“You’ll have to forgive my manners, Señora,” he said sarcastically. “But I’ve been out all night, and I just wanted to make sure you were still here before I went to bed.”
“Of course I’m here! I gave you my word, remember? And you said you had something to tell me.”
“Just that I’ve spoken to one of the President’s aides about you, and you can expect a visit from him soon. Maybe tomorrow - today - or maybe not.”
It was plain he was choosing his words with care, and there could be no doubt he was indeed drunk. He was disgusting! And getting him out of her room, without his causing a violent scene, would be a difficult task.
“Couldn’t we discuss this later in the day? I’m really quite tired now.”
“But you were awake.” His tone softened and roughened at the same time. “Why? Were you waiting up for me?”
“Hardly.” She clutched the patterned spread more tightly to her neck. “You woke me as you came up the stairs. Why don’t you go to your own room now, and leave me in peace?”
He seemed not to have heard her. She could tell, in the gradually lightening room, that he was smiling. His eyes were half-closed and alarmingly speculative. He walked a step closer. She backed up against the foot of the bed.
“What’s that you’re wearing?” he asked.
“It’s no concern of yours. I’ll thank you to leave the room.”
“Oh, I’ll go. In a minute. There’s something I’ve been curious about, though, ever since I’ve known you.”
“Oh?” Her heart was thudding, in fright and in confusion. He must leave now, he must! “I’m not interested in your curiosity. I want you out of here.”
“I’m sure you think you do, querida. But do you really? Is your coldness inside, as well as out . . . or are you just a damned good pretender? Did you freeze-up this way with Santa Anna, with your husband, with Luis Arredondo - or is it only with me?”
“I find you offensive,” she spat as contemptuously as she could. But she knew her voice was shaking, as was her body. She couldn’t let him say such things to her, couldn’t listen to his hateful, uncalled-for words. He had no right to be here, no right to insult her!
“Do you really, Christina?”
He sounded doubtful, and came even closer. She moved away and was caught. Trapped, in his arms, in his frustrating, lethal embrace. Her covering was jerked away. Her exposed flesh in the thin night-shift went at first cold, and then uncomfortably, unbelievably warm. He pressed her to him, to feel her softness crushed against the varying textures of his clothes - rough, and hard, and in places smooth. His hand went to her loosened hair, to feel it, too, and then to her cheek; possessively, uncaringly, as though she were a coveted and seized article to be fondled merely for the pleasure of having.
When she struggled, she reminded him there was a thinking being inside the object he held. He murmured, more in the way of an impatient order, for her to be still. Then his mouth went searching for hers and took it, too.
She had never been kissed in this way, never - as though he was testing her and teasing her and enjoying her all at once, the taste of her increasing his appetite insatiably. And so a man must kiss a whore. There was no perfunctory reverence here, as she had received from Felipé, as any reputable man might offer his wife. Here was hunger. And pleasure. And demand.
His hands moved down her back and over her curves, noting them and knowing them. Then one hand rose again to pass over her shoulders and insinuate itself between them. When it took her breast fully, the heat of it shocked her into an outrage greater than any she could imagine - into that, and the dissolving, disintegrating, completely unsettling little curl of something that might be desire, which streaked through her in the manner of a chill.
Michael knew it, too; she could tell by his quietening. He knew he had moved her. His caressing turned languorous; his voice in her ear was a coaxing breath.
“I’ve waited for you, Chrissie, longer than I ever remember waiting for a woman before. Why not give in, and enjoy yourself? You may not like me much, but that doesn’t have to matter when there’s wanting.”
“You don’t know what I want . . .”
“Oh yes, I do. It’s been a long time for you, hasn’t it darling?”
Yes, a long time. In fact, forever! Felipé had never been able to force feelings like this to life inside her. Why, in God’s name why, did it have to be him? Why was it Michael Brett, the man she most despised in the world, who knew how to touch her just so, and produce the indescribable sensations now pricking her like pleasurable needles? And she was curious, wasn’t she, to see where they would lead?
He was guiding her onto the bed. She was beginning to perspire - - there was moistness on her forehead, between her breasts, she could feel it in a rush, between her legs. He would make her sick, she was sure of it. Her entire being was hot. But he would remove her shift, wouldn’t he, if she asked him to?
It was the thought of her nakedness that quelled the furor in her body and her mind. No, she would not find herself unclothed in the same room with him or any other man. And she would not allow him to trick her into abandoning her virtue and her self-respect, only to throw it in her face later as he offered her easy surrender to him as proof of her supposed affair with Santa Anna!
She must have been driven temporarily insane by his assault. To think that she, a descendent of European royalty, had been overwhelmed by the abased touch of a pitiless renegade! There was no excuse for her conduct, no justification for her shamelessness. She had permitted this man that she absolutely hated and distrusted to kiss her and caress her intimately. Yes, she was mad.
He had released her to begin undoing his own clothes, and she seized the opportunity to get up and move away.
“That’s enough. Leave my room, Señor, at once - or I will scream for your butler, and half the neighborhood, as well!” She spoke in Spanish, her vehemence punctuated by her low, determined tone.
Shirt buttons undone, hands at his waistband, he squinted at her in the improving light. “I’ve been in here for quite a while. Why bother to scream now? Or to pretend you don’t want me to stay?”
Instead of replying, she moved to the door, as far from him as possible, still clad in her white shift and long, dark hair. His gaze followed her, and his expression was dangerous.
“Why did you let me kiss you, Señora? Did you manage to forget for one moment that you’re the God-almighty Patrona, and above a mere man like me?”
“If you don’t leave, then I will.” She wrenched at the doorknob, jerked open the heavy wooden door, and went through it. He caught her arm before she’d taken two steps into the chilly hall and pulled her back inside the room.
“If you go anywhere else, it’ll be to my bedroom, and I’m sure you’d prefer to remain here.”
He stared down at her, his hand still gripping her arm, his face scowling in anger and possibly frustration or regret. She met his gaze with as much scorn as she could muster to cover her fright and disgust at the entire episode.
Outside, in the pine trees that rose beside the window, birds were chirping in response to the new day.
Christina raised her chin, and gestured. “It’s morning now. Don’t you think it’s time you went to bed?”
He laughed, harshly, and dropped her arm. “Why not?” He moved to the door. But before he exited, he arched one eyebrow at her and said, “You might as well know that I consider my question answered.”
He closed the door behind him. Christina stood staring at it until her body began to shiver in the early-morning cold. But instead of climbing back into bed to warm herself, she picked up the fallen spread, pulled it around her, and huddled into an armchair near the window. There would be no sleeping for her for some time to come.
*
Michael left the President’s private office later in the morning feeling satisfied, on the whole. There was little doubt that Polk had taken his speculative report on Santa Anna’s doings quite seriously
; he had called a meeting with his cabinet to be held in one hour. Michael was asked to hang around, just in case Lowndes had any more questions for him. He would, of course, remain anonymous to the rest of Polk’s staff.
Unfortunately, the only criticism the President had voiced regarding Michael’s handling of the affair had concerned his abduction of the Señora de Sainz. Polk was completely shocked that Michael had taken her prisoner; and even more horrified at the thought of his own deeply religious wife finding out. Should the high-handed capture of a lady become public knowledge, the President would not only have to face the wrath of an outraged Congress, but that of his wife, too.
But Geoffrey Lowndes had stated privately the night before that he approved of Michael’s action, and would speak with the President. Furthermore, he was anxious to interrogate the Señora. If the woman proved as knowledgeable as Brett believed her to be, she could become invaluable as a source of inside information on the personality of Santa Anna. If she knew his habits, and could accurately predict the man’s moves - the Señora de Sainz would be worth her weight in gold! There were also those statements Santa Anna had made in his letters, apparently destroyed. If she could be persuaded to relate them . . .
Brett shook his head after hearing these hopes expressed. He had already warned Lowndes the Señora was stubborn. But Lowndes figured that a private talk with the Señora was in order. He informed Brett that he would call on the Señora that very evening, at Brett’s home; where she would remain safely tucked away and out of sight.
The problem of Christina de Sainz and how to keep her presence in Washington a temporary secret brought a scowl to Michael’s face as he lounged in a book-lined hallway of the Capital. Damn the woman anyway, and his own idiocy in yanking her out of Mexico! True, both he and his adopted country would and were benefiting by his impulsive kidnapping. But what would it be worth in the end? If Washington society discovered he was keeping the daughter of a Spanish marquès a prisoner in his home, the outraged hue and cry would be loud enough to drive him back to Texas. If a lynching party weren’t immediate formed. War or no war, Washingtonians were impressed by European nobility . . . and nobody, after meeting his Señora, would ever deny she was that. One haughty speech and the local matrons would be likely to liberate her with their hat pins.
He had halfway expected to give her up to Lowndes, or somebody else, to be put under Presidential guard. But Polk wanted nothing to do with her, and Lowndes would do little without orders. Geoffrey obviously expected him to continue watching her and feeding her, and to take the blame if the story got out. Of course, Lowndes didn’t care about the difficulties ensuing from the fact that he, a notorious bachelor, was keeping a woman who was not his wife locked up in a house full of gossipy servants. Or from the fact that Christina was not the kind of woman to remain intimidated and docile for long. He merely expected Michael to deal with any problems that might arise, discreetly.
Michael raked a hand savagely through his hair, the scowl on his face deepening. What type of woman was Christina, really? As hard as he tried, she could not be pigeon-holed. His thoughts wandered unwillingly to the episode in her bedroom earlier this morning. Christina was no hoyden, but neither was she as frigid as he had figured. He knew she had enjoyed his kissing; for a few moments at least her taut, unwilling response had proven too strong for her disgust of his lovemaking, and she had reciprocated his efforts. Until he had gone too far, and scared her into a puritanical panic. Which left him to wonder what kind of idiot her Mexican husband had been. Had he hurt her, or just bored her? This morning she’d acted like a virgin, pushing and struggling with remarkable strength. Yet, after enduring several years of marriage, and to an arrogant Mexican, no less, Christina must be used to a man’s embrace. The lady was a mystery for some man to solve.
Some other man. Although Michael realized he was fascinated by her; by the contrast of coolness outside and the hint of fire within. It amused him to provoke her temper, to watch her shed her high-bred reserve and all but spit hatred at him. She was as complicated as she was lovely, and something - it must be that - drew him. Like the steep rocky peaks in Mexico where his silver lay concealed, requiring patience and a little blasting to bring it out . . . Christina’s angry coldness aroused his inquisitiveness. He wanted to dynamite through her hard shell to drag out her real emotions. He wanted to make love to her.
Fortunately, he knew better. She was not Leaping Spirit: Renata as she was now called, his Indian mistress, the sometime inhabitant of his ranch house in Texas. Leaping Spirit came and went freely, and gave of herself with an innocent primal intensity. She wanted to more of him than he gave her, which was merely a few days of his company every few weeks. Christina would demand more. And he had no intention of ever allowing any female the power to make demands, period.
He was glaring out of a window, not even seeing the glorious autumn foliage, when he was caught. The man’s hand touched his on the shoulder - an unwise thing to do to anyone trained in Comanche combat, and Rowan knew better. The young man deserved to be felled to the wooden floor.
“What the devil are you doing here!” Rowan grinned, completely disregarding Michael’s dangerous countenance. He knew his cousin well.
“One could wonder the same thing about you. Why aren’t you still in England?”
Rowan’s normally pleasant face screwed into a frown. “Because there’s a war on, that’s why, and you know damn well I wouldn’t miss it. Even if you did write to Mother to keep me there - which I do not appreciate, by the way.
“I’m not interested in what you do or don’t appreciate. I wanted you to remain in England with your Mother, you idiot - to keep her out of the way. I suppose she came with you?”
Rowan’s dawning blush and appalled expression gave Michael his answer.
“You’re a selfish bastard, Ro.”
“Well, really, Mike, I suppose I just didn’t think. We were hearing the wildest stories in London . . . and you know Mother, she despises Santa Anna, and when everybody said he was headed for Mexico . . . she was in the damndest hurry to come home. She knew that you and Julian would be in the thick of it, and maybe even Gilbert, no matter that he still has to walk with a cane.”
“And you encouraged her, so you wouldn’t miss your chance to fight.”
Now Rowan’s brown eyes hardened. “That’s right. Of course I want to kill my share of Mexies. I haven’t forgotten my Father.”
Michael took that in silence. Bradley Torrance, who was Michael’s uncle but might as well have been his Father as well as Rowan’s, had been shot to death on Santa Anna’s order while a prisoner at Goliad in 1836. The bitterness of that ugly death had not, and would probably never, abate in any of their minds.
“But - ” here Rowan brightened. “Mother isn’t here alone. Lady Elizabeth Scott-Gould accompanied us from London. She’s a particular friend of yours, isn’t she? She wanted to visit America, and Mother couldn’t say no. I imagine they’ll stay right here in Washington . . . Mother wouldn’t risk dragging Lady Elizabeth all the way to Texas.”
“Jesus Christ!” Michael swore in low tones. “You mean Elizabeth came here at the start of a war?”
“She especially asked to visit now,” Rowan said.
“And they’re both here - in Washington?”
“Yes.”
Michael turned away, not wanting Rowan to see the violence probably written on his face. He couldn’t think of a worse disaster than having Lady Antoinette Torrance and Elizabeth Scott-Gould in the same vicinity as Christina de Sainz. If Antoinette, who mothered him and smothered him, didn’t sniff her out - oh, meaning well, of course - then Elizabeth would. Michael knew why Elizabeth was here, and it had nothing to do with the scenery.
He turned back to face Rowan, anger wiped from his expression and replaced with force. “Ro - I want you to do something for me.”
“What is it?”
“Don’t tell your Mother you saw me.”
Rowan seemed honestl
y shocked. “Why? It’s been nearly a year, Michael - Mother talks about you all the time, you and Julian, and it’ll break her heart. . .”
“Shut up. This is important, Rowan. I’m working for the President - and he requested that I remain incognito, so to speak. I’m only here on business for a few days. I’m not supposed to meet anyone I know, and unfortunately that includes family.”
“What sort of work are you doing?”
“I can’t exactly go into that.”
“But it concerns the war, I’ll bet. And Julian’s involved, too. Mother is anxious to see him, he never visited us in England, like he’d promised. Is he here?”
“Not that I know of.”
‘Certainly you can tell me more than that.”
‘Certainly I can’t. Now, I expect you to swear you never laid eyes on me, Rowan.”
Naturally the young man would do what his cousin asked. Hadn’t he always? He thought Michael possessed some sort of power that made people act as he wished. Indian power, maybe, that he had learned from Julian. Rowan sighed. “I won’t tell.”
“Thanks.” Michael trusted Rowan, as well as Ro’s older brother Gilbert. Both men had been raised by the finest man whoever lived . . . Bradley Torrance, murdered by Santa Anna, along with more than 300 others. As a consequence Michael felt from time to time unwanted pangs of brotherly concern for both cousins, but especially for Rowan; the youngest, and the most likely to get into trouble. “Now, suppose you tell me what business you have with the President?”
Rowan shifted his feet, a habit left over from a guilty childhood. “I’m volunteering myself to the War Office. I figured I’d start at the top, working with one of Polk’s ministers, or even better - as a field officer. I’m a Torrance, after all, and that’s got to help me get a good post.
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