Stronger Than Passion (17 page)

He looked at her bottom lip, full and slightly wet from where she had bitten it. “If you say one sentence out of character tonight or make a single effort to discredit me - I will come to your room after the party, strip you naked and ravage your body. You have my promise.”

He would have laughed at her expression had the idea of doing exactly that not gripped him powerfully. The waltz was coming to an end; couples were strolling off the floor, but he stood still, holding her shoulders. His eyes were narrowed and intense. “You never answered me when I asked before, Chrissie. How long has it been for you? How long since you’ve been with a man?”

She stared at him in tense fury.

“Take me to your aunt.”

“Has it really been years?” He forced his tone to gentleness, when exasperation was what he really felt. “You don’t have to be alone anymore. You can do anything you want, Chrissie, whatever you feel is right . . . there’s no reason not to. Don’t ignore your body, Chrissie. Listen to what it wants.”

He made no move to put his hands anywhere else, afraid she might bolt. But he knew his impromptu attempt at seduction would never work here. A country dance was about to begin; couples were surrounding them, staring and whispering. H e could see she was conscious of the talk.

She twisted from beneath his grip, turned and hurried away, not looking back. He watched her disappear into the crowd.

He wished, for the second time that night, that he were indeed in Mexico, carrying a gun, and shooting it.

*

These Americans were quite gullible after all, the man thought in complacent contempt as he moved through the press of people. An arrogant attitude, a foreign language and impeccably cut clothes provided entré to anywhere in the country. Even an exclusive ball in the nation’s Capitol.

Of course, he amended modestly, it is a fête for foreign ambassadors. And that had been the stroke of luck he’d needed to enable his entry under pretext of having lost his companions whom, alas, held his invitation. The footmen had simply waved him inside - one more Frenchman who spoke incredibly little English.

He procured a glass of champagne, and roved the crowd. An eagle seeking his prey. A dangerous wolf on the prowl. He was among the enemy now; and what a panic there would be amongst these well-dressed people if they knew there was a member of Santa Anna’s own personal staff in their midst!

He was dreaming of mayhem when his searching eyes saw her. Madré de Dios, what a vision she was! Dressed in shades of gold, from the richest bronze to the most dazzling tint of a precious coin, and wearing a gown that molded to her shape better than any he had ever seen her wear. Her expression, as she spoke to a polite lady in pink, was distracted and aloof, as benefited one whose breeding was so far elevated over any else’s in the room. She held herself like a queen, his queen, for surely now his possession of the Señora was ordained and meant to be!

But how to approach her, so that her look of startled delight would not give him away? How to separate her from the crowd and reveal himself to her alone? He pondered the problem as he stared, willing her attention.

Just then, her glance flicked his way, and fixed on his face. He knew a moment of swelling happiness as her bright, greenish gaze searched his mien . . . and she recognized him! He was positive of it! Her eyes widened, her lips parted in shock, her skin paled.

But now was not the time. Colonel Angel Manzanal had not traveled this long distance from Mexico only to be caught before a single rescue attempt had even been made. He had seen her; she had seen him; it was enough. Her desperate fear must now be suitably calmed. They both must wait for a more propitious time to reunite.

He nodded his head once, sharply, conspiratorially; then moved off, the pleasant smile on his face prompting smiles in return from the guests he passed on his way to the door.

Christiana awoke the next morning with a headache that reminded her of the large amount of champagne she had consumed the night before, and of the many unpleasant encounters she had had; all of which she would have loved to have forgotten. But it seemed that this headache was here to stay, increased, no doubt, by the ugly memories that came to her as she lay helpless in bed.

She rubbed her sore temples, trying to push both the pain and her thoughts away.

They kept coming at her anyway. Images of the ball, the prying people she had met, all of them wanting news of her and Lord Brett. Asking questions that were too contrived to be natural, too curious to be polite. Inquiring into her background . . . regaling her with items of gossip which simply couldn’t be true. Hypocrites! Every one of them, from catty Elizabeth Scott-Gould up to President Polk himself, with his so-kind solicitude! Even he could never have meant his low comments about his hopes for peace with Mexico, his simpering wishes that the war would end in truce. This man was her country’s chief enemy; he could never be so nice!

But the biggest hypocrite of them all was Michael Brett. She closed her eyes, remembering the odd combination of arrogance and tenderness he had treated her to; gentling her, as he might a horse, or a whore. How he must have feared her behavior last night! He had put on quite a concerned act, pretending kindness and interest, blue eyes warm and sensual as he distracted her with lies and nonsense. Thank God she had seen through him. Or, rather, thank God her fear had scared her away from him for the remainder of the evening. She rang for a maid to bring her food, something she rarely did; preferring, usually, to go downstairs for breakfast. Today, no force under heaven could have induced her to rise without sustenance or assistance.

Then came a sharp knock at her door which she had no chance to answer because it was almost immediately opened. Instead of Penny’s homely, freckled face, as expected, another appeared of a different type. One guaranteed to increase the pounding in her head. The last face she expected or wanted to see.

He was dressed for riding in heavy breeches and boots, and which thumped as he crossed the floor to stand by her bed.

His raised eyebrow took in her fists, clenched on the sheet she had jerked up to her chin.

“Planning to sleep all day, are we?” His voice was pleasant and cool.

“Get out of here!” She kept her tone low, knowing that Antoinette and Elizabeth were probably still in their rooms on this floor.

He grinned at her, blue-gray eyes brightening in intensity as they stared down at her loose, wildly tossed hair and sleep-gentled face. “Charming, Chrissie. Perfectly charming. What do you do to your covers at night - pitch them around the room?”

Only the sheet and one pillow remained on the bed. The heavy spread, the blanket and two more pillows all had somehow ended up on the floor. But that was none of his concern, certainly!

“What do you want?” she demanded, feeling ridiculous beneath his deepening scrutiny. Dios, if only her head didn’t ache so! She would love to tell him off and run him out of the room. Unfortunately, the slightest movement sent such streaks of agony rushing to her brain that no decisive action could be taken. At least until she had some chocolate, or coffee! If only he wasn’t real, but a nightmare she had dreamed up . . .

He propped one foot on the bed frame and folded his arms.

“Good morning, Chrissie,” he said deliberately.

She closed her eyes, willing him away. “You shouldn’t be in here and you know it.”

“Good morning.”

He was obviously waiting for her reply. Frowning in annoyance, she muttered, “Good morning.”

“How did you sleep?”

“Like the devil! What do you want, Michael?” She stared at him mutinously.

He shook his head. “So hospitable! At such an early hour! One can only assume last night’s champagne is responsible for your uncivil manners.”

She sighed, deciding to keep quiet and let him run on.

“Of course, drinking out of nervousness and fear is perfectly understandable. If only one didn’t feel the effects the next day . . . .”

“I have never been nervous a day in my life, and as for afraid . . . .”

“You avoided me last night, love. And, at first, we were getting on so well . . .”

He would have to bring that up. It was probably his purpose in barging in. But she didn’t want to remember anything more. She refused to!

She nearly bared her teeth. “You got on just as well with Elizabeth, and two or three others. I found your attentions obnoxious and rude.”

“Liar.” He said it quietly and calmly, looking down at her with eyes that seemed to see through her. She glanced away, feeling frustrated tears prick her lids. Why wouldn’t her headache go away! Why wouldn’t he?

“ I came in here to tell you to get dressed. “We’re going for a drive.”

Her head whipped from one side to the other on her pillow, the pain nearly killing her. “Oh, God,” she whispered, glaring at him through bloodshot eyes. “My head, Michael - it can’t go anywhere! Please leave me alone.”

“You have one hour to get ready. I’ll send your maid in - she’s waiting in the hall; I’m sure she’ll know what to do to make you feel better. Something tells me she’s had her own share of ‘headaches’ before.” He stalked to the door looking back at her with an evil grin. “One hour, Señora. That’s plenty of time for you to change clothes and brush your hair. Then meet me in the hall, downstairs. I’ll ask Cook to pack us a lunch - with wine, if you wish!” At her tight mouth, he laughed and walked out, leaving her speechless.

But he was correct about Penny. Without batting an eyelash she took charge of Christina, bringing her medicine and a stomach-settling drink, followed by dry toast and coffee. Next she ordered her mistress to lay back with a damp rag across her forehead and eyes for a full fifteen minutes. After that time, Christina was able to get up and bathe. And within the required hour she was dressed and making her way downstairs - encountering no one except blank-faced Hager, for which she was grateful.

Michael emerged from the library with a crooked smile and mocking eyes.

Her expression dared him to make a comment; but he only looked her up and down, taking in the rich green habit and her simple arranged dark hair without a word. However, as he helped her down the front porch steps to his open phaeton, he murmured that he’d always known she’d thank him one day for acquiring Penny, who was obviously an extraordinary human being and an exemplary lady’s maid.

She refrained from making any reply and climbed into the phaeton without his assistance.

Taking in her pale, stubborn profile, he seated himself beside her and flicked the reins.

He drove her all through Georgetown with its evenly planned streets and brick homes, and into Washington and through parks rendered beautiful with turning autumn leaves. She saw the Capitol building, busy with the convoys of carriages and men on horseback of all types, several of whom nodded to Brett as they passed and glanced at Christina with undisguised curiosity. Brett made no move to avoid these people; in fact, he appeared to be showing her off. It seemed he drove them as near as possible to any other carriage on the road, enabling its occupants to get a good, close look at her. Finally she asked him what he was up to, and was scarcely surprised by his immediate answer.

“I’m killing any rumors, love. At least any accurate rumors! He glanced down at her, as though waiting to gauge her reaction. “The President pointed out to me that we should be seen together more. Apparently, word has reached him through official channels that the Mexican government is investigating your disappearance, and has requested knowledge of your whereabouts from him. Naturally this request puts Polk in a ridiculous situation. He is a man who does not like scandal, particularly during an unpopular war which he is waging. He doesn’t want any hint of your real predicament to get out. Therefore -we are instructed to act more like an affianced couple.”

Christiana stared at him, unsure what was more absurd - the President’s order, Michael Brett’s unconcerned acceptance of it, or either man’s assumption that she would go along with their disposal of her life without even putting up a fight! Madré de Dios, Santa Anna was looking for her even now - and he must have some knowledge of the details of her abduction, or he wouldn’t be seeking information from Washington.

“What will the President write to Santa Ana about me?”

He turned the horses down a wooded avenue, strewn with blazing yellow and orange leaves. “He probably won’t write anything. You’re going to be ignored, Christina.”

Her anger at his matter-of-fact words was tempered by logic. Santa Anna would never accept that. If he had reason to suspect she was in enemy hands, his pride alone would let him stop at nothing until she were free. She was a distant member of the man’s family, por Dios! He would do something to bring her home . . .

Suddenly, she remembered the slender Frenchman last night at the ball. He had looked like Angel Manzanal, last seen at Santa Anna’s fatal reception. She had assumed it wasn’t he; this man wore a French uniform, after all, as well as a mustache . . . but what if it was Manzanal? In disguise?

Her heart was already over-excited; now it raced, bringing heat to her body and color to her face. She shifted in her seat, wishing she was alone so she could think. But Michael was observing her out of the corner of his eye. Probably hoping she would do something dramatic, like jump out - the man seemed to enjoy pushing her temper over the edge!