speech and the local matrons would be likely to liberate her with their hat pins.
He had halfway expected to give her up to Lowndes, or somebody else, to be put under Presidential guard. But Polk wanted nothing to do with her, and Lowndes would do little without orders. Geoffrey obviously expected him to continue watching her and feeding her, and to take the blame if the story got out. Of course, Lowndes didn’t care about the difficulties ensuing from the fact that he, a notorious bachelor, was keeping a woman who was not his wife locked up in a house full of gossipy servants. Or from the fact that Christina was not the kind of woman to remain intimidated and docile for long. He merely expected Michael to deal with any problems that might arise, discreetly.
Michael raked a hand savagely through his hair, the scowl on his face deepening. What type of woman was Christina, really? As hard as he tried, she could not be pigeon-holed. His thoughts wandered unwillingly to the episode in her bedroom earlier this morning. Christina was no hoyden, but neither was she as frigid as he had figured. He knew she had enjoyed his kissing; for a few moments at least her taut, unwilling response had proven too strong for her disgust of his lovemaking, and she had reciprocated his efforts. Until he had gone too far, and scared her into a puritanical panic. Which left him to wonder what kind of idiot her Mexican husband had been. Had he hurt her, or just bored her? This morning she’d acted like a virgin, pushing and struggling with remarkable strength. Yet, after enduring several years of marriage, and to an arrogant Mexican, no less, Christina must be used to a man’s embrace. The lady was a mystery for some man to solve.
Some other man. Although Michael realized he was fascinated by her; by the contrast of coolness outside and the hint of fire within. It amused him to provoke her temper, to watch her shed her high-bred reserve and all but spit hatred at him. She was as complicated as she was lovely, and something - it must be that - drew him. Like the steep rocky peaks in Mexico where his silver lay concealed, requiring patience and a little blasting to bring it out . . . Christina’s angry coldness aroused his inquisitiveness. He wanted to dynamite through her hard shell to drag out her real emotions. He wanted to make love to her.
Fortunately, he knew better. She was not Leaping Spirit: Renata as she was now called, his Indian mistress, the sometime inhabitant of his ranch house in Texas. Leaping Spirit came and went freely, and gave of herself with an innocent primal intensity. She wanted to more of him than he gave her, which was merely a few days of his company every few weeks. Christina would demand more. And he had no intention of ever allowing any female the power to make demands, period.
He was glaring out of a window, not even seeing the glorious autumn foliage, when he was caught. The man’s hand touched his on the shoulder - an unwise thing to do to anyone trained in Comanche combat, and Rowan knew better. The young man deserved to be felled to the wooden floor.
“What the devil are you doing here!” Rowan grinned, completely disregarding Michael’s dangerous countenance. He knew his cousin well.
“One could wonder the same thing about you. Why aren’t you still in England?”
Rowan’s normally pleasant face screwed into a frown. “Because there’s a war on, that’s why, and you know damn well I wouldn’t miss it. Even if you did write to Mother to keep me there - which I do not appreciate, by the way.
“I’m not interested in what you do or don’t appreciate. I wanted you to remain in England with your Mother, you idiot - to keep her out of the way. I suppose she came with you?”
Rowan’s dawning blush and appalled expression gave Michael his answer.
“You’re a selfish bastard, Ro.”
“Well, really, Mike, I suppose I just didn’t think. We were hearing the wildest stories in London . . . and
He had halfway expected to give her up to Lowndes, or somebody else, to be put under Presidential guard. But Polk wanted nothing to do with her, and Lowndes would do little without orders. Geoffrey obviously expected him to continue watching her and feeding her, and to take the blame if the story got out. Of course, Lowndes didn’t care about the difficulties ensuing from the fact that he, a notorious bachelor, was keeping a woman who was not his wife locked up in a house full of gossipy servants. Or from the fact that Christina was not the kind of woman to remain intimidated and docile for long. He merely expected Michael to deal with any problems that might arise, discreetly.
Michael raked a hand savagely through his hair, the scowl on his face deepening. What type of woman was Christina, really? As hard as he tried, she could not be pigeon-holed. His thoughts wandered unwillingly to the episode in her bedroom earlier this morning. Christina was no hoyden, but neither was she as frigid as he had figured. He knew she had enjoyed his kissing; for a few moments at least her taut, unwilling response had proven too strong for her disgust of his lovemaking, and she had reciprocated his efforts. Until he had gone too far, and scared her into a puritanical panic. Which left him to wonder what kind of idiot her Mexican husband had been. Had he hurt her, or just bored her? This morning she’d acted like a virgin, pushing and struggling with remarkable strength. Yet, after enduring several years of marriage, and to an arrogant Mexican, no less, Christina must be used to a man’s embrace. The lady was a mystery for some man to solve.
Some other man. Although Michael realized he was fascinated by her; by the contrast of coolness outside and the hint of fire within. It amused him to provoke her temper, to watch her shed her high-bred reserve and all but spit hatred at him. She was as complicated as she was lovely, and something - it must be that - drew him. Like the steep rocky peaks in Mexico where his silver lay concealed, requiring patience and a little blasting to bring it out . . . Christina’s angry coldness aroused his inquisitiveness. He wanted to dynamite through her hard shell to drag out her real emotions. He wanted to make love to her.
Fortunately, he knew better. She was not Leaping Spirit: Renata as she was now called, his Indian mistress, the sometime inhabitant of his ranch house in Texas. Leaping Spirit came and went freely, and gave of herself with an innocent primal intensity. She wanted to more of him than he gave her, which was merely a few days of his company every few weeks. Christina would demand more. And he had no intention of ever allowing any female the power to make demands, period.
He was glaring out of a window, not even seeing the glorious autumn foliage, when he was caught. The man’s hand touched his on the shoulder - an unwise thing to do to anyone trained in Comanche combat, and Rowan knew better. The young man deserved to be felled to the wooden floor.
“What the devil are you doing here!” Rowan grinned, completely disregarding Michael’s dangerous countenance. He knew his cousin well.
“One could wonder the same thing about you. Why aren’t you still in England?”
Rowan’s normally pleasant face screwed into a frown. “Because there’s a war on, that’s why, and you know damn well I wouldn’t miss it. Even if you did write to Mother to keep me there - which I do not appreciate, by the way.
“I’m not interested in what you do or don’t appreciate. I wanted you to remain in England with your Mother, you idiot - to keep her out of the way. I suppose she came with you?”
Rowan’s dawning blush and appalled expression gave Michael his answer.
“You’re a selfish bastard, Ro.”
“Well, really, Mike, I suppose I just didn’t think. We were hearing the wildest stories in London . . . and
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