Stronger Than Passion (50 page)

With preparation and surprise on his side, he could have easily taken two or three, maybe even four hired bodyguards - but seven? Seven ex-brigands, by the look of them, hard and scarred and vicious and all waiting - for him. Apparently, Arredondo had been expecting him, and was taking no chances on his getting near him. Or getting away, once he had burst inside the casa at a rear hallway entrance, body and mind both primed for any encounter . . . except one with seven evilly grinning men, each brandishing pistoleros and muskets, who had either watched him approach the house and all gathered together in time, or who had guessed very well where he would come in.

When he was divested of his weapons and struck in the head by one of the musket butts - to make him “cooperative” - he fell meekly and allowed himself to be drug of, hoping that the play of semi-conscious weakness would help him in some way. He knew there was nothing much else that could. He was a fool, that was certain, for assuming that Arredondo would never think of him while the American army was banging on Mexico City’s door. Or - for considering so arrogantly that even if the man did, he would do no more than arm himself and a servant or two for protection. Apparently the example of Arredondo’s well-laid trap over the silver, the trap that had killed Julian, had made no impression at all on Brett’s own preoccupied and idiotic brain.

He scarcely had time to consider his absurd situation before he was dropped into the thick pile of a woven wool carpet. Over his head, one of the Mexicans was calling for Señor the Marquès. Another one kicked him in the side, the blow sharp and painful enough to wring a groan out of him almost as loud as the one he unhesitatingly gave. The man laughed, and kicked him again, calling him a filthy Yanqui dog.

Then Arredondo was in the room, the soft sound of his expensively-soled footsteps on the carpet and the smell of his distinctive cologne making his presence obvious to Michael even before he spoke.

“Thank you, Ramirez, for doing an admirable job of apprehending this Americano intruder. Your men appear to have had no trouble in subduing him at all.”

“Of course not, Señor. This man is a Gringo - as weak and stupid as any of his kind!” Ramirez of the hoarse voice chuckled.

“More stupid than most, I am afraid.” Arredondo came closer, until he stood directly above Michael’s acquiescent prostrate form. “This one escaped my killing him once before, and here he is now - back so conveniently for me to finish him off! I wonder why he has come? Surely not simply to be killed.” He prodded Michael’s hip with the toe of one shoe. Then his ironic voice continued, now addressed to Michael. “Are you conscious, Señor Brett? I should like to speak to you before I have you shot as a looter.”

Michael moaned in the pretending pain of awakening. His hands twitched spasmodically, fingers clasping in well-simulated agony. The man standing above him, though he did not know it was smiling.

“Perhaps I should send for my fiancée,” Arredondo said. “No doubt her immediate presence would rouse you a trifle more quickly. As I recall, you seem to have been fond of her in the past - and she of you. Perhaps you would care to say goodbye?”

Michael’s voice came, tiredly and weekly, from the floor, “I don’t want to see Christina. It was you I came after.”

“Good.” There seemed to be satisfaction
in Arredondo’s tone. “It is pleasing to know that you hold out no hopes for the Señora’s regard, since she most certainly feels nothing whatsoever for you. I have kept her far too occupied, lately, for nostalgia of any sort; she has likely not thought of you in months! I should so hate for you to be disappointed by her indifference.” The mock sympathy in his voice dropped away. “But I shall be happy to tell her of your utterly contemptuous death - shot as a looter - once we are married, in a few days’ time. I am sure she will manage to grieve for you at least as deeply as she did for that thief of a guerilla captain you introduced her to, your cousin, Torrance; whom I am very glad, incidentally, to have been fortunate enough to kill!”

Arredondo then called impatiently to his men. “Get him up from there - he’s bleeding on my carpet!”

But before the men who reached down for him could touch him, Michael sprang up - taking the two mercenaries off-balance. Then he whirled, sprinting for the window that he thought was somewhere off to his right, behind him.

He never made it. Capitan Ramirez, veteran of a dozen such surprises from presumably hurt men before, recovered his wits and dove. He caught Michael around the waist, both of them crashing to the floor, knocking over a table complete with a vase and a lamp; both of which fell to crash loudly against the window and drop down in splinters.

Following Ramirez, the four other men (two had stationed themselves out of the room as front and rear guards) fell on Michael. They were not gentle in their ministrations.

Arredondo, watching in vicious encouragement, allowed his hired dogs to pummel Brett into a state of real - and unfeigned - misery. In fact, he would have gladly permitted the men to beat Brett to death, if not for his own sense of prudence and intelligence. He intended to claim, if ever the American authorities came asking, that Brett had been summarily shot while caught in his house in the act of looting; a forbidden crime, he knew perfectly well, to the foolish Americans. Therefore, Brett must die by gunshot, not fist.

After he had gained all the pleasure that he would allow himself from observing the beating, he called the men sharply to order. They drug Brett to his feet, slumped over between them.

Arredondo ran a critical eye over his prisoner, narrowed in complacency over the appreciative number of cuts and lumps that adorned Brett’s face and head. As far as Brett’s body went, no doubt Ramirez and his fellows had broken a rib or two in their enthusiasm, and had probably punched him in the groin, as well. That much, at least, was well-served justice . . . and now for the rest. Where should Brett be shot? Perhaps back in the hallway, where he had first broken in . . .

But before he could reach a decision, a voice cried out behind him. A feminine voice - Christina’s, gasping in quiet shock. And Luis wondered in swift aggravation how he could have forgotten to place a guard at her door. Her knowledge of this and her interference were the last things he desired right now . . .

*

Christina and Penny, along with Dorotea, her duenna, Maria Juana, and four other female servants, had been sequestered upstairs in a windowless interior parlor. They all knew that the Americans and their own solados were fighting close by; they knew that danger lay outside, in the streets. But due to Luis’s - and Christina’s - reassurance, none of them supposed that their privacy would be invaded at all. Luis’s important civilian status, and the general American order against looting, would protect them from real harm. They need only fear a stray artillery shell falling on the roof, or a ricocheting bullet, by way of coming to any actual grief. That, and their own consuming and unfulfilled curiosity.

The women had kept each other’s company since early in the morning, when rumors had surfaced of the Yanquis’ probable assault near their own casa. Luis had ordered them all into the protected room, with instructions to remain there until the fighting ceased for the night. Each of the women found comfort in the security of huddling together, while Luis and his now-welcomed mercenaries guarded the house, and kept them safe. Each of them except Christina.

She found it difficult to be passive. Each distant gunshot, each boom of artillery, fired in her imagination with the resonance of death. She knew what injury and death were like! She had even caused them. She knew what sort of unbearable suffering was occurring so close by . . . within her sight, if she were to venture outdoors. None of these other waiting women, with the exception of Penny, had any idea at all. Their inconsequential conversation and silly occasional bursts of quarreling were about as trying as her own fevered thoughts.

She paced the confines of the room with as much controlled grace as possible. How could these others sit so idly by, sewing and eating and dozing, when men were dying within a mile’s distance? When Michael Brett was out there in the midst of it all, in as much or more danger than any of them, and she couldn’t stop worrying about him . . . couldn’t get the thought of him out of her head?

She caught Penny’s eyes, cautioning her, warning her that she was betraying more nervousness than any of them when she should act the most serene. She glared her defiance right back, almost beyond caring, nearly on the verge of leaving his room and these ignorant females and getting out of here, out of this house, where she did not belong! How could she have existed, these last weeks, so inertly. So apathetically. Why hadn’t she ignored her illness and her weakness and left here long before this? Why hadn’t she at least attempted to speak to John Locklyn, and discover if Michael were to be involved at all in this final battle . . . and in what position he would operate?

When the crashes came from downstairs, all of her frustrations coalesced into the certainty that now she would take action, now she would know. Something was occurring that she must be a part of. She moved out of the room, not even hearing the exclamations of the others; ears focused on what could be heard below, nerves reverting to the numbness of the times in Texas when her own self-sufficiency would make every difference to her life. Where was Julian now, who would be so proud of her steadiness - who would demand that she walk on, down the stairs, fingering the small knife that she had so deceptively concealed from everyone? And what would he have her do next?

But then she forgot about Julian when she reached the bottom of the stairs and the main foyer, and heard with appalling clarity what was going on in the sala. And knew instinctively and inevitably that it had nothing to do with the war in any general, ordinary way There was a fight going on in Luis’s sala; and it was a personal one . . . concerning revenge.

Even though she was not, in any subconscious way, surprised to find Michael in there, bloody and hurt but silent - too silent - as he hung between the angry men no doubt hired for the purpose of capturing him, still she found it impossible not to choke back her audible shock. And then every eye was fixed on her.

Luis turned to meet her, the strange mark of interrupted anticipation on his flushed face smoothing out instantly into something more cool and severe.

“Look, my dear, who has come to call,” he said to her as formally and naturally as if she had been expected. “One of our Yanqui invaders! And it happens to be Michael Brett, the sometimes Lord Brett. You do remember him, I’m sure.”

She came forward several steps, and her gaze went to Michael, locking into his raised blue-gray eyes as though into another place entirely. “He’s hurt, Luis - release him, now.”

“How compelling your tone is! One might almost assume that you feel some sort of compassion for him.”

“I do, and you know it. You’ve always known it. Is that why you wish him to suffer?” She turned her brilliantly green stare on Arredondo, the rest of her face white and set in lines of strained contempt.

“I not only wish him to suffer, I intend to make him suffer. And then I intend for him to die.”

His voice was implacable. Christina knew that he meant it. And he was reveling in his power over Michael - it was in his eager bearing, his warm skin, his glittering dark eyes. This was a different Luis from any she had ever known, and she sensed that this was the real man.

“I forbid it, Luis! If you have any consideration or affection left for me at all, you will let him go.”

“My dear, I have the greatest affection for you, still. Despite what I know about your sluttish ways with this despicable person. I still desire you for my wife. But I have promised myself to kill this man, and you will not interfere.”

“No!” Her voice remained controlled, but a tinge of desperation crept in anyway. “There are Yanquis everywhere now, Luis. Can’t you hear them outside, in the street? You would be a fool to kill him! When they find out . . .”

“I will throw his body out into the street to be stepped on by his own compatriots. What do I care? I am a powerful citizen of this town, they will not disturb me; besides, this man forced his way into my house for the purpose of looting it. His own superiors would hang him for that crime if I did not do the favor of shooting him instead. You must retire upstairs, my dear, and leave him to me.”

“No.”

Luis jerked his chin once in her direction, the gesture intended for Ramirez, who left Michael’s side to come and grasp her arm. “Escort the Señora upstairs.”

“I will not go, Luis!”

Michael spoke then, his voice hoarse from a blow to his windpipe. “I appreciate the support, Chrissie, but it isn’t necessary. Your fiancé’s got his mind made up.
You won’t change it. Leave the room, now. I’d rather you didn’t watch . . .”

Blood dribbled from a cut over his eye, marking a trail down his chin. His tunic was ripped and so was the shirt beneath it, and there were bloody scratches on his chest, as well. But if he was in pain he managed now not to show it. He straightened, until he leaned back against the wall, the man on either side of him tightening their grip on his arms. His stoic attitude only strengthened Christina’s resolve to do something, anything, before it was too late . . . She faced Luis with a new, conciliatory ploy. “I’ll marry you tomorrow, Luis, if you let him walk out of here. On my word of honor. You can have me and my silver mine, to do with as you please. But if he dies, you’ll never have either of us.