Bride of Thunder

by Jeanne Williams

  Zane chuckled. “In his righteous indignation, he did say that he might divorce you on grounds of desertion.”

  Mercy gaped incredulously, then burst into laughter.

  “Are you hysterical?” asked Jolie worriedly.

  Smothering her last hiccoughy giggles in her napkin, Mercy shook her head. “No, Jolie. I’m just thinking how funny it all would be if it weren’t so ugly. If he knew I wanted a divorce, he wouldn’t think of it, but probably he imagines I’d hate the scandal. As if being gambled for and given to the winner leaves a woman much concern about what people say!”

  “I hadn’t noticed that you were exactly crushed and humble,” Zane remarked. He went on to news he had gleaned over an obligatory drink and cigar.

  Maximilian had been persuaded not to abdicate and had bone back to Mexico City, though the Juaristas gained ground daily. “The United States is sending arms and ammunition to Juárez,” Zane continued. “Secretary of State Seward has given the American ambassador to the Juárez government authority to use U.S. land and naval forces in any way short of actual invasion that might help drive out the French. It’s only a question of time for the emperor unless he decides to join his poor, mad Carlota.”

  “She is mad?”

  “The pope’s refusal to support her husband seems to have permanently overturned her mind, though she’s said to have rational moments.”

  “So she won’t be coming back.”

  “Only in her wild fantasies.”

  After a silence, Zane said that Philip was ranting about that fall’s elections, which had given the Republicans two-thirds control of each House, so that Reconstruction was now certain to be ruthless and to grind the vanquished South even more cruelly into the dust. Mercy ached for her homeland and wondered miserably if there would ever be a time when she could feel again that the United States was her country, not just the South.

  “It’s been an upsetting day for you,” said Zane as they were sipping hot chocolate after the meal. “Chepa will bring you a restful brew, and when you wake up in the morning, Cameron will be out of your life forever.”

  But not out of her thoughts. His reappearance had opened the sourly festering wound she’d foolishly considered healed. Until the putrescent matter drained, she could have no peace.

  Jolie gave her an especially warm hug that night and Zane walked her to her door. “Good night,” he said. “Don’t let this distress you. Tomorrow it will seem like a bad dream.”

  A nightmare. Mercy thanked him and went inside. The shuddering began and lasted even after she was in bed, with the covers up to her ears.

  But Chepa came. The tea was hot and Chepa’s hands were comforting. Gradually, the trembling stopped. Mercy fell into sleep like a heavy stone in black water.

  She awoke to a brutal grip prying her jaws apart. She tried to scream but was stifled by cloth stuffed so deep in her mouth that she gagged. She fought, trying to dislodge the obstruction enough to shout, but a blow against the side of her head knocked her senseless for a moment. She roused at being swung over a man’s shoulder, and she kicked and beat with her hands.

  “Damn you!” It was Philip’s threatening whisper. “I’ll tie you hand and foot, then!”

  Tossing her back on the bed, he tore a sheet and bound her cruelly in spite of her struggles. “You still belong to me,” he panted, “and I’ll take you away in spite of that fool Falconer!”

  Mercy tried to cry out, but the gag stifled the sounds rising in her throat. She still couldn’t believe this. She had felt so safe in Zane’s house, so secure in his protection. And what would Philip do with her now? Why did he want her?

  It wasn’t out of love that he’d traveled here, but she was astonished that spite and bruised conceit could move him to such effort. Certainly he’d never have come without Wellington’s company.

  Too baffling, too hazy. The truth was that she must somehow get help before Philip dragged her away; otherwise, she wouldn’t be missed till morning, and that might be too late—too late for Zane to find her.

  Philip lifted her again, grunting at her weight, gripping her painfully at the knees while her pulse thumped in her head, which hung downward. Dizzied, she fought for consciousness and gathered her strength as they moved down the hall.

  If she could suddenly shift all her weight to one side, topple Philip over, or at least make enough noise to wake up someone! Trying not to alert her captor before the last minute, Mercy concentrated, then put all her effort into a mighty sideways lurch, powered by a desperate wrenching of her whole body. She fell partly against the wall, thus making only a muffled sound, but Philip swore loudly as he toppled against a piece of furniture.

  She rolled away, hoping to hit something that would crash. Philip stumbled across her, caught his breath in fury, located her head, and struck her.

  Lightning exploded in her brain. She knew nothing till Zane’s voice pierced her swirling fog, along with the glow of a candle.

  “Cameron!”

  Philip sprang. The candle that Zane put down flashed against a blade. Zane sidestepped, caught Philip’s uplifted arm, and wrested away the knife.

  Quite deliberately, he drove the knife into its owner’s throat, yanked sideways. Philip crumpled, face down in spreading blood. Zane stepped past him without a downward glance, then knelt by Mercy and removed the gag.

  “Close your eyes. He’s an ugly sight,” said Zane as he untied the strips at her ankles and wrists. “Did he hurt you?”

  “Not much. Oh, Zane, how dreadful!”

  For a moment, he held her close before he said brusquely, “Don’t shake like that. It’s over! Come, I’ll put you in my room while yours is being … cleaned up.”

  Strong arms lifted her. Mercy clung to Zane. “It’s so … awful! I hated him … I never knew how much till he came, but …”

  “He’s dead. He deserved it. He’ll never bother you again.” Kicking open the door of his room, Zane put Mercy on his big high bed and held her as he might have consoled Jolie. “Maybe in a way it’s better. At least you don’t have to wonder what he’s doing or feel linked to him. Your life with him is finished.”

  Eric Kensington appeared in the doorway. “What’s going on? My God! You’ve butchered Philip!”

  Zane wrapped the coverlet around Mercy and got to his feet, crossing to the door. “He tried to abduct this lady. Did you know of his intention?”

  “Of course not!” Kensington’s surprise and indignation seemed real. “He was downcast and was still drinking when I went to sleep, but I’d thought he was resigned to traveling with me to Belize and from there taking a ship to the States.”

  He came to stand in the room, his eyes dwelling on Mercy. “I must abjectly beg your pardon, Doña Mercy. I may be overly sentimental, but the thought of reuniting you and your repentant husband made me forget that, in fact, you might not desire that. I should not have meddled. Believe me, if there’s any way to make amends, I’d be grateful to atone.”

  “You can take the body out with you and bury it—off my land,” Zane said thinly. He studied the big man and Mercy watched them both, sensing the male antagonism that vibrated between them in spite of Kensington’s apparent contrition.

  Both were tall, but Kensington must have been four inches taller than Zane’s more than six feet, and he was probably twenty pounds heavier, massive through the shoulders. Both were in prime condition, though Zane seemed lighter on his feet and quicker. Zane was like a rapier, while Kensington was a broadsword.

  Both could kill. Dark steel eyes clashed with those of molten silver.

  The edge of Kensington’s mouth bent down and he shrugged. “I can see that having her husband’s grave on the premises might disturb Doña Mercy,” he said softly. “It’s a pity to see a quetzal hide like a wounded dove. Therefore, I’ll see to the corpse’s removal. My servant can bundle it up if you’ve some old sacking.”

  Horrified at hearing a man spoken of as if he were refuse. Mercy asked if he couldn’t b
e wrapped in a sheet. Zane gave this order to Vicente, who’d run in barefooted, rubbing his eyes, along with Chepa, who piled more covers on Mercy and made her drink brandy from the decanter by Zane’s bed.

  Kensington stood on the threshold and bowed, his golden hair shining even in the light from the one lamp Zane must have lit before going to Mercy’s room. “There’s no way I can express my regret at the unpleasantness this has caused you, madam. Thinking only to make you happy, I’ve brought you pain. Most of all, I’m sorry that when you remember me, it’ll be with disagreeable associations. But life is unpredictable. I hope I may find a way to please you.”

  “It seems most unlikely,” said Zane, “since Belize is far away and La Quinta is far off the road to Mérida.”

  Kensington raised an eyebrow. “Who knows? Since the start of the War of the Castes, many people have found Belize a refuge. I wish you continued immunity from Cruzob forays, Falconer, but there could be a time when you or this lady would welcome British protection.” His eyes on Mercy, he smiled. “Believe me, Doña Mercy, I am always at your service. Should, heaven forbid, any mischance befall Mr. Falconer, be mindful that you have a friend.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Zane cut in. “My mayordomo has instructions in case of my demise. It’s nearly dawn, Kensington, and the men have readied your horses. Chepa, will you make this gentleman some breakfast so he can be on his way?”

  “I make you some tea,” Chepa told Mercy, then went out through the courtyard entrance.

  “Thanks for seeing that I get an early start.” Kensington smiled. “Farewell, Doña Mercy.” His eyes lingered on her so that she felt cold in spite of the heaped covers and began to tremble again.

  “Have a safe journey, Kensington.” Zane stared at the Englishman till he bowed a last time and strode away.

  Closing the door, Zane crossed to the bed and looked down at Mercy, a muscle twitching in his lean jaw. “It seems you have an eager protector. He could scarcely propose it more plainly than he did in front of me, but I’m sure his old offer of marriage still stands. Now that you have no husband, you should consider it.”

  “Do you want me to … to go away?”

  “We’re discussing what you want,” he said harshly. “Do you want to leave with Kensington?”

  “No!”

  Bending, he caught her face between his hands. “Why not, if marriage and respectability mean so much to you?”

  “I don’t love him.”

  Zane let her go as if her flesh burned him. “Love! A trumpery word women use to justify whatever they do and break a man to their use! And you won’t admit to passion, will you, honest need of the body? No, it has to be love and legal binding and a hook through a man’s nose!”

  Shrinking back on the pillows, Mercy gazed at him, fighting back tears. He reached for her, then whirled, grasping his hands tightly behind him. “Who’d believe I’ve had you at La Quinta all this time and not taken you?” he asked savagely. “I can’t believe it myself! I’m not made of iron, Mercy. If virtue’s paramount with you, you should take Kensington, for if you stay here, someday I might not be able to stop myself.” He’d been speaking with his back to her. Now he turned violently. “Do you understand that?”

  “What?”

  “If you stay here, tempting me just by your softness, your sweetness, the way you move and walk, sooner or later I won’t be able to stop.”

  Their eyes met with tingling, frightening, ecstatic shock. If he had lain down with her then, Mercy could not have opposed him, but he went out of the room, as if devil-driven, just as Chepa came in with tea.

  “Your room ready now,” she said, holding the cup so that Mercy had to drink. “Don Zane say I have hammock by you for some nights if you afraid.”

  Chepa made her finish all the brew. “I want to get up,” said Mercy. “It’s nearly daylight. I can’t sleep after …”

  “Lie down,” Chepa said. “Close eyes. I rub neck and back. Get up then if you want.”

  With her face down against sheets that had the clean male smell of Zane’s body, Mercy shuddered as Chepa’s hands, for a second, reminded her of Philip’s. She heard again that stifled choking. But as she tensed, Chepa kneaded at her muscles, working them into place as the herb drink gradually soothed her mind.

  She never knew when the stroking ceased.

  Her rest was deep and sound. When she awoke, she gazed at the carved headboard a long moment before she realized she was still in Zane’s bed and why. Light streamed through the shutters, gilding a huge mahogany armoire, a leather armchair and reading table, and a chest of dark wood inlaid with what looked like bone in a running pattern of incised leaves.

  What held Mercy’s gaze was the small cabinet with open hinged doors and a curved top that stood in a large wall niche. Inside the cabinet the madonna stood on a crescent moon, wearing a crown of silver, as did her infant son. Behind them was a painted blue sky spangled with stars, and around the niche were painted roses. It was charmingly feminine, the only touch of grace in an austere chamber. Mercy was sure it had belonged to Zane’s mother, but she would have expected him to close the doors of the little shrine; she was glad that he had not.

  The clock struck eight. Mercy pressed her face and breasts against Zane’s pillows for a moment, then remembered he must have slept here with his wife, the woman who seemed to have made love a lying mockery to him.

  Mercy grimaced as she slipped from the huge bed and went barefooted to her room. Why had he let one woman determine his view of all the rest? Perhaps he was changing slowly. At least now he wanted a rather permanent mistress instead of occasional satiation with the whores of Tekax or Mérida or whatever strange gratifications he’d shared with Xia.

  The door of Mercy’s room was open. She hesitated, took a deep breath, and stepped inside. Her bed was immaculate, the torn sheet replaced. There remained nothing to show a man had seized her there in the night.

  A pleasantly astringent smell filled the air. A handful of herbs was charring in the fireplace. Chepa’s purification? Mercy smiled, but she was grateful.

  Vicente and Chepa must have kept their silence, because knowledge of Philip’s death never filtered out. Jolie remarked that the big golden man had looked like a Viking, which led to geography, stories of the far-sailing dragon ships, and the possibility that Quetzalcoatl, the fair god expected by the Mayas to reappear on earth, had been, in fact, a Viking.

  His name, which meant Plumed Water Serpent, could easily derive from the prow of a typical Norse vessel or wings on a helmet. Though Quetzalcoatl had been just and beneficent, the Spaniards, who’d been taken for him since, were not. And again, Maximilian’s blond hair and beard had made some Indians believe he was their returned savior.

  Zane happened in during this discussion and said softly from the schoolroom door, “Did you know he burned himself to death along this east coast? I believe it was at Tulum and that he’s the diving god shown on the temple mural there, uniting heaven and earth.”

  “Why did he do that, Papa?” asked Jolie, her eyes wide.

  “He got drunk and dishonored himself so terribly that he believed he must die. So he put on his robe of quetzal feathers and his turquoise mask, which he wore because he was very ugly, and he journeyed to the east. There he set himself afire and his ashes rose to the skies. They say that’s when all the brightest birds were created. He descended to the Kingdom of the Dead, and on the fourth day he rose into heaven and became Venus, the Morning Star and the Evening Star, male and female, and god and man.”

  Jolie put it into Mayan for Salvador and Mayel, who had been, with eager puzzlement, catching what they could. Then she regarded her father with solemnity. “Is that true, Papa?”

  “Some of it, I think. There must have been an ugly fair-skinned stranger who became a good king and tried to end human sacrifice. This made the priests angry and they may have conspired to make him sin so terribly he would want to end his life. His descent into hell and ascent to heaven?
Who knows, child? It’s the common legend of all great heroes.”

  Jolie considered, her golden eyebrows arched. “Mr. Kensington might be a Viking, but I don’t think he’s good like Quet … Quetzalcoatl.”

  “The Vikings also sailed to Russia,” Mercy added. “And they raided England so ferociously that there was a prayer against their fury right along with pleas for protection from battle, murder, and sudden death.”

  “That’s more like Mr. Kensington,” Jolie said and nodded. Zane had left them. The girl took Mercy’s hand and pressed it to her warm little cheek. “You look sad, Doña Mercy. Are you sorry you didn’t go with your husband?”

  “No.” Mercy’s throat felt scalded and she had a flash of Philip when they were young, galloping beside her down the walnut land, smiling as he fed her wild strawberries and kissed her the first time. “No. I couldn’t go with him. But I am sad.”

  “He wasn’t a Viking,” said Jolie. “But he didn’t seem old enough to be your husband. He was like a boy.”

  Mercy thought that was probably the truest epitaph that could be made for him.

  She had nightmares for the next few nights, but Chepa would come from the nearby hammock to quiet her, and by the end of the week it all seemed like a horrid dream. She couldn’t be glad about Philip’s death, but it had cauterized the wound of his betrayal, cleanly searing it out so that this time as it healed, it healed clean.

  Philip was dead. An act of his had brought her where she was, but she’d stayed by choice. She was, more than she’d ever been, in control of her fate. Zane allowed her that power, of course. Even if, as he had warned, he took her now by force, she’d chosen to run that risk rather than go with Eric Kensington.

  Zane was seeing to the clearing of some new land for henequén and was gone from morning till night until the sixteenth of December. On that day, work slacked off for the long holiday season, which would last for almost a month until the village’s patroness, Santa Yñez, had her fiesta during the third week of January.