Sweet Savage Love

by Rosemary Rogers

  There was no help offered by the peons who had collected around them—they were murmuring loudly that this was better than a cockfight, and they ought to make a few small wagers on the outcome.

  “I don’t know who the gringa is but she certainly looks like a fighter,” one man said. “Look at the way she holds the knife—it’s plain she knows how to use one!”

  Another man said in a low voice, “La gringa—is she really the wife of el senor? I do not think he is going to like this too much…”

  There was a brief moment’s uneasy silence as the women glared at each other, and then Concepción decided to try for blood. Red lips drawn back from her white teeth, she spat an insult as she lunged forward, the knife blade glittering wickedly. And for just the fraction of an instant its glitter, reflecting into Ginny’s eyes, almost blinded her. It was only instinct, and the warning that the other woman’s hissed invective had given her that enabled her to move fast enough.

  “Olé!” one of the men said softly. The women ignored him, intent on each other.

  As the knife flashed down Ginny whirled and threw her body backward against Concepción’s even as her knife parried. Concepción’s free hand clutched air as Ginny’s left hand chopped viciously downward. The knife flew out of Concepción’s numb fingers—she started to fall and found her wrist caught firmly as Ginny bent over, allowing the momentum of Concepción’s forward movement to help her throw the young woman so that she landed a few feet away with a thud that knocked the breath from her.

  When she knew what was happening next, Ginny was kneeling over her with a knife blade at her throat—knee digging painfully into Concepción’s belly.

  “Make one move and I’ll gladly slit your evil, lying throat,” Ginny said through her teeth. Through the blood pounding sickly in her head Concepción was painfully, shamefully aware that the men had crowded close—laughing and making admiring comments.

  “I’ll never give him up!” Concepción sobbed defiantly, her breath coming in loud gasps. “Even if I have to leave here—he will come looking for me—he’ll leave you—if he doesn’t kill you first for what you’ve done to me—”

  “In that case, bitch, maybe I should kill you first and feed your body to the vultures!”

  Concepción could read absolutely no mercy in those cold green eyes that glared down into hers, and she began to scream wildly.

  “This woman is crazy! She’d kill me—”

  “Maybe I should just carve up your face a little, eh? Maybe that’ll keep other women’s husbands from taking too much notice of trash like you in future!”

  “No—no! Paco, help me!”

  Paco himself could hardly believe that this woman was Ginny—this raging virago who could speak so coldly about scarring another woman for life!

  “Ginny—damn it, you’re going too far! Now let her up!”

  “Not until I’ve heard her promise to leave here and leave Steve forever!”

  Before Paco could move a muscle Ginny had used her knife to scratch a thin, oozing line across Concepción’s heaving belly. The girl closed her eyes and shrieked like a madwoman.

  “You shut up and swear you’ll leave my husband alone or I’ll really mark you good!” Ginny threatened.

  “I swear—yes, I swear! Take her off me! Help me!”

  “Ginny!” Paco bellowed, moving forward.

  But Ginny was already springing back to her feet.

  “Since you’re so concerned about snivelling little Concepción there you’d better get her out of here fast.”

  She turned on the other men, who all stepped backward with something between awe and admiration on their faces.

  “So! You all thought it was a real sport, didn’t you? I hope you had the sense to put your bets on the right one, that’s all! And now—what are you still staring at? You never saw a gringa before? Maybe I should go find your wives and tell them how you’ve been gaping.”

  “Señora—no—we beg the Señora’s pardon.”

  One man, bolder than the rest grinned and said, “Well at least I had the sense to put my money on la patrona here—no offence meant, patrona!”

  She began to laugh, hearing herself called patrona for the first time under circumstances like these—also the man had a bold and somewhat engaging grin for all that he spoke quite respectfully.

  “Well—I suppose we’ll all make each other’s formal acquaintance later,” Ginny said pointedly to the men after a minute. But her laughter had taken away some of the sting of her words and she found them all grinning back at her with friendly respect.

  “You’ll need some help up at the house, patrona—we’ll send some of our women up after a while,” one of the men offered. “Yes. But please don’t tell them too much about the—the fight, patrona!” Another one chimed in.

  “Better help him take care of her first!” Ginny pointed to where Paco was trying to comfort a sobbing Concepción.

  Then she turned and walked, with all the dignity she could muster in torn clothes and bare feet, up the steps that led to her estancia, taking the now-howling baby from the shaky arms of the old man who still stared at her as if he could not believe his eyes.

  47

  “I must say that I no longer feel quite as uneasy as I did about leaving you here alone to face that husband of yours,” Paco Davis commented later that day. Already dressed for travelling again, he sat across from Ginny at the small table she’d ordered brought into the patio so that they could eat outdoors and enjoy the coolness of approaching evening.

  “I told you that I was quite capable of taking care of myself!” Ginny retorted tartly. “But I do have my doubts about you—travelling all the way to Vera Cruz with that gypsy bitch on your hands. Better watch that she doesn’t stick a knife in you while you’re asleep!”

  Paco paused to stare at Ginny reproachfully, his tortilla halfway to his mouth. “Do you have to hurt my feelings, niña? I would have preferred your company, quite frankly, but alas, since you’re married to a friend of mine I think I got quite a good bargain—all in all! Besides, don’t worry, I think I can manage to make Concepción forget about Steve in not too long a time—what do you think I am, a goat in the matter of lovemaking? Yes, I’ve managed to leave my share of happy women behind, you know!”

  Ginny began to laugh rather wildly. “Oh, Paco—I have a feeling I’m going to miss you—you’ve been a good companion. I only hope…” she broke off, biting her lip, and he changed the subject quickly and tactfully.

  “Hey, you know what? I can hardly recognize this old place since you’ve been cleaning up all afternoon! It takes a woman with real energy to accomplish so much in such a short time! What do you think of your new home now, eh?”

  Her face softened. “It’s like a dream! I kept pinching myself, telling myself it’s really mine! I do love it all, Paco—the rooms are so big and so cool inside—did you know the walls are more than a foot thick everywhere? And this patio—with those vines growing down over the old walls and the smell of all the flowers—wait until after you see it again!”

  “So you are going to enjoy being a little housewife, eh? This I can hardly imagine, I must confess! I will drop back for sure as soon as I can—you’ll save a guest room for me?”

  “Mi casa es su casa,” she said seriously, her eyes shining into his. In spite of her simple clothes he thought she seemed like a great lady, aglow with beauty and an inner excitement.

  If Steve does anything; if he hurts her, I’ll see to him myself! Paco thought suddenly—surprising himself with the thought.

  “Well,” he forced himself to say lightly as he took a last deep swallow of wine, “guess I had better get on that trail before it gets too dark. I have to be in Vera Cruz within three days. You won’t forget everything I’ve been telling you? Or your promise to Bishop?”

  “I remember everything,” she said quietly. And then, surprising him with the admission, “I’m afraid, Paco! But I won’t let him see it. And don’t worry, I’m certa
inly not going to try and cling if I’m sure he doesn’t want me. It’s just that I have to be sure, one way or another, about him. Because I know about myself.”

  He got up and came to bend over her, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

  “I know, niña. But you take care of yourself all the same. Don’t let him—oh hell, it’s none of my business, sí? But you remember—I’m your friend. Any time.”

  She called softly after him, “Vaya con Dios, Paco.” After he had left, striding almost angrily away without a backward look, she went back into the house to help Salvador light the lamps.

  It became cold enough, late at night, to warrant a small fire in the bedroom Ginny had chosen for her own. By about eleven o’clock, she was so tired that she turned down the last lamp that still remained lighted in the house—the one in her bedroom.

  Only the light from the small fire she had made brightened the room, throwing strange leaping shadows on the walls and ceiling. I shall never be able to fall asleep tonight! Ginny thought, moving restlessly in the big bed. Too big to comfortably fall asleep in alone—but in her rage this afternoon she had been determined to use nothing that Concepción had used—to keep nothing around that would remind her of the gypsy woman and her casual assumption of belonging here.

  The first thing that she had done was to clear everything out of the room that Concepción had obviously shared with Steve.

  “It’ll do as a storeroom for the moment, I suppose,” she had remarked carelessly to Salvador; and they had proceeded to pile all the old and broken bits of furniture in the center of the room.

  Ginny’s arms and legs ached with the effort she had made to make at least part of the old house more presentable. But after all, it’s mine, she kept telling herself to ward off the unpleasant feelings she had experienced when she saw that bedroom—Concepción’s bright, pretty clothes scattered all over it; and the rather narrow bed which would force two people sharing it to lie very close together. It felt so strange, suddenly, to be competing for the favors of her own husband—to wonder how he would greet her unexpected appearance here. Would he give her a chance to explain?

  The thoughts went round and round in Ginny’s head while she lay in bed and stared at the fire. Yes, what will he do when he finds me here instead of Concepción? She felt suddenly quite chilly, and pulled the blanket over herself. The sheer, silk and lace shift she had smuggled here in the small bundle of possessions Paco had permitted her to bring along was scarcely any protection against the cold. With the last thought, Will I succeed in making him forget the past? she fell asleep quite suddenly—worn out from her exertions that day.

  The crashing noise the door made as it was kicked open to smash against the wall on its hinges woke Ginny with a start so that she sat bolt upright in bed, almost forgetting where she was.

  “What in hell is going on here? There’s not a light in the house and I almost broke my neck bumping against that pile of furniture you left in the bedroom. What kind of fancy notions have you developed now?”

  She’d know that voice anywhere—harsh, full of anger—and suddenly, now that he was here and in the same room with her, obviously mistaking her for Concepción, she found that her throat was too dry to utter a single word. She simply sat there, staring as he walked over to the fire and dropped more wood on it, kicking it so that the flames flared up suddenly. She noticed that he seemed taller than ever—the glint of the bottle he carried in his hand and was now tipping up to his mouth as he swallowed—that he wore a loosely fitting pair of peasant’s trousers and a white camisa, open at the chest—and then at last he turned to snarl something else at her and froze.

  Her eyes hung on his, watching the thunderstruck expression on his face begin to turn slowly to black, dangerous fury as he recognized her. She drank in every detail of his appearance while they continued to stare at each other in silence. His black hair was slightly longer than she remembered seeing it last, and the dark thick sideburns had been allowed to grow almost to the jawline to meet the downward, somehow villainous curve of a closely-cut Mexican style mustache. It only emphasized the lean, reckless face with those hard blue eyes that were just as startling against his sun-browned skin.

  His eyes, narrowing, seemed to pierce her like daggers. Without a word, he tilted his head back and drank again from the bottle he carried—wiping the back of his hand across his lips when he had finished. And because he still had not spoken Ginny began to think, desperately, I must say something—anything—I can’t bear to have him look at me like this.

  But in the end, when she opened her mouth, all that emerged was his name, in an imploring whisper—all the cool, rational words she had been preparing all these days had fled from her mind.

  “Steve—” she whispered, “I…”

  “You!” His one word, full of contemptuous rage, slashed across her faltering speech like a knife thrust. He continued in the same hateful tone, “Por Dios! I had a feeling my evil genius was at work today! First I have a run-in with two separate troops of counter-guerillas, and then find you—here, of all places!”

  His anger seemed to reach across the room at her, making her shrink back quite involuntarily when he took one forward step—then stopped himself abruptly.

  “Am I supposed to be honored by this surprising visit? Madame du Plessis—the highest priced cortesana in all of Mexico City—the woman who threw over a French count for a Mexican colonel. The barefoot, sensual dancer at Maximilian’s private parties—my wife, the whore!” He began to laugh cruelly at the flush that came up in her face. “Can you still blush? You never cease to amaze me, madam. So here you are—” his harsh laughter jarred on her already exacerbated nerves, so that her hands flew up to cover her ears as she shrank from it. “I must say that I almost admire your cool effrontery! What kind of dirty trick do you have hidden up your sleeve this time? Do you have soldiers hidden in every room here to take me? Or perhaps you planned to do it all yourself—do you happen to have a gun concealed under that pillow? What’s the matter, madam, what’s happened to that sharp tongue of yours? I’ve never known you to be so silent!”

  Sheer desperation made Ginny find words to defend herself with—any words, just so she could make him stop his scathing, blistering attack on her.

  “Must you attack me so cruelly without even giving me a chance to defend myself? Must you always believe the worst of me? Oh God, Steve—if you’ll only listen to me, give me a chance…”

  “Chance, madam? Chance for what? To betray me again? To gloat over your own cleverness as you were doing the last time I saw you? Damn you for the lying little bitch you are! No. I’ve had my bellyful of your lies and deceit—as you ought to know, by now! Why did you come here? What made you tear yourself away from the many delights of Mexico City? What in hell did you want this time?”

  He had emptied the bottle in his hand before she could reply, and now with a vicious, sweeping gesture he sent it smashing against the wall, breaking into a thousand tiny shards that lay glittering like drops of blood on the floor.

  As if his action had broken a spell Ginny came to her feet, facing him, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

  “Are you actually going to give me a chance to explain? Your Mr. Bishop sent me with a message for you. Paco brought me here…”

  “Paco! By God, does your outrageousness know no bounds? Did you manage to seduce him too? And Bishop—he must be crazy! To trust you, of all people.”

  “You—you’re as pigheaded and as insufferable as you always were, Steve Morgan! Don’t you realize that I believed you were dead? Don’t you realize that Devereaux played a little game with us both that day—that he tricked you into believing I’d conspired with him to—to—oh God! If I became a whore, then the first time was for you, Steve. He promised to save your life if I—”

  “To save my life! Is that what you call that prison you had me sent to? You dare call that living hell life?”

  “Steve! Only listen to me…”

  “N
o!” He flung the word in her face like a slap. “There is nothing you can tell me that I want to hear—Madame du Plessis. If you value your own rotten life I advise you to take yourself out of my sight—you can damn well spend the rest of the night writing out any message you have for me because I swear that if I have to spend one more second looking into your lying whore’s face I’ll break your neck!”

  Instead of running from the look in his eyes, she went straight to him on her bare feet, and put her arms around his neck; clinging with a strength that he found amazing, even in the midst of his own blind rage.

  “I came here because I love you, Steve. Kill me if you want to—do anything you please—it doesn’t matter.”

  His hands went round her throat with an almost animal growl of rage, choking the words from her, as he planned to choke all the breath from her body. She saw sparks of light begin to dance before her eyes as his fingers began to tighten very slowly, his voice coming from a distance.

  “This is what I dreamed of doing with you, you whore! From that moment when I saw you in Orizaba, dressed all in white like an angel—so pure outside, so corrupt inside—did you know I was watching you with the rest of those wretched, chained felons who stood shivering in that ditch filled with dirty, stinking water while you passed by, laughing so gaily when your newest lover kissed your little hand? You should not have come here, Madame du Plessis!”

  She realized, dimly, that he intended to kill her—that he was slowly and inexorably choking the life from her. But instead of struggling to be free some deep-seated instinct made her lean her body limply and heavily against his while with the last remaining strength that remained in her she desperately pulled his head down to hers.

  She seemed to be offering her white throat to his strangling hands like a sacrifice as her head tilted back. Unable to utter a sound, her parted, gasping lips seemed to fasten themselves to his.