Stronger Than Passion (18 page)

She controlled herself until he pulled the horses to a halt. They had reached the banks of the Potomac, and cool damp air struck her heated cheeks, fading their flush a little, she hoped. The broad expanse of river teemed with provincial traffic which included many flatboats and skiffs, carrying all sorts of produce and products, and three different races of people - white, African, and some Indian . . . while brick buildings marched down to the water on the opposite side, each with its own dock for loading and unloading. Interspersing the man-made structures and stretching out over the banks were the gorgeous, flaming trees. Christina climbed down from the vehicle and strode to the river’s edge.

Michael followed, after tethering the horses to a tree.

“I thought we’d picnic here. Any objection?”

“No.”

She sounded distracted, and he wondered what she was thinking as she stared across the water. Her face beneath the small, green hat-brim was an unreadable challenge, and he surprised himself by the urge to know her mind.

He took her shoulders gently, the velvet soft to his touch, much as the bare skin might be. “This isn’t much like the Rio Grande, on the Mexico-Texas border. Have you ever seen it?”

She’d stiffened beneath his hands, but when she replied her voice was even. “No, never.”

“The land there is dusty and dry and sometimes so is the river. It’s lonely, too, and uncivilized. But the Grande is a lifesaver for all the people and cattle in that part of the world.”

“Do you speak from experience?”

“Yes. All the rivers and creeks in that part of Mexico, and in Texas, are lifesavers. We build alongside the smallest ponds. My ranch is in between two rivers, the Frio and the Neuces, so I figure I’ll come out alright in a drought.”

“Your ranch?” Christina sensed he was making some kind of point, in an uncharacteristically round-about way; and she was right. But she was still unprepared for his next statement.

“I’ll take you there, if you wish. You’d be damned close to Mexico, but stowed out of the way of the fighting; unless things turn around, and the Mexies chase us back home, which I doubt. At any rate, you’d be nearer to home.”

His amiable offer shocked her, for many reasons, most of which she couldn’t articulate to him or to herself. She turned to face him, widened eyes searching his closed expression for something . . . something familiar to hang onto. But there was no explanation at all to be read from his. Still, in that first instant she had to look for some meaning behind his suggestion, some intimation about why he had made it. She was sure his motives were calculating, but there was no way she would know what they were until he told her.

She said the first coherent thought that formed in her mind. “I don’t want to go to Texas - I want to go home, to my own hacienda. It would be torture to be so close and not be there! If you can take me that far, why not at least into Mexico itself? I could manage on my own then, there would be no need for you to accompany me any farther. I could promise to stay on my estates, and not go to Santa Anna at all with any tales. If only you would - ”

“No.” His tone had hardened, and so had his eyes and his hands which gripped her upper arms. “I’m sorry, Christina, but you can’t go home yet. It isn’t just risk to me any longer that I’m worried about; it’s Julian and his plans that would be jeopardized if I let you go. If I had kept you locked up when you came here, instead of letting my aunt take you around and expose you to too damn much talk - then maybe things would be different. But now you know all about me, and enough about Julian and his friends, and too much about any of Polk’s policies that you’ve absorbed through casual conversation. But mainly you know about Julian, and I don’t want him killed. He isn’t your fault, Chrissie - but its how things stand. Until we start winning this war and nothing you say can affect that - I’ve got to keep you in America.”

Disappointed anger rose in her, growing until it turned to fury, and then become violence. And while one part of her mind acknowledged that her association with Michael Brett was distorting her sense of proper behavior, the other was organizing an assault against him. She kicked him, she clawed him, until he stopped her by pressing her into his body, leaving no room for her to do any damage. Her plumed hat fell off; her hair came out of its chignon as she jerked her head back so wildly that her neck muscles were pulled painfully. She’d kept silent so far, her anger beyond words - but now she cursed him in Spanish, so loudly that he had to stop her mouth, too. He did it with his own lips.

The curses died abruptly.

It was one of the few times that Michael had ever kissed her, and what had begun as punishment on his part turned into something much more subtle but meaning the same thing. He intended to teach her a lesson. She believed herself to be the untouchable Patrona, a lady on a pedestal high above him and any other man, contemptuous and despising and righteous. But he was going to prove to her out here in the broad daylight that she was no better than he. She was a woman with needs just as strong as his, if she would only admit it. He had tried to tell her that in pretty words last night, but of course she hadn’t listened . . . and the time had come to use force. He would prove his point one way or the other; which he had wanted to do ever since he’d first laid eyes on her.

His mouth was brutal on hers until she was subdued enough to stand quietly, shaking but incapable of further violence. Then his attack took on a different form. He kissed her softly, slowly; grazing her bruised lips with his own, treating them like precious wounded things to be fondled with care. Still holding her tight against him with one hand, he used the other to stroke her hair back from her forehead and touch her face, tracing the bones of her cheek and the arch of her eyebrow . . . before moving the hand downward to rake her back with fingers growing increasingly rigid. She remained still, trembling in reaction, and her acquiescence was making it hard for him to rein himself in, to handle the onset of what was becoming an incredible rush of desire. But he wanted her to relax as much as possible, to enjoy what he was doing to her, if she could. So he knew he must go virgin-slow with her. Only this lesson was getting out of hand as far as he was concerned. He was ready for step two, which included removing some or all of her clothes - - and damn it to hell, they were still standing out in the open!

He had his fingers at the collar of her jacket, undoing the ivory buttons anyway, when her lips moved against his.

“Miguel . . .” she whispered in broken Spanish. “Stop this, Miguel, please don’t, not anymore. I can’t, I won’t let you do this . . . you are only trying to dishonor me . . .”

“Oh, Jesus, Christina, is that what you think?” He held her when she tried to move away, and stared down at her through half-closed blue eyes. “You’re wrong, love. I’m not that cold-blooded. In fact, I’m quite warm right now, and it’s because of you - you and your proud body that I want to see beside me in bed. There’s no dishonor in that, sweetheart, not when we want each other so bad it hurts. All you have to do is forget these ridiculous, pious notions you have, that were designed only to restrict a person’s pleasure. Forget everything, except me, and what I want to do for you . . .” He entwined strong fingers into her hair, pulling her head back for his ungentle kiss, knowing that for a moment, she returned it just as hungrily. But the second he thought he had won - that he had convinced her to throw away her stupid, inhibiting ideals and admit she wanted him - once again her will proved stronger than passion. She turned her head and, when she spoke, sounded both despairing and determined.

“No. I won’t let you do this to me. I won’t allow you to ruin me, to turn me into a - a puta with no thought for tomorrow! You are the worst kind of devil, Michael Brett - but you won’t corrupt me!” It was the nuns talking, Christina knew; but he had touched something inside her that went deeper than lust, and only the teachings of her childhood and the fear of an only-too-probable perdition had been able to pull her out of it.

He released her then, and she had to stiffen every bone in her body to keep from falling. Particularly when his eyes impaled her like that and turned cold, raking in her disheveled appearance, as if her soul was part of the same unkept display. Maybe it was; she felt as though she had betrayed herself in every conceivable way to such an expert seducer.

Finally he spoke in that soft, warning tone that she knew by now to be wary of. “Well, since it appears you’re not to be corrupted today, I suppose I’ll take you back to my home. But I won’t take you to Mexico. Which means that soon I’ll have to settle you in Texas. If I can stand keeping you around me long enough to get you there!”

In the end, she agreed to go to Texas, only to stop him from looking at her in that insulting way and talking to her with that horrible sarcasm. He took her back to Georgetown, abandoning the picnic, and by the time she had done her hair as best as she could and they pulled up to the front steps, her head ached again so desperately that she went straight up to her room, walking past the waiting Antoinette as though she didn’t see her. She missed Michael’s stride to the library, bypassing his surprised aunt and her questions, as he headed to the bourbon bottle he kept in a drawer. She also missed Elizabeth’s glide from the drawing room into the library, following Michael; and pushing the doors shut behind her.

*

Elizabeth turned to face Michael, her back to the doorway.

“It’s certainly a fine day for a cozy little drive. I hope the two of you enjoyed yourselves.”

He poured a glass of bourbon and drank it straight down before bothering to reply. “Something on your mind?” His eyes narrowed at her over the rim of the glass.

“Perhaps there is.” She glided forward, all ivory silk and curled blond hair, the flowery scent she wore overpowering every other odor in the room. Brett stared at her. Elizabeth was undeterred by his scowl; curiosity and anger propelled her to stand before him.

“Care to offer me a drink?” Her tone was challenging.

“I’m in no mood to play host. You know where the sherry is.”

Her eyes flashed at him. “Such poor manners from a future peer of the realm.” She walked away, knowing well that any reference to his distant title infuriated him. She went to the cabinet that held the sherry decanter, took out a glass and filled it. “Did you and the Señora quarrel? My, my.”

Brett slammed his glass down onto a desktop. The sound was sharp and loud in the quiet room and Elizabeth flinched. “What do you want Elizabeth?” he snarled. “If this is a social call, you may consider it over and leave.”

She didn’t merely sip her sherry, she gulped it. “You have no reason to be uncivil with me.” She poured another drink and moved a little closer. “I didn’t make you angry. Don’t confuse me with that Mexican upstairs.” Her eyes glittered with a hardness that matched his own. “Don’t ever confuse me with her. She’s cold, Michael - much too frigid for you.”

He said nothing, so she took that as a safe sign to approach. She sidled up to him, peeping at him through her lashes.”

“Do you remember, Michael, all the times we’ve been together . . . for eleven years now, off and on, since I was fifteen. You were my first - ”

“Wrong, love.”

“Well, you were always the first in my heart.” She pouted. “You were the true reason I’ve
never married.”

She looked him straight in the eye, daring him to refute her. He didn’t make the attempt, not with words; but the mocking, cynical smile on his face told her he knew her lie for what it was. Damn him and his rudeness! Anger simmered in her brain.

“Eleven years - we’ve been intimate for all that time, and now I’ve come all the way from England to see you, to this - unspeakable, provincial country, which I despise more with every second I’m here - and you all but ignore me! We’ve only made love twice! Twice!” Rage turned her classically-shaped face into something more human, but not necessarily attractive. She still kept her distance, but he knew her fingers itched to scratch him.

“If I thought you really were infatuated with that foreigner, at least I could understand why you don’t want me,” she continued. “But you’re not. You may have Antoinette fooled, and even her fooled, but I know you far too well, Michael Brett! You’ve made it all up! A woman like her - you told me once how much you hate aristocratic attitudes . . . well, she could outdo Queen Victoria, with all her noble airs! And I guarantee you she’s more of a nun in bed, than a real woman. Her type - .”

“You can stop ranting, Elizabeth.” His blue-gray eyes held a considering contempt as they raked her face, and the hand that clamped onto her shoulder hurt. His gaze was bored, almost . . . but a certain ugly light flicked in his pupils, one that Elizabeth recognized and which both thrilled her and scared her. It meant he was wanting something in a certain way, which might involve innovations which were both painful and wicked, but which she craved as much as he . . . for as long as they both could stand it.

She turned her head to kiss the large hand gripping her shoulder. Then she bit it. His in-drawn breath was his only reaction, and she sighed; and she’d thought he would hit her. Instead he struck her with words.

“Christina’s airs aren’t put on, my dear - they’re quite real. She is as much of a lady as she seems. Just as you are as much of a slut as you seem.”

She went for him with nails extended. He pushed her down, onto the Persian rug that covered the floor. He ripped the neck of her silk blouse, scattering the pearl buttons . . .and she was helping him, ruining her clothes in her haste to become exposed. Together they stripped her naked, there on the hard library floor, and then it was his turn. But he only opened the front of his trousers and wouldn’t remove anything else, which pleased her because the texture of his clothes against her skin was so rough . . . and the rug against her back was so rough . . . and his fingers inside her were worse, they plunged in thoughtlessly and explored thoroughly, and then another hardness entered her and it was smooth, and so much better than anything, anything else in the world.