“I want to go home.” Michael knew that these were words from her heart. She glanced away from him. Perhaps the thought of war on her own grounds had never entered her mind before now. He regretted bringing it to her attention. But of course it was possible, even probable, that a battle may be fought on her lands, since her estate lay very near the National Highway that connected Vera Cruz to Mexico City. If the American army proved victorious, it would certainly march to the Capital along that road. And what about her property, her house, her servants and tenants? He could see from the stricken pallor in her face that she was wondering that very thing. Unfortunately, there was little she could do for her estate even if she were there.
There was a note of sincerity in his voice now that was not feigned. “You will go home, Chrissie. I promise. But not yet. Not until it’s safe; and not at all, if I can convince you to remain with me.
These last words completely over sat the listeners, all but Christina, who didn’t seem to pay them any attention.
Elizabeth slammed one delicate fist down on the table, hard. “Are you saying that you intend to marry this - this lady?”
Michael grinned at her nastily. “That isn’t up to me, because I doubt if she’ll have me. But a man can hope.” He bent down and kissed the shining top of Christina’s head.
Christina, startled, reached up to swat at him at the same time Elizabeth cried, “I don’t believe it!” and Antoinette demanded some sherry.
*
It was Lady Antoinette Torrance who interjected reason into the dreadful fracas that ensued after what she considered Michael’s foolishly dramatic announcement. It was plain, from the Señora’s outraged torrent of Spanish, that she was displeased with Michael’s statement - if, indeed, he had really meant it, which Antoinette doubted. The Señora had attempted, again, to depart the room, and Michael was equally determined that she should stay. Elizabeth, who had proven herself a sometimes disagreeable companion before now, had stated flatly that Michael was up to something (a sentiment Antoinette secretly agreed with) and desired to return to Antoinette’s home. Even Rowan, normally no rattle, had added to the incipient hysteria in the morning room by choking with laughter.
Drastic action was called for, and Antoinette knew her duty. She had faced rampaging Indians, hostile Mexicans and the cutting civility of the English without losing her composure; she was certainly capable of keeping it and her good sense now, in the midst of a scene that could turn into a horrible scandal if voices were not lowered and some believable solution to the Señora’s presence here found.
She called for silence. And her tone, normally so soft and accented so prettily, rang with the authority of a general quieting his troops.
Michael broke off his argument with the Señora to look at her with an eyebrow raised in amusement; everyone else stared as well. Having garnered their attention, she took a delicate sip of her sherry and prepared her advice.
“Michael, mon cher, although it is very good to see you, it seems that you are again in a predicament that will likely do you harm, although perhaps not in the same way as some of your other exploits. You and Julian! Can you never stay out of trouble?” Michael neglected to answer this rhetorical question, but as he smiled Antoinette grew of the conviction that perhaps Julian, too, had had something to do with this Señora.. Her curiosity certainly whetted to know more, she continued. “Regardless of how or why the Señora is here, the fact remains that she is here. Alone in the house with you, if I am not mistaken. Unchaperoned! And already the entire town knows that you are in residence. I was informed of your arrival by no less than five people last night at a dinner party, who had spotted you earlier in the day at the Capitol! Now, what is to be done?”
“I feel sure that you will tell me.” Michael’s tone was dry, and his face had lost its humor.
She frowned. “Do not take this matter lightly, Michael. Washington is such a fussy town when it comes to the proprieties, particularly now, with Mrs. Polk as first lady. You may do as you like in Texas - but not here. And the significance of the Señora’s connections with Mexico cannot be underestimated.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
“Good. Then you will admit that you do not care to subject the Señora - or me, or yourself - to any condemning talk.
“Which was why I intended to remain incognito during my hopefully brief stay.”
“Do not be sarcastic. I had no intentions of discovering any secrets by coming here, love, only of visiting my nephew and perhaps learning the whereabouts of my unpredictable son. But we will talk of Julian later. Now, I will tell you what I have decided to do to save this situation. Since it is only a matter of time before the Señora’s presence is discovered by all the gossips of Washington, we will display her quite openly. I will take Señora de Sainz into my home, as my guest. We will say that she has just arrived, from either Spain or Mexico, whichever will better serve; and I will chaperone her. It is perfect!”
“No. Christina stays in this house.”
The Señora, who had followed the conversation about her with a distant and uncaring expression on her coldly, lovely face, now directed a comment to Michael. “I would prefer to stay with this lady.”
“You’re staying here.”
“Really, Michael . . .” Antoinette said.
“If you choose to move in here, Antoinette, I will be pleased to have you. In fact, I’ll pay for you to redecorate your house as an excuse, or we’ll burn it down if you like. But Christina is remaining in my home.”
“What about me, Michael? Is the invitation open to me, as well, or must I put up at the inn?” Elizabeth’s blue eyes narrowed on Michael in a kind of provocative anger that told the story of their former relationship to anyone in the least perceptive.
“You’re welcome here along with my Aunt. Just don’t plan any parties; I find at-home affairs excessive boring.”
“Oh? You never used to, in England. I seem to recall one instance, before your father passed away, when . . .”
“My memory is just as good as yours, Liz,” stated Michael flatly.
Antoinette, perceiving yet another quarrel about to spring to life between Michael and Elizabeth and possibly, to judge from her haughtily astonished expression, the Señora, agreed to move in with Michael at once.
“Although it is very bad of you to put me to the trouble of moving my things, when I have just settled in from far too long abroad. You are ruthless when it comes to getting your own way.”
“Yes, he is,” agreed the Señora.
“Mm, hmm,” murmured Elizabeth, with a tiny smile.
Michael glanced at the three woman currently complicating his life and frowned. “Then why do I feel as though my wishes are the last thing considered here this morning?”
“Because they are, Cousin,” Rowan pointed out. “Can’t fight the ladies!”
Chapter 8
Christina left the breakfast table finally for the refuge of her room, away from the ladies whose probing questions had given her a headache, and away from Michael Brett, whom she now had to truly deal with. It had become imperative to her that she must escape.
It was as though a display of fireworks had gone off in her mind, lighting her thoughts in an ugly pattern of colors. How selfish she had been! For weeks, she had concerned herself with her comfort and her fears, without pondering the reality of the war with America and how it might disturb her isolated, dreamy Hacienda de los Flores Rojas. What a terrible Patrona she was! She had known all along that she should be at home, listening for news of the war, preparing and reassuring her people in case the fighting grew near. But it had taken Michael Brett’s callous reminder that the war could be fought close to her home to jolt her mind away from her personal troubles; to convince her she must refuse to continue drifting idly while others charted her future. She must escape Washington. She must escape Michael Brett.
Of course, escaping was a daunting, dangerous prospect. However, thanks to the impetuous Antoinett
e Torrance and the snide Elizabeth Scott-Gould, Christina now had allies in the house should she wish to go out. Escape from Brett had hardly been possible up to now, although she’d never actually tried, either. Why couldn’t she have climbed out the hotel window in Havana? Or coerced Penny into assisting her, somehow? Now, she was weeks from getting home, even if she left today. And how far had the American troops penetrated into Mexico already?
Thinking and pacing the floor in her petticoat, Christine wondered how far she could twist Michael’s absurd lies in her favor. He had warned her before she had come upstairs, that if she went along with his story, he would guarantee to keep her out of a real prison. Why he didn’t want his aunt to know she was his prisoner was a mystery; unless he didn’t care to appear the brute to his family. Or perhaps Lowndes had said to keep quiet. At any rate, she didn’t care. She would play along with him for her own reasons: which included staying out of prison and in this house, particularly now, when she was considering ways and means of escape!
Dirty, fringed buckskin pants, boots that resembled moccasins with spurs, and long braided black hair set the man apart from the drinking crowd at the Swooping Gull Tavern - but barely. That this odorous person was in conversation with well-known, affluent Michael Brett caused the dark tavern’s squinting inhabitants to glance up from their ale.
Michael wasted little time in idle chatter. This was one of the seediest saloons in town, and the only place he’d been able to think of weeks earlier, when setting up the rendezvous with Julian for receiving his messages. Although, this particular messenger would never come again, his cousin was too careful to send the same man twice, in this town of political intrigue every drifter was scrutinized through self-interested eyes.
Johnnie Jumper handed over Julian’s letter, nicely stashed in the filthy, false medicine bag the renegade breed Indian wore tied around his neck; which was actually a good place to hide something, since it was well-known that most Indians wore the little deerskin bags.
Michael paid the man, careful to conceal the money from any interested gazes. He asked Jumper for any verbal messages - speaking a dialect of Comanche and Spanish that would confuse anyone listening. The only message turned out to be an apocryphal warning to “watch out for white woman from across big sea.”
Michael’s smile was twisted. Trust Julian, deep in the badlands of Texas or Mexico, to have heard of Antoinette’s arrival in Washington before he had a chance to even suspect. His cousin’s network of communication was as good as - or probably better than - the President’s. Unfortunately, Julian’s humorous warning had come a day too late!
Michael gave the Indian a return letter, watched as the man stuffed it into the medicine bag, which he again tucked beneath the collar of his shirt - and the Indian left. No goodbyes; he simply turned and melted away, out the door.
Michael went home to read the letter. “Home” was in a state of near chaos, as his few misfit, carefully picked servants - bullied by an over-bearing Hager - turned the house upside-down pending the permanent reappearance of his aunt and Elizabeth. He went up to his room, wondering why his reserved Señora seemed to be wearing out the carpet in her paces across the floor. He could hear her through the wall, including the earnest, frustrated sighs she emitted every few seconds. Now, there was trouble about to happen! Unfortunately he could spare no time for Christina at the moment.
He sat down to read. Julian’s terse, clear hand informed him of the current location of General Taylor’s troops . . . advancing toward the city of Monterey, which Julian predicted they would reach toward the middle or end of September and would probably take, since the Mexican Army - although strong - was still indecisive until Santa Anna could firmly take control. Julian also let him know the Mexican government had refused Polk’s earlier offer to treat for peace, and had sent out a dispatch (which Julian had probably read) to that effect. Due to the time lapse between the date of Julian’s letter (September 5th) and today’s date (September 22nd), Polk had probably already received the dispatch. Julian closed the message with his own observations on the condition of both armies . . . and stated that plans for his own guerilla campaign against Mexico were progressing well.
Of course they were, Michael thought as he lit a candle with which to burn the letter. Julian had decided to wage a tight, guerilla war against Santa Anna; and considering Julian’s determination and thoroughness, his perfect knowledge of the territory, and the respect in which he was held by the local inhabitants, any guerilla action taken by his band should prove devastating. Michael had not yet informed the President of his adopted cousin’s undertaking. He and Julian might be allied with America in respect to the war, but they were fighting their own grudge fight, for revenge, against Santa Anna. As were many independent-minded Texans whose vast properties were so far removed from the heart of the United States, they might as well be a separate country . . . as until recently they had been.
There was no telling which stand the President might take on the idea of independent guerilla action by Julian Torrance, since Polk was a stickler for doing things his own way and was already concerned that General Zachary Taylor might be ignoring his orders in Mexico. Polk’s dislike for Taylor - and also General Winfield Scott, currently busy with plans to land a large force at Vera Cruz - was common knowledge. But the dislike was political, since both generals were capable men, but unfortunately, Whigs.
However, Michael liked and respected president Polk. He felt confident that Polk, now committed to war, would use the talents of the men at his disposal for the duration, and worry about politics later. In time, he might even approve of Julian’s guerilla action. Particularly if his cousin were successful! But for now, Michael preferred to keep Julian’s self-sufficient plans a loose secret.
Hearing a carriage pull up outside his front window, his attention shifted outside. Lady Elizabeth alighted, followed by his aunt and two maids. It seemed the townhouse he had purchased nearly three years ago was about to be full for the first time. So be it! Michael played a dangerous game with these ladies, no fools, any of them. If they all lasted together for a week without Christina’s real story getting out, he would be surprised. He intended to tell his aunt the truth, anyway, when it proved convenient. But not until then . . . and he preferred that Elizabeth never find out. That witch wanted to marry him because he happened to be his brother’s heir, and there was no way in hell he would oblige just so she could be called duchess the minute Robert’s miserable, pain-racked life finally ended. He didn’t intend to give any woman that pleasure. He knew Elizabeth would trap him into it if she could, gladly using Christina as fodder for her schemes. It would almost be amusing to set the two against each other, and then, of course, depart the city . . . maybe he would, in the end, when it was time to go.
The slender man touched his newly grown mustache with pleasure, thinking how clever he had been to grow it and to use the false French accent. No one would recognize him now, or suspect he was not a real displaced French Comte. Certainly not the woman seated across from him with her luscious bosom on display, casually prodding his foot with her own. She was a whore; and a Negro-Indian whore, to boot. But he could tell that she admired him.
The woman sipped her drink, straight tequila. “Si, Señor. I know the couple of whom you speak. They were here. The man, he wanted me, but I say no. Not in front of the woman, I say! But he is muy hombre, that one. He want us both. So I go away. I don’t like tricks with other women.”
The man’s dark eyes were glowing as desire for the whore vied with his anger at her story. Was it the truth? Was Michael Brett treating the beautiful Señora as a puta? In his imagination, he saw the Señora, breasts bare as the Zambo’s hands caressed them and the American watched, entranced. Dios, it was too much. He would spoil his pants!
He pulled out a few coins, dropping them on the table in front of the red-lipped Zambo’s greedy gaze. “You must tell me where they have gone, this couple. They left Havana for which country? Do you know?
”
She warmed to the money and, as a consequence, the man. “I can find out easily. Tomorrow, if you wish. But for tonight . . .”
“For tonight, I wish to see the sights of Havana.”
“The best sight of all is right in front of you, amigo. We will go somewhere private so you can view it better. Eh?”
Chapter 9
“Ma cherie, you must wear the neckline lower. Like this.” Antoinette suited action to words as she leaned over and jerked the bodice of the evening dress down, so that an inch more of Christina’s white skin showed.
“Perhaps it isn’t the custom in Mexico to dress so frivolously.” Elizabeth drawled, her eyes on herself in the full-length mirror as she held a length of pink satin against her face.
“It is in Spain, which is, after all, the Señora’s true home.” Antoinette spoke firmly becoming aggravated over Elizabeth’s constant use of the word “Mexico.” the couturier’s expression hinted at her thirst for gossip. Michael would not be pleased.
“I have been in mourning a long time, Madame, you understand. A dress like this . . .” Christina’s voice trailed off.
“But the gown is perfect for you!” cried the dressmaker. “That rich shade of amber sets off your eyes, your hair, and the simple styling is just right for your figure. You are not the type for yards of ruffles, but I think perhaps a touch - at the hem . . . .”
“No ruffles.” Antoinette stated firmly. “Cloth of gold. At the neckline, wrists, and as an underskirt to peep out at the hem. She will hold a gold fan, and I will give her my rubies to carry it all off.”
“I have pearls with me,” Christina said. How long it had been since she had considered a colorful evening ensemble!
“If they are imposing enough, they will do. The Ambassador’s Ball is an important affair.”
“You needn’t worry.” Christina smiled. “My pearls were once the property of the Princess of Zaragoza. I believe you will find that they quite compliment the gown.”
Stronger Than Passion Page 10