Bride of Thunder (27 page)

“We've already discussed it, as you damned well know, Kensington. I said if Doña Mercy greeted her husband fondly, perhaps I'd let him purchase her bond. Since it's clear she hates the sight of him, there's nothing more to say.”

“But she's my wife!” Philip cried.

“I have an overriding claim.” Zane gestured for the men to precede him. “You're welcome to spend the night, of course. You may sling hammocks in the sitting room and Chepa will bring you food. Under the circumstances it would be awkward for you to have meals with the household.”

Philip's weakly handsome face contorted. “By God!” he blurted out. “If you …”

“Come along, Philip,” ordered his companion. He flourished a bow to Mercy. “I'm sorry it appears we shall not improve our acquaintance on this occasion, madam. But there'll be other times.”

Dazed, Mercy stared after them. It was as if a loathsome, chained monster had broken loose in the murky depths of buried agonies and dreads and now glided toward her with Philip's smiling deceitful face attached to its gross vileness. She began to shake. Chepa held her till the spasm ebbed, then made her sit down with a shawl around her and drink the rest of the mint tea brewed for the patient.

“Tell me,” she suggested. “Not good to keep angry-afraid inside.”

So, alternately sobbing and storming, Mercy poured out her hurt and rage, telling how her husband had insisted on coming to a foreign country and then had gambled her away. “How can he look me in the face?” Mercy choked, clenching her fists. “How could he possibly think I'd forgive him?”

“Bad man.”

Mercy shrugged wearily. “Maybe not
bad
—terribly weak. And that's worse! Give me a bad person any day. At least you know what to expect.”

For some reason, she thought of Eric Kensington, who was certainly not weak. But she didn't know what to expect from him, either. Why, if he was interested in her himself, and the shine of his silvery eyes today had said that he still was, had he brought Philip and supported his claim?

“I witch him,” Chepa suggested, as if discussing seasonings for a stew. “He die, little white rooster. Then you not wife.”

“Oh, no!” Mercy cried instinctively.

“Why not? He make you tremble, make you sick.”

“But he'll go away. Please, Chepa!” The woman looked unconvinced, and Mercy searched for words to prevent her from acting secretly. “My father would be grieved if I asked for someone's life.”

“He was soldier.”

“Only to keep men alive.”

Chepa meditated. “The old ones say man has to make real, true face, real, true heart,” she said at last. “Make by self, with acts. Only few do this. Most take face, heart, from other people. Husband make no true face. Kill him, kill only unshaped mud.”

Mercy shook her head. “I can't do that, Chepa. I'd fight him if he tried to take me, if Don Zane had allowed him to. But you must promise not to bother him, or I
will
be sick with worry!”

“Should have done, not talk,” Chepa grunted, then gave a heave of her massive shoulders. “So, white rooster live. Now you take bath. Dinner ready soon.”

It was strange to sit at the big table with Zane and Jolie and know that Philip and Eric Kensington were across the courtyard in the sitting room. Though the turkey was piquantly stewed in a pungent black sauce that Mercy would usually have relished, she could only nibble. Jolie, obviously instructed not to pry, kept shooting curious glances at Mercy. Zane talked steadily, as if determined to reduce the visitation to an unimportant incident, while answering some of the questions he must have guessed were gnawing at Mercy.

“Kensington says he had business in New Orleans and encountered Philip there in a gaming house. When it developed that Philip's luck had turned and he'd recouped his fortunes, except for his vanished wife, whom he continued to lament, Kensington told him where you were and even offered to detour to La Quinta on his own journey home to Belize.”

“I don't believe it!” Mercy flashed. Then she added bitterly, “Of course, I can't really believe he's here, either.”

“Not for long,” Zane assured her grimly. “They've promised to be up and away by dawn. It seems Cameron will go along to Belize and take passage from there to the United States.”

“Perhaps I should ask him to divorce me,” Mercy pondered. “If I ever decided to remarry, if might be hard to locate him.”

Zane chuckled. “In his righteous indignation, he did say that he might divorce you on grounds of desertion.”

Mercy gaped incredulously, then burst into laughter.

“Are you hysterical?” asked Jolie worriedly.

Smothering her last hiccoughy giggles in her napkin, Mercy shook her head. “No, Jolie. I'm just thinking how funny it all would be if it weren't so ugly. If he knew I wanted a divorce, he wouldn't think of it, but probably he imagines I'd hate the scandal. As if being gambled for and given to the winner leaves a woman much concern about what people say!”

“I hadn't noticed that you were exactly crushed and humble,” Zane remarked. He went on to news he had gleaned over an obligatory drink and cigar.

Maximilian had been persuaded not to abdicate and had bone back to Mexico City, though the Juaristas gained ground daily. “The United States is sending arms and ammunition to Juárez,” Zane continued. “Secretary of State Seward has given the American ambassador to the Juárez government authority to use U.S. land and naval forces in any way short of actual invasion that might help drive out the French. It's only a question of time for the emperor unless he decides to join his poor, mad Carlota.”

“She
is
mad?”

“The pope's refusal to support her husband seems to have permanently overturned her mind, though she's said to have rational moments.”

“So she won't be coming back.”

“Only in her wild fantasies.”

After a silence, Zane said that Philip was ranting about that fall's elections, which had given the Republicans two-thirds control of each House, so that Reconstruction was now certain to be ruthless and to grind the vanquished South even more cruelly into the dust. Mercy ached for her homeland and wondered miserably if there would ever be a time when she could feel again that the United States was her country, not just the South.

“It's been an upsetting day for you,” said Zane as they were sipping hot chocolate after the meal. “Chepa will bring you a restful brew, and when you wake up in the morning, Cameron will be out of your life forever.”

But not out of her thoughts. His reappearance had opened the sourly festering wound she'd foolishly considered healed. Until the putrescent matter drained, she could have no peace.

Jolie gave her an especially warm hug that night and Zane walked her to her door. “Good night,” he said. “Don't let this distress you. Tomorrow it will seem like a bad dream.”

A nightmare. Mercy thanked him and went inside. The shuddering began and lasted even after she was in bed, with the covers up to her ears.

But Chepa came. The tea was hot and Chepa's hands were comforting. Gradually, the trembling stopped. Mercy fell into sleep like a heavy stone in black water.

She awoke to a brutal grip prying her jaws apart. She tried to scream but was stifled by cloth stuffed so deep in her mouth that she gagged. She fought, trying to dislodge the obstruction enough to shout, but a blow against the side of her head knocked her senseless for a moment. She roused at being swung over a man's shoulder, and she kicked and beat with her hands.

“Damn you!” It was Philip's threatening whisper. “I'll tie you hand and foot, then!”

Tossing her back on the bed, he tore a sheet and bound her cruelly in spite of her struggles. “You still belong to me,” he panted, “and I'll take you away in spite of that fool Falconer!”

Mercy tried to cry out, but the gag stifled the sounds rising in her throat. She still couldn't believe this. She had felt so safe in Zane's house, so secure in his protection. And what would Philip do with her now? Why did he want her?

It wasn't out of love that he'd traveled here, but she was astonished that spite and bruised conceit could move him to such effort. Certainly he'd never have come without Wellington's company.

Too baffling, too hazy. The truth was that she must somehow get help before Philip dragged her away; otherwise, she wouldn't be missed till morning, and that might be too late—too late for Zane to find her.

Philip lifted her again, grunting at her weight, gripping her painfully at the knees while her pulse thumped in her head, which hung downward. Dizzied, she fought for consciousness and gathered her strength as they moved down the hall.

If she could suddenly shift all her weight to one side, topple Philip over, or at least make enough noise to wake up someone! Trying not to alert her captor before the last minute, Mercy concentrated, then put all her effort into a mighty sideways lurch, powered by a desperate wrenching of her whole body. She fell partly against the wall, thus making only a muffled sound, but Philip swore loudly as he toppled against a piece of furniture.

She rolled away, hoping to hit something that would crash. Philip stumbled across her, caught his breath in fury, located her head, and struck her.

Lightning exploded in her brain. She knew nothing till Zane's voice pierced her swirling fog, along with the glow of a candle.

“Cameron!”

Philip sprang. The candle that Zane put down flashed against a blade. Zane sidestepped, caught Philip's uplifted arm, and wrested away the knife.

Quite deliberately, he drove the knife into its owner's throat, yanked sideways. Philip crumpled, face down in spreading blood. Zane stepped past him without a downward glance, then knelt by Mercy and removed the gag.

“Close your eyes. He's an ugly sight,” said Zane as he untied the strips at her ankles and wrists. “Did he hurt you?”

“Not much. Oh, Zane, how dreadful!”

For a moment, he held her close before he said brusquely, “Don't shake like that. It's over! Come, I'll put you in my room while yours is being … cleaned up.”

Strong arms lifted her. Mercy clung to Zane. “It's so … awful! I hated him … I never knew how much till he came, but …”

“He's dead. He deserved it. He'll never bother you again.” Kicking open the door of his room, Zane put Mercy on his big high bed and held her as he might have consoled Jolie. “Maybe in a way it's better. At least you don't have to wonder what he's doing or feel linked to him. Your life with him is finished.”

Eric Kensington appeared in the doorway. “What's going on? My God! You've butchered Philip!”

Zane wrapped the coverlet around Mercy and got to his feet, crossing to the door. “He tried to abduct this lady. Did you know of his intention?”

“Of course not!” Kensington's surprise and indignation seemed real. “He was downcast and was still drinking when I went to sleep, but I'd thought he was resigned to traveling with me to Belize and from there taking a ship to the States.”

He came to stand in the room, his eyes dwelling on Mercy. “I must abjectly beg your pardon, Doña Mercy. I may be overly sentimental, but the thought of reuniting you and your repentant husband made me forget that, in fact, you might not desire that. I should not have meddled. Believe me, if there's any way to make amends, I'd be grateful to atone.”

“You can take the body out with you and bury it—off my land,” Zane said thinly. He studied the big man and Mercy watched them both, sensing the male antagonism that vibrated between them in spite of Kensington's apparent contrition.

Both were tall, but Kensington must have been four inches taller than Zane's more than six feet, and he was probably twenty pounds heavier, massive through the shoulders. Both were in prime condition, though Zane seemed lighter on his feet and quicker. Zane was like a rapier, while Kensington was a broadsword.

Both could kill. Dark steel eyes clashed with those of molten silver.

The edge of Kensington's mouth bent down and he shrugged. “I can see that having her husband's grave on the premises might disturb Doña Mercy,” he said softly. “It's a pity to see a quetzal hide like a wounded dove. Therefore, I'll see to the corpse's removal. My servant can bundle it up if you've some old sacking.”

Horrified at hearing a man spoken of as if he were refuse. Mercy asked if he couldn't be wrapped in a sheet. Zane gave this order to Vicente, who'd run in barefooted, rubbing his eyes, along with Chepa, who piled more covers on Mercy and made her drink brandy from the decanter by Zane's bed.

Kensington stood on the threshold and bowed, his golden hair shining even in the light from the one lamp Zane must have lit before going to Mercy's room. “There's no way I can express my regret at the unpleasantness this has caused you, madam. Thinking only to make you happy, I've brought you pain. Most of all, I'm sorry that when you remember me, it'll be with disagreeable associations. But life is unpredictable. I hope I may find a way to please you.”

“It seems most unlikely,” said Zane, “since Belize is far away and La Quinta is far off the road to Mérida.”

Kensington raised an eyebrow. “Who knows? Since the start of the War of the Castes, many people have found Belize a refuge. I wish you continued immunity from Cruzob forays, Falconer, but there could be a time when you or this lady would welcome British protection.” His eyes on Mercy, he smiled. “Believe me, Doña Mercy, I am always at your service. Should, heaven forbid, any mischance befall Mr. Falconer, be mindful that you have a friend.”

“That won't be necessary,” Zane cut in. “My mayordomo has instructions in case of my demise. It's nearly dawn, Kensington, and the men have readied your horses. Chepa, will you make this gentleman some breakfast so he can be on his way?”