Stronger Than Passion (38 page)

She was also not surprised by his avoidance of her on the ship. During the days it took them to reach Tuxpan he scarcely spoke to her, even at dinner; and when he did his words were either sardonic or indifferent or clipped. He seemed to have made up his mind to be rid of her as soon as possible and would spare no time for courtesy; although, in truth, he never had. Yet, as the coast of Mexico sometimes glimpsed off the ship’s bow became more of a promise than an illusion, Christina began to wish he would speak to her. Now that their ambivalent association was about to end, she felt some need to qualify it - to understand it, at least. Michael Brett, her tormentor, her lover, had galvanized her life in ways inexpressible and bewildering, and now that they were about to part forever she wanted to make sense of it. But Michael remained a forbidding figure and she did not approach him.

Penny was in a dejected state of mind and made no attempt to conceal it. She would miss Dos Rios, and repeated this so often that Christina finally spoke to her sharply.

Penny’s regrets only made Christina realize more succinctly her own.

If only, Christina thought as she stood alone one afternoon on the deck of the steamer, watching the shores of Mexico drift by in the distance, if only she could reach some compromise with Michael so that they might be friends. After all, if the war did come to Jalapa - and gossip swore that it would - she might stand in need of American friends if she were to protect her hacienda. Or was that a disloyal thought? She no longer knew. Her loyalties, her hopes, her desires - all were confused now. That was her legacy from Michael Brett.

Her home, now so close, seemed more unreal than her memories of Dos Rios. Yet she belonged there. That was irrefutable. And Luis Arredondo . . . did she belong with him, now? Or was that option firmly closed? Yes, she believed it was. She could never marry Luis, and she would never let Michael Brett know.

And they could never be friends, she and Michael. Enemies; but not friends.

The steamer docked at Tuxpan, a Mexican coastal town now bursting with rowdy Americans. Tuxpan by steamer was close to Vera Cruz - still held by Mexico, and hostile; but no American steamer could put into Vera Cruz. Michael was able to hire a small vessel, however, to take them to within fifty miles of Vera Cruz and land them in unfriendly territory. They must make their way inland then to Vera Cruz and Jalapa.

They embarked again only one day after arriving in Tuxpan. Two days later, they were left at dusk on a shadowy, deserted coast smelling of flowers and fruits. Familiar smells, to Christina - she began to believe she was almost home.

The difficult part of the journey now lay ahead.

Michael had ordered that they all dress in Mexican fashion, and had acquired garments in Tuxpan for their use. Christina and Penny wore the ankle-length skirts, low-necked blouses and rebozas of the local women; the men dressed in serapes and wide-brimmed hats. That first night, Christina, Penny and Thomas made camp near the beach while Michael and Ernesto disappeared to scout for horses.

They returned two hours after dawn with three horses and a donkey. Michael only shrugged when Christina glared at him. Two of them would have to double up, and she was not surprised when Michael suggested that Penny take the donkey - it was lower to the ground anyway, she would like that - and Christina ride with him.

“Sorry, Señora, but extra horses are hard to come by around here. I’ll try to find you your own mount when we get closer to Vera Cruz. Meanwhile, you’ll just have to sit with me for a time.”

She half suspected him of doing it on purpose. But then she remembered his deliberate avoidance of her these past days, and decided that he probably didn’t care for their close proximity any more than she did.

Those first hours on the horse were uncomfortable for them both. Christina, seated before Michael, tried not to lean into him, but holding herself stiff against the sway of he horse proved painful. And although he made no effort, at first, to encourage her to relax against him, in the end his arms were steadying her so often that he gave up and pulled her closer. His voice in her ear told her to stop trying so damned hard not to touch him or he’d make her walk.

“Why don’t you walk, and give me the horse,” she’d hissed back, but he only tightened his arms and told her to be quiet.

Penny on her little donkey was talking to Ernesto and noticed none of this exchange, but Christina was aware of her maid’s arch satisfaction with the current traveling arrangements and wished she were not. It was time for Penny to give up her hopes for a permanent liaison between her mistress and Michael, and realize that he would soon be leaving them for good.

Although reality was almost difficult for Christina to accept while Michael was so close. Damn him for not buying or stealing enough horses! Didn’t he know that it was impossible for her to distance her mind from him in preparation for their separation when his body was so near? When she was forced to nestle against his warm chest, and was held in casual possessiveness by his arms? When the sun warmed her to drowsiness, and the movement of the horse echoed other rhythms, from other times?

As the day wore on Christina could feel her frustrations mount. She couldn’t wait to escape from him, to get off the horse that was keeping them together in mockery when so soon they would part forever. Memories crowded in on her, taunting her in a vivid sensuality of what was past, of Michael and her own half-love. Had she ever loved him, or had desire made her think so? And could she really live without him?

They seldom spoke, the tension in them both being too strong for words. Then Michael ordered the others not to talk either. English would carry along the dirt paths they followed much further than Spanish, and there were villages hidden all around them.

They passed few people until Michael sought a village to sleep in when it grew dark. He didn’t fear the simple peasants; it was the soldiers they would meet on the road to Jalapa that were the real danger. For the most part, the peasants should accept his story that they were traveling to Vera Cruz to a wedding celebration of his “wife’s” sister. Penny, the only one of them who knew little Spanish, was instructed not to talk at all and to keep her red hair covered by the reboza.

Ernesto engaged rooms for them in the posada of a village within half a day’s ride of Vera Cruz. Christina, only too pleased to get off Michael’s horse in this village reminiscent of so many others she had seen, went to her and Penny’s room without a backward glance at Michael. She determined to have a bath, to eat and to sleep without ever leaving the room and seeing him. By tomorrow, perhaps she would have her own horse to ride.

*

The door opened just as Penny had helped Christina out of her gown, and she had seated herself on the edge of the bed, clad in her muslin shift, while Penny brushed her hair loose from its
braid. Both women turned toward the door in surprise. Somehow, neither of them were.

“Penny, you can sleep in the room next door. I want to talk to your mistress.”

“She doesn’t have to leave for you to speak to me.” Christina said.

“Yes she does. Now.”

Penny swallowed, glanced guiltily at Christina and laid down the hairbrush. She moved toward Michael and the door.

“Penny, do not leave this room!”

“She’s going.” He grabbed Penny by the arm and thrust her though the opening behind him. He closed the door and leaned against it, arms folded, eyes narrowed and fixed on Christina. “I hardly think, love, that we need a chaperone at this stage.”

“You said you wanted to talk to me.” She stood, pulling her long hair over one shoulder so that it covered the front of her shift. “Can’t it wait until morning?”

“No.” He said the word flatly, his eyes still settled on her almost in dislike.

The fretfulness, the dismayed anticipation that had been with her all day erupted into anger. “Then what the devil is so important? Why can’t you leave me alone? In just a few more days I’ll be home, and you’ll never see me again. I’d like to think of you without hatred . . .”

“You don’t hate me.”

“I certainly don’t love you!” Speaking the word love appalled her. She could feel the warmth flood her face and did not want him to see it. She turned away from him, wishing he would leave, hoping and dreading it at the same time. What was she, what had he done to her? She no longer recognized herself or her turbulent feelings, particularly the strange, hollow sorrow that wanted to overtake her. “You can talk to me tomorrow. Please go.”

But, instead of leaving, he had come up behind her. His arms went around her waist; his lips nuzzled her neck through her hair. She trembled, wanting to resist him, to remind him of who she was and how she expected to be treated. But Dios, his hands were grazing her breasts and she could no longer think.

She heard him murmur, “We don’t have to talk now. I want you, Chrissie, tonight and every night until we reach Jalapa. I may never see you again then, but I intend to remember you until the day I die. And you’re going to remember me, I promise it, no matter who else has you later.”

“That’s not fair . . .” the whisper came from her heart, hurting now in vague anticipation of pain to come.

“I never pretended to be fair.” And he was not fair, as he removed her shift and threw it on the floor. As his calloused hands clutched her possessively, feeling her willingness and her own wanting and manipulating her body until she thought she would scream from the aching. Nor was he fair as he took her, himself still nearly fully clothed, against the side of the bed before he decided to strip and join her in it.

And he was not being fair as he awoke her throughout the night - only to leave her, smiling crookedly, at sunup to muster the men, while she searched for her shift before Penny came to dress her for the day’s long ride.

Michael Brett was not a fair man, and Christina knew she would live to regret it.

*

The road to Jalapa had lost none of its familiarity. Still crowded with Indians and peasants on foot, farmers in mule-drawn wagons hauling produce, the occasional fine closed-carriage of the aristocracy and the blooded horses of their arrogant sons, it seemed no different from the last time Christina had traversed it in daylight. Except for the increased amount of military couriers who rode without thought for pedestrians or slower traffic, their right-of-way confirmed by the needs of the state.

Christina’s first sight of the jaunty braid-laden uniforms was disturbing. Santa Anna was at last being thoroughly recalled to her mind, and her own half-buried duties to her country. Now she must consider her actions for the past five months and how best to explain them. Now she must plan for homecoming and its possible repercussions.

She found that Michael’s eyes were on her frequently as she rode beside him, on the mare he had finally purchased; watching her for some concealed reason of his own. She never glimpsed an open desire in his gaze, but she sensed it was there; a wary, brooding kind of wanting, reluctant but powerful. Why now, when she was trying to put him out of her life,, did he insist on being the whole of it? He had always treated her with something like contempt before. Now he had no time for that, it seemed. He wanted her as often as possible before he let her go.

They slept together only a total of three nights. Three nights of wordless passion; of concentrated tenderness and soft fury. Three nights of a strange truce, during which the past was enhanced and the future ignored. And three days of silent speculation, of secret regrets and unformed wishes.

And the slight undercurrent of fear that drove them along. If any of the soldiers were to catch their eyes and stop to question them, and Michael’s identity were discovered, he would be hauled away for questioning and God knew what else. In that event, Christina was to contact the British Embassy in Mexico City immediately; she was given the name of a man to find. She knew that Michael was trusting her with that name, as he was with many other things.

He told her, on their last night together, in a room cool with the mountain breezes of her home, that he imagined Julian would know of some way to check on her - should she want it. And, of course, he would be around somewhere when the American troops came.

Christina knew a powerful relief when he said it. Thank God, she would have a tenuous hope of seeing him again - she could depend on him when the fighting started to come to her, to protect her, to hold her one more time. And she would have the luxury of knowing that Julian would look after her in his own mysterious way. And after the war, when there was peace . . .

She would still be herself, Patrona of her hacienda, daughter-in-law to Don Ignacio, a widowed lady of Mexico. She would no longer be the nameless mistress of a British-born American patriot. There would be no possible future for them, and to pretend would be foolish. Michael did not love her - he desired her and he felt some obligation to protect her, nothing more. He would eventually marry a woman of his own kind, probably Elizabeth, and divide his time between Texas and England.

She must not see him again. Not for her own sake.

She told him it would not be necessary for him to concern himself with her any longer.

“No, I don’t suppose it will,” he said with an odd, controlled anger. “You’ll have Luis Arredondo now, won’t you? Although I’d reconsider marrying him if I were you, Chrissie. I know for a fact that he isn’t kind to his women, not in bed. In fact he’s damned rough. You’d best try him out first, before you make a commitment.”