“By Jesus, Brett, so this is where you’ve turned up?” The drawling voice belonged to a tall man approaching them from the right, dressed in some sort of military uniform and smiling with twisted lips.
“Nelson.” Michael spoke in equally ironic tones. “I expected you’d be with Taylor right now, along with the rest of the boys.”
“Not all the Rangers have been sent to Mexico. Some of us were called here to tell the War Staff what to do. I’m sure you know all about it.”
“Oh, sure.” He shrugged, then glanced down at Christina, dark eyebrows raised obliquely. “Chrissie - you might as well meet Captain Eli Nelson, lately of the Texas Rangers. Nelson . . . The Doña Señora de Sainz.”
“Enchanted, ma’am.” He took her outstretched hand and bowed over it, rather gallantly for a commoner. But Captain Nelson’s brown eyes had narrowed on her in fixed speculation.
“How long have you been here? Brett asked.
“A few days. Stopped by your place on the way out of Texas. Seemed to be a little crowded.”
Michael stiffened, but only Christina knew it. His voice kept its bantering tone, but it had softened, and his eyes widened to blandness. “Anyone I might know?”
Nelson laughed, but it sounded a trifle false. “Only Julian Torrance and a pack of wild Indians. Meanest bunch of savages I’ve seen in a while, this side of the border - your cousin excepted, of course. Seemed to have made themselves at home. Even had a - lady with them.”
Nelson’s gaze met and clashed with Brett’s, and something ugly passed between the two of them. Then Michael shrugged. “Julian keeps an eye on the property for me. Keeps me informed about things he thinks I should know.”
“Not a bad idea, these days.”
There was a quiet pause, while the men studied each other. Finally, Michael said, “I don’t suppose Julian mentioned how long he might be staying?”
Nelson appeared to consider this. “No, he didn’t. But I happen to know he was only there three days. His friends pretty much came and went. As for the lady . . .”
Michael cut him off. “I hope I don’t find out you’ve been meddling in Julian’s business, Nelson. Or mine. Or trespassing on my property.”
The light tone left Michael’s voice. It was replaced by something steely and controlled.
Nelson looked wary. “I wouldn’t do anything without orders, Brett. If your cousin wants to run with a crowd that’s just this side of wanted, that’s his concern - but he’d better be careful, no matter what he’s up to. Some of us have sworn to uphold law and order in the State of Texas, war or no war. I hope he won’t forget that.”
“Julian won’t forget anything. Neither will I.” Michael stared hard at Nelson for another minute. “Excuse us, Captain. The lady needs a glass of champagne.” He moved off, pulling Christina along, leaving the Ranger standing alone and looking thoughtful.
Christina wanted to confront Michael over the uneasy undertones she’d detected in the strange conversation with Nelson, but he seemed unapproachable just now. And besides, what business was it of hers?
Yet, as they moved through the well-dressed crowd, Christina could no longer pretend complete indifference to Michael or to the people in his world. She had become an unwilling part of his life, was becoming aware of the events which had shaped it and were still shaping it.
She had asked Antoinette more of Michael’s background during their revealing conversation earlier today, and although her anger at Michael’s reprehensible behavior remained she found it disturbingly tempered by her new knowledge. Antoinette had spoken of Michael’s indifferent childhood, blighted by a lack of love from either his preoccupied father or his indolent, insensitive mother, both of whom had favored Robert, the eldest son, over him. She mentioned the tragic accident that had resulted in Robert’s being left crippled and unhealthy, and the subsequent rage of Michael’s parents toward him for his unfortunate part of it. Michael had then run to America, to his Uncle and to her; and she had taken him in to mother along with her own two natural sons, and the brilliant, somewhat savage half-breed Indian boy her husband had adopted.
According to Antoinette, the bitterness within Michael had found a companion spirit in Julian, also angry but for a different reason; that of the white population’s contempt for the Indian race. Julian was busy exploring both his Indian heritage as well as his British, and he had taken Michael along with him, teaching him Comanche ways, as well as learning of England from him. The two young men had formed a close friendship which had continued to the present day.
Christina remembered the forbidding figure she had met on the terrible night of her abduction, and scarcely credited Antoinette’s fondness for her adopted son. But Antoinette loved Julian, and Michael as well, and worried for them both. Especially now; because they, and her other sons as well, were bent on the downfall of Santa Anna. Here, Antoinette’s story had stopped, no doubt in deference to Christina’s feelings on the subject. Or because Antoinette was too wise to trust her with any pertinent information about what her family was actually doing?
How had it happened that she, prepared to remain loyal to Mexico, had fallen in amongst its enemies and was in a position to be sympathetic to their side? She knew she mustn’t, no matter how sorry she was for Antoinette, who had lost a beloved husband due to an infamous incident created by Mexico. She must remain focused on the problem of her escape from these people, and particularly from the man at her side, rendered a little more human now or not. He would use her, if he could - they all would. She must remember that.
If only he weren’t so detestably attractive in his impeccable evening wear. And if only he would not set out to try to charm her. She was uneasily aware of her own limitations, where resisting his touch was concerned . . .
He looked down at her. From his narrow-eyed interest, could he read her mind?
“Would you prefer champagne, or sherry?” he asked.
“Champagne.” And then she asked, “Why didn’t you tell me you really were a Lord, and heir to a dukedom?” Her voice shook a little.
“It isn’t important to me, and it was none of your business.”
He took a glass from one of the refreshment tables and handed it to her, grazing her fingers with his. At her frown he raised one eyebrow.
“Your turn to answer something for me.”
She remained silent, trying not to meet his gaze but failing, sipping her champagne.
He leaned down, speaking softly. “How long has it been since anyone made love to you?”
She stared at him in shock. Never! Never ever, her mind screamed, the unspoken words reverberating through her head. She had never really been made love to - not the way he would do it . . . but she would die rather than tell him that. She was searching for a light disclaimer when their illusion of intimacy was broken.
“My Lord, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of speaking to you in over a year!” the distinctively British voice interrupted them. Michael turned slowly, one hand taking hold of Christina’s arm in the event she tried to flee.
“Sir Truwick, what brings you to America?” His tone was diffident, scarcely concealing his irritation at the intrusion.
“I’m with the Ambassador’s party, you know. Working on the Oregon thing. A messy situation, so delicate, this boundary bit! But we did our job, and now that the treaty’s signed, my part’s about all wrapped up, and I’m going home. Not a moment too soon! I’m sure you find this country refreshing, and all that - but London’s the place for me. Not a decent tailor on this side of the Atlantic!” Truwick seemed momentarily indignant, but almost immediately smiled. “Tell you what! As soon as I return I’ll post to Westbrook and pay a visit to your brother. What message shall I give him?” Truwick waited, pleased with his sudden idea.
Michael smiled, and the smile tightened, until tiny white lines appeared on either side of his mouth. His hand on Christina’s arm was rigid. She stared up at him in surprise, and he must have noticed it because he
released his grip and glanced down. His voice turned formal. “Christina, I’ve been terribly remiss in not presenting you to Sir Truwick. I will do so immediately. This gentlemen is Sir Harold Truwick, a school acquaintance of mine. Truwick - the Doña Señora de Sainz y Sequenza Cabra, of Spain. She is a guest of my aunt’s.”
“Charmed, completely charmed, my lady.” Truwick executed an elaborate bow over Christina’s hand. “If I am not mistaken, Lady Scott-Gould is also a guest of Lady Torrance’s?”
“Indeed she is,” Christina said, her typically cool expression once again on her face and discouraging any further questions.
Truwick would undoubtedly have persisted into probing with more detail but Brett managed to avoid any further conversation. “Christina, my dear, they are playing the waltz you promised me. Truwick - I know you will excuse us.”
“Of course. But first I would beg Lady de Sainz to save a dance for me - ” He stopped, because they were gone. Only hours later did Truwick recall that Brett had neglected to give him any message at all for him to pass on to his brother!
They were dancing, and Christina was surprised that Brett was even capable of performing the waltz. But he danced well, and she was able to enjoy the careless way he guided her around the crowded floor. Dressed in black with white shirt and collar and wearing an abstract expression, Michael not only attracted various roving eyes as he passed but held them riveted. Trying to gain some kind of hold over herself, Christina knew she must refuse to look at him. Unfortunately, curious eyes were staring at her as well and there seemed to be no safe direction at all in which she could glance. Finally she half-closed her eyes; not knowing how sensuous she appeared, her movements languid, and so graceful as to seem dreamlike.
Michael Brett was finding that, despite the relaxing music and the necessity of recalling the steps of the dance, reigning in his bitter thoughts about Robert was no easy task. Unfortunately this was scarcely the time or the place to indulge in guilty musings. Michael stared down at his partner, one part of him remarking lazily on her desirability while another went on condemning himself, as usual. Still, what point was there in recriminations over Robert at this stage? It had been years since Robert had suffered the accident which had crippled him and ruined his health. Years since the responsibility for that accident had descended on Michael’s young shoulders.
Michael liked the feel of Christina in his arms, liked the distraction her warm skin brought to his mind. Maybe if he had her alone, had her in his bed or on the floor or wherever, but had her freely, then the guilt would go away entirely. At least until the next time someone brought Robert up, and the process started all over again . . . the series of memories which always resulted in Michael blaming himself for Robert’s wrecked life.
She stirred restlessly.
“What is it, love?”
“You may call me Señora or Christina, but that is all. And you are holding me too tightly.”
He relaxed his grip, which was indeed so tight as to leave marks on her white flesh. “There, Chrissie. Anything else?”
He smiled down at her, but the smile scarcely reached his eyes, which held a puzzling expression she couldn’t place. “When may I go home to Mexico?”
“Soon, if you continue to do what you’re told.”
“You promised me that a week ago. I have a responsibility to my people, Michael - you must send me home!”
He had the impression she was near despairing; that she wanted to stomp her feet and curse at him, but couldn’t in front of the crowd. He almost laughed at her, but God only knew what she would do if provoked. He found her temper amusing; however, he was sure that Polk would not, and the President had just emerged into the ballroom. God help them both if she should create a scene in Polk’s full view!
“Why don’t we discuss this later? At home. Either your room or mine, so long as we’re private.”
There was frustration on her face, which she contained with a visible effort.
“You would avoid the issue then, as well. Perhaps I’ll try a little blackmail of my own. Either you give me a date when I may return to Mexico, or I will embarrass you right now in front of your friends!”
“Childishness is unworthy of such a fine lady.”
“What will you do, Miguel?”
He looked at her bottom lip, full and slightly wet from where she had bitten it. “If you say one sentence out of character tonight or make a single effort to discredit me - I will come to your room after the party, strip you naked and ravage your body. You have my promise.”
He would have laughed at her expression had the idea of doing exactly that not gripped him powerfully. The waltz was coming to an end; couples were strolling off the floor, but he stood still, holding her shoulders. His eyes were narrowed and intense. “You never answered me when I asked before, Chrissie. How long has it been for you? How long since you’ve been with a man?”
She stared at him in tense fury.
“Take me to your aunt.”
“Has it really been years?” He forced his tone to gentleness, when exasperation was what he really felt. “You don’t have to be alone anymore. You can do anything you want, Chrissie, whatever you feel is right . . . there’s no reason not to. Don’t ignore your body, Chrissie. Listen to what it wants.”
He made no move to put his hands anywhere else, afraid she might bolt. But he knew his impromptu attempt at seduction would never work here. A country dance was about to begin; couples were surrounding them, staring and whispering. H e could see she was conscious of the talk.
She twisted from beneath his grip, turned and hurried away, not looking back. He watched her disappear into the crowd.
He wished, for the second time that night, that he were indeed in Mexico, carrying a gun, and shooting it.
*
These Americans were quite gullible after all, the man thought in complacent contempt as he moved through the press of people. An arrogant attitude, a foreign language and impeccably cut clothes provided entré to anywhere in the country. Even an exclusive ball in the nation’s Capitol.
Of course, he amended modestly, it is a fête for foreign ambassadors. And that had been the stroke of luck he’d needed to enable his entry under pretext of having lost his companions whom, alas, held his invitation. The footmen had simply waved him inside - one more Frenchman who spoke incredibly little English.
He procured a glass of champagne, and roved the crowd. An eagle seeking his prey. A dangerous wolf on the prowl. He was among the enemy now; and what a panic there would be amongst these well-dressed people if they knew there was a member of Santa Anna’s own personal staff in their midst!
He was dreaming of mayhem when his searching eyes saw her. Madré de Dios, what a vision she was! Dressed in shades of gold, from the richest bronze to the most dazzling tint of a precious coin, and wearing a gown that molded to her shape better than any he had ever seen her wear. Her expression, as she spoke to a polite lady in pink, was distracted and aloof, as benefited one whose breeding was so far elevated over any else’s in the room. She held herself like a queen, his queen, for surely now his possession of the Señora was ordained and meant to be!
But how to approach her, so that her look of startled delight would not give him away? How to separate her from the crowd and reveal himself to her alone? He pondered the problem as he stared, willing her attention.
Just then, her glance flicked his way, and fixed on his face. He knew a moment of swelling happiness as her bright, greenish gaze searched his mien . . . and she recognized him! He was positive of it! Her eyes widened, her lips parted in shock, her skin paled.
But now was not the time. Colonel Angel Manzanal had not traveled this long distance from Mexico only to be caught before a single rescue attempt had even been made. He had seen her; she had seen him; it was enough. Her desperate fear must now be suitably calmed. They both must wait for a more propitious time to reunite.
He nodded his head once, sharply, conspiratorially; then
moved off, the pleasant smile on his face prompting smiles in return from the guests he passed on his way to the door.
Chapter 10
Christiana awoke the next morning with a headache that reminded her of the large amount of champagne she had consumed the night before, and of the many unpleasant encounters she had had; all of which she would have loved to have forgotten. But it seemed that this headache was here to stay, increased, no doubt, by the ugly memories that came to her as she lay helpless in bed.
She rubbed her sore temples, trying to push both the pain and her thoughts away.
They kept coming at her anyway. Images of the ball, the prying people she had met, all of them wanting news of her and Lord Brett. Asking questions that were too contrived to be natural, too curious to be polite. Inquiring into her background . . . regaling her with items of gossip which simply couldn’t be true. Hypocrites! Every one of them, from catty Elizabeth Scott-Gould up to President Polk himself, with his so-kind solicitude! Even he could never have meant his low comments about his hopes for peace with Mexico, his simpering wishes that the war would end in truce. This man was her country’s chief enemy; he could never be so nice!
But the biggest hypocrite of them all was Michael Brett. She closed her eyes, remembering the odd combination of arrogance and tenderness he had treated her to; gentling her, as he might a horse, or a whore. How he must have feared her behavior last night! He had put on quite a concerned act, pretending kindness and interest, blue eyes warm and sensual as he distracted her with lies and nonsense. Thank God she had seen through him. Or, rather, thank God her fear had scared her away from him for the remainder of the evening. She rang for a maid to bring her food, something she rarely did; preferring, usually, to go downstairs for breakfast. Today, no force under heaven could have induced her to rise without sustenance or assistance.
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