She cried a little, later. Whispering fiercely, “Why did you do this, Miguel?” And he realized, then, that she was more affected by him than he had ever thought. And he had treated her now and in the past more like a puta than anything else. Was that, at least partly, why she had chosen Luis? But then, he had never made it clear to her that she had a choice, Luis or him. And now it was too late.
So he held her, with more tenderness than he could remember feeling for anyone. Held her until her sobbing stopped, and she lay tensely within his arms, her wet cheek pressed to his chest. Held her, not knowing what else to do, uncomfortable with his own uncertainty.
Until his body began to twitch again and desire took over. But this time, he kissed her and touched her for long minutes before parting her legs and filling her. And he whispered to her throughout, soft repeating nonsense that was nevertheless gentling and encouraging.
It was afterwards, as he lay staring at her body which was becoming clearer all the time with the dawn, and remembering where he was, that he decided to ask her the one question he shouldn’t have.
“Are you still planning on marrying Arredondo?”
The implication being that he had only visited her tonight to get even with her by making her change her mind. Which, of course, he had. Partly.
He knew as her body tautened and she pulled up the covers that he had made a mistake. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
“You’re crazy if you marry him, Chrissie. He’ll end up making you miserable, for all his money and his manners. He’s bad too . . .”
“Shut up! Please. And leave, before the entire household is awake.”
“You want me I’ve just proved it.”
“Yes, you have. But that changes nothing. What would you have me do?” Her whisper sharpened with anger, maybe frustration. “Leave with you, and go back to Dos Rios? To play the part of your neglected mistress? No, I won’t do it! Luis loves me, and wants to make me his wife. That is more important to me than anything else.”
Their faces were half-visible in the uncertain light, and he stared at her, trying to will her to see things differently. But he knew that they had reached an impasse. She would never marry him even if he asked her, which he had no intention of doing; hell, for all he knew he might be dead tomorrow. And unless he abducted her again and forced her into his bed, she would not consent to becoming his casual lover. So where did that leave them in the aftermath of tonight’s unexpected passion?
Parting ways, for good.
The thought annoyed him. It more than annoyed him, it downright angered him. She was refusing him in the long run for arredondo, no matter their respective terms. She was giving herself away to someone else, when he still wanted her!
She was right: nothing had changed, tonight. Not a Goddamned thing. Except that he was sure that in the coming months, he would desire her more than ever. And she would remain unsatisfied in the arms of Luis Arredondo.
She was a stubborn, arrogant bitch. Best that he remember that, in the future.
“I hope you don’t live to regret your decision, love. If you do, just send for me by the way of John Locklyn. I’m sure I can manage to lie my way through the Mexican army again, anytime you want me in your bed . . .”
She raised her hand to slap him, but he caught it and twisted her wrist until she flinched in pain. “ . . . until we invade your city, of course, and then I’ll be here as a conqueror. Maybe I’ll take you prisoner again, who knows? Maybe you’ll enjoy it.”
Her eyes glinted, but this time the tears were from hate. “I’m going to scream, as loud as I can, if you don’t get out of here, now!”
He twisted her wrist one last time and then released it and got out of bed. He dressed quickly, the room light enough for him to see without difficulty.
He looked down at her. She was crouched in the tumbled bed, holding her wrist, her breasts bare, shivering. Her hair half-hid her face, which was just as well. If anything was in it besides the contempt he recognized, he didn’t want to know.
She said nothing else to him and he turned abruptly for the window and left without speaking again to her. What else was there to say, after all”
Their strange consuming passion for one another had more or less been declared finished.
Chapter 30
The week stretched out interminably. Luis was gone into mining country, taking with him several newly-hired former soldiers as gunmen and eager to play a game of wits with the silver thieves he loathed. Christina, who had no wish to be near Luis herself these next days, but would have restrained him bodily from going if it were possible, was left with nothing but empty hours of inane socializing to endure until Luis was back with news of either success or failure. And, of course with her own insupportable thoughts.
Michael’s bold and dangerous foray into her bedroom had been conducted almost like a military manner, a guerilla attack in the night - a surprise strike intended to leave the enemy devastated and wrecked. He had certainly succeeded, in both counts. She felt overwhelmed, invaded, and conquered.
They had fought sexual battles before. But this time she had a despairing feeling that he had resoundingly won. What had begun as an almost hostile encounter had turned into something no different that it penetrated her guard and cut into her heart. Before, she had been able to ignore the secret part of herself that yearned for him. Now that recess had been breached and taken. She knew she loved Michael, had loved him before and would love him still whether she married Luis or not.
But she must marry Luis and carry on with the expected progression of her life. There was simply no other alternative, no future she could accept that would oust Luis and replace him with Michael. Luis was a man of her own world, and Michael a being of another. Luis would deal with her according to rules that she knew. Michael lived by other rules, alien and incomprehensible. Luis loved her, and Michael did not; and despite her own almost frightening passion for him, she had lived with a man who did not care for her once and would not do it again.
She accompanied young Paulita and her duenna to afternoon and early-evening functions that both bored her and gave her the pretense of activity, blunting the force of her raw emotions. Paulita was not out, and therefore not permitted to attend late-night functions, and since Christina had no desire to go to receptions alone she remained at home at night. Despite herself, she lay awake for hours staring toward her open windows, almost praying that he would come - because if he were here with her, he would not be in a distant gunfight against Luis’s men. Julian likely would be in any case, and she feared for him, too. She could only hope that the two groups would never meet.
But her mind still knew a fearful dread, and was urging her to expect the worst. She had killed, herself; she knew it was easily done. She prayed that somehow violence could be averted, but after a week of wondering her terror began to mount.
She told Penny a little of what was happening, despite her resolve not to, then wished she hadn’t; the girl’s eyes grew wide and then watered, and she would have wailed her fears aloud if Christina had not stopped her.
They were together, discussing the present condition of Christina’s wardrobe, when a triumphant Luis returned.
*
The plan had been a good one, following their usual pattern of isolation and then attack. Everything was going smoothly. Until the dramatic appearance of twenty-or-so hired villains, some even emerging from the insides of the wagons themselves- and the wild shooting began.
Their troop was startled, no matter how prepared for trouble they were, when the first gun was fired from the interior of the lead wagon. But it had taken only seconds for their honed reflexes to kick in, and they were shooting back at the no longer harmless wagons, whose drivers had run for cover. And retreating for some trees a few yards distant.
If only that other bunch of men hadn’t ridden in, ambushing them from behind . . . catching them in a nasty crossfire. Yelling and cursing and shooting, confident of their superior
numbers and of their surprise advantage. Deadly . . .
Both Julian and Michael had underestimated Luis Arredondo’s intelligence and his resources. And overestimated the value of the expensive informer within Arredondo’s mine. Michael had questioned the man regarding Arredondo’s knowledge and plans, and had believed the reassuring news he had bought. His cupidity was to cost him dearly.
Wilbur Nettles, a new recruit, was dead, blasted off his horse in the first valley. One of Julian’s trusted Comanches fell also. So did Marsh Stokes. Agustin Cuesta was hit, but held on and got away; Caleb North and Lonnie MacGregor both took bullets.
Julian went down several feet from Michael. Michael shoved against the tide of screaming, retreating horses to bend down and drag Julian up and over his saddle horn, ducking bullets the while. He yelled out a formal retreat, as though it were necessary, and spurred his horse to the left and a line of low hills. Julian was a motionless weight that he held onto tightly.
Michael raced up into the hills, pushing his overloaded horse to its limits, until he reached cover. He wasn’t being pursued, not yet. But Arredondo’s mercenaries would probably get around to it at dawn. If he were smart, and if Julian could ride, they should be miles away by the time the sun rose. However, when he settled his friend down onto the ground and began to assess his injuries, he knew that Julian Torrance was traveling no further.
He had been shot twice. Once in the chest, and once in the hip. At fairly close range . . . probably the men hidden inside the wagons had done it.
Julian was dying. Michael knew it without even the benefit of light. He heard it in the rattling of Julian’s breath and smelled it in the ever-abundant scent of his blood. And when Michael tried to staunch the blood flow from the wounds, Julian groaned so terribly that he gave up.
There was no reason to hurt Julian any further. His wounds were so bad that he likely wouldn’t last out the hour. He should be made as comfortable as possible.
Without thinking beyond his immediate task, Michael pulled out his blankets and a flash of tequila. He covered Julian with one blanket and used the other as a pillow to prop up his head. Then he took the tequila and spilled a little of it into Julian’s mouth, now knowing why he did it.
But Julian swallowed, and coughed, and his eyes cracked open and he spoke.
“You here, hermano?” he whispered.
“Yes.” he reached for Julian’s arm beneath the blanket and squeezed it gently.
“I’m shot up bad.” It was a plain statement, without any overtones of emotion.
“Yes,” Michael said again. “Want some more tequila?”
Julian’s head moved slightly in an approximation of a nod. Michael put the flask against his lips and he drank a few sips. The alcohol seemed to revive him a little.
“What about the men?”
“Most got away. Two men went down - I don’t know who they were,” he lied.
“Arredondo’s smarter than we thought. Fooled us.”
“He’s a dead man, Juli.”
“It’s war.” Julian coughed in a spasm that sent a fresh puddle of blood across the ground, dampening the earth where Michael knelt. When the spill was over, Julian’s breathing was even more labored than before. “Tell me . . .” his voice was barely audible.
“What, Juli?”
“Don’t blame Christina for this.”
Michael’s voice roughened. “She must’ve told Arredondo something, for Christ’s sake, even if she did warn us as well . . . she owes him that, he’s going to be her husband. And how else would he have staged the trap that we walked into? That foreman we’ve been paying doesn’t even know enough about us to have helped him set it up. Some of these men tonight came at us from the rear, Juli. They’ve been following us, waiting for us to attack the caravan. They knew exactly who we were.”
“We’ve got a traitor, then. That new man . . .”
The new man was dead, but Michael didn’t want to tell Julian that. He had said enough about the fatal episode. Julian shouldn’t spend his last minutes on earth worrying about who had trapped them. Or thinking about Christina, who was probably the murderous bitch behind the whole fiasco.
“Forget it, hermano. I’ll take care of everything, I promise you that. Do you want anything?”
But either Julian hadn’t heard, or else he was determined to say what was on his mind. He struggled with his next few words. He was growing weaker. Michael leaned closer to listen. “Get Christina . . . away from him. Should’ve taken her . . . myself, instead of . . . waiting for you to do it. Funny that we both . . . love her in a way . . .”
“ Oh, Jesus Christ!”
“Don’t let him hurt her. Trusting you . . . only friend I’ve got . . . brother.” He said the final word in English, instead of his usual teasing Spanish.
Julian was acknowledging his own death. Michael’s nerves seemed paralyzed. His throat had frozen solid. He had to say something, before it was too late.
But the rattling deepened in Julian’s windpipe, and his ruined body jerked in a series of spasms. Until he lay still. His eyes were open, the faint moonlight catching them in an unblinking glare. He was dead.
Michael shook him. “Juli . . . oh, God. God! You can’t . . .”
But he had. Michael Brett felt his eyes water for the first time in the years since his brother Robert’s crippling accident, which had been his own fault. And this, even more permanent and more devastating horror, was his doing, too.
Michael groaned aloud. Was Christina de Sainz the key to Julian’s death? If he hadn’t gone to see her in Mexico City, and reminded her so forcibly that he was still around . . . then might Julian still be alive? Or, even if she hadn’t betrayed them to Arredondo, might he not have been followed back to Julian’s camp after leaving her bed that night in Mexico City? Either way, Christina bore some part of the blame for Julian’s death. As did he.
Jesus Christ, he thought in the beginning of sick realization, Julian was dead. What was he going to do without Juli?
He leaned over to carefully close Julian’s eyes. Then he pulled the blood-stained blanket up to cover him completely.
He sat back on his heels and stared blankly upwards. Julian lay only a foot away. But he was now alone.
*
John Locklyn’s office at the British Embassy was ornamented with wide crown-molding at the ceiling and white-paneled walls. His furniture was sturdy and English and comforting. As was he himself.
“I’m sorry to say that in the message I received this morning, Michael did confirm Julian Torrance’s death.” He paused out of respect for Christina, seated across the desk from him. She had bowed her head and shut her eyes. But he continued one minute later. “He’s an angry man, Señora. He wants me to give him specific information about your fiancé. Apparently, he blames the Marqùes for Torrance’s death.”
“He should,” she said bitterly. “Luis had him killed. He wanted everyone of Julian’s men killed.”
“That’s fairly understandable, given the circumstances.” Locklyn said gently.
Christina said nothing. The past two days had been sleepless and terrible. Luis had gone off again, to observe the scene of the slaughter he had perpetrated, but had not actually witnessed, and she had been left alone at the casa with no sure news and her own desperate anxieties. Who, exactly , had been killed? Luis had only been told that the guerillas had been surprised and overwhelmed, and that most of them were dead. Did that include Julian or Michael - or both of them?
She’d been at once fearful and relieved when Locklyn sent a message to her this morning to pay him a call at the Embassy, where they could talk freely. Only to have him confirm half of her worse fears. Her friend Julian was shot dead, and her fiancè was responsible. How Michael must hate her now!
Señor,” she began slowly, unsure how to formulate her half-evolved thoughts. “Do you know where Michael is? Where I might find him?”
John stared at her, appalled. Surely she knew that Michael would
not wish to see her now! But the eyes that met his were clear, gold-spotted green, and magnified by a sheen of unshed tears. There was no trepidation in them.
“I know where he will be, tomorrow. I am supposed to meet him. If you wish me to take a letter - ” he said, only to be cut off.
“No. I want to see him myself.” She sounded determined.
“Are you sure that - ”
“Very sure. You may not know it, but Julian Torrance was a dear friend to me, Señor. And I am aware that he and Michael were - very close, more like brothers than cousins. Julian would like it if I went to Michael now.” She spoke quietly, the words seeming to emerge without her volition. And the tears trickled silently from her eyes. Her grieving appeal was well-nigh irresistible.
Locklyn was helpless and beaten. He would simply have to protect her from Michael’s wrath. “I must leave Mexico City tomorrow at dawn. It will be a two-hour ride to meet Michael, and the same back. If you accompany me, where will you tell the Marquès that you are going?”
The luminous eyes hardened. “If he has returned himself then I shall simply say that I am spending the day inside a convent. Praying for the souls of the men that he has killed.”
Her face was cold now and inscrutable. And John wasn’t as concerned anymore over her ability to deal with his old friend’s rage.
*
But Christina was nervous; more than that, she was scared to death, as she and Locklyn and a nondescript escort of four men rode into the little village east of Mexico City where Michael was supposed to meet them. Her stomach was weak and churning, her temples throbbed from the hot, dusty ride and the accumulation of three nights with little or no sleep, and her thoughts tumbled around, making no sense at all. She was here, she knew that much. But what she would say or do when she saw Michael was a void in her brain.
In the end, she did nothing because he gave her no chance to. He emerged from one of the poor village huts, hatless and disreputable-looking; glanced at her seated high up on her horse, scowled, and turned his blue gaze on Locklyn.
Stronger Than Passion Page 34