Stronger Than Passion (5 page)

None of her questions made sense. But at least the chilling fear was gone now, replaced with frustration and anger.

She wiggled, testing her bonds. But the bed creaked, earning her a sharp warning glance from Malone’s narrowed gaze, before he went back to his reading.

This was preposterous, she thought in rage. Malone was now opening her dresser drawers, his hands picking through their contents. His movements were careful, yet did not appear to favor his wounded shoulder at all.
Was the man inhuman, to have healed so quickly? Yes, he was the devil.

Malone finished searching her drawers, every drawer in the room, and then moved to the armoire. He rifled through it swiftly and turned, apparently without having found whatever it was he sought.

He stood staring down at her on the bed. She slitted her eyes upwards, damning him silently for both his presence and his callous treatment. But she did not care at all for the grim speculation set in his bearded face, nor for the sense she had that even though his search might be over, he was not quite through.

He was watching her. To lessen her own rising anxiety, she studied him in return.

He was wearing dark clothes that she recognized from his saddlebags. So he had appropriated his belongings from her study! And, of course, his guns; one of them hung from his hips in a plain leather holster. Where were the others?
Had he given them to someone else, someone who might have helped him escape, such as one of her maids, or even - God forbid - the Indian? Was the Indian in her house now, too! Was she perhaps being robbed?

Dios, how she wished she could talk to him? Didn’t he know the gag was unnecessary, that she was alone upstairs and it was possible no one would hear her even if she did scream her head off?

Something of her burgeoning panic must have shown in her face, because he smiled tightly.

“I’ll bet you’ve got quite a few things to say to me, don’t you, Señora? How would you like to get the chance?”

His tone was low and speculative. At her jerky nod, he moved closer and eased down on the edge of the bed. He leaned towards her, smiling again as she involuntarily slid her body nearer the opposite edge.

He shook his head. “No, that won’t do. Come here.”

He pulled her towards him, stretching her arms even tauter over her head as the rope tightened. She was wearing a pale blue nightgown edged in blond lace and was completely covered up to her neck; yet her body seemed shamefully bare in such intimate proximity to a man, particularly when his hard fingers encircled her waist beneath the covers to slide her nearer, and only the muslin of the gown was between his flesh and hers . . .

Her skin burned at first, and then crawled with shivers.

His eyes seemed to take all this in. She closed her own against the intensity of his scrutiny, and then opened him again, lest he think she was ready to submit to whatever it was he wanted. Even in her embarrassment and fear, she was still capable of some pride. Did he see that, too?

Their gazes locked for several seconds, and she guessed that he was trying to decide what he would do with her. His bearded face was a harsh sculpture above her, impenetrable, and stronger than it had ever seemed before. She sensed that she had been made the fool. If there was a real Jim Malone, then this powerful stranger was he. Not the confusing yet amiably accepting man she had kept locked downstairs. And what did this Malone intend?

He had reached some decision. He bent over.

“Señora, if I remove your gag, will you promise to remain quiet? All I want to do is to ask you a few questions, which I expect you to answer truthfully. Then I’ll leave here and you’ll never see me again. Do you agree?”

She nodded. She would agree to almost anything if he would remove the gag!

“All right. Now lie still . . .”

He untied the knot behind her head and the cloth slipped away. She licked her sore lips with a tongue that was nearly dry, like the rest of her mouth.

“This is an outrage, Señor Malone - one which I hope you will explain!” Her voice was a husky, furious whisper.

“I won’t. Now, listen to me, or I’ll replace the gag.”

After pausing to test her silence, he continued. “I know that General Santa Anna wrote to you from Havana. Where are those letters? Did you keep them? Tell me the truth.”

She stared at him in shock. Whatever she had expected, it wasn’t that! Of what importance were those half-forgotten letters?

Obviously, of great importance. He was serious, dead serious. His eyes glittered unnaturally.

“Santa Anna is my cousin by my marriage,” she murmured, “and a friend. Of course he wrote me letters . . . but there was no reason to keep them; they were ordinary letters, I threw them away as soon as I read them. Why would you want them?

“Was Santa Anna your lover? Is he still?”

“Do you mean - lover, or .. . . what do you mean?”

“You know what I mean, no woman is that innocent; although I admit you put on a damn good act. Did you ever sleep with him? Did he ever touch you here . . .” He laid a hand directly and unconscionably on her breast.

She cried out, the heat from his hand searing her through the thin muslin. She squirmed against the pressure, unable to do more with her hands tired above her; only to find that the friction of her movements made the sensitivity even worse.

“Did he touch you here?” Malone persisted.

“No! Stop!”

“How about here?” His hand switched to her other breast.

“No! Dios, stop . . .”

Why was he doing this? Had he gone mad? Now, his mouth grazed hers, the touch feather-light. She turned her head to escape, blinking back tears of humiliation.

“Did he, Señora?”

“No, no - do you want to hear it again? No! Santa Anna was never my lover!”

“Where are his letters?” His lips sought her once more, and the kiss this time was harder. His beard scraped her, his tongue went probing, in a way that took her breath until he stopped. His hands cradled her face, holding it still. “The letters, Christina?”

“I don’t have them! You’ve looked, haven’t you? They’re gone, destroyed . . .”

“Destroyed?”

He raised up. His hands left her as well. When she looked at him, in defiance and confusion and outraged dignity, his expression was cold.

“You destroyed the letters.”

“I threw them away, yes. Now go! Or I’ll have you hunted and caught before you can leave Mexico!”

“I’m sure that’s what you intend anyway.” Why was he staring at her like that - angrily, as though she were the contemptible one? His jaw was set with a kind of bitterness she couldn’t begin to understand. His attitude was now judgmental, condemning of her! When he -

“One day, Patrona,” he said softly, sarcastically, “I hope you realize what a dangerous fool Santa Anna really is. A killing fool. But then, maybe you don’t want to know, and wouldn’t care if you did. I’ve known plenty of women like you before - only concerned with collecting ‘friends’ in high places. Although, if I were you, I wouldn’t count on Santa Anna remaining in power for long. America is going to win the war with Mexico, and Santa Anna’s going to be out of a job - if he isn’t dead.”

He leaned against the bedpost for an instant.

“Goodbye, Señora. And thanks for the hospitality.”

He walked to the door, opened it, and left the room.

Oddly, Christina didn’t even think to cry out for help until it was far too late to attempt any pursuit, and Jim Malone was long-gone.

He had, she discovered later, taken the maid Dorotea with him. What he left behind remained intangible, but disturbing just the same.

For the last mile, torchlight brightened the roadway. For ten miles, in four directions, soldiers patrolled the area, scaring away robbers and providing honor guards to the most distinguished travelers. Peasants lined the road in the early evening, gaping at the variety and splendor of the vehicles, while the local Indians sold food and pulque.

They were all coming. The influential; the schemers; and the curious . . . all were en route to pay homage to the man of the moment, actually the man of many moments. Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna - the Savior of the State, once and future President; a man alternately admired and vilified, around whom controversy swirled with all the vigor he could place into the stirring. A man who seemed to typify, all at once, both the glory and the vainglory of Mexico.

Most of the guests were invited, but some were not. They came from Mexico City, Vera Cruz and Puebla, from haciendas four days distant. As all Mexico seethed with anxiety over the war and how to wage it, as the government raged ineffectually over money and the lack of it, as the generals argued amongst themselves, and the soldiers wondered how ammunition and supplies were going to appear so they could fight at all . . . somehow, hope had to rest with Santa Anna. Everyone felt that he alone could manage to straighten things out. He had done it before - - he would do it again. Viva Santa Anna! He would drive the invaders off Mexican soil!

Gracious El Encero, Santa Anna’s favorite abode, shone with a white-washed lustre that reflected its master’s own. Christina observed the house from several yards away through the window of the carriage, during the slow queue up the drive to the front of the house.

Don Ignacio del Rivera, the Condé de Castillo, sat across from her, not bothering to - as he put it caustically - “gape at the show.”

The Condé was not fond of Santa Anna, his own relation. He had always considered him vulgar.

Yet Christina was cautiously excited at the prospect of seeing him again and basking in his charisma, which would wear on her soon but which now, after two years of deliberate seclusion from any frivolous diversion, seemed refreshing. As did the party itself, with its distinguished crush of guests. She refused to allow Don Ignacio’s disgruntled temper to spoil her enjoyment.

She wasn’t aware the Condé was making a study of her until she turned from the window and caught him at it.

She smiled, and reached across to take the dignified old grandee’s hand. “I am prepared for all this, really. It is time.”

Don Ignacio’s gruffness did not conceal his concern.

“It is time for a great many things, my daughter. Not the least of which is finding you another husband. This incident with the Yanqui has only convinced me even more. Since you refuse to live in my house, you must have another man.”

Christina removed her hand and made a face.

“I don’t want to marry. I only want to go out in society again.”

“I certainly don’t blame you for not wishing to remarry, after having endured the immature caprices of my son for three years. I certainly did you a disservice in arranging your removal from Spain to marry him, didn’t I?” His slight smile was full of regretful irony. “Felipé was never enough of a man nor a master, not for you. And that was not the least of his many faults. However, this time I have a gentleman in mind for you who will look after you as you deserve.”

“I don’t need looking after! You know that my estate is in good condition.”

“Of course it is, my dear. You are an excellent Patrona. Yet war is coming, no matter how foolish it all is, and you need a younger man than I to protect you and defend your property. You need Luis Arredondo.”

“Luis?” She laughed. “Luis will never remarry, either.”

“Oh yes, he will. And it is you he wants. He wrote to me, Christina. He asked for my blessing.”

“I can’t believe it! You misunderstood him.”

“No, I did not.”

Just then the carriage jolted to a stop. They had reached the house; it was time to alight.

The Condé caught Christina’s arm before she could move, his grip strong for a seventy-year-old man. “If Luis speaks to you tonight, do not refuse him immediately.”

“Very well. But he won’t.”

*

The grounds and the interior of El Encero were decorated on a military theme, and as Christina and the Condé ascended the small flight of stairs that led up to the gallery and into the entrance hall, they passed several banners proclaiming victory and a host of servants disguised as soldiers. Santa Anna had evidently spared no expense on this party; the music of an orchestra wafted in from somewhere and vied with the nosier sounds of a roving mariachi band, while all of the rooms that led off of the large foyer were brightly lit, and crowded with card tables, refreshments and huge bouquets of flowers. An inordinate amount of weaponry, however, adorned the walls, speaking reminders of Santa Anna’s present occupation.

Christina and Don Ignacio were separated by the tide of people rushing to greet them. The Condé’s cronies and a few sycophants herded him into one of the card rooms, while Christina was carried by a voluble wave into the ballroom. Unused to crowds, and to being casually touched, she found herself overwhelmed by the fascinated attention she was receiving. She had forgotten what a social success she had been before, due more to her noble Spanish ancestry than to her marriage into a leading Mexican hidalgo family.

The Mexican upper class had apparently either not known, at the time of her marriage, of the profound disgrace her father the Marquès had thrown his relations, or they did not care; since her bloodlines, disgraced or not, could be traced to royalty. Snobbery was rampant in this formerly colonial country. The Condé had his son . . . now, Mexican society was more than happy to welcome the widowed Christina de Sainz - formerly the Señora! Por Dios, it is the Señora de Sainz!”