Bride of Thunder (32 page)

He went on to tell her that just before Christmas some men of the Fourth West Indian Regiment were sent to repulse Marcos Canul, the Icaiche
batab,
but instead were defeated and chased all the way to the city of Belize. During January, the Icaiches continued their invasion, demanding rent for the disputed border and Belize itself. The governor of the crown colony kept his barge ready to sail and panic was widespread. A militia was organized to aid the West Indian detachment and they set out with “rocket tubes” to subdue Mayan villages that had supported the invasion.

The zooming of these fiery missiles into easily kindled thatched villages quickly restored order, but the Icaiches were still on the roam.

“And as soon as the militia is withdrawn, the Icaiches will be back,” Eric growled. “Belize protests to Campeche, since Canul, as a
batab,
is actually considered a local official of the Campeche part of Yucatán. Campeche, which can't do anything about Canul and his Icaiches, promises to try while complaining that Belize isn't English but really belongs to Yucatán, and that people who sell guns to rebels shouldn't howl when the guns are turned on them.”

“I can't see how they'd feel that way,” said Mercy dryly.

The pack trail they'd come down had grown steadily worse, often little more than a tunnel through dense jungle and swamp along which the horses had to be led. Either the journey left Eric with little inclination to dalliance, or he'd been alarmed by Mercy's near-prostration the day they started out, for, while he'd treated her as well as the grueling traveling allowed, he had not even kissed or fondled her since that morning assault in the hut.

She was almost beginning to hope that he'd decided he didn't want her when, during a noon stop, he cocked his head at her. A week's stubble made him look more than ever like a wild Norseman, but his white shirt was clean and his supply of linen handkerchiefs seemed inexhaustible.

“I don't want you to think, sweet Mercy, that you no longer attract me. Nor must you think that the way I took you first is my accustomed mode with ladies. I thought it wise to teach you an initial lesson through your body, which, if learned solidly, needn't be repeated. When we reach the House of Quetzels, I want to show you that I can be as tender and sensitive a lover as you could ever wish for.”

“A tender, sensitive man wouldn't treat me as you have.”

His eyes glinted. “Well, Mercy,
mia,
you may have me however you choose, but you'll have me.” He rose and lifted her to her feet with that effortless strength before which she was helpless.

On the sixth day they passed through desolated Bacalar, unmolested by the small Cruzob garrison kept there to protect the Rio Hondo trade route.

At the Hondo, a boat manned by eight blacks waited at a small wharf beside several thatched open shelters and warehouses. Thomas and their previous escort took the horses and packs overland while Eric handed Mercy into the pitpan.

“These are what the Indians were using when the Spaniards came,” he said. “The design can't be improved on, but mine is a bit more luxurious than most.”

Mercy nearly smiled at that. Forty feet long, tapering from about six feet at the center to narrow ends, the pitpan was hollowed out from a mahogany trunk. Handsomely carved posts supported a wooden roof above cushioned seats, and there were curtains to protect passengers from sun and storm. Two of the blacks steered from behind with rudder-like motions of their oars, while the others sat two on a seat and plied paddles, as long as they were tall, beginning a rhythmic chant as they set the boat in motion.

Forest on either side; sun glinting off the water; the voices of the boatmen. Reminded of Cleopatra's barge, Mercy could have enjoyed the excursion if she hadn't been compelled to it and didn't dread the end. Eric seemed content to relax and look from her to the sparkling water, radiating a kind of satisfied peace.

He was the buccaneer sailing home with his loot. Mercy avoided his quietly triumphant eyes and stared at the water, glimmering like broken fluid shards of mirror, until, almost mesmerized, she fell asleep.

She awoke while being picked up lightly. Eric sprang with her from the pitpan to a dock at which other boats and barges were tied up. Striding along the planks that shook under his weight, Eric held her high against his chest and kissed her on the mouth.

“Soon,” he said, “soon, my love. There've been many women at my house, but none like you.”

His mouth was hard, insatiable. Mercy tried to slip down. “I can walk.”

He chuckled. “But I wish to carry you. See? There's my House of Quetzals for my quetzal woman.”

“I'm no quetzal woman!”

“But you are, for the quetzal is precious and rare.”

“And caged?”

“You'll see.”

The house before them was built of beautiful woods, cedar, mahogany, and some she didn't know, making a spectrum from ivory to near-black, with rich shades of red and dark brown predominating. Stone was used for the foundation and trim. It was a sprawling two-storied structure of many verandas, guarded by giant palms and other majestic trees.

Like a conqueror with booty, Eric raced up the steps with her through the doorway, where there stood a tall black in a spotless white jacket with a blood-red sash. They went through a passage, with doors opening on either side, and out into a court formed by the L of the house and thick plantings of bamboo and palm.

Here, among trees, vines, rioting bougainvillaea, poincianas, hibiscus, and poinsettias, hung a number of cages. Each held what could only be a quetzal, with iridescent tail feathers gleaming, the brilliance of green and crimson unbelievable.

Though the ornate brass cages were large, the birds wouldn't fly. All perched so morosely that Mercy asked falteringly, “Are they alive?”

“Of course.” Eric put her down at last, but he kept his big arm around her. “These are all male. Females aren't showy.”

“But they live in cloud forests!”

“These don't.”

“Isn't the climate bad for them? They don't look very happy.”

He regarded her with amused scorn. “Happy? Birds? My dear girl, you're wildly sentimental! Birds don't have feelings. What they do possess is instinct, their nature.”

“It's the nature of a bird to fly.”

Mercy's voice shook. He stared at her in true astonishment. “You're crying over them! Why? They have the best food and are safe from predators. Can't you just think of them as living jewels?”

“I hate this garden!”

His jaw set. “Do you? Well, then, it's time you saw your chamber.”

“
My
cage?”

“You could consider it your frame, your setting. I created it for you.”

“For yourself, you mean,” she corrected bitterly.

“By God,” he said slowly, drawing her inside, “do you need another lesson? Shall I rape you in the hall so the servants can watch?”

She didn't answer. He gave her a slight shake. “Well?”

There was nothing to do but say, “I'd like to see the room.”

He picked her up again. Laughing exultantly against her hair, he ran with her up the curving staircase. Mercy closed her eyes.

It was a large, airy room with a balcony overhanging a view of the river and with windows with shutters that were open to let glossy leaves and fronds form a second sun-spangled curtain outside. The floor was covered with woven grass matting with Persian rugs scattered about, and the walls were of polished, fragrant wood. There were several gracefully curving bamboo chairs padded with turquoise velvet, an inlaid rosewood chest, a writing desk, and an immense bed of intricate brass filigree wrought into birds and leaves. It was mounded with pillows and spread with an iridescent green satin.

A door stood open to a small mirrored room with shelves and rods, obviously intended for clothes, and an arch revealed an alcove with a shell-shaped brass tub and an assortment of ewers, towels, and soaps.

“If there's anything you wish changed, tell me,” Eric urged, clearly pleased with his handiwork. “The bellpull will bring your maid, Celeste. She'll unpack for you and help you bathe.” His gaze traveled to the huge bed. “Rest a while before dinner. I don't want you tired tonight.” He brushed a light kiss on her cheek and left quickly, sounding the bell as he went.

Mercy stood in the center of the rustically luxurious room. He had gone to great trouble to make ready her … frame? Setting? She was caged just as surely as those birds in the court, far from their high cloud forests, unable to fly. But she could plan. Sooner or later, there had to be a way.

There was a shy rap. “Come in,” Mercy said. She wasn't going to take out her frustration and anger on the servants.

A girl with warmly perfect
café-au-lait
skin and upswept black hair stepped in and curtsied, her bangles and earrings tinkling. “I am Celeste,
madame
. You require a bath?” She spoke English with an upper-class accent. The effect was charming.

“I'd love a bath, Celeste.” The girl was so graceful and sunny that Mercy smiled in spite of her weariness and fears. Celeste smiled back.

“The water is being brought,
madame
. May I assist you in disrobing?”

“Thank you, I can manage.”

Celeste's face clouded. “I have not displeased
madame?
”

“Of course not!” How could she explain that she didn't much like being waited on and shrank from being naked in front of most people? It was different with Zane. “It's just that I'm accustomed to looking after myself.”

“I can, perhaps, brush your hair?”

Celeste seemed so perturbed at not fulfilling what she expected of herself that Mercy sat down and was soon lost in the sensuous pleasure of having her hair brushed free of tangles and dust. Six boys of about Salvador's age came in with pails, which they emptied into the tub, their eyes gleaming with suppressed mischief as they stole sideways glances at Mercy. They wore white cotton trousers reaching just below the knees and red sashes, but their bared upper bodies shone cocoa, copper, yellow, and shades in between.

They exited to return in five minutes with refilled buckets, three of which Celeste commanded to be left on the bench by the tub.

“It might be useful if I scrubbed your back?” persisted Celeste.

Mercy sighed, beginning to unbutton her dress. “Would you wash my comb and brush? And it would be a great help if you poured water over my hair after I wash it.”

“Excellent,
madame!
” Celeste vanished with the brush and comb and there were sounds of unpacking, but she was back in plenty of time to rinse the lather from Mercy's hair and help her towel off, massaging Mercy's scalp till it tingled.

In her dressing gown, Mercy walked barefoot across the grass matting and carpets to the bed, grateful to see that Thomas had brought her books, including the
Badianus
excerpts, which lay on the chest. Someone had placed a tray of freshly cut fruit on the small lamp table, along with a large crystal goblet of pineapple juice.

Persephone,
Mercy thought with a superstitious chill.
She ate the fruit of Hades and could never again live the whole year through in the bright world of her mother
. But there was no mother to look for Mercy, or father, either, and Zane might not even know for months that she was gone from La Quinta.

Thanking Celeste, who stood waiting, as if to be given further orders, Mercy went to stand on the balcony facing the river and slowly sipped the sweet, delicious liquid.

Going back to the great bed, she simply could not get into it, tempted as she was by down pillows and snowy linens. She took one pillow and lay down with it on the floor.

She awoke to feel someone watching her. She raised her eyes to Eric, who stood looking down from what seemed a giant's height. He motioned to a servant, who put a tray on the table by the chairs, set two places, and went smoothly, silently, out.

“Is the mattress too hard for you, my love?” Eric's tone was courteously interested. “Too soft?”

“I don't know.”

His eyebrows lifted. He was clean-shaven, smelled of bay rum, and wore a soft white shirt and white trousers. “Don't know? Haven't you tried it?”

What had he done to her during those hours in the hut near La Quinta that, even after the intervening ten days of considerate restraint, made her shrink inwardly, evade his real question? “I … just felt like lying on the floor.”

He laughed unpleasantly. “No doubt—because you knew that bed is where you'll lie with me. If necessary to rid you of that misgiving, my sweet, I'll take you on the floor and, indeed, all over the house so there'll be no place without memories of me. Stand up.”

She did, but she instinctively took a step backward. Eric's eyes dilated. He gave the impression of moving, though he stood perfectly still before he suddenly turned to the tray and lifted a silver tureen cover.

“Ah! Turtle soup. You'll find it superb. And here's broiled lobster. We have two men whose sole duty it is to alternate in bringing seafood daily from the coast, and fishing's good in the river, too. Pierre, the cook, learned his skills in Paris. I think you'll find him able to conjure up even Texas dishes you might have a nostalgic feeling for.”

That seemed possible if she were to ask for the Louisiana Creole and Cajun dishes that were common in eastern Texas, but she wondered what he'd do with corn fritters and poke greens. Eric ladled soup into porcelain bowls broadly banded with gold and seated Mercy in the fan-backed bamboo chair.

Pouring a pale, sparkling wine, Eric shook out his cut-work napkin and broke open a small crusty roll with the inimitable odor of having been fresh-baked.

“Is the soup to your taste?”

She was, in fact, hungry, but his cool assumption that she'd so readily be on almost honeymoon terms with him outraged Mercy. She would
not
be cosseted and beguiled by luxuries or masterfully cajoled into enjoying this life.