Michael looked at the boy, noting that he really wasn’t a boy at all. “How old are you now?”
“Twenty-five. I would’ve joined the Rangers at home in San Antonio, except for Mother, and being stuck here.”
Rowan was of average height, but his form was muscular, and his features combined the soft brown eyes and curling dark hair of his French Mother with the strong jaw of his Father. And he had always been intelligent, if a little likely to wander. Yes, Michael supposed that Rowan would make a good asset to the War Department. They could certainly do worse.
“Who are you seeing?”
“Carrington. He was a friend of Father’s.”
“I’ll ask around in the meantime. There ought to be something a Torrance can do.” Michael smiled, and now Roan relaxed, relieved that finally his cousin wasn’t angry anymore.
“Get out of here, before you miss your appointment. And remember to forget me.” Michael held out his hand, and Rowan took it with a fierce grip.
“Tell Julian hello.”
“Goodbye, Ro.” Michael’s mockingly raised dark eyebrow sent Rowan on his way up the corridor. Michael stood staring after him, wondering how long it would take before Antoinette Torrance discovered he was here.
* * *
Christina could never like the man, but she was beginning to respect him. Geoffrey Lowndes sat across the hearth from her on the gold-embroidered cushions of an Empire-style couch. He appeared to take his ease; but she sensed the impatient purpose emanating from his bright blue eyes.
Always, he circled back to this same point.
“And so, Señora, Santa Anna is your cousin by marriage. How frequently did you visit him?”
Christina, at her most restrained, replied, “A few times a year, before his exile. I have only seen him once since his return.”
Clearly, Lowndes wasn’t getting quite the enthusiastic response he was after.
Your hacienda is near Jalapa, isn’t it? How far distant is that from El Encero - Santa Anna’s estate?”
“A few miles; I do not know the exact distance. My lands are quite large, and so are his.”
“Do you want to go home, Señora?” This was asked in stronger tones.
“I do indeed. However, there are some things I will not compromise, even to return to Mexico.”
“No one is expecting you to compromise any principles, Señora.” Lowndes ignored the abrupt cough from Brett, who sprawled across the room with a glass of brandy. “But if you could be a little more helpful, a trifle more sympathetic, perhaps the President could personally guarantee your expatriation within a month.” That the President intended this anyway was a point Lowndes neglected to mention.
“Exactly what do you mean, Señor Lowndes?” Christiana asked, her gaze steady and unfrightened. This man, she had been told by an unfeeling Brett, held the power to throw her into a real prison, or even perhaps worse, for refusing to cooperate; but she was not scared in the least. Perhaps it was the civilized surroundings of the town home they were in - or the slightly uncivilized presence of Michael Brett, reclining comfortably in an armchair, but listening intently to every word being said. How odd that she secretly relied on him for protection!
“Señora,” Lowndes began carefully, starting to realize that intimidating this lady was not an easy task, “I am sure that President Polk will be as pleased as I am when I relay your truthful account of the unfortunate events that brought you to our Capital.” Lowndes cleared his throat, then continued. “You have affirmed that Mr. Brett’s statements regarding Santa Anna’s overheard comments are correct . . . and you have added your own opinion based on intimate knowledge of Santa Anna that the words he spoke were sincere. However . . . However, I am asking you for a bit more. Nothing treasonous, of course, because I understand that you are a true patriot of your country. I - and the President - would merely like you to comment on a few events of the recent past in which Santa Anna played a large part. We would like you to assess, if you are able, the true meaning of these happenings. This would in no way require you to compromise your loyalty to Mexico. On the contrary, you would be helping your country by aiding us in understanding certain messages we have been sent, by showing us the Mexican point of view. That is all, Señora.”
She doubted very much that was all. This was war; they would use her in any way possible. She was suddenly tired of Lowndes’s pretty double talk. “If I refuse to help you, Señor? What will you do with me then?”
Michael Brett must have smiled, because when Lowndes glanced over at him he frowned in immediate response. He turned back to Christina. “It is not the President’s policy or intention to do anything to you, my lady. We do not harm prisoners of the state.” He injected deliberate firmness into his voice, and his eyes hardened. “But there are certain people in the government who believe that prisoners should be treated as prisoners. Not as guests.” He refrained from glancing again at Brett, but kept his gaze focused entirely on Christina. “The President might be prevailed upon to house you in one of our forts. Perhaps a far-distant fort. I am afraid the accommodations might not be termed luxurious.”
So. Lowndes had lain his cards upon the table, in a manner of speaking. She had a clear choice of either assisting the American - enemy - government in deciphering between-the-lines messages from Mexico, or of being removed from Brett’s quite livable house and thrown into a barren fort with winter coming on. Comfort versus pride.
“I am afraid that you must prepare me a room then. Señor, because I will not help America any further.”
Her statement was perfectly calm, and there was no reason she could see for Brett to laugh. Perhaps he was being rude to Lowndes, and not to her.
Lowndes was furious with both of them, but he held himself in check in the face of this lady’s stately dignity. So she had called his bluff. What now?
He rose. “I will allow you to consider the situation overnight. You need not make a hasty decision, my lady.”
“By all means give me time, Señor, if you wish; I am in no hurry to leave this comfortable house, except to return to Mexico. But I will not change my mind.”
He looked down at her, sitting regally erect with chin tilted high, the effect of royalty compounded by the way her dark hair was wound about her head in a coronet, and half expected her to extend her hand for him to kiss. She did not. He bowed instead and backed away, unconsciously in the manner of a pensioner.
Brett strolled along behind him into the hall.
“She’s something, isn’t she?”
“This is a serious matter, Brett. We need her,” Lowndes snapped.
Michael’s gaze settled on Lowndes’ face, his eyes slate gray and narrowed. “I don’t like the way you threatened her, Lowndes. She isn’t going anywhere for the time being.”
“Then you convince her to work with us. The two of you appear to get along; I don’t see why you can’t. . .”
“Geoffrey.” The one word was softly said, too softly. Lowndes was no coward, but he’d heard the stories about this man. A little disrespect could be allowed.
“I’ll leave it up to you then. Do what you can to change her mind.”
But Brett still possessed that uneasy air of menace. Maybe it had to do with those muscles, usually hidden beneath the elegant clothes, but now straining them. Or perhaps it was the small, thin scar which sliced through his right eyebrow. Or maybe just the eyes; hooded and cold. Geoffrey was ready to leave.
“Wait a minute, Lowndes.” Brett’s hand on his arm stopped his flight out the door. “Polk doesn’t know about you throwing his name around like this, scaring noble womenfolk.”
Lowndes couldn’t refute the gently uttered statement. He merely looked at Brett.
“I certainly hope, for your sake, that he and the Señora never come face-to-face.” Then Brett smiled evilly.
Chapter 7
Christina emerged into the rear dining room on the morning after Lowndes’ disturbing visit, glanced at the sideboard, and sighed
. She would never get used to the heavy American - or was it English? - breakfast.
Pork, soft-boiled eggs, biscuits and brown gravy; fresh oysters, biscuits and marmalade, and some horrible-looking fish. Oatmeal, potatoes, cheese and veal chops. Coffee and tea. And all of this for two people.
She took eggs, a biscuit and cheese, and let the butler Hager serve her a cup of tea. The least one could say about this prison was that she would never starve.
Hager laid the linen napkin in her lap just as Michael came in, dressed in tan breeches, a white shirt and dark waistcoat. He grunted good morning, served himself a hefty quantity of food, and sat down at the head of the breakfast table to her right. Sleepy grey-blue eyes squinted at her.
“Aren’t you a trifle - bright?”
She wore the green striped tarlatan, and yes, for eight o’clock in the morning the colors were a little strong. But then her wardrobe was limited.
“If you would let me do the shopping, instead of Penny, I’m sure I can find a dress that doesn’t hurt your eyes.”
“It’s fine.”
They ate in silence, Christina feeling acutely uncomfortable at their proximity, until Michael exerted himself to speak again. “Did you sleep well?”
“No.”
She had tossed all night, dozing only to have nightmares concerning Geoffrey Lowndes, Michael and prison. She knew he had slept even less; he had gone out after Lowndes departed, and had not returned until late in the night. There had not, however, been another knock at her door. She felt her face warming at the thought, and hoped he wouldn’t notice.
He didn’t. He sipped some coffee, and said, “You shouldn’t worry about Lowndes, Christina. At least not yet. He won’t do anything for a while.”
“That devil does not concern me,” she said in Spanish, tossing her long hair - which she wore tied at the nape - off her shoulder. Michael glanced at her pure profile and smiled unwillingly.
“Well, something kept you awake.”
She turned to assure him that it had been homesickness which afflicted her when the noise of an interruption rang out in the hall. It consisted of clicking heels and feminine voices and grew louder until the morning room door was flung wide, and in stormed two ladies, elegantly dressed, one of whom was speaking volubly to a distressed-looking Hager, following them and protesting their intrusion.’
“You must understand, Hager, that I am family - and I do not find it necessary to stand on ceremony and have myself announced, when . . .” the lady’s voice trailed off as her gaze swept the room.
She stood stock-still and one hand flew to her throat, her glance taking in the domestic tableau before her. A soft “Mon dieu!” escaped her lips. The other lady, much younger and pretty, only stared and gasped.
Michael, coffee cup halfway raised to his lips, continued to drink and then set the cup down.
“Bon matin, Tante Antoinette. Aren’t you calling rather early? Good morning, Elizabeth.” He rose. “Please come in. There’s coffee if you like, or tea; and more than enough food.”
Outrage began to show itself on the younger lady’s translucently pale face as she stared at Christina. “Who is this person? Surely, Michael, this isn’t the Indian mistress I’ve heard that you keep - Leaping something-or-other!” The words had rushed out, seemingly without her volition. Or else she was simply rude.
Michael’s aunt now looked embarrassed. She threw a glance of censure at her companion and addressed her nephew with what dignity she could muster. “We have intruded, mon cher, and I am sorry. We will call again some other time.”
But Michael was already moving toward his Aunt; he embraced her petite, rigid form, and smiled down at her with what was actually affection on his face. “England must have agreed with you; you’re looking wonderful.”
“And feeling dreadful, at the moment. I have behaved foolishly, barging in on you like this.”
“Nonsense. Please be seated, and I will introduce you to my - ”
But the word that all three ladies were anxiously awaiting never emerged. Yet another pair of footsteps were heard in the hallway, heavier and louder than those of the ladies. Hager hastily left in search of the newcomer; and a masculine voice rose over Hager’s protestations.
“Let myself in, sorry, must find Michael before it’s too . . .” following the precedent, Rowan Torrance stalked into the now crowded morning room, and halted - “late.”
Surprisingly, it was Christina that Michael directed his next comment to. “It appears, querida, we have a party for breakfast.”
But Christina was having no part in it. She had been insulted by the young blonde, and both the French lady and the man were staring at her as though she were a freak at a fair. She gently laid her napkin on the table, pushed her chair back and rose. “I will withdraw.”
“No, you won’t. Sit down.” Michael moved around to her side of the long table, placed both hands on her shoulders, and forced her to sit. She looked up at him, and the glare in her green-gold eyes was both freezing and, Michael thought, possibly a little hurt. He wondered if perhaps he was beginning to know her, after all; unsure if the idea pleased him or not.
Michael looked at his combined uninvited company and took a deep breath. “This lady - -“ he kept his voice slow and dry - “is the Doña Christina de Sainz, lately of Mexico, formerly of Spain. She is my guest for the present time. Christina, please make the acquaintance of my Aunt, Lady Torrance, her guest, Lady Scott-Gould, and my cousin, Rowan Torrance. With whom I intend to have a long conference, later.”
Rowan made a correct bow in Christina’s direction, then began with, “It wasn’t me, Mike, I swear - I don’t know how they found out! I kept my promise not to tell that I’d seen you.”
“You knew Michael was in Washington?” came the astonished voice of Antoinette, her attention on her son.
“The question is why, my dear Lord Brett, did you prefer to keep your presence here a secret?” Lady Elizabeth purred, rather than spoke. “Unless it was to prevent this very thing from happening - you might actually have callers.”
Michael’s gaze remained deliberately bland.
Elizabeth was a witch he had dealt with before, in England; and he knew she was simply warming to a jealous tirade. Christina’s soft shoulders had tightened beneath his hands, and again he had to exert pressure to keep her in her seat. The last thing he wanted was for the two of them to tangle. It was time for a good, believable explanation?
“Certainly I do not want nosy callers. Aside from my work, which I will not discuss - there is the question of Lady de Sainz.” He met Elizabeth’s accusing hazel eyes, while one hand casually stroked Christina’s left shoulder, which he had gripped so painfully a second before. “I’m afraid that Christina is here under duress.”
“What?” Roman cried out, nearly dropping the biscuit he had been reaching for.
“Mon cher, what are you saying? I must be seated.” Antoinette went to the table. Hager, hovering wide-eyed in the background, hastily rushed forward to pull out a chair for Madame. Antoinette sank gracefully down, folded elegant hands before her to rest her chin upon, and peered up at her nephew . . . and across at the young lady who set paralyzed beneath Michael’s possessive grip. “Please continue.”
“Would you care to sit, too?” He raised one eyebrow at Elizabeth, who silently and with compressed lips complied. Rowan leaned against the buffet table and nibbled his biscuit.
This was all too much for Christina - unwilling to stay and become an accessory to whatever tale Michael was planning to spin. She craned her neck upward to look him directly in the eye, and spoke in Spanish. “Let me go, before I create a scene.”
“You already have, querida. Let me undo it.” He replied in Spanish as well, his voice soft.
“No! I will tell them what a bastard you are . . . .”
“Do it then. But sit still for ten more minutes. Remember what I said about this town’s hatred for Mexicans? I intend to protect you from it, if you’ll give
me half a chance.”
He could tell that she didn’t believe him. She observed him warily, probably noting the glint of something in his eyes that meant he was thinking hard, and possibly enjoying himself, as well.
But he was able to force his will on her. Shrugging, she dropped her gaze. She would at least hear his story.
“You said the Señora is here unwillingly?” Antoinette prodded.
“Unfortunately, yes.” Michael tried what he hoped was a fond glance at Christina, which, thank God, she couldn’t see. This new role he was fabricating might prove to be a perverse amount of fun, but would entail its share of difficulties. “Christina is the widow of an old friend of mine, Don Felipé del Rivera, son of the famous Mexican Condé de Castillo. We met while I was in Mexico on mining business.” He paused to scan his audience and gauge their reactions so far. Elizabeth looked skeptical, but his Aunt and his cousin would probably believe even the most blatant lies he could think of. “Sadly, I didn’t hear of Felipé’s death until recently. I immediately wondered about Christina - left all alone in a country which was not even hers, and on the brink of an ugly war, to boot. Christina is a Spanish noblewoman; aren’t you, my dear?” He pinched her shoulder, prompting her to speak.
“Si. My father was Don Lorenzo de Sainz y Estepa, Marquès de Cabra y Olvera. A nobleman of the court of Spain.”
Trust Christina to sound impressive. Even Elizabeth wore a different expression. Michael continued smoothly - “ a lady alone, mistress of a huge estate, in wartime - I had no honorable course but to rescue her.”
“You took me from my home!” she cried, looking up at him.
“So I did. But for how long would you have kept your hacienda? It’s highly likely that part of the war will be fought amongst your banana groves.”
“Even so, they are my banana groves.”
“That’s a foolish attitude to take,” he snapped out, this argument of near-truths one that had never occurred to him before. But he could see that it was convincing his audience. And Christina was reacting just as though he had coached her.
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