Stronger Than Passion

by Sharron Gayle Beach

  Brett slammed his glass down onto a desktop. The sound was sharp and loud in the quiet room and Elizabeth flinched. “What do you want Elizabeth?” he snarled. “If this is a social call, you may consider it over and leave.”

  She didn’t merely sip her sherry, she gulped it. “You have no reason to be uncivil with me.” She poured another drink and moved a little closer. “I didn’t make you angry. Don’t confuse me with that Mexican upstairs.” Her eyes glittered with a hardness that matched his own. “Don’t ever confuse me with her. She’s cold, Michael - much too frigid for you.”

  He said nothing, so she took that as a safe sign to approach. She sidled up to him, peeping at him through her lashes.”

  “Do you remember, Michael, all the times we’ve been together . . . for eleven years now, off and on, since I was fifteen. You were my first - ”

  “Wrong, love.”

  “Well, you were always the first in my heart.” She pouted. “You were the true reason I’ve never married.”

  She looked him straight in the eye, daring him to refute her. He didn’t make the attempt, not with words; but the mocking, cynical smile on his face told her he knew her lie for what it was. Damn him and his rudeness! Anger simmered in her brain.

  “Eleven years - we’ve been intimate for all that time, and now I’ve come all the way from England to see you, to this - unspeakable, provincial country, which I despise more with every second I’m here - and you all but ignore me! We’ve only made love twice! Twice!” Rage turned her classically-shaped face into something more human, but not necessarily attractive. She still kept her distance, but he knew her fingers itched to scratch him.

  “If I thought you really were infatuated with that foreigner, at least I could understand why you don’t want me,” she continued. “But you’re not. You may have Antoinette fooled, and even her fooled, but I know you far too well, Michael Brett! You’ve made it all up! A woman like her - you told me once how much you hate aristocratic attitudes . . . well, she could outdo Queen Victoria, with all her noble airs! And I guarantee you she’s more of a nun in bed, than a real woman. Her type - .”

  “You can stop ranting, Elizabeth.” His blue-gray eyes held a considering contempt as they raked her face, and the hand that clamped onto her shoulder hurt. His gaze was bored, almost . . . but a certain ugly light flicked in his pupils, one that Elizabeth recognized and which both thrilled her and scared her. It meant he was wanting something in a certain way, which might involve innovations which were both painful and wicked, but which she craved as much as he . . . for as long as they both could stand it.

  She turned her head to kiss the large hand gripping her shoulder. Then she bit it. His in-drawn breath was his only reaction, and she sighed; and she’d thought he would hit her. Instead he struck her with words.

  “Christina’s airs aren’t put on, my dear - they’re quite real. She is as much of a lady as she seems. Just as you are as much of a slut as you seem.”

  She went for him with nails extended. He pushed her down, onto the Persian rug that covered the floor. He ripped the neck of her silk blouse, scattering the pearl buttons . . .and she was helping him, ruining her clothes in her haste to become exposed. Together they stripped her naked, there on the hard library floor, and then it was his turn. But he only opened the front of his trousers and wouldn’t remove anything else, which pleased her because the texture of his clothes against her skin was so rough . . . and the rug against her back was so rough . . . and his fingers inside her were worse, they plunged in thoughtlessly and explored thoroughly, and then another hardness entered her and it was smooth, and so much better than anything, anything else in the world.

  She whispered to him afterwards, as they lay on their backs, staring up at the decorative plaster ceiling. “If we marry, darling, it can be like this all the time. If we stay together . . . or if you wish it, I would go back to England, and you could join me whenever you liked. And then, oh God, think how wonderful it would be! That way you could still be here with your provincials and your savages - but I would be your wife, and I would bear your sons in England and bring them up as they deserve. I’m thinking of your convenience, darling! I would be the most accommodating wife, you would be so happy . . .”

  Her eyes shined as they turned to him, then the glow left. He was staring at her, the cleft in his left cheek denoting black humor. She knew he was about to hurt her. She didn’t think she could stand it - not now. Her dreams were too beautiful to be spoiled.

  She placed two fingers on his lips.

  “Hush. If you say anything I don’t want to hear, I will die. Just think about it . . . how uncomplicated our marriage would be. I would expect nothing of you except your name. You would have perfect freedom, darling. And so would I.” She leaned over and kissed him, her teeth fastening onto his lower lip and tugged for a few seconds. He didn’t kiss her back, and she knew for now, at least, the interlude was over. But she felt quite exhilarated, despite his lack of enthusiasm for their marriage. She would convince him eventually, she was positive of it; because what other woman would allow him the privileges she intended? And what other lady would permit him unlimited sexual license in bed - or out of it, as the case may be? No one. Certainly not that prudish, priggish Señora upstairs . . .

  So she was not upset when Michael left her alone in the library, with no further words except an admonition to cover up her mangled blouse from view of the servants. He managed to toss her a green tablecloth which he’d removed from the tea table before departing. She could take his action as concern for her reputation. Unfortunately she knew better; more than likely, he didn’t want any talk to reach Lady de Sainz. Elizabeth wondered what excuse she could use to parade herself, tablecloth and all, through Christina’s room . . .

  *

  Michael Brett paused outside the closed door. Nothing from inside. She must be asleep. She’d had a tough morning, he’d grant her that. He only wished that the memory of her earlier, all stretched out in bed, long hair spilling everywhere and barely covered body outlined beneath the sheet, didn’t thrust itself into his brain with such astonishing force. He needed to forget about Christina de Sainz. He needed to stop wanting her.

  He ran an angry hand through already mussed dark hair, wondering how the mere thought of her was able to arouse him - especially just after having had sex with another woman. But his easy arousal was nothing new. It seemed Christina had managed to intrude into his mind with frustrating frequency. His daydreams were all about making love to her - slowly and thoroughly or swiftly and thoroughly, it didn’t matter, because the end was the same. He wanted to have her, over and over again, until the novelty of it bored him. And his kissing her today hadn’t helped, either. Now he had the sweet taste of her to remember, and the memory would drive him crazy - crazier even then he already was . . .

  Why in hell had he offered to take Christina to Texas? He’d had no intentions of doing anything like that. Until he’d seen her face this morning, beautiful and pensive and distant in the autumn sunlight, and wondered what it would look like beneath the harsh glare of the Texas sun, which led him to think about his ranch with its big, hand-carved wooden bed . . . he’d known better than to drag her down to Texas, so close to the war. But he’d been enticed by the idea of throwing her into his bed on his ranch, so far away from civilization and with no reminders of genteel behavior. Maybe there, she would give up her idiotic ideals and give in to nature. Which was an idealistic view of life in itself, because if and when he brought her to his ranch he would have no time to spend with her there, in bed of otherwise. He would be in Mexico, working.

  He heard light footsteps on the stairway. Elizabeth, ascending to her room? He moved on to his door, opened it and went inside, shutting it firmly. There was no telling whether Elizabeth meant to join him and continue the encounter begun on the library floor . . . but he had no desire for her so soon. Besides, he was tired of her incessant talk of marriage, and although he possessed no conscien
ce where Elizabeth was concerned - and would probably make convenient use of her body again - he was in no mood to play her games now.

  He needed to put both women off his mind. His meeting with President Polk had only reinforced the sense of tenseness and urgency which he felt, and which was apparently also shared by Polk. Public opinion was turning against the war, despite the remarkable number of volunteers who kept joining up, and Polk knew just how fine a line his presidency traversed. He needed encouraging news. He wanted Brett to give him some. Unfortunately, Brett had never been good at sympathy. His advice to the President pointed toward focusing on Mexico City instead of also on the frontier and California, and on winning the war rather than naively hoping Santa Anna would agree to peace. He also encouraged Polk to trust General Taylor a trifle more than he did. Whether Polk appreciated this advice, Michael couldn’t tell and didn’t really care.

  What did concern him was the letter he’d had from Julian yesterday. Not only had his cousin passed on the latest news of Santa Anna and Taylor; he’d also stated that his own men were ready and he intended to lead them on to Monterey - where the Mexican forces were expected to dig in, and the next big battle would take place. What Julian intended to do there, Michael could only guess at. Damn Julian for not giving him any more information! He didn’t even know who Julian’s contact with the regular army was; if Julian’s messages stopped coming, he wouldn’t even know to whom to write to find out whether he was still alive.

  Michael had intended to get out of his riding clothes and into something more suitable for indoors. He changed his mind. A good, hard gallop was what he needed - something to take his thoughts off of Julian and off of Christina, and off of Elizabeth and Polk and every other irritation in his life.

  He reversed his steps and went back downstairs, ignoring his aunt’s call from the rear of the house. He stalked down the porch steps and yelled for his groom. Then deciding not to wait, he went around to the stable to saddle his horse himself. The familiar act of fooling with his stallion allowed his mind to detach itself and make one firm decision: he would give Polk only two more weeks of his time. After that, he was headed west - to join the army or join Julian, whichever unit would have him. He didn’t care, so long as he was there - and knew first-hand what was going on.

  Chapter 11

  Julian Torrance wished that Michael were somewhere in the vicinity. Brett was far better at understanding and explaining army matters than Julian. Julian’s high intellect was suited for deep thinking and organization, and even for carrying out his complex planning . . . but when it came to politics and the all-white American, he found himself at something of a loss.

  Captain Dulles shook his head in deep, commiserating disgust.

  “Now you know and I know that this eight-week armistice is nothing more than a barrelful of cow shit. The Mexies know it, too - and Ol’ Zack himself knows it. Why in hell both sides agreed to it, and are abiding by it, I ain’t figured out yet. Except, of course, that the Mexies have a lot more to gain than we do. I swear, I don’t understand Ol’ Zack sometimes! We win the dang battle, after three days of fighting and after losing nearly five hundred men - and instead of keeping prisoner the dang Mexies who surrendered, he goes and sets them free with their Goddamn guns!” Dulles continued to shake his burly red head. “Well I don’t pretend to comprehend that kind of policy, but then I ain’t no general. Anyway, this armistice can’t last, and everybody knows it. The President’s liable to end it himself, as soon as he gets the word.”

  Julian imagined that Polk would have a Presidential fit when he found out Zachary Taylor had exceeded his authority so far as to sign an armistice after winning the battle of Monterey, without permission; certainly, Polk would terminate the armistice. But in the meantime, both armies had agreed to a cease fire. So what did Captain Dulles of the Texas Rangers and the American Army want with him?

  “I suspect you have a reason, Joshua, for taking the trouble to find me.”

  Dulles scratched his bearded face. “Someone in authority wants to know if you and your boys would care to ignore this cease-fire, and continue on with business. We’re willing to pay.”

  Julian looked the big man over. Dulles had courage, he’d give him that. The man had gone to quite a bit of effort to locate him in the first place, and today had ridden boldly into the Indian-village headquarters, past the villainous “boys,” to speak to him. Clearly this business was important.

  Julian’s arched black eyebrow raised itself in saturnine superiority. “Exactly what are you paying? My associates will want to know.”

  “How many of them are there?”

  “It varies. My men have several side interests that keep them busy from time to time; I call them in for a particular job as I need them. With a day’s notice I can depend on as many as thirty or forty.”

  “I’m authorized to issue your men fifteen dollars a month. That’s more than double what the regular soldiers make. Plus there might even be a bonus, for a job well done. As far as your own wages go - you can pretty well name your own price, I expect.”

  Torrance thought for a moment, then said, “If I agree to hire out to the United States Army, I don’t want any interference on the way I run things, or the methods I use to get results.”

  Dulles smiled unkindly. “We want as much trouble for the Mexies as we can buy. What type of trouble is up to you. Just remember to file a report now and then, and pass along any information you happen to run across. We’ll leave you alone, except for a suggestion or two once in a while.”

  Torrance stared out the bare window of the adobe hut, towards the high peaks of the Sierra Madrés. In his line of sight, but overlooked, were about a dozen dark-skinned men, gambling and drinking and waiting to hear what the Ranger had said. Men who would kill to loot, but who especially killed for pleasure, when the victim happened to be a Mexican Solado. Men who were ready for action but would quickly disappear, if bored for long.

  Torrance turned a flat, unreadable gaze on Dulles. He held out his hand.

  “You’ve got a deal. We’ll ride out tonight.”

  *

  The days following the Highcastor’s Ball all seemed to speed by in a disturbing blur. True to her promise, Antoinette continued to insist that Christina accompany her on her formidable social regimen, taking her on morning calls, to a musical, to two supper parties, to three afternoon card parties, and on one “fall picnic.” Christina submitted gratefully. She much preferred, these days, to be amongst admiring strangers than to endure alone her own thoughts.

  She couldn’t sleep at night. She couldn’t eat; every bite of food had to be forced down her throat. She couldn’t concentrate. Her abstracted gaze during a conversation was taken for European manners, instead of the complete lack of attention it really was.

  It wasn’t all Michael’s fault.

  She was worried about the war and the condition of her people. Thankfully, she knew that none of the fighting was even close to Jalapa and her estate yet. Due to the uncensored political talk that went on at every gathering, she gained a more accurate idea of true events than anyone possessed in Mexico, outside of the soldiers themselves. All one had to do was listen to become informed. She was aware of every current American army campaign, from California all the way down the frontier, including the disposition of most of the regiments and their overall objectives; she knew all about President Polk’s dislike of his best Generals; she had heard plenty of gossip about the proposed Vera Cruz landing and subsequent march to Mexico City, which would supposedly win the war. Everyone in Washington, from the servants to the senators, discussed state secrets with remarkable indiscretion. Anyone in this town could have learned what she had learned merely by socializing. And Michael was right; because of this knowledge she had become valuable to Santa Anna.

  She had begun to hope that she might see Santa Anna again after all, and soon. She was being followed. She had observed it on every outing, a man either on foot or horsed, carefully traili
ng her carriage to its destination and then waiting to watch her on the drive home. She didn’t recognize any of these men. But on three separate occasions Angel Manzanal had been present at the same function she attended. She was sure it was him now, and although he never spoke to her - there being no opportunity - he gave her significant looks from time to time. It drove her crazy with frustration to remain circumspect, when she wanted to know what he was planning! She assumed he was here to rescue her; yet how?

  But the jealous eyes of Elizabeth Scott-Gould were on her constantly, as well as many others, and there was nothing she could do without calling attention to Manzanal in his absurd French disguise. She only hoped he had the sense to arrange her rescue, and their passage back to Mexico.

  It was becoming difficult, now, for her to even picture her home. She had a vague impression of beauty and innocence and comfortable solitude. But superimposed over that peaceful image were others: the horrible imaginings of war, ripping apart that quiet place and staining the grounds with blood - and above all, the contradictory face of Brett, one moment impatient and harsh, and the next, intense and mocking and almost tender as he played at concern and desire. Mexico and the Hacienda de los Flores Rajas seemed distant and unreal when compared with the overwhelming presence of death and war and Michael Brett. In her mind and in her dreams, they were all becoming inexplicably entwined. Michael was beginning to equal the effects of devastation that meant war; and the potential victims of both were her estate and herself.

  It wasn’t that she was afraid of Michael, she was simply frightened of what he would do to her through her own cooperation. She liked her independence: emotional and financial. She liked being Patrona, a great lady more resembling her ancestors than any of her immediate relations, such as her father, disgraced and in exile, and her two estranged brothers, now penniless Court toadies. She liked being in control. She never, ever intended to end up as had her mother before her death - homeless and broken due to the foolishness of an ambitious man. Felipé had been as politically harmless as her father was calculating. Yet, Michael was the very embodiment of deceit and social upheaval . . . her father’s twin. She could never allow him to rule her head, her heart, or her conscience. She could never repeat the mistakes of her mother and die young, disillusioned and deprived of dignity. She could never love Michael to the point she would aid him in his schemes and forget her duty to her country, like her mother . . .