Bride of Thunder

by Jeanne Williams

  He picked it up and cut for her a section of pineapple. “In case you should determine not only to harden your heart against me in case of my misfortune, but to do away with one you can quite justifiably consider wicked, I have entrusted Thomas with an order. He will carry it out if he lives because he loves me.” Eric raised himself on the pillows and regarded her with tolerant good humor. “Are you curious?”

  “I had thought of cutting your throat, so perhaps you’d better tell me.”

  He laughed in delight. “You are indeed my rare one! What became of the quetzal I bribed one of the maids to leave in your room at Christmas?”

  “I dropped it in a chest.”

  “But the giver’s not so easy to dispose of, eh?” He grinned. “I’ve instructed Thomas, in event of my death at your hands or in any suspicious way hinting at your involvement, to kill Falconer if possible, or his daughter.”

  Mercy drew away from him. He only chuckled. “I reckon that I’ve thought of everything, Mercy, mia. There’s no way to thwart me without bringing destruction to others. If you’d quit beating your wings against the cage, you could enjoy the mansion.”

  With a stifled gasp, she turned away from him.

  “Why don’t you sleep as late as you can?” He shrugged mildly. “Come down for breakfast when you’re ready. I’ve an accumulation of business, but I’ll acquaint you with the house today and we might even go riding.”

  She pretended to sleep while he dressed. She sensed him standing over her, and she fought to keep her breathing regular. His hand trailed over her from throat to flank, as if affirming possession before he covered her and left.

  But Mercy couldn’t sleep. Light spilled through the shutters now and she abhorred the comfort of the huge bed in which Eric had not only taken her, but had exacted blind tribute from her body. She almost wished he’d remained the brutal attacker of that first night, a man she could hate physically, detest as a complete ruffian.

  Eric, though, was subtle, highly intelligent, and complex. She felt transparent with him. Just as he was intrigued by something other than her body, she had to contend with much more than his. Since he was ruthless and she wasn’t, he could control her. All through his subjection of her, he’d never threatened her with death or whipping, though his rapes had been calculated to break her resistance and implant fear.

  A formidable adversary.

  But she was Elkanah’s daughter, and she had been Zane’s love. As long as Zane lived, there was a fragile hope they might be reunited. After losing her old life and identity, she’d been able to make a place for herself at La Quinta.

  Just as she held out against Zane’s early wish to seclude her in the tower, she must keep inviolate here her own center, her own fifth direction, which was another way, probably, of naming that essence Eric craved. Instead of putting her inside a tower, he wished to storm and carry the citadel within her. It would take all her courage, endurance, and inventiveness to withstand him.

  But it was at least a challenge, better than the bleak, trapped hopelessness she’d known with Philip. Mercy tossed off the light coverlet and sprang up, ignoring her aches. She opened the shutters and looked northeast, across the Hondo and Cruzob territory toward La Quinta.

  What were they saying about her there? Chepa would be puzzled and sad; Jolie must feel betrayed. But at least she had Salvador and Chepa till Zane came home again. Mercy couldn’t bear to imagine what he’d think when he read her letter.

  Mutely, she prayed he was well, and Jolie, too, and all at La Quinta. She hoped that somehow she might be able to see them again. And then she turned from the river and began to check exactly which of her belongings Thomas had brought, much as a shipwrecked person would inventory tools for survival.

  Her clothing was in the small room, and, though that wasn’t of vital importance, it helped to remember how Zane had insisted she get the gray-blue satin, and that Jolie had a dress of the same blue challis and slept at night with a stuffed coati of that material. Here was the black coral necklace, the sacred virgin water, and, defiantly, she wore the ring Zane had given her.

  Besides the Badianus copy, there were her father’s letters and the few books she’d kept of his. It was like finding lost treasure to open a box and find the herbs and medicines Chepa had given her along with what she had taken from Texas and what she’d collected at La Quinta.

  Thomas had done well, and when she had a chance, she’d thank him, though it was ironic to be grateful to someone for breaking into her room and taking her effects.

  The sight of the herbs reminded Mercy that Eric was virile, and as often as he seemed intent on having her, she might experience the common result. In one of Chepa’s jars were dried flowers of the dwarf poinciana. Mercy resolved, though with revulsion, that any time her flow was late, she’d immediately purge herself with the brew Chepa prescribed for women who had more children than they could care for.

  Fortified by this, decision, the means to carry it out, and the presence of the objects she most prized, tangible links to her loved ones and skills, Mercy washed, cleansing herself thoroughly of Eric’s male odor, and dressed in the prim gray-blue poplin with white collar and cuffs.

  She brushed her hair severely, pinned it in a coil, stood a moment behind her door summoning courage, and then entered the larger household, where for a time she must live.

  15

  Thomas was in the hall and came forward, bowing, as Mercy reached the bottom of the stairs. “I trust madam is rested from the journey,” he said as formally as if he hadn’t, nearly two weeks ago, waited outside an abandoned hut for Eric to finish raping her before that journey started. His sable skin startling against white shirt and trousers, Thomas wore a green sash. Mercy guessed him to be in his twenties, slender but strongly built. He had an aureole of tight-curling black hair and the stern face of a warrior, except when he smiled.

  He did so when Mercy thanked him for collecting her books and herbs. “Madam must be at home here,” he said warmly. “Will you have breakfast in the courtyard, or on the terrace, or in the dining room?”

  Not the courtyard, with its captive birds. “The terrace,” Mercy decided, involuntarily noting fine paintings that made the broad hall a gallery. The hardwood floor was polished to gleaming. Mercy noticed that two pretty mulatto girls, who dropped curtsies to her, were applying wax to furniture that bore the sheen of unremitting care.

  “Would madam perhaps wish to talk with the cook about what she desires?”

  “All I want is coffee and a roll.”

  Thomas looked stricken. “Pierre hoped, I know, to tempt madam with his crepes.”

  She was at war with Eric, not his people. “Tell Pierre I shall be happy with whatever he has at hand,” Mercy said, yielding, and she followed Thomas through a side corridor to a terrace that faced the river and was shaded by palms.

  After seating her in a bamboo chair by a bamboo table, Thomas departed and returned quickly with coffee, saying that her breakfast would be served in a few minutes. Then he glided off, reminding Mercy of one of Aladdin’s efficient genies.

  She sipped the pungent coffee, stirring in the first cream she’d had since coming to Yucatán because there were no milk cows at La Quinta. The river reflected the sky. It didn’t seem much of a barrier to resentful Mayas, who felt the land claimed by Britain really belonged to them.

  Pondering escape, she wondered if she could find her way home even if she didn’t fall prey to swamps, crocodiles, or Cruzob. It seemed unlikely. Unless she found an accomplice, she’d better stay where she was and hope for some other way out of her elegant prison.

  With bustling flurry, Pierre swept onto the terrace, shooing a boy ahead of him with a tray. “Madame!” cried Pierre, bowing so deeply she pitied his plump belly. “Pierre Chandel, your most devoted servant!” He kissed her hand so that the waxed tips of his gray moustache pricked her. He had curly gray eyebrows, thick hair of the same color, Delft-blue eyes, and a pink complexion that glowed like a b
aby’s. “It is my duty—mon plaisir—to prove that there is civilized cuisine even at this barbarous end of the earth. One must improvise, of course; one must substitute. But there are advantages. Wait until you taste ceviche made from conch with fresh-squeezed lemon! Or a dessert of fresh coconuts, pineapples, and bananas, or fresh fruit crèmes, or pig pit-roasted in the native manner! The seafood is a marvel: lobsters of fourteen pounds, stone crabs, shrimp, and such fish! And great turtles and turtle eggs! With lemon, butter, and parsley, the humblest fisherman can dine like a king off an endless variety of sea bounty. And we have geese and ducks, as well as chickens and turkeys. If you had only tasted the smoked goose I prepared at Christmas with side dishes of oysters and shrimp!” He paused for breath and beamed enormously. “But I prattle while you must be famished. Your pardon, madame! You have a particular fancy this morning, or may I surprise you?”

  He so obviously craved to do the latter that Mercy smiled. “Surprise me, please, Pierre.” With a flash of fore-knowledge, she added, “But not with too much. A roll and coffee is all I am used to.”

  Pierre answered with an eloquent snort, bowed, and rushed away. He must have had mixtures ready for cooking, for in twenty minutes he returned with a retinue of three boys who held trays while Pierre himself arranged the repast on the linen table mat he spread on the table.

  “Omelet with slivers of ham and green peppers,” he announced, setting down a covered dish by the heavy, crested silver. “Crepes with toasted coconut and rum sauce, and a fresh fruit parfait. Enjoy it, madame!”

  He was gone in the happy oblivion of duty done while Mercy stared at the beautifully served repast with something like horror.

  All this work to make one meal for one person seemed almost sinful, though, at least, thanks to the plentitude of fruits, food plants, and fish, she didn’t need to feel she was depriving anyone of food. Some of her father’s patients had lived just as self-indulgently, of course, but she had acquired from him a feeling that no person should consume in worldly goods and comforts more than a reasonable share, and that was based to a degree on what they contributed to the world.

  But the food was before her, it smelled tantalizing, and she uncovered the perfectly done omelet. She finished it, ate two of the incredibly thin, delicate crepes, and was finishing with the fresh fruit and coffee replenished from the silver pot when Pierre returned.

  His face fell at the sight of the remaining crepe. “Too much rum, perhaps? Madame does not like coconut?”

  “They were superb,” Mercy assured him. “But I wouldn’t be able to move if I ate that one. Let me have it later.”

  His Delft-blue eyes bulged. “Madame! Á warmed-over crepe is like a dowager trying to be a jeune fille! Never will it happen while I’m in charge of Monsieur Wellington’s kitchen!”

  “What, a difference of opinion already?” Eric sauntered through the French doors, pulled up a chair beside Mercy, and poured coffee into the extra cup on the tray. “A tragedy, Pierre?”

  “Madame suggested I serve her a warmed-over crepe!”

  Eric shook his head. “I share your horror, Pierre, but you must understand that madame lived through a war that must have considerably reduced her gustatory expectations.”

  He polished off the crepe while Pierre moaned. “But, monsieur, it is cold now! You cannot possibly …”

  “Excellent,” said Eric, using Mercy’s napkin. “I wish to show madame around the house, Pierre, but when I resume my labors with McNulty, she can visit your kitchen and you can discuss her preferences.”

  His sensibilities still outraged, Pierre bowed huffily and took himself back to his dominion. “Temperamental, but worth it,” said Eric, grinning. “I could never endure it here without him. However, I’ll have a word with him if he fattens you up too much with his sauces and pastries.” Appraising eyes went over her, as if summing up her attributes. “You could stand a little flesh, but not enough to hide the wonderful modeling of your bones.”

  “I’m not a prize racehorse or piece of sculpture,” Mercy said.

  “Indeed, not,” Eric agreed with a twinkle, rising and helping her up. “But you won’t stuff yourself in the hope of disgusting me. Quaint little puritan that you look to be in that gray gown, it molds your breasts and trim waist.”

  “My father always warned me about the health risks of overeating.”

  “Not to mention the artistic ones,” murmured Eric. “Shall we begin with my office, love? You might as well meet McNulty. French cook and Scottish accountant! Took me five years and as many men to hit upon McNulty, but in his way he’s as invaluable as Pierre.”

  “You seem well served.”

  “I go to great trouble to see that I am,” he replied blandly. “I’m never content till I’m sure I have the best.”

  Passing down the hall, he opened the first door on the right and let Mercy precede him into a large book-lined room with a smaller one adjoining, where a freckled man with thinning red hair glanced up from a ledger. His bow to Mercy as he rose was curt. Clearly, he was absorbed in his work and didn’t care to be interrupted.

  “Mercy, this is James McNulty,” said Eric. “James, this is Doña Mercy.”

  “She’s no more Spanish than I be,” said the wizened man, adjusting his spectacles to view her. “A sonsie lass with Scottish blood, I’m bound!”

  “Scottish-Irish,” Mercy admitted, “with a streak of Welsh.”

  McNulty nodded approval before he peered at Eric. “Now, sir, there be no way I can sort out the payments to those howling Icaiches for logging rights until you sit down and explain it all to me!”

  “In an hour, James, you may go at me till you’re satisfied,” Eric promised.

  They left the Scotsman to his work. Eric had three desks in his main office, each surrounded by files and bookcases. “It helps me not to get mixed up,” he said and laughed. “The desk to the right has all the material on logging, sugar’s in the middle, and the left one concerns cattle and domestic matters.”

  “Don’t you deal in guns?”

  “I’d certainly be wasting a great frontier location if I didn’t,” he said after a moment. “It’s a profitable sideline, but though the estate began as a logging concern, sugar now provides much of the income.” He gazed out at the river. “I haven’t done badly for the black-sheep younger son of a Midlands baronet.”

  Mercy grimaced. “Are all younger sons black sheep?”

  “It’s the only way they get to amount to anything,” returned Eric imperturbably.

  The library was across the hall, with a scatter of pipes and the smell of tobacco to indicate that Eric spent considerable time in a massive leather chair by a reading table strewn with rare editions and periodicals in several languages. There was a glittering array of decanters and bottles on a sideboard, and one wall was fitted to hold rifles, shotguns, and small arms, all well oiled.

  Next to the library was a music room. White magnolias were reflected on the polished top of a grand piano and an organ that might have graced a cathedral filled one wall. A violin lay on the blue velvet-cushioned window-seat overlooking the leafy courtyard, and a rosewood harp inlaid with ivory sat by a gilt-legged needlepoint bench. In a large recess behind it was a portrait of a very young woman, her fingers on the strings of a harp exactly like the real one. She wore an off-shoulder gown of dark green satin, and her rich chestnut hair was tied back with a ribbon of the same color.

  Mercy’s scalp prickled as she stared into remarkably lifelike eyes that seemed much too sad and wise for such a young face. The hair, the skin, the eyes! It was like looking into a mirror that gave back a not-quite-true reflection that prompted one to look closer and see the face was longer, the mouth classical, and the chin pointed. But Mercy looked enough like the woman in the painting to have been a sister.

  “That is Alison.” Eric sent his fingers across the harp strings, eliciting a sound like a cry of pain. “My half-sister.”

  “She’s in England?”

 
; “In the family vault. Holy ground—even though she was a suicide.”

  Mercy gave a cry, full of pity and a kind of eerie dread, as she stared at the grave, sweet countenance. “Why? Why would she do that?”

  “She was going to have my baby.” Eric gripped Mercy’s wrists and made her face him. “Don’t look like that! How can you know? Our mother died when Alison was five and I was three. My father—her stepfather—left us to nannies and servants who generally ignored us when they weren’t actually abusive. Father drank to excess, and females of propriety couldn’t stay long in his employ. So Alison both sistered and mothered me. Each was all the other had to love, to huddle against on lonely nights, or seek comfort from when Father buffeted us about. I was sent off to school, of course, but Alison had a governess, some improvement over the slattern nannies, and music was her joy and deliverance. Even Father would often ask her to play.

  “When I was sixteen, I came home at Whitsuntide to find that Father had betrothed her to a man of his own age. Alison was distraught. I held her and promised to think of something. We were innocent till then, but as God may judge me, if there is a God, our loving was as natural and sweet and inevitable as the opening of a flower. Father caught us one day in the attic, where we’d used to play as children. He stunned me with his walking stick and beat me senseless. When I came to, I was gagged, tied hand and foot, and Father’s estate manager and a groom were taking me to Southampton.

  “There they paid the captain well to keep me locked in a cabin till the ship reached the West Indies. The captain, honest in his way, delivered a letter from my father that disinherited me in the best sanctimonious style while bemoaning that a poor widower who’d devoted himself to his motherless children should be so disgraced. He enclosed one hundred pounds, adjured me to try to drag myself from the morass of heinous crime, and said if I cared at all for Alison’s peace I would never come again to England, or even try to communicate with her—that she would be married to the worthy Christian gentleman selected for her before I could read the letter.”