Read Online Stronger Than Passion by Sharron Gayle Beach - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sharron Gayle Beach
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“Congratulations. Does Santa Anna know?”
“No, it has not yet been announced because of my mourning. But I am sure he will wish me well.”
“I doubt it. Arredondo is not likely to play the part of an obliging husband and allow you to continue carrying on with Santa Anna after you are married. Santa Anna is doubtlessly about to lose a mistress. I would be angry, if I were him.”
“I am not Santa Anna’s mistress, or anything else! And I am sick to death of your insults! I am a Sainz y Sequenza Cabra, I would never stoop so low . . .”
“You’re mighty proud for a prisoner of war! Do I need to remind you, Señora, that from now on you are going to stoop to do whatever I tell you? And that includes shutting up whenever you start to yell!”
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded, determined to show him he did not frighten her.
“Right now, to Vera Cruz. From there - Washington. It’s a town on the east coast of America. The President of the United States lives there. I’ve decided you should meet him.”
“Oh, Dios!” For a moment, she thought she had lost her voice and her mind. Panic shot through her limbs. She made an abrupt lunge for the door, intending to throw herself out into the night, and not caring if the fall killed her!
But Brett’s reflexes were just as quick as hers. He grabbed her around the waist and hauled her onto his lap, swearing and flinching so that she realized his wound was indeed still painful. Perhaps she could use that information later . . .
Now, he held her tightly against his chest, wound or no wound. His face was hard and testy, his mouth grim.
“I’m only going to tell you once more. Don’t try anything like that again! Or you won’t make it to Washington for your interview with the President. Comprendez, Señora?”
Before she could speak, sick nausea in her stomach and the beginnings of despair in her mind, his mouth came down on hers in a kiss designed to punish and, she suspected, warn. It contained all the violence of his anger and hurt her, forcing inexplicable, weak tears from her closed eyes that slid down to mingle in their closeness. She despised the tears . . . but the taste of them, or something else, stopped his forced assault. He no longer seemed set on breaking her. Instead, his lips turned gentle, and he shifted her in his lap so that his hand could rise up to feel her face, and brush away the tears. He pushed back her heavy, loosening hair and then his mouth moved upwards to graze her wet cheekbones and her forehead.”
“Christina . . . Chrissie, I don’t - ”
But the diligence slowed, and the driver’s voice rose as he halted the team. The vehicle stopped. Christina wondered for a wild hopeful moment if she were rescued. Could it be Luis? The Condé?
Brett deposited her onto the opposite seat and went out the door, which slammed behind him. She heard him greeting someone, heard another deep male voice answer him, speaking in a harsh, guttural language she didn’t recognize. The diligence rocked and she guessed that the driver must have jumped down from his high perch, although she saw nothing through the shuttered windows.
She sat, attempting to repair her appearance which had doubtless been mauled by Michael Brett’s roughness. She was unsure how much time had passed before the door was flung open again, and it took every ounce of her control to remain calm and not jump in fright. Brett reentered the diligence, taking his seat opposite her, leaving the door open. In his hand was a small flask.
“Christiana,” he said, and while one part of her brain realized finally that he persisted in using, uninvited, her Christian name, another part concentrated on the largeness of him and the menace he seemed to bring inside the coach. “I want you to drink this.” He held up the flask.
“Do you intend to poison me?” she heard herself say, while her hands clenched into fists and her eyes grew huge.
His sigh was impatient, his tone
“No, it has not yet been announced because of my mourning. But I am sure he will wish me well.”
“I doubt it. Arredondo is not likely to play the part of an obliging husband and allow you to continue carrying on with Santa Anna after you are married. Santa Anna is doubtlessly about to lose a mistress. I would be angry, if I were him.”
“I am not Santa Anna’s mistress, or anything else! And I am sick to death of your insults! I am a Sainz y Sequenza Cabra, I would never stoop so low . . .”
“You’re mighty proud for a prisoner of war! Do I need to remind you, Señora, that from now on you are going to stoop to do whatever I tell you? And that includes shutting up whenever you start to yell!”
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded, determined to show him he did not frighten her.
“Right now, to Vera Cruz. From there - Washington. It’s a town on the east coast of America. The President of the United States lives there. I’ve decided you should meet him.”
“Oh, Dios!” For a moment, she thought she had lost her voice and her mind. Panic shot through her limbs. She made an abrupt lunge for the door, intending to throw herself out into the night, and not caring if the fall killed her!
But Brett’s reflexes were just as quick as hers. He grabbed her around the waist and hauled her onto his lap, swearing and flinching so that she realized his wound was indeed still painful. Perhaps she could use that information later . . .
Now, he held her tightly against his chest, wound or no wound. His face was hard and testy, his mouth grim.
“I’m only going to tell you once more. Don’t try anything like that again! Or you won’t make it to Washington for your interview with the President. Comprendez, Señora?”
Before she could speak, sick nausea in her stomach and the beginnings of despair in her mind, his mouth came down on hers in a kiss designed to punish and, she suspected, warn. It contained all the violence of his anger and hurt her, forcing inexplicable, weak tears from her closed eyes that slid down to mingle in their closeness. She despised the tears . . . but the taste of them, or something else, stopped his forced assault. He no longer seemed set on breaking her. Instead, his lips turned gentle, and he shifted her in his lap so that his hand could rise up to feel her face, and brush away the tears. He pushed back her heavy, loosening hair and then his mouth moved upwards to graze her wet cheekbones and her forehead.”
“Christina . . . Chrissie, I don’t - ”
But the diligence slowed, and the driver’s voice rose as he halted the team. The vehicle stopped. Christina wondered for a wild hopeful moment if she were rescued. Could it be Luis? The Condé?
Brett deposited her onto the opposite seat and went out the door, which slammed behind him. She heard him greeting someone, heard another deep male voice answer him, speaking in a harsh, guttural language she didn’t recognize. The diligence rocked and she guessed that the driver must have jumped down from his high perch, although she saw nothing through the shuttered windows.
She sat, attempting to repair her appearance which had doubtless been mauled by Michael Brett’s roughness. She was unsure how much time had passed before the door was flung open again, and it took every ounce of her control to remain calm and not jump in fright. Brett reentered the diligence, taking his seat opposite her, leaving the door open. In his hand was a small flask.
“Christiana,” he said, and while one part of her brain realized finally that he persisted in using, uninvited, her Christian name, another part concentrated on the largeness of him and the menace he seemed to bring inside the coach. “I want you to drink this.” He held up the flask.
“Do you intend to poison me?” she heard herself say, while her hands clenched into fists and her eyes grew huge.
His sigh was impatient, his tone
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