Stronger Than Passion (10 page)

Michael Brett entered their small cabin as the ship docked, late in the evening. He sent Penny away, leaving Christina to feel an awful sense of dread.

She waited for him to speak while he studied her. This was another Michael Brett - grimmer than before, all pretenses thrown away, no kindness or humor in his again unshaven face.

“Christina. We’re about to take a skiff over to Washington. I have a town home there, in a neighborhood called Georgetown. You’ll stay there until I can think of a safer place to put you. Safer for you, I mean, there’s a lot of anti-Mexican feeling in this town. If your connections were to spread, I might not be able to protect you from something unpleasant.”

“You’re trying to scare me.”

“Yes, I am! Now, listen. I am going to speak to the President and one of his aides about you. They will want to question you. If you cooperate fully, and answer their questions - or answer mine, which I intend to ask you myself - then I will guarantee your return to Mexico soon. If you do not, I can’t even promise that you won’t end up in prison. As I said, there is a war going on, and unfortunately you happen to be caught up in it.
Do you understand me?”

Coldness made a mask of her features in the dim light.

“Certainly, Señor. But I am afraid I won’t be able to tell you or your President anything.”

“Damn your stubbornness,” he said harshly.

“You shouldn’t have brought me here.”

“Maybe not. But you’re here now, and I intend to make the best of it. In more ways than one, Señora, believe me!”

She did. When he grasped her arm to lead her from the cabin, she shivered - and not from the chill that blew in off the Potomac.

Whatever Christina expected as she approached the lair of so degenerate a man as Michael Brett it was not this - a conventional town home in a quiet neighborhood, replete with an enigmatic British butler who answered Brett’s demanding knock in a plaid silk dressing gown.

Further surprises were to come. Penny, standing closely behind Christina in the spacious hall which they had entered, uttered a stifled gasp at the elegant surroundings revealed by the butler’s raised candelabra; and Christina, had she not retained more control, might have followed. Who would have expected that so crude a man as Brett might live in a home of such expansive good taste? Not she, certainly! Yet from the marble squares on the floor to the pastoral landscapes on the walls, this home seemed furnished in the first style of elegance.

Noticing his two guests’ evident surprise, Michael Brett raised one sardonic black eyebrow.

“Were you expecting a shanty? Washington is not exactly a wilderness; is it, Hager?”

The butler, a much shorter man, cleared his throat. “Perhaps not precisely a wilderness, sir. May I offer you and the ladies some refreshment while I see to your rooms?”

Michael grinned. “Hager comes from a much grander place and believes this to be a land of barbarians. No doubt you would agree with him, Christina.” His eyes flickered over her, and lingered for a moment. She raised her chin in silent response to his scrutiny and met his gaze straight-on until he ended it himself. “Hager, you may serve the ladies whatever they desire in the upstairs sitting room. I will see to myself, and then I am going out. In the meantime - ” He turned to take Christine firmly by the arm and lead her into the darkness of what was probably a drawing room.

His voice now came low and hard. “I’m going to tell you this once more, for your own good. Are you listening?”

She winced from the pressure on her arm. “Yes. Let go of me.”

“In a minute. I want you to remember this.” His eyes bored into her in the dimness. “I will treat you as a guest in this house if you agree to behave as one. You will make no attempt to leave without my permission; you will not tell my servants anything about yourself or your background. There will be no scenes, no accusations, no running. In return, I will not lock you inside your room and you will have the respect of my household. Do you understand? Do you agree?”

Christina hesitated, despite the increased grip on her arm. What was behind his sudden generosity? Did he intend to trick her into an escape? Did he feel more sure of her now that he had her in Washington? Or was he regretting his callous treatment of her these past weeks?

Whatever his motivations, she would appreciate not suffering the humility of being locked up in front of that very correct butler. Besides, who knew what possibilities might come her way given the freedom of Brett’s house?

In the shadowy drawing room, she nodded. “Yes. I give you my word that I won’t make trouble.”

As if surprised at her capitulation, he relaxed his taut body. “I’m glad you’re being sensible. Now, if you’ll only remain that way during questioning, I can guarantee to have you home soon.”

“But you have already questioned me! I’ve told you I know nothing of Santa Anna’s business!”

“Hush. I’m not the man you have to convince any longer - there’ll be others. Now, run along upstairs with Hager; he’ll present the other servants shortly, I’ve no doubt. Just try to act like the lady you claim you are. And remember this . . . I’ll have the house watched. Just in case you renege on your word.”

“Have I told you how much I hate you?” she whispered as he pushed her back into the hall, but he only laughed.

* * *

Later, when Christina lay in a sumptuous Regency-style bed in the stillness of a room which did not sway with the monotonous movements of the sea, there was time for all the absurdities and anxieties of her present situation to creep in on her.

Michael had gone out, as he had said; she’d watched him stride off in his typical impatient way from the bedroom window. The curiosity in her mind had followed him into the dark distance. Where was he going this late at night? Did it concern her - or was he looking up old friends? Were they men, or women?

That thought vexed her in some insoluble way. Of course she did not care who he went to visit, at nearly midnight; unless he was busy reporting her to the officials who might, perhaps, come here and take her away.

She wondered if she could stand prison. A real prison, cold and dirty and rat-infested and hopeless. Not to be compared with her present rose-and-gold surroundings, sweetly smelling of wax and the warmth of a stove, where she had but to ring for a servant to see to her every need. Was she capable of leaving here, after all, where she felt physically comfortable, at least, and voluntarily submitting to genuine imprisonment? Might she not, if threatened, answer all her interrogators’ questions either with real knowledge or invented facts? Could she do any real harm to Santa Anna or the Mexican people by anything she had to say?

The image of her father-in-law, the Condé, stiff-backed and austere, his innate kindness well-hidden, appeared in her mind, followed by the varied faces of her estate workers. They depended on her, had faith in her, all of them, even the old Condé. Did she want to see them overwhelmed, overrun, perhaps even killed, by these brash Americans she was now among? If Michael Brett, whatever his ancestry, was a fair example of the ruthlessness of Americans, could she afford to tell them anything which might forward their cause over Don Ignacio’s and Luis’s?

The picture of a defeated Mexico, humbled and burned, haunted her until it overwhelmed the more immediate vision of an American prison. She reaffirmed, after hours of sleeplessness, that whatever happened she could not betray the Mexicans who had taken her in and made her a home. Somehow, she must not aid the Americans. She must remain strong enough to resist them until they either returned her home or she seized some opportunity to escape.

Yet, it was not of Mexico nor of escape that she was thinking when there were sudden noises downstairs, but of their probable instigator. So, he had decided to sleep in his own bed after all! Apparently whomever he had visited had declined to offer hospitality for the entire night.

Strangely irritated despite her fatigue, her body moved restlessly in the bed as she listened to heavy footsteps on the stairs. Where was Michael’s room anyway? Due to the lateness of their arrival, and her desire for solitude, she had refused Hager’s kind offer of a tour of the house, and had merely nibbled a light supper in her room before retiring. Penny, she knew, had gone downstairs to the servant’s quarters. Michael, she supposed, had a bedroom somewhere near her own.

When the footsteps paused outside her door, her breathing nearly stopped. Surely, por Dios, he would not force his way in here! He had never once attempted to molest her during the journey. But now in his own home . . .

For a suspended second, she heard nothing. Then the knock came. Softly; almost a scratching. Had she been asleep, she would not have been awakened.

She rose from the bed, clutching the spread around her shoulders in lieu of a dressing gown, one of the civilized niceties that Penny had failed to provide her. She approached the closed door. Opened, just a crack.

She smelled him first. Tobacco and whiskey, and something else, more indefinable. Musky. “What do you want?” she hissed.

“Damned if I know.” His voice was low and puzzled. Then he laughed, harshly. Was he drunk? “Oh yes, I do. I wanted to tell you something. Mind if I come in?”

“Certainly I mind! It’s scarcely dawn yet, and I’m not dressed - ” but he was not listening. He pushed the door open wider, and inserted himself inside the room, forcing her backwards. His presence - well over six feet in his spurred boots - imbued the formerly gracious space with a dangerous masculinity. In the darkness, he loomed over her, powerful and alien. She stood subdued, caught by his effrontery and speechless.

“You’ll have to forgive my manners, Señora,” he said sarcastically. “But I’ve been out all night, and I just wanted to make sure you were still here before I went to bed.”

“Of course I’m here! I gave you my word, remember? And you said you had something to tell me.”

“Just that I’ve spoken to one of the President’s aides about you, and you can expect a visit from him soon. Maybe tomorrow - today - or maybe not.”

It was plain he was choosing his words with care, and there could be no doubt he was indeed drunk. He was disgusting! And getting him out of her room, without his causing a violent scene, would be a difficult task.

“Couldn’t we discuss this later in the day? I’m really quite tired now.”

“But you were awake.” His tone softened and roughened at the same time. “Why? Were you waiting up for me?”

“Hardly.” She clutched the patterned spread more tightly to her neck. “You woke me as you came up the stairs. Why don’t you go to your own room now, and leave me in peace?”

He seemed not to have heard her. She could tell, in the gradually lightening room, that he was smiling. His eyes were half-closed and alarmingly speculative. He walked a step closer. She backed up against the foot of the bed.

“What’s that you’re wearing?” he asked.

“It’s no concern of yours. I’ll thank you to leave the room.”

“Oh, I’ll go. In a minute. There’s something I’ve been curious about, though, ever since I’ve known you.”

“Oh?” Her heart was thudding, in fright and in confusion. He must leave now, he must! “I’m not interested in your curiosity. I want you out of here.”

“I’m sure you think you do, querida. But do you really? Is your coldness inside, as well as out . . . or are you just a damned good pretender? Did you freeze-up this way with Santa Anna, with your husband, with Luis Arredondo - or is it only with me?”

“I find you offensive,” she spat as contemptuously as she could. But she knew her voice was shaking, as was her body. She couldn’t let him say such things to her, couldn’t listen to his hateful, uncalled-for words. He had no right to be here, no right to insult her!

“Do you really, Christina?”

He sounded doubtful, and came even closer. She moved away and was caught. Trapped, in his arms, in his frustrating, lethal embrace. Her covering was jerked away. Her exposed flesh in the thin night-shift went at first cold, and then uncomfortably, unbelievably warm. He pressed her to him, to feel her softness crushed against the varying textures of his clothes - rough, and hard, and in places smooth. His hand went to her loosened hair, to feel it, too, and then to her cheek; possessively, uncaringly, as though she were a coveted and seized article to be fondled merely for the pleasure of having.

When she struggled, she reminded him there was a thinking being inside the object he held. He murmured, more in the way of an impatient order, for her to be still. Then his mouth went searching for hers and took it, too.

She had never been kissed in this way, never - as though he was testing her and teasing her and enjoying her all at once, the taste of her increasing his appetite insatiably. And so a man must kiss a whore. There was no perfunctory reverence here, as she had received from Felipé, as any reputable man might offer his wife. Here was hunger. And pleasure. And demand.

His hands moved down her back and over her curves, noting them and knowing them. Then one hand rose again to pass over her shoulders and insinuate itself between them. When it took her breast fully, the heat of it shocked her into an outrage greater than any she could imagine - into that, and the dissolving, disintegrating, completely unsettling little curl of something that might be desire, which streaked through her in the manner of a chill.