Bride of Thunder (14 page)

“Did you have a tutor?”

“Father sent me to a Virginia military academy for two years starting when I was twelve. I couldn't stand it any longer than that, so I made sure my teachers couldn't, either.” He grinned and the light from the window caught his turned face, giving her a heart-stabbing glimpse of the handsome, high-spirited boy he had been. “I got most of my education from a staved-up prelate friend of my father's, a renegade priest who taught me Latin and Greek and history when he wasn't clutching a bottle or a woman.”

“What a preceptor!”

“He married a mestizo beauty in Valladolid and died defending her and their baby during the first sacking of the town.”

There was nothing to say to that. It seemed that all things here came back sooner or later to the war, just as in her own country. At least a generation would have to die before some of the horror and grief and hatred could subside.

Zane changed the subject, as if he, too, wanted to forget constant looming threats and bitterly mourned losses. “If you need help with your little waif, Chepa can talk to her, but, of course, the sooner you can speak both Mayan and Spanish, the better. I've put Mayel in a small room next to Chepa's behind the kitchen so she'll be available when you want her.”

If Mercy was fearful and uncertain, what must Mayel be? She knew the language and Chepa seemed kind, but such a young girl must surely feel lost and very alone. Mercy resolved to look in on her after dinner and let her know someone cared about her.

“Thank you,” Mercy said.

Silence deepened between them. She grew tremblingly aware of the magnetism—the male energy and force—that radiated from him in an aura that touched her own. Did he feel it, too? Surely he must! And though it was primitively physical, there was more to it than that—a wild elemental clash of powers seeking to fulfill themselves, seeking to merge, to create a new identity.

“When I've seen to urgent matters, I could show you some of the countryside,” he said. “There's a little village not far from here with a Mayan priestess and quite a remarkable hidden wellspring known for its virgin water.”

“Virgin water?”

“Water from cave drippings or deep, secret sources. It's hard to find, so, like blood, it makes an acceptable offering to the spirits.”

Zane strode to the edge of the tiled porch and looked out over his inheritance, hands behind his back, shoulders hunched slightly forward. “What,” he said abruptly, “do you think of Jolie?”

Startled, Mercy searched for an honest but inoffensive reply. “She's beautiful.”

A gesture of his hand dismissed that. “I know well enough how she looks.”

“She seems to have a high intelligence.”

He nodded encouragingly. “You'll find she does.” He waited. There'd be no dodging his intent.

Mercy lifted her chin and took a few deliberate breaths. “Jolie seems spoiled, selfish, and absolutely of no mind to learn anything from me!”

Spinning around, Zane caught Mercy's hands and brought them to his lips in a laughing salute. “Good! If you can be both tough-minded and truthful, you have a chance with the little imp! She can twist me around her little finger in spite of my resolves, and Chepa is as helpless.”

“I can't do much with her if you don't support my authority.”

“I'll support you.” His tone was surprisingly grim. “If she doesn't learn some discipline and patience, she'll be just like …” He broke off, but Mercy was sure he feared the child might be like her self-indulgent and faithless mother.

A bell rang and he motioned for her to precede him into the courtyard.

Dinner was served on a terrace at the back of the house, entered from the center court. The paving extended to four large trees, reaching in crescents halfway around them. A door from the kitchen opened onto this porch and another was at the far end, but there was a long expanse of white plastered wall and on it was a fresco, lit now with twining leaf sconces.

In brightly painted relief, a tree gripped a fearful monster in its roots, while its trunk was level with men hunting and planting corn and women spinning cotton and patting tortillas while children played among flowers and butterflies. Above this terrestrial scene, the branches spread and on either side were patron figures with a great sun above all.

“That represents the Mayan creation myths,” said Zane.

“It's lovely,” Mercy responded, utterly beguiled.

“It's silly fairytales and super … superstition!” Jolie tugged at her father's arm. “Let's eat, Papa! I got so hungry, but I waited for you!”

“You've gone to bones!” he gasped, squeezing a chubby arm. “Quick, then! Sit down before you faint!”

He assisted her into a chair scaled to her size, chuckling, but her golden eyebrows knit furiously and she looked on the verge of tears.

“Don't treat me like a baby!” She darted Mercy an edged glance. “I don't like it in front of strangers!”

Zane's indulgent smile faded. “Doña Mercy isn't a stranger, Jolie.”

“To me she is!”

Except for coloring, father and daughter looked very much alike as their wills clashed. Their mouths hooked down in the same fashion and the angle of their eyebrows was identical.

“I knew you needed someone to teach you manners,” Zane said to the small mutineer. “I'd no idea how much! Now, you will beg Doña Mercy's pardon.”

Mercy felt a tug of sympathy for the embattled rebel. “I'm a stranger,” she said, “but I won't be for long.”

Neither Zane nor Jolie responded to her smile. “Apologize,” ordered Zané.

Jolie hung her head, her lower lip trembling, though it thrust doggedly forward.

“Oh, Zane, it's not important!” Mercy protested.

“Allow me to decide that. Jolie?”

“What if I don't?”

“By God!” Zane rocked back, between laughter and exasperation. “You young hellion, you have the gall to sit there and ask?”

“You never spank me,” said Jolie in a matter-of-fact tone. “If you send me to bed without supper, I'll starve myself all week and you'll beg me to eat! So what will you do?”

Zane looked thunderstruck at this cool appraisal, but he had the sense to refuse idle threats. “Maybe I'll
do
nothing,” he said, “but I'll be displeased with you, and very much ashamed.”

Her shoulders hunched, Jolie was silent for a long moment.

“Doña Mercy,” she said in a whisper, not looking up, “I beg your pardon.”

Mercy wished she dared to put her arms around the child, but the proudly stubborn set of the whole strong little body forbade any such gesture.

“Please, let's forget it,” she said. But from the grim look on Zane's face as he seated her and from the way Jolie kept her eyes lowered, she knew it would be a long time, if ever, before Jolie forgot.

It was an uncomfortable meal. Zane, probably with wisdom, made no effort to woo or make up with his daughter, and he ignored her refusal of all the food except for some delicious-smelling turkey. This, Zane explained to Mercy, was pit-roasted in a native way that was also used with deer, small pigs, and iguanas.

“You may want to watch Chepa make
pibil
one day,” he said. “It makes even tough meat tender and is a perfect method for cooking on a hunt or journey if one has the time.”

There were yams, small, succulent green-corn tamales, tortillas, and crusty rolls. For dessert they had thin pumpkin seed cakes glazed with honey.

Chepa herself had brought the turkey, still nested on the steamed banana leaves in which it had apparently been cooked.

“How did you know I was coming in time to make
pibil?
” he had asked her, appreciatively inhaling its fragrance.

“I made deer
pibil
last night,” Chepa admitted, smiling. “It can be eaten cold, after all. And if you hadn't come tonight, I had a young pig selected for tomorrow. Shall you, the master, not have a good meal when you return from a journey?”

“The meals are always good,” Zane assured her.

“This bad one doesn't think so.” Chepa touched Jolie's golden hair, gave her a sharp glance when the girl stared at her plate, then moved off to the kitchen with a regretful lift of her shoulders. Chepa, evidently, was used to Jolie's temper.

A graceful young woman Zane called Soledad served the other foods and cleared everything away before fetching the pumpkin seed cakes and foamy hot chocolate. Jolie made up for her earlier abstentions by consuming three cakes and two cups of the rich, spiced hot chocolate.

“Bed for you now,” said Zane, rising.

“Thank you, Papa, but I can go by myself.”

“But …”

“I'm not a
young
child anymore.” Jolie had a quaint, almost archaic, manner of speech that probably came from living with adults and using three languages. Back straight, arms at her sides, she stiffly offered her cheek to be kissed. “Good night, Papa. Good night, Doña Mercy.”

They both said good night. She vanished through the gate, small, lonely, gripped by a pride and resentment that seemed too fierce for her.

“I've most deeply offended Her Highness,” said Zane, forcing a smile. “But I suppose it is time I stopped tucking her in.”

“I'm sorry to have caused trouble.”

Zane shrugged. “Clearly, I should have had a woman here years ago, but at first, I … well, to be blunt about it, I wanted nothing to do with the whole tribe of adult white females. It's just been the last year, when I had visions of Jolie's growing out of being a child, that I knew I had to get someone.”

“You could send her away to school.”

“Laugh if you want to, but that would break both our hearts.”

It was indeed time for a woman to be at La Quinta, a woman he could love, have a life with when Jolie married. But he seemed utterly set against his own needs, except for the crudest physical gratification. Mercy despairingly believed she might change the daughter's blighting attitude long before she did the father's. He had given all his tenderness and protective love to Jolie. Mercy understood this especially well since her father had done the same with her. As far as she remembered, he'd never thought of remarrying.

Trying to imagine her reaction if Elkanah had brought home a wife, Mercy gave a rueful shake of her head and laughed. “It's hard for a doted-upon daughter to have another woman in the house, even when it's her own mother. I'm sure I'd have made life difficult for any lady my father might have brought in, though by the time he went off to war I was beginning to realize that he needed someone his own age. And, of course, if he were still alive, I'd be delighted now for him to marry.”

“There's no question of my marrying.” Zane's cold words were a slap.

Mercy flushed. “I … I'm aware of that I only meant that I can sympathize with Jolie.”

“That should help, but it won't serve to be soft with her. She can be as implacable as a tyrant if she senses irresolution.”

“A family trait?” Mercy asked sweetly.

Zane stared at her, poured out liqueur, and offered her the tiny crystal goblet. “You may do,” he grudged.

“I'll try.”

Their eyes met and held. His hand closed over her wrist and pressed warmly against the pulsing so that she felt revealed to him, nakedly exposed by the speeding pounding of her blood.

“It's not too late.” His voice was husky, reaching to her depths.

“Too late for what?”

He drew her to her feet. “Let me show you something.”

Moonlight whitened paving stones through the walled courtyard, past a fountain, and out among trees that had the unmistakable scent of citrus.

“Lemons, limes, and oranges,” said Zane. “In the spring their blossoms perfume everything. Bees go crazy trying to collect all the pollen.”

He'd kept her hand in his, her arm tucked up through the bend of his elbow. It was wonderful to be close like this. But even while she felt herself expanding, flowering like one of those blooms he'd mentioned, she was afraid this shared moment would end in bitterness.

She wouldn't be his mistress, not unless he loved her.

They passed the orchard, a row of coconut palms, and struck a path leading into thick woodlands where the moon couldn't reach. Zane knew the way, though, and he drew her along.

In ten minutes they stood in a clearing and Mercy stared at a curious square tower no more than twenty feet high, with dark windows facing them like blind eyes.

“Come,” urged Zane, drawing her across the eerily lit open space and inside the building.

He let go of her, fumbled for a moment, and struck a match, quickly lighting a small Phoebe lamp. The soft yellow glow illuminated a large, low-ceilinged room with a circular staircase winding up the center. There was a fireplace, an open-faced cupboard with a few glazed plates and mugs, a small, flower-carved trestle table and bench, and over by a window were two chairs and footstools.

The round table between them held a lacquered tray with a decanter and lacquered cups. The floor was stone, but bright straw mats softened it. The air was musty but not unpleasantly so, for in the damp smell of disuse lingered a wistful trace of roses.

Zane lit a candle, handed it to Mercy, and indicated the stairs. “Have a look.”

Lifting the hem of her skirt, she ascended with care, for there were no banisters and the stone steps narrowed to a point at the end so that she could step only on the broader part. The staircase was designed to be a support for the second story, around which her candle flickered as she stepped onto solidly hewn planking, caught in a breath of wonder.

The high chamber looked Moorish, sparsely furnished, yet luxurious. Long narrow windows had the squared-off arch distinctive of Mayan architecture, because, Zane had explained, they never learned how to make a full arch and instead built converging sides as close together as possible and then closed the tip with a flat piece. The walls were stark white except for floral traceries around the windows, but the ceiling was painted in brilliant geometric designs, with a predominance of purple, dark green, and azure radiating out from a many-petaled flower in the center.