Did she really love her husband that much? How much? Maybe there was still a way he could achieve everything he wanted, without having to suffer any consequences…yes, it was not for nothing his brother officers would sometimes laughingly refer to him as “the old fox” or “that wily devil, Devereaux.”
An idea came to him, and he made an abrupt signal of the arm to Sergeant Malaval, who had been waiting, since they revived the prisoner, with an impassive face. Malaval wanted orders, did he? And those cowlike peasants down there, they waited to see what el colonel would do. No doubt Esteban Alvarado waited too—he hoped he was bemoaning his fate, that his flesh cringed with anticipation. Yes, he could show them all that stubbornness didn’t pay—she, this trembling, weeping creature at his side, she’d find that out too.
The sergeant had come up closer and stood at attention, his face tilted upward, eyes squinting against the glare.
Devereaux barked out staccato orders in French, and even before Malaval had saluted smartly and pivoted around, the girl was staring up at him with wide, unbelieving eyes that were drenched with tears.
“No! Not that—for God’s sake, I beg of you, have pity!”
He forced his voice to be stern, although he triumphed inwardly.
“And why, madame, should I have pity? He’s a spy—he’s threatened me and you have threatened me. A colonel in the French army, madame, does not flinch away from threats in the execution of his duty.”
She flung her body towards his, the tears slipping down her cheeks as she implored him again to be merciful.
“Please—oh, please! I swear to you, I’ll say nothing—I’ll do anything you tell me to do—I’ll do anything, anything, only—”
“A pity they have no Devil’s Island for our criminals here. Come, madame, what an exhibition! Perhaps your husband will put up a better show, eh?”
She opened her mouth to scream wildly and he bent down swiftly, clapping his hand over her lips.
“No! We’ll have no more hysterics, if you please! I thought you had more spirit.” His voice softened as he forced her eyes to meet his. “Perhaps, if you’ll do as you’re told, we can strike a bargain, after all. I’m really a softhearted man, I have no stomach for a woman’s tears. Will you be reasonable? Will you listen now?”
She nodded dully, and he removed his hand, fingers going up to stroke his jaw.
“I’ll do anything,” she murmured as if he had mesmerized her. “Yes, anything you say. Don’t let them kill him! For God’s sake, spare his life at least!”
“Stand up!” His voice snapped the command. “You’ll stand up straight beside me here and watch your husband branded with the mark of the fleur-de-lis—the way we brand our incorrigible prisoners in France. One shriek, one protest from you, and I’ll have them repeat the performance, as many times as necessary, until you will hear him screaming like a maniac as he prays for death to release him. Do you understand me, madame?”
She nodded her comprehension like a puppet, a wooden, lifeless doll, her face white, shining with small beads of sweat under the pitiless glare of the sun. But in the end the colonel had to assist her to rise; she seemed incapable of movement, the only signs of her emotion now showed in the stiffness of her carriage and the wide, staring green eyes that still beseeched him.
Quelle femme! Devereaux thought again, admiringly. In spite of her obvious distress she had enough pride left to stand motionless, knuckles gleaming whitely as she clutched onto the hot iron railing before her. He thought he would take a great deal of pleasure in forcing her ultimate submission—even more in taunting her with the fact that she was willing to turn whore in return for her husband’s life. Ah, she wouldn’t be so proud then, there’d be no more threats, no more insults! His desire swelled, so that he had to tear his eyes away from the tempting curves of her woman flesh and look out again over the parade ground.
They were heating the iron. He could not resist pointing this out to her, and put a falsely solicitous arm around her waist when she swayed slightly.
“Come!” he said in an overly sympathetic voice, “they are almost ready, it will not take long. My men are experts—the sergeant will perform the task himself. We brand horses and cattle every day, surely you’ve watched it yourself?”
“Please!” she whispered in a choked, hoarse manner, and he smiled. It would do her good to stay here with him and watch her husband treated like a common criminal. Perhaps it would make him less of a hero in her eyes, after all. The application of a red-hot iron often had the effect of making pleading, grovelling wretches out of the strongest men.
He hoped that the prisoner would look up and see his wife—believe that she was here in order to enjoy the spectacle of his public humiliation. Yes, perhaps that thought would help vanquish his damned stiff-backed criolla pride!
Frowning slightly, Devereaux admitted to himself that after all, he hated the gachupínes, who called themselves criollos, and prided themselves on their pure European descent. Damn criollos, thinking themselves better than anyone else, even the Frenchmen who were here to help them and keep the emperor they had wanted perched on his precarious throne! Haughty, arrogant, proud-faced bastards, with all the airs of the first conquistadores about them still; cocooned by generations of wealth and power, and presuming to treat their own defenders with an overdone politeness that only barely veiled their patronizing attitude!
It felt good to be revenged on one of them at least, for all the slights, all the patient tolerance that he had fumed against for so long. Let’s see how one of the caballeros feels, being treated like a ladron, worse than one of his grandfather’s own peons! Yes, they would see how he despised them all, and especially the big hacendados who lived like kings and thought their power limitless. Men like Don Francisco Alvarado, who could have used the title of Marques had he not pretended a false, “democratic” humility; men like Don Juan Sandoval and his sneering pup of a son; yes, even his own parents-in-law, the Vegas, who were just as rich and just as overbearing. Did they really think that he was so stupid, so blind, that he hadn’t known their lovely young daughter was no longer a virgin when he’d had her? Or that he hadn’t known that was the only reason they had condescended to give her to him for a wife? Damaged goods, to be quickly foisted off on an ignorant Frenchman, who should feel himself lucky he was marrying a Vega! Bah!
Whoever his little Alicia’s lover had been, he’d taught her nothing at all about making love. She was a shrinking, frightened ninny of a girl, and not at all the passionate little siren he liked to imply that she was. Still, he’d desired her at first, because she was very young and pretty and had quiet, ladylike manners. And mostly because she brought with her an enormous dowry which he’d thought would compensate for her lack of a maidenhead. Yes, at the beginning, when the French rode triumphant on the tide of their victories, he had even thought of settling down here, becoming a hacendado himself, with peons slaving for him—accepted by the petit aristocracy of Mexico because he had married one of them. And then, everything had started to go sour.
The tide was turning. The followers of Juarez had proved stubborn, and with the help of smuggled American guns their generals were beginning to win victories of their own. Even Bazaine, that old ex-tiger, was beginning to realize it—he had decided to withdraw his troops towards the central provinces, to “concentrate” as he put it. What humiliation, what madness! But he had to follow orders, even though it went against the grain.
Devereaux frowned, thinking about the dust-covered messenger who had arrived only a short time ago, just before he’d given the orders to begin the afternoon’s entertainment. They were to leave Zacatecas immediately, and march to Durango to reinforce the defenders there. “Leave tonight—the Emperor’s Irregulars will take care of the mopping up afterward—” in essence, that was how his orders had read. That damned criollo down there, who had just been beaten like a dog for his crimes, he had known all this already. “You’ve lost the war. It’s only a matter of time now,�
� he had said in that mocking drawl of his. Didn’t he place any value on his own life, that malcontent? How long could pride stand up to pain and torture, or a brace of rifle barrels staring you in the face? We’ll see, Devereaux thought, we’ll see!
He noticed that Sergeant Malaval was looking up towards him, waiting. Almost imperceptibly he moved his arm, giving the signal to begin. The girl stirred beside him and he tightened his arm around her waist as he heard her hissing, indrawn breath.
“Remember what I told you, madame. No shrieks, no hysterics. And then, when it’s over, you can give me reason, perhaps, to spare your husband’s life.”
Ginny hardly heard what he said, in his softly commanding unctuous voice. In spite of herself, her eyes were glued to the courtyard below, her teeth caught in her lower lip.
If he can stand it, she thought frantically, then I can. I must not scream, I must not give way, or they’ll do worse. Oh God, help me to bear this, help me to bear one more thing, help me to bear my own guilt! Her teeth caught, all unconsciously, in her lower lip, as she tried to persuade herself that this was all a nightmare, that she’d wake up soon to find Steve’s arms around her, holding her close as they had done in the old days when their bodies had sought each other’s warmth, even in sleep.
The sergeant was stirring the coals with the long-handled iron. She could hardly bear to look towards that still, bound figure that was soaked with blood—there was blood everywhere, his back had been torn to pieces by that monster! She remembered with a pang that seemed to pierce her heart the rippling play of muscles slippery with sweat under her fingers when she had clutched at him in the throes of love—yes, love! Why couldn’t she have admitted it to herself before? She had loved him from the very first time he had kissed her so ruthlessly, laughing at her anger—a handsome, hard-faced stranger with the bluest eyes she had ever encountered. Oh God, why had she been so willfully stubborn? He had loved her, she realized that too now, with the force of a mortal blow. It was because of her that he was here now, tortured and perhaps dying. He would not have come back, having made good his escape if he hadn’t cared. We were both too proud to admit it, she thought with a terrible, bitter anguish, and now it’s too late. If they kill him now he’ll die hating me, despising me.
Standing with his boots astride behind the prisoner, Sergeant Malaval was saying in his flat, expressionless voice, “You still have an opportunity to confess, if you are sensible. Juarista dog! Can you hear me? If you do not talk fast, I’m going to be forced to take a hot iron to your sore back, do you understand? Your stubbornness will not last long then, you might as well spare yourself worse agony by being sensible for a change!”
Only half-conscious in spite of the buckets of water they had thrown over him, Steve Morgan heard the words come to him from far away and their full import did not penetrate his pain-fogged mind until he heard the concerted sigh of fear and compassion that went up from the crowd. Strangely enough he wanted to throw back his head and laugh with bitter, furious mirth. How very predictable, how pompous these French were! Such sticklers for old traditions! They were going to mark him with the fleur-de-lis—symbol of France, brand of French criminals. And for what? To leave a scar on his corpse? It was really surprising they hadn’t brought their guillotine over here with them.
Tom Beal had failed, and the good sergeant was taking over. He had heard their muttered argument behind him before Beal had marched away in a rage. And now the sergeant was marching somewhere, tired of waiting for an answer. He could have told him…Steve tried to blink the sweat from his eyes and focus them. He wondered vaguely why Concepción was still here, why her face was so drawn and haggard and had taken on a pasty hue under the tawny-gold skin. Why? Oh, yes, they were going to make him a French criminal, they deserved a gesture in return, a final piece of useless, defiant bravado. He was expected to scream out loud, and he would. It might make them furious enough to kill him off and finish this ridiculous piece of playacting…
Sergeant Malaval had grasped the handle of the branding iron in his gloved fist and now pivoted smartly on his heel, holding the metal rod before him.
No need to spit on it to make sure it was hot enough—the familiar shape of the emblem of France glowed almost white hot. Still holding the iron firmly before him, Sergeant Malaval took a step forward, aimed, and pressed downward, holding it down just long enough to hear the torn, bloody flesh sizzle and burn as the heat seared into it.
The prisoner’s sagging, tortured body had gone rigid as the arms strained to break free and the exposed strips of muscle writhed and jumped with a life of their own.
His eyes closed, face contorted in an uncontrollable grimace of agony, Steve Morgan cried out hoarsely, but it was not the animal scream of pain and fear that Malaval had expected. With the charred flesh already turning black, outlining the fleur-de-lis clearly against the crimson, bloody mess that Beal had left, this stubborn dog had had the unmitigated audacity to shout, with the last of his strength, no doubt,
“Viva la revolución!”
In spite of the presence of a detachment of French soldiers, bayonets fixed to their rifles, a scattered, defiant cheer went up from the crowd. A pretty young woman, whom the sergeant had not been able to help noticing earlier, had the impudence to scream that they were butchers and torturers. An unidentifiable voice yelled, “Mueran los Franceses!”
Malaval looked up uncertainly at the colonel. Damn, he thought viciously, we’re going to have a riot on our hands in a minute if he doesn’t do something. This prisoner’s made himself a hero with his insolent bravado! We ought to shoot him right now and make an end to it. But it was the colonel, after all, who made the decisions around here.
Devereaux leaned over the balcony rail, his voice loud with suppressed anger.
“Sergeant! Get those damned peasants off my parade grounds! Get them out, quickly, and close the gates behind them.”
Malaval snapped to attention.
“Oui, mon Colonel! At once!” He hesitated, and dared to ask, “Mon Colonel—the prisoner—”
“Do as I say, Sergeant! Get rid of that crowd! The prisoner isn’t going anywhere, let him bake in the sun for a while, until I decide what to do with him.”
Saluting smartly, Malaval clicked his heels together and turned, shouting orders at his troop.
“Get rid of the crowd,” the colonel had said. That was easy enough. Faced with threats and bayonets they dispersed like sheep, sullenly. Bunch of dirty, thieving peons! He, personally, would be glad to leave this stinking hellhole of a town. Get to someplace civilized, where a man could relax in a nice cantina occasionally, with a girl and a passable bottle of wine. They said Durango wasn’t too bad. Well, they’d be on their way before nightfall, leaving the Irregulars behind to take care of things.
Malaval wondered, with a certain degree of curiosity, what the colonel was going to do about the prisoner. What a piece of effrontery that had been! The old man couldn’t let him get away with it. But of course, there was the woman. She hadn’t appeared to be a prisoner this morning, when they’d surprised her with the colonel over breakfast; perhaps she was his latest mistress after all.
The sergeant shrugged. It was none of his business. Thank God they’d be out of here before long. He chanced a quick look up at the balcony, and saw it was empty. “So monsieur le Colonel is bound to be busy for a while,” he pondered. Lucky Colonel!
Malaval posted two men in the smart green and white uniform of the Mexican Loyalist armies to stand guard over the prisoner and strode towards his own quarters. He might as well get packed.
38
The shadowed interior of the locked and shuttered room seemed intolerably hot and stuffy. A setting for a bad dream that went on and on endlessly, drawing Ginny into its vortex of horror.
Her fingers felt clammy and numb as she fumbled with the fastenings of her gown. Humiliation piled on humiliation—she had to undress for him, he had warned her that they had made a bargain and she must fulfill he
r end of it with the willing submission of her body. Willing! Dear God, how could this fat, obscenely smiling man who watched her every move so closely think she could ever be willing? He had made it clear what her position in this “arrangement” must be.
“You’ll forgive me, my dear, if we dispense with the little niceties that take so much time? I suppose, like all clumsy soldiers I’ve learned to take my pleasures in a hurry, between wars, so to speak. This afternoon I shall enjoy your lovely body—this evening, it will be a long ride to Durango. I’m sure you’ll give me some very pleasant memories to carry with me! Just remember, ma petite, I’m not the kind of fool you thought I was, am I? And I would never put up with a bad bargain.”
The gown slipped from her body, and Ginny began to tremble. Her body felt like ice, it was all she could do to control the chattering of her teeth.
“Come now, madame! I really must request you to hurry! Remove your shift, I’m anxious to see what treasures lie beneath it.”
Rigid with sick revulsion, her mind still dazed with shock, Ginny found herself complying with his demand. She stepped out of the shift. In spite of the stifling heat outside she felt so cold—so cold! She did not dare look up, she didn’t have the courage at this point when her defeat was complete, to meet those yellow, greedy eyes that must now be devouring every inch of her cringing flesh.
When Devereaux came to her, his hairy, bloated body revoltingly white like a toad’s belly, Ginny felt she must surely scream. Instead, forcing herself to remember the infamous bargain she had made with this monster, she stood quite still and allowed him to push her backwards onto the bed, only the tiny drop of blood that oozed from her lower lip where she had bitten into it revealing her inner agitation and torment.
Sweet Savage Love Page 47
