Stronger Than Passion (46 page)

She accompanied young Paulita and her duenna to afternoon and early-evening functions that both bored her and gave her the pretense of activity, blunting the force of her raw emotions. Paulita was not out, and therefore not permitted to attend late-night functions, and since Christina had no desire to go to receptions alone she remained at home at night. Despite herself, she lay awake for hours staring toward her open windows, almost praying that he would come - because if he were here with her, he would not be in a distant gunfight against Luis’s men. Julian likely would be in any case, and she feared for him, too. She could only hope that the two groups would never meet.

But her mind still knew a fearful dread, and was urging her to expect the worst. She had killed, herself; she knew it was easily done. She prayed that somehow violence could be averted, but after a week of wondering her terror began to mount.

She told Penny a little of what was happening, despite her resolve not to, then wished she hadn’t; the girl’s eyes grew wide and then watered, and she would have wailed her fears aloud if Christina had not stopped her.

They were together, discussing the present condition of Christina’s wardrobe, when a triumphant Luis returned.

*

The plan had been a good one, following their usual pattern of isolation and then attack. Everything was going smoothly. Until the dramatic appearance of twenty-or-so hired villains, some even emerging from the insides of the wagons themselves- and the wild shooting began.

Their troop was startled, no matter how prepared for trouble they were, when the first gun was fired from the interior of the lead wagon. But it had taken only seconds for their honed reflexes to kick in, and they were shooting back at the no longer harmless wagons, whose drivers had run for cover. And retreating for some trees a few yards distant.

If only that other bunch of men hadn’t ridden in, ambushing them from behind . . . catching them in a nasty crossfire. Yelling and cursing and shooting, confident of their superior numbers and of their surprise advantage. Deadly . . .

Both Julian and Michael had underestimated Luis Arredondo’s intelligence and his resources. And overestimated the value of the expensive informer within Arredondo’s mine. Michael had questioned the man regarding Arredondo’s knowledge and plans, and had believed the reassuring news he had bought. His cupidity was to cost him dearly.

Wilbur Nettles, a new recruit, was dead, blasted off his horse in the first valley. One of Julian’s trusted Comanches fell also. So did Marsh Stokes. Agustin Cuesta was hit, but held on and got away; Caleb North and Lonnie MacGregor both took bullets.

Julian went down several feet from Michael. Michael shoved against the tide of screaming, retreating horses to bend down and drag Julian up and over his saddle horn, ducking bullets the while. He yelled out a formal retreat, as though it were necessary, and spurred his horse to the left and a line of low hills. Julian was a motionless weight that he held onto tightly.

Michael raced up into the hills, pushing his overloaded horse to its limits, until he reached cover. He wasn’t being pursued, not yet. But Arredondo’s mercenaries would probably get around to it at dawn. If he were smart, and if Julian could ride, they should be miles away by the time the sun rose. However, when he settled his friend down onto the ground and began to assess his injuries, he knew that Julian Torrance was traveling no further.

He had been shot twice. Once in the chest, and once in the hip. At fairly close range . . . probably the men hidden inside the wagons had done it.

Julian was dying. Michael knew it without even the benefit of light. He heard it in the rattling of Julian’s breath and smelled it in the ever-abundant scent of his blood. And when Michael tried to staunch the blood flow from the wounds, Julian groaned so terribly that he gave up.

There was no reason to hurt Julian any further. His wounds were so bad that he likely wouldn’t last out the hour. He should be made as comfortable as possible.

Without thinking beyond his immediate task, Michael pulled out his blankets and a flash of tequila. He covered Julian with one blanket and used the other as a pillow to prop up his head. Then he took the tequila and spilled a little of it into Julian’s mouth, now knowing why he did it.

But Julian swallowed, and coughed, and his eyes cracked open and he spoke.

“You here, hermano?” he whispered.

“Yes.” he reached for Julian’s arm beneath the blanket and squeezed it gently.

“I’m shot up bad.” It was a plain statement, without any overtones of emotion.

“Yes,” Michael said again. “Want some more tequila?”

Julian’s head moved slightly in an approximation of a nod. Michael put the flask against his lips and he drank a few sips. The alcohol seemed to revive him a little.

“What about the men?”

“Most got away. Two men went down - I don’t know who they were,” he lied.

“Arredondo’s smarter than we thought. Fooled us.”

“He’s a dead man, Juli.”

“It’s war.” Julian coughed in a spasm that sent a fresh puddle of blood across the ground, dampening the earth where Michael knelt. When the spill was over, Julian’s breathing was even more labored than before. “Tell me . . .” his voice was barely audible.

“What, Juli?”

“Don’t blame Christina for this.”

Michael’s voice roughened. “She must’ve told Arredondo something, for Christ’s sake, even if she did warn us as well . . . she owes him that, he’s going to be her husband. And how else would he have staged the trap that we walked into? That foreman we’ve been paying doesn’t even know enough about us to have helped him set it up. Some of these men tonight came at us from the rear, Juli. They’ve been following us, waiting for us to attack the caravan. They knew exactly who we were.”

“We’ve got a traitor, then. That new man . . .”

The new man was dead, but Michael didn’t want to tell Julian that. He had said enough about the fatal episode. Julian shouldn’t spend his last minutes on earth worrying about who had trapped them. Or thinking about Christina, who was probably the murderous bitch behind the whole fiasco.

“Forget it, hermano. I’ll take care of everything, I promise you that. Do you want anything?”

But either Julian hadn’t heard, or else he was determined to say what was on his mind. He struggled with his next few words. He was growing weaker. Michael leaned closer to listen. “Get Christina . . . away from him. Should’ve taken her . . . myself, instead of . . . waiting for you to do it. Funny that we both . . . love her in a way . . .”

“ Oh, Jesus Christ!”

“Don’t let him hurt her. Trusting you . . . only friend I’ve got . . . brother.” He said the final word in English, instead of his usual teasing Spanish.

Julian was acknowledging his own death. Michael’s nerves seemed paralyzed. His throat had frozen solid. He had to say something, before it was too late.

But the rattling deepened in Julian’s windpipe, and his ruined body jerked in a series of spasms. Until he lay still. His eyes were open, the faint moonlight catching them in an unblinking glare. He was dead.

Michael shook him. “Juli . . . oh, God. God! You can’t . . .”

But he had. Michael Brett felt his eyes water for the first time in the years since his brother Robert’s crippling accident, which had been his own fault. And this, even more permanent and more devastating horror, was his doing, too.

Michael groaned aloud. Was Christina de Sainz the key to Julian’s death? If he hadn’t gone to see her in Mexico City, and reminded her so forcibly that he was still around . . . then might Julian still be alive? Or, even if she hadn’t betrayed them to Arredondo, might he not have been followed back to Julian’s camp after leaving her bed that night in Mexico City? Either way, Christina bore some part of the blame for Julian’s death. As did he.

Jesus Christ, he thought in the beginning of sick realization, Julian was dead. What was he going to do without Juli?

He leaned over to carefully close Julian’s eyes. Then he pulled the blood-stained blanket up to cover him completely.

He sat back on his heels and stared blankly upwards. Julian lay only a foot away. But he was now alone.

*

John Locklyn’s office at the British Embassy was ornamented with wide crown-molding at the ceiling and white-paneled walls. His furniture was sturdy and English and comforting. As was he himself.

“I’m sorry to say that in the message I received this morning, Michael did confirm Julian Torrance’s death.” He paused out of respect for Christina, seated across the desk from him. She had bowed her head and shut her eyes. But he continued one minute later. “He’s an angry man, Señora.
He wants me to give him specific information about your fiancé. Apparently, he blames the Marqùes
for Torrance’s death.”

“He should,” she said bitterly. “Luis had him killed. He wanted everyone of Julian’s men killed.”

“That’s fairly understandable, given the circumstances.” Locklyn said gently.

Christina said nothing. The past two days had been sleepless and terrible. Luis had gone off again, to observe the scene of the slaughter he had perpetrated, but had not actually witnessed, and she had been left alone at the casa with no sure news and her own desperate anxieties. Who, exactly , had been killed? Luis had only been told that the guerillas had been surprised and overwhelmed, and that most of them were dead. Did that include Julian or Michael - or both of them?

She’d been at once fearful and relieved when Locklyn sent a message to her this morning to pay him a call at the Embassy, where they could talk freely. Only to have him confirm half of her worse fears. Her friend Julian was shot dead, and her fiancè was responsible. How Michael must hate her now!

Señor,” she began slowly, unsure how to formulate her half-evolved thoughts. “Do you know where Michael is? Where I might find him?”

John stared at her, appalled. Surely she knew that Michael would not wish to see her now! But the eyes that met his were clear, gold-spotted green, and magnified by a sheen of unshed tears. There was no trepidation in them.

“I know where he will be, tomorrow. I am supposed to meet him. If you wish me to take a letter - ” he said, only to be cut off.

“No. I want to see him myself.” She sounded determined.

“Are you sure that - ”

“Very sure. You may not know it, but Julian Torrance was a dear friend to me, Señor. And I am aware that he and Michael were - very close, more like brothers than cousins. Julian would like it if I went to Michael now.” She spoke quietly, the words seeming to emerge without her volition. And the tears trickled silently from her eyes. Her grieving appeal was well-nigh irresistible.

Locklyn was helpless and beaten. He would simply have to protect her from Michael’s wrath. “I must leave Mexico City tomorrow at dawn. It will be a two-hour ride to meet Michael, and the same back. If you accompany me, where will you tell the Marquès that you are going?”

The luminous eyes hardened. “If he has returned himself then I shall simply say that I am spending the day inside a convent. Praying for the souls of the men that he has killed.”

Her face was cold now and inscrutable. And John wasn’t as concerned anymore over her ability to deal with his old friend’s rage.

*

But Christina was nervous; more than that, she was scared to death, as she and Locklyn and a nondescript escort of four men rode into the little village east of Mexico City where Michael was supposed to meet them. Her stomach was weak and churning, her temples throbbed from the hot, dusty ride and the accumulation of three nights with little or no sleep, and her thoughts tumbled around, making no sense at all. She was here, she knew that much. But what she would say or do when she saw Michael was a void in her brain.

In the end, she did nothing because he gave her no chance to. He emerged from one of the poor village huts, hatless and disreputable-looking; glanced at her seated high up on her horse, scowled, and turned his blue gaze on Locklyn.

“Come on inside, John. She can wait here until we’re through.”

He turned and stalked back into the hut. John dismounted, cast Christina a sympathetic glance, and followed.

She sat on her horse for five minutes. But the beast wanted water, so she dismounted and gave its reins to one of the Englishmen who had come with them, who led it to the narrow stream that served the village. She found a tree that offered shade and sank down beneath it. She was being stared at by the locals, the poor, mostly Indian peasants who lived here and farmed nearby; but the stares didn’t matter. They had a right to wonder about her, after all. Even Michael did.

She waited for what must have been a full hour before John Locklyn emerged from the hut and approached her. He looked concerned.

“Señora, he does not want to see you. If you insist on it anyway, I can’t be responsible for his temper.”

“I know all about his temper,” she replied. “It will not keep me from saying a few brief words. Then, if you are finished, we can go.”

She stood up stiffly and walked toward the hut. Leaving Locklyn to watch her go, admiring her fortitude, if nothing else.

*

He was seated at a table, writing in some kind of ledger, when she opened the cracked door of the hut and entered, without knocking. The single room was dim, and quiet. Too quiet. Michael stared up at her and held her gaze for several seconds without saying anything, and the silence was deep and hostile.