Sweet Savage Love

by Rosemary Rogers

  Ginny’s eyes had begun to sparkle with tears of sheer rage, and she half rose—only the fact that somehow the hem of her robe had become trapped under the foot of the chair prevented her from sweeping from the room.

  “I find these—these suggestions of yours impossible to credit, monsieur! Even coming from you! If you’ll excuse me, I’m not hungry.”

  “Sit down, madame!” He stood, his voice suddenly steely. “Must I remind you that you are my prisoner? Would you prefer to have a meal of tortillas and water with the rest of them, instead? Pah—that canaille would tear you to pieces—a lovely morsel like you! Sit down and be reasonable. Do not disappoint me with this sudden affectation of innocence, I beg you. I will not rape you—no, no, I am a Frenchman, and no true Frenchman needs to take a woman by force. Will you sit, madame? Or must I have you tied to your chair?”

  His threats frightened her more than she would admit. Biting her lip to keep back her mounting fury, Ginny sat back, averting her eyes.

  “That’s better. You’ll see, soon enough, that we have a lot in common. Believe me, you can trust me! You’ll find that out, too. Now eat—come on, don’t be stubborn, ma chère, it doesn’t suit the kind of woman you are.”

  Oh God, he was torturing her! Ginny found suddenly that she could not remember when she had last eaten, and the smell and sight of all this food made her feel positively faint from hunger. The practical part of her mind came to her rescue by whispering, What difference will it make if I eat? It’s all one—he can do whatever he wants with me in any case, and if I’ve eaten it’ll make me stronger. Yes, it can’t really hurt, I must be sensible. To let pride prevent me from having a meal that I badly need would be stupid!

  “Don’t frown so thoughtfully! Go on, eat! It’s almost noon, and I’m sure you must be starved. Do you think I always breakfast so largely? No, I had all this ordered especially for you. You see, I’m not so bad and wicked after all, am I now? Eat, and we won’t talk of anything you find unpleasant until after our meal, eh?”

  Ginny felt her stomach begin to cramp and knot and she became quite alarmingly pale, so that the colonel leaned over solicitously and poured her a cup of coffee, dosing it liberally with cream.

  “My dear, this won’t do! Eat up, where are those bright eyes that shot such flaming sparks at me last night? You will never have the strength to resist my blandishments if you don’t have some nourishment, you know!”

  It was all that Ginny could do not to begin to stuff herself immediately. How easy it would be to break her, she thought miserably. All they’d have to do was starve her and she’d capitulate—it was too mortifying! But even as she thought in this strain she was reaching for a still-hot brioche, and the colonel, smiling benevolently, had placed a large slice of the omelette on her plate. With a sigh, Ginny resigned herself. She ate, and true to his promise the colonel said not a word that might upset her—merely helping her silently to more food as her plate showed signs of becoming empty.

  When she protested that she couldn’t eat another bite, and was sipping her second cup of delicious coffee, the colonel decided to entertain her with some of the latest jokes from Paris. In spite of Ginny’s mistrust of the man, she had to admit, reluctantly, that he was a born raconteur. He was so droll—he made everything sound so funny! He gave her a third cup of coffee and continued to tell jokes until Ginny found herself laughing helplessly.

  What’s the matter with me? she thought with a vague pang of alarm, I must be going completely mad! This man has not only insulted and threatened me but he’s made all kinds of improper suggestions, and here I sit like a ninny, laughing at his rather improper jokes!

  A sudden suspicion struck her and she frowned across the table at her droll companion.

  “I’m not usually so silly! Are you sure you didn’t put something in this coffee? I wouldn’t put it past you!”

  “Ah, Ginny, Ginny! I am desolate to think that you would have such suspicions of me! Did you think I’d stoop to putting some—some aphrodisiac in your café? No, no—it’s only Kahlua, a delicious little liqueur they make here in Mexico—I always add it to my coffee. In fact, it is made from coffee. What do you think of it?”

  In spite of herself Ginny giggled again.

  “I think you’re just full of tricks! But you’re funny, too. Aren’t you going to tell me any more jokes?” She blinked her eyes at him archly, with one part of her mind standing aside quite appalled. “Or are you going to try again to seduce me? I warn you, Colonel, it’s quite impossible!”

  “Oho! So it’s impossible, eh? You didn’t say so last night, ma petite, when you snuggled so close to me in bed. What a little tease you are!”

  He reached quickly across the table and caught her wrist, some subtle change in his voice warning her before her befuddled mind could make sense of his words.

  It happened like a nightmare. Her robe falling open in front as she leaned forward across the table, taken by surprise, still giggling in a sort of stupid reflex action. Then the embarrassed cough at the door, making her twist her head around—the French corporal apologizing for not having knocked loudly enough—Tom Beal’s wicked, leering laugh, and—she could not believe her eyes—Steve? What was he doing here? Why was he looking at her in that coldly murderous fashion?

  Ginny felt the blood rush from her head, making her so dizzy that she stumbled backwards into a chair, still staring at him, unable to speak one word.

  The colonel was saying something in a quietly triumphant voice—she did not catch what he said at once because she was noticing that Steve’s wrists were manacled behind him, and there was a bruise along the line of his jaw, and his eyes—dear God, she’d never in her worst nightmares imagined she’d see such disgust, such hate in those same blue eyes that could smile so lazily, so mockingly into hers.

  “And I must say you are to be congratulated, my dear madame. Our plan—your suggestion, I should say—it worked very well, did it not? But on the other hand, why wouldn’t any man come to the aid of such ravishing loveliness? Take him away. You know what to do.”

  Ginny’s clasped hands flew upward to cover her mouth—she was literally petrified, what was the matter with her? Through glazed eyes she saw Steve incline his head sardonically, a cold, twisted smile on his lips.

  “Adios, my lovely wife. I’m certainly glad you’ve suffered no ill-effects from your incarceration.”

  “Steve!” she screamed frantically; “Oh God—no! Steve, please!”

  But her voice came back too late, the door had closed minutes ago, and as Ginny stumbled blindly to her feet, Colonel Devereaux’s arms went comfortingly around her shoulders.

  “I’m sorry, ma chère—it had to be done. Perhaps, if we can make him very angry he will talk, yes? And that will be so much better for us all—” He patted at her hair, pulling her closer and she was so shaken by sobs that she literally could not move, could hardly breathe for the tears that choked her. “We will talk, soon—there, there, have your cry, you need it; and then you will be ready to listen, yes?”

  As she began to cough and retch from the fury of her uncontrollable sobs, Ginny found herself wondering dully if she would ever stop crying—if she could ever learn to bear the complete, utter desolation she now felt.

  36

  Quite a welcome, Steve Morgan was thinking sardonically as they marched him across the sun-baked courtyard. It was almost as if they had been sure he’d come. “Fool! Idiota!” Concepción had screamed at him, and of course she was right. Riding into Zacatecas like a goddamn hero—a medieval knight out to rescue his ladylove. He had always been a cynic about women; why couldn’t he have guessed that Ginny would know instinctively how to take care of herself? And why did the thought that she had spent the night comfortably curled up against the fat colonel in his bed still have the power to make him almost blind with rage?

  Hell, Steve thought now, feeling the rifle barrels jab into his back when he stumbled once, there was really a wry kind of humor in the whole
situation! He’d made a fool of himself, and little Ginny got her revenge, in spades. Fancy coming to her “rescue” only to find that she hardly desired rescuing! No doubt she and the colonel had cooked up the whole scheme while they’d been dancing. And by marrying her so suddenly, he’d only played into their hands further. She deserved admiration for the way she’d waited until just the right time, the right moment. And what singleminded hate she must feel for him—no doubt it would give her real pleasure to see him punished for the way he’d messed up her life. “I’d like to watch you die, very slowly,” she’d flung at him once. It was too bad he’d underestimated her again; and this time, no doubt, fatally for him.

  They had almost reached the far end of the courtyard now, its earth hard-packed from the marching of the Legionnaires who held Zacatecas. No point in resistance…But as he looked up and suddenly realized what they intended to do with him, Steve Morgan could not help a momentary hesitation, nor the crawling of his flesh.

  “What’s the matter, Morgan? Just the sight of it make you nervous? Colonel told me I was to tell you you could save yourself a whole lotta pain if you decide to answer his questions. Me,” Beal’s voice dropped to a soft, gloating jeer, “I hope you stay stubborn. Think I’m gonna enjoy working you over.”

  The two hard-faced Legionnaires who were part of his escort had moved up on either side of Steve, seizing his arms as Beal unlocked the manacles. He had the wild impulse to break free and run for it and fought it back, knowing how Beal would love that. No, there was no point in resistance, not now. The firing squad would have been better, Steve thought grimly as his arms were hauled upward and lashed firmly with wet rawhide to the wooden crossbar. A wide, beltlike leather strap buckled just above the waist pulled his torso flat against the thick-bodied wooden post. The soldiers worked fast, while Beal stood aside grinning his thin-lipped wolfish grin.

  “Ain’t too comfortable now, are you? But don’t you worry none—pretty soon you’ll get to screamin’ and beggin’ so loud you’ll forget everything else. I ain’t worked on a prisoner yet I haven’t broke. Why, you bastard, you’re just going to be praying for that firing squad to put an end to your misery!”

  They left him alone then—“to think about it” Beal said. The heat of the early afternoon sun was like a blow, and it seemed to reflect upward from the sun-seared soil as well. Steve felt the sweat break out all over his body, pouring down his face so that he had to blink it out of his eyes. He cursed his own inanity all over again. He could have been somewhere in the coolness of the mountains by now; circling around to make contact with the ragged Juarist armies under Escobedo, who were even now moving slowly and inexorably towards Zacatecas. And in Mexico City he had heard that Bazaine was calling his armies in; pulling them closer to the capital. “Not a retreat, of course, but a concentration,” his informant had said rather pompously. Why hadn’t Devereaux gotten his orders yet? A matter of time…and he could have waited. If he’d had any sense he’d have thought with his brain, instead of with his gut.

  “But not me—Christ, what a complete idiot!” Steve swore savagely to himself. All he had been able to think about was Ginny—Ginny in prison; Ginny in the hands of men like Devereaux and Tom Beal—hungry and thirsty and frightened. He remembered, unwillingly, the little scene he’d witnessed. The breakfast table with its half-empty dishes; Devereaux still in his dressing gown, and she—she in that robe which did little to conceal the soft curves of her figure. She had been laughing the teasing giggle of a woman sated by a long night of love. But at least she’d had the decency to look white-faced and guilty when she saw him. If he hadn’t known better he’d have imagined there was an appeal in her slowly widening green eyes. The bitch! Why did the thought of her still have the power to cloud his mind and his judgement? Why, even now, did he still want her? And hate her so violently for having succumbed so quickly and easily to another man? Even if it was only to save herself; that’s still no excuse! Does she have to give herself to every man who wants her? Is that what she meant when she threatened to choose her own lovers?

  The sun must be getting to him, Steve thought angrily. He was losing his detachment, all the rationality he had ever possessed. Yes, what he really found hardest to face was the knowledge that slowly, without his realizing it, she had become necessary to him. He, who had prided himself on being a cynic, on never trusting anyone, particularly a woman, he had allowed her to become his only weakness, and it was that thought he found intolerable!

  But at least she needn’t have the satisfaction of knowing that, he told himself grimly. Not even the thought of the pain and torture that now faced him had the same power to affect his mind that she had. Even while one part of his mind mocked himself for childish bravado, he was determined that no matter what they did he wouldn’t cry out—that would be too much, the last straw! She would be watching, she and the colonel; waiting for him to break; but even if he died under their torture he wouldn’t speak.

  The French soldiers flung open the gates that separated their parade grounds from the main square of the village. There was no love lost between the Frenchmen and Mexican Irregulars who strutted through the town as if they owned it, and the townspeople themselves—going about their daily business with sullen-faced resignation. When the French were gone, these same people who pretended loyalty to the emperor and cheered dutifully at the regularly held parades would not doubt run screaming their welcome to the Juaristas.

  The French sergeant who headed the small detail that now marched from house to house, banging at doors, had long ago given up trying to understand the seeming apathy of the people of this land. He had fought in Algiers under the burning desert sun—had fought Arabs, who were the worst and most dangerous enemies in all the world. But of all the places he had been he hated this Mexico the most. You could not trust anyone here—they’d smile into your face, bow their heads politely, and knife you in the back if they ever got the chance. He had marched into villages where he and his men had been greeted with fiestas, like heroes, on the previous night; only to be met with rifle-fire. You could not even trust the little children here. A small boy, carrying a stick of dynamite, had blown up almost a whole platoon of Irregulars, once. What a dirty country—a land of hypocrites. He cursed his luck at having been posted here, instead of to Queretaro, or Mexico City, where at least you could walk the streets and find your amusements without being cursed at from dark alleys and fearing a bullet in your back at every moment. But a man had his duty to perform….

  Sergeant Malaval’s duty, at this moment, was to fetch as many citizens as he could find during this time of siesta to the parade ground—to witness the questioning of a Juarista spy. A public flogging—it was supposed to act as a deterrent to Juarista sympathizers, but hell, he was sure, privately, that more than half the townspeople believed in their El Presidente, anyhow. They would watch, as they had watched executions and other floggings before, and it would make no damn difference. This was a savage land, and life was cheap. Moreover, when they decided to hate, these people hated hard.

  Sergeant Malaval thought only vaguely of the prisoner, left to bake in the sun while he “considered” what lay in store for him. There was no question but that the man would break, in spite of the fact that he had looked and acted different from the usual run-of-the-mill Juarista dogs they captured. He had blue eyes, he’d carried a gun on his hip when they’d captured him—or was it really true that he had given himself up as a substitute for the pretty green-eyed woman the colonel had brought back with him? It did not really matter, after all. Beal, the American counter-guerilla was an expert with what he called a “bullwhip.” Personally, for this kind of punishment, the sergeant preferred the use of the “cat.” It was traditional, at least, and tradition and habit were what kept armies on the move.

  Herding their quota of silent, resentful townspeople ahead of them, the soldiers returned to the courtyard. Time for the colonel’s usual little speech, Malaval supposed, and then the main event. He cur
sed his luck again, having to stand at attention all afternoon in the sun, listening to the unfortunate prisoner’s screams ringing in his ears. He hoped Beal would not take too long to break the man—he could use a nice, long drink.

  The colonel had broken precedent by coming down himself to talk to the prisoner. The fact that he had done so only half-surprised Steve. Colonel Devereaux was a wily man, as well as being a dangerous enemy. No doubt he had some axe of his own to grind—and of course there was the fact that he had made Ginny his mistress. What man could resist the temptation to boast of a conquest like that, especially since she happened, unfortunately, to be Steve’s wife. He had had time to adopt an almost fatalistic attitude by now. What would happen would happen. There was no way he could escape it, so why not face the inevitable with as much fortitude as he could muster? At least, he felt he could maintain an attitude of indifference to the colonel’s inevitable needling. Or could he? The rawhide they’d used to tie him up with had already shrunk in the searing heat of the sun, had stretched his arms upward almost intolerably. Already he could feel the blood trickling down his arms where the strips of hide had cut into his wrists. It was like being stretched on a rack, and soon, to this present discomfort, would be added much more.

  “Well, Señor? Have you reconsidered? I would hate to have to go through with this, all things considered, but you understand, you have hardly left me with a choice!”

  “Are you offering me a choice, then, mon Colonel? What can I possibly give you that you haven’t already taken?”

  Blue eyes clashed with yellow-brown, and Steve’s fluent French mocked the colonel’s rather pedantic Spanish.