Stronger Than Passion (35 page)

*

Michael Brett tore across his dirty-green grazing land with no thought of sparing his horse in the hot day. He was going north, following her; her tracks as plain to his experienced eye as an ink-drawn map. Pointing the way.

She was galloping her mare, too, and he hoped she was foolish enough to continue doing so. If her horse gave out, she would be found a lot quicker.

What he would do with her, when he caught her, was a speculation so familiar to him these past weeks that his mind went over the rehearsed options by rote.

He could whip her, he told himself as he urged his horse onward. He could strip her and take her over his knee, and bruise her white, arrogant little bottom . . . until she promised to stay in one place and behave. Or he could send her horse off alone, and make her walk the miles back to Dos Rios, while he rode along beside her, driving her like a cow. He had considered, before, when he was in Mexico with no idea of her location, making her walk for days as a punishment.

Or he could outline to her the boring days ahead of her with nothing to do as she sat locked in her room, thinking back on all the freedom he had allowed her, but which her own misconduct had taken away. That would make her miserable, because she was a woman who liked to do things. Unfortunately, one who liked to do too much.

Damn her soul, why had she made such a desperate and foolish attempt to leave him again? He spurred his stallion ever harder through a wooded copse the horse didn’t like. Hadn’t she learned anything from her first disastrous escape? Hadn’t the brutality of Manzanal, and even Julian, made any impression on her stubborn, one-track brain? She had managed to tame his fierce cousin so that now he was full of caresses and soft words, but Manzanal, the stupid ape, had reportedly hurt her. And she had been through some frightening times in Julian’s company; not the least of which had forced her to shoot two men. Had she forgotten all of that, when she could have remained with his aunt in Washington in the first place and none of it would ever have happened? And now - when she was comfortably ensconced in Dos Rios, in his bedroom, for Christ’s sake . . . why had she decided to bolt?

He had the unwelcome thought that her two escapes might just have some connection with his making love to her on each night previous to them.

But she had enjoyed it. Hell, more than that, even. Her response to his touch had both surprised him and driven him crazy; so crazy that ever since that first night, in Washington, he had not been able to get her off his mind. The contradiction of her; her deliberate resistance, at first, and then the yielding, the participating . . .

Maybe her pride drove her away, and that was all. The belief that she was too good for him, and she hated him and felt guilty for making love to him. If so - he would break her. He would destroy whatever it was that made her regret him the next morning. He would take her to bed as often as he could - the war permitting - until she came to crave it constantly, the way he did. And then . . . he didn’t know what, and he didn’t care.

She was his enemy, he would use her in any way he desired. She deserved it for not acting like a woman, for behaving more like a man and defying him. He would see to it that she never ran away from him again. He would see to it that she didn’t want to!

*

He caught sight of her after about an hour’s hard riding. She was smart, after all; she was walking her mare on a grassy plain, saving the horse’s strength for the rest of the day’s travel. San Antonio - if that was, indeed, where she was going - was a long way ahead.

He had her now. The banks of the Frio River were in front of her, he could smell it; and she didn’t know a way through it. She would be trapped if she decided to run.

He trotted down the wooden hill he had climbed, hoping to sight her, and broke into a canter. She wheeled her horse around to face him. But she stood still, she didn’t run. She must have known it wouldn’t work. And being Christina, she would never opt for undignified flight.

It was his intention to keep tight control of his temper. To keep his emotions in check, so she would never know how angry she made him.

But at the sight of her sitting her horse so calmly, waiting for him as though she had the upper hand, all notions of civility left his mind, in about sixty seconds - the length of time it took him to reach her. By then, he was all barely-restrained rage.

He drew up next to her and snatched her reins.

“Get down off that horse,” he snarled.

Slowly she obeyed, her face white and drained beneath her hat, her hands clinched on her saddle.

He swung down, too, looping her reins around his saddle horn.

“Now I want you to tell me, with as few lies as possible, where it is you think you re going.”

She straightened her back and looked up at him, the same proud way she had been doing since he had known her. “Why should I bother to lie? I’m going north. You must know that already, since you’ve been following me.”

“To San Antonio? A full day’s ride from Dos Rios - requiring two horses, incidentally - through Indian country? Alone?”

She shrugged, her lips tight and set. And something blew apart within him.

He gripped her, and shook her, and in her wide eyes, now bright green, the fear mingled with the hatred until one became indistinguishable from the other. But he couldn’t stop hurting her, not
until she listened to him and understood him, finally. He had tried everything else - generosity, courtesy, and even affection; none of them had worked. She still ran away from him, and would do it even if it meant her own death, or ravishment from a stranger. She would go to any lengths to defy him.

Well, he would go to any lengths necessary to keep her. Even if it turned her against him for the rest of her life.

“I’ve had just about enough of your running off, Christina. I’ve had enough of your bad temper, and your arrogance, and your selfishness. Who were you headed to this time? Who were you planning to give yourself to in exchange for a trip back home? Gilbert?”

*

She opened her mouth to curse him, her face gone white and twisted with rage, and he hit her, knocking her head to one side. Her hat came off, and her long braid tumbled down her back. Her lip was cut and it bled. But he continued to shake her, knowing the slap had done nothing more than infuriate her.

“I’m though with treating you like a lady, when it’s so obvious that you’re not one. Instead, it seems you’re no better than a whore. You’ll do anything to get back to Santa Anna with all your stories, won’t you, love? And it doesn’t matter to you who you have to sleep with, or who you have to kill to get there, does it? You’ve proved that well enough! But Santa Anna’s going to have to wait a while, because you’re not going anywhere yet. And since I can’t trust you to respect my hospitality by not taking advantage of it, from now on I’m going to keep you locked up tight. In one room. No more parties, no more visitors, no more freedom at all. Just me, when I have the time to stop by.”

He held her still now, and all energy and will seemed to leave her as she stood within his grasp, her hair loose and disheveled and her breasts beneath the cotton blouse risen out of her open jacket, heaving beyond her control. She stared at him, bottom lip bleeding freely, and then whispered in a strange voice, “What gives you the right?”

“I won the right when I captured you, before you could betray my name to Santa Anna. You’re my prisoner of war, or had you forgotten?”

“I’m a woman,” she continued in that odd whisper. “It’s unheard of for you to treat me this way . . .”

“You’re no ordinary woman, Christina. If you were, I could have frightened you into silence a long time ago, and I would have probably already sent you home.”

“You’re trying to blame me for everything, aren’t you? It’s not enough that you’ve taken me from my home, and ruined my life. Now you’re telling me that it’s all my fault. But it isn’t, Miguel. It isn’t.”

“There are some benefits, you know,” he said, aware of her over-warm body and the way it felt, crushed beneath his fingers.

The blank, almost stricken look disappeared from her green-gold eyes as she recognized his meaning, and was replaced by something wild. She fought to break away from him again, and so sudden was her backward lunge that his grip was pulled loose. She took a few stumbling steps, “I won’t go back with you. I’ll go to San Antonio and stay with Antoinette, but I will not return to Dos Rios with you. Don’t try to force me. I’ll kill you if I have to.”

She pulled his knife from her pocket and brandished it.

Michael thought she looked absurd standing there, booted feet apart. Knife raised. But he
knew she meant to use it. On him, if he rushed her.

Once gain, she was defying him, testing his control over her. She hadn’t learned anything yet! And now she had a knife, and she might just as easily hurt herself with it as him, and it was to some extent his responsibility for leaving it laying around.

Where in hell had she learned how to hold a knife, anyway? From Julian, no doubt, who probably thought it amusing to teach her bad habits and who would find the sight of her now hilarious. Well, this was one more small matter to take up with his cousin.

He was angry and out of patience with both of them.

“Give me the knife. Now!”

She shook her head, watching his every move. “Not until you promise to take me to Antoinette, or let Julian do it.”

“No.”

‘If all you want is a convenient mistress, you’ve already got that Indian slut. You don’t need me, too! Why should it matter to you where you lock me up?”

“I want you at Dos Rios. Give me the knife.”

Christina stared at him, and his eyes were measuring and flint-hard, and it was obvious he would try to take the blade from her if he could. He stood poised to move, waiting one last time for her answer. She hesitated, wondering which action to take.

He would not compromise; he would not allow her to be imprisoned in his aunt’s home. Therefore, he meant to keep her at dos Rios like an infidel in a harem, to use her whenever he had the time. Not caring what kind of woman she would be, or what little at all would be left of her, when he finally did release her.

She would have to kill him, to gain her freedom and her self-respect. If she could. Whether she wanted to or not . . . .

Something of her new resolve must have crossed her face, because he made his move. He came at her from the left, his steps light and easy, his eyes concentrated on her wide, wary gaze. He reached for the knife; she struck out at him; and he darted to the right, grabbing her wrist and twisting it painfully. But she didn’t release the knife, as he had intended. Instead the force of his grip turned her hand so that the blade pointed at her. And the knife that should have fallen harmlessly to the ground slashed deeply inside her skin.

They both went still. He pulled the knife out of her with a steady hand and threw it away. Then the blood came, and the pain - the searing horror of it forcing her to gulp air and to lose the support of her legs, all at the same time; and she called for Michael, only it must be in her mind because she couldn’t hear herself speak. Then she was looking up at the sky, at the sun overhead, and the light must have blinded her because it began to fade away. There was an insect buzzing in her ear; no, hundreds of them since the noise grew louder. It overwhelmed her, that noise . . . until nothing else existed. No light, no other sound. And then there was no noise at all.

*

Julian left the room, disturbed beyond rationalization and admitting it. At least she would live; he had seen many knife wounds throughout his past violent years, and hers was a clean cut that had managed to escape slicing through anything important. Carefully sewn and well-tended, the wound would heal. But the receiving of the cut in the first place . . . that action had jolted them all, in ways perhaps best remaining unknown.

It was too late. Maybe it was all his fault, as Michael had accused. Maybe he should have stopped her from leaving.

But he had wanted to provoke Michael, to annoy him. And he had wanted to please Christina by allowing her to think she had bested Michael. More than that, even, he had intended to enjoy observing the drama that would be played out when Michael drug her home by the hair; and she so assertive these days, so capable, so fascinating! In the end, however, she had proved too determined. He should have predicted that, and stopped her from riding out. Instead of giving in to his own love of spectacle, which had been only too well fulfilled.

He had been frightened when Michael had ridden in, holding her lifeless body close to him, her blood all over them both and Michael’s face a severe mask. She had tried to kill him, Michael had said; and had probably done in herself instead. And guess whose fault it was?

Was it really his fault that Christina lay upstairs now, in an extreme amount of pain, dosed and drugged by a mixture of Mexican and Comanche medicine, watched over by Penny and the two chief women in the house - Manuela, the housekeeper, and Suzette, the cook - and by the blank-faced man she had fought to kill? But even his fondness for excitement would never had made him wish for this. He hated to see her hurting, while he had been able to do nothing but hold her still, to keep her from thrashing and injuring herself. He had hated to watch her cry unconscious tears of pain, like those that had seeped beneath her lashes as Suzette had worked the needle through her red-streaked skin, sewing together the edges of the wound. And he had hated hearing the scared, despairing sound of her voice as she called out to Michael. To Michael; not to him.