Stronger Than Passion

by Sharron Gayle Beach

  “Whatever I do is none of your business. Let go of me!”

  “Did you say that to him, too, sweetheart? I doubt it. Where did he go in such a hurry? Why did he run away and leave you alone out here?”

  “He didn’t run away. We thought it best if we returned to the ballroom separately. Suspicious minds - ”

  “Damn you to hell, Christina de Sainz.” He jerked her to him and his mouth on hers was rough and hurting. She pushed against him, frightened because there was no feeling for her in his kiss . . . only anger and something ugly, that she had never sensed in him before, ever.

  “Michael,” she said his name as a kind of plea.

  “No talking. I’ve heard enough empty lies from you to last a lifetime.” He raised his head in the darkness and stared down into her face, eyes scaring her even though she could barely see them. “You really had me fooled, with your virgin airs and your damned pretended holiness - ”

  Oh, God, there must be a way out of this without endangering Manzanal and her one chance at freedom, there must -

  But he took her arm, pulling her against him and moved out of the gazebo and onto the grass. The air was freezing; but she barely felt it now. They headed around the house, toward the front yard and the street, where all the carriages were lined up and waiting for occupants which might be hours in coming. She tried to stop, to jerk away, but his voice in her ear halted her resistance.

  “We’re going home, querida. And if you fight me or speak one more word, so help me Christ I’ll slap you silly, right here in front of the servants and everybody else who’d care to look. In fact, I’d like to do it. So just try me.”

  She believed him, she’d no reason to test his temper. Still, her mind worked to drum up some excuse that would pacify him, some reasonable explanation for her behavior that would appease his indefinable rage without giving away her secret.

  Meanwhile, he was called for their carriage, and pushed her inside; seated himself across from her, proceeded to stare at her as though she were some fascinating but loathsome discovery he had only recently made.

  They didn’t speak during the short ride home. Then he took her by the hand, not acknowledging the coldness of her skin or the look of desperation in her eyes. He swept her out of the carriage and into the town home’s empty foyer and up the stairway. He didn’t pause before her door but continued on to his. He thrust her inside the large, dim room, and turned to twist the key in the lock, which he pocketed. Then he faced her.

  “No more games, Chrissie,” he said softly, his shadowed expression hard and grim. “I know you have plenty of reason to hate me. If I were in your situation, I’d hate me, too. But I won’t let you turn to another man.” He came forward then, but she refused to back away. She stood still, arms hugging herself in the chilly room, until he stood before her and she saw the harsh glitter of his pale eyes. It unnerved her that they were alone in this heathy quiet room, and he was only a foot away, and she knew he was determined now . . . she was frightened, but she was tingling, too, in a series of chills that rippled through flesh that was growing warmer.

  “I’ve waited too long, you see. Ever since I was laid up in bed in your house, and you came to visit me, so beautiful in your patronizing way . . . so desirable, despite your well-bred sneers for a lovely gringo. I wanted you then, God knows I did. I wanted to touch your face, like this - ” he suited action to words, and even though his voice was low and husky and mocking, his fingers were deft and easy on her skin. “And I wanted to take down all that hair you manage to keep pinned up. Just like this.” His hands moved to release the tight pins, and gradually her hair fell down to her waist. He combed through it for a few seconds, while she continued to stand as if turned to stone. “And mainly I wanted to take off whatever it was you had on then, and I have every time I saw you since. I wanted - I want - to know your body, Chrissie, as well as you now it yourself. Better, even. I want that knowledge . . .” He reached around her for the hooks and buttons that fastened her gown. He found them, one by one, and undid them. Until the dress dropped to the carpeted floor. She stood in her batiste undergarments, shaking but strangely and terribly acquiescent, as he found the ties that held up her petticoat and bound up her corset. In a matter of seconds they too fell away, and everything else and she knew the odd sensation of standing nude in her heeled dancing slippers. He left her then, to cross the room and light a lamp. In its glow, his eyes narrowed on her with a fixed intensity, but his mouth twisted with mockery and black irony.

  “Try not to look so horrified, love. It almost spoils the effect.”

  Whatever spell he had put on her was broken by his perverse words. She stepped out of her shoes, kicked off the limp silk stockings, and moved toward the door. It was locked.

  He was laughing, and the sound made her skin prick. She turned; he advanced toward her, hands at the neck of his shirt, undoing his cravat. He untied it and tossed it away. He shrugged out of his black frock coat, his waistcoat . . . and he came closer, until he was close enough to touch her. His hand gripped her shoulder, so that his palm grazed the white swelling of her breast. He smiled.

  “No running away, love. Not now, not anymore. Why don’t you give up your stupid game of pretending you’re a virgin and accept the fact that you’re an experienced woman, and that I’m going to make love to you, and find out just exactly what you do know? It can be fun. I’ll let you show me how smart you are. I’ll even call you Patrona . . .”

  He was being sarcastic and mean, and his words hurt her worse than any pain she remembered feeling. Why he was capable of tearing at her so deeply with only a few contemptuous words was unknown to her at the time. She only understood that he both desired her and despised her, that he was trying to push her into fighting him so he could take her with force, and no tenderness . . . although she didn’t comprehend any of it, any of his motives, any of his wishes.

  Her mind rebelled. She was escaping him tomorrow, or the day after; she was leaving him, thank God . . . there would be no more of this; no more wrenching fear, no more longing and no more loving, no more hating . . .

  He swore, and she felt its imprint on her lips when he kissed her. How cruel such a gentle act could be! How odd to be crushed naked against a linen shirt with hard round buttons! How freakish to know that his hands were clasping her bare soft buttocks, pressing them so that her entire lower body molded to his trousers and noted the texture of the gabardine, so rough to her own silken skin. How incredibly strange, the strength of him, the demanding power that was all focused on her, straining to hold itself back, to keep from breaking her, to keep from rending her in two -

  There were no words, he wouldn’t permit her to speak, and he didn’t say anything until he had her in the bed and he was naked, too, and his fingers found the wetness of her where she hadn’t known she would be wet. “That’s right, love, that’s good.” was all he said. But she barely heard him; she was concentrating on his touch, which was going deeper inside her, so deep that she had forgotten it was possible. Felipé had never done this, any of this. He had never kissed her breasts as though he were a suckling baby; he had never paid much attention at all to that frustrating, sensitive little area hidden beneath the courser hair between her thighs, that Michael seemed to find so easily. He had never caressed her in that way, so that the movement of questing fingers reached deep inside her, while at the same time grazing that surprising spot. He had never brought her to this precious, encompassing brink where she thought she might die - until being joined together to a man in a manner she had never imagined before, a way that hurt her and filled her and made her cry from the unbelievable pleasure of it. She lost all thought, of Felipé, of anyone or anything else. There was only Michael, who refused to grant her mercy, who wouldn’t leave her, even when it was over, but instead remained inside - until desire grew again, and it started again.

  *

  Christina lay asleep on her stomach, face half-buried in a pillow, while he stroked the bare length
of her back and her buttocks and her legs and he realized he was finally sober. He had been for a long time, actually. Since he had first thrust inside her and the tightness had driven him half insane, destroying any lingering alcoholic twinges, sweeping his brain of everything but her. And the second time, when he had taken her a different way, startling her to begin with but pleasuring her anyhow, he had been only too clear-headed. So much for all his high-minded intentions over the past few days of staying away from her - of not getting any further involved. He was still leaving Washington in a few hours. She still didn’t know.

  He reached a hand into his hair, raking rough fingers through it and messing it up worse than it already was. He lay back on the bed, next to her but not touching. He let out a disgusted sigh.

  A little whiskey. A lot of whiskey. Whiskey and jealousy. Mix the two together and there went control - out the window, replaced by rage and lust. He would’ve thought by now that he could exercise a little calm thinking, no matter the circumstances and the provocation. He was wrong. Christina had driven him crazy, Crazy with outrage at the idea of her alone with the Frenchman - and crazy with sheer desire at the sight of her defying him there in the dark, so cold on the outside but only too warm within. He had known it from the first - known that her frosty airs were all merely a big lie, that she was as passionate-natured as he was. And he had proven it. Only it was too bad that he had found it out for truth now.

  His one bag was packed and waiting by the door.

  He had already said his goodbyes to his aunt. Hager knew he was leaving and would inform the other servants.

  All that was left was for him to get dressed, and go.

  He eased out of the bed and pulled on a set of rough-looking clothes in what little light remained before the lamp sputtered out. He went to the porcelain basin and splashed cold water on his face, getting a look at himself in the mirror - and realizing that he was only too familiar with what he saw. The unshaven, ruthless face of a reprobate. Certainly not the future Duke of Westbrook; certainly not a gentleman. Usually the thought amused him. There was no humor in him now.

  He went back to the bed and put out the lamp. He looked down. In the pale pre-dawn light Christina was milk-skinned and languorous, as distracting a picture as any he had ever seen. It would be so easy to slip back in bed, and hold her again, so easy to forget about Mexico for a while more, to stay here and take care of the demanding urge he felt growing once again in his pants. It would be a simple matter to push away the thought of Santa Anna, and all the killing and the fighting, and the danger to Julian and Rowan and everybody else, and remain in bed with Christina for hours yet. So simple . . . but it couldn’t be done. It was time to go, and take responsibility for some of the future casualties himself.

  He pulled a sheet and then a blanket over her body, covering her shoulders. He bent down and kissed the back of her exposed neck. Then he turned, picked up his bag, unlocked the door and opened it. He closed it behind him, gently. He went down the stairs and out the front door. He began the short walk to the quay without once looking back.

  He didn’t see the man standing in the side yard, muffled in a dark cloak and leaning against a tree. The man was smiling, and he continued to smile as he stepped into the open - in full view of the upstairs bedroom windows.

  Chapter 13

  The early-morning fog finally drifted away, and beams of warm sunlight shot dazzling sparks off the blue-green water. But the passengers lined along the deck of the steamship Holiday Rose spared no thoughts on appreciating the gorgeous day. Every eye and every mind focused on the long-awaited sight of the flat shores of Texas.

  Christina and Penny were careful to stay back, as far away from the other boisterous passengers as possible. They had learned early on in the voyage that the men traveling to this part of the world were all adventurous and rowdy, whether soldiers or tradesmen; and any unaccompanied female on deck was fair game for their attentions.

  Manzanal was occupied with the ship’s captain, trying once again to discover anything potentially useful to Mexico - such as the complete contents of the cargo in the hold, or the destination of every American on board the ship; and was out of their way. Christina had believed his pushy attempts to befriend the captain to be shallow. But the man apparently tolerated Manzanal, because Manzanal spent a great deal of time with the captain and his officers. Time spent, such as now, away from her.

  And she was grateful for every minute Manzanal was not hovering over her.

  Her small amount of luggage was now packed, as were Penny’s and angel’s. It was time to go, and she was as anxious to leave this ship as she had been to board it in New Orleans. Her home was still many days away by the arduous overland route through Texas, into Mexico, where they would find a ship to take them on to Vera Cruz; and even though she had a suspicion she was going to regret every difficult mile, she was almost desperate to begin. The idle hours on board the ship had left her with little to do but think; and she would rather be doing anything but that. Anything, including riding across the dangerous, uneven countryside, and sleeping on it at night. Including facing hostile Indians and American soldiers. Including fighting off Manzanal, whom she knew was only biding his time until they were comparatively alone before trying to seduce her. Anything was better than thinking.

  Except dreaming, which was sometimes worse.

  The quicker she made it home, the better. In the lulling atmosphere of her hacienda she could forget. With the resumption of her standing and her duties as Patrona, she could pretend everything was the same . . . that she had never been away. That she had never known Michael Brett. That she had never changed.

  The town of Corpus Christi was easy to make out now, a small assortment of wood and adobe buildings bursting with activity. Ships and boats of all sizes were moored off-shore, and the Holiday Rose dropped her anchor a respectable distance out. As a cheer rang out at the splash of the anchor, Christina and Penny went below to their cabin.

  Christina intended to be among the first to depart.

  *

  There was no use for concealment now; he had been spotted, he was sure of it. Not making any attempts to muffle the noise, he scrambled back up the steep canyon side, dislodging dirt and rocks to fall on the heads of his pursuers below. He heard a filthy Mexican invective. Somebody must have received his inadvertent little gifts.

  He made it to the top wall before any of the six men who were after him. He dived behind a big lump of a boulder, pulled his pistol from its holster, primed it, and waited.

  A dark head emerged over the rim of the cliff. It turned from side to side, and then a hand holding a gun presented itself. The man was about to hoist himself up onto the higher ground when Michael shot. The bullet struck the surprised Mexican in the center of his chest, toppling him backwards. His scream mingled with those of his startled compatriots, still clinging to the canyon side.

  Michael got up and ran, crouched over to another mound of rocks a few yards distant. In the moonlight, he saw clearly, and all of his senses focused on what was about to happen next. He expected they would fan out, all five of them that remained, and leap up and over the edge at the same time, rushing him. His strategy was to pick them off one-by-one. Before they got him.

  It wasn’t supposed to have gone this way. He had intended to find the Mexican guerilla camp and ascertain, if he could, that it was the one that had been giving Taylor so much trouble. But then one of the Mexicans had left the small campfire after finishing his dinner, and Michael had been unable to resist following him. He just meant to knock the man out and search him before heading back to Monterey. It was an impulse; and one way or another, Michael always came to regret an impulse. Sure enough, even with a Bowie knife at his throat, the man had let out a calculated shout. Michael had been forced to kill him then, and to run, because the entire hardened guerilla band was after him.

  They were up and over the canyon edge in several well-spaced dark blurs of movement. Michael fired both
of his pistols, his shots managing to strike two men. He flanked back again, presenting a running target to those Mexicans who dropped to the ground and tried to line him up in their sights. He made it to a clump of trees. His horse was tied up a half mile distant - if he could only get that far . . .

  A bullet hurtled by, then another. He dodged from tree to tree, counting on the darkness to save him from the bullets, at least, of these well-armed guerillas. But there were three of them, and they weren’t stupid. They spread out, guns put away, to run him down. They taunted him, in a Mexican-Indian dialect that he unfortunately understood. They called out in gleeful, sadistic detail what they were going to do to him when he finally dropped, and it was not pleasant. He could jog for miles. But he couldn’t sprint a whole lot longer. If he couldn’t get to his horse, he would grow winded soon, and slow down, and they would be on him with their knives. All because he had made a stupid mistake!

  He was about to run out of the trees and onto a bare patch of land. On the opposite side of that stretch he had tethered his stallion. Once out in the open, they could close in on him . . . but what choice did he have? He would at least try to make it to the horse. He had left his rifle there, and it was loaded.

  He burst out of the cover of the trees into the moonlight. One Mexican emerged behind him to the right, another to the left, another directly behind. They whooped and yelled, enjoying the sport of the chase now they were sure of victory and revenge. Out of the corner of one eye, Michael saw the moonlight glint off the long blade that one of them held poised now, ready to throw . . .