Stronger Than Passion (33 page)

“I seem to remember something about this being your house. We could scarcely turn you away, could we?” Julian said.

Michael’s eyes met Julian’s, and flickered downwards for only a second before returning back up without acknowledging Christina. Then he turned toward his other cousin, who had risen. His mouth quirked into a smile.

“What are you doing here, Gil?”

Gilbert moved forward and extended his hand. “I’m not sure, now. But it’s good to see you anyway.”

Michael removed dirty leather gloves to clasp his cousin’s hand and came forward, his movements slow. “Well, I’m glad you’re here, especially since it appears we have a lot to talk about. But I think I’ll bathe, and change, first, before joining polite company. I’ve done some hard riding lately, as you can no doubt tell.”

He released Gilbert’s hand and his eyes swung back again to Julian. The half-breed Indian looked amused, and something else indefinable. His stare was heavy and expectant.

Since Julian was waiting for it, and since Gilbert also formed part of the audience, Michael decided to glance down at Christina, seated beneath Julian’s deliberate and pointed grip. He even managed to keep his voice quiet and controlled when he satisfied them all by speaking to her.

“You seem to have been extremely busy since we last met, Señora. How - interesting to find you here, obviously so well cared for . . . and on such good terms with my family. Despite all the trouble you’ve caused!”

Christina flinched, and would have jumped up from the chair had Julian not held her down. “Any small trouble I might be responsible for is as nothing to the misery you have put me through!”

“That misery isn’t over yet, Christina.” It was a flat threat, and watching her now - just as arrogant and demanding as ever, yet less afraid of him than before, thanks to God knows what, when Julian should have humbled her - he wanted to slap her, as hard as he could. Particularly since the sight of her had brought back to him, with seductive strength, the memory of her in bed, that one and only time. And that had been just before she had walked out of his house to go to another man. His disgust rose in his mouth, like bile.

He turned, intending to stalk away, not trusting himself to keep from killing her now, in front of witnesses. He opened his mouth to call out to Julian to dispose of her somewhere before he came back. But then he bumped into the female he had unintentionally brought home with him.

“So here you are, querido! I have looked everywhere for you - but I see we have guests!” She tossed her full head of glossy black hair, and her eyes narrowed into slits as they took in the assembled company.

“Julian can make the necessary introductions, Renata. Now get out of my way so I can take a bath. And remember to be polite, you’re pretending to be a lady.”

The girl flashed dark, passionate eyes at him before facing her audience and dropping into an overdone curtsy. Then, as Michael’s boot steps receded into the house, the girl said, “Good evening.”

Julian burst into rude laughter, seeming to find both Michael and the girl’s appearance amusing. The girl drew herself up and planted angry fists on the hips of her European-style riding habit.

“You dare to smirk at me,, hijo de - she cut herself off, pretending to realize her manners. She glanced toward Christina, noticed the white, rigid expression she wore, and took it for contempt.
“Julian, who is she?” she demanded, her glare swinging back to him.

“She is a lady, Spirit, whom you would do well to emulate, if you are serious about improving yourself, which I doubt. Her name is the Señora de Sainz. Yours I thought I knew; but what did Miguel call you?”

“Renata. It is my new name. I no longer want my Comanche name. Is she sleeping in Miguel’s bedroom? There are women’s clothes in his wardrobe.”

Julian smiled, sardonically, and Gilbert looked amazed and disgusted, but not really surprised. Apparently he had met Spirit - Renata before. Christina sat frozen in her seat, not believing the scene that had just taken place, or the one that was now happening.

“Yes she is, and you are to keep out of there,” Julian replied. “It is Miguel’s wish that she have his room, since she is a very important guest. And how long are you planning to stay? I don’t want you disrupting this household for long.” He was intentionally provoking, and this volatile girl lit beneath his words like a smoldering flame, shattering the quiet peace of the courtyard with her loud voice.

“I will remain here as long as I want! It is Miguel’s house, not yours, and he wants me here! I am just as important to him as - as she is, even more important, you dog, and you can’t make me leave. Why don’t you go, instead, and take her with you!”

Her attitude radiated primitive aggression and an equally savage sensuality, and even Christina had to admit her beauty was uncommon and glorious; particularly so due to the contrast between her obvious Indian ancestry and her correct European clothing. But she was vulgar and common, and Michael’s mistress . . . and Christina had just about all she could stand for one night, period.

“You must excuse me, gentlemen, and you, Señorita. It is time that I retired.” She rose from her chair, and Julian made no attempt to stop her. She met his eyes, and they were understanding and not in the least amused. Thank God he had decided to spare her his sarcasm; she couldn’t have borne it. She turned to Gilbert, and nodded, hoping his present expression of bemusement wouldn’t turn to pity for her sake.

But then her gaze crossed that of the Indian girl, and the malevolent hatred she encountered there was unnerving, but not startling. She disliked the girl, why shouldn’t the girl hate her?

“Goodnight,” she said, and walked away. Gilbert Torrance was the only one who wished her a good night in return. As she went into the interior hall, she heard the Comanche girl saying something shrill about her to Julian; and his low and menacing order to shut up. The girl began shrieking then, before there came the distinct sound of a slap. Wild, angry sobbing ensued as Christina mounted the staircase, and the sobbing grew louder when she reached the open hallway to her room, with its high view of the courtyard below.

She hurried into her room and shut the door behind her, leaning against it and trembling, and hoping viciously that Julian would beat the hysterical girl senseless.

She was alone, no sign of Michael in what used to be his own room. And she almost regretted the absence of people
—
of anyone, even a servant, before whom she must dissemble and pretend, and control herself. Because now, in the fire-lite warmth of Michael Brett’s bedchamber, she was giving way to the reality that he was here, in the house. And despising her for daring to escape him. And planning to make her life unbearable.

And beginning her humiliation by installing his vile mistress in the house . . .

She felt herself shake, felt her body reacting to the explosive emotions colliding in her brain. She was hot and uncomfortable in her evening dress. She stripped it off, and threw it down, and pulled on her nightshift. She took the pins out of her hair and brushed it, violently. She paced the floor for several minutes to suit action to the lurid pounding of her heart. Then she climbed into bed, after blowing out all the candles so she was in complete darkness.

And the tears that slid from her eyes were tears of anger, no more; of that she was certain.

*

Downstairs, after the well-slapped and howling Renata fled to find either Michael or her own room, Gilbert looked at Julian, and said, “You knew he was coming; that’s why you decided to stay.”

Julian barely smiled. “Do you have a point?”

“Yes. What about Christina? Do you intend to protect her from him? Or just watch?

“He won’t hurt her.”

“How do you know? Will you help her if he does?”

“I said he won’t hurt her. Hell, he probably won’t even yell at her. He didn’t even keep her locked up, in Washington. He bought her clothes, and took her to parties, for Christ’s sake.”

“But that was before she abused her privileges and ran off.”

“She deserves a beating for that, in my opinion, just to keep her from doing it again. But that fool she escaped with - Colonel Manzanal - took care of that by nearly raping her the night I killed him. For all I know, he’d tried it before. That probably taught her a lesson of some sort. She’ll behave now, I’m sure. She never once gave me any trouble. And I’ll tell Michael that. But you needn’t worry that he’ll mistreat her, because he won’t.”

Julian frowned and looked away, his black eyes grim. “She’s his woman, Gilbert. His prisoner. Do you understand that? He has the right to do any damn thing to her he wants, even if he won’t, and neither one of us should interfere. But, yes - if she needs me, for the next day or so, I’ll be here. And I’ll do more than just watch.”

*

When Christina finally slept, it was to have her waking thoughts transformed into dream images both horrible and poignant.

She was cast in a theater of helplessness, in which she was berated by Michael and the Indian girl and Gilbert, while Julian looked on and resisted her appeals. They were stripping her naked; and still Julian stared, and laughed. Then she was back in her own hacienda, in her own bed, and only Michael was there, tying her hands. She was supposed to tell him something, like before. But she refused to say it. She knew he would destroy her holdings if she did not give in, but she could not speak the words. He told her he would hit her. And her dream-self warmed, because he would not really slap her, he would touch her instead, and wasn’t that what she wanted? His hands on her, his mouth on her, and the wetness, the . . .

She awoke, her body tangled in covers that seemed far too hot. She kicked them away. And froze when her foot encountered something hard.

“I wondered if you were ever going to wake up. Juli must’ve given you too much wine at dinner. Along with too damn many other privileges.”

Still sluggish from heavy sleep, her body was slow to twist away, but she managed to drag herself toward the opposite side of the bed from where he perched and sit up. Her nightshift shone whitely in the darkness until she covered it with the sheet.

“What are you doing in here?” she hissed.

“It’s my bedroom, why shouldn’t I be in here? In fact, this is my house. And you are my prisoner - not Julian’s. If you were his, you’d be in his bedroom.”

He must be drunk. Drunk and dangerous. But she didn’t care. “Why don’t you take me there, then? I’d much rather be under his guard than yours. He’s a great deal more civilized than you, despite his manners, and - ”

“I can see that Julian’s treated you far better than you deserve, for reasons known only to him. But don’t expect me to be so lenient. I ought to beat you for running away from Washington with that idiot Colonel. In fact, I think I will.
You need to learn obedience, Señora, or at least the consequences of breaking your given word.”

“Why shouldn’t I take the chance to return to Mexico when it was offered? I don’t owe you loyalty! I don’t owe you anything! If not for you, I’d be in my own house right now, on my own lands, doing my best for my people during this war with your country. I’m neglecting them now, and it’s your fault!”

“What about your Fiancé, Arredondo? Wouldn’t you rather be with him? Or maybe Santa Anna? Or perhaps you miss that Colonel that Julian killed. You liked him enough to run off with him into the middle of a war.”

Pure anger made her gasp as she threw off the covers and swung her bare feet to the floor. Before she could bolt to the door, he had slid across the bed to catch her.

“Where are you going? To Julian? He won’t help you. Not even if I kill you tonight as an enemy who knows too much to let live. He wouldn’t even try to stop me, nor would Gilbert. War is all about killing, querida.”

“Then go ahead.” Her whisper was fierce and her skin trembled with fury beneath his tight grip on her arm, in her hair, where he had tangled one hand. “I don’t care anymore. I’ve seen too much, I’ve done too much. . .”

“You’ve killed also, I hear. Then you know how it’s done. You simply place the gun or a knife - ” he released her hair to fumble at his waist” - here, along the throat. Do you know what comes next?”

Cold steel pressed into her skin, but she was more conscious of his body so near hers, of his voice speaking so softly in her ear. Shivers, of fear and unreal anticipation, started somewhere and went on and on. She felt weak.

“I know what comes next.”

“Good.” But he wasn’t using the knife. Instead, he relaxed his grasp on her arm to move his fingers across the swell of her breast. They found her nipple and lightly rubbed. The sensation was icy and molten at the same time, and made her flinch, heedless of the knife at her throat. It might even have cut her; she neither knew or cared.

Then the knife was gone, and she heard a clatter as it struck the floor. “You may want me to kill you, but there’s a better way.” His lips replaced the knife, tender on her skin. The weakness increased, became something like dizziness. She sagged into him and he accepted her weight, both hands now concentrated on raising the hem of her shift and finding bareness.

“We’ll both die a little tonight, love. But I won’t let you run from me in the morning, like last time. You’re going to stay where you are until I decide different. Maybe I’ll keep you here, in this bed, until the war’s over.”