Stronger Than Passion (40 page)

Christina found herself being critical these days of the people who had been her friends and acquaintances. It wasn’t that she was being disloyal, she told herself as she yet again overhead a loudly pontificating landowner with disgust. It was simply that her time away from Mexico had opened her eyes to its faults. She no longer believed most of what she heard about the demonic intentions of Americans; and, indeed, believed that Mexico had provoked her to begin with, and almost deserved invasion . . .

Of course she kept these sentiments to herself. Sentiments which she was beginning to understand, but which were growing clearer with each passing day spent in Mexico City, at the palatial stone town home of Luis Arredondo, Marquès de Lara y Brihuega.

It was even Luis who reminded her that although she now resided in his home - he, an unmarried widower - she would have the chaperonage of his young daughter, Paulita, and her duenna, the Doña Ramona de Velosa, who also lived there. Her reputation would remain as unblemished as possible, considering the unfortunate and disturbing rumors that still circulated throughout the town concerning her time spent with the enemy. Luis intended to do his utmost to help Christina prove the rumors false.

Luis was and always had been charming company. He was both amusing and understanding, and relaxing to be with, unless he were being deliberately provoking. Otherwise, he was the most
comfortable person Christina knew to be around. And the sultry throb of Mexico City’s entertainments were just the thing she needed now to lull her thoughts and occupy her mind, she decided; and keep her from too much solitude - which only resulted in a drifting sadness that she refused to acknowledge, and a lingering fear that she was scared not to. She didn’t want to think too much. Thinking hurt.

It was not even being torn from her hacienda once more. No, it was that she knew she would never see Michael Brett again, and that it was best not to think of him, not to dwell on him. It was best to attend every tertulia and fiesta she was invited to, once it became known she was in town, so that the noise of music and conversation would drive her memories from her head. And it was best to rely on Luis to keep her company, and to keep her from herself.

Luis avoided mentioning Michael Brett to Christina; perhaps he sensed her sensitivity to any conversation about the man whom he had once entertained.

Luis Arredondo, however, was not the kind of man to forget anything. As Christina was more in his company, she began to understand that there was a great deal more to him than wealth and sophistication. Luis was an important man in Mexico these days . . . spending hours meeting with the ever-changing members of the Ministry, entertaining other influential city leaders, and receiving and dispatching dozens of messages to all parts of Mexico . . . including the army, and Santa Anna. Besides that, he still managed to oversee operations at a distance of his large country estate, his mines, and various other income-producing acquisitions which Christina knew nothing about. He was not likely to ignore her past, anymore than he would any other intriguing detail in his life.

She asked him, one morning over breakfast, why he had never sought high political office.

He looked at her for a moment; then smiled his elegant, knowing smile. “Why in the name of God would I ever want to do that? What is the President of Mexico, other than an inflated puppet whose strings are really pulled by others - if he would keep his office? Strong dictators, like your dear cousin Santa Anna, never remain in power long in this country; someone is always rallying against
them, and there is a constant struggle to stay on top. Why would I bother to sully my name in public by scrabbling for my job? I prefer to leave the indignities to others - while I remain firmly in the background, influencing Mexico’s policies in my own way.”

“Yet you would be a king, if you could, Luis,” Christina said, unafraid of annoying him.

He laughed in appreciation of her subtlety, his brown eyes dancing with self-mockery. “To be a king is no disgrace to one’s ancestral name, since a king has absolute power - and divine right. Yes, I would be a king. But not a president.”

He leaned toward her - she was seated to his right - and brushed her cheek with one long, manicured finger. “What a lovely queen you would make,” he murmured, eyes half-shut and calculating.

Señora de Velosa, the only other person at the table, cleared her throat and remarked on a forthcoming reception at the British Embassy. Luis leaned back in his chair. Christina picked up her fork, and the discussion was closed. But Luis’s intimate and entirely honest words remained with Christina for quite a while.

Yes, Luis was as arrogant as any European noble. And he had the knack of acquiring wealth, and of manipulating other men. That made him quite formidable.

But he was tender and protective toward her, and during these days of her own uncertain emotions she was grateful. She was content to let him plan her days, and her nights. She was pleased to leave her re-entry into society to him and his considerable social power. And she was glad to have his assistance in her dealings with Santa Anna and Colonel Diaz - who insisted on visiting her every week, leaving unspoken threats in his wake.

She was indeed relieved to have Luis beside her. Without him, her courage might break. Without his devotion to soothe her, her time with Michael Brett might seem even more confusing than it was.

*

One night, in early March, Christina learned where her reliance on Luis was leading. She was sitting in the garden, alone, in the dark. It was late; they had returned from a promenade at the Alameda, and dinner at a friend of Luis’s, after which she had bolted outside - stifled by the interior of the house.

Her heart pounded in quick, uneven beats. She told herself that it was the heat; she couldn’t swish her fan fast enough, to cool the perspiration at her temples. The air was still, the cloying smell of roses mingling with the less-pretty scents of city sewage, the resulting odor nauseating. She sat for several minutes, trying to blank thoughts which instead focused on remembered talk from dinner - of the recent battle of Buena Vista, and the American General Scott’s reputed landing at Vera Cruz. She attempted to order her mind, to keep from thinking about the casualties of the battle - both Mexican and American - and of the war which had now moved to Vera Cruz, so close to Jalapa. Luis emerged from the house and joined her on the bench.

“Hiding from the charms of my company?” he murmured, his tone gentle, but his glance sharp.

She half-smiled. “Hiding from my bed. It’s too warm to sleep.”

“Why are you out here alone? Haven’t you had enough of that lately?”

“I haven’t had one moment to myself since I arrived here, Luis.”

“You know I didn’t mean the past few weeks.” He paused to study her. When he resumed speaking, his voice was annoyed. “But I suppose you still don’t wish to discuss anything significant that occurred to you during those months that you were lost.”

“I was not lost. I knew exactly where I was.”

“Yet you refuse to discuss it. And you would prefer that I do not bring the subject up.”

“Luis, please!” She turned to him, eyes large and pensive. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that the subject, as you call it, is difficult for me?”

“Why querida? You said that you were not hurt. You said that your time in America was an unpleasant experience, but nothing more. What is still upsetting you?”

“Nothing.”

“Perhaps,” he said, ‘it is my old acquaintance Señor Brett that you are pining for.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Luis; it is not becoming,” she snapped.

“Nor is your melancholy. You should be the happiest woman in Mexico right now, instead of the saddest.”

“I am not sad. How you exaggerate! I was merely thinking on the time I have lost. Months, Luis; gone from my life. And now Santa Anna distrusts me and forbids me my home.”

Luis’s brown eyes softened in the darkness. He reached an arm around her silk-draped shoulder, and pulled her against him. Her immediate stiffness eased into acquiescence as she leaned into him, and he smiled.

“My dear Christina. Please do not consider the past anymore, or worry about Santa Anna. You are here with me, at last; and I warn you now that I intend to keep you. Those months were painful for me, as well - do you think I didn’t worry for you? But now is the time to celebrate, querida. And look to the future. I have plans for us I want you to know! Plans that should have been acted upon years ago.”

“I can’t imagine what you are talking about.”

“Yes, you can. I am referring to the two of us, and the fact that we should have been married long before now.”

She attempted to straighten and pull away. First the mention of Michael Brett, and now this! But he held her, easily; his grip surprising her in its strength - reminding her of the other man, and other times. “Don’t fool yourself, Luis,” she murmured. “You don’t want to marry me.”

“Why not?” he said lightly. “You of all people should know how suitable a marriage between us would be. Much more sensible than the match you made with Felipé, or even the one I contracted with my wife, Adela.”

“If you are referring to bloodlines, then I suppose you are right. But - ”

“There is fortunately more to a successful marriage than good breeding; I should not have to tell you that! You were miserable with Felipé.

“I would be miserable with any man now. I enjoy my independence.”

He released her, only to turn her to face him - and cup her cheeks with his hands. “Look where your independence landed you . . . into the country of America during the middle of the war. Had you been married to me, none of those adventures would have happened. But don’t speak; I want to show you another reason for ending your freedom. A good one . . . ”

He moved toward her, to cup her face in his hands and kiss her mouth. A tender kiss, that lasted for several seconds, and was both deep and subtle. Unthreatening. Pleasant . . . with the careful promise of more. Luis was well-practiced; and even well-able to restrain himself, when he sensed she had had enough.

He drew away, leaving one hand behind to drift along her jaw line and down her neck to her shoulder, caressing softly and expertly. He smiled at her, and there was both strain and satisfaction in his wryly-turned lips.

“Your eyes are so large, querida. What do they see?”

“A very good friend,” she whispered.

“No.” He continued to stroke her, as if she were a pet. “Friend no longer, niña, I warn you. From this moment on, you do not know me at all . . . you must pretend that. It will make your future life as my wife and my lover much easier to bear, if you forget that we were ever ‘good friends’.”

She tore her eyes from his and closed them. Could she really marry Luis, after all that had happened to her? Could she accept him in her bed? The idea filled her with anxiety. Michael had said she should not marry Luis . . . but had left too many other things unsaid.

She opened her eyes and smiled, brightly and, unknown to her, sensuously.

“As if I could ever forget how dear you are to me, Luis; really! It is cruel of you to make a pitiful game of me. You must not do it again, lest I join in, and turn the game on you - and you find yourself betrothed, without ever really intending to every marry again.”

“But I do intend it,” he said, dropping his hand to his side. His face was dark and thoughtful, and otherwise unreadable. “Never mind, my dear; you will agree with me, in time. I can see that you are not yet recovered from your American experiences . . . whatever they may be.”

He stood, and extended both hands to pull her up. She took them; his words and their possible meanings imprinted in her brain as disturbing.

As he escorted her back into the house, he changed the subject to a more neutral topic. That didn’t stop her, however, from the vague worries that plagued her later in bed, until she slept.

Less than two hundred miles southeast of Mexico City, Julian Torrance wound his way down the side of a rock-strewn hill into the dry bottom which encased - and hid - his camp. He was returning after a brisk meeting with one of his Comanche messengers; and thinking about the short letter which he had just been handed, and about women, in general. A subject he had always ignored before as a serious contemplation.

Those females whose services had amused him, for an extended period of time - and there had been two or three - flashed into his mind, inked-in etchings on fragile vellum.

Marie-Laure, The French cabaret dancer with the plump body so different from those of the athletic Indian maidens he had previously admired. She had occupied him for more than two months of his first summer in Paris, teaching him many things abut Parisian women, but nothing of himself. Lucy Carmichael, the English housemaid, with her quaint superstitions and her thirst for his “exotic” body, who had instructed him in ways British for a full four months - until he had been unable to
temper his restlessness, and wandered out of her sphere without even a goodbye.

And now Leaping Spirit, or Renata, as she liked to be called, who had transferred her affections from Michael to himself and who followed him with a dog-like devotion.

He was unable to conjure even the faces of all the rest - females bought or freely taken for a night or two. They were all unimportant to his mental state or to his plans for his life, which revolved around his need for revenge, and his urge to understand why he had been born. And no woman, however pretty, could ever assist him in killing Santa Anna . . . or give him any insight into his feelings of bizarre displacement, and the bitterness that had raged inside him since childhood.