truth to a plot contrived by Gringo fanatics to assassinate me in Havana.”

  “How fortunate that you were permitted to leave,” Christina murmured. “How fortunate for Mexico.”

  His glance turned to her. “You are quite right, cousin. It seems the Yanquis are convinced that only I, as Commander-in-Chief of our armies, can foil their conquering plans. Would that my countrymen believed the same!”

  Various soothing affirmations of support came from several gentlemen present. Santa Anna’s calculating gaze gave up the search for his unknown critic and, for the moment, forsook his audience to return fully to Christina.

  “Now tell me, my dear, how you go on. Your letters were too brief. And is there any truth to the wild rumors my servants tell me about a captured Yanqui in your house?”

  Nervously, Christina prepared to answer him, when the crowd parted to allow the presence of Santa Anna’s young, bejeweled wife, Doña Maria Dolores.

  Santa Anna immediately lost his train of thought as he re-introduced his wife to Christina; and she was thankful of it. She did not want to speak of Jim Malone tonight, or ever! The entire episode was an annoying and deeply embarrassing memory which she hoped one day to forget.

  Unfortunately, forgetting Malone was not to prove so easy, even in the midst of a large party.

  Christina left the Santa Annas and moved off to find another cool drink. Aggravatingly, Colonel Manzanal followed her, offering his assistance in procuring some refreshments. She cast her gaze around the room, searching the crowd for Luis, or Don Ignacio, or anyone else she knew who could intimidate Manzanal away . . .

  And then she saw him. But it could not possibly be him. It didn’t really look like him, and yet . . .

  “Who is that gentleman?” she demanded.

  “Your pardon, Señora?”

  ‘That gentleman over there - talking with Don Gutierrez. The man in gray. I wish to know who he is.”

  Manzanal squinted in the direction she pointed out. “He is an Englishman, I believe. He arrived with the Ambassador’s party. His name is Lord Michael Brett.”

  “Present me to him.”

  Without bothering to notice whether Manzanal followed, Christina wove her way over to where the Englishman stood.

  She inserted herself into the low conversation between the Don and the Englishman.

  Pardon, Señor Gutierrez, but may I congratulate you on your daughter’s novitiate? My father-in-law, the Conde de Castillo, has just informed me of the happy event. She has entered the Convent of the Magdalenes, has she not?”

  Don Gutierrez beamed down on Christina with eyes both sad and proud. “Si, my daughter Elena has left me. I wish her great joy.”

  “As do we all,” Christina added.

  “My felicitations, Señor,” Manzanal interposed, having caught up. “Are you enjoying yourself, my Lord?” He turned to the watching Englishman.

  Christina took this chance to face the man directly and study him up close, as he replied to Manzanal. The man was tall, taller even than Luis Arredondo. He was lean, but strongly boned, and clean shaven; she was able to watch the play of expression on his countenance as he answered the Colonel’s query in heavy, British-accented Spanish. It was there, but not there . . . the resemblance that Christina sought, that had struck her with amazing force as she first glimpsed him across the room. Was that a small scar on his forehead, half-hidden by a falling lock of hair?

  *

  “Allow me to make known to you the Doña de Sainz y Sequenza Cabra, a cousin of our illustrious host,” Manzanal intoned pompously.

  “Señora. I am Lord Michael Brett, lately of Great Britain.” He bowed, no stiffness in his movements, bluish-gray eyes friendly and open. No wariness or t he slightest recognition in them at all.

  “Señor. I do hope you find Mexico as beautiful and hospitable as I do.”

  “Indeed yes, Señora,” he said, his deep voice mangling the Spanish. “I do so love the climate. So different from London, you know. Never rains here. People are charming.”

  His dark hair was neatly cut, he appeared clean, and well-groomed. Actually, he seemed young, especially when he smiled so ingenuously. No, she had been completely mistaken. This handsome Englishman could never be taken for the surly, hard-faced American she had once nursed, and kept prisoner . . .

  “You must visit Chapultepec, Señor. The castle and its views are magnificent.”

  “I look forward to it, Señora. I intend to see and to admire everything.”

  Christina nodded, congratulated the Don again, and moved off. She was puzzled, mainly at herself. Why had she done that? What had she seen in such an ordinary man that had for a moment nearly convinced her he was her missing American?

  Perhaps the strain of the last week had eroded her faculties of observation. There was no resemblance, except possibly a superficial one. The two men shared the same build, the same coloring. Other than that, they were as different as she and Don Ignacio’s fat daughter.

  “Señora . . .” It was Manzanal, calling after her.

  Por Dios, how was she to get rid of the persistent Colonel?

  He approached, and she sighed silently. Then she reached up and patted the smooth sides of her upswept hair. “Colonel, I am sure that my hair needs attention. Could you perhaps direct me to the ladies’ retiring room?”

  “At once, Señora, although may I point out that the Señora’s hair is extremely lovely.”

  “Gracias, Colonel. The retiring room is this way?” She headed in what she hoped was the right path through the guests, many
of whom were dancing. The musicians were stationed on a dais near the west terrace, and they sounded quite good . . . Christina heard the early strains of a Viennese waltz being played.

  “Querida, I’ve been searching for you for an hour.” The plaintive voice came from somewhere to her left.

  “Oh, thank God, it’s you,” she muttered fiercely, finding Luis and giving him a slanting look. “You do remember Colonel Manzanal,” she said louder, inclining her head toward the Mexican.

  “Naturally.” Luis’s ironic face could take on a chilly expression when he desired it. Combined with his height and aristocratic name, he made a formidable figure. Especially to a mere Mestizo hoping to rise in the world.

  Manzanal bowed and murmured a greeting.

  “You will excuse us, Colonel?” Luis said. “The Señora has promised me this waltz.”

  Manzanal stared with narrowed eyes as the Marquès led her away.

  *

  The waltz was beautiful, and the swirling movements, combined with the flashing sight of the other colorful dancers and Luis’s easy conversation, all combined to soothe Christina’s taut sense of agitation. How comforting Luis was as he talked lightly to her of Mexico City gossip, the war balls being planned there, and his recent mining difficulties. Luis was not strictly handsome, but his face always displayed intelligence and strength, and of course, good breeding. They were actually well-matched, Christina thought for the first time. If she were ever to contemplate remarrying, why not Luis?

  They danced two dances, which was slightly improper, but pleasantly enjoyable. When Luis at last led her from the floor, she asked him to procure her a glass of champagne.

  He eyed a determined-looking group of gentleman who were gathered nearby, apparently waiting for Christina.

  “I am yours to command, querida. But fear my wrath if you run away.”

  A former compadré of Felipé’s came forward to greet the Marquès and to compliment Christina. He was followed by others. Luis was about to depart for the champagne table, grinning at Christina’s aloof air which he suspected covered an inherent shyness, when he abruptly stilled.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  Christina glanced at him, trying to pay attention to both Luis and the young caballero who addressed her on her left.

  “He’s got courage, no doubt.” Luis smiled as if at a joke. “Who would believe that there’s a Texan in our midst; or, rather, an Americano?”

  Christina followed Luis’s fascinated gaze across the room towards the main entranceway. Then her heart stopped. One of the men standing in conversation by the door was the tall man in gray - the Englishman!

  “Who is an American?” she hissed a Luis, feeling her skin grow hot and her temples start to pound.

  “The man speaking to General Solis. He has a rancho somewhere in Texas, I believe. An astute man, for a Yanqui. I wonder what he’s doing here? But I suspect he’s leaving now, so I won’t get to ask - or to congratulate him on his bravery.” Even as the words were spoken, the man slipped into the foyer and out the front door.

  “What is his name?” she whispered.

  “Michael Brett. He once considered buying an interest in my silver mines. He was my guest for several days.” He gave her arm a pat before he released it. “Young Espelata is talking to you, chica. You could at least look at him.”

  Then Luis moved off, believing he left Christina safely occupied with her court of young men.

  Lips barely moving, she excused herself from them and was away before anyone could stop her.

  All she could think of was that she must follow Brett! Nothing else penetrated her mind yet, thanks to the incredible jolt of shock which allowed her to erect shields against any further thought.

  She instinctively charted a course through the company which led her into the foyer, and then she rushed onto the gallery, and down the front steps onto the lawn.

  Where had Brett - or Malone, she was certain now - disappeared to? She spun around, uncaring that servants and guests alike stared at her. The mariachi band played off to her left, and couples danced a fandango out in the flower-perfumed air, beneath the stars. Curving in front of her was the brick drive, lined with carriages and gossiping grooms. A lone diligence had detached from the distant rear of the drive, and was coming forward. To pick up someone? Who?

  Then she saw the dark figure of a man standing off to her right, beneath a large, spreading tree. He appeared to be watching the approaching diligence.

  She walked towards him, her steps soundless in the grass. But he must have sensed her. He turned, slowly, to observe her as she drew near.

  Unafraid, knowing only that she despised this man, that he had humiliated her and made a fool of her and all but assaulted her, that he had thrown her kindness in her face and run off with her maid . . . she went straight up to him in the darkness and said, “Señor Malone?”

  And then she raised her palm and slapped him. Hard, across the face.

  His hands shot out to grab her, pulling her deeper into the concealment afforded by the big tree.

  Are you crazy Señora?” he snarled angrily.

  She recognized the voice. Dios, it really was him!

  “I was crazy before, crazy not to have called for Santa Anna when you lay helpless in my house - and had you hauled off the prison!”

  “Lower your voice.”

  “I won’t! In fact, I . . .”

  His hands closed over her mouth, in a replay of that hideous night in her bedroom. “I don’t have the time to stand here making conversation, Señora,” he murmured into her ear. “I’m leaving. Leaving Mexico, in fact. Now, I don’t want to take you with me - or strangle you and leave you lying here beneath this tree. Will you cooperate for an hour or so, long enough for me to get into this diligence and go a few miles down the road, without raising any alarm? Or must I resort to drastic measures to keep you quiet?”

  I can’t let him escape again, she thought feverishly. He was obviously a clever spy of some sort; and he must have discovered something important here tonight while in the midst of all these loose-talking people, if he was leaving for America to report his progress . . .

  Her body was pressed against his, and now, as before, his closeness terrified her. How could she think when his arm was clasping her so tightly that she felt his breathing against her partially-bared back? How could she make any kind of rational plan, when the warmth of him was penetrating her dress, her skin, dominating her mind, pushing her into panic? If he would just let her go *

  “Well?”

  His hand eased off her mouth and slid down, grazing the exposed tops of her breasts in its descent to her waist. Involuntarily, she shrieked.

  The hand clamped back in place, cutting off her cry. She knew then he was taking her scream for an answer. She fought his grip, struggled against the strength which refused to give way and allow her the chance to shriek again. She was fighting for her freedom now, or perhaps even her life; and he was just as determined to hold her and keep his own. She supposed struggling would do her no good. And, in the end, it didn’t.

  She was picked up and swiftly bundled into the open side door of the diligence, out of view of anyone except the driver; who was obviously in his pay. Malone piled inside on top of her. Then the diligence started off, gathered speed, and departed El Encero . . . without any of the laughing guests suspecting who might be inside.

  Santa Anna’s reception continued, unabated, minus the Señora de Sainz. And, of course, Lord Michael Brett, alias Jim Malone.

  Chapter 4

  He explained the rules to her in a voice that was tight and precise, not quite English and not simply American. Whoever he had been before, whether the uncivil Gringo or the impetuous British Lord, he was neither of them now.

  “You may consider yourself a prisoner of war. Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not attempt to escape. I have no plans to use this gun on you, Señora - but please believe me when I tell you I will, if you give me any reason to do s
o.”

  She had no difficulty in believing him. The shutters were drawn on the diligence, but the light affixed to the outside of the swaying vehicle shone through the slats and onto his face . . . as cold and unnerving as the bluish eyes that watched her.

  Seated across from her, he held in his lap the same pistol he had produced as soon as they entered the diligence. She didn’t care for the direction in which it lay pointed.

  “You are going to hang for this.”

  He shrugged, and almost smiled. “I think I’d prefer it to a quiet death at home.”

  He was insane, he had to be. He would never manage to abduct her and get away with it - not in Mexico! Even now, as the diligence with its uneasy local driver hurtled them away from El Encero, she would be missed. Luis was probably furious, searching the house, questioning everyone. Someone would tell him they had seen her outside; someone else, maybe a servant, would have noticed her leave . . .

  “So satisfy my curiosity, Señora,” he said in a more relaxed tone. “What made you change your mind about recognizing me? I was sure I had fooled you earlier, when we were re-introduced.”

  He had the audacity to grin at her, in contrast to his former sternness, as casually as though they were two guests conversing in a drawing room. Had he no sense of danger at all? What did he intend to do with her? His easy acceptance of his drastic action in kidnapping her must mean he had decided something.

  She was in no mood to play his game, whatever it was. “Where is my maid, Dorotea?”

  “On her way to Mexico city, with several hundred pesos. You have no reason to worry about her, if you ever really did. Now how about answering my question?”

  She stared at him mutinously. His eyes narrowed at her determined silence.

  “If you don’t want to talk, Christina, perhaps we can find something else to do for the next thirty-five miles.”

  He leaned forward and laid a hand on her knee, fingers caressing the silk that covered it over her petticoats.

  She jerked her knees away from him and pressed closer to the side of the diligence. “A man who knows you identified you as an American. A Texan, in fact, which is worse!”