Stronger Than Passion

by Sharron Gayle Beach

  “There’s no need for sarcasm, Christina; I’m well aware of that. I’ll buy you dresses.”

  “I want a companion, as well! I won’t travel any farther with you alone.”

  “Oh, won’t you?” He stepped closer. She stood firm, refusing to press herself against the wall.

  “You’re in no position to make demands, love.”

  As he looked at her, his light eyes darkened to the same glinting surface of the sea outside. He touched her face, his rough hand sliding along her chin. “Unless, of course, you want to bargain with me.”

  “I don’t.” The coldness of her tone gave the two words more force. His hand dropped away, but on his terms, his level gaze said; not hers.

  He shrugged and turned away, walking back to the door.

  “We’ll drop anchor in a few hours,” he said, glancing back at her, one hand on the knob. “Be ready to go. We’ll head straight for a hotel, where you’ll stay until we board a steamer, tomorrow or the day after. And I don’t plan to give you the chance to make any trouble, so you can forget any crazy ideas abut running away.”

  After he was gone, she cursed him - using new words learned from Mark. At least this voyage was proving educational.

  *

  It wasn’t until dark that Brett finally came for her. Blinking in the early evening lantern light. Christina wished she possessed a mantilla or a reboza to wear against the warm coastal breeze - and the curious gazes of the assembled sailors on the Lady Jane’s deck, and in the jolly boat that rowed them to shore. Michael seemed oblivious to all the stares, and even to her company. His eyes roved the harbor and its moored boats with an assessing gleam. An unapproachable stranger, he looked off, dark hair blowing in the wind, jaw line set ruthlessly.

  Once they reached the dock and were assisted ashore, Michael’s attention returned to the present. He took Christina’s arm when her balance faltered due to unsteady legs; he guided her to a waiting mule-drawn valenta, and helped her inside. Then he turned, peering into the shadows, where Christina barely made out the figures of three or four persons; and he smiled. Immediately, a feminine voice called out in English.

  “Was you wantin’ something, Honey?”

  Michael moved forward and leaned against a signpost.

  “That depends. Let me see you - all of you.”

  Into the murky light came a group of women, all with high-piled hair and simpering faces. Christina had seen their like before, parading on other wharves in other cities; she knew what they were, But she had never been so close to one of the creatures. She sat frozen, unable to believe Brett would solicit one before her very eyes!

  The boldest of them stepped out from the rest. She was dark, with large, ruby-red lips; probably a Zambo, of Negro and Indian origin.

  “So, Señor, you like what you see?”

  Michael seemed to consider. Then he reached a hand into his waistcoat pocket and jiggled some coins. “I have good money here for any of you ladies desiring a little honest employment. The job involves travel and is conducted in a basically upright position.” He grinned at their pouts, and waited. One of them wandered off, another of them snorted. But a small figure who had been standing behind the rest crept forward.

  “I be looking for a regular job, M’lord” she whispered.

  Michael focused on her. Pale, plain, freckled face, some kind of reddish-colored hair. Dressed in a high-necked gown that looked hot and much-worn, but was probably of English make.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Penny, M’lord.”

  “Because that is all any man will pay her!” the dark girl sang out.

  “Tis not! Me Mum named me Penny on account of me copper hair!” She glared at the Zambo with both fists clenched until the girl backed away. Then she turned towards Michael, her stance again reverting to shyness.

  He was amused. “Well, Penny, what do you say to traveling to America?”

  “Am I to be maid to her ladyship there?” she asked.

  “That’s right. The position is yours if you want it.”

  Penny looked from Michael to the open valenta where Christina sat horrified. Then she smiled - a wide, gap-toothed, eye-crinkling grin. “I always wanted ter be a real lady’s maid. Aye, M’lord, I accept yer position.”

  “Very good. You may attend her ladyship at the Alvarado paseo two blocks east. We’ll leave for American as soon as I am able to book passage.”

  “Thank you, M’lord. I can’t say as I’ll be sorry to leave this hell-hole!”

  Michael turned away, grinning, and climbed into the valenta beside Christina. He gestured to the driver, who flicked the reins gently until the mule started off, at a slow walk.

  *

  Christina refused to speak to Brett during the short trip to the hotel.

  A prostitute! He had engaged a puta as her maid!

  But when Penny came to her later that night, as she sat locked inside a small bedroom, Christina hadn’t the heart to refuse the anxious girl’s services. Penny was so eager to be of help that Christina felt her rage soften. Particularly after hearing the girl’s account of being duped by a fiancé into leaving London for Havana, only to be heartlessly betrayed, and left there alone. According to Penny, a life on the streets was her only recourse.

  Christina was dubious about that part of the story, but skipped any further questions. At least her new maid was feminine company. And to Christina, used to being surrounded by women. Penny’s presence made her captivity seem less sordid.

  She never knew exactly what Michael told Penny regarding his keeping her prisoner. He must have said something, since Penny knew that the two of them were locked into her room at the paseo and only she was ever allowed to go out. But Christina was unable to discuss her situation with the English girl. Whether due to pride or embarrassment, she couldn’t say, even to herself.

  The day after their arrival in Havana, Michael gave Penny money and sent her out to buy clothes. She returned with shining eyes, displaying her purchases as if she had created them herself. Christina hid her dismay well. Penny, ignorant as she was about fashion for a lady of quality, had bought only the richest fabrics and brightest colors for her new mistress. One dress was red silk, another blue merino wool, and a third striped green tarlatan. A traveling suit of burgundy velvet was the only subdued costume in the new wardrobe. At least the clothes were all European cut and must have been expensive, even if they were ready made. The matching bonnets were intricate and a trifle too fancy. Christina saw herself arrayed in the red silk in her looking glass and winced.

  Penny had also purchased toiletries, shoes, undergarments, and a sewing kit. She knew the rudiments of sewing, and went to work altering the clothes to fit Christina’s slender form, chattering about her experiences in the dress shops. The day had obviously been one of the most pleasurable that Penny had ever spent. Christina controlled her distaste for the flashy garments with a restraint she would never have shown to Maria Juana, or any other servant. Loneliness had improved her sensitivity to others!

  *

  It was almost with equanimity that Christina found herself with Penny and an amazingly respectable-looking Michael Brett, boarding a large steamer the next day. She and Penny were ensconced in a first-class cabin, Christina under the usual orders not to leave it. Brett had, he informed her with evil amusement, told the ship’s staff that she was suffering from a brain fever and must never be disturbed.

  During the six days it took the steamer to reach America and continue along its under populated coast to the Port of Charleston, Christina scarcely saw Brett - for which she was thankful. If only that state of affairs could continue until he gave up his ridiculous ideas of using her to further the American cause, and sent her home!

  She found that she missed her land and her people. She was as devoted to her estate, and its residents to her, as she had become to the convent in which she had been brought up and to its nuns, which became her family. The nuns had raised her in loyalty t
o the church and to their order, and in a sense of family pride; which had nothing to do with the fact that her father had lost his and become involved in treasonous activities against the legal Spanish monarchy in favor of an usurper. Christina felt her duty to her hacienda deeply, and hated Michael Brett, and America as well, for ripping her from it.

  In the provincial town of Charleston, they left the steamer and boarded an American Clipper, a fast, sleek vessel that sped them up the coast, hugging the land as it sailed. Christina thanked God for Penny, whose continued chatter over the strange sights out the porthole kept her from much thought of their eventual destination. Yet, when the ship entered the Chesapeake Bay and, finally, the busy Potomac River, which would take them to Alexandria, the port nearest Washington, uncertainty made her temper sharp.

  Michael Brett entered their small cabin as the ship docked, late in the evening. He sent Penny away, leaving Christina to feel an awful sense of dread.

  She waited for him to speak while he studied her. This was another Michael Brett - grimmer than before, all pretenses thrown away, no kindness or humor in his again unshaven face.

  “Christina. We’re about to take a skiff over to Washington. I have a town home there, in a neighborhood called Georgetown. You’ll stay there until I can think of a safer place to put you. Safer for you, I mean, there’s a lot of anti-Mexican feeling in this town. If your connections were to spread, I might not be able to protect you from something unpleasant.”

  “You’re trying to scare me.”

  “Yes, I am! Now, listen. I am going to speak to the President and one of his aides about you. They will want to question you. If you cooperate fully, and answer their questions - or answer mine, which I intend to ask you myself - then I will guarantee your return to Mexico soon. If you do not, I can’t even promise that you won’t end up in prison. As I said, there is a war going on, and unfortunately you happen to be caught up in it. Do you understand me?”

  Coldness made a mask of her features in the dim light.

  “Certainly, Señor. But I am afraid I won’t be able to tell you or your President anything.”

  “Damn your stubbornness,” he said harshly.

  “You shouldn’t have brought me here.”

  “Maybe not. But you’re here now, and I intend to make the best of it. In more ways than one, Señora, believe me!”

  She did. When he grasped her arm to lead her from the cabin, she shivered - and not from the chill that blew in off the Potomac.

  Chapter 6

  Whatever Christina expected as she approached the lair of so degenerate a man as Michael Brett it was not this - a conventional town home in a quiet neighborhood, replete with an enigmatic British butler who answered Brett’s demanding knock in a plaid silk dressing gown.

  Further surprises were to come. Penny, standing closely behind Christina in the spacious hall which they had entered, uttered a stifled gasp at the elegant surroundings revealed by the butler’s raised candelabra; and Christina, had she not retained more control, might have followed. Who would have expected that so crude a man as Brett might live in a home of such expansive good taste? Not she, certainly! Yet from the marble squares on the floor to the pastoral landscapes on the walls, this home seemed furnished in the first style of elegance.

  Noticing his two guests’ evident surprise, Michael Brett raised one sardonic black eyebrow.

  “Were you expecting a shanty? Washington is not exactly a wilderness; is it, Hager?”

  The butler, a much shorter man, cleared his throat. “Perhaps not precisely a wilderness, sir. May I offer you and the ladies some refreshment while I see to your rooms?”

  Michael grinned. “Hager comes from a much grander place and believes this to be a land of barbarians. No doubt you would agree with him, Christina.” His eyes flickered over her, and lingered for a moment. She raised her chin in silent response to his scrutiny and met his gaze straight-on until he ended it himself. “Hager, you may serve the ladies whatever they desire in the upstairs sitting room. I will see to myself, and then I am going out. In the meantime - ” He turned to take Christine firmly by the arm and lead her into the darkness of what was probably a drawing room.

  His voice now came low and hard. “I’m going to tell you this once more, for your own good. Are you listening?”

  She winced from the pressure on her arm. “Yes. Let go of me.”

  “In a minute. I want you to remember this.” His eyes bored into her in the dimness. “I will treat you as a guest in this house if you agree to behave as one. You will make no attempt to leave without my permission; you will not tell my servants anything about yourself or your background. There will be no scenes, no accusations, no running. In return, I will not lock you inside your room and you will have the respect of my household. Do you understand? Do you agree?”

  Christina hesitated, despite the increased grip on her arm. What was behind his sudden generosity? Did he intend to trick her into an escape? Did he feel more sure of her now that he had her in Washington? Or was he regretting his callous treatment of her these past weeks?

  Whatever his motivations, she would appreciate not suffering the humility of being locked up in front of that very correct butler. Besides, who knew what possibilities might come her way given the freedom of Brett’s house?

  In the shadowy drawing room, she nodded. “Yes. I give you my word that I won’t make trouble.”

  As if surprised at her capitulation, he relaxed his taut body. “I’m glad you’re being sensible. Now, if you’ll only remain that way during questioning, I can guarantee to have you home soon.”

  “But you have already questioned me! I’ve told you I know nothing of Santa Anna’s business!”

  “Hush. I’m not the man you have to convince any longer - there’ll be others. Now, run along upstairs with Hager; he’ll present the other servants shortly, I’ve no doubt. Just try to act like the lady you claim you are. And remember this . . . I’ll have the house watched. Just in case you renege on your word.”

  “Have I told you how much I hate you?” she whispered as he pushed her back into the hall, but he only laughed.

  * * *

  Later, when Christina lay in a sumptuous Regency-style bed in the stillness of a room which did not sway with the monotonous movements of the sea, there was time for all the absurdities and anxieties of her present situation to creep in on her.

  Michael had gone out, as he had said; she’d watched him stride off in his typical impatient way from the bedroom window. The curiosity in her mind had followed him into the dark distance. Where was he going this late at night? Did it concern her - or was he looking up old friends? Were they men, or women?

  That thought vexed her in some insoluble way. Of course she did not care who he went to visit, at nearly midnight; unless he was busy reporting her to the officials who might, perhaps, come here and take her away.

  She wondered if she could stand prison. A real prison, cold and dirty and rat-infested and hopeless. Not to be compared with her present rose-and-gold surroundings, sweetly smelling of wax and the warmth of a stove, where she had but to ring for a servant to see to her every need. Was she capable of leaving here, after all, where she felt physically comfortable, at least, and voluntarily submitting to genuine imprisonment? Might she not, if threatened, answer all her interrogators’ questions either with real knowledge or invented facts? Could she do any real harm to Santa Anna or the Mexican people by anything she had to say?

  The image of her father-in-law, the Condé, stiff-backed and austere, his innate kindness well-hidden, appeared in her mind, followed by the varied faces of her estate workers. They depended on her, had faith in her, all of them, even the old Condé. Did she want to see them overwhelmed, overrun, perhaps even killed, by these brash Americans she was now among? If Michael Brett, whatever his ancestry, was a fair example of the ruthlessness of Americans, could she afford to tell them anything which might forward their cause over Don Ignacio’s and Luis’s?


  The picture of a defeated Mexico, humbled and burned, haunted her until it overwhelmed the more immediate vision of an American prison. She reaffirmed, after hours of sleeplessness, that whatever happened she could not betray the Mexicans who had taken her in and made her a home. Somehow, she must not aid the Americans. She must remain strong enough to resist them until they either returned her home or she seized some opportunity to escape.

  Yet, it was not of Mexico nor of escape that she was thinking when there were sudden noises downstairs, but of their probable instigator. So, he had decided to sleep in his own bed after all! Apparently whomever he had visited had declined to offer hospitality for the entire night.

  Strangely irritated despite her fatigue, her body moved restlessly in the bed as she listened to heavy footsteps on the stairs. Where was Michael’s room anyway? Due to the lateness of their arrival, and her desire for solitude, she had refused Hager’s kind offer of a tour of the house, and had merely nibbled a light supper in her room before retiring. Penny, she knew, had gone downstairs to the servant’s quarters. Michael, she supposed, had a bedroom somewhere near her own.

  When the footsteps paused outside her door, her breathing nearly stopped. Surely, por Dios, he would not force his way in here! He had never once attempted to molest her during the journey. But now in his own home . . .

  For a suspended second, she heard nothing. Then the knock came. Softly; almost a scratching. Had she been asleep, she would not have been awakened.

  She rose from the bed, clutching the spread around her shoulders in lieu of a dressing gown, one of the civilized niceties that Penny had failed to provide her. She approached the closed door. Opened, just a crack.

  She smelled him first. Tobacco and whiskey, and something else, more indefinable. Musky. “What do you want?” she hissed.

  “Damned if I know.” His voice was low and puzzled. Then he laughed, harshly. Was he drunk? “Oh yes, I do. I wanted to tell you something. Mind if I come in?”

  “Certainly I mind! It’s scarcely dawn yet, and I’m not dressed - ” but he was not listening. He pushed the door open wider, and inserted himself inside the room, forcing her backwards. His presence - well over six feet in his spurred boots - imbued the formerly gracious space with a dangerous masculinity. In the darkness, he loomed over her, powerful and alien. She stood subdued, caught by his effrontery and speechless.