That brought her head up. His lips were smiling, though his eyes were as remote as ever. “An ungallant joke, sir!” she rebuked.
“Consent and you’ll find it’s not.”
“We don’t know each other!”
“My dear young lady!” He laughed so uproariously that those around them looked and Mercy was gripped with embarrassment. Where was Zane? Why didn’t he rescue her? Sobering, Kensington spoke as if she were a not-very-bright child. “The surest cure for the madness called love is to know the other fully. The very essence of romantic love is illusion, mystery …”
“Ignorance?” Mercy supplied.
“Exactly.”
Mercy wanted to make some scathing retort, but, thinking back to her infatuation for Philip, she had to admit that the better she came to know him, the less she found to love.
“That’s not the way it should be,” she murmured, more to her thoughts than to Kensington.
“How should it be?” His tone was an amused caress.
Reflections, feelings, warnings, and imperatives thronged her mind, etched with the hurt and bitterness of Philip’s betrayal. But in spite of that, she was sure some men and women did love each other truly and well, that they endured and cherished and made of their communion something marvelous, more than either could be alone. Mercy longed for that, though it seemed unlikely she’d ever find it, buried in the wilds of Yucatán with a man who’d made it clear he wouldn’t marry her.
Kensington offered marriage, but in a way that was as insulting as Zane’s rejection of it. “Well?” he prompted. “How should it be?”
He’d think her ideas romantic, silly, and female, but that made it all the more important to assert them. Meeting his gaze, Mercy said firmly, “Love is when you do know each other and still value and care. It’s strong enough to hold while illusions and mysteries vanish, but when phantasms go, then people can love in truth.”
“You sound so positive, Doña Mercy. Have you loved like that?”
“No. But I want to.”
He lifted his massive shoulders and she felt the powerful beat of his heart next to her face. “Possibly this steady endurance you admire is love, Doña Mercy, but it sounds fit only for the tired or sick or cowards who call themselves realists because they don’t dare expect much. What I call love has nothing to do with time and patience and high moral qualities. It’s the wild, delicious golden fire that burns when a man and woman desire each other and take their joys.”
Some of that fire flickered between them, but Mercy was more wary than ever. A man who didn’t even pretend there was more to love than passion! What could a woman hope for from him when she was heavy with child or sick or fading?
“Why do you hold yourself so sternly?” he whispered. “If you left your body soft and natural, would it lead into my kind of love?”
“Love?”
“Desire, then. I want you. You respond to me now and I promise it’s nothing compared to what you’ll feel when we’ve learned how to please each other. I’ll marry you according to any ceremony you wish.”
“I wouldn’t dream of marrying in such a … a shameless way!”
He chuckled derisively. “Should I have lied? Said I’m ravished by your voice and eyes and crave only to hold your hand?” When she couldn’t answer, he said briskly, “I should make it clear that I’m a very wealthy man. The House of Quetzals is fine enough for a duchess, but you needn’t be there all the time. We could visit Mexico City, the United States, and Europe, too.”
“Why didn’t you visit them and find a bride?”
“Till tonight I hadn’t seen a woman I wished to marry. I’m surprised at myself.”
“You don’t seem inebriated.”
“Only with you.”
Mercy didn’t answer. As the waltz ended, she looked about for Zane, but he had completely disappeared. “There’s a card game downstairs,” said Kensington. “From what I hear of him, your kinsman has such luck that he is probably testing it.”
Mercy arose. So the Englishman knew the truth about her! But no, surely not. He wouldn’t have proposed marriage to one man’s winnings and the discarded wife of another. Would he? Mercy felt shaken.
“It’s cooler on the balcony,” Kensington suggested, noting her confusion. Before Mercy could object, he drew her onto the grille-protected space. Down in the courtyard a fountain played and the air was sweet with flowers. “Now,” said Kensington, folding his arms in leisurely fashion, blocking the way to the room, “why won’t you marry me?”
In spite of her uncomfortable predicament, Mercy couldn’t keep from laughing. “Why ever should I?”
He stared at her, unruffled, considering, like an eagle contemplating a perplexing small bird that it can seize at will. “I should have thought my possessions would persuade most women to marry me, even had I been toothless, decrepit, and foul-smelling.”
“You belittle my idea of love,” she said. “But I’ll never marry unless I believe I’ve found it.” By now she was convinced that Eric knew nothing of Philip, and she had no intention of enlightening him of the fact that she already had a husband.
“You may not love me your way,” he granted, taking her hands. “But will you deny that you at least feel something of what drives me?”
He tried to draw her against him, but she resisted. He shrugged and released her but still barred the archway. “Why, Doña Mercy, do you have no mercy? Why are you so cold?”
“We’ve scarcely met!”
“How can I wait? You leave for the wilds in the morning. If there had been weeks or months to court you, I’d have done so, though with impatience. As it is, there is no time for pretty games.”
“You’re most … flattering. But I must decline.”
“Why?” His thick silver eyebrows drew together. “Spare me that lack of acquaintance! I happen to know, Mrs. Cameron, just when and how you became Falconer’s kin.”
Mercy froze. So he did know. Would he tell her secret, expose her to Doña Elena? She told herself she wouldn’t be living in Mérida, that it could mean only a single, terribly public, humiliation, but she felt physically sick as she forced herself to stand erect and meet Eric Kensington’s eyes.
“If you know, I marvel more than ever at your proposal.”
“When I heard the story last night shortly after Falconer left to claim his prize, I wondered what you’d be like. I was startled to find you at the dance, and even more astonished at you. You’re no adventuress, but a lady—and I’ve a hunch Falconer has promised not to besiege you, though, in your skin, I’d not believe that pledge from any man. Far safer to let me help you obtain your divorce and marry me.”
To be whispered and speculated about in dives and gambling places! Shame burned in Mercy like fever, and a vivid, pulsing headache half-blinded her.
“Please,” she said, “take me inside.”
“If you will consider my offer.” He turned at the voice behind him.
“Doña Mercy,” said Zane, ignoring the Englishman, “it’s time we were going. We will make an early start tomorrow.”
Kensington spoke smoothly. “As this lady’s kinsman, it’s proper you should know that I wish to marry her. Surely you could give her a little time to think about it.”
Eyebrows shooting up, Zane looked at Mercy. In a flat, dry tone he said, “Are you considering this proposal?”
Before she could answer, Kensington interposed. “She thinks me mad or up to trickery, I’m afraid. Naturally, I wouldn’t have been so precipitous had there been more time. In counseling her, Falconer, I trust you won’t fault a rashness born of exigency.”
“Whether and whom she weds is altogether my cousin’s affair,” said Zane. “I can only tell her to remember that part of your wealth comes from selling arms to the Cruzob, who’ve slaughtered the population of entire towns, from the aged to the babies.
“As ladinos have done to them,” said Kensington.
“English guns have kept the war alive.”
“And protected the Mayas from slavery in their own ancestral land.”
“Don’t pretend ideals motivate you, Kensington.”
The big man shrugged. “I don’t. I’m neutral. But lovers of freedom could make a good case for supplying the Cruzob.” He smiled at Mercy. “Now you have your warning. Let me have your answer before you leave.”
With surprising grace for such a large man, he vanished through the archway. Mercy’s headache was now torment, and she leaned against the heavy grille.
“Congratulations.” Zane’s tone was scornful. “The simple country girl, cruelly victimized by two men, has managed to get an offer from one of the peninsula’s richest bachelors. I’m sure I wish you happiness.” He turned abruptly.
“Don’t!” Mercy cried, pressing her throbbing temples. “I’ve told him I won’t marry him!”
“Indeed?” Zane paused under the archway, his tone frigid with skepticism. “He apparently didn’t hear you.”
“He won’t listen! He seems to think I should be delirious with joy at the prospect. And the strangest thing of all is that he knows!”
“What?”
“About Philip … the card game.”
Zane drew in an explosive breath. “And he still proposed? Incredible!” After a moment, he asked grudgingly, as if the question were pulled from him, “Since you needn’t fear discovery, surely you’ll accept, won’t you?”
“Why?”
“Honorable marriage with a handsome man. Wealth. Position.”
“I don’t love him.”
Zane stared at her, blinked, and burst out laughing. “Good Lord! You told him that?”
“Yes, and I don’t see what’s funny!”
“His expression must have been.” Composing himself, Zane frowned and came to stand beside her, drumming his long fingers on the grille. He seemed to be arguing within himself, then spoke roughly after a moment without looking at her.
“It’s only fair to advise you to consider his proposal. Your circumstances are unusual: You’re alone in a strange country with no friends or family, and if you go to La Quinta Dirección, you’ll meet few marriageable men. Further, your position in my household would probably make you an ineligible match for most Yucatecans of good standing.”
The pain in her head was so intense that she wanted only to escape from voices. light, and probing. “I’m aware of all that,” she heard herself saying.
“Though it sounds conceited of me, I must make it clear again that I’ll never offer you marriage.”
“So long as you keep your other promise—not to force me—I still prefer to hold to our agreement.”
He thrust back his dark hair with an annoyed gesture. “If it’s some foolish notion of honor, debt …”
“Philip’s debts and your winning have no claim on my conscience.”
“Then why?”
“You men!” Mercy blazed, clenching her hands furiously. “Is it past your understanding that some women would rather gladly be free of all of you? I don’t love Eric Kensington, and I’d rather work as a laundress or nurse than marry him—or you, either!” she raged as Zane stared, his jaw dropped. “You’ve offered me a position I’m capable of filling, a way to maintain myself. That’s what I want.”
It was a long moment before Zane spoke. “Be sure of that. For if you regret your decision once we’re at La Quinta, it will be very difficult to leave; in fact, you’d probably have to stay there till next year, when I come to Mérida again.”
“I don’t intend to change my mind.”
“Nevertheless,” said Zane heavily, “in view of this extraordinary proposal, I feel obliged to see that you reflect on it. Let me take you down to the garden.”
“But …”
“I insist.”
He slipped his hand under her arm and led her to stairs going down to the end of the balcony. Mercy stiffened but decided not to protest. Cool and quiet might relieve the sense of having a constricting, red-hot band tightening around her head. Zane seated her in the shadows near the fountain.
“I’ll be back within the hour,” he said. “You’re perfectly safe here. No one can see you. This may be the most important choice of your life. Ponder it well.”
Mercy closed her eyes, leaned back, and gave herself to softly stirring breezes and to the lulling sound of the water. So good to be alone in a quiet place. Good to escape incredulous questions. Her head felt better already. A deep, involuntary sigh escaped from her.
It was almost as if Zane wanted her to marry the Englishman. She was honest enough to admit that she might have been tempted, were it not for Eric’s intensity and for the rather alarming premonition that he’d consume her. She’d not enjoyed being Philip’s wife. For a good while now, maybe for always, she wanted to be herself, find her own center without being pressured or tugged by a husband.
But she began to feel lucky that Eric had proposed. It was better to go with Zane, knowing that she’d had a choice, and it didn’t hurt him to be aware of that, either. He’d have to respect her more than if she’d had no alternative.
There was a soft sound. Mercy sat up to make out Doña Elena in the dim light cast by sconces above the stairs.
“You’re tired, my dear?” The older woman’s voice was kind, and Mercy felt a flash of yearning for the mother she had never known. “I asked Zane where you were and he told me you have a problem.”
It would have been a relief to confide the whole tangled story, but it seemed impossible to discuss Eric’s offer with his aunt by marriage, who’d doubtless be horrified at his impetuosity.
“Zane thinks I may regret going to La Quinta Dirección,” Mercy said, moving over to make space for her hostess. “He wants me to be very sure before we start out.”
Doña Elena nodded. “Yes, he has cause to fear you might not wish to stay.”
“Because of the Indians?”
“Not only that. It’s more because of the isolation. The master of a hacienda can stay very busy if he lives on it himself. Most Yucatecan owners do not; they leave everything to overseers and mayordomos. But Zane is different.” She lifted her hands prettily, excusing one she liked. “It must be his norte americano blood.”
“You knew his family?”
“I only saw his mother once when Giles Falconer brought her from New Orleans. Beautiful as a white lily, she was, and, like a lily, she wilted. She died when Zane was a baby. We knew Giles well. Even though my husband was British and Giles had fought against England at the Battle of New Orleans, the two were close friends.” She smiled and lowered her voice in the manner of one sharing a scandal. “Giles fought under Jean Lafitte and came with him later to Isla Mujeres, off the Yucatán coast. Giles retired from piracy and went back to New Orleans for his bride, whom he’d loved ever since he was a well-born but penniless young man. What a man he was! He never married after he lost Yvette, but how the ladies of Mérida fluttered when they knew he was coming to town—and not just the widows!”
“Zane is … attractive, too.”
“Yes, but he’s finer spun than Giles. He may have buccaneer instincts, but they’re tempered with sensitivity and a kindness he tries to hide. He and Giles before him have treated their Indians well and, fortunately, Giles once saved the life of Crescencio Poot, one of the fiercest Cruzob generals. I’m sure that’s one reason La Quinta hasn’t been laid to waste.”
Mercy had to ask. “Zane’s wife?”
“Her father, from the United States, had married the daughter of a wealthy Guatemalan and gone into raising indigo. Ethereally lovely, Consuelo was, but also selfish, pleasure-loving. She wanted Zane to leave La Quinta to his mayordomo and live in Mérida or abroad. To get some peace. Zane began to allow her to spend considerable time in Mérida with an aunt, though he insisted on keeping little Jolie with him. It was only a matter of time till the inevitable. Consuelo ran off four years ago with a handsome Frenchman who abandoned her in Jamaica. Somehow, dying of consumption, she got back to La Quint
a. Zane wouldn’t let her see Jolie because he’d told the child her mother was dead. He brought Consuelo to Mérida, rented her a house, servants, and skillful nurses, and he asked her aunt to obtain for her anything she desired and to send him the bill. He left then for his hacienda and never saw his wife again.”
That explained a lot.
Mercy touched Doña Elena’s hand. “Thank you for telling me these things. It’ll make it easier for me to fit in at La Quinta.”
“I hope you will be happy there,” said Doña Elena, her delicate eyebrows knitting. “I think you will be good for Zane, and poor Jolie sadly needs someone to mother her.” She rose in sudden remembrance. “I must get back to my guests. Will you come with me, or do you need more time alone?”
Mercy rose, too. “I shall go to La Quinta.”
“I’m sorry to hear you say that,” called a voice from the balcony, “especially since I’ll have to start making detours to that godforsaken region.”
“Eric!” exclaimed his aunt. “It’s rude to eavesdrop!”
“Informative, too.” He sauntered down the stairs to meet them, his rueful grin so infectious that Doña Elena melted, though Mercy stayed on guard. “I don’t suppose Doña Mercy told you that I’ve asked her to be my wife?”
Doña Elena’s eyes rounded. She gasped, turning to Mercy. “But you said you were going to La Quinta!”
Eric laughed. “She’s rejected, me, Aunt, though you seem to find that unbelievable. However, I always succeed at what I decide to do, and I’ve decided to marry!”
“Ay de mí, that won’t be difficult, foolish boy! I know a dozen eligible girls who …”
Eric interrupted his aunt. “I know only one.”
While she watched in dismay, he took Mercy’s hands and raised them to his lips. “This isn’t the end for us, Mercy without mercy. You’ll shimmer one day where you belong—in my House of Quetzals.”
With a bow, he left them, passing Zane on the stairs. “You have her fór a while, Falconer. See that her plumage is unspoiled when I claim her.”
“Doña Mercy is her own mistress,” Zane said, but his eyes lit as they came to her.
He waited on the balcony as Eric strode away and the women climbed the stairs. Doña Elena, obviously rattled, excused herself and went through the arch.
Bride of Thunder Page 6