Stronger Than Passion (4 page)

“Already I want company. How about it sweetheart?”

His grin displayed teeth that were very white against the darkness of his face, and his eyes, slanted against the sunlight streaking in from a single high window, seemed very blue. Dorotea could feel her heart increase its beat.

“You embarrass me, Señor. I told you I have a novio.”

You told me you have three.”

She laughed, taking care to pitch her volume low. “I must only make a choice, that’s all.”

“You must take care whom you choose,” he said, meeting her bemused gaze with one of his own that seemed to promise anything. Wanting to touch him, Dorotea reached down to stroke the thick, dark hair away from his forehead.

“Whomever I pick . . . I want him to look like you.”

His laughter was soft and mocking. “Then I’d say you’d taken my advice.” He reached his good hand up to her neck, and pulled her face down. His mouth took hers and played with it, going both gentle and biting. When he finally released her, Dorotea nearly had to be pushed upright and held there.

“That was just a sample, my sweet, of the way a good novio should act. You must keep it in mind.” Before giving her a chance to reply - if indeed she were capable at that moment - he continued smoothly. “Did you locate my things, guerida? My saddlebags - my guns?”

She wet her red, slightly bruised lips. “Si. They are all in the Patrona’s study. She left them there in a corner. I do not think they have ever been disturbed.

For the first time since the girl had entered the room, Malone’s smile became genuine.

*

Christina stood outside by the pulque distillery, chilled even though the sun beat on her bare head.

“Tell me exactly what happened.”

Joacquin shifted his feet, unused to the full concentration of the Patrona’s gaze. “I was sitting
by the little creek, Señora, the one that runs by the Indian village. It was late yesterday afternoon - I wanted fish for dinner. Suddenly I looked up and there he was.”

“You say he was an Indian?

“Si. But not a local man. This one was very strange. He was tall, with a narrow face and a hooked nose. His hair was cut short, like a white man’s. He wore a poncho over deerskin pantaloons, and a big hat. I did not see a gun - but I am sure he had a knife.”

“What did he say?” Christina asked.

“He asked about the Yanqui. If I had seen a Norte Americano, perhaps wounded, about thirty-three years old.”

“What did you tell him?” she asked, her voice rising in a kind of dismay she fought to keep down.

“I told him I had seen no Yanquis, wounded or not. And that is the truth.” Yes, Joacquin thought to himself: I have never actually seen the Gringo!

Christina stared for a few seconds, and Joacquin became scared that she would question him further. But she only thanked him for the information, turned and stalked away, looking much disturbed. Joacquin crossed himself the moment she was out of sight. The Blessed Virgin had saved him twice in two days: once, from the cold-eyed Indian who had frightened him into a babbling speech, and secondly, from the divining mind of the Patrona, who would have guessed what he had really told the Indian if only she had asked more.

*

“Señor Malone, you are certain you cannot explain why this man would be looking for you?” Christina’s voice was dispassionate. She had expected his denial.

The American stretched beneath the sheet, taking his time, the late afternoon sun shining in from the kitchen, yellowing the bedclothes and bronzing his exposed skin. “Sorry, ma’am, there must be another Gringo in these parts.”

Christina looked away, frustrated, not seeing the shelves of foodstuff that lined the walls. He was lying; she knew he was - she had caught the flash of something in his light eyes - pleasure, recognition, satisfaction - when she’d asked about the Indian. He knew the man. But what now? Had the Indian moved on, convinced that Jim Malone was somewhere else? Or would he bide his time and corner more of her people, until one of them talked? And what then? Was the Indian dangerous?

How easy it would be for her to take her indecision out on this Malone! She disliked him intensely. There was an air of satisfaction about him now, almost as though he were here at his choice and was using her hospitality to recuperate, only to walk out when he pleased. Her distrust of him was even stronger now than it had been when she had first spoken to him, the night before last. She wondered if he were planning something, and if the Indian were somehow involved. Por Dios, what was she to do? Malone certainly appeared helpless enough; it was her own intuition which worried her of something more.

Perhaps she should show him who was the real authority around here. Her eyes narrowed. Prove to him that it was she who was in control - that she could literally starve him to death, if she wished, or have him beaten, or almost anything else a cruel mind could devise. Mexico was still, in some ways, and some areas, a feudal society; she and her kind, the rich, the aristocracy, still wielded a great deal of power over those less fortunate, despite reforms made in the last forty or fifty years. Christina knew that she could do as she pleased on her own land, and no civil authority would stop her. If the Yanqui died, he would merely be one less Yanqui.

But would any pressure she could apply to this man be enough to make him talk? He was stubborn - that he was still alive, and doing very well, proved it. Ane he was tough. According to her servants, Malone had never cried out during the pain of his healing wounds. And besides . . . she was no torturer.

Better to wait for her father-in-law to arrive, and let him take action. Don Ignacio was just as determined in his own way as this Norte Americano. And, in the test of wills between those two, the Condé would certainly win.

She glanced back at Malone and found him staring at her. What was he thinking, to give him such a sardonic look? He almost appeared to be holding her in contempt. Why, when she had treated him better than most would, short of unlocking his door? Anger at his presumption ignited within her again. Why did this man’s every reaction seem to be the opposite of what it should be?

Their gaze caught for a few tense seconds. During that time, some of what Christina had been thinking seemed to be drawn out of her and into him, pulled by his own will and without her consent. She sensed that even if she could never comprehend him or what he was, he understood her only too well . . . a feeling which left her bewildered and confused. Who was this man, and by what right did he attempt to know her? But there were no conclusions in his gaze.

He was waiting for her to speak.

Her voice emerged tonelessly. “I suppose there is no way I can force you to tell me the truth.” Now that she said it aloud, the honesty seemed to erect a fence against which they would both take sides.

He smiled, the lines deepening into his beard. “The truth is, ma’am, that I have no idea who your Indian might be.” His grayish-blue eyes were still locked on hers, and still denied her knowledge.

Anger began to color her face. “I refuse to insult a - guest, in my home, by calling him a liar. But I’m sure my feelings must be perfectly clear.”

That surprised him into laughter, laughter than accused her of hypocrisy. How dare he laugh at her, mock her?

Her chin climbed upwards in unconscious arrogance and her eyes turned greener with scorn. She countered his ill-manners with the dignity she was born with. “It appears to me that your wound is nearly healed, Señor - and I am glad to know it, since - as you are aware - I intend to place you in the care of the Condé de Castillo. I am expecting him to arrive any day, and I advise you to prepare for a lengthy conversation. And I will warn you, he is not as patient as I. He will extract the truth from you one way or another. And, believe me, your freedom may depend upon your complete honesty.”

Her threat delivered, too distracted by wrath and his presence to remain any further, she turned to withdraw.

But unlike their first meeting two days ago, this time he remained thoughtfully silent as she walked out.

*

For the rest of that day, and all of the next, Christina commanded her world with only surface proficiency. As she gave instructions for the harvest of various vegetables, looked in on the fledgling estate school, ordered the repair of a cottage roof, reprimanded two field workers and a kitchen maid, sent the porter into Jalapa with a list of necessities to buy, and performed the dozens of other, smaller tasks that generally crowded her time . . . she found herself concentrating with appalling difficulty.

In honesty, she could not blame Jim Malone for her distraction. He remained in bed in the pantry, recovering from his wound, and causing little trouble to anyone. Maria Juana even said that one of the maids, at least, had grown quite fond of him - a silly girl who probably had no business coming anywhere near him. Christina made a mental note to tell the housekeeper to keep Dorotea out of the sickroom.

Yet the mystery of Jim Malone, and her own continuing, puzzling anger at him, stretched her emotions tautly. And to add to her frustrations was worry over what sort of threat was represented by the repeated, secretive appearance of the Indian. His second visitation, only yesterday, had been to a group of estate children, who had doubtless told him all the rumor and conjecture that he wished to know.

Christina felt as though her previously well-planned life was being taken out of her control and jostled toward the unknown. She devoutly prayed that her father-in-law would arrive soon
 
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tomorrow, in fact! And take responsibility for Malone. If not, she might feel compelled to send for Santa Anna, despite the busy activities he was no doubt engaged in, both political and military, and despite the renewed hope the general might read into her request for aid. Even though Santa Anna was now married, and to a very young girl, Christina had no reason to expect he would give up his attempts at flirtation with her. His devoted letters over her period of mourning had told her that. And she had even less desire now to listen than before. She could not bear one more problem.

She lay down to sleep on the fourth night of Malone’s interruption of her life prepared at last for calm. Her decision was reached: If Don Ignacio did not arrive tomorrow, she would write to Santa Anna.

Uneasy dreams still troubled her, though, even as she dozed. Dreams that merged into startling reality - as she awakened with the disorienting knowledge that someone was in her room.

She could hear footsteps in the darkness, careful and heavy. Footsteps which were coming closer to her bed. Then the mattress she lay on sagged, and she knew the intruder must have caused it, and that the unbelievable was happening - someone was getting into her bed . . .

The sudden, abject terror was countered by shock which froze her limbs for a second so that she couldn’t move, could only lie still, sucking in shallow gulps of air . . . while her mind shrieked in disbelief, each white flash of horror helping to dispel the lingering traces of sleep.

Someone was in her bed in the darkness, some man, she knew it was a man, a man who had entered her room so stealthily he was certainly here to do her harm. And in a burst of complete outrage she knew who it was. Who it had to be, must be . . . and the fear receded a little, for her brain to explode in rage.

She prepared to scream. But she had waited two seconds too late. A large and demanding hand clamped over the lower half of her face, with such force that her tongue was caught against it, and she tasted its salt. She gagged, her hands rising to push the grip away, but they were caught easily in another unbreakable vise. Then something hard and heavy dropped across her limbs, trapping them beneath the covers, and she realized in utter surprise that it was a body. His body! Covering hers. Why? How?

Before her furious thinking progressed any further, she knew what Malone’s intentions were, although not the motives behind them.

He released her bruised mouth for a brief instant, only to cover it again, before she could scream, with a cloth of some kind, as a gag. He worked efficiently in the darkness, knotting the cloth behind her head, over her hair - pulling it so tightly it hurt. Then he tied her hands over her head to the right bedpost. Her legs he left alone, thank God, although they were tangled uselessly in the covers.

He spoke then, softly, his mouth close to the side of her face.

“I don’t intend to hurt you, Señora, not as long as you lie here quietly. I’ll leave you alone in just a few minutes.”

She felt the bed release his weight as he got up. He moved into the room, and after a brief pause there was light - from an old oil lamp that she vaguely recognized, which had come from the pantry. Then she watched without comprehension as he held the lamp aloft and glanced around the room. He seemed to be looking for something.

He went to her dressing table. On its top, amongst the toiletries and perfume flasks, lay several scattered papers, work that she had again brought up from the study. Malone picked up each page and read it.

What in the name of God was he looking for, she wondered. How had he escaped? How did he seem to be so healthy? And why hadn’t he immediately left her house after escaping the pantry, instead of coming up here, risking exposure, to rummage through her mail?