by Henke, Shirl
“I know all too well what imperial mercenaries have done in the south. I feared Gran Sangre might not remain standing when I returned, but it has.”
“No thanks to you—or your father. Come, let us drink the last bottle of good French wine from the cellars while I explain what has befallen our once great estate.”
As if on cue, Angelina entered the dining room, bearing a bottle of claret and two fine crystal goblets. Silently she placed the tray on the serving board, then withdrew at Mercedes’ nod of thanks.
“Allow me?” He picked up the bottle and inspected it. “My father had excellent taste,” he said as he poured the rich ruby liquid into the goblets and handed one to her.
“Your father had no money with which to indulge his excellent taste these past years, but that didn't stop him from living as profligately as ever.” The mellow flavor was acrid on her tongue as memories of past years rolled over her.
He raised his glass in a salute, studying her over the rim with those hungry black eyes. “The wine cellar is not all that is depleted, I gather. Hilario told me about the livestock. What happened to the gold table service?”
“Sold to pay taxes. I received a good price in Hermosillo last spring.”
“I see you still have the emeralds. What of the rest of the Alvarado family jewels?”
“I've managed to hold onto the heirloom pieces but some of the larger diamonds had to go, mostly to pay off your father's gambling debts in Hermosillo. There was also the matter of buying medicines and a bull to replace the one butchered by a band of Juaristas.” She took another sip of wine for courage.
He shrugged. “Papa was always impractical, even in the best of times.”
“These are not the best of times.”
He drained his glass and poured a refill. “I'm aware of that, believe me.”
There was grimness in his voice that she did not wish to examine. Instead she accused, “You're just like him.”
“I'm nothing like him,” he replied harshly. The silver irises of his eyes contracted, turning the black centers to small glowing pinpoints. “At least,” he added carefully, “I'm no longer like he was. War has a way of forcing a man to examine his life...if he's fortunate to live long enough.”
“And you obviously were fortunate.”
“Fortune is my middle name,” he replied wryly, saluting her with his glass.
“Shall I have Angelina serve dinner before you drink the last of the wine?”
“By all means,” he replied with a small flourish.
Angelina responded to her summons, carrying in a heavy silver platter heaped with thickly sliced ham, surrounded by fresh vegetables. Lupe assisted her, bringing bowls of condiments and a basket of steaming hot tortillas. While the servants arranged the food on the serving board, he took Mercedes’ arm and escorted her to her seat.
“Allow me?” He pulled out the heavy chair and leaned over her as she slipped gracefully into it. “Your skin smells sweet with lavender.”
The whisper softness of his voice was matched by the warmth of his breath brushing her bare shoulder. “I grow it in the herb garden and dry it myself. It's the only perfume left I can afford.” I sound too shrewish. Too nervous.
“Perhaps the fortunes of war will turn in our favor soon.” He moved around the corner of the table and took his seat before motioning for Angelina to serve them.
“I very much doubt the war will end anytime soon,” she said, breaking apart a tortilla.
“Now that I'm home to assume control of the hacienda, I'll talk to the French commander in Hermosillo about increasing patrols in outlying areas.”
“Don't. All that will do is provoke reprisals from the banditti in the mountains when the French ride off. And imperial soldiers always do ride off, Lucero.”
“Is that a complaint I hear in your voice, my darling wife? You have my word I'll not leave you again for a very long while.”
“You know it would delight me if you did precisely that,” she replied when the servants had left them alone in the big room.
“Perhaps that would please you, but it would not please my mother. Nor Father Salvador. They both reminded me of my duty. Need I remind you of yours?” He studied her intently.
The bite of sweet spicy ham tasted like ashes in her mouth but she forced herself to swallow it. “No one need ever remind me of duty, Lucero. I've devoted my life to Gran Sangre, working alongside the peons, bartering with merchants, negotiating with petty bureaucrats—I even held a French colonel at gunpoint once last year.”
His eyebrows rose in surprise. “You used to be terrified of guns.”
“Circumstances forced me to learn how to use your father's LeFaucheaux double barrel. It takes no great skill to aim a shotgun.”
He leaned back in his chair and studied her with renewed interest. “But it does take nerve. You possess the courage to fire a shotgun, but do you possess the courage to let me touch you without pulling away?”
He slowly reached out and took her hand in his, drawing her closer. She did not resist.
“Your hands are small and delicate—the hands of a lady.” He could see the marks where blisters had formed calluses in spite of her obvious efforts to soften the work-worn skin. Her nails were neatly buffed but far shorter than a lady of her station would normally wear them. The only adornment on her fingers was her heavy gold wedding band with its matching pearl and diamond betrothal ring.
Mercedes felt her pulse race as he examined her hand, holding it in both of his far larger ones, turning it this way and that. She knew the condition of her skin was deplorable, sunburned, dried out, callused. “I told you I had to work alongside the peons. There is scarcely a man younger than sixty or a boy older than twelve left on the hacienda. Those the French haven't impressed have run off to join the accursed Juaristas in the mountains.”
A smile lit his eyes and he replied in a silky voice, “I'm neither an old man, nor a green boy, Mercedes.”
“Nor am I a servant to tend crops and do chores, but I must.”
“I wish I could promise you a whole retinue of new house servants, but I cannot.”
Could he feel the blood beating in her wrist? “I don't expect miracles, Lucero,” she replied, struggling to maintain her calm facade without jerking her hand away from him.
“But you would love it if I were to vanish in a puff of smoke.”
“As I said, I don't expect miracles,” she replied tartly as he finally released her hand.
He threw back his head and laughed. “No, I'll not leave after riding a thousand miles to answer my family's summons.” His expression lost all traces of levity and grew thoughtful. “My father knew he'd failed in his duty. I don't intend to fail in mine.”
This is your opportunity. Take it. “We must discuss that duty, Lucero. In your absence I've had a good deal of time to consider our marriage.” She took a small sip of wine to fortify herself, then met his eyes. He had leaned back in his chair again, studying her with renewed interest.
“What about our marriage?” he prompted.
“For all practical purposes we have none.”
“To some extent that's true,” he conceded. “I've been away, performing my duty to emperor and country. Now I've returned to...perform for you.” He could see the pulse at the base of her throat accelerate. A blush stained her cheeks beneath the golden touch of sun on her skin.
“We're strangers to each other. You can't just ride back into my life after all these years and expect me to welcome you to my bed. I don't know you. I never did know you.”
“Ah, but I did know you—in the biblical sense of the word, at least.” Her blush deepened under his onslaught.
“For a scant three weeks.” Her voice was laced with scorn. “After that, you weren't the least bit interested in doing your duty anymore. I was merely a tiresome encumbrance keeping you from your harlot.”
“I pledge to remedy my inattention to you now, my darling,” he said, trying to see beyond her
anger. Was this vulnerability—hurt, perhaps? Dismissing the thought, he added lightly, “Now that you mention her, how is Innocencia?”
Mercedes sat rigidly straight in her chair, her chin held high, exuding the pride of her illustrious Spanish father, combined with the stubbornness of her English mother. “She'll return from the Vargas hacienda tomorrow, overjoyed to have you back.”
“Which you obviously are not,” he said dryly, waiting to see where this twist in the conversation was leading.
“She desires you in her bed. I do not, which should be apparent to any man not possessing absolute arrogance—or the wits of a flea.”
“I've often been accused of arrogance, never of stupidity, Mercedes. Your desires—or my own, for that matter—aren't the issue. You are my wife, not Innocencia. It's your duty to submit to me and provide Gran Sangre with a legal heir.” He shoved back his chair and stood, staring down at her, watching the pulse in her throat beat furiously. His fingers caressed her hair, taking one shiny golden curl and lifting it free of the combs, letting the light catch it as he rubbed it slowly back and forth against her heated cheek. “I won't find making an heir such an onerous task. I don't think you will either.”
She moistened her lips with the wine but could not swallow any. If only he were not so close, she could think, could speak. Damn him! I've faced armed brigands and not felt this defenseless.
But none of her previous adversaries were her husband. None had the legal and moral power over her that he could command. Unless she convinced him otherwise. Be calm, reasonable. “I've been raised to do my duty, just as my mother did hers.”
“Perhaps that's the trouble—the English don't view life's responsibilities in the same way Mexicans do.”
Her eyes blazed with golden fire. “My mother gave up her home and country to wed my father and follow him back to Spain, then to Mexico. She placed her duty to family above all else.” Mercedes took a swift calming breath, feeling his scrutiny, knowing she must speak now or it would be too late. “Both her example and that taught me by the holy sisters at Saint Theresa's have inculcated a sense of duty in me, Lucero. I've been an excellent steward in your absence. Even before your father fell ill it was left to me to run Gran Sangre, to see that bills were paid, protection secured from the army, crops planted and livestock tended. I've not only been in charge of the household but of the entire hacienda, all four million acres of it.”
“A formidable task for a lone female, even one with your rather startling temerity.” He released the fat shining curl, which bounced softly onto her bare shoulder. He could feel his whole body growing rigid with desire.
She, too, stood up, then walked to the sideboard where a crystal decanter of aguardiente sat. Pouring the potent locally distilled brandy into two tiny goblets, she handed him one, willing her hands to remain steady no matter how she trembled inside. “You're going to be even more startled by my temerity, I fear.” She raised her glass to salute him, then waited until he followed suit and took a drink. “Our marriage was a mistake, but a marriage before God it remains and cannot be undone, no matter how much either of us might wish it.”
“But I don't wish it undone, Mercedes.” Her name fell off his tongue sibilantly, whisper soft.
“Then you well and truly have changed. Before you went away you wanted nothing more than to be rid of your ‘pallid scrawny little virgin’—I believe those were the words you used to describe me to Don Anselmo after our betrothal dinner.”
He winced. “I'm sorry you overheard that conversation. I had no idea, but it's over and done with now. You aren't pallid or scrawny anymore and you certainly aren't a virgin.” He let his eyes linger hungrily at the deep cleft between her breasts where the emerald pendant nestled.
“But I am a stranger to you and you to me,” she countered. “You can force yourself on me—claim your legal rights just as you did on our wedding night, but you won't find me so docile and accommodating now as I was then, I warn you.”
“After I claim my rights, what will you do, Mercedes? Slash my throat while I sleep—bash my brains in with one of Angelina's iron skillets? Or perhaps something more subtle like slipping bits of torvache in my wine to drive me mad?” He held out his brandy glass for a refill, a dare dancing in his black eyes.
“I would appeal to your conscience, if I believed you had one,” she said sourly, pouring him another generous slug of aguardiente. Perhaps she could get him too drunk to perform and win herself one night's reprieve—or drink herself into oblivion so he would leave her in disgust.
Divining her intent, he took one sip, then set his glass aside and reached for the decanter before she could pour herself another drink. “Is overindulging in spirits one of your new vices acquired in my absence?”
“Rather, one more appropriate for your unexpected return,” she muttered beneath her breath, emptying her glass with a delicate shudder. She set it down on the sideboard and turned to face him. “I want time, Lucero. Time for us to become acquainted, time for me to get used to the idea of having a husband.”
“You never expected me to return, did you?”
His bald accusation startled her, but why lie? He seemed to have developed an unsettling knack of seeing through her. “Frankly, no. The war has claimed many casualties. I know life with the contre-guerrilla bands is far more dangerous than with the regular army. Even if you weren't killed, I never thought you cared enough about Gran Sangre to come back for it even in the unlikely event Father Salvador's last letter reached you.”
“And you, Mercedes? Do you care so much about Gran Sangre?”
“It's my home now and its people are my family. I've had neither since my parents died. Being a diplomat, my father was required to travel from country to country throughout my childhood, taking my mother and me with him. The convent my guardian placed me in was merely temporary until a marriage could be arranged. I had thought to spend the rest of my life caring for this place.”
“So this is the ‘foolish notion’ my mother spoke of. Have you told her of your feelings about our marriage?”
“Speak of such an intimate matter with Doña Sofia?” She looked at him as if he'd lost his wits. “No. For her my folly lies in striving to hold this place together on my own. Women aren't supposed to do more than embroider and pray—and bear children, of course,” she added angrily.
“And you want none of that. No husband? No children? A desolate choice for a beautiful young woman…being alone.”
“Being alone doesn't mean one is always lonely, but you've returned to your birthright. All I ask is that you give me—give us—time...before...”
He watched her falter, choking on the final words. Although the audacity of such a request stunned him, he could not help but admire the courage of the woman who had been left to struggle and survive, holding together a crumbling land grant in the midst of a war. “Before I invade your bed and force my husbandly attentions on you?” he finished for her. “Father Salvador would give you a stern lecture for such an impudent suggestion.”
“He has already given me too many to count. One more shall scarcely matter.”
“Very well, I'll grant you a stay of execution for tonight, Mercedes. Truthfully, I'm exhausted. Maybe I'm even feeling a bit benevolent,” he added with a wicked smile.
The look she gave him indicated how much she believed that notion. Suddenly she was exhausted herself, all the fight gone out of her after wresting such a small victory from him. Fighting her own tightly strung nerves during the hours since he had ridden back into her life had left her utterly spent.
“I'll wish you a good night's rest, then.” She wanted nothing more than to run down the hall and bar her bedroom door against him, but steeled herself to deliberately walk past him.
He let her pass, watching in silent amusement as she turned to leave. At the last second an impulse overtook him as her lavender fragrance teased his nostrils. He swept out one arm, pulling her against his chest. His other hand lifted her chin
to meet his lips as they descended to claim hers. A soft mewling protest formed deep in her throat but was swiftly muffled by his hot and seeking mouth.
She felt his tongue brush deftly along the seam of her lips, slipping inside when she gasped in surprise, then retreating. Just as quickly as he had seized her, he released her and leaned back against the heavy sideboard with casual arrogance, his arms crossed over his chest. Those dark wolf's eyes studied her reaction, sensing her confusion.
“Sweet dreams, Mercedes,” he whispered, watching her eyes darken from amber gold to the color of hot molasses. Her fingers curled up and bit into her palms. He knew she itched to slap his face but feared he might renege on his reprieve if she provoked him.
“Good night, Lucero,” she said coldly, turning her back on him and walking slowly from the room, regal as a queen dismissing a courtier.
The walk down the hall to her quarters had never seemed so long. She could sense his eyes on her, dark and fathomless as a starless desert night. Granting her this night was only a whim. She had been a fool to try reasoning with him. Lucero had always been a gamester. This was merely another of his cat and mouse ploys, something to amuse himself with until he tired of seeing her jump this way and that in the futile hope of staving off his attentions in bed.
Perhaps it would have been better to let him come. The sooner he did his duty and planted his seed, the sooner he would tire of her and seek out other women. Innocencia's coarse earthy beauty flashed into her mind, the dark sensuous serving wench entwined in a passionate embrace with Lucero, digging her blunt strong fingers into his curly hair and pulling him down to her in a devouring kiss. Mercedes had caught them in this very hallway a week after her marriage. They had been so wrapped up in each other, they never even noticed her. She had run crying to her dueña. The dour old widow had explained that most men were at heart base, immoral creatures and that she should consider it a blessing if Don Lucero spent his amorous attentions elsewhere.
Mercedes’ youthful pride had been shattered; but in light of how much she detested the methodical disinterest with which he had despoiled her of her innocence, she should have been happy that he did not desire her. Conjugal duty was painful and degrading, yet when she thought of the avaricious hunger in Innocencia's eyes, Mercedes could not help but wonder if her own untutored young body was missing something.
