Stronger Than Passion (25 page)

Once a decision was reached, everyone relaxed. It would be pleasant to rest for a while, after the hard pace of the last days. It would be nice to camp so close to a friendly village.

Christina shrugged when she was told. Yes, she was in a hurry to get home. But there were a few trees here, and a stream, so she could have a bath.

Penny’s brown eyes narrowed with anxiety. Everything was too calm. Too serene. And the Mexican villagers seemed to smile slyly. As if they knew something, or were expecting something.

*

The villagers were preparing a fiesta, in honor of the esteemed travelers who were spending their money so freely. It would begin at dusk and end when the last person staggered away. There would be dancing, and feasting, and gambling - the three pleasures of Mexico, and the only entertainment these simple peasants enjoyed. It would be held in the makeshift plaza of the little town, in front of the only church.

Manzanal spoke to his men. Yes, they could attend the fiesta, but only in shifts. And the amount of tequila consumed would be monitored. No one must forget that guard duty was his most critical concern right now.

Christina viewed the whole evening with lethargy. Why should she bother to put on one of the three civilized dresses she now possessed, in order to dazzle these people for whose opinion she cared nothing? Why shouldn’t she remain in her tent instead and sleep, and dream?

Penny tried in vain to convince her to attend the fiesta. A little laughter and dancing would do her good. She needn’t even dress; her riding clothes were fine for this company. Everyone was expecting her - she must go!

But Christina refused. Penny wanted her to pretend an enjoyment she did not feel capable of experiencing anymore, and she had no desire to play the hypocrite. Besides, the noise and the music would remind her too painfully of other times, of bittersweet yet exhilarating moments. Santa Anna’s reception, the balls and parties of Washington . . . even the fiestas held in the past on her own estate, which almost seemed to have occurred in another life. She did not want to remember those times in such a jarring, unreal fashion. Better to think of them in private; where the small space of her tent would hold no half-seen faces, barely glimpsed in a crowd.

Penny wanted to stay with her, but Christina wouldn’t hear of it. Penny must go, and explain to everyone how tired the Señora was, and that no one must disturb her. Penny was ordered to dance and amuse herself, until dawn if she wished. On no account was she to return to the tent for hours, at least.

Christina helped Penny into her best frock, a yellow silk trimmed with gray, and dressed her red hair high. Then she sent her outside, where two of the men waited as her escort. Penny was off to her first Mexican fiesta.

Christina removed her dusty clothes. She blew out the light, and lay down on her pallet. Far away, she heard the guitar and the drums and someone singing. She was sure they were already dancing.

She never wanted to dance again.

She drifted to sleep, smiling, waiting for the dreams, the good dreams of Michael.

*

These Mexican peasants threw themselves into their fiesta with an abandon that could only be called sinful.

If only that despicable Colonel Manzanal weren’t present, quietly gambling, yet staring up at her in benign calculation. She didn’t trust him or like him. He wanted Christina, too lost and bewildered to see it! How could Christina ever have left Michael Brett, when she obviously loved him so . . . and now grieved so blindly? Not ever really knowing what was wrong with her, or that she was wasting away! And Manzanal waited, biding his time for the perfect opportunity, the chance to take her when her guard was down, and make her his own.

Penny scowled at Manzanal, over the top of a glass of pulque. He glanced up and stared at her innocently. She narrowed her eyes at him. Why wasn’t he upset that Christina hadn’t come? Why hadn’t he thrown a childish fit of pique and insisted that Christina attend the party? Why had he taken Christina’s refusal to leave her tent so well?

What was he planning, as he sat there, smiling with his sharp white teeth and his dumb-animal eyes?

When she thought to look again for Manzanal, he was gone.

She knew, then, what was happening. Manzanal had out smarted her and Christina, as well. Under the noisy cover of the party, he was forcing his way into Christina’s tent and into her bed.

A distant noise, loud enough to be heard over the percussion instruments of the band, stopped her wild thoughts. What was it? The sound came again, closer now and completely apparent. Gunfire!

The musicians continued to play - the dancers continued to move, unaware of anything outside their intense concentration. Could it be Christina, using her gun on Manzanal? Or he on her?

Penny had never seen a man shot down before. Thank God for the liquor she had drunk, which brought a nightmarish quality to her sight and her comprehension.

A quantity of horses, all big and malevolent, pounded into the middle of the fiesta, scattering everyone. Voices shouted in crude Spanish. Then the screams began, because the men on horseback held rifles which seemed to be pointing everywhere at once. When the rifles fired, at such close range, all at the same time, the noise was deafening. For several minutes, Penny was unable to hear screams or anything else. Certainly not the words said to her by the pleased, smiling man who dismounted and came toward her, hand outstretched.

She slept. Or was it sleep, this exhausted stupor that claimed her, holding down her limbs so that she couldn’t move? No matter. She was at Santa Anna’s reception again, dancing with Luis; only to be swept into Michael’s arms, and he was embracing her, there at El Encero, in front of everyone . . . and caressing her, in a new, more tender way. He said he loved her - that he must take her, must have her now, while there was still time -

His hands raised her sleep-shift, exposing her body to the cool night air. But it wasn’t Michael who touched her, and she wasn’t dreaming. She opened her eyes to dim lantern light - and to the crouched, dark form of Angel Manzanal, half-naked himself.

She screamed, but not from fright. She shrieked in pure anger, in a disappointment so terrible it clawed at her heart. What was Manzanal doing here, in her tent? Why wasn’t he the man whom she really wanted . . . the one who had spent one night with her in bed, and then departed the country immediately after? Why did it have to be this low-bred buffoon?

Manzanal covered her mouth with his hand.

“Don’t be afraid, querida, it is only I, the one who loves you the most in the world. The one who worships you. . . . ”

Go away! She wanted to shout. Instead, she kicked at him, at this despicable dog who dared lay a hand on her. Her bare feet shot up and caught him in the ribs.

“Por Dios!” his surprised grunt was loud in the small space.

She kicked him again. He caught her legs, despite his slight build, still stronger than she. He clapped her knees together and held them. He straddled her body, the impertinent monster!

“Do not fight me, little one,” he whispered. “You know that I am your master. We are soon to be married, are we not? You may give yourself to me a trifle early, what does it matter? Cease struggling. Christina-my-love. Modesty has no place in a bridal tent.”

Modesty . . . a bridal tent . . . he was insane, he really was. Could she reach her gun, the gun always placed near her pallet on the ground?

She put out a hand and groped. He touched her breasts, and rage consumed her so thoroughly all she could think to do was to push him away with all her strength. He was forced to use his hands to capture hers, leaving her mouth free. She screamed again; she shrieked and cursed, coming alive at this violation of her body in a way that she hadn’t been for weeks.

Manzanal seemed astonished that she was fighting him; and that amazement infuriated her more. She was angry, not really scared, not yet. Not until the surprise in him wore off. Then, although she still struggled, still cut him with frenzied, outraged words, she felt a new determination flow through him and make him stronger. There was bitterness in his fingers as they crushed hers together. There was malice in his dark, narrowed eyes.

“Do you pretend that you don’t want me, Señora? That you do not belong to me?” His words rose over the imprecations. He pressed down against her, the weight of his body hurting her. But why should he care? Perhaps she preferred a forceful man. Perhaps even the American had forced her, and pleased her.

“Angel,” she said in a quieter, more controlled tone. “Get off me. Leave me alone. We will discuss this later.”

He avoided looking into her eyes - big and half-frightened, but glazed still with the cold, angry hauteur that he wanted to disperse. He put his mouth on hers instead, ignoring her gasp and the stiffening of her body. He was her equal! More than that. And now was his chance to prove it. If only he could cover her eyes, obliterate the confusing green and gold lights which showed such contempt . . . .

He forgot about her eyes, though, and her anger, in the shocking ecstasy of touching her body.

Reality left Manzanal in his joy of her flesh. He had waited years for this; he had planned, and dreamed, and hoped, for the moment now upon him. This noblewoman, this cousin to Spanish royalty . . . desired by the illustrious Santa Anna, and every Don in Mexico . . . this haughty person . . . rested captive beneath him, grateful peon that he was. Her skin was pale and warm, and softer than he had ever believed. She smelled of rose and musk. Her loose hair was dark and lush, so lovely to all of his senses, so magnificent. Her breasts were all that he had expected - full, and high, and seemingly innocent to a masculine gaze.

She had been alone with the American; but she had sworn he had not harmed her.

Still, Manzanal imagined the American’s big hands on those beautiful breasts. He pictured the American’s eyes - so pale - stroking her bared skin. Had it really happened? Did that account for her unusual reticence whenever the man’s name was mentioned? Had the American spoiled her in some way, ruined her natural feelings for any man, even for him?

She squirmed beneath him, but his power was absolute. He would question her, later. He would discover the truth of her absurd distaste of men. Now, though, was the moment for fantasy. Now he would part her legs, and bare himself - just so - and nudge her with his sex, ever so gently. Now he would find her opening, and ease himself inside -

Her strange, deep-throated cry mingled with his own expostulation of triumph. But there was another sound in the tent. An awareness of it crept through both Manzanal and Christina together, through their connected bodies. He slid away. She fought again to be rid of him, until his weight lifted upwards and she scrambled backwards.

Manzanal turned and crouched, thinking he would kill whomever had interrupted him. He lunged for his pistol, dropped by the door flap. But two large moccasin feet stood beside the gun. One of them kicked it backwards, into the night.

It took the Colonel a fraction of a second to glare up at the tall man blocking the doorway and to know he was an Indian or half-Indian; he was a stranger, and he held a long knife. The man smiled. His teeth were perfect. His black eyes were evil.

Manzanal didn’t waste time bargaining for his life. Regretting that he could not even stop to pull up his pants, he fell forward - hoping to catch the Indian around the waist or the knees, and push him backward.

The Indian was not caught by surprise, as Manzanal had hoped. Instead the Indian calmly used his knife. It struck Manzanal in the neck as he came forward, and as he fell on it, it slit his throat.

*

She didn’t scream. All possible sounds were stopped somewhere, and she was going to choke on them, unless they were permitted to rise. She would choke just as Manzanal was now choking; bitterly and noisily, with all his life’s blood pouring from a gaping hole in his neck.

The Indian stepped past Angel’s twitching body and stood over her. He pulled her to her feet. He jerked her with him and was leaving the tent; she had to cross over Manzanal. She stumbled. Manzanal was dead now. There was blood on her bare feet.

She walked out into the cold dark, into a small circle of mounted men. She heard gunfire in the distance. Her knees weakened.

Please - wait . . .” She dropped down, and vomited into the dirt.

The Indian stood above her, oblivious to her retching but leaving her in peace. He issued orders to the men, in a dialect Christina didn’t speak but had heard before. One of the men dismounted and went into the tent. He noisily rummaged around.

Two of the other men rode off, in the direction of the village. More gunshots; faint screams rose in the air. Where was Penny? Was she safe?

The other men tethered their horses to trees or tent poles, and spread out to investigate the three other tents surrounding the campsite. They were deserted; everyone, except two lookouts
- now dead? - was at the fiesta.

Christina’s stomach continued to heave even when there was nothing left inside to come up.

The Indian, in a surprising gesture that belied the hardened, indifferent look in his eyes, handed her a flask containing some noxious liquid. She rinsed her mouth with the stuff and spat. She couldn’t bring herself to drink any of it. Some hazy memory warned her not to drink anything from this man.