Authors: Shirl Henke
Had Mercedes closed it up as a gesture of defiance? Thinking of her, his eyes strayed to the big wide canopied bed in the center of the room. For five generations the heirs of Gran Sangre had been conceived upon it. And he would do his duty as Alvarado men had done theirs for decades before him, Father Salvador be damned. His reverie grew troubled thinking of the confrontation to come with Mercedes. What had that old crone and her priest meant when they said Mercedes had “nurtured some foolish notions,” and “far exceeded her station”?
She obviously had changed over the past four years. No more the meek, terrified virgin—certainly not pallid and plain either. He wondered about how she had acquired her golden complexion and speculated about how far the sun-kissed color extended downward over her seductively soft curves. His body responded to the erotic reverie and he felt his phallus grow rock hard beneath the hot water.
There had been many women over the years, all sorts from coarse camp followers greedy for his money to highborn ladies titillated by the thrill of lying with a dangerous mercenary. Some had been beauties, some ordinary, and in straits, a few downright ugly. In the past, all cats were gray in the dark.
But Mercedes is different.
Or was she? Did Doña Sofia mean to imply that the young
patrona
had been unfaithful to her marriage vows? No, surely not. That would be too bitter an irony. But then life was filled with ironies. He leaned back in the tub and considered how he would handle her at dinner.
* * * *
While her husband soaked, Mercedes considered how she would handle him at dinner. A good thing there was so much to do, else her nerves would have snapped worrying about the matter. The kitchen was always shorthanded these days, and with Innocencia gone, it fell to the
patrona
to help Angelina. While the old woman ground fresh cornmeal for tortillas and chopped chilies, Mercedes basted the fragrant ham, then washed and sliced fresh peaches from the orchard. She would use the last smidgen of Armagnac to marinate the fruit as a dessert in honor of Lucero's homecoming.
Such an honor! How desperately she wished he had stayed away, playing at being a soldier. She had heard the stories about what the
contre-guerrillas
did. Butchers and brigands every bit as savage as the republican rabble, perhaps even worse. Lucero was perfectly suited for such a life…or death.
Do I honestly wish my own husband dead! God forgive me.
She squeezed her eyes closed and his beautiful, implacable face flashed in her mind. Shaking her head, she blinked and resumed slicing peaches with the smooth economy of movement that indicated long hours of practice with the paring knife.
Once such menial tasks would have been beneath a daughter of the House of Sebastián. She had been educated in an exclusive convent in Mexico City that only the most aristocratic
gachupíns,
those who were born in Spain, attended. She had come to Gran Sangre as a seventeen-year-old bride with a dowry of half a million pesos to preside over one of the wealthiest
hacienda
s in the country, no matter that it was situated in the wilds of Sonora.
The war had not touched it then, had not touched the Alvarado family until old Don Anselmo's only son rode off to fight for Mexico's foreign emperor, leaving behind his bride of scarcely three weeks. Then she had thanked God and all His holy angels for the war which lured Lucero away. But that was before the French army reached Hermosillo and sent its patrols to impress soldiers from the surrounding
hacienda
s. As time passed the fighting raged on and their situation became desperate.
With a muffled oath she shoved a lock of hair back from her temple and used her forearm to rub away the perspiration beading her forehead. She would need a bath. There was only dried lavender to scent the water and perfume her hair. Once she had used one of the most expensive French bath oils. Now she had learned to improvise. Hah! She had even learned to make soap!
Her guardian in Mexico City had commissioned an extensive trousseau, most of which was still in good condition. The gowns, designed for a slender girl, had grown a bit tight across the bust in the past few years, but she had always been expert at plying a needle, although the nuns who taught her delicate embroidery did not expect that a lady of her consequence would ever be reduced to altering her own clothing. The emerald silk would do. It was the most sophisticated gown she owned, even if it did reveal a bit more of her breasts than she would have preferred. Perhaps the pale blue muslin with the high neck would be safer. Then she reconsidered. No, better to look mature and in charge of her own life, not like a girl fresh from the schoolroom.
How could she best broach the topic? With charm? Or briskly like a forthright business proposition? “I'm discussing my marriage, not how many sacks of seed to order for next year's crops,” she gritted out, scolding herself. Damn Lucero for coming back into her life!
Charm was a double-edged sword. If she tried any flirtation, it would only remind him that, unlike the merchants, soldiers and vaqueros she bargained with, he had the right to use her body in any way he wished. A small shiver of fear rippled through her.
“You have sliced enough peaches. I will finish mixing the compote,” Angelina said, taking the knife from her. “Your bathwater is warm and Lazaro is filling the tub in your room. Go prepare yourself for your husband. I will handle things here.”
“I doubt either the dinner or my company will please him, no matter how much I prepare,” Mercedes said bitterly.
Sympathy flashed in Angelina's liquid chocolate eyes as she looked down at her slender mistress. Life had dealt harshly with Doña Mercedes but the young
patrona
was as tough as rawhide. Only Don Lucero could bring that haunted look back to her face. “You have both changed over the years. Perhaps it will be better between you now,” she said gently.
“
Lo del agua al agua
,” Mercedes replied with resignation. “There are some things that can never change, Angelina.” Then her chin lifted stubbornly. “When she has finished with the table setting, have Lupe lay out the emerald silk gown for me.”
Sophisticated and businesslike, that's the way she would handle the situation. If only Lucero would agree to her request.
What will I do if he refuses!
Chapter Two
He walked into the large dining hall and surveyed the table bathed in the golden haze of soft candlelight. Two places were set, his at the head of the table, hers at his right hand rather than at the opposite end of the massive oak slab, which measured twenty feet in length. Sensible. At least they would not have to yell at one another to carry on a conversation.
He walked around the room, studying the big window that ran the length of the interior wall, affording a splendid view of the courtyard fountain and gardens. Thick timber beams of dark-stained oak ran across the high-arched ceiling. A heavy chandelier of wrought iron hung suspended from the center beam, but its candles had not been lit. In fact, they were burned so low, it was doubtful they would have lasted through the meal. Closer examination revealed that the fresh candles in the silver candlesticks on the table were homemade of tallow, not the expensive imported spermaceti normally used in the great hall. The table linens, freshly pressed and sparkling white, were frayed gently with age and the gold flatware with the Alvarado crest was suspiciously absent. In its place an old set of sterling had been laid out.
Mercedes stood in the doorway, watching Lucero make his silent inspection. How frightfully intimate the two place settings looked. Perhaps she should have instructed Lupe to seat her at the opposite end of the table.
No. That's cowardly
, she scolded herself.
She studied her husband intently. He looked entirely too resplendent for the shabby setting, dressed in an elegant black wool suit with silver trim down the pant legs that molded so scandalously to his long hard thighs. The short, fitted suit coat stretched smoothly across his shoulders, their breadth accentuated by the silver-gray sash at his narrow waist. Silver gray to match the color of those wolf's eyes, which she feared would stare through her. He moved with unconscious grace, as arrogant and self-possessed as he had always been.
Yet there was a difference in him. Something that she could not put a name to, a subtle nuance bred no doubt by their years apart, as they grew and matured in opposite directions. Yes, that must be it. Or was she just wishing it because the idea fell in with the proposal she planned to make?
He ran his fingers through that thick inky hair, brushing one recalcitrant lock back from his forehead. It was a gesture she remembered from their first meeting. Then he turned smoothly to face her.
Black eyes locked with startled golden ones. “How long were you planning to stare at me before you found courage to announce yourself, darling?” A white smile slashed his dark face as he advanced on her, slowly, like a puma stalking its prey. He raked her from head to toe and back with his eyes, feeling the breath drawn in a sudden rush from his body. God above, she was lovely!
Her hair was piled high on her head in shimmering golden curls, held in place with tortoiseshell combs. Slender emerald pendants sparkled at her earlobes, swaying as she tilted her head. A matching emerald stone hung suspended on a thin golden chain at her cleavage. His throat went dry as the jewel cast its rich reflection on her soft flesh. The deep green silk gown billowed softly from her incredibly tiny waist and clung like a lover's caress to the subtle curves of her breasts, which mounded enticingly above the deep vee of the bodice. He could see the golden kiss of sun extended as low as the neckline. How he ached to pull away the thin silk and see how much of her skin had been touched by the sun.
“Green becomes you.” His voice sounded hoarse in the quiet room. “It's not an easy color for most women.”
“I am not most women,” she replied flatly, refusing to stand frozen or to back down. Instead she stepped forward to meet him. “And I want for no courage to approach you. I merely chose to observe you while you were unaware of my presence.”
He chuckled low as he took her hand and placed a light salute on her fingers. “And what makes you think I was unaware? I've survived years of war by learning to sense an enemy's presence behind my back, in my sleep, anywhere. Besides, your perfume gave you away.”
“And am I an enemy, Lucero?” She met his bold, cynical gaze levelly as he released her hand.
“Are you? I don't know. Before I left, I gave you good reason to dislike being my wife...but perhaps I'll change your mind now.”
She felt the faint brushing of his fingertips as they grazed her bare shoulder where her gown dipped low. He did not trespass to the swell of her breast but skimmed along her collarbone instead. She'd forgotten how tall he was. Her head reached only to his shoulder. He filled her vision and she had to tilt her face up to his at such close quarters. His masculine scent teased her nostrils, clean and pungent, shaving soap combined with expensive tobacco.
“You never used to use cigarettes,” she said, then wanted to bite her tongue for the unthinking comment, which was somehow more intimate than she intended. His breath was warm on her cheeks as he laughed, a low, wicked chuckle that was at the same time husky and silky.
“One of many new vices I acquired during my years as a soldier. You will find me greatly changed, I fear.”
She had to move away from him. “Bufón has already noted your...transformation. He used to hate you.” As she spoke, she glided past him, heading for the bell pull.
“We were both pups then,” he replied lightly. In a couple of swift strides he stood behind her and stayed her hand just as she reached up to summon Angelina. “Now if I can only win you over as easily as I did him.”
Mercedes willed herself not to flinch, but a tremor began somewhere deep inside of her, radiating outward to her arms and legs. She withdrew her wrist from his grasp, noting how slender and pale it appeared encircled by his strong dark hand. “You sound as if you plan to court me. Such will not be an easy task, Lucero. I'm not a house pet to greet the master with tail wagging.” She spoke sharply, feeling a sudden surge of anger at her reaction to him.
He chuckled. “No house pet indeed, but my lawful wife. As to the tail wagging...I'm sure that will require more than a scratch behind the ear.”
“Your insolence is one thing that has not changed,” she said tartly.
“Your meekness, or rather the lack of it, certainly has.”