Bride of Fortune (39 page)

      
“I expected you sooner. When you did not arrive I dispatched my private guard. There are Juarista banditti everywhere.”

      
“We would have arrived sooner but my wife needed to rest at frequent intervals. I did not want her overtired. She is expecting our child in the spring,” Nicholas said with pride as two of Vargas’ soldiers helped her dismount. Turning, he took her hand and presented her to the don.

      
Mercedes made her curtsy in front of the hawk-faced old man, whose expression was so severe it appeared the furrows at the sides of his mouth were like grooves carved in granite. “I am honored, Don Encarnación, and most grateful for your hospitality.” The way he inspected her, Mercedes was glad she had decided upon her less comfortable but far grander royal blue riding habit with heavy black braid trim.

      
“Welcome to
Hacienda
Vargas, Doña Mercedes, and my felicitations on the forthcoming birth of Gran Sangre's heir. My home is your home. I am certain you will wish to rest and refresh yourself before the evening's festivities. Viola will escort you to your quarters.”

      
He snapped his fingers sharply and a small Indian girl appeared seemingly out of nowhere. She bowed nervously and gestured for the lady to follow her.

      
Nicholas raised Mercedes’ hand and kissed it, then watched as she entered the wide arched doorway leading into the grand
sala
, followed by three servants carrying the bags that had been unstrapped from their pack mules.

      
“She is most lovely. Rather reminds me of my Teresa when she was young,” Don Encarnación said. “She was Spanish, from the north in Galicia. The same gold hair and eyes.”

      
Nicholas detected a wistfulness in the old man's voice for a brief moment, but then Don Encarnación's expression hardened again as he gestured for his guest to follow him along the wide stone portico. They bypassed the songbirds and hammocks. At the third door he turned into the house, entering a study which was lined with books and furnished with dark, ornately carved pieces. Heavy crimson velvet covered the windows and an old Castillian tapestry depicting El Cid in triumphal march hung on the inside wall. A full suit of Italian armor, probably Argonese, stood militantly at the side of the wall hanging.

      
Several men were clustered around a liquor cabinet, crystal goblets in their hands, laughing and talking. Fortune recognized Encarnación's son Mariano from Luce's description, a slightly plump man of forty or so, with light brown hair and slate-gray eyes, possessing his father's imperious manner, but not the iron discipline to make it convincing.

      
He turned, smiling broadly. His waistcoat buttons stretched across a thickening middle as he bowed the same formal way the old don had. “Lucero. Welcome. It has been years—you were but a stripling last time I saw you.”

      
“As I recall, your chestnut mare beat my black rather handily,” Nicholas said, praying he remembered the story accurately.

      
“I've retired from racing to pursue more important matters now,” Mariano replied, beaming with the remembered victory.

      
“My son is the imperial representative to the alcalde in Chihuahua,” the old don said with pride. “Allow me to present my old friends, Don Hernan Ruiz and Don Patrico Morales and Don Doroteo Ibarra.”

      
The men were courteous but somewhat reserved. With the exception of Don Hernan, they were all older, closer to Encarnación's age. They made pleasant small talk about their journeys to
Hacienda
Vargas and the ball that night.

      
“When do our guests of honor arrive?” Nicholas asked.

      
“Prince Salm-Salm and his wife have arrived, along with his aides,” the balding Don Patrico replied.

      
“You will meet them at the festivities tonight. They are resting now,” Don Encarnación added. “Perhaps you and the prince can exchange reminiscences of the war.”

      
“I understand you fought for the emperor, Don Lucero. Do you know the prince?” Morales asked.

      
“I haven't had the pleasure as yet, but I have heard of his exploits.”

      
“Why have you left the military, might I inquire?” Don Hernan's dark eyes swept Fortune swiftly, inventorying his obvious good health. The
criollo's
right arm hung uselessly at his side, a war injury of some sort, Nicholas assumed.

      
“Upon my father's death, the responsibilities for Gran Sangre fell to me as his sole heir. It was his dying wish I return home to rebuild it.”

      
“I've heard some disturbing rumors. Of course, Sonora is a distance away from my home in Durango...” Don Patrico paused for effect.

      
“What my old friend is trying to say is there have been some absurd stories circulating about your coddling peons,” Encarnación put in brusquely, his blue-gray eyes turning dark and flinty.

      
“How so?” Nicholas asked, taking a sip of his host's excellent port.

      
“By letting them go free without so much as a taste of the whip after they were caught butchering your beef,” Mariano supplied as he poured himself a generous refill, then studied the man he thought was Lucero over the rim of his glass.

      
Nicholas shrugged philosophically. Now was as good a time as any to try his plan and see if it would work. “Yes, I let them go free—even gave them the damned dead steer. It was of no earthly use to me.”

      
“But making an example of thieving peons is vital if we are to maintain our authority,” Don Doroteo replied angrily.

      
“By making examples of the stupid savages, all we do is send them scurrying into the arms of Juarez and his damned rabble. I was only keeping them properly grateful for my benevolence,” Nicholas replied with dripping cynicism in his voice.

      
“Juarez!” Don Hernan spat the word as if it were the vilest epithet he knew. “That filthy Indian upstart from Oaxaca, leading a band of rabble armed with rusty muskets and machetes.”

      
Nicholas’ eyes lost their cynical amusement and took on a steely glint as he spoke with such intensity that it riveted every man in the room. “That upstart savage's rabble have captured Mazatlán and Guaymas, effectively shutting off west coast shipping in my state. Matamoros, Tampico and Vera Cruz—our three most lucrative Gulf coast customs ports are in their hands now, too. Escobedo's army sweeps from Nuevo Leon into Coahuila and Diaz has taken the capital of Oaxaca, driving out the archbishop.

      
“Now I realize, gentlemen, that we are isolated here in the northwest, but I can assure you from firsthand experience of only a few months past, Juarez is gaining ground, rallying his forces.”

      
“You can't seriously believe these godless republican scum will overthrow the monarchy?” Don Hernan said, aghast. “I saw them starved and beaten at Puebla in sixty-three.”

      
“Starved?” Fortune's eyebrows rose derisively. “Yes, after they held out for three months under bombardment by a force ten times their numbers. They're fanatically determined to defend their constitution and that mesmerizing little Indian who holds up the scrap of paper as if it were the Holy Grail. They fight and they win—and now they have outside help. Juarez's wife has been welcomed by the damnable
gringo
s. Do you know she was invited to speak before their Congress? That their government has been sending shipments of Springfield rifles across the border to arm Escobedo? My
contre-guerrilla
group confiscated hundreds of them this past year.”

      
Fortune's eyes swept the assembly for dramatic effect. Several of the men were slack-jawed in amazement and Don Encarnación and Don Hernan were furiously angry. But Mariano? His expression appeared bland, almost unconcerned as he polished off another drink.

      
“So what is your point—that we should throw up our hands and let the land reform lunatics take our ancient heritage, divide up our proud
hacienda
s among the peons in forty-acre tracts?” Don Encarnación asked, his dark complexion livid red beneath his tan.

      
“Hardly! But unless someone can stop Juarez, I plan to keep my options open. A smart man makes his own laws and acts to protect his heritage—if he plans to hang onto it. There is nothing I'd like more than to see Juarez out of the picture. Without him the whole rebellion would unravel into internecine warfare and we could pit one petty republican general against another. But with him as their icon, they won't be stopped until that infamous little black carriage of his rolls back into Mexico City!” He looked measuringly around the room as he took a generous swallow of port.

      
“What you're suggesting then is that we should eliminate the Indian,” Mariano said as blandly as if he were discussing putting down a spavined old horse.

      
Nicholas shrugged. “I understand it's been tried already...unsuccessfully. Now I fear it's too late.”

      
He casually walked over to the latticed doors and peered out into the courtyard, as if unaware of the implication of his words, but he could sense the silent exchange going on between old Encarnación and his companions. Were they all in on the plot? Probably. Mariano was a cipher though. The old don's son seemed as apolitically decadent as Anselmo had been.
I wonder...

      
The gathering broke up shortly, ostensibly so the men could dress for the evening. Nicholas suspected Encarnación and his minions had probably closeted themselves to discuss whether or not to trust him, hopefully to invite him to join their scheming. All he could do in the meanwhile was keep his eyes and ears open when any opportunity to learn something presented itself.

      
Standing in front of a mirror in their suite, he inspected his appearance. He had dressed traditionally in the fitted short jacket and silver-trimmed pants of a
criollo
. The suit was black with a snowy white lawn shirt and white silk stock that contrasted with his swarthy complexion. The only color in his outfit was the brilliant crimson sash at his waist. He opened the door of his small dressing room and found Mercedes standing expectantly in the center of the enormous bedroom. She was surrounded by the lavish ostentation of frescoed ceilings, gold leaf wallpaper and Persian carpets, but still her slender figure dominated the room.

      
“Doña Mercedes, you are the jewel of the House of Alvarado,” he said in a low growl of appreciation as he strode across the dark maroon and gold rug to take her hand.

      
Her gown was of deep violet silk, a stunning and dramatic color that overpowered most blondes, but with her dark gold hair and eyes, it only heightened her vibrancy. The plunging vee at the front of the dress revealed an enticing swell of pale gold breasts where an heirloom necklace of amethyst set in silver filigree nestled lovingly.

      
Raising the heavy stones, he placed his mouth on the warm satiny flesh, inhaling her delicate fragrance as he tasted her skin. “Lucky gems,” he murmured, feeling her pulse begin to accelerate.

      
“I take it that means I meet with your approval?” She had let the maid, Magaña, labor over her hair until it was curled and piled high with silver and amethyst combs securing its heavy weight. One long soft lock draped over her right shoulder, begging a man's touch.

      
Nicholas could not resist. Taking the curl and twining it about his index finger, he replied, “I told you you'd be the most beautiful woman at the fiesta.”

      
She laughed tolerantly. “You haven't even seen the other ladies yet. I met several of them in the
sala
earlier. Doña Ursula, our host's daughter-in-law, is quite striking,” she said, recalling the raven-haired beauty with the flashing violet eyes.

      
He raised an eyebrow. “Mariano's wife? I'd expect her to be a bit long of tooth.”

      
“His second wife. The first died some time ago. Ursula was forced into the arrangement last year, an innocent of seventeen, but she's become worldly wise now.” The instant she said it, her eyes flew to his, realizing the implication. “Lucero—I didn't mean—”

      
“Shh...” He silenced her with a soft kiss. “What's past is past for us. Let's look only to the future.”

      
“To the future,” she echoed softly and took his arm. They headed downstairs to face the glittering assembly.

      
Nicholas said, “I understand there are to be pole dancers out in the courtyard and a formal dinner before the musicians strike up in the ballroom. Then fireworks to end the evening.”

      
Her eyes lit up. “I've never seen pole dancers.”

      
“It would appear Don Encarnación is really rolling out the royal carpet for his guests of honor.”

      
As they strolled down the wide carpeted stairs into the main
sala
, Mercedes observed the brilliantly gowned and jeweled women. Here and there the glitter of gold epaulets and pure white of an imperial court officer's uniform stood out among the crowd. Most of the men were dressed in the same expensive and conservative manner as her husband, but to Mercedes, none filled out the fitted suit half so well as Lucero, with his broad shoulders and long lean legs. The brightly colored sash at his waist only emphasized his flat belly which felt as hard and sleek as all of his naked flesh.
Stop it! Here I am undressing him with my eyes in front of a room filled with people!