Stronger Than Passion (32 page)

At least she wasn’t at all scared of him anymore. He seemed to know it, too, and to treat her in a half-friendly, half-sardonic way that took her new familiarity for granted. The only untouchable barrier between them now was the subject of Michael Brett. Although Julian did occasionally mention him in a perverse fashion, watching to see if it needled her, she had no desire to discuss him or the relationship she had had with him to his cousin. Not even to herself, if the truth be known; better to force Michael to the back of her mind, like an impending storm. But even if she weren’t frightened of any physical harm from Julian, she was still wary of his blunt tongue, particularly where Michael was concerned. She considered it best to let that topic drop.

Dressed comfortably - although her gown hung a little loosely now - and eager to view more of the house and its occupants, Christina emerged from her room onto the inner balcony that overlooked the courtyard. She paused to glance down. Colored paper lanterns were lit as though for a fiesta, and hung in the trees, creating pretty patterns on the pink tile below. Fish swam in the ornamental pond, rippling the shimmering water. The scene was gay and yet wistful . . . all the people were missing.

She crossed the balcony, noting that all of the doors opposite and to the side of her wing were closed. But as she descended the wooden stairs the rest of the house same to life. She heard the murmur of voices from at least three different directions, and at the bottom of the stairs shy little Graziella waited, curtseying, beneath the bright glow of a big iron chandelier.

Graziella directed her to the sala, which was located to the right of the staircase, off the foyer. The wide double doors were closed, but Graziella opened them without knocking, gesturing Christina inside. Taking a breath, Christina walked into the spacious room . . . to halt in confusion. Julian was there, yes. But so was another man. And from his expectant smile, he knew who she was.

Julian had adopted formal evening dress for the occasion, and was something of a wolf in sheep’s clothing in his black, frock coat and while cravat. He came toward her, grinning and looked her up and down in an exaggerated manner that might have insulted her had she not known him so well.

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Miss?”

“Señora. And you are?”

“Clean for a change. Apparently you have scrubbed a little, too. If I didn’t recognize that condescending tone of voice . . .” He shook his for once well-combed head. Then he turned, and called to the man standing by the stone fireplace.

“Come here, Gilbert. You must make the acquaintance of the Señora.”

The man came slowly toward them. He limped, leaning heavily on a cane.

Christina moved forward, meeting the crippled man halfway. “I will come to you, Señor. Why do you not sit down?”

He looked at her. “In a moment, Señora. You are most kind. But I walk as much as I can - it is good therapy, the doctors say.”

Julian came to stand behind them, hands planted on his hips. “Christina - this is my brother, Gilbert Torrance. Gilbert, the Señora de Sainz.”

Surprise held her still as Gilbert murmured a conventional greeting and bowed. She gave him her hand and replied in kind.

“But you live in San Antonio, do you not? Where is Lady Antoinette? I would have liked to see her. I grew quite fond of her in - in Washington.”

“She is at Tor Bend, the common name for our family home near San Antonio. And I recall her speaking with approval - and also with some question - of you, and where you might have gone to. She never suspected you might be here! Nor did I, until a little while ago. Julian summoned me here with a message by one of his renegades, and I came immediately, like a good brother.” He laughed, the action rendering his face pleasant and very like Rowan’s. Both men had wavy, brown hair, with a tendency to fall across their high foreheads; both men were of medium build - although Gilbert was the older and heavier - and of medium height. Rowan seemed a trifle livelier, however, and Gilbert more reserved. There was a watchful gleam to Gilbert’s eyes which was reminiscent of his adopted-brother and of his cousin, Michael.

Christina wondered how much of her story Gilbert had learned from both Antoinette and Julian. If he knew she was loyal to Mexico, he would dislike her, wouldn’t he? Hadn’t he been crippled by a Santanista? Why had Julian brought him here?

Julian answered that question himself later in the evening, as they were seated at one end of a dark Spanish dining table finishing a good meal of French and English dishes. Dessert was served by Jefferson, the black man who doubled as a butler; and Gilbert asked Julian for the second time why he couldn’t remain at Dos Rios until Antoinette would be able to arrive.

“Because, as you well know, there is a war going on in Mexico, and I don’t intend to miss it,” Julian said. “The only reason I detoured here at all was to bring Christina, who seemed to be seeing a little too much of it. I am leaving here tomorrow, to rejoin my unit. But I wanted you to meet Christina . . . .” his glance at her was inscrutable, “and Christina to meet you. Just in case.
You’ll be checking on her, from time to time, and you should know each other. Michael might not arrive here for weeks.

Both men looked her way, Julian openly and Gilbert a little embarrassedly. She averted her eyes from each of them and focused on her English pudding.

“Also, Gilbert . . . you can’t tell Antoinette that Christina is here. You know she would rush right over and sweep her away to Tor Bend, which Michael would definitely not like. I don’t want Antoinette to come here until Michael returns.”

“Where is he, anyway?” Gilbert asked, evidently not caring for the idea of deceiving his inquisitive mother.

“He was with General Taylor, assisting him in securing Saltillo. Where he is now is anyone’s guess.”

“Does he even know that you have located the Señora?”

“Yes.”

Julian’s reply was short, and that was all he intended to say. The conversation turned to Antoinette, at Christina’s urging, and remained there until Julian was called away by the butler. Once he left the room, Gilbert relaxed a little more. He requested port, and insisted that Christina have an after-dinner wine as well.

He asked her general questions about her travels, avoiding any subject which might prove touchy or uncomfortable; a knack which reminded Christina of his mother. After ten minutes of aimless talking, he struck with a pointedness that was all Julian.

“Señora . . .” he began, his gaze direct. “My mother seems to be under the impression that you and Michael had formed some sort of understanding, before you ran away from him. Yet, Julian tells me that you and my cousin are more in the way of enemies; which would explain, at least, why you did run away.”

He seemed to expect her to speak, but she remained silent. He sipped his port and continued. “Now, please do not mistake me. Whatever is between you and Michael is most certainly your own affair. I am merely curious about your status. Am I to treat you as a future cousin-in-law, or as an honorable Mexican hostage?”

He smiled as he spoke, a warm, generous smile that nevertheless did not disguise his implacable need to know. This was a man who liked order in his life and wasn’t fond of surprises. He was, indeed, different from Michael and Julian, after all.

Christina decided to be honest with him, and trust in his tolerant nature.

“Señor Torrance, I nursed your cousin back to health after he was discovered on my estate in Mexico half-dead from a gunshot wound. To repay me, he kidnapped me, simply because I happened to discover his identity; and took me far away from my home. I needn’t mention the indignities I suffered along the way, not the least of which was the fact that he actually drugged me!” She paused to rein-in her voice, which had risen. “Naturally, I took the opportunity which presented itself in Washington to escape him. I have a duty to my estate, Señor, a responsibility to it - you must understand me, owning land yourself! I wished - I still wish - to return to it, especially now that war has upset everything. My tenants, my people, need me. I am their Patrona . . .”

She stared at Gilbert, her mind on her hacienda; on Maria Juana, on her head man Ricardo, on everyone else there who must have no idea where she was. She saw the place deserted from lack of attention, or even destroyed from the war. Her imaginings chilled her.

“So you see, even though Miguel and I have - gotten along - together at times, just as your mother observed, he has done me a great disservice, which I can never forget. You may consider me his hostage, if you wish; it is true enough!”

Gilbert observed her closely, his interest and his speculation unhidden. He didn’t seem displeased or even perturbed by her story. He seemed to accept it calmly. Was he used to the insane, uncivilized things that his English cousin did? And as for her role - did the idea of a patriotic Mexican not anger him, either?

Then he shook his head, and smiled. “Not a hostage. “Or even a guest. I will think of you as a friend, if you permit it, Señora. And I hope that you will do me the same favor.”

Her expression eased, and she nodded. But before she could speak, he added, “And I promise you that as a friend I will certainly speak to Michael on your behalf. Even though our countries are in the midst of a bitter war - and it is bitter, Señora, on the part of every Texan - Michael must remember that he is a gentleman. I will try to persuade him to let you go.”

She smiled at him in grateful relief, a wide smile that slanted her green-gold eyes upwards until they glittered like faceted stones. She turned the same face to Julian when he reentered the room, and the big man stopped dead to stare at her in mock surprise and cynical approval.

“Well, Gilbert, your conversation seems to have pleased Christina. And I had so hoped to do it myself when I told her I have changed my mind about leaving, and intend to stay here another day or so longer.” He spoke deprecatingly, and both Gilbert and Christina laughed and protested.

Then Julian moved near to Christina, and reached down to caress her cheek, as casually as always. He stopped at Gilbert’s
observing look and frowned. It struck Julian how much it pleased him to touch her, and how unusual a show of affection like that was for him. No wonder Gilbert stared! But he couldn’t help touching her, it just seemed to come naturally to him. Of course, he should consider what Michael would make of his petting . . . sure he would not stop it when his cousin arrived, a lot sooner now than he had originally thought. Oh, well, he enjoyed touching Christina, and these days, she didn’t seem to mind his caresses. Perhaps Michael had an even bigger aggravation coming!

The thought of teasing his cousin and best friend restored his sense of the absurd. He grinned down at Christina and patted her like a good dog. “I’ve decided to see you well-nestled in before I go. Lay out the rules, and so on. My troop will just have to do without me for a little while longer. Now - why don’t we go out onto the patio, where it’s cooler? Gilbert can tell us all about his children and his wife and Antoinette . . .”

The patio was scented with night-flowers and the musky-smell of the land, borne on a tantalizing breeze. They seated themselves on cushioned chairs in a patch of lantern light, and sipped wine in peace for a few moments, listening to the wistful strains of a guitar played by a ranch hand in a dark corner. Then Julian ruined the peaceful mood by turning perverse and setting out to annoy Christina by relating exaggerated tales of her exploits to Gilbert. He made fun of her and complimented her at the same time, using an heroic tone of voice that was as funny as it was annoying, and taking care to play up her unfeminine conduct so that she sounded like some kind of hussy. Why did he find it necessary to talk about her adapting to life with a rough guerilla band as though it were? And why in the name of God, did he bring up the incident in which she killed two men?

Julian leaned over the back of Christine’s chair where she couldn’t see him, rubbing her bare shoulder despite her stiffened back. “So you see, Gilbert, what a brave girl she really is. Without her, er - quick action with St. Just’s gun, he would be dead now, and she would be - uh, well. I’m sure you can guess. Although I’m afraid that killing those dogs has upset her. I don’t know why. They were dead men anyway; I was only about twenty minutes behind them.”

“Julian, you know I would prefer not to discuss it at all,” she said.

“Of course I do. And you will go as far as to drink to forget it.” She knew he was grinning down at her, his smile recalling the absurd inebriated condition he had helped her to attain in her shock at the killings. And here she was with a glass of sangria in her hand, and feeling exactly the same; she still wanted to forget!

She twisted to glare up at him, her eyes daring him to comment further. But he only laughed, and squeezed her shoulder. “You know I approve of you, meniña, despite your faults. I will even take responsibility for most of your recent sins.”

“I am glad to hear it, Juli. Now I know whom to blame.”

Julian’s hand tightened on Christina’s shoulder, and remained there as all their gazes shot
toward the familiar, unexpected voice.

“Is this a fiesta? No, the three of you seem too cozy for that. A dinner party, then. Am I welcome?” Michael’s tone was quizzical and bland and tired. But his eyes were narrowed and slate-gray in the dim light, and his face beneath several days’ growth of beard looked hard, even though he leaned casually against the arched doorway.