Stronger Than Passion

by Sharron Gayle Beach

  Penny had never seen a man shot down before. Thank God for the liquor she had drunk, which brought a nightmarish quality to her sight and her comprehension.

  A quantity of horses, all big and malevolent, pounded into the middle of the fiesta, scattering everyone. Voices shouted in crude Spanish. Then the screams began, because the men on horseback held rifles which seemed to be pointing everywhere at once. When the rifles fired, at such close range, all at the same time, the noise was deafening. For several minutes, Penny was unable to hear screams or anything else. Certainly not the words said to her by the pleased, smiling man who dismounted and came toward her, hand outstretched.

  Chapter 15

  She slept. Or was it sleep, this exhausted stupor that claimed her, holding down her limbs so that she couldn’t move? No matter. She was at Santa Anna’s reception again, dancing with Luis; only to be swept into Michael’s arms, and he was embracing her, there at El Encero, in front of everyone . . . and caressing her, in a new, more tender way. He said he loved her - that he must take her, must have her now, while there was still time -

  His hands raised her sleep-shift, exposing her body to the cool night air. But it wasn’t Michael who touched her, and she wasn’t dreaming. She opened her eyes to dim lantern light - and to the crouched, dark form of Angel Manzanal, half-naked himself.

  She screamed, but not from fright. She shrieked in pure anger, in a disappointment so terrible it clawed at her heart. What was Manzanal doing here, in her tent? Why wasn’t he the man whom she really wanted . . . the one who had spent one night with her in bed, and then departed the country immediately after? Why did it have to be this low-bred buffoon?

  Manzanal covered her mouth with his hand.

  “Don’t be afraid, querida, it is only I, the one who loves you the most in the world. The one who worships you. . . . ”

  Go away! She wanted to shout. Instead, she kicked at him, at this despicable dog who dared lay a hand on her. Her bare feet shot up and caught him in the ribs.

  “Por Dios!” his surprised grunt was loud in the small space.

  She kicked him again. He caught her legs, despite his slight build, still stronger than she. He clapped her knees together and held them. He straddled her body, the impertinent monster!

  “Do not fight me, little one,” he whispered. “You know that I am your master. We are soon to be married, are we not? You may give yourself to me a trifle early, what does it matter? Cease struggling. Christina-my-love. Modesty has no place in a bridal tent.”

  Modesty . . . a bridal tent . . . he was insane, he really was. Could she reach her gun, the gun always placed near her pallet on the ground?

  She put out a hand and groped. He touched her breasts, and rage consumed her so thoroughly all she could think to do was to push him away with all her strength. He was forced to use his hands to capture hers, leaving her mouth free. She screamed again; she shrieked and cursed, coming alive at this violation of her body in a way that she hadn’t been for weeks.

  Manzanal seemed astonished that she was fighting him; and that amazement infuriated her more. She was angry, not really scared, not yet. Not until the surprise in him wore off. Then, although she still struggled, still cut him with frenzied, outraged words, she felt a new determination flow through him and make him stronger. There was bitterness in his fingers as they crushed hers together. There was malice in his dark, narrowed eyes.

  “Do you pretend that you don’t want me, Señora? That you do not belong to me?” His words rose over the imprecations. He pressed down against her, the weight of his body hurting her. But why should he care? Perhaps she preferred a forceful man. Perhaps even the American had forced her, and pleased her.

  “Angel,” she said in a quieter, more controlled tone. “Get off me. Leave me alone. We will discuss this later.”

  He avoided looking into her eyes - big and half-frightened, but glazed still with the cold, angry hauteur that he wanted to disperse. He put his mouth on hers instead, ignoring her gasp and the stiffening of her body. He was her equal! More than that. And now was his chance to prove it. If only he could cover her eyes, obliterate the confusing green and gold lights which showed such contempt . . . .

  He forgot about her eyes, though, and her anger, in the shocking ecstasy of touching her body.

  Reality left Manzanal in his joy of her flesh. He had waited years for this; he had planned, and dreamed, and hoped, for the moment now upon him. This noblewoman, this cousin to Spanish royalty . . . desired by the illustrious Santa Anna, and every Don in Mexico . . . this haughty person . . . rested captive beneath him, grateful peon that he was. Her skin was pale and warm, and softer than he had ever believed. She smelled of rose and musk. Her loose hair was dark and lush, so lovely to all of his senses, so magnificent. Her breasts were all that he had expected - full, and high, and seemingly innocent to a masculine gaze.

  She had been alone with the American; but she had sworn he had not harmed her.

  Still, Manzanal imagined the American’s big hands on those beautiful breasts. He pictured the American’s eyes - so pale - stroking her bared skin. Had it really happened? Did that account for her unusual reticence whenever the man’s name was mentioned? Had the American spoiled her in some way, ruined her natural feelings for any man, even for him?

  She squirmed beneath him, but his power was absolute. He would question her, later. He would discover the truth of her absurd distaste of men. Now, though, was the moment for fantasy. Now he would part her legs, and bare himself - just so - and nudge her with his sex, ever so gently. Now he would find her opening, and ease himself inside -

  Her strange, deep-throated cry mingled with his own expostulation of triumph. But there was another sound in the tent. An awareness of it crept through both Manzanal and Christina together, through their connected bodies. He slid away. She fought again to be rid of him, until his weight lifted upwards and she scrambled backwards.

  Manzanal turned and crouched, thinking he would kill whomever had interrupted him. He lunged for his pistol, dropped by the door flap. But two large moccasin feet stood beside the gun. One of them kicked it backwards, into the night.

  It took the Colonel a fraction of a second to glare up at the tall man blocking the doorway and to know he was an Indian or half-Indian; he was a stranger, and he held a long knife. The man smiled. His teeth were perfect. His black eyes were evil.

  Manzanal didn’t waste time bargaining for his life. Regretting that he could not even stop to pull up his pants, he fell forward - hoping to catch the Indian around the waist or the knees, and push him backward.

  The Indian was not caught by surprise, as Manzanal had hoped. Instead the Indian calmly used his knife. It struck Manzanal in the neck as he came forward, and as he fell on it, it slit his throat.

  *

  She didn’t scream. All possible sounds were stopped somewhere, and she was going to choke on them, unless they were permitted to rise. She would choke just as Manzanal was now choking; bitterly and noisily, with all his life’s blood pouring from a gaping hole in his neck.

  The Indian stepped past Angel’s twitching body and stood over her. He pulled her to her feet. He jerked her with him and was leaving the tent; she had to cross over Manzanal. She stumbled. Manzanal was dead now. There was blood on her bare feet.

  She walked out into the cold dark, into a small circle of mounted men. She heard gunfire in the distance. Her knees weakened.

  Please - wait . . .” She dropped down, and vomited into the dirt.

  The Indian stood above her, oblivious to her retching but leaving her in peace. He issued orders to the men, in a dialect Christina didn’t speak but had heard before. One of the men dismounted and went into the tent. He noisily rummaged around.

  Two of the other men rode off, in the direction of the village. More gunshots; faint screams rose in the air. Where was Penny? Was she safe?

  The other men tethered their horses to trees or tent poles, and spread out to investigate t
he three other tents surrounding the campsite. They were deserted; everyone, except two lookouts - now dead? - was at the fiesta.

  Christina’s stomach continued to heave even when there was nothing left inside to come up.

  The Indian, in a surprising gesture that belied the hardened, indifferent look in his eyes, handed her a flask containing some noxious liquid. She rinsed her mouth with the stuff and spat. She couldn’t bring herself to drink any of it. Some hazy memory warned her not to drink anything from this man.

  The distant recollection swam in and out of focus in her mind. She had consumed something, then; some potion forced on her by Michael Brett. She had been introduced to this Indian and had discovered later that he was Antoinette Torrance’s adopted son.

  What was he doing here? Why had he killed Manzanal? Was it an act of charity, or a deliberate intention? And, most important: where was Michael Brett?

  Concentrate on the questions. Don’t worry about what just happened. Don’t think about the dead man lying only a few feet away. Or the future - a terrifying blank.

  A large bundle dropped to the ground beside her. Her saddlebags; and the clothes she had removed earlier, before going to bed. A dark brown skirt, a silk blouse and a jacket. Her high leather boots. Everything but her gun. Looking up, she saw the Indian examining her gun and half-smiling.

  “This didn’t seem to do you much good,” he said in English; British-accented English, startlingly oblique.

  “I couldn’t reach it.” Her voice was terse and scratchy.

  He shook his head in mock sympathy, one eyebrow raised. He reminded her of Michael. She thought she hated him.

  He put her gun into a saddlebag draped across a big dark horse with a white blaze. He turned to study her. The amusement was gone from his harsh face.

  “Put on your clothes,” he ordered her.

  She looked down at herself, she still wore her sleep shift. It was ripped and bloody. Most of her breasts and all of her legs were exposed. Yes, she must dress. But she would not go back into that tent. Not ever.

  She glanced around dully. The other men were all occupied, looking and snooping, including the one who had brought her clothes. No one was paying her the slightest bit of attention. Except Torrance. He was watching her, as though following her thoughts with those hawkish black eyes.

  “Do it here,” he said softly.

  She mentally shrugged. Michael Brett had seen her nude; so had Angel Manzanal. Why not Julian Torrance? Why not anyone else? Who was she, anyway?

  The Patrona of a great Mexican estate. The daughter of a Spanish marquès. The cousin of most of the immediate Spanish ruling family.

  And a whore? A puta who has known too many men, and too few.

  She pulled the shift over her head and threw it away. She jerked on her skirt, her blouse, and the silk stockings she found rolled inside her boots. She put on the boots and her jacket. She wore nothing else except loose drawstring underpants. She avoided stepping in her own vomit.

  She faced Torrance, her back stiff despite the shaking of her knees, her long hair streaming over one shoulder.

  He stood beside his horse, his stance alert yet concentrated on her. Assessing her, figuring her. Weighing her importance. Deciding what to do with her?

  He wore pale leather breeches, but there were no pockets for him to thrust his hands inside, as Michael sometimes liked to do. Instead he folded his arms across his gray-shirted chest.

  His voice was deep and clipped, but she sensed the eloquence that might have been there. He could be an expressive man, a persuasive one, if he cared to . . . it was in his smooth tones, the definite way his lips formed words. In his somewhat mesmerizing eyes.

  But now he had no need to cajole. No need to persuade. She was his, wasn’t she, by the law of possession? Michael’s law, even Manzanal’s. But did he intend to keep her?

  He did.

  She would ride with him now, he informed her. At least for a few days. After that, they would see.

  He said it to her harshly, almost provocatively, waiting for her resistance. Hoping for it?

  She disappointed him. She was passive. She asked only that her companion, Penny, be found and allowed to accompany her.

  He was suspicious of her. She knew he wondered why she didn’t fight. He remembered her arrogance from before. Was she trying to trick him?

  No, she was not. She didn’t care anymore what happened to her.

  He knew already which of the corralled horses was hers. (How long had he been watching the party?) But when the dusty black mare was led to her by a short, scowling Indian, her own side-saddle was gone. In its place was a man’s saddle, which she would have to straddle. Again, what difference did it make?

  Torrance hoisted her up into the saddle without bothering to ask if she needed the help. He adjusted her left stirrup without looking at it, long, brown fingers working while his eyes remained fixed on her.

  His gaze was measuring and faintly curious. She met it with a steady, empty one of her own. No, she would not resist his will, not yet. She would do whatever he told her to. There was no strength left in her for anything else.

  “Are you glad I killed him, the stupid bastard who was on top of you?” He asked, as though it mattered what she said.

  “He was worse than stupid, he was loco, I think.” She pulled at her hair and stared in the direction of the village. There was a muffled noise coming toward them; horses. “But I do not like death.” Still glancing around aimlessly, putting away the ridiculous, bloody image of Manzanal, she asked him the question that had begun to chafe her with its silent repetition inside her head. “Where is Michael?”

  He paused for several seconds. She could feel him studying her. Then he jerked the stirrup higher, went around to the other side, and began fiddling with that one.

  “He is around somewhere. It is a big country, si?” Then he reached out with rough fingers to grasp her chin and turn it to him. His dark eyes now showed anger and contempt and they spoke of his dislike. “But I do not think you will be pleased to see him, Señora, when he catches up with us. Miguel is not at all happy with you, I’m afraid. It seems that he told you to stay put in Washington, and instead of obeying him, you ran off with that Mexican dog. Is this true?”

  He still held her face in his hand, and his grip was painful. But she began to feel a spark of something, some emotion, that was trying to cut through her dream-like apathy. Heat, a long, slow flush, washed over her skin, bringing with it color and a new kind of hurt Her eyes turned a deep greenish-bronze as the wave of feeling finally reached her brain.

  “Si.” It was all she said, though capable of more.

  “Was the Colonel your lover? Aside from tonight?”

  “No.”

  “I do not understand you, Señora.” The fingers moved to caress her chin her throat. But for all the seeming gentleness in his strong hand, his eyes remained cold, black stones. “My cousin Miguel is not the man to mistreat a beautiful woman - unless he is severely provoked, of course. And I was sure, until recently, that you were too sensible a lady to provoke him. It seems I was mistaken. However - if Miguel did not beat you or starve you, and did in fact take you into his home and offer you every luxury, which he was in no way obliged to do - and if Colonel Manzanal was not your lover, as you say - then why in hell were you so foolish to leave the security of Washington with such a weak man? Do you have a death wish?”

  Torrance’s hand was still at variance with his words and his harsh expression as it played through her hair, combing the thick strands almost tenderly. It was unnerving her, as no doubt it was meant to.

  She said vaguely, “I wanted to go home.”

  “Miguel swore he would escort you, when it was safe to do so. You had only to wait a few months.”

  “No. I couldn’t wait any longer!”

  “Why not? Was he cruel to you? Was my mother Antoinette unkind?”

  “No. Everyone was - ”

  “Why did you leave Wash
ington the moment Miguel was out of sight? Was it because you knew it was the perfect opportunity to escape and deliver the information you have been collecting all this time for Santa Anna? Did you and Manzanal plan the entire thing - that you would be taken captive and brought into the enemy camp, so to speak - in order to spy for Mexico? Where have you concealed the information you are carrying? Or did you simply memorize it?”

  His rapid-fire interrogation stunned her, and the now painful grip in her hair brought water to her eyes. But she didn’t protest, not at first. She sensed he expected her to hysterically deny everything, and for some unknown reason he would use the excuse to really hurt her. He wanted to damage her, perhaps even kill her, and he needed some plausible rationale. His men were watching; more had ridden up, but she hadn’t dared glance at them. Her horse moved restlessly beneath her.

  She looked directly in his hellish eyes. “That is absurd.”

  He was still and silent, but his hand did not slacken its hold on her hair. His face was dangerous and unreadable and did not betray his thoughts. She knew her fate teetered on his whim.

  Then he spoke.

  “What is truly absurd is that Miguel took you with him at all.” The normal, almost conversational tone of voice startled her. His hand relaxed and began to smooth the hair it had tangled. His eyes were indifferent again. “I told him to kill you. I even offered to do it for him Who knows? It’s never too late. Perhaps he agrees with me now.”

  He turned away, taking a firm hold on her reins, and proceeded to ignore her while he asked questions of his men.

  Christina sank back in the big saddle, shifting her spread legs in an absent attempt to ease her strained muscles. She tried to forget the pain. She was lucky to be alive, for what life was worth at this point; and a little soreness from Manzanal’s aborted rape compared in no way with a slit throat from Julian Torrance’s knife.

  He interrogated one of the men in a voice which was low and heavy with sarcasm, and which reminded her of his cousin. She stared at him.