Stronger Than Passion

by Sharron Gayle Beach

  Imagined or not, Mexico was her haven and her salvation. Just as the war marched closer to her home, so did fear and anxiety to her heart. She had to leave Washington and leave Michael, soon - before she gave in to him and gave up her life, such as she knew it and wanted it to be. She’d never loved a man before; but she was honest enough about her own nature to know that if she did all her determination and loyalty would be his to play with. That was too dangerous a gift to present to Michael Brett. Her country must come first. She had to go home.

  If only Manzanal would finalize his plans and contact her, telling her when they could go! The tension in the Georgetown brick house was mounting daily. She and Michael ignored and avoided each other, each leaving a room when the other entered it, after exchanging long, cool glances. Only in public were they polite to one another. And although Elizabeth enjoyed this antagonism with a spitefulness of her own, encouraging it whenever possible, Antoinette seemed worried, her gaze often searching and perturbed as it rested on one or the other of the members of the household. But apparently she decided interference was futile; she made no attempt to delve into the tumultuous atmosphere of the house, preferring instead to rally its occupants, including herself, to some social function or other. With Christina and Elizabeth, she was always successful; but Michael went his own way, disappearing for hours without explanation, his mood touchy at best.

  Matters continued like this for nearly two weeks. And Christina sensed that events were building to a climax; one that she hoped would end with her well on her way to Mexico, and out of Washington with all its tension. Before something terrible and irreversible occurred.

  *

  The packet of dispatches was stained by the blood of the man who had clutched them to him as he died. The blood didn’t make reading them easy. But Julian managed, his booted feet straddling the body of the deceased Mexican soldier as he perused the man’s prize.

  They were meant for Santa Anna, the pile of them sent from Mexico City. They would never reach him.

  Julian sifted through replies to requisitions, messages from politicians and generals, letters from private citizens. One in particular caught his eye; it was from Luis Arredondo, a rich marquès Julian had met before on a mining survey. The missive contained two queries: Had Santa Anna yet learned the fate of Doña Señora de Sainz y Sequenza Cabra? When did Santa Anna desire the first of the shipments of silver to be delivered?

  The letter made Julian smile. He was amused by the reference to the Señora. But it was the mention of silver which lit his black eyes like a torch at night. He could guess where the ore would come from, and where it was headed; all that remained would be to snatch it before it reached Santa Anna. Child’s play! His men wouldn’t mind a more dangerous, deeper foray into Mexico if a cache of silver would be their reward. No, indeed. Julian decided this particular letter should be sent on to Santa Anna, after all, so that the General could schedule the shipments. He removed the letter from the rest of the bundle and tucked it into a jacket pocket.

  The next message Julian read wiped all pleasure from his face. It was written nearly a month before in Havana, Cuba, and was from a certain Colonel Angel Manzanal. Manzanal had pinpointed the whereabouts of the General’s cousin Christina de Sainz, after much investigation. She was in America, in the capital city of Washington; and had been taken there as a captive by Michael Brett of Texas, sometimes called Lord Brett, a man who had attended the General’s reception under the name of Patton-Smythe. Manzanal gave a description of Brett’s political affiliations, sketchy but mostly accurate. He termed Brett “extremely dangerous.” Manzanal stated he believed the Señora was alive but, of course, that happy situation may not last a day longer. He was preparing to depart for Washington to enable her rescue; and, if possible, to kill her abductor.

  Julian stared at the large handwriting, trying to deduce what kind of man had written it. Manzanal was persistent and determined, but was he capable of taking the Señora away from Michael, and killing him as well? Was he that strong a man - or that devious? Who was he?

  Frowning, Julian stalked over to his horse and extracted writing materials from his saddlebags. He penned two messages. The first he sent off with a young Comanche Indian, headed for the coast, who would then hand it to another man instructed to immediately take ship for America. The second went off in another direction. It was a request for information; any known fact about Colonel Angel Manzanal, of Santa Anna’s personal staff. It was marked “urgent.”

  Chapter 12

  Michael Brett drank his whiskey in a long gulp, thinking about the frantic and frustrating past few days and the unpleasant time ahead of him; and wondering what in hell he was doing here, at the home of Representative and Mrs. Lucius Armstrong, getting drunk as he watched couples dancing past.

  Geoffrey Lowndes eyed him from across the room, and Michael tipped his empty glass in mocking salute. They had argued so violently the day before that the President had to settle the dispute, and he had done it in Michael’s favor; an act that Lowndes resented so bitterly Brett knew he had now made another enemy. Not that they worried him. What did bother him was whether Lowndes would obey the President in the end, and stay away from Christina, until she and Antoinette could pack up and leave Washington. Because he wouldn’t be around to protect her. He was departing for Mexico, early tomorrow morning.

  Event had followed event so swiftly that all Washington was reeling: first had come the big cabinet meeting three days ago in which the Vera Cruz landing force was discussed and all but decided on. Michael had been brought in as an expert on the terrain. The next day General Taylor’s dispatches were received from Monterey, and news of the devastating, but successful battle leaked from the President’s office, along with the shocking fact of the armistice. The President’s disapproval of this high-handed action was no secret to anyone in town, least of all his cabinet minister, who obviously agreed, since today they had voted to end it. Michael had been asked to give his opinion on that score, as well.

  The President was sending a polite, but firmly-worded dispatch to Taylor tomorrow, ordering him to continue fighting and telling him where to do it. Polk had directed Michael to follow the courier to Mexico and attach himself to Taylor’s staff, to assist him in carrying out his orders. Michael was only too happy to go.

  But there was still the nagging problem of Christina. Lowndes had intended to keep her in Washington, setting himself up as her jailor. He had assured Brett she would be well taken care of, a statement to which he had replied quite rudely. The final disposition of the Señora de Sainz was left up to Polk. And Polk wanted her out of town, as swiftly and silently as possible. Polk had decided any knowledge the Señora might have concerning Mexico that she had not already told them was unimportant in view of the consequences that might result should her real presence in Washington become known. He relied on Brett to arrange her departure. Michael turned immediately to his aunt.

  Antoinette Torrance had received a shock of her own, only yesterday. Rowan had jubilantly informed her that he was joining the Texas Rangers, and would soon be leaving the war to find his company, now in Monterey with Taylor. He was off to fight Mexicans, as he had always wanted to do, but never had out of respect for his mother. And he would go at the end of the week - despite all her tears and protests.

  Rowan’s sudden rebellion had both astonished and devastated Antoinette. When Michael approached her with news of his even more imminent departure and asked if she was planning to remain here in Washington or go home to Texas, she had emphatically replied “Texas.” And she would be pleased to take Christina along with her. They would winter at Tor Bend, the huge Spanish-style estate Bradley had built his wife twenty years ago near Goliad. And if either Rowan or Michael could get leave, they could join them there for Christmas.

  Michael then surprised himself and Antoinette by asking her to keep her plans quiet for a while. He didn’t want her to tell either Elizabeth, who would be forced to return to England, or Chri
stina, just yet. Elizabeth, he planned to avoid, leaving her to Antoinette once he was gone. Christina he intended to tell himself. Tonight.

  Which was why he had followed her here, to yet another boring social function. And also why he needed the whiskey. He was sure she was going to give him the devil of a trying time, as soon as she found out he was dumping her on his aunt. But first, he had to extract a promise from her that she wouldn’t leave Antoinette and run away on her own. He had to remind her that she had already agreed to go to Texas, while somehow convincing her to stay there until he managed to return to take her home to Mexico. But he knew, in the end, he would have to resort to threats.

  Yet, he was reluctant to play any harsh or unpleasant games tonight. He was leaving Christina tomorrow, for God alone knew how long; and he wished they were on better terms. It would’ve been nice to be able to kiss her goodbye without a lot of resistance. It would’ve been even nicer to make love to her before he left, giving them both something to remember during the weeks ahead. He never had bedded her, and the thought rankled.

  He downed another whiskey. Elizabeth danced by, her blonde head inclined toward her partner, a Senator from Virginia. She glanced up as she passed, smiling secretively. Brett’s left eyebrow rose but he made no other acknowledgment. She must have seen something derisive in his face because she frowned and looked away. Elizabeth was not pretty when she scowled; her soft skin stretched into hardness, unbecoming to her particular type. Ane he was tired of her type. Thank God, he would be rid of her soon!

  He searched the crowd for Christina. She was dancing, too, her form perfect, as always. Her back was straight, her chin was level and her pale green dress swirled as she turned in the arms of an unfamiliar man. He watched her, eyes narrowing as he noted her genuine enjoyment. What was different about her this evening? Why was she glowing? Her high cheeks had flushed, her eyes even from this distance were large and a brilliant green. There was a slight smile curving her lips that was both intriguing and playful. On the whole, her face was uncommonly lovely, and suspiciously sensual. She was up to something. The question was what.

  He tried to get a good look at her waltz partner, but all the other dancers were contributing to prevent it. Continually, someone in black or red or white or grey blocked his view. He was becoming downright irritated. All he was able to ascertain was that Christina’s partner was medium-tall and slightly built; he wore the uniform of a Frenchman. He wore a mustache.

  Michael fingered his empty glass and contemplated cutting in on the dance when two of Polk’s cabinet ministers bore down on him, drinks in hand and in the middle of a discussion on the Mexican mind to which he was obliged to contribute. Twenty minutes later, after the gentlemen had wandered off, Michael turned back to scan the dance floor. Both Christina and the Frenchmen were gone.

  Manzanal had kissed her hand for the third time and seemed reluctant to let it go. She was forced to tug until he noticed and released it. He was rhapsodizing, yet again, on her appearance and how remarkable she looked under such terrible circumstances. She cut through his flattery with a sharp question regarding his plans for her rescue. The night was cold, she had no wrap, and even though they were protected from the wind in the deserted backyard summerhouse, she was freezing. Besides, she had sense enough to know she would soon be missed. She certainly didn’t intend to be discovered conspiring with Manzanal now, practically on the eve of her flight to Mexico.

  Noticing her shivering, Manzanal drew himself up and related his intentions. “Everything is arranged. We will leave in a day or two on a clipper ship that will take us to a steamer bound for New Orleans. I am sure that by traveling there, instead of to Texas, we will throw off any pursuit.”

  But why shouldn’t they go immediately to Texas? Christina wanted to ask, anxious to get as close to home as possible in as short an amount of time. She halfway wondered if anyone would bother with pursuing her, at any rate. Michael appeared to dislike her these days so completely that he might be glad she had escaped, state secrets or no state secrets. But then again, he was a determined man and too smart to let her get away easily, even if he did despise her. He would probably come after her. She shuddered again, and not from the chill. She didn’t want to be within reach of his hands if he ever caught her. This time, he might kill her. So she kept her speculations to herself.

  Manzanal went on to tell her that she needn’t pack a thing; it was too risky. He dwelled on the danger to her, not realizing that she was scarcely even a prisoner anymore. He would provide a respectable amount of luggage; she had merely to dress in her riding costume at dawn, tomorrow morning and on the days following, until he appeared in the yard outside her window. She would then walk downstairs and outside, claiming an appointment to go riding should she meet anyone. She would head toward the stable but continue on behind it, where he would be waiting with two swift horses. They would then ride to the boat that would begin their journey immediately. If she were unable for some reason to carry out the plan, she had merely to light a candle and place it on the windowsill in full view. He would see it and make other arrangements.

  The sheer simplicity of the escape pleased Christina. She had half expected that Manzanal would attempt something dramatic - such as snatching her from a carriage, or storming the house, sword in hand. That type of gesture had his romantic stamp on it. But this - merely walking away - this was beautiful, and would be a particularly ironic joke on Michael Brett, too. How he deserved it!

  She smiled, which delighted Manzanal so much he reached for her hand again. She allowed him to kiss it. This prompted another series of overwhelming compliments to her beauty, courage and magnamity which came to an abrupt halt when they both heard the distant shutting of a door and rapid footsteps. Christina and the Colonel stared at each other in instant dismay - then Christina pushed Manzanal toward the open rear door of the gazebo. “Go, and hurry,” she hissed at him in Spanish, which they had been speaking since they entered the octagonal structure. He looked at her, clearly torn between wishing to protect her and the necessary secrecy that required him to hide. She shoved him again, growing desperate and angry. “Leave me!” she whispered, and this time he went. He disappeared out the back of the summerhouse just before a tall, wide-shouldered man stepped in the front. A man dressed in dark, evening clothes that blended evilly with the night. A man who said her name, said it with a softness that was as deceiving as his shadowed, expressionless face.

  “Chrissie. What are you doing out here?”

  She stepped back, bracing against the wall as noisily as she could to cover any sounds of Manzanal’s escape. “I needed air. It’s too hot inside.”

  He moved closer, blocking out the faint moonlight so she could no longer see his face at all. But she had the impression he could see hers - see it and read it for truth of the lies she spoke.

  “You’ve been gone quite a while. Were you alone all this time?” How casual he sounded, how uncaring. But she knew better. She hated that even tone of voice, because it was always the opposite of how he felt. He was furious; and the only reason she could think of to cause his anger must be that he had seen and recognized Manzanal, despite the Colonel’s boast that Brett had never looked him full in the face. Somehow Michael must have spotted him. But possibly just possibly, she could convince Michael that Manzanal really was the amorous Frenchman he made himself out to be. She must try, at any rate. She had nothing to lose, except maybe his belief in her virtue.

  “Is it your business if I went for a walk?” She made her voice as cool and insouciant as she could when her entire body was shaking.

  “It just might be. We’re supposed to be nearly engaged, after all. You were seen, sweetheart, sneaking away with a man who was definitely not me.”

  “I didn’t sneak. I slipped outside, where it was cool, and it happened that Pierre - I mean the Chevalier followed me. No harm was done . . . ”

  “Señora, you amaze me.” From the taut sound of his voice he had clenched his teeth.
“You allowed a complete stranger to escort you alone on a walk in a dark garden? Why in hell didn’t you send him away, or come back inside immediately? And how did you end up in here? What in Christ’s name were you doing with him, Chrissie?” His voice grew harsh with disbelief and, in some indefinable way, raw disappointment. He stood only a foot away from her, but didn’t touch her, not yet. He waited for her next words.

  She was thinking, her mind both accepting and rejecting that it was jealousy or a possessiveness like jealousy that had brought him out here, and not any recognition of Manzanal. The idea staggered her, threw her brain off center so that it could scarcely function.

  “I wasn’t dong anything with him. We were talking . . .”

  “In the dark? In this cold, isolated building? What happened to your sense of propriety, Señora, your love of honor? You’ve forgotten yourself. Or was his persuasion a little stronger than mine?” His hands were warm to her icy shoulders, but his grip was cruel. There was an equal amount of strength and anger in his fingers as they tightened, bruising her, scaring her. Long shudders rippled her skin. He felt them or sensed them, because he said, “This is no time to feel the cold querida. You should be used to it by now. Or did he manage to keep you warm?”

  His words were hateful and sarcastic, and she wanted to refute them, to throw them back into his sneering face; how dare he accuse her of dalliance! But she couldn’t; she knew it and hated it. She had to be sure he wasn’t just testing her, trying in some diabolical way to make her admit to Colonel Manzanal. It would be just like him to use her own pride against her in order to trick her. She must stick to her original story, even if the sordidness of it made her ill with shame and disgust.