Stronger Than Passion (8 page)

“That must have been the charming Marquès - I saw you dancing with him, and decided then the evening was over for me. However, there were several other people at the fiesta who were well satisfied that I was British . . . I came in with the Ambassador’s party, after all. Why should you pay any attention to what Arredondo said?”

The words tumbled portentously from her mouth. “Because I trust him implicitly. We are to be married next year!”

He was silent for a long pause, staring at her in a critical and enigmatic way that made her wonder just what he was thinking. Then he said coolly, “Congratulations. Does Santa Anna know?”

“No, it has not yet been announced because of my mourning. But I am sure he will wish me well.”

“I doubt it. Arredondo is not likely to play the part of an obliging husband and allow you to continue carrying on with Santa Anna after you are married. Santa Anna is doubtlessly about to lose a mistress. I would be angry, if I were him.”

“I am not Santa Anna’s mistress, or anything else! And I am sick to death of your insults! I am a Sainz y Sequenza Cabra, I would never stoop so low . . .”

“You’re mighty proud for a prisoner of war! Do I need to remind you, Señora, that from now on you are going to stoop to do whatever I tell you? And that includes shutting up whenever you start to yell!”

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded, determined to show him he did not frighten her.

“Right now, to Vera Cruz. From there - Washington. It’s a town on the east coast of America. The President of the United States lives there. I’ve decided you should meet him.”

“Oh, Dios!” For a moment, she thought she had lost her voice and her mind. Panic shot through her limbs. She made an abrupt lunge for the door, intending to throw herself out into the night, and not caring if the fall killed her!

But Brett’s reflexes were just as quick as hers. He grabbed her around the waist and hauled her onto his lap, swearing and flinching so that she realized his wound was indeed still painful. Perhaps she could use that information later . . .

Now, he held her tightly against his chest, wound or no wound. His face was hard and testy, his mouth grim.

“I’m only going to tell you once more. Don’t try anything like that again! Or you won’t make it to Washington for your interview with the President. Comprendez, Señora?”

Before she could speak, sick nausea in her stomach and the beginnings of despair in her mind, his mouth came down on hers in a kiss designed to punish and, she suspected, warn. It contained all the violence of his anger and hurt her, forcing inexplicable, weak tears from her closed eyes that slid down to mingle in their closeness. She despised the tears . . . but the taste of them, or something else, stopped his forced assault. He no longer seemed set on breaking her. Instead, his lips turned gentle, and he shifted her in his lap so that his hand could rise up to feel her face, and brush away the tears. He pushed back her heavy, loosening hair and then his mouth moved upwards to graze her wet cheekbones and her forehead.”

“Christina . . . Chrissie, I don’t - ”

But the diligence slowed, and the driver’s voice rose as he halted the team. The vehicle stopped. Christina wondered for a wild hopeful moment if she were rescued. Could it be Luis? The Condé?

Brett deposited her onto the opposite seat and went out the door, which slammed behind him. She heard him greeting someone, heard another deep male voice answer him, speaking in a harsh, guttural language she didn’t recognize. The diligence rocked and she guessed that the driver must have jumped down from his high perch, although she saw nothing through the shuttered windows.

She sat, attempting to repair her appearance which had doubtless been mauled by Michael Brett’s roughness. She was unsure how much time had passed before the door was flung open again, and it took every ounce of her control to remain calm and not jump in fright. Brett reentered the diligence, taking his seat opposite her, leaving the door open. In his hand was a small flask.

“Christiana,” he said, and while one part of her brain realized finally that he persisted in using, uninvited, her Christian name, another part concentrated on the largeness of him and the menace he seemed to bring inside the coach. “I want you to drink this.” He held up the flask.

“Do you intend to poison me?” she heard herself say, while her hands clenched into fists and her eyes grew huge.

His sigh was impatient, his tone rough. “Don’t be melodramatic. If I wanted you dead, I’d use my gun.” She didn’t see it anymore; he must have left it outside, or given it to the other man. But that was cold comfort when she looked at his dark killer’s face. “This is something to make you sleep, if you take enough, and I’ve drunk it before myself - how else do you suppose I’ve hidden the fact that I was shot last week, and still hurt like hell?”

He was scowling at her, lines running across his high brow and deepening around his tight-pressed mouth. His eyes scanned her face in the half-light; and he must have read something unpleasant there, because he cursed.

“Damn you, Christina - you are going to drink this, because asleep you’ll be a hell of lot easier to manage.”

Before she could scream her outrage, he had moved onto the seat beside her and laid cold hands on her bare shoulders. She felt the pearls at last slipping loose from her hair as her head was ruthlessly pushed back; tasted the bitter edge of the flask as it was thrust against her lips, and liquid spilled into her mouth.

“Easy, Señora; drink, and don’t waste a drop. I want some, too.”

His hand was in her hair now as he held her head back, and she had no choice but to swallow or choke. Her eyes were slammed shut, but still two hot tears of frustration leaked out. She hated him, and she hated herself for ever saving his life. Why hadn’t she let him die? Why had he lived to treat her so?

Finally, he released her, and her head fell onto the cushioned backrest. She hadn’t the strength or the will to look up at him, but she did, not surprised to see that he was seated again and finishing the remainder of the foul-tasting drug. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. Then he actually smiled at her.

“Why not stretch out and make yourself comfortable? You’ll be asleep a long time.
I’ll even help you undress.”

She jerked the drooping string of pearls out of her hair and threw it at him. It struck his face
and broke, the pearls rolling everywhere. She glared at him, both satisfied and appalled at this small show of violence.

His eyes narrowed, and his tone seemed thoughtful as well as nasty. “You’d better watch that temper, Señora . . . or I’ll have to discipline you, the same way I did before.”

Afraid now - not wanting him to touch her again - she stared back in wide-eyed negation.

“Miguel.”

The name was called softly from outside. Brett’s gaze shifted away from her into the darkness through the open door. “Come in, hermano,” he said. “You should meet our guest.”

There was a question in the climbing eyebrows of the strong face that presented itself inside the diligence, but Christina didn’t see it. She only knew this must be the Indian who’d interrogated her servant; this must be the man who’d been looking for her prisoner. And who had undoubtedly found him.

His eyes were as black as his hair. As they fell on her, their expression was quizzical. But she read no other emotion in his red-bronzed face with its vaguely European bone structure.

“Chrissie, this is Julian Torrance, friend and relation. Julian, permit me to make known to you the Señora de Sainz, or Chrissie, for short.” Michael grinned through this flippant introduction as though secretly amused at their meeting, as he doubtlessly was. How he had lied to her, despite her kindness in nursing him back to health!

The Indian, or half-Indian, made her a correct bow as he leaned through the doorway. His gaze remained impassive. But it deepened to something else as he glanced at Michael. “Don’t you think we should be moving on, amigo? Just in case your - guest - has been missed?”

“Please, gentlemen, do take your time,” Christina said sweetly, hands reaching up to smooth her disarrayed hair. Her insouciance, a product of desperation, earned her a calculating frown from Brett and another inscrutable glance from the Indian.

Suddenly her hands were heavy, too heavy to lift the mass of falling hair and rearrange it. Her wrists went limp and dropped into her lap. She looked at her captors in shock, intending to question them and to possibly curse them, but her mouth remained soundless. Her entire body grew weak. Her shoulders slumped to one side, her vision blurred . . . then all awareness ceased as she was caught, unknowing, and gently lowered to lay on the seat.

Over her slumbering body, Brett glanced up to meet the ironic gaze of his friend. “Don’t look at me like that, Juli. You know how things stand in Washington. Lowndes wants the answer to that letter you stole, and only she knows the truth. All I’ve managed to discover on my own is a pack of rumors.” He raked a hand savagely through his thick dark hair, a gesture denoting frustration to anyone who knew him well. “I certainly hadn’t planned on taking her, but when she finally recognized me and was about to scream for Santa Anna, it was either kill her or bring her along. And hell, maybe this is a good idea anyway, despite the trouble she’s going to cause me. Somehow I’ll make her tell me what she knows about Santa Anna’s invasion plans. And I’ll have plenty of time to do it.”

Julian’s raised eyebrow indicated his disbelief, but he made no comment. Instead he reached outside the diligence and lifted a large blue carpet bag. He dropped it onto the floor and opened it, pulling out a blanket and a bottle of whiskey. He uncorked the whiskey and drank from it deeply, before handing it to Michael. He tossed the blanket onto Christina’s slippered feet and said quietly, “I doubt if President Polk will appreciate you taking a lady as prisoner, Miguel. It’s too crude an act for his taste. And after talking to the Señora’s servants, I’ve begun to wonder if she’s really as close to Santa Anna as we believed. You might be making a very bad mistake. Of course, you had to protect yourself, and any future jobs you might undertake in Mexico. For that alone, I think you should keep her. Or kill her.”

Julian’s sharply-boned face was somber and deadly serious. Michael acknowledged his words in silence. Julian continued softly, “Let me have her, I’ll take care of it.”

Michael glanced down at the sleeping girl, her face half hidden by loosened strands of hair, pearls gleaming whitely against her dress and her skin. To kill her would be the simplest answer. But then, she could still be useful to him in Washington. And also - there was something between them that had to be finished, something he had begun the first time he’d kissed her. His body was demanding an answer even now, the sight of her enough to cause him a powerful, painful lust. Why kill her when he wanted her? Julian would figure it out.

Michael smiled, lazy blue eyes telling his friend more than the casual words he spoke.

“I’m going to keep her for awhile, Juli. I’m sure she can confirm quite a few things about Santa Anna that we don’t really know; they are on close terms, I saw them together. Maybe, if threatened with exile from her home, she’ll eventually talk about the letters. But even if she doesn’t, or the letters aren’t even important, or Polk doesn’t want to make use of her . . . there’s still a small act of revenge involved here. Against Santa Anna, I’m going to annoy the bastard by running off with one of his favorites - his cousin, to boot! And don’t you think that might mean something?”

“Not much, hermano.” Julian shook his head in mock-sadness. “But it’s a start.”

Awakening was an unpleasant process accompanied by vomiting, an impossible headache and the humiliating and frustrating remembrance of horrible dreams which, she suspected, were actually reality.

When she opened her swollen eyes to survey her surroundings and discovered herself lying in a narrow bed, in a rocking room that resembled the cabin of a ship, complete with porthole . . . she knew the truth.

Her first reaction was to cry. But she refused to give way to the illness and exhaustion of her body, and concentrated instead on her anger. Even as dry heaves forced her to lean her head over the side of her bunk where a soiled pan had been thoughtfully placed. And especially as she realized someone had removed her lavender gown as she slept, had in fact removed all of her clothes, and put on her some sort of large white shirt.

She didn’t even want to think the name of the man who had probably done all of this. Who had interfered with her life, disrupted it unbearably . . .

But when he entered the cabin, she had no further choice.

Michael Brett was now dressed casually, in heavy trousers and billowing shirt - one remarkably like the one she wore. A blue jacket was flung over his shoulder. He was hatless, his hair wind-tousled, and he was gun less, too.

The smell of sea salt blew in with him. He closed the door behind him and came towards her, dropping the jacket, his face curious and unrepentant. His bluish eyes raked her.

“Unfortunately, one of the side effects of drinking too much of that drug Julian concocted is sickness when you wake up. You’re probably seasick, too.”

“I’m never seasick!” she croaked.

“I’m glad to know that, since we’ll be spending a lot of time in the near future on ships. I’d hate to have to nurse you all the way to America.