Bride of Fortune (52 page)

      
Rubbing her temples in misery, she started toward the kitchen, then froze in her tracks when another even more alarming thought occurred to her. What if he tried to claim his marital rights tonight? Without another moment's hesitation, she walked into the library and headed straight to the gun cases...

* * * *

      
Dinner was hellish. Lucero studied her as she took each bite until finally her throat all but closed off. His eyes were so like Nicholas’ eyes yet so different, for her love's glowed with passion while Lucero's held a dark feral cruelty. Heavy-lidded and slumberous, his gaze dropped from the curve of her breasts to her belly, then back up to her face, which was pale now.

      
She had chosen one of her most drab and demure gowns, a maize-colored batiste with the high waistline cut to accommodate her pregnancy. The sleeves were long and the neckline high, but there was no way to disguise the increasing heaviness of her breasts. She knew he was staring just to unnerve her. Defiantly she picked up her knife and stabbed it into the thick steak, carving off a long generous slice, then cutting it methodically into bite-sized pieces.

      
“Increasing seems to agree with your appetite,” he observed, taking another sip from his wineglass. In spite of Angelina's excellent meal, Lucero drank more than he ate. Although he had already indulged in brandy during his bath, the wine he drank now did not appear to have an effect on him. “Don't
enciente
ladies usually have difficulty holding down their food?” he baited.

      
She took a bite of the succulent meat, chewed and swallowed, then met his eyes, knife and fork still clutched in her hands. “Only for the first month or so. After that we become quite voracious.” She returned her attention to the meat.

      
He chuckled softly. “Whatever happened to the demure little miss I married?”

      
“A war,” she snapped. “You rode away without a thought for me or the
hacienda
. You've never even cared about the vaunted Alvarado name.”

      
He ran his fingertips around the rim of the wineglass, then took another drink and stared into the ruby contents swirling in the bottom of the crystal. “No,” he said reflectively, “I suppose I haven't. I wanted to experience life, to have an adventure. Ah, beloved, what an adventure this war has been!”

      
Mercedes set down her utensils and studied him. His expression was eerily animated and his eyes blazed with excitement as he seemed to relive the fighting in his mind.
He enjoyed it!
“You actually get a thrill from killing, don't you?” she asked incredulously, remembering the shuttered loathing with which Nicholas always greeted any mention of the war.

      
He leaned across the table toward her, like a panther poised to leap. “Does that alarm you?” His voice purred with danger now.

      
She did not back off. “No,” she said calmly. “It disgusts me. I've seen enough of war here in Sonora to know it's an ugly, cruel business. I've struggled to hold this
hacienda
together, against the rapacity of imperials and Juaristas. Soldiers! Bah, they're all banditti.” Her voice was laced with contempt.

      
He leaned back indolently once again, holding the wineglass up in one hand, the wrist drooping languidly. But his eyes, lord above, those eyes glowed like live coals.

      
“A woman of strong opinions, just like my dear
mamacita.
”

      
“We're scarcely of the same opinion on any topic,” she replied with asperity, forcing herself to ignore the aura of menace that surrounded him.

      
“Except for your dislike of me—perhaps even loathing...” It was thrown out not as a question, but a taunt.

      
“I cannot speak for Doña Sofia.” Her ambiguous reply answered itself. “Perhaps you should pay your respects.”

      
“I will, in the fullness of time,” he replied, his mood again shifting subtly.

      
Mercedes finished what she could of the excellent food on her plate. “If you'll excuse me, another trait of breeding females besides voracious appetites is that they tire easily.” She rose from the table, but he did not rise with her or assist her with her chair as courtesy dictated.

      
Instead, he remained in the slouching pose, looking up at her. “Angelina will wonder why you haven't touched your flan,” he said, obviously not caring in the least what any servant thought.

      
“I ate a good deal more than you did. Desserts are too rich for my palate. Good night.” Mercedes turned and walked from the room in measured strides, spine straight, head held high. She did not look back. He made no attempt to follow.

      
Angelina would understand why she had little appetite. Eating the meat course was all she could manage in the covert war of wills she played with Lucero. Strange, now she called Lucero by name with ease when it had always come grudgingly to her lips addressing Nicholas.

      
Nicholas Fortune. An
Americano
? Most likely. That was the accent when he spoke English, not the distinct British pronunciation her mother had taught her.
I know his name but I know nothing else about him. Only that I love him.
Who was he and why had he struck such a bizarre bargain with Lucero? For the land? She would not have put it past Lucero to have told a tale about great wealth. Perhaps Nicholas had come thinking he would be able to live a life of privileged ease.

      
How ironic, for that was precisely what Anselmo had done, bleeding Gran Sangre dry for every last peso so he could while away the hours in Hermosillo. But Nicholas had worked harder than anyone to rebuild the
hacienda
. He loved the land and he had told her that he loved her. Could she believe him?

      
Troubled and exhausted, Mercedes was preoccupied as she made her way upstairs to tuck Rosario in. How would she explain Lucero's continued coldness to the daughter who loved Nicholas so? When she entered the girl's cheery little bedroom with its pink gingham curtains and brightly colored braided rug, Rosario was kneeling in front of the bed saying her prayers. Silently Mercedes paused in the doorway, not wishing to interrupt.

      
“Please, Lord Jesus, I'm sorry. I must've done wrong so that my papa went away. I don't know who the strange man is but he is not my papa. After my mama had to go to heaven you sent my papa to love me. Now he's gone. My lady Mercedes is good to me. If she were my mama, maybe I could bear to lose Papa. The good sisters said I must accept your will, but even you had a Mama and a Papa. Please let me have just one. I promise to be a good girl. Oh, and please take care of my real papa, wherever he is, even if he can't come home to me. Amen.”

      
Mercedes felt the tears rolling down her cheeks. No one could ever find a child as bright and sensitive as Rosario. Lucero had been given a precious gift and he scorned it—a beautiful daughter who knew that he did not love her.

      
From his corner by her bed, Bufón sat with his tail thumping sympathetically, taking in the silent tableau.

      
Rosario stood up and started to climb into bed when she saw Mercedes. “You're crying. Has he been mean to you?” she asked.

      
“No, dearheart, he has nothing to do with this,” Mercedes said, kneeling to take Rosario into her arms and hold her tightly. “I thought to wait a while longer, but perhaps this is a good time. Rosario, I know you'll always love your mama, but—if you would like—it would please me if you'd call me Mama. Would you like that?”

      
The child threw her arms around Mercedes’ neck and hugged her with a small sob of pleasure. Hiccupping, she whispered, “Yes, I would…Mama.”

      
The tentative yet hopeful way she said the last word brought more tears from Mercedes, who stroked the little girl's dark curls and rocked her back and forth. “Now, I think it's time that you were tucked into bed. I'll read you a bedtime story if you'll fall asleep immediately after. Promise?”

      
When Rosario bobbed her head yes, Mercedes chose a book from the stand beside the bed and leafed through it, then began to read as the child climbed beneath the covers and listened raptly. When she had finished the tale, she doused the candle, kissed Rosario on the forehead and began to tiptoe from the room.

      
A rustling of covers caused her to turn. The child was climbing quietly out of bed. “Rosario, you promised to go right to sleep,” she admonished gently.

      
“Oh, Mama, I will. As soon as I thank our Lord for answering my prayer.”

      
Unable to speak, Mercedes nodded silently and blew a kiss to her adopted daughter, then softly closed the door. If only Rosario had the rest of her prayer answered and her “real papa” came home!

      
She walked down the hall and entered her room. Still no sign of Lucero. Good. Perhaps he had gone in search of Innocencia. She checked the lock on the door adjoining their rooms, then slid the bolt on the hall door and walked over to her wardrobe. Slipping off the muslin gown and donning a night rail took only a few moments. She approached her dressing table. The cushioned chair took her weight when her knees suddenly seemed to give out. After sitting and staring into the mirror for several moments, she unfastened the pins in her hair, picked up her brush and began to apply it with long soothing strokes.

      
The image of Nicholas coming up behind her and taking the brush from her hands rose unbidden. She could feel his hands, deft and gentle, as they tilted her head and plied the brush as sensuously as if he were making love to her. Often it had been a prelude before they retired to his big bed in the next room. The bed where her legal husband would sleep tonight. In the eyes of the Church, Lucero may have been her legal husband; but in her heart, Nicholas was the one to whom she was pledged.

      
“I have to stop thinking about it or I'll make myself ill,” she whispered, laying down the brush and massaging her temples with her fingertips. She stood up and reached for the snuffer to douse the candles when suddenly the door connecting the two bedrooms slid open.

      
Mercedes dropped the silver implement and turned to face him. “How did you—?” The question died on her lips when he held up an old key.

      
“My father told me he once used it to gain access to my beloved mother—not that he bothered all that often,” he added bitterly. “She always was a cold bitch. What about you, wife? Are you still cold or has Nick warmed you up?”

      
Mercedes watched him swagger into the room, arrogantly certain that she would martyr herself by acquiescing just because he was her husband. Now she could see numerous small differences between him and Nicholas. He was slightly shorter, finer-boned. His body bore not a trace of the many scars her love carried. But more than any of the physical disparities, she could simply feel that he was the wrong man. She felt the Sharps in her robe pocket and cocked it. Then with an amazingly steady hand she withdrew it and pointed it at Lucero. “I'm a fair shot these days and since I've already killed one man and wounded another, I won't hesitate to shoot you.”

      
The gesture with the pistol and her simple declaration were so casually matter-of-fact that Lucero stopped in midstride. Quickly he recovered his aplomb and crossed his arms over his chest. “Other men had no right to your body. I do.”

      
“You gave up that right when you gave me away, Lucero.”

      
He took another step, daring her. “You can't shoot an unarmed man.”

      
“For you, I would make an exception. Your death would solve a great many problems.”

      
“For you and Nick?” He chuckled. It was a low, nasty laugh. “You can't ever marry him, you know,” he said casually.

      
“I can if you're dead. Just take one more step,” she countered.

      
“It would be incest.”

      
She blanched and the gun wavered for a second.

      
“You little fool, couldn't you guess? Why do you think he looks so very much like me? Where do you think those Alvarado eyes came from—my father's eyes? My daughter's eyes? He is my brother! You've fallen in love with one of Anselmo Alvarado's bastards! His mother was a
gringa
whore from New Orleans. He's trash, a nobody who spent his life as a hired killer. And now you're carrying a bastard's bastard. How does that set with a fine
gachupín
lady, eh?”

      
Tiny pinpoints of light burst before her eyes. She blinked them away but her knees felt liquefied. “You're the one who's a killer, not Nicholas!” she lashed out, letting anger purge away the shock, the pain. “You knew you were sending your own brother to live with me and you didn't give a damn!”

      
He shrugged. “Neither did he. You see, in addition to his other rather obvious shortcomings, Nick's also a heretic. What do you think Father Salvador would say about all of this?”