Stronger Than Passion (36 page)

No, he would not take responsibility for this. It was not his intention or his fault. The blame could be dropped into the lap of Michael Brett, if anyone. Michael had mishandled her, had forced her to desperation, not him. And his anger simmered for the man he loved like a brother.

It was time for him to leave Dos Rios. He had been here too long - long enough to realize there was no reason to stay. He was not wanted nor needed, and he would be a fool to stick around and attempt to change that. Besides, he had intended to go even sooner. The war had not stopped during the past few days, and that was the one place where he truly belonged, anyway.

But before he left he would give Michael something. A present of sorts for Christina. Something that by rights was hers, and he would no longer put to use.

Julian strode to the kitchen to pack food. It was wartime again; personal ruminations were over. As was his peculiar, brief voyeurism into the lives of Christina and Michael.

*

Christina knew she was not dead, but as she lay in a dim, unfocused bed of pain where voices could be grasped but not understood and movement imagined but not felt, she sometimes wondered if it were not death she was experiencing.

They had given a drug, remembered only for its foul taste, which was to take away all feeling while someone probed, cleaned, and sewed her wound. But it only made her doze in a fitful, half-paralyzed way, and even in her dreams she sensed the agonizing attentions being paid her. But, as her blood ran freely out of her body, her consciousness retreated farther and farther away, until even the pain didn’t seem to matter. Once the fever set in, her mind became a playground of memories and projections and frightening thoughts, all interspersed with overheard snatches of the reality that was going on around her.

There were Michael and Julian.

“I never meant for her to be hurt. All I was trying to do was to get the goddamned knife away from her. She fought like I was trying to kill her.”

“Maybe she thought you were, in one way or another. Maybe she’d rather you did, than keep her confined, with nothing to do. She likes movement - she likes to stay busy. And bringing Spirit Woman here was a stupid thing to do.”

“How do you know so goddamned much about her?”

“I find her interesting. So I watch her.”

“You didn’t watch her too damn well this evening. You let her take off, by herself, with a knife remember?”

“I remember. But then I knew you would retrieve her. And I had no idea about the knife.”

“You almost killed her.”

“No - you did. I’ve seen you disarm big men before, hermano. Why couldn’t you take a knife away from a thin woman?”

And so they went, these brief conversations which may or may not have been real. If only Michael and Julian weren’t so hateful to each other, even if she were dreaming. If only they would explain things to her, help her to understand what was happening, tell her why she couldn’t concentrate for long on anything; except, if she really tried, the pain . . .

Finally, there were moments when she knew she was conscious. Her eyes would open, and her blurry gaze would rest on the dark, quiet face of the cook, seated by the bed. What was her name? Something French. She had a gently accented voice and cool hands that lightly caressed as she was helping her to drink.

Or the large housekeeper would be there, sewing, issuing orders to the maids as she sat. Manuela would call for broth, after noticing her patient’s open eyes. She would force the broth down, not caring if half of it spilled when Christina turned her head away.

Penny was there sometimes, too, her freckled face concerned.

And once or twice she saw Michael. He was standing in the doorway, talking to Manuela or the Negro woman, and the sound of his voice would rouse her. He never noticed her consciousness, and she was too tired to call. After a few seconds her eyes closed again. She thought, once, she felt his hand brush her cheek, and her lips; but she was on the verge of exhausted sleep and it might not have been real.

She didn’t see Julian, and at the time she didn’t think of him at all. She didn’t know that he was gone, back to Mexico and to war. And she didn’t find out until Michael told her; four days after she had unintentionally stabbed herself, and been brought back to Dos Rios.

* * *

Penny and Suzette had bathed her, hurting her despite their care; her body was so thin now, that even the lightest abrasive touch brought pain. They dressed her in a soft, high-necked gown, brushed out her braided hair, and swung it loosely over one shoulder. She was propped up in the big bed and brought a tray of soup and bread, of which she only managed to eat half.

The tray was removed, and then Michael strolled in. They were left alone.

It was late afternoon. He had bathed recently; his dark hair was still wet, and combed straight back. He wore an unfamiliar blue shirt tucked into tan pants, with a brown vest and clean boots. He stopped at the foot of her bed, leaned against the bedpost, and surveyed her.

“Still alive, and no fever - I suppose that’s progress. You’ve lost too much weight, but Suzette will take care of fattening you up. Right now you look starved.”

“Thank you for bringing me here, and for everything else you’ve done,” she said, eyes golden-green and solemn.

“My pleasure, ma’am. Although I don’t make a habit of nursing in my home people who’ve tried to stick a knife in me. I made an exception, in your case. I owed you; remember? We’re even, now.”

The thought of that terrible day, and her crazed behavior, kept her expression grave even though he smiled. “Yes, we’re even. On that score.”

“But not on any others, correct?”

She shrugged; the movement pained her.

He continued, casually. “I’d say we’re pretty even now for a lot of things. You nursed me, kept me alive, then planned to hold me prisoner on nothing but a suspicion of guilt. I escaped. I, in turn, took you prisoner - for a very important reason - you escaped, and were recaptured, in a manner of speaking; and now I’m nursing you back to health, after yet another escape attempt. We’re even, unless you’d care to look at it from my side, which shows that actually you owe me one or two points.”

His recitation of logic was absurd, yet how could she deny its truth? During the few short months of their acquaintance, they had managed to pay each other back unwittingly for nearly every sin or debt that was owed. But what Michael had failed to take into account were the episodes of intimacy that had occurred between them. Were they a part of the game, or separate; a play of their own?

Her face must have shown something of her disturbing, shameful thoughts, or else he had studied her so well he knew her mind, and the direction it would take.

“Don’t you agree with me, Chrissie? That we’re even, yet you still owe me something for your second, very poor attempt at escape, and for trying to kill me? Or do you consider all debts canceled because of the nights we spent together in bed?”

He spoke lightly; but there was something watchful and maybe even bitter in his eyes.

And then, as if tired of the polite, inconsequential talk, he sighed and his voice dropped low.

“I want you to tell me one thing. Why do you run away after we make love? Why can’t you accept it, and stay around for a while? What drives you away?”

His blue eyes looked directly into hers; she was trapped in the bed. There was no where she could hide to avoid the question.

“I did not leave only because you - joined me, that night.”

“I think that is very much a part of why you left me. Because I did ‘join’ you, twice.”

In her confusion, she missed that distinctive “me.”

“There is little of the personal in my desire to escape you, despite your - despite what we did, those nights. It is only that I want my freedom.”

“You’re a liar, Chrissie.”

“Don’t call me that!” Angry and panicked, she twisted to get out of bed - only to fall back again, the pain sickening. She closed her eyes, the throbbing wound and her raw emotions making her want to vomit.

She supposed she looked pitiful. Certainly there must be some reason for Michael’s warm grasp of her hand and his gentle voices.

“It’s alright, Chrissie. I won’t bother you anymore. Just lie back. Do you want some water?”

She shook her head, hating his sympathy, wishing she could believe in his tenderness, but afraid it was all calculated; or, worse still, mockery.

“Renata is gone. I sent her away after you were hurt,” he said dropping the previous subject as though it no longer mattered. “I never intended to leave her here with you, anyway. She’s a wild, over indulged little bitch, and I only brought her here because it happens to be on the way to her village. She had found me in Mexico against my wishes in the first place. I was only making sure she made it safely home.”

“Why?” she said. “I thought the army allowed camp followers.”

The fingers tightened on her hand. “Does it matter to you, one way or the other?”

“No.”

“Are you lying to me again, querida?”

“Oh, God! Will you get out of here, and leave me?” she cried, wanting to keep her dignity, but helpless beneath his continuing provocation.

He released her fingers, stood back and studied her, memorizing her, feature by feature. As if he never expected to see her again. “I’ll go. In fact, I’m leaving Dos Rios altogether. I’ve sent for Antoinette; she should arrive late tomorrow. As soon as she comes, I’ll take off. But don’t worry, in the meantime, I won’t visit you again.”

She cast around for something to say to him, to distract him from noticing any visible reaction she might be showing to his words, such as obvious unwilling denial. “What about Julian? Will he be going, too?:

“He’s already gone. He left the day after you were hurt.” His voice was even, emotionless.

“Oh.” She felt deflated. Julian, for all of their strange friendship, had not waited until she was conscious to say goodbye. Of course, that was like him. Still, she remembered those odd dreams of the day she had been wounded, before the fever had set in. Had Julian and Michael quarreled, over her? Was that one reason why he had left?

“He was in a hurry to get back to his troops. It was nothing personal.” Michael turned her own phrase against her ruthlessly. “But he gave me something to give you. I haven’t opened it.”

He reached inside his shirt pocket and withdrew a small leather pouch, which he handed her without words. She took it, curious and confused. She loosened the strings on the pouch and spilled its contents onto her lap. The Rivera pearls, her pearls, fell in a gleaming, sinuous heap onto the spread.

She was not surprised. Julian had probably killed the man who took them, planning to sell them himself. But instead, for his own bizarre reasons, he had returned them to her. It was a gesture both expected, and unexpected.

It was also his goodbye.

She touched the pearls, her fingers winding amongst their connecting length. She looked up, to meet the coldness of Michael’s gaze.

“I didn’t know he had your jewelry,” Michael said. “You realize he could have sold that necklace for a lot of pesos. And it would not have been stealing, either, to use Mexican jewelry to finance an American guerilla troop.” He paused, thinking. “I wonder why he gave it back.”

Christina knew but she did not wish to discuss her inexplicable liking for Julian Torrance, and possibly his for her, with Michael. Michael would make a mockery of it.

She replaced the pearls into the soft deerskin bag, and put her hand over it. “What did you write to your aunt?” she asked by way of distracting him.

“I said that you were here, and had been accidentally wounded. That is enough to bring her here in a hurry. She’ll be pleased to take charge of the servants and look after you for a while.”

“And if I decided to go home with her, to San Antonio?” she asked, fixing him with defiant yet still pain-troubled eyes.

His gaze returned hers, blue-grey and watchful. “I won’t stop you. If act, I wish you would.” Before she could do more than wonder if she had heard him correctly, he continued, “However, I’ve decided to make a little scouting trip into Mexico, in the direction of Jalapa. I thought you might prefer to go along with me. When you’re fit again, of course. It just might be that I can come within a few miles of your hacienda. Providing, of course, that you promise not to make any trouble for me in the meantime.”

Her voice failed to operate. When it did, she said uncertainly, “Do you mean you will take me home?”

“If the war’s not too close. You can’t expect me to drop you off in the middle of a battle. I think you’ve seen enough of that kind of thing lately, Señora.”

Sudden fears of weakness and relief and a combination of other emotions she felt powerless to defend against, constricted her throat. She looked away from Michael, wishing she could simply cover her eyes and sob. After all this time, he would really take her home!

He was speaking again, his voice carefully even. “One condition of my returning you to Mexico is that you obey Antoinette in all things and recover your health. I won’t take you anywhere if I think you can’t make the journey. And I want you to seriously consider traveling to San Antonio, instead, to wait out the war. Or even remaining here. But the choice will be yours.”