Stronger Than Passion (9 page)

“I don’t want you near me! And I won’t go to America!”

Ignoring her, he reached for a cloth laying on a table near the bunk, dipped it into a basin of water, and bent down to wipe her face and mouth, muttering, “At least you managed to miss the bed.”

There was nothing she could do but accept his casual ministrations, closing her eyes against the sight of him. She gritted her teeth against the nausea.

“Your dress is folded in the chest over there, along with your jewelry. I thought you’d be more comfortable without them.”

“Go to the devil,” she spat.

“You took care of me, Señora. I’ll take care of you. It’s only fair. And you’ll find, when you get back on your feet, that the door to this cabin is locked. Does that sound familiar?”

“I hate you. You have no right to force me to go anywhere with you, to do anything - ”

“Oh, yes I have. The right of war. You can help me, Señora. You can help my side, and you’re going to do it.”

“You can drug me or kill me, I don’t care, but I will not help America! Even assuming that I could, when I don’t know anything . . .”

“Shut up.” He had finished bathing her face and neck, and even, despite her futile squirming, her chest as far down as the fourth button. Now he pulled the coverlet up to her chin and stood. “I want you to rest quietly until the sickness is passed, and that means no screaming. It wouldn’t do you any good; we’re on a British man-of-war and the captain is a friend of mine. In a while, I’ll come back and feed you something. There’s water on the table if you’re thirsty.”

She looked up at him in hatred, deciding that any speech on her part would be wasted and futile. She must, somehow, retain some sense of dignity.

He watched her bite back her vituperative words, and smiled, thinking she was certainly arrogant, in her way. Probably the most intrinsically proud person he had ever met, which was saying a lot. She and his mother would get along fine, were they ever, God forbid, to meet.

“Since you have nothing to say, I’ll see your later, Chrissie.”

*

It took the
HMS Lady Jane
sixteen days to reach Cuba. Days which seemed, to Christina, like months.

She remained locked in the cabin and had no contact with anyone else on the ship, except for Brett, of course, and the assistant ship’s steward, a boy named Mark who always brought her food.

At first, Mark was timid and uncommunicative. Yet by the end of her stay on the
Lady Jane
, the two of them were friends. Christina was desperate for conversation, for information; and since she received little of either from Brett, she was determined to gain all she could from the boy, particularly where her captor was concerned. Through him she learned of the wary respect in which Brett was held by the Captain and officers of the ship, who would, apparently, do whatever he asked. Mark was of the impression that Lord Michael was an important man somewhere. The rest of the crew were resentful of his high-handedness in using their ship for his own needs; and curious, of course, about her The only female on board ship . . .

Mark knew little else about Brett, except that he slept in a cabin next door to her and spent his time on deck with the Captain.

When Brett did choose to visit her, she retained an attitude of haughty disdain. She made demands: for clothing, for a female chaperone, for permission to write a letter to her father-in-law (instantly denied). She refused to show fear in his presence, and either that or his own preoccupation, kept him from insulting her or assaulting her further during this journey. However, what he had in mind for her for the rest of the voyage, and once they reached Washington, she couldn’t know. It was anxious dread of the days and weeks ahead that kept her restless most nights, and in a taut condition of expectancy.

On the morning Mark informed her that Cuba had been sighted, Christina made her scanty preparations to leave the ship and waited, gazing out through the porthole at the gently lapping sea, trying to calm her nervousness. She wondered if any escape were possible here where Felipé once
had friends. If any opportunity presented itself, she must make an effort. . .

The cabin door was unlocked and swung open. Michael Brett came in, dressed formally for daytime in a tan waistcoat. He surveyed her, as she stood by the porthole, out of assessing blue-gray eyes, that noted her appearance with amused disfavor.

“When we reach our hotel in Havana, I want you to throw that gown away.”

“Not until I have another to replace it.”

“You will. That dress never did become you. Now, of course, it’s a wreck.”

“Oh, of course! I’ve only been wearing it for two weeks.”

“There’s no need for sarcasm, Christina; I’m well aware of that. I’ll buy you dresses.”

“I want a companion, as well! I won’t travel any farther with you alone.”

“Oh, won’t you?” He stepped closer. She stood firm, refusing to press herself against the wall.

“You’re in no position to make demands, love.”

As he looked at her, his light eyes darkened to the same glinting surface of the sea outside. He touched her face, his rough hand sliding along her chin. “Unless, of course, you want to bargain with me.”

“I don’t.” The coldness of her tone gave the two words more force. His hand dropped away, but on his terms, his level gaze said; not hers.

He shrugged and turned away, walking back to the door.

“We’ll drop anchor in a few hours,” he said, glancing back at her, one hand on the knob. “Be ready to go. We’ll head straight for a hotel, where you’ll stay until we board a steamer, tomorrow or the day after. And I don’t plan to give you the chance to make any trouble, so you can forget any crazy ideas abut running away.”

After he was gone, she cursed him - using new words learned from Mark. At least this voyage was proving educational.

*

It wasn’t until dark that Brett finally came for her. Blinking in the early evening lantern light. Christina wished she possessed a mantilla or a reboza to wear against the warm coastal breeze - and the curious gazes of the assembled sailors on the
Lady Jane’s
deck, and in the jolly boat that rowed them to shore. Michael seemed oblivious to all the stares, and even to her company. His eyes roved the harbor and its moored boats with an assessing gleam. An unapproachable stranger, he looked off, dark hair blowing in the wind, jaw line set ruthlessly.

Once they reached the dock and were assisted ashore, Michael’s attention returned to the present. He took Christina’s arm when her balance faltered due to unsteady legs; he guided her to a waiting mule-drawn valenta, and helped her inside. Then he turned, peering into the shadows, where Christina barely made out the figures of three or four persons; and he smiled. Immediately, a feminine voice called out in English.

“Was you wantin’ something, Honey?”

Michael moved forward and leaned against a signpost.

“That depends. Let me see you - all of you.”

Into the murky light came a group of women, all with high-piled hair and simpering faces. Christina had seen their like before, parading on other wharves in other cities; she knew what they were, But she had never been so close to one of the creatures. She sat frozen, unable to believe Brett would solicit one before her very eyes!

The boldest of them stepped out from the rest. She was dark, with large, ruby-red lips; probably a Zambo, of Negro and Indian origin.

“So, Señor, you like what you see?”

Michael seemed to consider. Then he reached a hand into his waistcoat pocket and jiggled some coins. “I have good money here for any of you ladies desiring a little honest employment. The job involves travel and is conducted in a basically upright position.” He grinned at their pouts, and waited. One of them wandered off, another of them snorted. But a small figure who had been standing behind the rest crept forward.

“I be looking for a regular job, M’lord” she whispered.

Michael focused on her. Pale, plain, freckled face, some kind of reddish-colored hair. Dressed in a high-necked gown that looked hot and much-worn, but was probably of English make.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Penny, M’lord.”

“Because that is all any man will pay her!” the dark girl sang out.

“Tis not! Me Mum named me Penny on account of me copper hair!” She glared at the Zambo with both fists clenched until the girl backed away. Then she turned towards Michael, her stance again reverting to shyness.

He was amused. “Well, Penny, what do you say to traveling to America?”

“Am I to be maid to her ladyship there?” she asked.

“That’s right. The position is yours if you want it.”

Penny looked from Michael to the open valenta where Christina sat horrified. Then she smiled - a wide, gap-toothed, eye-crinkling grin. “I always wanted ter be a real lady’s maid. Aye, M’lord, I accept yer position.”

“Very good. You may attend her ladyship at the Alvarado paseo two blocks east. We’ll leave for American as soon as I am able to book passage.”

“Thank you, M’lord. I can’t say as I’ll be sorry to leave this hell-hole!”

Michael turned away, grinning, and climbed into the valenta beside Christina.
He gestured to the driver, who flicked the reins gently until the mule started off, at a slow walk.

*

Christina refused to speak to Brett during the short trip to the hotel.

A prostitute! He had engaged a puta as her maid!

But when Penny came to her later that night, as she sat locked inside a small bedroom, Christina hadn’t the heart to refuse the anxious girl’s services. Penny was so eager to be of help that Christina felt her rage soften. Particularly after hearing the girl’s account of being duped by a fiancé into leaving London for Havana, only to be heartlessly betrayed, and left there alone. According to Penny, a life on the streets was her only recourse.

Christina was dubious about that part of the story, but skipped any further questions. At least her new maid was feminine company. And to Christina, used to being surrounded by women. Penny’s presence made her captivity seem less sordid.

She never knew exactly what Michael told Penny regarding his keeping her prisoner. He must have said something, since Penny knew that the two of them were locked into her room at the paseo and only she was ever allowed to go out. But Christina was unable to discuss her situation with the English girl. Whether due to pride or embarrassment, she couldn’t say, even to herself.

The day after their arrival in Havana, Michael gave Penny money and sent her out to buy clothes. She returned with shining eyes, displaying her purchases as if she had created them herself. Christina hid her dismay well. Penny, ignorant as she was about fashion for a lady of quality, had bought only the richest fabrics and brightest colors for her new mistress. One dress was red silk, another blue merino wool, and a third striped green tarlatan. A traveling suit of burgundy velvet was the only subdued costume in the new wardrobe. At least the clothes were all European cut and must have been expensive, even if they were ready made. The matching bonnets were intricate and a trifle too fancy. Christina saw herself arrayed in the red silk in her looking glass and winced.

Penny had also purchased toiletries, shoes, undergarments, and a sewing kit. She knew the rudiments of sewing, and went to work altering the clothes to fit Christina’s slender form, chattering about her experiences in the dress shops. The day had obviously been one of the most pleasurable that Penny had ever spent. Christina controlled her distaste for the flashy garments with a restraint she would never have shown to Maria Juana, or any other servant. Loneliness had improved her sensitivity to others!

*

It was almost with equanimity that Christina found herself with Penny and an amazingly respectable-looking Michael Brett, boarding a large steamer the next day. She and Penny were ensconced in a first-class cabin, Christina under the usual orders not to leave it. Brett had, he informed her with evil amusement, told the ship’s staff that she was suffering from a brain fever and must never be disturbed.

During the six days it took the steamer to reach America and continue along its under populated coast to the Port of Charleston, Christina scarcely saw Brett - for which she was thankful. If only that state of affairs could continue until he gave up his ridiculous ideas of using her to further the American cause, and sent her home!

She found that she missed her land and her people. She was as devoted to her estate, and its residents to her, as she had become to the convent in which she had been brought up and to its nuns, which became her family. The nuns had raised her in loyalty to the church and to their order, and in a sense of family pride; which had nothing to do with the fact that her father had lost his and become involved in treasonous activities against the legal Spanish monarchy in favor of an usurper. Christina felt her duty to her hacienda deeply, and hated Michael Brett, and America as well, for ripping her from it.

In the provincial town of Charleston, they left the steamer and boarded an American Clipper, a fast, sleek vessel that sped them up the coast, hugging the land as it sailed. Christina thanked God for Penny, whose continued chatter over the strange sights out the porthole kept her from much thought of their eventual destination. Yet, when the ship entered the Chesapeake Bay and, finally, the busy Potomac River, which would take them to Alexandria, the port nearest Washington, uncertainty made her temper sharp.