Stronger Than Passion

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Stronger Than Passion Page 13

by Sharron Gayle Beach


  Then came a sharp knock at her door which she had no chance to answer because it was almost immediately opened. Instead of Penny’s homely, freckled face, as expected, another appeared of a different type. One guaranteed to increase the pounding in her head. The last face she expected or wanted to see.

  He was dressed for riding in heavy breeches and boots, and which thumped as he crossed the floor to stand by her bed.

  His raised eyebrow took in her fists, clenched on the sheet she had jerked up to her chin.

  “Planning to sleep all day, are we?” His voice was pleasant and cool.

  “Get out of here!” She kept her tone low, knowing that Antoinette and Elizabeth were probably still in their rooms on this floor.

  He grinned at her, blue-gray eyes brightening in intensity as they stared down at her loose, wildly tossed hair and sleep-gentled face. “Charming, Chrissie. Perfectly charming. What do you do to your covers at night - pitch them around the room?”

  Only the sheet and one pillow remained on the bed. The heavy spread, the blanket and two more pillows all had somehow ended up on the floor. But that was none of his concern, certainly!

  “What do you want?” she demanded, feeling ridiculous beneath his deepening scrutiny. Dios, if only her head didn’t ache so! She would love to tell him off and run him out of the room. Unfortunately, the slightest movement sent such streaks of agony rushing to her brain that no decisive action could be taken. At least until she had some chocolate, or coffee! If only he wasn’t real, but a nightmare she had dreamed up . . .

  He propped one foot on the bed frame and folded his arms.

  “Good morning, Chrissie,” he said deliberately.

  She closed her eyes, willing him away. “You shouldn’t be in here and you know it.”

  “Good morning.”

  He was obviously waiting for her reply. Frowning in annoyance, she muttered, “Good morning.”

  “How did you sleep?”

  “Like the devil! What do you want, Michael?” She stared at him mutinously.

  He shook his head. “So hospitable! At such an early hour! One can only assume last night’s champagne is responsible for your uncivil manners.”

  She sighed, deciding to keep quiet and let him run on.

  “Of course, drinking out of nervousness and fear is perfectly understandable. If only one didn’t feel the effects the next day . . . .”

  “I have never been nervous a day in my life, and as for afraid . . . .”

  “You avoided me last night, love. And, at first, we were getting on so well . . .”

  He would have to bring that up. It was probably his purpose in barging in. But she didn’t want to remember anything more. She refused to!

  She nearly bared her teeth. “You got on just as well with Elizabeth, and two or three others. I found your attentions obnoxious and rude.”

  “Liar.” He said it quietly and calmly, looking down at her with eyes that seemed to see through her. She glanced away, feeling frustrated tears prick her lids. Why wouldn’t her headache go away! Why wouldn’t he?

  “ I came in here to tell you to get dressed. “We’re going for a drive.”

  Her head whipped from one side to the other on her pillow, the pain nearly killing her. “Oh, God,” she whispered, glaring at him through bloodshot eyes. “My head, Michael - it can’t go anywhere! Please leave me alone.”

  “You have one hour to get ready. I’ll send your maid in - she’s waiting in the hall; I’m sure she’ll know what to do to make you feel better. Something tells me she’s had her own share of ‘headaches’ before.” He stalked to the door looking back at her with an evil grin. “One hour, Señora. That’s plenty of time for you to change clothes and brush your hair. Then meet me in the hall, downstairs. I’ll ask Cook to pack us a lunch - with wine, if you wish!” At her tight mouth, he laughed and walked out, leaving her speechless.

  But he was correct about Penny. Without batting an eyelash she took charge of Christina, bringing her medicine and a stomach-settling drink, followed by dry toast and coffee. Next she ordered her mistress to lay back with a damp rag across her forehead and eyes for a full fifteen minutes. After that time, Christina was able to get up and bathe. And within the required hour she was dressed and making her way downstairs - encountering no one except blank-faced Hager, for which she was grateful.

  Michael emerged from the library with a crooked smile and mocking eyes.

  Her expression dared him to make a comment; but he only looked her up and down, taking in the rich green habit and her simple arranged dark hair without a word. However, as he helped her down the front porch steps to his open phaeton, he murmured that he’d always known she’d thank him one day for acquiring Penny, who was obviously an extraordinary human being and an exemplary lady’s maid.

  She refrained from making any reply and climbed into the phaeton without his assistance.

  Taking in her pale, stubborn profile, he seated himself beside her and flicked the reins.

  He drove her all through Georgetown with its evenly planned streets and brick homes, and into Washington and through parks rendered beautiful with turning autumn leaves. She saw the Capitol building, busy with the convoys of carriages and men on horseback of all types, several of whom nodded to Brett as they passed and glanced at Christina with undisguised curiosity. Brett made no move to avoid these people; in fact, he appeared to be showing her off. It seemed he drove them as near as possible to any other carriage on the road, enabling its occupants to get a good, close look at her. Finally she asked him what he was up to, and was scarcely surprised by his immediate answer.

  “I’m killing any rumors, love. At least any accurate rumors! He glanced down at her, as though waiting to gauge her reaction. “The President pointed out to me that we should be seen together more. Apparently, word has reached him through official channels that the Mexican government is investigating your disappearance, and has requested knowledge of your whereabouts from him. Naturally this request puts Polk in a ridiculous situation. He is a man who does not like scandal, particularly during an unpopular war which he is waging. He doesn’t want any hint of your real predicament to get out. Therefore -we are instructed to act more like an affianced couple.”

  Christiana stared at him, unsure what was more absurd - the President’s order, Michael Brett’s unconcerned acceptance of it, or either man’s assumption that she would go along with their disposal of her life without even putting up a fight! Madré de Dios, Santa Anna was looking for her even now - and he must have some knowledge of the details of her abduction, or he wouldn’t be seeking information from Washington.

  “What will the President write to Santa Ana about me?”

  He turned the horses down a wooded avenue, strewn with blazing yellow and orange leaves. “He probably won’t write anything. You’re going to be ignored, Christina.”

  Her anger at his matter-of-fact words was tempered by logic. Santa Anna would never accept that. If he had reason to suspect she was in enemy hands, his pride alone would let him stop at nothing until she were free. She was a distant member of the man’s family, por Dios! He would do something to bring her home . . .

  Suddenly, she remembered the slender Frenchman last night at the ball. He had looked like Angel Manzanal, last seen at Santa Anna’s fatal reception. She had assumed it wasn’t he; this man wore a French uniform, after all, as well as a mustache . . . but what if it was Manzanal? In disguise?

  Her heart was already over-excited; now it raced, bringing heat to her body and color to her face. She shifted in her seat, wishing she was alone so she could think. But Michael was observing her out of the corner of his eye. Probably hoping she would do something dramatic, like jump out - the man seemed to enjoy pushing her temper over the edge!

  She controlled herself until he pulled the horses to a halt. They had reached the banks of the Potomac, and cool damp air struck her heated cheeks, fading their flush a little, she hoped. The broad expanse of river teemed
with provincial traffic which included many flatboats and skiffs, carrying all sorts of produce and products, and three different races of people - white, African, and some Indian . . . while brick buildings marched down to the water on the opposite side, each with its own dock for loading and unloading. Interspersing the man-made structures and stretching out over the banks were the gorgeous, flaming trees. Christina climbed down from the vehicle and strode to the river’s edge.

  Michael followed, after tethering the horses to a tree.

  “I thought we’d picnic here. Any objection?”

  “No.”

  She sounded distracted, and he wondered what she was thinking as she stared across the water. Her face beneath the small, green hat-brim was an unreadable challenge, and he surprised himself by the urge to know her mind.

  He took her shoulders gently, the velvet soft to his touch, much as the bare skin might be. “This isn’t much like the Rio Grande, on the Mexico-Texas border. Have you ever seen it?”

  She’d stiffened beneath his hands, but when she replied her voice was even. “No, never.”

  “The land there is dusty and dry and sometimes so is the river. It’s lonely, too, and uncivilized. But the Grande is a lifesaver for all the people and cattle in that part of the world.”

  “Do you speak from experience?”

  “Yes. All the rivers and creeks in that part of Mexico, and in Texas, are lifesavers. We build alongside the smallest ponds. My ranch is in between two rivers, the Frio and the Neuces, so I figure I’ll come out alright in a drought.”

  “Your ranch?” Christina sensed he was making some kind of point, in an uncharacteristically round-about way; and she was right. But she was still unprepared for his next statement.

  “I’ll take you there, if you wish. You’d be damned close to Mexico, but stowed out of the way of the fighting; unless things turn around, and the Mexies chase us back home, which I doubt. At any rate, you’d be nearer to home.”

  His amiable offer shocked her, for many reasons, most of which she couldn’t articulate to him or to herself. She turned to face him, widened eyes searching his closed expression for something . . . something familiar to hang onto. But there was no explanation at all to be read from his. Still, in that first instant she had to look for some meaning behind his suggestion, some intimation about why he had made it. She was sure his motives were calculating, but there was no way she would know what they were until he told her.

  She said the first coherent thought that formed in her mind. “I don’t want to go to Texas - I want to go home, to my own hacienda. It would be torture to be so close and not be there! If you can take me that far, why not at least into Mexico itself? I could manage on my own then, there would be no need for you to accompany me any farther. I could promise to stay on my estates, and not go to Santa Anna at all with any tales. If only you would - ”

  “No.” His tone had hardened, and so had his eyes and his hands which gripped her upper arms. “I’m sorry, Christina, but you can’t go home yet. It isn’t just risk to me any longer that I’m worried about; it’s Julian and his plans that would be jeopardized if I let you go. If I had kept you locked up when you came here, instead of letting my aunt take you around and expose you to too damn much talk - then maybe things would be different. But now you know all about me, and enough about Julian and his friends, and too much about any of Polk’s policies that you’ve absorbed through casual conversation. But mainly you know about Julian, and I don’t want him killed. He isn’t your fault, Chrissie - but its how things stand. Until we start winning this war and nothing you say can affect that - I’ve got to keep you in America.”

  Disappointed anger rose in her, growing until it turned to fury, and then become violence. And while one part of her mind acknowledged that her association with Michael Brett was distorting her sense of proper behavior, the other was organizing an assault against him. She kicked him, she clawed him, until he stopped her by pressing her into his body, leaving no room for her to do any damage. Her plumed hat fell off; her hair came out of its chignon as she jerked her head back so wildly that her neck muscles were pulled painfully. She’d kept silent so far, her anger beyond words - but now she cursed him in Spanish, so loudly that he had to stop her mouth, too. He did it with his own lips.

  The curses died abruptly.

  It was one of the few times that Michael had ever kissed her, and what had begun as punishment on his part turned into something much more subtle but meaning the same thing. He intended to teach her a lesson. She believed herself to be the untouchable Patrona, a lady on a pedestal high above him and any other man, contemptuous and despising and righteous. But he was going to prove to her out here in the broad daylight that she was no better than he. She was a woman with needs just as strong as his, if she would only admit it. He had tried to tell her that in pretty words last night, but of course she hadn’t listened . . . and the time had come to use force. He would prove his point one way or the other; which he had wanted to do ever since he’d first laid eyes on her.

  His mouth was brutal on hers until she was subdued enough to stand quietly, shaking but incapable of further violence. Then his attack took on a different form. He kissed her softly, slowly; grazing her bruised lips with his own, treating them like precious wounded things to be fondled with care. Still holding her tight against him with one hand, he used the other to stroke her hair back from her forehead and touch her face, tracing the bones of her cheek and the arch of her eyebrow . . . before moving the hand downward to rake her back with fingers growing increasingly rigid. She remained still, trembling in reaction, and her acquiescence was making it hard for him to rein himself in, to handle the onset of what was becoming an incredible rush of desire. But he wanted her to relax as much as possible, to enjoy what he was doing to her, if she could. So he knew he must go virgin-slow with her. Only this lesson was getting out of hand as far as he was concerned. He was ready for step two, which included removing some or all of her clothes - - and damn it to hell, they were still standing out in the open!

  He had his fingers at the collar of her jacket, undoing the ivory buttons anyway, when her lips moved against his.

  “Miguel . . .” she whispered in broken Spanish. “Stop this, Miguel, please don’t, not anymore. I can’t, I won’t let you do this . . . you are only trying to dishonor me . . .”

  “Oh, Jesus, Christina, is that what you think?” He held her when she tried to move away, and stared down at her through half-closed blue eyes. “You’re wrong, love. I’m not that cold-blooded. In fact, I’m quite warm right now, and it’s because of you - you and your proud body that I want to see beside me in bed. There’s no dishonor in that, sweetheart, not when we want each other so bad it hurts. All you have to do is forget these ridiculous, pious notions you have, that were designed only to restrict a person’s pleasure. Forget everything, except me, and what I want to do for you . . .” He entwined strong fingers into her hair, pulling her head back for his ungentle kiss, knowing that for a moment, she returned it just as hungrily. But the second he thought he had won - that he had convinced her to throw away her stupid, inhibiting ideals and admit she wanted him - once again her will proved stronger than passion. She turned her head and, when she spoke, sounded both despairing and determined.

  “No. I won’t let you do this to me. I won’t allow you to ruin me, to turn me into a - a puta with no thought for tomorrow! You are the worst kind of devil, Michael Brett - but you won’t corrupt me!” It was the nuns talking, Christina knew; but he had touched something inside her that went deeper than lust, and only the teachings of her childhood and the fear of an only-too-probable perdition had been able to pull her out of it.

  He released her then, and she had to stiffen every bone in her body to keep from falling. Particularly when his eyes impaled her like that and turned cold, raking in her disheveled appearance, as if her soul was part of the same unkept display. Maybe it was; she felt as though she had betrayed herself in every conc
eivable way to such an expert seducer.

  Finally he spoke in that soft, warning tone that she knew by now to be wary of. “Well, since it appears you’re not to be corrupted today, I suppose I’ll take you back to my home. But I won’t take you to Mexico. Which means that soon I’ll have to settle you in Texas. If I can stand keeping you around me long enough to get you there!”

  In the end, she agreed to go to Texas, only to stop him from looking at her in that insulting way and talking to her with that horrible sarcasm. He took her back to Georgetown, abandoning the picnic, and by the time she had done her hair as best as she could and they pulled up to the front steps, her head ached again so desperately that she went straight up to her room, walking past the waiting Antoinette as though she didn’t see her. She missed Michael’s stride to the library, bypassing his surprised aunt and her questions, as he headed to the bourbon bottle he kept in a drawer. She also missed Elizabeth’s glide from the drawing room into the library, following Michael; and pushing the doors shut behind her.

  *

  Elizabeth turned to face Michael, her back to the doorway.

  “It’s certainly a fine day for a cozy little drive. I hope the two of you enjoyed yourselves.”

  He poured a glass of bourbon and drank it straight down before bothering to reply. “Something on your mind?” His eyes narrowed at her over the rim of the glass.

  “Perhaps there is.” She glided forward, all ivory silk and curled blond hair, the flowery scent she wore overpowering every other odor in the room. Brett stared at her. Elizabeth was undeterred by his scowl; curiosity and anger propelled her to stand before him.

  “Care to offer me a drink?” Her tone was challenging.

  “I’m in no mood to play host. You know where the sherry is.”

  Her eyes flashed at him. “Such poor manners from a future peer of the realm.” She walked away, knowing well that any reference to his distant title infuriated him. She went to the cabinet that held the sherry decanter, took out a glass and filled it. “Did you and the Señora quarrel? My, my.”

 

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