Bride of Thunder (6 page)

With a short bow and briefer nod, he left her.

Smoldering, Mercy was determined to look as striking as she could that evening, to show Zane Falconer that she was not the spiritless, shrinking creature he seemed to judge her. A hip bath embellished with gilded scrolls and bronze-claw legs had been placed in her room, half full of pleasantly warm water. Arranged beside it were copper vessels holding towels and a bar of perfumed soap.

Mercy touched the water with the soap, rubbed it slightly, and instantly a rich lather appeared.
This must be rainwater,
she thought. Undressing, she brushed out her hair, which shone in spite of feeling dusty and dirty, then knelt by the tub and washed it, rinsing it with water from the other containers. Patting it as dry as possible with the towels, she draped the last one like a turban to leave her neck and shoulders bare.

She washed her face with clean water, then climbed into the tub and soaked luxuriously before she scrubbed her body with a rough cloth, rinsed off the soapy water, and toweled dry till her flesh glowed. She sighed with the wonderful feeling of being clean from head to foot for the first time since leaving Texas.

Standing naked where the sun reached in through a high grilled window, she stood, legs flexed, head down, and fluffed her hair, tossing it with her hands to speed its drying, reveling in the freedom of no confining garments.

The sun made her skin look like pale honey. As she straightened up, she drew in her breath and let her hands trace from rib cage to hips. Philip thought her skinny, but her breasts and hips surely curved enough. She was glad that all her muscles, including those of her loins and thighs, were firm and strong. Women who swooned had never been that admired in Texas, and the war had put them completely out of fashion.

She brushed her hair now and swayed sensuously with the tugging, her eyes shut, enjoying the delicious cleanliness and fitness of her body. Her father had brought her up to regard bodies as marvelous, complex systems to be used intelligently and respected.

Once when he'd occasioned the wrath of a minister for treating a prostitute, Dr. Elkanah McShane had erupted in a way that brought a crowd flocking, including some avid ladies who later protested that they'd never been so shocked and claimed it a scandal that such a man was bringing up a daughter with no genteel female on the premises.

“Hattie's done this town a sight more good than you have, Parson,” Elkanah snapped, his jaw thrusting forward like the bulldog he somewhat resembled. “What you call her vile body has comforted many a man. You bet I'll try to get her well so she can get back to her business, because compassion and common sense is what you never give anyone!”

“A harlot's body would better suffer in this life if it'll lead her to escape the pains of hell!”

“The body is the temple of the spirit,” said Elkanah. “And Hattie's helped men escape their hells on this earth. I reckon God will mark that in her favor.”

Mercy's eyes stung as she remembered her father. Busy as he was, he'd taught her to ride, paddle a boat, swim, and fish, as well as hearing her lessons and listening to her perplexities. He'd discussed things with her that Mercy now realized he'd have shared with his wife, had she lived—his theories of medicine, lore he'd picked up from old women and a Caddo Indian healer who lived deep in the bayous.

Oh, Father! I can't believe you're dead! I never saw you that way, never saw your grave. Do you mind it, lying up there in Yankee soil?

It was some comfort that he probably didn't mind.

She remembered how he'd written, not long before his death, of marching through a shady Pennsylvania town and how a young woman—“
she reminded me of you, Mercy
”—ran out, waving a Union flag and defying the soldiers to take it.

The commander took off his hat to her, flashing a look back to his men, who all did the same, so gallantly honoring their enemy and her flag that at last she called after them, “I wish I had a rebel flag! I'd wave it, too!” A woman like that might put flowers on Father's grave.

Mercy no longer cried when she remembered him, but the high exultation faded and she felt suddenly tired. She decided to lie down in the hammock for a little while. She dozed off at once, then awoke with startled awareness.

Zane stood beside her. He tossed a sparkling bundle of green cloth onto the nearby chest and swept her from the hammock. “You need a lesson,” he said huskily.

Branded by his hands, Mercy fought vainly as his mouth took hers, ruthlessly plundered, forcing her clenched jaw to relax, opening her lips. The sound of a crashing torrent roared in her ears. She felt as if she were drowning, caught in the force of cresting waves powered from unfathomable depths.

Then she was on her feet. Though Zane supported her till her dizziness passed, he had put distance between them. She sensed withdrawal of the essence of himself that had reached, tested, and dominated her in that kiss.

Trembling, shaken to her center, she stood before him, feeling so utterly vulnerable in spirit that there seemed little use in trying to hide her body. Picking up one of the towels, he draped it roughly around her.

“Do you understand?” His voice grated as if he were battling to control it, and the pupils of his eyes had swelled to almost hide the irises.

She reached for anger but could not find it. What she'd felt in his arms was too elemental, too deep and primal a thing. But he watched her with the eyes of an accuser, and she resisted the urge to stretch out her hands.

“Understand?” she echoed.

“What the sight of you like that does to a man … or, perhaps,” he added with a pitiless laugh and a long step forward, “you
do
know.”

She retreated, the ache in her heart spreading through her. How could they blend like that, fire with fire, and then he speak this way, watch her with contemptuous hatred?

“I … I don't understand at all.”

“I mean you must bar doors when you're unclothed. What if Vicente had come in, or someone from the street? At La Quinta you must never let the workers find you like that. If you do and their hunger overcomes wisdom, you won't get a sympathetic hearing from me.”

Mercy drew herself up. That fierce, overwhelming sweetness, then, had only stirred in her. For him, it had been lust, the kind to vent on a whore. “Thanks for your … impressive warning,” she said. “It hadn't occurred to me that men might come bursting through a woman's closed door.”

“I knocked. When you didn't answer, I supposed you were in another part of the house.” He turned and went to stand by the window, its light casting hollows under his high cheekbones. “Forgive me if I hammer at this, Mrs. Cameron, but for a married woman you seem to be singularly unaware of a few raw facts. For your safety and general peace, I want to be sure you're aware of your possible effect.”

She couldn't help laughing at that. “You sound as if I were some kind of explosive or poison.”

“Aren't you?”

Her laughter died at the corrosive bitterness of his voice. “Never mind,” he resumed in a more normal tone. “What you may not realize is that the mere sight of a woman can arouse a man as much as I excited you just then, and his instinct, on which life depends, is to seize and enjoy. Try to remember that.”

“How can I forget after such a … lesson?” What a fool she was, responding as she had to what was sheer randy behavior to him, the mechanical, rutting drive of a healthy male! “I'll keep my clothes on or the door barred. Do you advise a veil?”

He half-smiled. Tension seemed to drain out of his long, muscular frame. “You've a winsome mouth, but that's not what will get you in trouble.” He jerked his head toward the gleam of dark green satin on the chest. “I fetched a dress from Doña Elena before finishing my business because it may not fit exactly. You may want to make some alterations before the dance.”

Mercy couldn't pick up the gown without loosing the towel. Grinning as he recognized her predicament, Falconer held up the deeply shimmering cloth for her inspection.

Cut with simple elegance, the dress would expose most of the shoulders, and the bodice laced across an insert of red so dark it was almost black. This same red trimmed the neck and made long, close-fitting undersleeves. It was a dress with medieval flavor that looked black and somber till it caught the light with changing jewel flashes of green and crimson. Mercy burned to try it on even as she gave her employer a rueful glance.

“You don't intend to let me be inconspicuous!”

“There's no way you can do that, so make a conquest of it, Mrs. Cameron.”

“I don't like to be called that anymore.” Mercy said it almost without thinking.

He stopped on his way to the door. “Yes, I can see that, but what's the alternative? Your maiden name?”

For a moment it was tempting … go back to being Mercy McShane, pretending Philip and their marriage had never been. But it couldn't be. There was no return. Zane Falconer's tone was gentler, as if he guessed some of her confused pain.

“There's an easy way to show respect without stiffness. You can be Doña Mercy, or Mercedes, if you like the Spanish regality. People may think it odd that I don't give you a last name, but no one will be rude enough to ask why.”

“Wonderful!” Mercy said with relief.

“And I would prefer Zane to being mistered or
señor
ed,” he added. “I know that years should elapse before we reach that stage, but under all the circumstances it seems foolish to be so formal. Once we reach La Quinta Dirección, no one will care what we do.”

That sounded ominously true. But the prospect of maintaining a formal address with the only person who'd speak her language daunted Mercy. “Very well, Mr. Falconer,” she said hesitantly, “after we start our journey, I'll call you Zane—that is, I'll try.”

He shook his head. “Are you as naïve as you seem?”

She stared in surprise. For a moment he turned back before, frowning, he hurried out and shut the door behind him.

Mercy barred it, dropped the towel, and picked up the dress.

4

Arms somewhat hampered by the tight undersleeves of what she thought of as the dark jewel gown, Mercy finally secured most of her hair in a French knot, though there was nothing she could do about the tendrils' wilful escape.

The deeply curved bodice showed the swell of her breasts; she wished she had a suitable piece of jewelry to draw eyes to her throat instead. Even a piece of black velvet ribbon tied in a bow would serve the purpose. She was searching through the assortment of trimmings the cloth merchant had sent when there was a loud knock on the door, repeated just as she hurried to open it.

“I wanted to be sure you heard me.” Zane's business must have gone well, for a smile lit his eyes and his usually grim expression had softened, making him seem younger and less formidable. He surveyed her for a moment, then lightly touched the coiled mass of hair. “I'd rather see that down, but there's no good in inciting all the men.” His gaze traced the ruching framing her shoulders. “Do you have a necklace?”

She flushed, more conscious of the sexual tension between them now than this afternoon, when she'd been naked. “I was just hunting for something. I … I'm so
bare!
”

“This might help.” He brought out a plaited silver chain with what looked like a broken-off bit of a shiny, black forked twig. “It's not what most women would call jewelry, since it's rough and a bit barbaric, but black coral
is
precious. It's only found at depths few divers attempt. Fit it to hang above the charming depths of your bodice.”

Was that a compliment or an insult? With Zane, there was no telling. But Mercy preferred the strange black rarity to any concoction of diamonds or gold, even if such had been forthcoming.

“Thank you,” she said. “It's just right with the dress, I think.”

“The clasp is tricky. Let me fasten it for you.”

His hands brushed the back of her neck. Warm and tingling shocks spread through her. Did she imagine that his hard fingers were unsteady? He stepped around, surveyed the effect, and gave a satisfied nod.

“Exactly. Are you ready?”

A carriage waited for them in the street, and as the little carriage moved off, Mercy wished they were walking, the better to savor the pleasantly cool air and admire the lanterns hanging from balconies and arches.

The square was thronged even more than it had been that morning, and people, nearly all women, were entering the illuminated cathedral. Zane spoke to the driver, sprang down, and beckoned to Mercy.

“You should look inside,” he said invitingly. “Even if you're Catholic, I doubt you ever saw the likes of this in Texas.”

A vague fear of papacy and foreign domination flavored the religious atmosphere of most of Mercy's neighbors, who were mainly Presbyterian or Episcopalian, though she had always rather wistfully thought it would be comforting to have Mary for a mediator. But her father's rationalist upbringing made her ashamed of that weakness.

Zane brought her up the steps, stopping to speak to an old woman who smiled and handed Mercy her shawl. “Your head must be covered,” Zane explained, and he led her through the doorway.

The long way to the altar blazed with double rows of candles taller than the tallest man while lamps glowed from floor to ceiling along the sides. Music seemed to vibrate from the brilliance. The high altar, raised on a platform, with a towering Christ behind it, was a glory of silver, lamps, and flowers. Women in white with white shawls over their heads knelt so close together that there seemed no room for one more in the great hall, with its vaulted cross-ribbing.

Awesome, magnificent, very, very foreign.

Mercy looked up at Zane, who dropped some coins in a box and took her outside, where the withered lady waited for her shawl.