Lusty Conquest by Lee Richards - Chapter 01

Genre: Historical Fiction / Spanish Revolution

He was the scourge of the rebels and the desire of their women—

He fought and loved with equal gusto...this rugged young American in the French Foreign Legion—torn between a blonde witch of high birth and a firebrand of a girl who danced naked in the local cantinas!

He was Raymond Bryant, a heller from New York in Mexico to support Maximilian against the flaring Juarista hordes.

Marie had followed him from Paris, a spellbinding woman of exotic artistry in love. Antonia would follow him to the ends of the earth and fight to hold him with all the tigress in her.

In battle after historic battle—in a Mexico raging with the war for liberty—Raymond received his baptism of fire, but he had to face a greater inferno—a choice between two women of fire!

CHAPTER 01

Listen to the audio version of Chapter 01

Though the sun glinted off the waters of Vera Cruz bay, the wind was cold, one of those nortes so prevalent at this time of year. It sent a shiver through Armand Briand, despite the thickness of the blue uniform coat, as he stood on the wharf among his companions of the Third Company of the First Battalion of the Foreign Legion. For two years he had known only the hot winds of the Sahara and now he realized how much his blood had thinned.

His brown eyes, wrinkled at the corners by the Algerian sun, looked down the length of the wharf toward the town.

The city stood aloof from these blue-clad French invaders, the buildings showing black walls to the bay. From a tower in the heart of the city, the tricolor whipped in the breeze off the gulf. Troops disembarked from the French transports while warships plied toward the fortress island of San Juan Ulloa.

Sergeant Breche's hoarse command snapped Armand's attention to the heavy pack on his back, the rifle, the bayonet in the scabbard at his belt. He fell in beside Dino Ganelli, Hans Drucker to his left. Captain Danjou passed along the column, his sharp eyes resting momentarily on each man.

Armand heard a command far up the line and recognized Colonel Jeanningros's voice. The command for their own company came at last in Captain Danjou's sharp tones. Rifles flashed, struck the shoulders as the company swung down the wharf and into the town.

At last Armand's boots thudded on the land itself—Mexico. Marching, so much of a Legionnaire's life, required no conscious thought, and Armand let his mind wander, marveling at the strange chain of circumstance that had brought him to this place. For a moment he again became Raymond Bryant of New York City and, two years ago, student at the Sorbonne and ladies' man in the salons of Paris. Long ago and far away.

Now he marched to the stirring rhythm of the Legion's band, his long muscular legs hitting again the stride that had carried him for so many unnumbered miles in Algeria. Life had been full of surprise, danger, and adventure since he had enlisted to save his life from the weapon of some Parisian Apache.

To the north, his own country writhed and bled in a civil war that had raged for two years while he fought for hire at a few francs a day under a flag that meant little to him and for causes that meant less.

Dino Ginelli's sibilant whisper broke into Armand's thoughts. "Dio! The girls are different!"

Out of the corner of his eye Armand saw three women watching them march by. Their hair was long and black, their skins a golden bronze with high cheekbones, full red lips, and black eyes. Loose blouses, trimmed in bright, geometric patterns, and full, colorful skirts certainly made them a sharp contrast to the Ouled Nail dancing girls of Algeria. The company marched on. Girls were the constant thought of a Legionnaire, and it was the lovely body and the soft eyes of a girl in Paris, among other things, that had sent Armand to the Legion. Marie Lascelles was her name, and Armand wondered what had become of her.

A girl and chance, dangerous knowledge had sent the slinking, murdering Apaches on his trail through the dark streets of Paris. So he had entered the fighting anonymity of the Legion, exchanging the certainty of an Apache knife for the fierce, swooping attacks of Kabyle tribesmen. The charge of an Arab horseman, sword drawn and slashing in an honest endeavor to kill lest he be killed, could be faced with more assurance than the silent, deadly strike of a street assassin.

They had penetrated deeper into the city now, but the streets were singularly deserted. Now and then a small knot of spectators watched them, silently for the most part.

A beggar sat on the walk, his cotton trousers and loose shirt filthy, his jaw slack in dull surprise as he watched them march by. An old woman stood silently pressed against a wall.

As Armand came abreast of her, her wrinkled face worked angrily. Then she spat into the street.

An urchin followed them, fascinated, his face alight, his lips pulled back in a smile revealing a gold tooth. Farther on a man and a woman watched from behind the thick iron grilles of a window. The man called a welcome and the woman fluttered a lace handkerchief.

"Ach!" Hans Drucker exclaimed in a low voice. "At least they like us. We will be hated here, Mein Freund."

"Looks like it," Armand commented, his lips barely moving.

The street stretched endlessly ahead. Now and then from a balcony an occasional handkerchief would flutter. On one a pretty, vivid girl watched and suddenly spat angry Spanish.

Pedro Garces, in the file ahead, almost broke step as his head jerked upward. His scowl was dark and thunderous and he called back a phrase that made the girl gasp. She turned, bent, patted her rump in an insulting gesture, and flounced through the doorway. Chuckles swept along the ranks, but Pedro's growl carried to Armand.

"That one! She puts her tongue to filth!"

"Silence!" Breche roared, and Captain Danjou looked over his shoulder, frowning.

The column marched around one side of the plaza and then into the center, under the shade of the trees. Sergeant Breche ordered the men at ease, and instantly the stiffness and precision left the Legionnaires. Dino Ginelli pulled out cigarettes, offered them to Armand, took one himself.

"Dio! It is hot like Naples. Do we fight in the jungles?"

Armand smiled, a slow move of the lips. "Zut! We draw the Emperor's pay. What matters the rest?"

He looked around the plaza. There was a crowd across the way, thickly lining the area before the hotel. Soldiers moved briskly everywhere. Armand saw the uniform of the regular French battalions, and a green uniform that he couldn't place but would later learn was that of Mexico. Once he saw the swirling white cape of the Chasseurs d'Afrique, the famous fighting cavalry of the Sahara dunes.

A gay voice shouted French from the crowd. "Welcome, Legionnaires! But you are too late. We Zouaves have done all the fighting, mes enfants!"

Ribald replies came from the Legionnaires, and other Zouaves shouted back friendly insults. Women appeared, moving casually across the street. They glanced at the knot of officers down the way, deep in conference, then at the soldiers, their ripe red lips moving in slow, evocative smiles. They walked with an easy undulation, tossed their heads, the black hair brightened by flowers.

There was a flurry across the street. A harsh voice lifted in hate. "Go home, Frenchmen! Viva la libertad! Viva la Republica!"

Instantly green-coated soldiers plunged into the crowd, which sullenly parted to let them through. A major turned, noticed the girls who had edged close to the soldiers. He snapped a command at a sergeant, gestured toward the women.

A platoon stepped out. The women hastily retreated into the crowd, but their purpose had been accomplished. Legionnaires would search for them among the cantinas and alleys.

Suddenly a rifle shot made a flat smack that echoed across the plaza. Far to Armand's left a Legionnaire grabbed his chest, half turned, and fell full length. Instantly French guns answered in a rattle of shots and the crowd pressed back to the buildings, broke and fled in blind panic.

Breche's hoarse voice snapped. "Battle order! Hold fire!"

Danjou's dry, crisp voice sounded calm. "Draw bayonets! Fix bayonets! Steady. If the mob charges, fire first over their heads. On my order only."

Armand's bayonet clicked into place and the triangular needlepoint caught a glint of sun through the fronds of a palm. He looked over the rifle muzzle, eyes narrowed, dark face hara and patient. The long line bristled with steel and Armand did not think the crowd would turn into a mob.

There was another flurry of shots and then silence. The crowd dispersed and Armand faced an empty street. He waited, unmoving, rifle and bayonet steady. The silence built up.

Green-uniformed men appeared, dragging a limp body along the street like a sack. The arms flopped grotesquely and the head bounced limply on the stones, From somewhere a strident voice called the Mexican soldiers' traitors and murderers, and three of them raced toward the probable source of the voice. There was no other sound and the Legionnaires waited, immobile. Armand expected further shots, but none came. The squad dragging the body disappeared out of his vision.

Word trickled down the line. "A juarista. Tried for one of our officers. A hothead. He'll cool off now, for certain."

Hans Drucker shrugged beefy shoulders. "There must be a great love for us here in Mexico."

"Looks it," Armand commented dryly.

Hans frowned. "But what is a juarista? I have not heard such a word."

Armand shook his head. "I don't know. But we'll find out."

Orders came to remove bayonets and be at ease. An audible sigh swept down the line as Legionnaires broke formation, passed cigarettes back and forth. Gradually the crowd formed again and traffic resumed. A Mexican dandy rode by, sweeping a gold-braided flat hat in salute to the officers. Sunlight glinted from the silver on trappings. The bold-eyed girls reappeared.

Armand's eyes rested casually on a closed carriage rolling along the street, the matched bays stepping proudly. A woman looked out through the open window. She did not see Armand.

He hastily drew back, though his eyes remained on the carriage as it disappeared around the corner at the far end of the plaza. He felt shock and then exultation.

That heart-shaped face with the dimple in the cheek, the high-piled, golden curls under the chic little hat, the wide violet eyes could only belong to Marie Lascelles! He hardly heard the orders to re-form, but he obeyed instinctively.

What was Marie doing in Mexico?