Stronger Than Passion

by Sharron Gayle Beach

  He also sent Renata on her way back to her tribe, despite her demands to be a part of the raid, with instructions to stay there and take a husband. He hoped that now, at last, she would take his advice. The death of Julian had curbed her plans to be treated as white; she was all-Indian now in her grief and her thirst for revenge.

  In the meantime, he was busy scouting Santa Anna’s progress on reassembling his army - a task of which the Mexican was phenomenally good. Santa Anna now commanded nearly twenty thousand troops again, with a complement of ninety guns. Not bad for a man who had, only a few months before, been left with basically nothing.

  Scott’s army was outnumbered - consisting of less than eleven thousand men of fighting ability. With these men, he planned to assault and conquer the Mexican capital, a city of 200,000 inhabitants, encircled and protected by mountains, marshes and lakes, fortified hills, and, of course, Santa Anna. It would not be an easy task.

  Michael attached himself to General Worth’s division for the march and the assault. His intention was to join the regular army insofar as its goals coincided with his plans, which were simple: smash through the enemy line and gain entrance to Mexico City. From there, he would detach from the troops and head for the house of Luis Arredondo, where he intended to add to the Mexican mortality rate by one. After his business was accomplished, he would be free to rejoin Worth’s men, who would probably be fighting in the city streets.

  With any luck, the city would be captured, and it would mean the end of the war. Santa Anna would surrender - and he and Mexico would never be in a position to threaten Texas again. Luis Arredondo would be dead. Michael Brett could go home to Dos Rios. The ranch would be completely his, and he would work it alone.

  Yet, these satisfactory plans seemed unalluring. As he lay in his solitary tent at night in the countryside near Puebla, staring out the open flap into the darkness, often he replayed the events of his life as though it were already over, and the future had nothing to do with him.

  He reviewed his class-restricted childhood in England, which culminated in his brother’s accident and the unshakable contempt of his parents. He remembered the bitterness which finally drove him out of England, to Texas, to live with his uncle’s family, and the kindness with which they treated him. He thought of Julian, and his eventual tight bond with the equally savage and confused young man he had been. He re-lived the rage that they both had felt at Bradley Torrance’s execution, and their fierce fighting against the Mexicans, and then their need to leave war-torn Texas and travel . . . until it was time to return and build a life of ranching, mining, and plotting against their old enemies. Then his life had taken its dark, ironic slide, and the remembering of it became more difficult and emotions more compelling. War was declared with Mexico. Christina de Sainz nursed him when he was gun-shot and managed to affect him worse than any bullet, becoming entwined in everything he did from then on, good and bad; up to and including Julian’s death, which seemed to be the last act in a melodramatic play.

  Was an encore really necessary? Would he be content to retire to Dos Rios alone, after the war, continuing as though Julian had never been a part of it . . . or even Christina? Or should he change scenes altogether, return to England, and make peace with Robert before Robert died, too?

  These thoughts involved him nearly every night, holding him until the tiredness of the harsh days overcame them and he slept. But sun up always arrived too soon; and the pattern of his days and nights continued unbroken for the duration of the weeks of preparation it took until the army was at least ready to move.

  Michael rode ahead of the army in a self-appointed position of scout. Although General Scott did not particularly like him, due to his direct connection with the President with whom the general constantly feuded, he had no authority to order Michael into a regular army division, where he would have preferred him to be. Michael set his own schedule and Scott be damned. He considered it more important to venture ahead on his own and report what he saw than to ride sequestered within the body of regulars, where his talents of observation and native language would be wasted. Besides, he enjoyed exerting his independence within the army, especially to Scott. And he had no desire, these days, to ride close to anyone. He preferred to be alone.

  Of course, solitude had its drawbacks. One of which happened to be idle thought. And with hours and days of slow, wary travel in front of him before the real action began, his present enemy was his own mind - which proved to be just as uncontrollable in the daytime as it was at night.

  It wasn’t regret over Julian or worries about the difficult fighting ahead that disturbed him as he meandered in a round-about way toward Mexico City. It was Christina. For some reason he had started thinking about her, and he couldn’t seem to stop.

  He had told himself that he was through with her. She was on the side of the enemy, had always been; and a few nights in his bed - however agreeable - were not going to change that. Besides, she had selected Arredondo for a husband, who was nearly tantamount to Santa Anna himself. In fact, he was almost worse! Michael Brett of Dos Rios, Texas, would do well to steer clear of Christina de Sainz for the rest of his life.

  If it were possible, and he was beginning to wonder. It would help if he could forget the powder-soft feel of her body. Or the smell of her, or the taste. Or her direct, tension-filled gaze, when she wanted him, but hated herself for it at the same time . . . and would surrender anyway.

  He would be better off, also, if he could ignore the uneasy idea of Arredondo being mad at her for riding out to see him that time. What would Arredondo do to her if he suspected she might be sympathetic over Julian Torrance’s death? What if he ever discovered how close - physically and emotionally - she had been to Julian’s guerilla band? What if he ever found out the whole truth about her time in Texas? Would he hurt her?

  Michael remembered the bruises he had seen on the girls that Arredondo “employed.” Yes. It was possible that Arredondo might at some time or other hurt Christina. It would probably depend on the amount of control she allowed him. Or on just how mad he got.

  It had been weeks now since Julian was killed and she had sought him out. He assumed that she was fine; otherwise Locklyn would have heard something, and passed it along to him.

  He remembered his ugly threat that day of holding her hostage. In retrospect, he should have done it - and never ransomed her. Maybe by keeping her near him he could have decided one and for all what to do about her. And he would have kept her from Arredondo!

  It was too late now. But maybe he would see her when he fought his way inside Mexico City . . . after he had killed her fiancé! Provided she would consent to speak to him, civilly, of course, and not come after him with a weapon. Although in that case, he could always take her prisoner, couldn’t he? If he wanted to . . .

  With these distracting thoughts, maybe it wasn’t strange at all that he made it up the northern mountain flank of Ixtaccihuatl, crossed the pass and found himself staring down into the beautiful valley of Mexico in under three days. The army would take at least one day more to catch up.

  He squinted toward the west, where Mexico City lay, about twenty miles away. Between where he stood and the capital of Mexico was a defensive chain of marshes and lakes, crossable only by Mexican-patrolled causeways. General Scott had a plan to approach the city, of course; Michael hoped that it would work. Otherwise, Santa Anna’s twenty thousand troops would cut them all to pieces on the wetland that shone so magnificently in the sun . . . lovely and potentially lethal, and full of pride. Like a certain ladys he knew of, who was down there, somewhere. Was she frightened of the coming battle for her town? Or was she carelessly confident of her own safety - perhaps suspecting that her present home had been placed off limits to American soldiers, as, indeed, it had . . . and waiting for the one American who would be sure to break his own rules and enter it?

  The verdant scenery told him nothing.

  He decided to make a discreet camp for the night. And whe
n the moon, rose, slip down the road, as far as he could, into the valley. Santa Anna’s men were down there, too; probably close to where he stood, right now. He needed to mark their position before any of Scott’s generals and troops marched past this point.

  He walked his horse to the left, seeking a hidden perch to turn into a solitary camp. As the sun dropped low behind him, lights and fires began to appear below in the huge valley, beckoning him with the mystery of their origins. He should hurry if he was to cover much ground before dawn.

  Chapter 32

  Christina grew to despise the vulgar men Luis had hired to protect them. Insolent and sarcastic, the six men and their capitan, the overly sincere Ramirez, lounged about the house all day, smoking and drinking, sometimes gambling, and sometimes chasing the female servants. Even Penny was not immune to their foul-smelling grabs; it was only her loud and violent protests that forced them to release her. Christina protested to Luis about their disreputable behavior, but he only laughed and said that she was not to worry about them. These men were ill-bred, but when the American army came, she would be glad enough of their protection! The seven of them would be more than efficient at deflecting any looters, American or Mexican, from the house.

  Christina secluded herself even more within the Casa Arredondo, in order to avoid the mercenaries, Luis, and the casual visitor. She wished to see no one. Her torpid illness had yet to dissipate - sometimes even the smell of the spicy Mexican food she was often served made her wretch, until she was only able to eat a little bread and drink a glass of fruit juice. Her head ached enough to make her dizzy; even her back began to hurt. But Luis ceased to pressure her about seeing a doctor or even about coming downstairs to sit with him, as she used to. He was distracted by events over which he had no control - namely, the coming battle for Mexico City, now that the proposed peace treaty was turned down. The hours of Luis’s days were consumed by meetings with other worried civic leaders, making plans and proposals that were at once frantic and useless, since the ultimate responsibility for the fighting and the protection of the townspeople lay with Santa Anna and no one else. Christina remained strangely unmoved.

  It wasn’t as though she weren’t sympathetic to the panic of her fellow citizens. Yet she knew, as they didn’t, that the American army would not bayonet them all in their beds. And besides, the Mexican government was responsible for this war, wasn’t it? Why hadn’t Santa Anna and the others like him left Texas alone in the beginning . . . instead of forcing their superior army on the frontiersmen who had resisted them, crushing them so spitefully that America had annexed Texas and pledged to its defense? Now Mexico had a real war, and it was coming home to roost. The inevitability of it seemed obvious to Christina, as she reclined on a French fauteuil placed near a window in her bedroom, hoping her stomach would keep down the chicken she had eaten a few minutes earlier, and trying not to think of the fighting that was taking place a few miles away . . . so close she could hear the cannonading. If only the Americans would win swiftly, and decisively. Or else frighten Santa Anna into surrendering! If it would only happen soon, with as little bloodshed as possible, so that the war would be over and she could leave this place - where she was virtually, and of her own free will, imprisoned! How odd it seemed that she should think of the Americans as liberators, rather than invaders. And how peculiar that she should suspect Luis Arredondo, who had once been her dearest friend, of not intending to honor his promise of letting her go if she wished.

  She had no real evidence on which to base her fears; perhaps she was imaging things, after all. Yet, Luis had begun to speak of a forthcoming trip to the country on which she was included, and when she informed him that she would retire to her hacienda after the war, he had replied that they would discuss it later. And he still referred to the idea of their marriage, despite her reminders to the contrary. He had also begun to stare at her, when he visited her in her room, in a way that was disrespectful and disturbing, almost calculating - as if he were keeping secrets from her. And no matter how she attempted to ignore or dismiss these annoyances, she was unable to forget them. They had begun to loom in her mind as large as any fears she had ever had.

  Yet, she was too weak now to do anything about them. Once - only a couple of months ago, in fact - she would have packed her clothes and left, taking Penny with her. She would have gone to another family of her acquaintance, or to a convent, or even attempted to reach Jalapa. But now she so ill, and the American army was only nine or ten miles away . . . this was no time to move! She could only concentrate on getting well, so that when the fighting was over, she would be ready to go. And she should prepare, secretly, to leave without Luis’s knowledge.

  Perhaps she needed a weapon. A gun, preferably, but even a knife would be better than nothing!

  She called to Penny, who was in her dressing room searching for the right ribbon to mend a dress. Penny, with her craft mind and her distrust of Luis, would manage to procure some kind of weapon. Or at worst, she could take a message to the British Embassy, to John Locklyn . . . who would probably be delighted to loan her a gun . . .

  But John Locklyn, and every staff member of the embassy, was busy the day that Penny attempted to reach him. It was August the twenty-first, and yesterday the American army had won two bloody battles which had driven Santa Anna inside the city to the National Palace in despair, with no other option than to propose a truce. The Americans were camped outside the city gates; halted and willing to make peace if Santa Anna and the Mexican Congress proved cooperative. The British Embassy had been asked, as before, to mediate the truce. Every official was working frantically on reports of yesterday’s action, and on speculations about whether England should play a firmer role in the conflict, now that it seemed America was definitely winning . . .

  Penny pilfered the kitchen and presented Christina with a small, easily hidden knife, telling her that it would not do much good, but might serve to frighten one of the mercenaries away should one of them lose his head and accost her. Christina thought grimly that she was not afraid of being accosted; she was terrified of being forced into the countryside with Luis, and of remaining there until she lost her freedom forever by marrying him! One little knife was not likely to stop Luis’s plans, but perhaps it could slow them down a bit, until -

  Until what? She wondered frequently as days of negotiations between Mexico’s representatives and America’s commissioners drug on without any definite resolution except a temporary truce.

  Her nerves began to wear even as her illness retreated a little. She was able to eat better now, the nausea occurring less often. And she was regaining some of her physical strength. Yet, when she mentioned an outing to Luis, he deterred it - preferring, he said, that she continue to confine herself to the house. And when she attempted to leave the garden by an outer gate and walk alone - the first time she had been off the grounds in weeks - one of Luis’s patrolling guards had stopped her. When she told Luis of the incident, he insisted that his man had acted correctly, and for her own good. The streets were extremely dangerous these days; he would not allow her, nor any other lady beneath his protection, to venture out into them. Yet, even though that edict pertained as well to Luis’s wrathful daughter and her duenna, Christina still sensed that it was directed toward her. Luis, for some reason, did not wish her to have any contact with the world outside his home. Her suspicions grew stronger every day, even if his real intentions remained unfathomable.

  But what was she to do? Threaten Luis with a kitchen knife should he try to force her into his carriage, and out of Mexico City?

  The thought of it was ridiculous and undignified. Perhaps before, when she was in Texas and behaving nearly as uncivilized as her surroundings, challenging a man with a knife and seemed a reasonable thing to do. But here in Mexico City it was impossible to forget that she was a lady, and Luis Arredondo a gentleman. And a lady did not brandish knives.

  But neither did a gentleman insist on marriage when a lady said no. And a gent
leman did not try to take that lady anywhere that she had not wished to go.

  It was only natural, she supposed, that her thoughts began to stray toward Michael Brett with a longing so intense that it grew painful. He had warned her about Luis, and she had refused to listen. Where was he now? She wondered as she peered out her window, as though he might appear in the garden below. Was he outside the gates, with the rest of the American army, waiting? Or had he been hurt, or even killed, in the fighting? Santa Anna had boasted the deaths of hundreds of Yanquis; was he one of them?

  She knew that she had no right nor reason to think of him. He had made it plain that he hated her because Julian was dead, whether or not she had been even remotely to blame. And perhaps this hatred was partly justified, from his point of view; after all, she had been engaged to marry Julian’s killer. Michael would never forgive her for that. So why, then, did she continue to wish that she would meet him again . . . if only to satisfy herself that he was still alive.

  She indulged in increasingly desperate fantasies as time passed. Until the temporary truce was off, and America, once more, threatened the capital with its guns - within two miles of the city itself.

  Chapter 33

  The final fighting over possession of Mexico City proved just as brutal as Michael Brett had feared it would be. Yet, the Americans pressed forward fiercely and swiftly, storming the famous Chapultepec Castle in just an hour’s time; taking many valuable prisoners, and learning, as well, about Mexican footholds. It seemed that Chapultepec was home to the boy cadets of the Military College, and many of the young men were killed defending their flag.