Bride of Fortune (51 page)

      
They crashed to earth when Nicholas leaped from his galloping horse onto Mariano, wresting the rifle from his grasp. The ground was hard when they landed, and Fortune was on the bottom, taking the brunt of the crushing fall against his right shoulder. Vargas rolled away, panting for breath, his eyes searching frantically for the lost weapon before realizing in his terror that he still had several shots remaining in the pistol strapped to his hip.

      
With a grimace he drew it and fired. Nicholas rolled to the left while at the same time drawing his own gun. Two more shots rang out. Vargas missed. Fortune didn't.

      
Scratched and breathless, his right arm still numb from the fall, Nicholas struggled to his feet. Another shot, this time from a rifle, echoed from the hilltop behind him. He felt the dull powerful jolt, familiar to him after all the times he had been hit before.
This one is bad, bad as I've ever taken...

      
As Fortune crumpled to the hard rocky earth of El Camino Real, he saw Lieutenant Bolivar Montoya shoot Hernan Ruiz. The lieutenant would indeed be promoted after this adventure. Then while consciousness began to ebb slowly away he focused on thoughts of Mercedes. Her lovely face floated like a vision inside his mind. Only once before he died he longed to hear her speak his name.

      
Nicholas...Nicholas...

Chapter Twenty Two

      
Luce reined in and looked down on the old
hacienda
. His inspection brought a broad grin to his face. “You've been most industrious, brother mine.” A herd of fat cattle grazed on the hillside and the corrals near the stables were filled with over a dozen splendid-looking horses, no doubt recaptured from his grandfather's Andalusian stock which had run wild during the war years. Even the big house itself had a fresh coat of whitewash and all the outbuildings, down to the peons' rude cabins, had been rebuilt and refurbished. Gran Sangre once again looked like a small prosperous kingdom.

      
“A pity the Juaristas will come and take it all away from you, brother, now that they've reclaimed the northern states,” he murmured wryly. But that would be in the future—perhaps a year away. In the meanwhile, it was a good place for him to hide and enjoy life for a few weeks until Marquez summoned him back to Mexico City.

      
The cry went up from down the road as he rode in. “The
patrón
has returned!” Their faces beaming, men and women called out, “Don Lucero!” Children ran up to his great black stallion, expecting to be greeted by name as was his wont over the past year. But he ignored them.

      
Riding arrogantly past, every inch the returning grandee, his eyes were fixed on the courtyard of the great house. So Nick was not at home and these fools believed he was his returning brother. A sly smile slashed his face as he thought of Mercedes. Would she know the difference? An amusing game. Idly he wondered how Nick had dealt with her since assuming his identity. How amazed everyone here would be to learn the truth.

      
Of course Nicholas Fortune had become
patrón
and might well resent the return of the legal heir, no matter that they had been comrades in arms and were brothers. And Nicholas Fortune was a dangerous man to anger. But then so was he. Would they fight over Cenci? Perhaps she would find it amusing to share two identical lovers.

      
Mercedes heard the outcry and was already on her feet. The basket of mending she had been working on dropped to the floor unheeded. Now advanced in her pregnancy, she had taken to resting in the afternoons, doing sedentary chores around the house. Would he think her shapeless and ungainly? Angelina had assured her she would grow a good deal more before the babe came, but her belly was visibly rounded now.

      
How could you not be beautiful to me carrying my child?
His words washed over her like a soothing balm and joy deep and piercing set her heart to pounding as she ran toward the courtyard. Then something made her stop in the shadow of the arched doorway, watching him dismount. With a curt nod he tossed Lazaro the reins, then strode toward the house. His expression was one of faint amusement, boredom, indolence.

      
Lucero!

      
“Miss me, beloved.?” he drawled in a mocking voice, as his eyes swept over her from head to foot.

      
Wordlessly she stood rooted to the stone steps as waves of horror washed over her. Finally regaining her voice she managed to say, “Lucero.”

      
“Yes, Lucero—your prodigal husband has returned at last, although I see Nick has attended to my husbandly duties in my absence,” he replied, as his eyes fastened on her hand which rested protectively over the small swell of her belly.

      
Nick. Nicholas. So that was her lover's name—the man who had given her this child. The question leaped to her lips,
What is his name—his full name?
but she squelched it. Lucero would tell her in his own good time. She did not want him to know how desperately she loved the stranger with his face.

      
When he stalked closer and raised his hand to finger a lock of golden hair resting on her shoulder, Mercedes forced herself not to flinch. Lucero had always loved to play cat and mouse games. “Why did you return after all these years?”

      
Her eyes met his defiantly, darkest gold, molten with anger. “No longer the vaporing miss, are you? You've matured into a striking woman, Mercedes,” he murmured, ignoring her question as his eyes studied the perfection of her aquiline features. “There's fire in you now. I can tell. I can always tell that about a woman. Do I owe it all to Nick?”

      
She slapped his hand away. “You're disgusting! You sent another man—a stranger—to pose as my husband!”

      
“And I notice you didn't refuse him your bed in spite of that fact,” he replied dryly.

      
Her face flushed but she met his mocking eyes steadily. “At first I didn't know. You were gone for four years and we scarcely came to know each other during the brief weeks of our betrothal and marriage.”

      
“Yet you continued to give yourself to him after you learned the truth, didn't you?” His voice was silky.

      
She ignored the taunt, fortifying herself with fury. “He earned the birthright you spurned, He did what you weren't man enough to do.” The instant the words escaped her lips, she realized her mistake.

      
His lips thinned in anger and those black wolf’s eyes glowed with a keen feral light. Then, abruptly his mood lightened and he threw back his head and laughed. “Nick certainly has a way with women. I wonder what effect he's had on Cenci? Is she by any chance pregnant, too?”

      
Mercedes knew he was waiting for her reaction, hoping to see hurt or anger. Instead it was she who laughed this time. “No. He found her overblown charms quite unappealing, as a matter of fact. She's working in the kitchens as a scullery maid.”

      
Before he could reply to that startling bit of information a child's voice echoed in high piping notes from across the courtyard. “Papa, Papa, you're home! They told me you would come back to us!” Rosario ran into the shaded portico where the two adults stood facing each other with Bufón bounding behind her. The dog stopped at once a good four yards away from Lucero. His back ridged up and he let out a low rumbling growl.

      
“Oh, Bufón, don't be silly. This is Papa. You don't have to protect me,” the child scolded.

      
If ever there had been the slightest doubt in Mercedes’ mind about this man's identity, the animal's instinctive reaction would have quashed it. Before the dog attempted to attack Lucero, she juxtaposed herself between the two and issued a stern command. “Bufón, outside!”

      
Tail drooping, he turned and padded resentfully from the portico and down the steps.

      
Lucero looked incredulously at the child, noting her dark skin combined with the delicate features of a
criolla
and the unmistakable Alvarado black eyes with the silver irises. “Well, I see that I left Cenci with a surprise before I rode away,” he said, grinning. “I'm amazed my lady mother didn't banish her and her child.”

      
Rosario stood between the adults, confused by her papa's words. Why didn't he pick her up and fly her around in circles like he usually did? Something was wrong. She found her thumb going back to her mouth for the first time in many months.

      
“Cenci isn't her mother. Rita Herrera was. She died in Hermosillo last summer.”

      
“Amazing! Yes. I'd all but forgotten that Papa sent her away before we were betrothed. How does the child come to be here?”

      
Nothing the strange man was saying made any sense. Why did he look so much like her father? “You aren't my Papa,” Rosario said, growing more confused and fearful by the moment.

      
“Your papa has been away a long while, Rosario. He's tired and—and he's been ill. You must let him rest now and we'll talk later,” Mercedes placated, then turned and walked swiftly into the
sala
, calling for Angelina.

      
The old cook answered her summons at once, regarding Lucero with shrewd, troubled eyes. “Welcome back, Don Lucero.” So this time the real Lucero had come home. Odd, but Angelina could not think of him as the
patrón
. “I have ginger cookies and cool lemonade for you,” she said to Rosario, taking the child's hand. “Come and you can tell me about your lessons with Father Salvador while you eat.”

      
As they disappeared down the hall, Mercedes turned back to Lucero and said, “Nicholas received word about Rita's death and didn't want Rosario raised alone in an orphanage. He brought her home.” How strange it seemed to at last use her lover's real name.

      
Lucero lifted one eyebrow sardonically. “I'd never have thought a hardened mercenary like Nicholas Fortune would have a soft spot for children.” He shrugged. “Maybe it's his own impending fatherhood. Where is he?”

      
Mercedes felt fear race its icy fingers up and down her spine in spite of the warm afternoon air. “He had to go away, to the border—to buy some breeding stock. We expect him back any time.”
Please, God and all the blessed Saints, what will Lucero do when my love returns?...if he returns.

      
A calculating expression washed over Lucero's handsome face. “I gather from the reception I received he's been gone some time. Perhaps some ill fate's befallen him. Will you mourn, beloved? For a man who's not your husband? For the father of your child?”

      
“You never gave a damn about my feelings before, Lucero. Why on earth should you care what I'll feel now?”

      
“Because you're my wife,” he said coldly.

      
“Not any longer. You gave me away to a stranger. You arranged this whole thing, didn't you? You coached him about your family, the
hacienda
, the servants. He knew almost everything.”

      
His mercurial mood shifted again and he smiled. “He's very clever. But still, I wondered if he could pull it off. It would seem he fooled everyone except you.”

      
“Not everyone. Some of the servants know and I think your mother suspects.”

      
“So the old crone is still alive. I'd hoped she'd gasped her last by now. A pity Papa had to die before her.”

      
“He earned his death,” she said coldly. “Dona Sofia will follow soon. She's taken a turn for the worse in the past week or so. Father Salvador has already given her the last rites.”

      
“Ah, yes, that vile, meddlesome old priest. The harpy in cassock skirts,” he said bitterly. “So, he's taken to tutoring my bastard now, has he? Must've had a real change of heart. I'd never have believed he'd want to be in the same room with my get, even the legitimate variety.”

      
“You're the one who's vile. What are you doing here, Lucero? Now that the war is going so badly for the emperor, have you decided to switch allegiance?”

      
He laughed mirthlessly. “If only I could. But then I'd have to rusticate here in this godforsaken wilderness, with only the brilliant entertainments of Hermosillo to entice me. You'll be relieved to hear I won't be staying long.”

      
“Good. I'll have Baltazar draw you a bath. Dinner is at seven. You know the way to your room, of course.”

      
“Of course,” he echoed with a sharkish smile, then turned and strode casually toward the wide flat stairs that curved up to the second floor. Pausing with his hand on the heavy wrought-iron railing, he said, “Have Baltazar fetch me a decent brandy—that is, if there's anything left in Papa's cellar.”

      
She nodded, then waited until he disappeared up the steps. The sick sour taste of bile rose in her throat. Sweet Virgin, how would she abide sitting across the dinner table from him? And how would she explain to Rosario why she could not join them as she always had before?