Stronger Than Passion (21 page)

Manzanal went on to tell her that she needn’t pack a thing; it was too risky. He dwelled on the danger to her, not realizing that she was scarcely even a prisoner anymore. He would provide a respectable amount of luggage; she had merely to dress in her riding costume at dawn, tomorrow morning and on the days following, until he appeared in the yard outside her window. She would then walk downstairs and outside, claiming an appointment to go riding should she meet anyone. She would head toward the stable but continue on behind it, where he would be waiting with two swift horses. They would then ride to the boat that would begin their journey immediately. If she were unable for some reason to carry out the plan, she had merely to light a candle and place it on the windowsill in full view. He would see it and make other arrangements.

The sheer simplicity of the escape pleased Christina. She had half expected that Manzanal would attempt something dramatic - such as snatching her from a carriage, or storming the house, sword in hand. That type of gesture had his romantic stamp on it. But this - merely walking away - this was beautiful, and would be a particularly ironic joke on Michael Brett, too. How he deserved it!

She smiled, which delighted Manzanal so much he reached for her hand again. She allowed him to kiss it. This prompted another series of overwhelming compliments to her beauty, courage and magnamity which came to an abrupt halt when they both heard the distant shutting of a door and rapid footsteps. Christina and the Colonel stared at each other in instant dismay - then Christina pushed Manzanal toward the open rear door of the gazebo. “Go, and hurry,” she hissed at him in Spanish, which they had been speaking since they entered the octagonal structure. He looked at her, clearly torn between wishing to protect her and the necessary secrecy that required him to hide. She shoved him again, growing desperate and angry. “Leave me!” she whispered, and this time he went. He disappeared out the back of the summerhouse just before a tall, wide-shouldered man stepped in the front. A man dressed in dark, evening clothes that blended evilly with the night. A man who said her name, said it with a softness that was as deceiving as his shadowed, expressionless face.

“Chrissie. What are you doing out here?”

She stepped back, bracing against the wall as noisily as she could to cover any sounds of Manzanal’s escape. “I needed air.
It’s too hot inside.”

He moved closer, blocking out the faint moonlight so she could no longer see his face at all. But she had the impression he could see hers - see it and read it for truth of the lies she spoke.

“You’ve been gone quite a while. Were you alone all this time?” How casual he sounded, how uncaring. But she knew better. She hated that even tone of voice, because it was always the opposite of how he felt. He was furious; and the only reason she could think of to cause his anger must be that he had seen and recognized Manzanal, despite the Colonel’s boast that Brett had never looked him full in the face. Somehow Michael must have spotted him. But possibly just possibly, she could convince Michael that Manzanal really was the amorous Frenchman he made himself out to be. She must try, at any rate. She had nothing to lose, except maybe his belief in her virtue.

“Is it your business if I went for a walk?” She made her voice as cool and insouciant as she could when her entire body was shaking.

“It just might be. We’re supposed to be nearly engaged, after all. You were seen, sweetheart, sneaking away with a man who was definitely not me.”

“I didn’t sneak. I slipped outside, where it was cool, and it happened that Pierre - I mean the Chevalier followed me. No harm was done . . . ”

“Señora, you amaze me.” From the taut sound of his voice he had clenched his teeth. “You allowed a complete stranger to escort you alone on a walk in a dark garden? Why in hell didn’t you send him away, or come back inside immediately? And how did you end up in here? What in Christ’s name were you doing with him, Chrissie?” His voice grew harsh with disbelief and, in some indefinable way, raw disappointment. He stood only a foot away from her, but didn’t touch her, not yet. He waited for her next words.

She was thinking, her mind both accepting and rejecting that it was jealousy or a possessiveness like jealousy that had brought him out here, and not any recognition of Manzanal. The idea staggered her, threw her brain off center so that it could scarcely function.

“I wasn’t dong anything with him. We were talking . . .”

“In the dark? In this cold, isolated building? What happened to your sense of propriety, Señora, your love of honor? You’ve forgotten yourself. Or was his persuasion a little stronger than mine?” His hands were warm to her icy shoulders, but his grip was cruel. There was an equal amount of strength and anger in his fingers as they tightened, bruising her, scaring her. Long shudders rippled her skin. He felt them or sensed them, because he said, “This is no time to feel the cold querida. You should be used to it by now. Or did he manage to keep you warm?”

His words were hateful and sarcastic, and she wanted to refute them, to throw them back into his sneering face; how dare he accuse her of dalliance! But she couldn’t; she knew it and hated it. She had to be sure he wasn’t just testing her, trying in some diabolical way to make her admit to Colonel Manzanal. It would be just like him to use her own pride against her in order to trick her. She must stick to her original story, even if the sordidness of it made her ill with shame and disgust.

“Whatever I do is none of your business. Let go of me!”

“Did you say that to him, too, sweetheart? I doubt it. Where did he go in such a hurry? Why did he run away and leave you alone out here?”

“He didn’t run away. We thought it best if we returned to the ballroom separately. Suspicious minds - ”

“Damn you to hell, Christina de Sainz.” He jerked her to him and his mouth on hers was rough and hurting. She pushed against him, frightened because there was no feeling for her in his kiss . . . only anger and something ugly, that she had never sensed in him before, ever.

“Michael,” she said his name as a kind of plea.

“No talking. I’ve heard enough empty lies from you to last a lifetime.” He raised his head in the darkness and stared down into her face, eyes scaring her even though she could barely see them. “You really had me fooled, with your virgin airs and your damned pretended holiness - ”

Oh, God, there must be a way out of this without endangering Manzanal and her one chance at freedom, there must -

But he took her arm, pulling her against him and moved out of the gazebo and onto the grass. The air was freezing; but she barely felt it now. They headed around the house, toward the front yard and the street, where all the carriages were lined up and waiting for occupants which might be hours in coming. She tried to stop, to jerk away, but his voice in her ear halted her resistance.

“We’re going home, querida. And if you fight me or speak one more word, so help me Christ I’ll slap you silly, right here in front of the servants and everybody else who’d care to look. In fact, I’d like to do it. So just try me.”

She believed him, she’d no reason to test his temper. Still, her mind worked to drum up some excuse that would pacify him, some reasonable explanation for her behavior that would appease his indefinable rage without giving away her secret.

Meanwhile, he was called for their carriage, and pushed her inside; seated himself across from her, proceeded to stare at her as though she were some fascinating but loathsome discovery he had only recently made.

They didn’t speak during the short ride home. Then he took her by the hand, not acknowledging the coldness of her skin or the look of desperation in her eyes. He swept her out of the carriage and into the town home’s empty foyer and up the stairway. He didn’t pause before her door but continued on to his. He thrust her inside the large, dim room, and turned to twist the key in the lock, which he pocketed. Then he faced her.

“No more games, Chrissie,” he said softly, his shadowed expression hard and grim. “I know you have plenty of reason to hate me. If I were in your situation, I’d hate me, too. But I won’t let you turn to another man.” He came forward then, but she refused to back away. She stood still, arms hugging herself in the chilly room, until he stood before her and she saw the harsh glitter of his pale eyes. It unnerved her that they were alone in this heathy quiet room, and he was only a foot away, and she knew he was determined now . . . she was frightened, but she was tingling, too, in a series of chills that rippled through flesh that was growing warmer.

“I’ve waited too long, you see. Ever since I was laid up in bed in your house, and you came to visit me, so beautiful in your patronizing way . . . so desirable, despite your well-bred sneers for a lovely gringo. I wanted you then, God knows I did. I wanted to touch your face, like this - ” he suited action to words, and even though his voice was low and husky and mocking, his fingers were deft and easy on her skin. “And I wanted to take down all that hair you manage to keep pinned up. Just like this.” His hands moved to release the tight pins, and gradually her hair fell down to her waist. He combed through it for a few seconds, while she continued to stand as if turned to stone. “And mainly I wanted to take off whatever it was you had on then, and I have every time I saw you since. I wanted - I want - to know your body, Chrissie, as well as you now it yourself. Better, even. I want that knowledge . . .” He reached around her for the hooks and buttons that fastened her gown. He found them, one by one, and undid them. Until the dress dropped to the carpeted floor. She stood in her batiste undergarments, shaking but strangely and terribly acquiescent, as he found the ties that held up her petticoat and bound up her corset. In a matter of seconds they too fell away, and everything else and she knew the odd sensation of standing nude in her heeled dancing slippers. He left her then, to cross the room and light a lamp. In its glow, his eyes narrowed on her with a fixed intensity, but his mouth twisted with mockery and black irony.

“Try not to look so horrified, love. It almost spoils the effect.”

Whatever spell he had put on her was broken by his perverse words. She stepped out of her shoes, kicked off the limp silk stockings, and moved toward the door. It was locked.

He was laughing, and the sound made her skin prick. She turned; he advanced toward her, hands at the neck of his shirt, undoing his cravat. He untied it and tossed it away. He shrugged out of his black frock coat, his waistcoat . . . and he came closer, until he was close enough to touch her. His hand gripped her shoulder, so that his palm grazed the white swelling of her breast. He smiled.

“No running away, love. Not now, not anymore. Why don’t you give up your stupid game of pretending you’re a virgin and accept the fact that you’re an experienced woman, and that I’m going to make love to you, and find out just exactly what you do know? It can be fun. I’ll let you show me how smart you are. I’ll even call you Patrona . . .”

He was being sarcastic and mean, and his words hurt her worse than any pain she remembered feeling. Why he was capable of tearing at her so deeply with only a few contemptuous words was unknown to her at the time. She only understood that he both desired her and despised her, that he was trying to push her into fighting him so he could take her with force, and no tenderness . . . although she didn’t comprehend any of it, any of his motives, any of his wishes.

Her mind rebelled. She was escaping him tomorrow, or the day after; she was leaving him, thank God . . . there would be no more of this; no more wrenching fear, no more longing and no more loving, no more hating . . .

He swore, and she felt its imprint on her lips when he kissed her. How cruel such a gentle act could be! How odd to be crushed naked against a linen shirt with hard round buttons! How freakish to know that his hands were clasping her bare soft buttocks, pressing them so that her entire lower body molded to his trousers and noted the texture of the gabardine, so rough to her own silken skin. How incredibly strange, the strength of him, the demanding power that was all focused on her, straining to hold itself back, to keep from breaking her, to keep from rending her in two -

There were no words, he wouldn’t permit her to speak, and he didn’t say anything until he had her in the bed and he was naked, too, and his fingers found the wetness of her where she hadn’t known she would be wet. “That’s right, love, that’s good.” was all he said. But she barely heard him; she was concentrating on his touch, which was going deeper inside her, so deep that she had forgotten it was possible. Felipé had never done this, any of this. He had never kissed her breasts as though he were a suckling baby; he had never paid much attention at all to that frustrating, sensitive little area hidden beneath the courser hair between her thighs, that Michael seemed to find so easily. He had never caressed her in that way, so that the movement of questing fingers reached deep inside her, while at the same time grazing that surprising spot. He had never brought her to this precious, encompassing brink where she thought she might die - until being joined together to a man in a manner she had never imagined before, a way that hurt her and filled her and made her cry from the unbelievable pleasure of it. She lost all thought, of Felipé, of anyone or anything else. There was only Michael, who refused to grant her mercy, who wouldn’t leave her, even when it was over, but instead remained inside - until desire grew again, and it started again.

*

Christina lay asleep on her stomach, face half-buried in a pillow, while he stroked the bare length of her back and her buttocks and her legs and he realized he was finally sober. He had been for a long time, actually. Since he had first thrust inside her and the tightness had driven him half insane, destroying any lingering alcoholic twinges, sweeping his brain of everything but her. And the second time, when he had taken her a different way, startling her to begin with but pleasuring her anyhow, he had been only too clear-headed. So much for all his high-minded intentions over the past few days of staying away from her - of not getting any further involved. He was still leaving Washington in a few hours. She still didn’t know.