Page 35 of Sweet Savage Love

35

G inny had not been able to sleep at all in spite of the fact that the colonel’s quarters boasted a surprising degree of luxury, and his bed was wide and soft. Colonel Devereaux had, in fact, been surprisingly kind and considerate once they had left the lights of the Sandoval hacienda behind them.

She must not worry too much, he told her, patting her hand in an unexceptionably paternal manner. “We all lost our tempers, but these matters have a way of working themselves out. Don’t think I blame you, my dear young lady—your loyalty to that no-good ruffian is really admirable.” He had added more softly, “But does he deserve it, eh? Does he appreciate what a brave wife he has?” Almost to himself the colonel added under his breath, “We shall see—yes, we shall see.”

He had maintained an amiable flow of talk, only occasionally interspersed with admonitions that she really must be sensible, she must see her loyalty was misplaced—she must understand that she had placed him in a very embarrassing position by her stubborn refusal to speak. “In front of that young capitaine of the Legionnaires too—it was really too bad of you, madame, you left me with no alternative, surely you can see that?”

For the rest of the time he asked her only questions that good manners forced her to answer—questions about her father and stepmother, and about the people she had met in New York and Washington. Once, he shot her a sharp look as he mentioned that Michel Remy, his wounds healed, had obtained Marshal Bazaine’s grudging permission to join a fighting regiment; leaving the comparative safety and luxury of Mexico City in order to battle the armies of Diaz and Escobedo.

Ginny stirred restlessly, throwing the covers off her suddenly overheated body. She felt her head throb pitilessly.

What time was it? How long had she lain here with her thoughts torturing her? All night long—or what had remained of the night when they reached Zacatecas. By the time they had arrived at the French headquarters the feeling of trancelike unreality that had kept her isolated from these distastefully unpleasant circumstances had begun to wear off. It had been all she could do to keep her lips from trembling, to maintain an air of haughty disregard. She had even had the almost overwhelming temptation to burst into tears.

But in the end Ginny had maintained her self-control by sheer effort of will, pushed on by her pride. She had even managed to thank Colonel Devereaux for the use of his quarters and the loan of a nightshift and robe belonging to his young wife.

“Sometimes she surprises me by riding down here to spend a night or two with me,” he had confessed, his eyes twinkling. “A very passionate young woman for her age, my little Dona Alicia…”

Ginny had not felt in the mood to make any comment.

Now, the thought that she lay in the colonel’s bed, that very same bed he had shared so many times with his wife, gave her an indefinable feeling of disgust.

What’s going to happen? What does he really intend to do? White-hot bars of sunlight slanted through the closed shutters, and imagining the heat outside made Ginny feel slightly sick. The reflected glare of the sun made her headache worse, and hearing the French bugles a few hours ago, as the soldiers drilled in the courtyard below, had done nothing to help her impression of being somehow marooned, here in this hot little room.

Ginny sat up with an effort and reached thankfully for the small water carafe that a sullen-looking Mexican woman had left by the bed. The water was tepid and tasted horrible, but it helped the intolerable dryness of her throat.

How absurdly theatrical this all is! Ginny thought suddenly. Any minute now, I’ll wake up and find I’ve been dreaming, and I’ll laugh and tell myself what an absurd dream it was. She was reminded forcibly of the Opera in Paris—some of those melodramatic plots that had never failed to make her giggle at their sheer improbability. But here she was, actually involved in a plot that rivalled that of any play she had watched!

Only last night she had been married, abandoned by her husband, and arrested as a revolutionary! It was really too comical! The thought that Steve might even consider giving himself up to save her she brushed aside as being absurd. Steve wasn’t the nobly unselfish type at all. He was cold, hard, ruthless and completely calculating. By now, he was probably several miles away, congratulating himself on having arranged matters so cleverly. He’d married her and gotten rid of her—and if he happened to hear what had taken place afterwards he’d probably laugh. Yes, no doubt he’d be vastly amused to think of how the tables had been turned on her. That she would have to be the one to pay for his crimes.

Ginny found herself wondering again what would become of her. Was this room to be her prison? Would they question her again? Was it possible that Colonel Devereaux would really go so far as to execute her as an example? No—no, of course he would not dare! Don Francisco would undoubtedly get in touch with all his most powerful friends—with her father as well. She’d be saved—but did the urbane colonel intend to give her that much time?

She had a sudden, unwanted vision of Steve’s dark, unsmiling face—the way his hard blue eyes could suddenly soften when he was in a tender mood, or become piercing and darker when he was angry. He had been angry last night and she had been delighted to think that she might actually have made him jealous. Such a ridiculous thought. She meant nothing to him, except as a convenient plaything—an object for the slaking of his masculine desires, no more.

There was a rattling at the door, and Ginny swung her legs over the side of the bed, reaching hastily for the robe she had tossed on the chair beside it.

“Senora—con su permiso…”

The Mexican woman came hurriedly into the room, telling Ginny that she must come with her at once, el colonel desired her company downstairs.

“But—but I’m not dressed yet! My gown, where is it?”

The gown had been taken to be pressed, and the colonel must not be kept waiting. The robe would do, and the Senora must come at once.

Ginny was reminded, forcibly and unpleasantly, that she was, after all, a prisoner. She looked at the woman’s hard face and noticed for the first time that she looked like a female warden. That stocky, strong body, the muscular arms…no doubt she’d be dragged downstairs like a common criminal if she hesitated. Better to cling to what shreds of dignity and pride still remained.

Although her face was flushed with humiliation and pentup anger, Ginny stood up silently and tied the sash of the robe tightly around her waist. There was no time to do more than drag her fingers through the tangled mass of her hair before the woman grasped her arm with strong, bony fingers and led her outside.

Two French soldiers who had been standing just outside the door snapped to attention as she passed them, carefully averting their eyes from her obvious deshabille. Ginny could hear their heavy boots clattering down the narrow stairs behind her, through the sudden pounding in her ears.

The woman opened a door, pushing Ginny ahead of her, and she found herself in a small, surprisingly bright and cheerful-looking little room, with sunshine pouring in through the windows. How incongruous it all seemed! Here was the colonel himself, informally dressed in a Chinese brocade dressing gown embroidered with fierce dragons. He beamed at her over a table laden with a typically French breakfast that made Ginny’s mouth water in spite of herself. Brioche, fresh yellow butter, steaming, fragrant coffee—an enormous omelette that looked as if it had only just been brought to the table. She couldn’t believe it!

“Ah, come in, madame, do sit down! I trust you slept well?”

Ginny moved forward on leaden feet, hearing the door close gently behind her. What did this all mean? What was the urgency for her being dragged here so summarily?

“It occurred to me that you might be hungry, my dear young lady—I wondered, later, if you had had the time to sit down to supper last night, after all. Come, don’t look so upset! Please do sit down, and we’ll have a nice, informal talk after we’ve eaten, eh?”

He came around the table to pull out a chair for her; as gallantly as if they had been at some formal dinner party. Keeping her eyes fixed on him disbelievingly, Ginny sat down, her hands moving automatically to pull the robe more closely across her breasts.

Colonel Devereaux’s eyes glittered with amusement.

“My dear madame! Why hide such treasures? I assure you, that if I were not such a happily married man I’d do more than just gaze on your beauty, but as it is, I thought we could become friends.”

“Colonel Devereaux!” Ginny tried to put all the scorn she could muster into her voice. “I am surprised, sir, that you would think so.”

“But I’ve jumped to no conclusions, madame, let me assure you! You are a Frenchwoman, yes, there’s no mistaking it this morning—you’re exceptionally charming with your hair loose, if I may say so. Come, chère madame, let us have no more evasions between us, hein? There’s no need to pretend any longer that you’re nothing but a naive little American—we French are a much more intelligent and sophisticated race, are we not? We could help each other. Believe me, you’ll find the emperor’s court at Chapultepec a much more exciting place than the hacienda of Don Francisco, where you’d be followed around by a duenna…. ”

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.