Stronger Than Passion (3 page)

“He is asleep, Juana,” she murmured to the other woman. “We will go.”

Perversely, his eyes opened wide, blinking in the light. He uttered a deliberate, hoarse moan.

“Sir,” the lady began in English, a faint, perhaps unwilling expression of concern crossing her admittedly interesting face, “I am the Señora de Sainz y Sequenza Cabra. You are on my estate. Please consider it yours for the remainder of your time with us. May I give you some water?”

Wanting her to wait on him, he nodded, hoping he seemed helpless enough.

But despite his efforts, the Señora wore a wary look as she filled a glass from a porcelain pitcher and bent to place it against his lips. He watched her as he drank, realizing his steady regard was making her uncomfortable, and hoping that discomfort might work to his advantage.

When he finished drinking and she removed the glass, she stood looking down on him, apparently expecting him to speak. When he remained deliberately silent, she spoke again, her softly-accented English articulate and clear.

My healing woman tells me that you should completely recover. The musket ball has been removed from your shoulder and has caused remarkably little damage. Your fever is down as well. You are a very lucky man, Señor.” She paused, her greenish-gold eyes wide with uncertainty, that upward-tilt paralleling the rising arch of her dark brows. Yes, he thought objectively, this was an interesting face. “Is there someone that you wish us to contact?” she continued. “Someone you wish me to write? Perhaps your family?”

“No, ma’am. That would be a waste of time.” He kept his tone low and exaggerated his Texas drawl in a slight, if prudent effort to disguise his real voice. There was no point in attempting to pretend he was not an American; she already suspected it and had locked him up anyway. “My name is Malone. Jim Malone. I was headed to Puebla on Business when I ran into a passel of banditos. They shot me, but I got away . . . and ended up here. Wherever this is, Señor.”

He smiled ingenuously, knowing what a sorry picture he must present, having remained deliberately unshaven when the little maid had offered to do it for him; but figuring that this lady,
apparently living alone from society - according to Dorotea’s gossip - might warm to him.

He was wrong. She froze, instead. The hesitancy left her face and it firmed, becoming a distant and unreachable aristocratic mask.

“You are on my estate, near Jalapa, in my hacienda. You are welcome here while you recover. However, I will tell you that your appearance - at this particular time - must be investigated. I am sure you will understand that, Mr. Malone, since you must be aware that Mexico is a country invaded, and all strangers now must be regarded with suspicion. I am surprised that you chose to travel in Mexico at all.”

His eyes narrowed. “My business was important, Señora. It still is. I hope this investigation you’re talking about won’t take very long. I heal fast. In fact, I’ll probably be on my feet in a day or two.”

It was obvious from the golden spark in her eyes she feared he would. “Then I regret to say that I must detain you. At least until the Condé de Castillo, whom I have summoned, arrives to interview you. He should be here in four days, at the most.”

“Why can’t you take my word for it that I am here on personal business, which has nothing to do with the United States or any war?”

“Because I am loyal to Mexico, Señor, and will not take the risk of informing no one that you are here! I could have sent word of you to my cousin, Don Santa Anna, who lives nearby and has just returned from Cuba; but he has many important things to do just now . . . and besides, he would likely throw you into prison until he found the time to question you. Would you prefer that?”

Her words were sharp and inarguable. He was in no position just now to put forth more effort to change her mind, which he doubted was possible anyway. Particularly in light of the new fact that Santa Anna was her cousin . . . and any bad-tempered arguing on his part might result in Santa Anna being called. The last thing he needed right now! He must concentrate on gaining strength, overcoming the pain, and wooing the accommodating maid until she would do as he wished. In the meantime, he contrived - quite easily - to look as though he was hurting.

No, Señora . . . oh, God, my shoulder . . . do you think you could find me some tequila? For the pain . . .”

She turned and spoke softly to the short, grim-faced servant who carried the lantern and who had stood silently and disapprovingly by the doorway during their conversation. The woman set the lantern down on a shelf and left.

The Señora turned back to him, frowning slightly, her expression reverting again to uneasy concern.

“How can I make you more comfortable? Besides the tequila?”

He considered several replies, all of which would only anger her. But what did he care? He was angry too. He decided to commence conducting an investigation of his own.

“Come closer, please, ma’am.”

She approached him cautiously, probably suspecting that a Gringo was capable of anything yet knowing he was too sick for such.

She bent over him, and the subtle rose scent of her was in his nostrils. This haughty female seemed even more intrinsically proud than the English misses he had grown up with, whom he despised; yet there was something exotically attractive about her that was different enough to pique his interest. That, and the possibility she had once belonged to Santa Anna . . . the one man in the world whom he most hated. His mind toyed cynically with revenge and its many forms.

“Yes, Señor Malone?”

He did it before she had time to react. The brief kiss brushed her pink-toned lips and caused him a sharp spasm of pain when he rose, but it was worth it simply for what he learned from her reaction - as well as the fleeting pleasure.

She jerked away and stepped back, dragging the back of her white hand across her lips, her face twisted in disgust. “Por Dios, I don’t know what is the matter with you?” she cried in Spanish.

“I only wanted to thank you for all of your trouble, ma’am,” he drawled. “In Texas, we say thank you with a kiss.”

He knew it was wrong to mock her, yet her violent distaste was annoying.

“It is not necessary for you to thank me further, and certainly not in that uncivilized manner.” Her voice shook. “I have done my duty by you as I would by any worker on my estate who was injured, or anyone else. Please do not consider yourself favored.”

She picked up the lantern and stepped toward the door. Just then the short woman was back, carrying an elegant crystal decanter that contained a colorless liquid he was gratified to see. His wound was now hurting like hell.

“Juana, leave the tequila with him. He is quite capable of serving himself. Goodnight, Mr. Malone.”

She turned to leave. But before she passed through the doorway, he couldn’t resist asking her. “Are you going to lock me in?”

Her gaze was an angry, green-gold glare.

“Yes.”

*

“He is a devil, niña,” Maria Juana prophesied as she readied her mistress for bed. “A devil! I knew it the moment I saw his pale eyes, and that little white scar on his forehead. He would like to do you mischief. He would like to kill us all, or worse . . .”

“Juana, please!” Christina forcibly cut off her maid’s dramatics. “He is a very ill man who merely happens to be a Yanqui. He says he is in Mexico on business, business which is not military. We have no reason yet to disbelieve him. You must reassure all the other servants that we have nothing to fear from Señor Malone!”

“I tell you, I do not trust him. For such a sick man, he thinks too much. I saw it in his face. At least you will keep the pantry door locked, I hope!”

“Of course I will. Until Don Ignacio arrives to take the responsibility for him off my hands.”

“He had better come soon . . .”

Christina remembered that conversation even after Maria Juana had finished her duties and reluctantly left her bedroom. Now, Christina’s face, her entire body, burned with anger at her own unwilling defense of the man, whom she would instead have been pleased to vilify with as much vehemence as her maid!

For one of the few times in her life, it seemed. Christina’s rational mind was at war with her instinct and emotions, and she was puzzled and furious at the upheaval within her own brain.

She sat before her dressing table, staring at her reflection without seeing it, fingers touching the day’s correspondence which she had been unable to attend to that morning, and had brought up with her tonight to finally peruse. Yet the dark image of the man downstairs remained fixed in her memory, forcing out any attention to duty; and her thoughts would not let the problem of him drop.

Christina knew that she had been correct in championing Jim Malone’s apparent harmlessness to Maria Juana, who generally served as a barometer and an instigator of the current mood of most of her other servants. The household must on no account become disrupted by fear of an imminent American invasion. And, in truth, logic told her that Malone must be given the benefit of her doubt, as well, since there was no obvious evidence to connect him with the army at all.

Yet why did she instinctively feel that he was a dangerous man? Why did the idea of him lying alone in her house both repel her and, to a certain extent, fascinate her, the way the nuns said that evil might sometimes do? Why had he angered her so?

The anger, at least, was explainable. He had dared to kiss her! He had done something that no man, besides her dead husband, her father-in-law, and perhaps her own father when she was a small child, had ever presumed to do before. She felt, to some extent, violated.

Perhaps Americans did have more relaxed and easy manners than she was accustomed to, she was willing to concede. Perhaps Malone considered a mere kiss no great act of intimacy, but a simple overture to friendship. How did she know what any American, particularly a low-bred one, thought, having met so few of them herself? Yet she was aware that even in England, casual acquaintances did not kiss one another on the mouth! And in Spain, where she was raised . . . such a thing was never, ever done! A lady would consider herself insulted, compromised . . .

And somehow, she sensed Malone knew his kiss would shock her. He had wanted to shock her. Had he wanted anything more?

Her own thoughts shamed her. She covered her hot face with her hands, staring out through her fingers at her eyes in the mirror - big and swollen-looking, more golden in the lamplight than green, partly shadowed by the long fall of waving chestnut hair. What was she considering? She asked her reflection. That a seriously wounded stranger might desire her? Or that he had merely wanted her to think so? Or . . . had Malone read something in her manner or her face to encourage him in pursuing such a course? Had her own recognition of her loneliness projected itself to him, so strongly that even in his illness he recognized in her some bizarre need?

No, it could not be true! Her attitude during her visit had been perfectly correct, she reassured herself. Malone was simply a coarse and vulgar Yanqui, bold enough to take advantage of her being alone in the room with him, and of her own Christian concern for his welfare. He was truly a ruthless devil, as Maria Juana had said - and she must show him no more kindness than mere charity deserved.

Besides . . . the thought evolved involuntarily, Malone could not possibly have divined any sinful needs in her, for the very simple reason that she had never had any - at least in regard to a real man. She had been a dutiful and obliging wife to Felipé, whenever he desired her to be, just as the nuns had instructed her . . . but she had never delighted in her duties, also as they taught. She was not given to lustful thoughts. Any odd yearnings she had ever had remained unspecific in nature. Therefore, Malone had kissed her for his own reasons, and not because of any unconscious signal from her.

This decided, she withdrew her hands from her face and busied them amongst the papers on the surface of her dresser, embarrassed by her own preoccupation with Malone and his kiss. She would overlook them both and hold herself as aloof as possible from that man in her pantry. Thank God, Don Ignacio would come soon, and remove him from her house!

She held aloft a letter from her old friend Luis Arredondo and read it, thinking all the while not of the words, but that Luis would never dream of any disrespect to her . . . no matter that he had playfully declared his regard for her in several missives. Luis was a gentleman! And then she realized in horror that she was doing it again - thinking of Malone. She threw Luis’s letter into a wastebasket, as she did with all unimportant correspondence, and rose to search for a book to take to bed.

Perhaps tomorrow she would be more herself.

Dorotea perched on the edge of Malone’s bed, having made sure the pantry door was completely closed.

“How are we feeling this morning, Señor?” she asked, reaching down a bold finger to trace the indent of the dimples on either side of his mouth.

“Give me your hand, and I’ll show you,” was his cool reply, as he captured her fingers and tried to force them down beneath the covers that were bunched around his waist.

She blushed and jerked her hand away. “I will admit that you’ve made progress. Only two days in bed, and already . . .”