Stronger Than Passion

by Sharron Gayle Beach

  She hurried into her room and shut the door behind her, leaning against it and trembling, and hoping viciously that Julian would beat the hysterical girl senseless.

  She was alone, no sign of Michael in what used to be his own room. And she almost regretted the absence of people — of anyone, even a servant, before whom she must dissemble and pretend, and control herself. Because now, in the fire-lite warmth of Michael Brett’s bedchamber, she was giving way to the reality that he was here, in the house. And despising her for daring to escape him. And planning to make her life unbearable.

  And beginning her humiliation by installing his vile mistress in the house . . .

  She felt herself shake, felt her body reacting to the explosive emotions colliding in her brain. She was hot and uncomfortable in her evening dress. She stripped it off, and threw it down, and pulled on her nightshift. She took the pins out of her hair and brushed it, violently. She paced the floor for several minutes to suit action to the lurid pounding of her heart. Then she climbed into bed, after blowing out all the candles so she was in complete darkness.

  And the tears that slid from her eyes were tears of anger, no more; of that she was certain.

  *

  Downstairs, after the well-slapped and howling Renata fled to find either Michael or her own room, Gilbert looked at Julian, and said, “You knew he was coming; that’s why you decided to stay.”

  Julian barely smiled. “Do you have a point?”

  “Yes. What about Christina? Do you intend to protect her from him? Or just watch?

  “He won’t hurt her.”

  “How do you know? Will you help her if he does?”

  “I said he won’t hurt her. Hell, he probably won’t even yell at her. He didn’t even keep her locked up, in Washington. He bought her clothes, and took her to parties, for Christ’s sake.”

  “But that was before she abused her privileges and ran off.”

  “She deserves a beating for that, in my opinion, just to keep her from doing it again. But that fool she escaped with - Colonel Manzanal - took care of that by nearly raping her the night I killed him. For all I know, he’d tried it before. That probably taught her a lesson of some sort. She’ll behave now, I’m sure. She never once gave me any trouble. And I’ll tell Michael that. But you needn’t worry that he’ll mistreat her, because he won’t.”

  Julian frowned and looked away, his black eyes grim. “She’s his woman, Gilbert. His prisoner. Do you understand that? He has the right to do any damn thing to her he wants, even if he won’t, and neither one of us should interfere. But, yes - if she needs me, for the next day or so, I’ll be here. And I’ll do more than just watch.”

  *

  When Christina finally slept, it was to have her waking thoughts transformed into dream images both horrible and poignant.

  She was cast in a theater of helplessness, in which she was berated by Michael and the Indian girl and Gilbert, while Julian looked on and resisted her appeals. They were stripping her naked; and still Julian stared, and laughed. Then she was back in her own hacienda, in her own bed, and only Michael was there, tying her hands. She was supposed to tell him something, like before. But she refused to say it. She knew he would destroy her holdings if she did not give in, but she could not speak the words. He told her he would hit her. And her dream-self warmed, because he would not really slap her, he would touch her instead, and wasn’t that what she wanted? His hands on her, his mouth on her, and the wetness, the . . .

  She awoke, her body tangled in covers that seemed far too hot. She kicked them away. And froze when her foot encountered something hard.

  “I wondered if you were ever going to wake up. Juli must’ve given you too much wine at dinner. Along with too damn many other privileges.”

  Still sluggish from heavy sleep, her body was slow to twist away, but she managed to drag herself toward the opposite side of the bed from where he perched and sit up. Her nightshift shone whitely in the darkness until she covered it with the sheet.

  “What are you doing in here?” she hissed.

  “It’s my bedroom, why shouldn’t I be in here? In fact, this is my house. And you are my prisoner - not Julian’s. If you were his, you’d be in his bedroom.”

  He must be drunk. Drunk and dangerous. But she didn’t care. “Why don’t you take me there, then? I’d much rather be under his guard than yours. He’s a great deal more civilized than you, despite his manners, and - ”

  “I can see that Julian’s treated you far better than you deserve, for reasons known only to him. But don’t expect me to be so lenient. I ought to beat you for running away from Washington with that idiot Colonel. In fact, I think I will. You need to learn obedience, Señora, or at least the consequences of breaking your given word.”

  “Why shouldn’t I take the chance to return to Mexico when it was offered? I don’t owe you loyalty! I don’t owe you anything! If not for you, I’d be in my own house right now, on my own lands, doing my best for my people during this war with your country. I’m neglecting them now, and it’s your fault!”

  “What about your Fiancé, Arredondo? Wouldn’t you rather be with him? Or maybe Santa Anna? Or perhaps you miss that Colonel that Julian killed. You liked him enough to run off with him into the middle of a war.”

  Pure anger made her gasp as she threw off the covers and swung her bare feet to the floor. Before she could bolt to the door, he had slid across the bed to catch her.

  “Where are you going? To Julian? He won’t help you. Not even if I kill you tonight as an enemy who knows too much to let live. He wouldn’t even try to stop me, nor would Gilbert. War is all about killing, querida.”

  “Then go ahead.” Her whisper was fierce and her skin trembled with fury beneath his tight grip on her arm, in her hair, where he had tangled one hand. “I don’t care anymore. I’ve seen too much, I’ve done too much. . .”

  “You’ve killed also, I hear. Then you know how it’s done. You simply place the gun or a knife - ” he released her hair to fumble at his waist” - here, along the throat. Do you know what comes next?”

  Cold steel pressed into her skin, but she was more conscious of his body so near hers, of his voice speaking so softly in her ear. Shivers, of fear and unreal anticipation, started somewhere and went on and on. She felt weak.

  “I know what comes next.”

  “Good.” But he wasn’t using the knife. Instead, he relaxed his grasp on her arm to move his fingers across the swell of her breast. They found her nipple and lightly rubbed. The sensation was icy and molten at the same time, and made her flinch, heedless of the knife at her throat. It might even have cut her; she neither knew or cared.

  Then the knife was gone, and she heard a clatter as it struck the floor. “You may want me to kill you, but there’s a better way.” His lips replaced the knife, tender on her skin. The weakness increased, became something like dizziness. She sagged into him and he accepted her weight, both hands now concentrated on raising the hem of her shift and finding bareness.

  “We’ll both die a little tonight, love. But I won’t let you run from me in the morning, like last time. You’re going to stay where you are until I decide different. Maybe I’ll keep you here, in this bed, until the war’s over.”

  Panic briefly surfaced in her, but he drug the thin shift over her head and let it fall, and his mouth took hers at the same time his palm made renewed contact with her breasts and she lost all thought. She had known, in her dream, what she wanted from him, had known it all these weeks. Her regrets must wait until tomorrow, along with everything but the ache inside her. Her body was fevered with it and anxious and he must hurry - hurry! To slip inside the wet opening that was straining for him now.

  It was only later, as she lay still shaken against his bare chest, still held in arms that refused to release her even to sleep, that she thought of Renata. Where was the Indian girl sleeping, and why was she alone? She was Michael’s mistress; why wasn’t he with her?

  It was
a puzzle no less confusing than any other in this house, and another that must wait to be confronted in the morning.

  *

  She awoke to bright sunlight and the sight of Penny looming over her with a breakfast tray of hot coffee and rolls, wearing a knowing expression. She pushed herself to a seated position in bed, stifling a groan at the surprising soreness of her body, and taking care to keep her nakedness covered by the sheet. Penny was not fooled by her maneuvering.

  “I figured it was time to wake you up, my lady,” she said. “Lord Michael came down hours ago.”

  “Dios! I’ll thank you not to refer to him again.”

  “As you wish.” Penny settled the tray near Christina’s lap. “But that Indian girl threw a tantrum this morning when she found out where he’d slept, and made so much noise that he drug her off somewhere. She’s your enemy, m’ lady, there’s no doubt of it!”

  “She can’t harm me, and besides, she has no reason to consider herself my enemy.”

  As if in answer to Christina’s words, the door opened and Renata or Spirit - whatever her name was - strode boldly inside the room. She looked around her presumptuously and possessively, her braided black hair and her white dress seeming to belong on a different, more agreeable person.

  Without saying a word to anyone she went to the wardrobe just inside the dressing room and began picking through its contents.

  Christina and Penny exchanged amazed glances, but when Penny started forward, freckles standing out like moles on her white, determined face, Christina stopped her by a gesture.

  “Were you looking for something, miss?” she asked.

  The girls voice came to them muffled from the depths of the armoire.

  “You don’t have many pretty things, do you?” She emerged holding Christina’s blue satin evening gown, the other of the two she possessed. “But this one is rather nice. I suppose it could be hemmed for me.”

  “I suppose it could, if I were to give it to you. Which I most certainly will not.”

  The girl looked at Christina. “You won’t be needing it. I heard Miguel tell Truth-Speaker that you deserved to be locked up with the key thrown down the well. You are Miguel’s prisoner-of-war. He says no more dinner parties for you!”

  Christina strove to keep her voice normal and to remember that she was a lady; and not sink to this person’s low level, as she itched to do, and scream truth-filled obscenities. She counted to five, and thought of her early convent training.

  “That may or may not be true,” she managed to say, “but I will still keep my dress. Did you come here for any other reason? If not, please leave so I may eat my breakfast.”

  The girl looked startled, as though she had hardly expected Christina to defy her. Then her black eyebrows drew together, and her almond-shaped eyes narrowed to fierce slits. “Do not talk to me in that ordering tone! I am the lady of Don Rios, and you are nothing more than a Santanista prisoner! Just because Truth-Speaker chose to allow you to put on airs, you may believe that Miguel will not. And when he is gone tomorrow, I will stay here and keep you in your place. You must be very nice to me, and give me your dress; or else perhaps I will not feed you properly. We Comanches know how to treat our prisoners, if they do not please us!”

  “I’m sure you do. However, I find it highly unlikely that I will ever become a prisoner of you or any other savage. Now get out of here, before I ring for one of the vaqueros to have you put out of my room like the vulgar trash that you are!”

  Renata looked as though she wanted to launch herself at Christina in a teeth-and-nails attack. But something stopped her from attempting violence. Perhaps it was the vague understanding that real ladies did not resort to slaps in an argument, and she had already been called vulgar. Or maybe the level, warning expression on Christina’s contemptuous face told her not to try it.

  Whatever reason, she contended herself with a few incoherent insults and a challenge before quitting the field.

  “I will have you beaten, and then you will not be so haughty! You are nothing but a Mexican puta, even Miguel says so! You sit there naked and dare to order me away - well, I can tell you now that Miguel will not stand for it, and neither will I! We will both have you beaten, and locked up for the rest of your life! You will see. Don’t even bother to dress and come down, because I do not want you in the rest of the house. Stay here, and wait for your punishment!”

  Her dramatics at an end, she swept from the room and slammed the door shut. But there was no key in the lock, so the effect was blunted without the sound of the turning key locking her prisoner in.

  “My Gawd,” Penny breathed. “She’s the one who’ll be whipped, for talking to you like that. Just wait until I tell my Lord!”

  “Don’t tell him a thing. She’s his mistress, he brought her here; and he’ll certainly side with her.”

  “Oh, surely not, my lady, she’s a little savage, and you’re . . .”

  “Pull out one of my riding habits, I don’t care which one. And hurry! I want to speak with Gilbert Torrance before lunch.”

  “He’s already left, and gone back to San Antonio. I saw him leave early this morning.”

  Dios! Gilbert had left so soon, and without even telling her goodbye? After his promise to intercede for her with Michael? Had he left voluntarily, or been sent away? That must mean that Michael - even after last night - would show her no mercy. It must be true, then, everything the little Indian slut had said. Michael intended to keep her imprisoned. And when he departed, he would leave Renata here as her jailor. Not Gilbert, as Julian had led her to believe, who would have treated her kindly and courteously.

  Well, she would not accept that girl’s authority over her, never! She would kill her first! Or kill Michael Brett. Wasn’t he the cause of her humiliations in the first place? Didn’t he deserve to die for his ruthlessness last night . . . his callow seducing of her body when he had no more real feeling for her than he did any common whore? When he had set out to destroy what little was left of her self-respect?

  The woman she had been a few months ago could never have contemplated killing anybody. But that had been before Michael Brett, and Angel Manzanal; and Julian, and the two Mexican soldiers who would have sold her as a slave. That had been before she had killed, and before she had come across girls like Renata, and even Elizabeth. That had been before she realized that she was a pawn in a brutal war. Or understood just what it meant to be betrayed by her body when her mind rebelled.

  She could consider killing now. And she knew she could to it if she must.

  She pulled on her cherry-colored riding costume with hurried yet unshaken fingers. It would not do to panic now; no, not when her future depending on her next actions.

  Then her eye caught sight of a knife-blade, half emerging from beneath a chest. Michael’s knife, which only a few hours ago had been held against her throat. Well, she might need that!

  She picked it up and slipped it inside a pocket.

  Penny brushed and braided her tangled hair, staring at her all the while with a stricken look on her plain face as though she suspected what her mistress was thinking. But she said nothing, and remained behind in the room when Christina rushed out.

  But what was she going to do?

  Leave Dos Rios. Even if she had to kill to do it. And she would go alone. Penny could be sent for later.

  The patio was empty, she noticed as she peered downward over the railing before she descended the stairs. There were voices in the sala - Renata’s, shrill and angry, and a man’s, low and biting. Michael? She didn’t care - except to hope that he wouldn’t emerge and discover her.

  She headed down the hall and out a rear door. But on the wide back porch stoop she encountered Julian. He was sitting in the shade of the house cleaning his guns; long legs dangling over the edge of the porch.

  He looked up at her, hatless, his black hair breeze-blown. His smile was aloof and his eyes measuring, and she wondered what he knew of Michael’s visit to her in the n
ight - and Renata’s intrusion this morning. And knowing any of that, would he guess what she was sure to do now?

  “Going riding? Or are you taking a trip?

  He asked.

  So he did know.

  “Are you going to stop me from doing either?”

  He continued to stare at her, but his dark gaze no longer bothered her, like a lot of things.

  “Now that Michael is here, that’s not my responsibility anymore, thank God.”

  “Good. Then you won’t mind if I continue down to the stables, will you?”

  “In a minute.” He rose, his wide-boned face angling over her questioningly. She assumed he would touch her in some way, as he had been doing for the past few days, but he kept his hands by his side.

  “I hope you aren’t running away again, because if you are you’re an idiot. You’ll never make it across the border, as you should know by now.”

  “I’m going riding.”

  He stood close to her and studied her with an intentness that she didn’t understand.

  “Do you want company?”

  “No.”

  “Suit yourself. But if I may make a suggestion - try riding north, toward San Antonio and my mother. I doubt if you could catch up to Gilbert, who left several hours ago, but his trail won’t bee difficult to follow. You might find the ride less eventful than if you went south, but a lot easier.”

  “Only if I hurry. I won’t get much of a head start, will I?”

  No. Not much.” He grinned, and she grinned back, her smile painful.

  Julian was letting her go, for whatever reason. But he would alert Michael, out of some perversity.

  And strangely enough, she would miss Julian.

  She turned away from him and ran down the steps and across the yard to the stables, her booted feet kicking up puffs of dust.