Bride of Thunder

by Jeanne Williams

  Eric started to toss the cutting back to the waiting Indian, paused, and frowned. The young man was dressed in rolled-up white trousers like the other hands, but there was something different about the way he stood and held his head. A gold earring glinted in his left ear. He had a hawk face, sloping forehead, slightly hooked nose, and broad, high cheekbones.

  “Who is this one?” asked Eric.

  “Señor, he’s batab of one of the small Mayan subgroups, neither Icaiche nor Cruzob.” Don Gerardo tugged nervously at his moustache, then added with venom, “It’s my belief he’s allied with the Cruzob. However that is, perhaps you’ll remember that he and some of his men came to buy guns a few months ago.”

  Eric nodded. “It’s coming back. They didn’t have enough money, but this man was afraid that Icaiches would overrun his village unless it had guns.”

  “So he asked to stay as hostage for payment.”

  “And I said I didn’t need hostages but could use another field hand,” finished Eric, gazing at the tall man, who looked straight back. “I see his people haven’t redeemed him. He was a fool to count on their love.”

  “They will come,” said the batab in Spanish. “They are not dzul, whites, to sell anything for money.”

  “Dog!” snarled Don Gerardo. “Kiss El Señor’s hand at once and beg his pardon, or you may need to buy a new skin!”

  “He owns my labor, not my worship,” said the young batab.

  Gerardo raised his metal-tipped braided quirt but Eric stopped him with a shake of his head. “Why begin something that couldn’t end till he’d be too ruined to work for a couple of days? A batab opposed to the Icaiches might be valuable. I’ll think about it.” He studied the Indian in gauging fashion. “What is your name?”

  “Señor, I am Dionisio Caamal.”

  “We’ll talk again, Dionisio.”

  With the slightest inclination of his head, the Indian turned back to his furrow, slicing the two-inch-thick stalk with a seemingly effortless sweep of his arm.

  “Señor, with all due respect, insolence cannot go unpunished!” burst out Don Gerardo. “Let me order a whipping for that one, or the workers will all be infected!”

  “He may be worth more to me with his pride,” said Eric. “I think, had you used your quirt, he would have cut your throat in the next instant, and, though he would, of course, have died immediately, that couldn’t help you.”

  “I have overseen such dogs all my life, señor. He needs to be beaten till he crawls to kiss the lash.”

  Eric stared at Gerardo till he glanced down and licked his lips. “Such wisdom and management techniques helped bring on the war that sent you scuttling across the Hondo,” Eric said in a stinging tone. “You will excuse us now. And perhaps you should keep a record of whippings and the offenses. I’ve told you that judicious punishment may be necessary, but I won’t tolerate indiscriminate abuse.” His frosty eyes glared at the mayordomo. “You understand?”

  A flush darkened Don Gerardo’s sallow face. “Yes, señor.”

  “Good. I’ll expect a report monthly; and if there’s nothing to report, I’ll congratulate you.”

  “So long as El Señor doesn’t blame me if production falls off and there are incidents …”

  “Ah, but I shall,” said Eric sweetly. “You have authority to punish when necessary. My mayordomo must have judgment; it is what sets him above fieldhands and overseers.”

  Don Gerardo bowed with a choking sound as they rode on.

  “Will his reports be honest?” Mercy asked.

  “I think so. But to be sure, I’ll also ask for such an accounting from the overseer, who’d be very happy to succeed to Don Gerardo’s job.”

  “Do you really have a plan for that young batab?”

  “It’s possible. I’ll confess the Icaiche raids are too close for comfort, and I hear the militia will be disbanded in a matter of weeks. When that happens, Marcos Canul is sure to come south of the Hondo again. If Dionisio would undertake to kill him, it’d be worth a goodly number of rifles.”

  Mercy remembered the proud stance of the batab, the fearless way he had confronted his master and mayordomo. “I don’t think he’ll kill another Maya for you,” she said, “even if they are enemies.”

  “You’re a romantic, love. For rifles in this country, men do many things.” As if startled by a sudden unwelcome thought that persisted after an incredulous attempt at dismissal, Eric turned in his saddle to scan her narrowly. “Are you making a hero of him? Listen, my sweet! Mayas rape white women more out of hatred than lust, and, don’t forget, that’s how our handsome young chief would serve you if he got the chance!”

  Angered past caution, Mercy laughed in his face. “How do you rape me? With hate? Lust? I tell you, Eric Kensington, that I don’t see any difference!”

  “Let me refresh your memory.” Seizing the reins of her horse, he dismounted and tied the horses outside a storage shed they were passing. He brought her out of the saddle, dragged off the divided skirt and her drawers as he carried her inside, spilled her down on a heap of old sacking, and spread her legs apart.

  He was so swollen that she felt she would break apart as he entered her and then rocked back and forth with savage, jolting thrusts. “I hoped your first lessons taught you what rape was!” He panted, gripping her wrists. “But since your memory’s bad, doesn’t this seem different from the way I took you this morning and last night?”

  “It’s all rape!” she shouted at him, strangling on rage and pain. “It’s all rape because I hate you, hate you …”

  A blow from the side of his hand dazed her. “Say you love me!” he gasped, shaking her. “Say you love me!”

  Her head lolled. She felt as if her neck were broken, as if it were somebody else to whom this was happening, but from within herself, though her body cringed, she found the strength to cry against the closed, blind look in his eyes. “I hate you! I always will! It’s Zane I love!”

  He circled her throat with one hand, and his fingers tightened till the world went black.

  16

  Several times she was conscious of being carried, handled, of voices she knew she could recognize if she tried. It was too much effort. She didn’t want to know them, or where she was, or even who. Her throat ached. Her head hurt. Best to drink whatever they gave her and sink back to soft darkness.

  “Madame,” insisted a gentle voice. “Pierre begs that you have some of the creamed crab he’s made especially for you, and a bit of lovely jelly—in three colors it is! Please, madame! Monsieur has gone riding and Pierre is in utter distraction with no one to taste his food!”

  Mercy opened her eyes and smiled shakily at Celeste. “Is it dinner time?”

  “Indeed, madame, and past!”

  It was deep sapphire twilight through the windows, and the glow of the bedside lamp was muted by its azure glass shade. Mercy tried to sit up. Immediately her head seemed occupied by a pounding drum.

  It was so easy to lie back and sleep. At that moment it even seemed desirable to shutter the windows during the day and live in that great bed, pretend to be sick when Eric came, and drift in and out of dreams. She still had in her mouth the taste of brandy someone had forced down her. Between brandy and sleep, she might escape Eric by lying in this chamber.

  And she might cease to be herself, too, atrophy till there was no chance of ever finding Zane. Mercy lifted her feet off the side of the bed. She mustn’t let Eric cow her, but she would have found it hard to go downstairs if Celeste hadn’t said he was riding. She had been undressed and put to bed in a loose peignoir. With Celeste’s help she slipped into underthings and one of her native dresses.

  “Tell Pierre I’ll have a little food on the terrace, but not too much,” she said, brushing her hair, unable to tell in the dim light if there were bruise marks on her throat.

  “I understand, madame.”

  Celeste went out quietly with a consoling backward glance. What did she know? How had Eric explained Mercy’s co
ndition? Not that he had to explain. If he had killed her, there was no one to demand that he explain.

  I have only myself to rely on, she told herself as she plaited her protestingly curly hair into one thick braid and let it hang down her back. But she remembered Dionisio, knew there was at least one other defiant soul on this estate, and somehow that cheered her, made her feel not quite so alone.

  He could die or she could die without the other knowing. They might never meet again. But Mercy had felt a closeness with him that day, gloried in his pride, and she knew she’d never forget him.

  Mercy touched her cheek, swollen where Eric had struck her, decided there wasn’t much she could do to hide it, and went downstairs.

  Lamps burned in the halls and a few were scattered around the terrace, but Mercy reached the table before she saw she wasn’t alone. Eric rose from a chair in the corner, came forward, and took her hands before she could retreat.

  “I thought you might come down if Pierre’s grief and my absence were presented to you,” he said lightly, but strain showed around his eyes and mouth, “I … I’m sorry, Mercy, mia. But when will you learn not to madden me?”

  Strange, but she almost laughed. “Probably when you learn not to make me angry.”

  He kissed her eyes and mouth, then the throat that still pained from his grasp. “It seems I must learn,” he said huskily. “You’re too small and fragile for such handling. I’ll have to master you by other means. Come now and sit down before Pierre has apoplexy!”

  After dinner he played the piano for an hour while Mercy lay on the chaise, pretending to read, but actually listening. He played with vigor and sweep, stormily, and she wondered if he ever imagined that Alison stepped out of her portrait and played her long-abandoned harp.

  He shared Mercy’s bed that night, but his kiss was brief, and though he held her in his arms, it was protectively. Only who was there to protect her from Eric himself?

  The next day at dinner Eric had considerable news, garnered from an English logger from Belize on his way to cut mahogany on lands rented from Marcos Canul.

  The emperor was rallying for what could only be defeat in Mexico, deprived of the support of his poor, demented empress. In Yucatán, Peraza’s forces were growing as he gained daily support in the north. Mérida would soon be under siege, if it wasn’t already in that familiar and unhappy state.

  “And there’s a joke from your country, love,” Eric concluded as Mercy wondered if Zane was safe and if he found winning more to his taste than losing. “Secretary Seward seems about to get his wish! Alaska! Can you imagine that frozen wasteland? It’s got a new name: ‘Seward’s Folly.’”

  “Was there anything else?” Mercy asked wistfully. It seemed so long ago since she left Texas! But the news she hungered, for would scarcely filter to this crown colony—how her neighbors were, what had happened to the farm, what was really happening with Reconstruction.

  Eric frowned, trying to remember. “The government’s setting up reservations in Indian territory for what are called the Five Civilized Tribes and making a reservation for the Sioux in the Black Hills. And they say buffalo cover the plains and that hunters are going after them thick and fast. If I weren’t so busy here, I’d be tempted to go up and see that western country. And I’d take some of those cattle that’re being butchered in Texas for their hide and tallow up north, where they’d fetch real money.”

  “It’s a long way to a railhead,” argued Mercy.

  “Cattle can walk and men can drive them.” Eric shrugged. “Would you like that, Mercy? To go home?”

  He seemed to mean it. Mercy’s heart leaped. Then she remembered Zane. Where he was would always be her center now; she’d never be at home without him.

  When she didn’t answer, Eric swore. His gaze fell on the gold band on her finger. “Will you satisfy my curiosity?” he asked in that leashed way she had come to dread. “I’ve assumed that ring was Philip’s, but you aren’t the type of woman to wear a ring for convention’s sake. Where did you get it?”

  “It … it’s an heirloom.”

  “Your mother’s?”

  “No.” Why couldn’t she lie?

  “Your father’s?”

  She shook her head.

  Eric’s breath went from him in a sigh. “It must be Falconer’s—belonging to his sacred mother, no doubt. I’m sure he kept nothing to remind him of that trull, his wife, except the child.”

  “It’s his mother’s.”

  “So you believe he meant to marry you,” said Eric in a pitying tone.

  “I know he did.”

  “Such faith, and from one who should know better!”

  “It wasn’t the way you think at all!” Goaded past keeping her secret, Mercy fought to steady her voice and hold back tears. “Zane … we weren’t lovers till two nights before he left, after Peraza’s messenger came.”

  Eric’s eyebrows rose. His gaze probed hers. “Is this true?”

  “Why should I lie?” Mercy asked bitterly. “You’ve treated me like a whore! Why should I care what you think?”

  “I’ve treated you like the one woman I’ve had to have.”

  She shuddered involuntarily. Eric muttered something, grasped her hand, and slipped off the ring. Mercy leaned forward, catching at his large, hard fingers, trying to pry them apart. “Give it back! Please, let me have it!”

  “So you can consider yourself married in all but fact to that pirate’s son?”

  “I … I won’t wear it if you’ll only let me keep it.”

  He shook his head. “I know so well the use of shrines, sweet Mercy. However, I won’t throw it away. It’ll go in my vault, along with deeds, wills, mortgages, and other important items.” She knew that begging would make him more adamant, perhaps anger him into throwing the ring away, but she couldn’t hide her intense sense of loss.

  Springing up from the table, she ran blindly into the hall, groping for the stairs so she could go to her room and vent her helpless wrath. Eric seized her by the shoulders, turned her against him, and stood immovable as a rock while she sobbed and beat at him.

  “I’ll give you another ring,” he said when her outrage was spent and she fell stonily quiet under his hands. “I can marry you as I offered in the beginning, now that I know you didn’t live complaisantly as Falconer’s concubine. From what you say, it’s possible he meant to marry you. I can see how you might feel, with some justice, that I owe you a husband.”

  She stared up at him, unable to believe her ears. “I don’t just want a … a husband! It’s Zane I love!”

  “An unfortunate predilection, Mercy, since I love you.”

  “Not me, God help you! A likeness to your half sister!”

  “That drew me to you at first. But I have glimpsed a fire in you that Alison was too gentle and young to have. That’s why I hunted for Philip all the way to New Orleans and brought him to La Quinta in the hope that Falconer might feel obliged to sell you back to your repentant husband.”

  “But you meant to buy me from Philip.”

  “Exactly, though I thought you to be Falconer’s woman. How did he resist, or is he softer toward tears than I? I couldn’t marry his mistress, but I meant to keep you as long as that sweet fire warmed me.” He passed one hand lightly over her face. “It hasn’t warmed me yet, but one day it will. You will love me. A woman, in time, must love the man who delights her body, protects her, and sees to her needs.”

  Mercy stayed mutely defiant. He drew her against him so that she heard the steady, strong pounding of his heart.

  “She comes to love the man who fathers her children,” he finished. “That’s how I’ll have you at last, Mercy, if not before. A baby will fill your hearty preempt first place. Loving the child, you’ll love something of me that will lead you to forget what’s past and gone.”

  She thought of the dwarf poinciana flowers, but she knew better than to tell him she would use every means in her power not to be with child by him. A primitive part of her
nature told her that the instincts and biological drives of a mother were directed at the child’s safety and good. Even if she kept from developing a feeling for Eric, having a child by him would make it harder to find a way back to Zane.

  “Why,” asked Eric abruptly, “did you never conceive by Philip?”

  “He was at the front for a good part of our marriage, and then when he came home …” Mercy fell silent, hating to remember those drunken fumblings, her pain and humiliation. “It … just never happened.”

  “I suspect he didn’t come to you often.”

  Mercy averted her face. In spite of all that Eric had said and done to her, she found it shaming to discuss sex, and especially her relations with Philip.

  “Blushing, sweetheart?” Eric laughed softly. “Never mind. “I’m in no wild hurry, but if you don’t root one of my seeds by Christmas, I’ll think myself a poor planter! And if there’s some problem with how you’re made, we’ll find a doctor who can set it right.”

  Would a doctor be able to tell she was using a draft? Christmas was a long way off. Mercy refused to worry that far ahead. “When a baby starts, you’ll want to marry,” Eric said. “But why not do it now? We could go to Belize City this week. The governor’s my friend. He’ll give a reception and do all the honors. You’ve never been to Europe, have you? We could go to Paris or Rome, stop in London. And New York has wonderful shops, if you’d enter Yankeeland.” His face glowed with eagerness. “Let’s do it, Mercy! You won’t be sorry!”

  It was strange that she should hate to dash his excited boyish planning when he had forced her from her love’s house in a way that would surely cost her Zane’s trust.

  “Well?” Eric persisted.

  “No, I can’t”

  He was very still. Only his powerful heart pumped its secret rhythm against her cheek. “I’m going to take you upstairs and have my pleasure with you,” he said at last. “I’m going to give you pleasure, too, however you fight it, for that lovely body craves what I can do. Why not protect yourself, be able to go anywhere with pride?”