Sweet Savage Love

by Rosemary Rogers

  His face remained as impassive as an Indian’s, but she could see from the sudden opacity of his eyes and the white lines about his mouth that she had finally succeeded in penetrating the cold control he normally kept over himself.

  “You almost tempt me to find out how much you really hate me,” he said at last, and came towards her, making her recoil instinctively, her hands coming up as if to ward off a blow. But he only flung the clothes at her, laughing contemptuously when she gave an involuntary gasp.

  He put his hands on his hips and gazed at her coolly, a Mexican brigand with blue eyes, the crossed bandoliers over his chest making him look even more menacing.

  “Hurry up and change, Ginny. Or I’ll be forced to think your coy hesitation means something else.”

  Flushing with humiliation and pent-up fury, Ginny turned her back on him and did as she was told, miserably conscious of his eyes on her, even though she could not see the expression on his face.

  They rode on again, with Ginny riding astride like a boy.

  But since their confrontation in the trees, the subtle shading of her relationship with Steve Morgan had changed again. Where before she had been silent and sullen, almost, at times, apathetic; now she could feel the hate and despair inside her grow and grow until she thought at times that she would burst with frustration. God, how she despised him, how she hated him! The hate seared into her, becoming as much a part of her as eating and breathing. There was not a moment when she was not aware of him—of the warmth of his body as he forced her to lean against him—the hardness of his hands when he tied or untied her—the mocking blue brilliance of his eyes against his sunburned skin.

  She cursed him and resisted him at every opportunity so that he was compelled to force her onto his saddle and off; to eat, to drink, or even to lie down beside him to sleep.

  “I hate you!” she would whisper to him at every turn. “Thief—half-breed!” And when he grew tired of hearing the constant invectives she hurled at him, he would tighten the rifle he held against her breast until she felt her breath cut off by its pressure and collapsed, sobbing her rage, against him.

  They started to descend from the mountains, in what direction, Ginny did not know. But again, almost imperceptibly, some of the men started to drift away. They would wake up from a sleep to find someone gone—or sometimes after a whispered discussion one or two men would take a different trail. Ginny was sure there was some hidden purpose to their seemingly senseless movements. Perhaps they had all arranged to meet again, and this was merely a ruse to throw off pursuit. When the men talked among themselves, however, they used an Indian dialect that she was totally unfamiliar with.

  And as they came down from the mountains into an arid, desertlike country that reminded Ginny vividly of parts of Texas, she began to be afraid again. What would happen to her? Where was he taking her? She was even more apprehensive because she knew that Steve wanted her.

  It was as if by her scorn and rejection of him she had brought herself back to his attention as a woman; not merely a pawn in some game he was playing—a hostage for his own safety.

  When they slept together under his blanket she could feel the rising of his desire for her, although he made no overt moves to do anything about it. And sometimes, as they rode he would let his hand brush against her breast or shoulder, or insist upon braiding her hair, as matted and tangled as it had become. She thought at such moments that he did it deliberately, to hurt her—sometimes the tears started to her eyes at his careless tugging, although she would not let him see. At times, he’d rest his hand on her hip or belly, caressing her against her will while she squirmed and struggled furiously against him, pouring out her hatred for him, her disgust at his touch. But since that first day when he’d flung the clothes at her, he would not let her taunt him into losing his temper, nor his control.

  She wondered, fearfully, what he had in mind, but when she’d ask him when he would let her go, he only shrugged.

  “When I’ve no more use for you, baby,” he told her once, and the note of cold finality in his voice made her shudder.

  Only Pedro and the boy Juan, who had given her his clothes, remained with them on the night they rode into the small Indian village.

  Juan had left his horse and slipped ahead an hour before to make sure that all was safe, but when he came back wearing an exuberant, face-splitting grin, they rode into the small clearing where thatched huts, some built of crumbling adobe, seemed to huddle together for protection.

  “Mi casa—” Juan said, speaking Spanish for Ginny’s benefit, and by now she was so tired that she welcomed any kind of shelter, even that of a mud hut.

  Juan’s parents—if that was who they were—seemed very old. From the excited greetings, the abrazos, it was clear that Pedro, too, was some kind of relative. They had been warned of Ginny’s presence, for there was no more than a mild curiosity in the wrinkled face of the woman who greeted her, leading her to the small fire that filled the room with smoke and the odors of cooking.

  After the jerky she had become used to, the corn tortillas she was offered seemed delicious, and Ginny wolfed them down like a hungry animal, unaware that Steve was watching her until she looked up once and caught his brooding gaze on her face. What was he thinking? She looked away immediately, but he crossed the small room to her with a stone mug that was half-full with some kind of sweet liquor that burned her throat as it went down.

  The men talked, low-voiced. Juan’s younger brother, Pablo, who had run outside to attend to their horses, came back and sat by them, his large, dark eyes shining like black stones in the firelight. Beside Ginny, the woman sat silently, her occasional shy sidewise glance at la gringa her only betrayal of curiosity. Close-up, the woman was not as old as she had seemed at first. Clearly, she was much younger than her husband. But her figure was shapeless under the dark-colored reboza huddled over the shoulders, and there were wrinkles in her face, under the straggly dark hair. Ginny felt a sudden rush of pity for her. What an existence! To have to live all her life in a place like this, condemned to nothing but hard work and childbearing—to know nothing of the world outside!

  She found herself growing almost overpoweringly drowsy…and then, because she was so tired, she slept, leaning her head and shoulders back against the wall.

  A hand shook her roughly awake. Her eyes flew open, startled, and she found herself looking into Steve Morgan’s face.

  “It’s warm enough in here—” she hissed at him, suddenly conscious of the fact that they were the only ones left awake—the others lay huddled by the fire wrapped in the inevitable blankets. “You don’t need my body to keep you warm tonight.”

  “I can think of other uses for that body you try so hard to hide,” he said softly, and she went cold inside, all the way to the pit of her stomach.

  “No!” she whispered fiercely, glaring her hate into his implacable face. “No—I won’t let you touch me!”

  “You were willing enough before, remember?” he said cruelly.

  He wrenched her to her feet, pulling her along with him.

  “There’s a place back there we can use. Juan had an older brother who was studying for the priesthood, before the soldiers killed him. They fixed it up for him, so he could have some privacy, and tonight…”

  He didn’t have to finish what he had started to say—his meaning was clear enough. Ginny strove to pull back, but his grip was too strong, too painful.

  There was only a makeshift curtain of some rough, coarsely woven material separating them from the others. He had made preparations already, for a small oil lamp had been lighted and placed in an alcove in the rough adobe wall, and he’d spread his blankets on the floor.

  He released her, standing between her and the doorway and began to take off his cartridge belts, and then his guns, placing them carefully in a corner. When he turned around, Ginny still stood there as if she had been mesmerized, staring at him with eyes that looked like bits of green glass. And something in the way
she looked at him, like a terrified animal held at bay, almost made Steve Morgan hesitate. With her hair dirty and uncombed, lying in tangled ringlets down to her waist she looked like a wild gypsy. He could see the heaving of her breasts, even through the loose camisa she wore, and the thought of them, and the ease with which she had given herself, first to him, and then to Hoskins and, no doubt, to her French lover, hardened his purpose.

  “Since it’s so warm in here, might as well take off your clothes before you lie down,” he said, motioning with his head at the blankets. And at that, the sense of being held mesmerized left Ginny and she gave a small cry of outrage.

  “I will not! I’ll kill you first!”

  She flung herself desperately for his guns, and he knocked her backwards with a sweep of his arm. She fell, hitting her head with a stunning force that left her dazed for some minutes.

  “Stop fighting me, Ginny. You ought to know by now it’s no use.” She felt him bend over her, undressing her in spite of her struggles.

  The lamp still burned steadily in its alcove, and somehow, being forced to see the way he looked her over made it even more intolerable. Ginny reached desperately for the blankets as she attempted to cover herself, sobbing with rage and fear.

  “You animal! Dirty half-breed! Oh, can’t you see I’d rather die than have you touch me? I hate you, hate you!”

  Calmly, he finished undressing and came to her. She opened her mouth to scream, and with a quick movement he pressed his hand over it, bruising her lips.

  “Please—try to restrain your cries of ecstasy. We don’t want to wake our friends back there, do we?” Grim amusement twitched the corner of his mouth in a tight smile that did not reach his eyes.

  She tried to cry out, to protest hysterically against his violation of her, and felt the weight of his body come down over hers. He held her immobile, taking his hand from her mouth only to kiss her savagely while his hands fondled her breasts. And now he took his time, playing with her, leaning the weight of his body on hers while she expended all her strength in her desperate, futile struggles.

  Finally, when she was breathless and exhausted, her head still throbbing painfully, he rolled half onto his side, one hand over her mouth to keep her quiet, his leg over hers to hold her still.

  “That’s better,” he whispered in her ear, and his hand moved slowly over her body as if they had still been lovers—caressing, teasing, by turns; exciting it subtly.

  There was nothing she could do but submit—and this was much worse than she had expected. She had forced herself to be prepared for a quick, brutal rape, but instead, against her will and the silent, screaming protest of her mind, her body, vital and young, was beginning to respond to his caresses.

  “No—no, please, no!” she whispered, but he laughed softly and kissed her on the ear, and then more gently on the mouth; and all the time his hands moved on her body, his fingers teased and aroused it until she was twisting and turning under him, desiring release, craving it; whimpering against his mouth while he whispered Spanish love words, sex words, and everything grew mixed up until she felt him spread her thighs with his knees and arched her hips to receive him—his hardness and maleness as he drove into her endlessly, demandingly, until she heard the crashing in her ears like sea-breakers and her body became one; gathering, rising, and falling gently, gently, back from fulfillment to reality.

  Only afterwards did the feelings of shame and revulsion engulf her, so that she lay sobbing uncontrollably in his arms. She felt them tighten around her, and then as she stiffened, heard his voice sounding as cold and rejecting as her own thoughts.

  “For God’s sake—now what is the matter?”

  “You promised!” she sobbed. “When you took me away you promised you’d release me as soon as you were safely away. You promised you wouldn’t—that you would not.”

  He leaned over her, all gentleness gone.

  “I made them a threat, Ginny—not a promise. And damned if I don’t find myself reluctant to do what I threatened! But I’m not releasing you as long as having you with me might prove useful. As soon as they stop following us, maybe I’ll let you go—maybe,” his voice grew harder, “unless they get too close.”

  “Follow? Threaten? I don’t know what you’re talking about! We’re not being followed, how could we be? You’re lying to me, you’re lying because—”

  “Keep your voice down, damn you!” his voice grated harshly in her ear and she shivered at the anger in it. Her mind whirled with unspoken thoughts.

  He said more quietly, “We’ve been followed for the last week. And whoever they are, they’re mighty persistent, and mighty smart too. Got an Indian tracker with them, I think. And it’s you they are after, Miss Brandon. They’re Americans, about five of them. Your father works fast and he’s efficient, I’ll say that for him.”

  She stared at him unbelievingly.

  “But it’s not possible! How long have we been travelling? My father would hardly have time to…”

  He chuckled mirthlessly. “Baby, I’ve my own means of getting information, even out here. Your stepmother went back to El Paso. They have a telegraph office there. Who knows? Maybe she wired your father. All I know is we’re being trailed. Why do you think we started separating? No one’s going to get that gold back, and maybe they’re smart enough to realize it, but they obviously want you. And probably me as well. I’ll bet your father has some real nice plans in mind for me—if he ever catches up with me.”

  “It’s just not possible,” she whispered again. And then, more slowly, as the meaning of what he’d just told her began to seep into her consciousness, “So that’s why…oh, but you can’t mean it! You think to use me as bait, to lead them away from the gold, is that it? And this—the way you have treated me, is that your revenge on them for following you?”

  “Revenge? Is that what you’d call this?” He kissed her again suddenly and savagely, tasting her tears, and she felt his body roll on top of hers and cried out against his mouth as he took her again; this time brutally and violently, without preliminaries.

  19

  They left the Indian village early the next morning, with only the faintest blush of pink in the sky to herald dawn.

  A mixture of weariness, humiliation and anger kept Ginny silent. Her thighs were sore, even her legs ached; and the bitterest thought of all was the fact that last night her own body had betrayed her, had actually responded to his hateful caresses—and he had known it!

  Now they rode on alone, she and Steve Morgan, and he seemed as preoccupied with his thoughts as she was. Ginny supposed he was thinking of their pursuers—if he hadn’t been lying to her about it, to justify the brutal way in which he’d used her body last night. She shivered slightly, remembering the intimacy of his caresses, her own involuntary, unwanted response, and felt his arm tighten around her. She thought, miserably, Oh God, and what will happen now? What is he going to do next? He was completely unpredictable, of course—it seemed as if she was always asking herself that question. It was intolerable to find herself completely at his mercy, and even more so now that they were alone. Would he insist, every night they stopped, that—she shivered again, unable to complete the thought, and he asked her sardonically if she could actually be cold with the sun beating down on them.

  She wouldn’t answer him. She was determined that she would never speak to him again, if she could help it, but before nightfall, with the red desert sand gritty on her face and even in her throat she was demanding to know where he was taking her, when he would let her go.

  The heat was unbearable, and the country they were riding through seemed endless and changeless. Ginny had the impression that they had been riding all day in pointless circles. Did he actually think someone was following them? It seemed impossible, for even a dust-cloud should be visible for miles. They rode through dusty red plains, with mountains, flat-topped and rocky, ahead of them; seeming to rise like huge stone images against the sky.

  This, Ginny though
t anxiously, was the kind of desert where no man or animal could survive—and yet, surprisingly, they managed to do so. Water was scarce here, and yet Steve seemed to know every waterhole and every seep, and because he seemed tireless and unworried, she found some of her earlier fears of being lost in the desert, left to die without water for the buzzards to pick clean, diminishing.

  They kept moving, keeping mostly to the shelter of huge buttes that towered over them. And now, they slept only in snatches, mostly in the daytime when it was hottest—travelling fastest at night. Since the night they had spent in the Indian village, Steve had not touched her again, except to put an arm around her when they slept. In spite of her tiredness, and her moments of apathy when nothing seemed to matter, Ginny thought constantly of escape. To be free! To be free of him, free of this endless running, of being dirty and hot and dusty all the time—knowing that she was becoming almost as deeply tanned as he was. She saw her own reflection once, in a waterhole, and did not recognize herself.

  “I look like an Indian!” she accused him. “I look even worse than that! Where are we going? When will we stop?”

  It was then he announced, quite casually, that he was taking her back to El Paso.

  For a stunned moment, Ginny stared at him incredulously.

  “You have gone insane! El Paso? But where are we now? We were in Mexico.”

  “We were in the province of Sonora, my sweet.” He had taken to calling her that, teasingly, enjoying the way she flushed with anger when he did. “But we happen to be in New Mexico right now. In Apache country,” he added hastily, seeing the way her mouth opened, “so I wouldn’t scream, if I were you.”

  She could not have screamed in any case, with her throat as dry as it was. But even while her eyes threw a look of hatred at him, her mind had leapt excitedly to the possibility that he had decided to set her free.