by Henke, Shirl
How hot and smooth it felt as she stroked the length of it under his guiding hand. Her own boldness amazed her, she who had never dreamed that she was capable of fondling a man's private parts. When he gasped and murmured choked love words in her ear, a heady sense of power came over her.
He slid the robe off with a fluid shrug, then growled low, “Best we get in bed before I lose control, beloved.” Leading her to the bed, he pulled back the covers with one hand and climbed onto it, never letting go of her hand. She followed, meeting him as they knelt together in the center of the large soft mattress.
Her fingertips skimmed gingerly across his injured shoulder. “You might reopen your wounds,” she whispered, kissing them softly.
“You'll have to take care to be very gentle with me, beloved,” he murmured, smiling as he positioned her back on the bed and leaned over her, lying on his side. Then he worshipped her with his hands and mouth, from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet, caressing, licking, nipping, exploring every nuance of her responsiveness, now that she had at last given herself permission to enjoy the pleasure he offered.
And he offered much. Each breast was molded in his lean, long-fingered hands, offered up to his mouth, which then traveled to her belly where his tongue made small feathery forays into her navel. He kissed her quivering inner thighs, the sensitive skin behind her knees, the curve of her calf and the arch of her instep, then retraced his way back up until his hands found the soft golden curls of her mound.
When he touched her there, Mercedes came up off the mattress. The jolt of sensation was even greater, more acute, than it had been the last time. She would never have believed it possible. An ache, so keen, so tightly stretched, built deep in her belly, radiating down her thighs as he teased and caressed her, avoiding that central locus of her pleasure until now.
“Oh! Please,” she cried raggedly, begging for surcease, knowing now that he would provide it with his body.
Nicholas watched her toss her head back and forth. Her eyes were closed, her back arched. She dug her hands into the sheets, clawing at them, on fire. At last she wanted him as desperately as he had wanted her from the first time he took her.
“Yes, love, yes,” he crooned, positioning himself between her thighs, preparing to slide deep inside. She opened for him and he plunged into the slick wet heat, throwing his head back in triumph as he buried himself completely. “Hook your legs around my back,” he commanded as he began to stroke.
Mercedes obeyed, arching to meet each thrust, crying out small whimpering, mewling noises, less than speech yet communicating more than mere words ever could. Her hands slipped up his arms which were braced on either side of her. Carefully avoiding his injuries, she locked her hands behind his neck and drew him down to her, eager for his kiss.
Nicholas obliged, resting his weight on his elbows and taking her eager mouth with his, his tongue thrusting in sync with his hips. Make it last, long, slow, as good as it can be.
But he had reckoned neither on her fiery arousal nor on his own still weakened body. All too soon he could feel her reaching the crest just as sweat began to sheen his flesh. He grew dizzy and her lovely face blurred before his eyes as he watched her convulse in orgasm.
Mercedes had thought nothing could equal the sheer physical thrill of the last time but this exceeded it—so prolonged, so tenderly built up to, it was the most exquisite sensation she could imagine. Wave after wave washed over her yet she waited, wanting him to join her, to feel the thrill of recognition when he stiffened and his rod swelled and spilled its seed deep within her.
“Please, husband,” she whispered against the curve between his shoulder and throat.
Her soft entreaty was all it took to drive him over the brink and send him spiraling into the dark sweet whirlpool of release. Feverishly his body convulsed in unison with hers until the last tremors finally died away, like ripples in a clear lovely pool that became glassy and smooth, tranquil once more.
He felt ready to black out again and fought it, not wanting to fall on her as he had the last time. Carefully, he rolled onto his side, taking her with him, keeping her flesh joined with his.
They lay that way for some time, holding each other in silence, he too weak from his exertions to speak, she too overcome with the newness and depth of the experience to gather her scattered thoughts.
When he finally withdrew from her and rolled onto his back, she felt a sense of loss. He 's bound me to him irrevocably now. All thoughts of whether or not he was Lucero fled her mind. The wonder of their newly discovered love displaced them utterly. Especially when he took her hand and raised it to his lips, murmuring, “I love you, Mercedes. You do know that, don't you?”
She stared at him, stunned, for she had not expected him to voice the words aloud. His expression was open, vulnerable. The expectant tension between them grew palpable as he waited for her to return his declaration, this man who had become the center of her life, turning her well-ordered existence upside down from the moment he had ridden into the courtyard of the big house all those months ago. This stranger. Yet how could he be a stranger when he knew the secrets of her body so intimately...and even those of her heart?
“I've surrendered everything else to you...Lucero. Why not admit what you must know I feel? Yes, I love you, too.”
Nicholas noted the way she paused, emphasizing his brother's name. The flash of pain that seared his heart told him this was the price he would have to pay for his deception. But you love me, not Luce. He gazed deeply into her fathomless golden eyes, fearing that she knew yet was afraid to admit it. Silently he held her, pressing her head against his shoulder and closing his eyes. Ah, Mercedes, my love, what are we to do?
* * * *
The invitation to the ball at the Vargas hacienda arrived the next day, hand-delivered by one of Don Encarnación's own riders. Mercedes watched her husband break the heavy wax seal with the Vargas crest on it and read the message on the expensive vellum paper.
“What is it?” she asked.
He handed it to her with an amused lift of one eyebrow. “An opportunity for you to dig out that scarcely used trousseau and show off your loveliest gowns. We're invited to a ball honoring the Prince and Princess Salm-Salm. A Prussian mercenary. I understand he's a particular favorite of the emperor.”
“Did you meet him when you were at court?” She was mildly curious about the rumors she had heard regarding the emperor's lavish lifestyle.
Nicholas laughed dryly. "A lowly lieutenant in the guards scarcely travels in the same social circles as a court sycophant like the prince."
“Do you dislike him?” Lucero had always instinctively mistrusted foreigners.
“I've heard of him by reputation. A good professional soldier, but past his prime. God, the war seems so far away now—and good riddance.”
“Then you don't want to go,” she replied.
He grinned at her with a boyish charm that made him suddenly seem years younger. “Of course we'll go. I want to show off my beautiful wife, who has worked hard and deserves a chance to dance and drink champagne.”
Except for a few brief trips to Hermosillo on business, Mercedes had not been off Gran Sangre since her betrothal. Her time for balls and other social events, while she was a young girl in Mexico City, had been few. The lure of music and gaiety was strong. “There's so much work to be done here,” she began uncertainly.
“It can wait. A few days of fun and rest will be good for us both.”
“What about your mother?”
“What about her?”
“She's been so ill. What if she takes another turn for the worse? She might die while we're gone.”
He frowned, then shrugged. “She detests the sight of me. I'll leave her to die in peace. She has Father Salvador to watch with her.”
“I don't think she's ever known peace...or ever will,” Mercedes replied, remembering the last bitter interview. “Even Father Salvador fears for the state of her soul.”
> His eyes became wary. “Is that so? After a lifetime of prayers and fasts, I can't imagine why she'd be in any danger—if he disregards the hatred she's always borne her husband and son. Until now that hasn't particularly seemed a problem to him.”
“He wants the two of you reconciled.” For some reason Mercedes had struck a nerve and she was not certain why, but before she could worry about it further, he interrupted her thoughts.
“We've reached all the accord that's possible,” he replied enigmatically. Then his mood changed swiftly and he took her chin in his hand, raising it and smiling. “Go pick out a ball gown, Mercedes. You'll be the most beautiful woman there.”
* * * *
In the weeks that followed, their lives fell into a new routine. Every morning the rode out at daybreak while the patrona remained near the house overseeing the harvest, the drying and preserving of fruit and vegetables and the milling of the most bountiful corn crop Gran Sangre had ever grown, thanks to the spring irrigation. Lucero's horses and cattle, hidden in the secluded canyons, grew sleek and fat on lush grass fed by summer rains.
Every night Mercedes rode out to meet him, sometimes accompanied by his daughter. On occasion, if the camps where the men were branding livestock were not too far, Mercedes and Rosario would come at noon, bringing a hamper of Angelina's succulent food for a picnic. Everyone on Gran Sangre could see what a happy family they were now that the don had changed so much since his return from the war. They also remarked on how obviously Don Lucero and Doña Mercedes adored each other. Was not young love grand?
One morning only a week before they were scheduled to go to Hacienda Vargas, a lone rider dismounted by the copse of cottonwoods that wound around the bank of the river. Gregorio Sanchez had been expecting Porfirio Escondidas for several weeks. The young vaquero was waiting impatiently at the arranged spot when the Juarista arrived.
“You're late,” Sanchez said. “We were afraid the French patrols might have caught you.”
“Dressed like this?” Escondidas said with a laugh. He wore the frayed brown robes of an itinerant mendicant friar and rode an ancient mule.
“It is a good disguise,” Gregorio admitted. “What word from the president?”
“I have instructions for Fortune regarding Vargas. Summon him to meet me here before daybreak.”
“Why not simply go to the great house and beg alms? They would offer you a good meal and you could sleep in comfort for one night.”
Escondidas shook his head. “Not with a Dominican priest living under the roof. These robes may fool soldiers and peons, but not him. He'd see through my disguise in a trice.”
“Perhaps it is best you remain here,” the youth conceded. “I'll bring you some supper.”
Nicholas had been waiting for word from the Juaristas for some weeks, wondering exactly what in the hell they expected him to do at the Vargas fiesta. He was relieved when Gregorio had given him the message from Escondidas last night.
Slipping away from Mercedes before dawn had not been difficult. Although she did not complain, he had noticed that she had been unusually tired many afternoons over the past few weeks and slept soundly at night. After spending a restless night, he carefully slid from bed, covering her securely against the cool morning air. Her breathing remained steady and deep, undisturbed.
Taking his Remington from his desk in the study, he made his way down to the appointed rendezvous. Porfirio Escondidas was waiting when he arrived.
Fortune took in his ragged disguise with a sardonic arch of his eyebrows. “You have too lean and hungry a look for a friar. The fires of a revolutionary burn in your eyes,” Nicholas said in English.
“But not in yours, Señor Fortune,” Juarez's agent replied in his precise accent, eyeing the gun in Fortune's waistband.
“I’m not a Juarista. Only be grateful I'm not an imperialist either.” Nicholas assessed Escondidas. His face was narrow and thin, with the finely molded features of a criollo. Fortune had always wondered what made any of the Mexican aristocracy support the republic, yet a significant number did.
Escondidas’ keen dark eyes studied him from beneath pencil-thin eyebrows. “Why would you fight for those French bastards since you've become one of us now?”
Nicholas laughed cynically. “I fought for the men who could pay me—in gold, not pipe dreams.”
“This is a republic with a constitution. That is no pipe dream, Señor Fortune. You're Americano. You grew up under such a government.”
“I was an Americano. Look what it got them—a bloody civil war, the same as here. There will always be haves and have-nots. What made a criollo like you join the have-nots?”
“There are things more important than class or money, even than land. And perhaps you understand this better than you realize,” Escondidas added with a slight smile.
“You didn't ride this far just to discuss politics, Escondidas. What do you have for me?”
“Soon the president will move his headquarters from El Paso and return to Chihuahua City. Hacienda Vargas is only a day's ride away.”
“You think Don Encarnación and his friends are going to attempt an assassination?”
“It would provide their best opportunity. They must break the momentum of our armies quickly. Matamoros is now ours, also Tampico—two of the richest ports on the east coast. Our armies march inland to take Monterrey and Saltillo. In the west, Mazatlán and Guaymas will soon fall. The net tightens around the emperor. His wife sails for Europe to beg Napoleon for more help. General Bazaine has been ordered to return to France within the year.”
As Escondidas ticked off the news, Nicholas’ interest grew. “So, Carlotta and Bazaine are both packing. It would seem the imperial cause is in dire straits. Perhaps you've chosen shrewdly after all, my friend.”
Ignoring the cynical jibe, Escondidas replied, “Everything could still be lost—without Juarez.”
“He is the glue holding the republican factions together, you're right about that,” Nicholas conceded, rubbing his jaw in consideration. “Without his leadership there would be a vacuum that no general could fill. They'd all fall to squabbling among themselves just as they always have, but do you think Don Encarnación would seriously consider a mere Indian capable of this feat of leadership?”
“Perhaps he has received encouragement from someone else,” Porfírio replied. “We don't think it's anyone at court. The emperor isn't astute enough.”
“Bazaine calls Maximilian the Austrian dreamer,” Fortune said. “No, neither the emperor nor his studious little Belgian wife have any idea about the real conditions in this country—any more than the hacendados do.”
“Our situation is greatly complicated by another fact. It would be difficult enough protecting the president along one thousand miles of wild back roads, but there is a spy in his ranks. Someone close to Juarez is sending information to Vargas.”
Fortune's grin gleamed whitely in the dawn's light. “So, one of your fellow patriots isn't as selflessly noble as you.”
“We need to know who it is and where Vargas’ men plan to attack the president's entourage. In order to attract less attention, he insisted on a small escort.”
“Escobedo doesn't exactly have troops to spare these days with Miramón and Marquez on the prowl,” Nicholas replied dryly.
“You will spend several days inside the Vargas home. You must learn about their plans and who the spy is. I know it will be difficult. After the things you have done since assuming Lucero Alvarado's identity, the dons will not trust you easily.”
“I've been turning that over in my mind these past weeks. I think I have an idea about how I can twist my rather liberal actions to my advantage and win Don Encarnación and his friends over. We'll see.”
“I will be in San Ramos when you leave Hacienda Vargas. Bring me word of anything you learn.”
“And McQueen? Where is he while all hell breaks loose in Chihuahua?”
“Ah, Señor Fortune, surely you do not expect a man of
Señor McQueen's talents to reveal that to such as you or me,” Escondidas said with a laugh before he vanished in the trees.
After Nicholas had slipped away, Mercedes awakened slowly, aware of the loss of his comforting body heat. She blinked her eyes. Darkness, the thick impenetrable kind that comes just before dawn enveloped the room. A sense of uneasiness washed over her. It was too early to begin the day's work. Where would he go at this hour? How long had he been gone? Visions of Innocencia flashed in her mind, but she pushed them aside as foolish. He had well and truly banished the slattern from his life and spent every free moment with his family.
Wide awake now, Mercedes threw back the covers and slid her legs over the side of the bed. When she stood up a sudden surge of nausea washed over her and she bolted for the basin on the dry sink across the room, barely making it in time. Holding onto the marble top of the sink, she vomited the scant contents remaining in her stomach from the preceding night, then leaned back against the wall, pale and shaken.
She rinsed her mouth, careful not to swallow any of the water until her roiling stomach abated. After bathing her face with a cool compress, she donned a robe and sat down at her dressing table to consider the matter. This was the third time in the past ten days this had happened. Both other occasions had taken place after Lucero had left early in the morning, although not quite this early. As she thought, she ran the brush through her tangled hair, distractedly remembering how it had become such a mess. Lucero had unplaited it last night, burying his face in it, holding great fistfuls of it, pulling her to him.
Their lovemaking had become something she looked forward to with eager anticipation now. She was glad when dinner was over and Rosario had been tucked in. The two of them would exchange heated glances, making excuses to touch each other all through the interminable evenings. And to think she had once dreaded her marital duties. Now everything had changed so dramatically between them.