Bride of Fortune

by Henke, Shirl

  Panic set in at once. Shopkeepers boarded up their businesses, embassies closed, sending their personnel to Vera Cruz for safety, and wealthy families returned to their country haciendas taking coach loads of valuables with them. Everyone in the streets went heavily armed. Few ventured out after dark.

  Rumors of General Díaz's approach from the south with a large Juarista force circulated wildly, causing those who had prospered at the royal court to shudder with fright. Every imperialist sympathizer expected the worst, especially after General Marquez returned to the capital, reporting that a second Juarista army under General Escobedo had the emperor and his forces encircled in Querétaro, trapped and besieged. So hopelessly outnumbered were they that Marquez made no pretense of raising a levy to ride to their rescue. Instead, he set about systematically looting the treasury before taking flight at the approach of General Díaz.

  When Lucero arrived in the city, he noted the deserted streets with unease. A gut instinct told him that he had come too late. The capital had been so ripe for the plucking that Marquez had not needed El Diablo's contre-guerrillas to help loot the government treasury.

  It took Alvarado several days to round up his men from the cantinas and bordellos. Then they rode hard to catch up to the Tiger, whose tail he intended to twist. Riding breakneck over the mountains, they might reach Vera Cruz before Marquez sailed. Lucero would not abandon his dream of a rich life in Argentina so easily.

  * * * *

  Lucero had been gone for nearly a week when the rider arrived with a letter from Nicholas. Mercedes was working in her flower garden with Rosario when Angelina hurried out to hand her the message. The seal on it indicated it came from Durango. With a sense of foreboding, she opened it and began to read. Angelina stood beside her with a worried look creasing her usually serene face.

  “Is it from Papa? What does he say?” Rosario asked excitedly.

  Pinpoints of light danced before Mercedes’ eyes, then everything faded to black. Angelina's strong arms reached out to steady her when she crumpled the paper in her hands and blanched. Dear merciful God, he might die! And she had let him ride away feeling her anger. All over politics. What did that matter now? Let Benito Juarez rule Mexico and welcome, if only Nicholas lived!

  “Are you all right, patrona? Come, sit down.”

  Mercedes let the old cook assist her in sitting beneath the shade of a sumac tree. Rosario huddled beside her in wide-eyed fright. “He's been imprisoned by the Juaristas in Durango. They think he's El Diablo, a contre-guerrilla raider who's done terrible things.”

  “But that was Don Luc—” Angelina stopped short, looking down at Rosario with a horrified expression on her face.

  “The bad man who said he was my Papa? I knew he was lying even though he looked like Papa,” Rosario said, then turned to Mercedes.

  Mercedes held onto Rosario, stroking the child's head. “They're going to execute him, Angelina, unless we can reach an American named Bart McQueen. It may already be too late.” She bit back the sob of hysteria rising like bile in her throat.

  “I will fetch Hilario. He will know how to do this thing,” the old cook said and scurried off in search of the majordomo whom she knew to be a Juarista agent.

  By the time she had located the old vaquero and young Gregorio Sanchez, Mercedes was calmly seated in the library, drawing up a list of instructions for running the household in her absence. She handed them to Angelina when the cook ushered in the two men. “See that Father Salvador receives this. He'll be in charge of Rosario's education and overseeing the big house while I'm away.”

  “But, patrona—the babe—you cannot—”

  “I cannot leave Nicholas to die without going to him!” She turned from the cook to her faithful old majordomo. “Angelina told you Nicholas has been arrested for Lucero's crimes,” she said without preamble, too frightened for her lover's life to even think of the propriety of openly admitting she had taken two men into her bed and carried the child of the one to whom she was not wed. “Do you know how to reach this Bart McQueen?”

  “We will try, patrona,`` Hilario replied gravely. “I will ride to San Ramos and wire Chihuahua City. There are men in the republican army who may know how to find the gringo.”

  Gregorio listened as they discussed the situation with an expression of dawning horror on his face. “I think Innocencia may know where Don Lucero has gone. It was she who betrayed him to me. I'm going to speak with her—wring the truth out of her, if need be! I will bring the real El Diablo to face that firing squad.”

  Hilario crossed himself. “Pray God he can do it. I'll wire Chihuahua about McQueen. He has great influence with President Juarez's generals.”

  “Nicholas rode north to warn Juarez about Mariano Vargas’ plot to assassinate him. Surely your president can stop this travesty,” she said desperately.

  “He would if he could be reached, but he has ridden into the south where heavy fighting goes on now. His location is a well-guarded secret after the last attempt on his life. The American may be easier to locate through our spies.”

  “Who is McQueen, Hilario? How did Nicholas meet him?”

  The old man looked uncomfortable, not knowing how much the patrona knew about the man to whom she had given her heart. “McQueen works for the American president, who wishes to see the Europeans out of Mexico. He has a system of spies across the country. Little goes on, even here in Sonora, that Bart McQueen does not know about.”

  “What hold has McQueen over Nicholas? Lucero told me Nicholas had been a mercenary fighting for the emperor.”

  An unreadable look came over Hilario's dark visage. “Perhaps nothing at all. A man can have a change of heart...the same as a woman, no?” The old man seemed to study the toe of his boot.

  Mercedes felt the heat stealing into her cheeks. “Yes, I imagine that is true.”

  * * * *

  Within an hour, Mercedes was dressed for the long ride to Durango. She had bid a tearful good-bye to Rosario and received Angelina's pledge to watch over the child. Clutching a small travel valise in her hand, she headed across the courtyard toward the stables. She could see Father Salvador rushing to intercept her midway, a confused look on his face.

  In the weeks Lucero spent at Gran Sangre, her love's trusted vaqueros and old Angelina knew that the man who had been so good to them was not the real patrón.

  She was uncertain just when—or if—the priest had discovered the truth. The circumstances of Doña Sofia's death had upset Father Salvador so greatly that he spent most of his time saying masses and praying for her soul. When Mercedes had ceased coming to confession and receiving the sacrament after her mother-in-law's death, he had made no attempt to censure her. Rather, the two of them had avoided each other, not a difficult feat in a house as large as Gran Sangre.

  “Angelina gave me this,” he said, stopping in front of her and holding the list of instructions for managing the household in her absence. “Where are you going, Doña Mercedes?”

  She swallowed, willing herself to have courage. How can I tell him I'm in love with my husband's brother? “My child's father is being held in prison in Durango—the Juaristas blame him for Lucero's crimes. I'm going to tell them the truth.”

  The priest looked aghast. “And brand the child in your womb a bastard? You cannot!”

  “Would you rather I let Nicholas die?” she asked in furious desperation.

  Father Salvador sighed. “He was a good man, far better than his brother. Even Doña Sofia recognized it.”

  Mercedes gasped. “So, you do know!”

  He smiled sadly. “How could I not? He had the Alvarado eyes. That was what blinded me to the truth at first. They looked so much alike in spite of their different behavior. I tried to tell myself that Lucero had to be the same man who left here five months ago. But after my lady's death—and the way the one provoked it, I knew there were two men. Also that the other was Anselmo's illegitimate son.”

  “I will not confess a sin for having lo
ved Nicholas,” she said, choking back tears, realizing he already spoke of her love in the past tense.

  “You are overwrought now. Best you rest for the sake of the child.”

  “I will not rest until Nicholas is free. Please see that Rosario does her lessons.” She rushed past him without looking back and entered the stable. A dozen armed vaqueros waited to escort her on the long grueling ride to Durango.

  * * * *

  Nicholas paced in the cold gray cell, careful not to raise his bowed head lest he strike it on the cobweb-infested rafters. The ancient dungeon of a prison dated from the early colonization of New Spain. It had been built during a time when men seldom reached a height greater than five-foot-four. The dark, lichen-covered stone walls oozed moisture in the dank, vile-smelling heat. One tiny window in the corner let a feeble ray of sunlight in to illuminate a filthy straw pallet on the floor, which he shared with the cockroaches and other vermin. The first night he had awakened to find a rat skittering across his foot. After that, he slept with his boots on.

  He had lost track of how many days he had been incarcerated. If not for the window, he would have no sense of day or night. It seemed ages since he had sent the letter to Mercedes. It was the only outside communication he had been allowed and he'd had to bribe a guard with his good gold watch to get it sent, at that. He had parted with his love in anger. She felt betrayed when he had left her without explaining his reasons. He had feared speaking openly about his identity, but now his one slim chance for survival was to have McQueen vouch for him, and the only means of searching for the American was through Hilario and Gregorio. He had been forced to explain in a letter what he had wanted to tell her in person.

  Would she understand? Would she forgive him? The questions haunted him far more than the thought of his own death. As a professional soldier, he had come face-to-face with death many times over the past fifteen years. Chasing down Vargas, he had come within a hairsbreadth of losing his life. But the possibility that he could go to his grave with the woman he loved hating him because he was an impostor and a traitor terrified him.

  Damn, where was McQueen? The illusive bastard had seemed to materialize everywhere over the past eight months. Why did he have to drop off the edge of the earth now? The answer, of course, lay in the very fact that Nicholas was being held in a Juarista prison. The republic was saved and the empire doomed. The fate of mercenaries, regardless of their special “talents,” was now of little concern. Soon, if he knew Benito Juarez—and Nicholas had grown to know him well during their brief acquaintance—Maximilian of Hapsburg, too, would stand before a firing squad.

  “Small comfort in that,” he said wryly. Just then the loud clank of the outer door being unlocked interrupted his melancholy reverie. A soft sound like the rustle of a woman's skirts drew near, followed by the guard's voice.

  “You have half an hour, then I'll be back.” He turned the rusty lock to Nicholas’ cell door and swung it open. The heavy iron made a loud screeching protest, echoing off the dank stillness of the stone walls.

  Mercedes’ voice was soft as she thanked the man and stepped inside the cell. Dressed in an elegant violet riding habit which had been let out at the waist to accommodate her pregnancy, she looked lovely in spite of being dusty from the long ride. Her face was pale in the darkness and her eyes enormous as she strained to see him through the gloom. “Nicholas?”

  Hearing his own name on her lips at last, even if her voice was hesitant and trembling, broke the trance of disbelief. She was here, the golden lady of his fantasies, warm, alive, calling to him. “Mercedes—you shouldn't be here,” he protested.

  “What have they done to you?” She was horrified. He was gauntly thin, with days of grizzled beard on his face. His clothes hung in filthy tatters and his eyes, Sweet Virgin, those glowing black wolf’s eyes seemed somehow dim, clouded. Before her own fright and uncertainty could gain hold, she flung herself into his arms. “Oh, my love, are you all right?”

  He could smell the sweet lavender fragrance of her hair, feel her soft body pressed against his, her hands fluttering over his shoulders and chest, her fingertips grazing his face as she examined him for wounds. He put her at arm's length, saying, “I haven't bathed in weeks. I'll foul you with my touch.” I already have.

  “Don't speak foolishness,” she replied, her voice an anguished cry. “I was terrified you'd already been executed.”

  “If I'd had any way to reach McQueen without involving you, I'd have done it. If I'd known you'd do something as rash as come here in person, I wouldn't have written to you. The ride is long and dangerous, especially for a woman in your condition.” He could see the swelling of her belly now. “How soon?” he asked as his hand pressed against her soft roundness in wonder. This was his child!

  She shook her head, clinging to his arms. “The baby isn't due for several months yet. I'm fine. It's you—Oh, Nicholas, Innocencia did this! She turned in Lucero and they caught you instead of him.”

  “You know my name,” he said softly, causing her to pause breathlessly. Her whole body stilled as her eyes searched his face.

  “Lucero told me. You're Nicholas Fortune, an American mercenary he met in the war.” She could feel his body stiffen. His hold on her shoulders tightened.

  “Luce returned to Gran Sangre?” Your rightful husband, who gave you to me as casually as he gave me Peltre.

  She could read the unspoken question in his eyes. “I didn't let him touch me.” She turned away then and paced across the cell, stopping in the narrow shaft of sunlight, which gilded her hair with burnished fire. “He...he tried but I kept the Sharps pistol you gave me in my room. I would have shot him. I think he knew it. He never bothered me after that first night,” she said, daring to turn and meet his eyes again. “I love you, Nicholas. You are my husband. I don't give a damn about your politics, what you did before we met, nothing else!”

  The cold, hard knot deep in his gut dissolved as she spoke. He could breathe again and his heart soared. She had forgiven him the deception and she still loved him in spite of the strictures of her religion, society, everything she had been taught since infancy. He crossed the cell this time and pulled her into a fierce embrace, enfolding her in his arms, burying his face in her silky hair.

  “Mercedes, Mercedes, my love, my darling. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. I've been so afraid that when you finally learned the truth, you'd hate me.”

  “I could never hate you...and I've known you weren't Lucero from the beginning. That first night you took me to your bed, it was nothing like it had been with him. I knew...but I couldn't admit it to myself.”

  “I wasn't certain when you knew for sure, but I lived in terror of losing you. Ah, Mercedes, I came to Gran Sangre for the land. I never expected to fall in love. But you were nothing like Luce described you.” He stroked her hair away from her cheek and cradled her face in his hand tenderly.

  She kissed his hand, then pressed it against her face once more. “Gregorio has gone after Lucero. The republican alcalde in San Ramos has sent word through their network of spies, trying to locate this Bart McQueen, but I don't know if they can. Hilario fears he may have left Mexico now that the empire is finished.”

  “You have to go home to Gran Sangre right now. You'll be safe there. Hilario and the others will see that Luce doesn't harm you. If I can, I'll come to you, but if not—”

  “No! Don't even think it! I won't leave you alone in this awful place. I'm going to talk to the commandant. If I tell him you aren't Lucero Alvarado, he'll have to believe me.”

  “You can't do that.” His voice was flat and firm. He could see the startled look in her eyes; but before she could say anything further, he implored her, “Think, Mercedes, even if the authorities here in Durango believed you—which is highly unlikely—what would it mean for you and our child? You'd be branded an adulteress guilty of incest and our baby would be born a bastard. No. I will not bring that disgrace down on you and our child. If McQueen c
an't get me quietly off, it's better that I die as Luce.”

  “I don't care about disgrace! About dishonor, about anything but seeing that my baby's father is alive and able to be there when he's born!”

  “Don't talk crazy, Mercedes. You don't know what the men in charge of prisons can be like, what they're capable of. Believe me, I do,” he said grimly. “If they think you are already...‘blemished’...” His voice faded away as he blocked out the horror. “It was madness to come here alone. I want you safely out of harm's way and back at Gran Sangre to await the birthing.”

  A mulishly stubborn expression came over her face. Her jaw clamped and her eyes sparked. “I won't do it, Nicholas. You can't stop me from seeing the commandant and telling him the truth.”

  He took her by her shoulders, his fingers digging into the soft flesh with bruising force. “I forbid it, Mercedes.”

  She could hear the guard unlocking the outer door, then shambling up to Nicholas’ cell. “You can do nothing to stop me—until you're free. And then it won't matter.”

  “It will matter if everyone learns what we've done,” he called out as she twisted away from him and slipped through the door the grizzled guard held open. “Mercedes, I forbid it,” he ground out.

  She turned, looking at him with anguish. “You cannot, Nicholas, for legally you aren't my husband.”

  The heavy iron bars clanged shut in his face. She fled up the narrow stone steps followed by the jailer. “Mercedes, wait!”

  But she did not. He was left alone in the gloom once more. The only evidence that she had not been a figment of his imagination was the lingering essence of lavender that hung sweetly in the damp air.

  * * * *

  The office of Commandant Morales was small and tidy, as neatly organized as the short slender man facing her across his scarred pine desk. “I regret the circumstances under which we meet, Madam Alvarado,” he said courteously, offering her a seat. “However, there is nothing that I can do. The military tribunal will make the decision as to whether Lucero Alvarado lives or dies.”