Stronger Than Passion (41 page)

Except for one woman, who was a delight and a revelation. And he had run across her far too late in life . . . and under inauspicious circumstances, to boot.

Christina de Sainz had a way of looking at him that made him enjoy his own intelligence and appreciate what that search for learning and revenge had cost him. She also made him aware of his power - over the Indians, and the white men to whom he was Captain - by obeying him, his will, when her spirit, in its dogged way, was as durable and unbreakable as the diamonds in the Queen of England’s crown. And by triumphing spiritually over her, he was winning in a sense against the lure of Mexico and Santa Anna.

This letter be held concerned her. And now he permitted himself the luxury of thinking of her.

Her respect, and - he hoped - liking, for him, had helped to balance things regarding his place in the world. His biological father had not wanted to acknowledge him with his own name, and had not married his Comanche mother; but Christina had trusted him with the secret of her escape from Michael. His Comanche relations grudgingly accepted him, out of fear, mainly - yet Christina had seen the cruelty in him and grown fond of him anyway.

Julian had had no quarrel with his adopted white family, the Torrances, who one and all were fine and generous people. But other white men had hated him, and despised him because he was a half-breed. Was that any fault of his? Hadn’t he wished, his entire life, to belong to either one race or the other?

Yet he had the impression that Christina admired him because of the interesting qualities he had inherited from both.

Julian had done little good in his life, but knew that now he would be drawn into something that was not only “right” but foolish.

Christina was not his woman, nor ever would be. But Julian couldn’t help his protectiveness toward her. And, judging from the contents of this letter, she could bear some watching over.

He reached the outskirts of camp, checking to see that the guards he had posted were on duty and well-concealed. Jack Eastman called out a greeting to him from somewhere high and to the left. There was no sound to be heard from the right, the post held by a new recruit - another half-breed, this time Apache and Mexican. Pedro “Light Eyes” Estevez would consider any verbal acknowledgment unnecessary.

Julian’s dark gaze scanned the camp, and found the extra horse tethered to the guerilla’s usual string. Recognizing it, he went to his own tent, pitched as far away from the other mens’ as he could get. He ignored the glances thrown his way by the three who sat playing cards around the fire, their usual occupation at dusk; and stooped to enter the tent.

As expected, Michael was inside. He had thrown his own bedroll and lay sleeping heavily, fully clothed; the arm wounded at the Battle of Buena Vista well over a month ago, and since then re-injured, still in a sling on his chest. He looked worn out, and the lines of aggravation no doubt incurred during the time he spent in Vera Cruz with General Scott had not yet left his unshaven face.

Was it better to wake him now, and give him the news of Christina . . . or wait until he had slept some of his irritation off?

Now, Julian decided. Michael would be incensed anyway, and then later he could go back to sleep and forget everything. Besides, Julian felt a malicious curiosity overcoming him. How would Michael react to hearing that Christina had been arrested and taken to Mexico City? Would he care that she had been interrogated by Santa Anna’s soldiers because of her association with him? Would he profess indifference even when he heard that her engagement to Luis Arredondo was imminent?

Julian had been uncertain for some time about the nature of the end-relationship between the two, knowing only they had grown close during the journey to Mexico, and then parted. Michael had refused to discuss Christina since. Now Julian wanted the truth.

He prodded Michael’s side with the steel toe of his boot. “Wake up, hermano. I want to talk to you.”

Michael groaned, but kept his eyes shut. “Jesus Christ, Juli, you’re as bad as General Scott. He wouldn’t let me sleep, either.”

“You can sleep all you like in a few minutes.”

“Then get me some coffee, for God’s sake.”

Julian smiled, and went out again to the campfire. When he returned, Michael was sitting up, and looking mean.

“You and Scott both want to kill me. I haven’t slept in two or three days - I nearly fell off my horse, getting here. Why in hell are you camped so far off the main highway?”

Michael knew better than to ask him that. He was merely tired and foul. “Because the view’s better here. What do you think?”

“I think I’ve had enough bullshit for one day.” He gulped the coffee Julian handed him, swallowing deeply. “Scott doesn’t believe me, you know. Not completely.”

“What?” Julian said, startled.” Is he that much of an idiot?”

“I think its his advisors, his trusted staff. They just don’t understand how Santa Anna, with a force of 6,000 men, could be sitting just up the road at Jalapa so quickly. They think he’s still far away, trying to regroup from Buena Vista. They don’t know him well enough to believe us when we say he has not only regrouped, but moved 6,000 men to Jalapa already.”

“You told them you’d seen some of it with your own eyes? His baggage wagons , his artillery?”

“Yes. They all think I’m overestimating the situation.”

“They’re fools.”

Michael didn’t even bother to nod. That went without saying.

“Yet, General Twigg has already made some progress up the road, with Worth’s men to follow,” Julian said.

“They’re expecting some action, and taking some precautions. But probably not enough. If Santa Anna doesn’t grow impatient, and strike too early, all of Twigg’s men could march right into his lap. And Scott won’t know about it in Vera Cruz until its over - and Santa Anna comes down the hill to meet him.”

Disgusted, he drank the rest of his coffee while Julian stared at the tent wall - wondering what in hell the use of intelligence information was to the army if the army didn’t believe it!

Michael finally sighed deeply, and stretched . . . wincing at the familiar pained twinge his movement brought to his damned sore arm, which should have healed already; and would, probably, if he had had the chance to rest it up.

“Was that all you wanted to know? If so, get out of here for a while and let me sleep.”

“You could’ve pitched your own tent, you know,” Julian said.

“Forgot it.” he murmured, laying back.

“Anyway - that’s not all.”

“Oh?” Michael said on a yawn, his eyes closed.

“Yes. I thought it might interest you to know that I’ve received a report from Locklyn. About Christina. It seems she was arrested - for unnatural friendship with the enemy. That means us.”

The long body tensed. The pale eyes opened - to fix on Julian with a sharpness that was not there before.

“What in hell are you saying?”

“She’s in Mexico city. She was taken there for interrogation. Apparently they didn’t hurt her. But she wasn’t freed, either. Santa Anna gave her to Arredondo for keeping.”

Michael sat up, his breathing deeper and quicker. His thin nostrils flared; the barely-noticeable scar on his face stood out, jagged and white.

“From what Locklyn says, she’ll probably be forced to marry Arredondo. It all has something to do with a silver mine she owns, and Arredondo and Santa Anna want. But Locklyn’s sources couldn’t confirm everything.”

“How did Locklyn know we were interested in her?”

“I wrote him.”

Michael was silent for a long minute; long enough for his face to completely undergo its transformation to a vicious and narrow-eyed mask. A nearly unreadable mask, to anyone but Julian, who saw the swiftly-bursting spark of some terrible emotion in the level, silver-blue gaze; in the harsh lines of tension cording the neck and jaw and forehead of the man he considered his brother.

Then Michael said softly. “Goddamn you, Juli. What in hell am I supposed to do about it? She wants to marry him.”

“She doesn’t know him. You do.”

He stood up, his movements controlled and contained. “I’ve warned her away from him before. She didn’t listen.”

“We could get proof - about the silver mine.”

“She wouldn’t believe it.”

“We owe her.”

They faced each other, Julian’s gaze determined and Michael’s angry. Julian pressed his point.

“You know I’ve got a raid planned on Arredondo’s next shipment of silver to Santa Anna. Come with me. We’ll nose around the area and see if Locklyn’s report is true.”

Michael was silent for a full minute. Finally his eyes narrowed. “I want to know why Santa Anna arrested his favorite cousin. He must’ve heard something . . . do we have a spy here somewhere?”

Julian shrugged. “It’s possible. I’ll do some checking.”

“You do that. Christina deserved better than to be betrayed into Santa Anna’s hands. Especially since she’s innocent of anything they accused her of.”

Julian nodded. They were in agreement on that. If one of his or Michael’s men had been selling stories to Santa Anna, that man would be found - and die a very slow death.

“I wonder what she told them,” Michael said.

“Nothing of importance. Besides, if Santa Anna knows about her time with us - then he knows all about us, too. Although it’s strange that Locklyn hasn’t heard anything about a price on my head, or yours either.”

“Yes.” Michael looked away, his face hard. “I think I’ll go along on that raid. Then maybe I’ll pay John a visit at the British Embassy.”

“In Mexico City, hermano?”

“That’s right. In Mexico City. But first, I’ll write John and ask him to make contact with Christina. I’ll send her my very proper regards.”

The British Embassy officially acted as an interested observer of the conflict between Mexico and America. Unofficially, however, the Minister and his staff were prepared to involve themselves and their Empire in the war in any way that was to England’s advantage; whether that involvement consisted merely of mediation between the two countries, or even of some kind of military commitment.

As a consequence of the importance of Great Britain to Mexico, the Embassy’s gala reception was a crowded affair. England’s Minister was on hand and surrounded by a sea of people importuning his opinions. Each of his attaches were also nearly mobbed. Until the dancing began; then the ladies managed to reclaim their men, and a more normal evening resumed.

Christina was dressed in the sheerest white silk she could find and have made up. It was too hot these days, before the onset of the rainy season, to wear anything heavy. The dress was trimmed in white beads and gold ribbon, and little of the traditional lace. It was bad enough that Mexican ladies still favored wearing lace mantillas on their heads; Christina refused to load her dress down with the stuff, as well. Her costume was as simple, and therefore as elegant, as a Mexican ball gown could be, and completed with her pearls and the most sparing of mantillas.

She was enjoying the formal British atmosphere prevalent here. The looseness and carelessness of Mexican society had always disturbed her, brought up as she was under strict Spanish ways. In Mexico, a morning call might last all day, and into the night; and an evening visit such as this one could invariably go on for days. Hospitality was intruded upon by all. And servants took their cue from their masters, and behaved sloppily and lazily. Whereas in Spain, and England, manners were rigidly adhered to at all times. Servants were dressed correctly and acted respectfully, and their betters would never dream of overstaying their proscribed welcome. At a party, the proper number of dishes were served and eaten - and a guest would never call out for more. Dances were formally bespoken, and acted out with propriety, not wildness. Liquor consumption was expected to be controlled. And here, at the British legation, a serene reception was the rule, not the exception.

Ladies in brightly -hued ball gowns - often covered in lace - twirled rather sedately for Mexico to the strains of a local band trained in English music. Their partners were equally as colorful, either in their gold-braided military uniforms, or flashy charro suits, as they meandered around the very large dance floor, attempting to remember the steps to these foreign reels. Luis - soberly attired in well-cut black, like the Englishmen - led Christina out onto the floor for two successive dances; then, by mutual agreement, they moved outside onto the torch-lit patio, where it was cooler.

Christina refused Luis’s offer of a shawl, and instead asked him to procure her a glass of iced champagne. He left her seated in the shadows, and disappeared into the crowd.

She was content to sit in the night air and fan away the light sheen of perspiration she had acquired in the ballroom. She looked around her. Here where mainly gentlemen, older ones; standing in small groups and no doubt discussing politics and the war. There were several nationalities present tonight, and several persons whom she had not yet met. Including the man who was staring at her right now. And who, noticing her eyes in his direction, hastened over.

He was of average height and dressed like an Englishman, with dark blond hair and blue eyes - it was difficult to tell in the torch-light. He smiled and bowed before her. When he spoke, it was in English. She wondered why on earth he would assume she even knew the language?