Bride of Fortune

BRIDE OF FORTUNE

By

SHIRL HENKE

Previously published by St. Martin’s Press

Copyright 1996 by Shirl Henke

All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic means without the written permission of the publisher.

* * * *

Electronic Novels by Shirl Henke:

* * * *

A FIRE IN THE BLOOD

BROKEN VOWS

McCRORY’S LADY

BRIDE OF FORTUNE

The Blackthorne Trilogy:

LOVE A REBEL…LOVE A ROGUE

WICKED ANGEL

WANTON ANGEL

House of Torres Books:

PARADISE & MORE

RETURN TO PARADISE

The Cheyenne Books:

SUNDANCER

THE ENDLESS SKY

CAPTURE THE SUN

The Texas Trilogy:

CACTUS FLOWER

MOON FLOWER

NIGHT FLOWER

The American Lords:

YANKEE EARL

REBEL BARON

TEXAS VISCOUNT

* * * *

Electronic novellas by Shirl Henke:

“Falling in Love”

 
“Billie Jo and the Valentine Crow”

“Surprise Package”

“Love for Sail”

Chapter One

Spring 1866

      
Mercedes Sebastián de Alvarado stood on tiptoe to peer out from behind the grillwork on the sala window of the great adobe palace which had become her home over the past four years. Forty-foot-high willow trees shaded the courtyard where a group of excited servants crowded around her husband, Don Lucero Alvarado.

      
“I must face him, not cower like a ninny behind the draperies,” she scolded herself. Turning to the floor-length cheval mirror brought all the way from France, she smoothed her hair and noted the sudden pallor of her face. Good. At least he could not carp at her for being sunburned as Don Anselmo had done.
But I won't cringe before him. Never again!
She swept from the sala into the entry hall to await him.

      
Mercedes watched him approach the portico. He was still surrounded by servants.
At least Innocencia is not among them, thank the Blessed Virgin.

      
Lucero's mistress, who, in her lover's absence, had been assigned to work for Angelina in the kitchens, had been sent to help out at a neighboring
hacienda
during a fiesta. Mercedes could still see the two of them laughing drunkenly as they walked arm in arm across the courtyard to Innocencia's quarters the very night she had arrived from Mexico City to celebrate her betrothal to Lucero. How that had humiliated her! And yet, how much worse had she been humiliated after the marriage was consummated?

      
She stiffened her spine, using the anger of past hurts to block out the fear. Standing in the shadows of the great hall, she studied him from afar. He looked even more dangerous than when she had first met him. Noting the narrow white scar on his left cheek, she supposed the years of war had hardened and seasoned him. His complexion, always swarthy, was sun bronzed an even darker shade now with tiny lines crinkling at the sides of his eyes when he laughed. His smile still blazed whitely. Her
dueña
used to say it was sensual enough to charm Lilith. Odd that he was enjoying the servants' adulation so much. In the past he seldom bothered with them, but then this was his homecoming after God knew what horrors of war.

      
Her eyes measured his profile, which was just as she remembered, as perfectly chiseled as dozens of generations of Castillian breeding could make it, with a high forehead, boldly slashing black eyebrows, a straight prominent blade of a nose and a wide, elegant mouth. The dark shadow of a heavy beard was well evident across his square strong jaw. Night-black hair curled wildly at his nape and one lock fell wickedly over his brow. He was as lithe and graceful as a stalking mountain lion. There had never been an ounce of fat on his body. His hands were strong and slender with long tapered fingers, the hands of a gentleman, yet for all of that, she remembered how cruel his touch could be and shuddered.

      
Now he was dressed like a brigand in dusty trail gear and armed like a one-man arsenal. A pistol was slung low on one hip, a long knife strapped to his other thigh and twin bandoleers crisscrossed his broad chest. He reached the open front door and peered inside, cocking his head slightly to one side. Those hypnotic black wolf’s eyes with their eerie silver irises fastened on her.

      
Mercedes could feel the old familiar pull of fascination and revulsion. She had always feared his overpowering male vitality.
No more! I'm not a green virgin any longer.
She walked steadily into the light and met his gaze. “Welcome home, husband.”

      
His eyes swept from the halo of darkly burnished golden hair across her small heart-shaped face and down to rake her dainty figure with appreciative boldness. She was barely over five feet tall with fragile fine bones, but even clad in a loose
camisa
and full paisana's skirts the unmistakably feminine curves of hip and breast were evident to his practiced eye. When she greeted him in a cool musical voice, his eyes raised to study her solemn face. And a very beautiful face it was with wide-set amber eyes and slim dark eyebrows. Her small pointed chin jutted out stubbornly, her cheeks were flushed and that tiny nose was well elevated, as if she had just smelled something noisome. In spite of her words of welcome, her soft pink lips did not smile for him.

      
“Aren't you happy to see me, Mercedes?” His voice held a taunting dare as he took another lazy stride nearer, stalking her.

      
She shrugged. “Let us just say I am surprised.”

      
He grinned. “You thought I'd been killed by the Juaristas.”

      
“I would not be guilty of praying for the event, but I had hopes.” Her voice was dry.

      
He threw back his head and laughed aloud. “The kitten has grown claws in my absence, I see.”

      
“And a right long absence it's been,” she said with asperity. “I'm not a kitten any longer.”

      
“I can see that,” he replied, once more letting his eyes rake the soft curves of her body until he could see the telltale stain of pink move up her chest and neck to heat her cheeks. “You've filled out quite nicely...claws and all.”

      
She tried to ignore the hunger in his fathomless eyes. As they stood facing each other in the thickening darkness, the silver irises glowed satanically. His whole body seemed tense, poised to pounce on her as if she were a wounded fawn. And yet, rather than the paralyzing fear of the past, she felt some strange new emotion, beyond the anger that blazed deep within her soul.

      
What is it about him! Or is it me?
Refusing to analyze it, she moistened her lips and changed the subject. “She is waiting for you.”

      
“No doubt. I'm all she has left to hate now that my father is dead,” he replied bitterly.

      
“She'll soon join Don Anselmo. The hope of your return is all that has kept her alive.”

      
He scoffed. “To be more precise, her hope is that I'll breed an heir for Gran Sangre.” His eyes studied her intently for a reaction.

      
Unflinching, she replied brusquely, “Greet your mother. Baltazar will have your quarters prepared by the time you've seen her. You and I will speak of our duty to Gran Sangre at dinner.” She turned away from him, desperately needing time alone to sort out her emotions and regain her composure.

      
His footfalls followed close on hers as they walked down the long tile hallway. She refused to give him the satisfaction of speeding up to place more distance between them. Then a large shaggy shape came bounding toward them from the opposite end of the hall.

      
“Bufón, no!” she commanded ineffectually as the huge mottled sheepdog careened around her.
Mother of God, don't leap on him! Lucero will gut you with that fearful knife!
Only a half-grown pup when her husband had left, Bufón had seemed to sense her dislike and fear of the
patrón
. He had growled and bared his fangs more than once. Then Lucero had only laughed and kicked him aside. Now...she shuddered to think about it.

      
Mercedes tried to seize the dog's well-worn leather collar but he eluded her and jumped up on the tall man with a loud whoof. Before she could intercede, Lucero began to scratch the dog's great head, chuckling and turning his face away from the fulsome slurps that were the huge beast's way of welcoming most visitors to Gran Sangre. She stood frozen in shock, watching as the long fluffy tail wagged furiously. “Bufón likes you,” she said inanely.

      
“I'd say he has rather changed his mind about me,” he replied, struggling to contain eighty pounds of wriggling dog. “You are a fine fellow but a nuisance.” He ruffled the dog's fur and thumped him affectionately, then commanded, “Down.”

      
At his firm tone of voice, Bufón amazingly obeyed, lowering his forelegs to stand before Lucero, tail still madly thumping from side to side. At once, Mercedes reached out and grabbed his collar. “I'll put him out.”

      
He gave a husky laugh and his eyes met hers. “Just so you don't put him in your bedroom tonight.” He watched her slender throat work as she swallowed nervously, but she returned his gaze boldly. “As I said, we can discuss sleeping arrangements at dinner.” His mocking laughter followed her down the hallway as she half led, half dragged the affectionate beast to the kitchen.

      
“Until dinner then, my wife. I trust it won't be too late. I'm
very
hungry.”

      
The words, delivered in his low silky voice, caused a shiver of fear—or was it excitement?—to dance down her spine. She did not look back as she heard him climb the wide low steps to Doña Sofia's quarters in the east wing.

      
He paused in front of the door, wondering what his greeting would be from the hateful old woman inside, a cold, unnatural mother who had always despised her only son.
Just one way to find out.
He knocked and a frail voice, thin and brittle with age, bid him enter.

      
The room stank of death. Heavy wine velvet drapes were drawn across the windows and a thick dark carpet in the same hue covered the floor. An ornate jeweled gold crucifix hung on one wall. Statues, candles and religious paintings filled every available space. The bed, with its high narrow mattress, was hung with an ivory silk canopy. Mosquito netting cast a gauzy haze across the figure lying propped up by pillows behind its protection.

      
Doña Sofia was only fifty-two, but she looked at least twenty years older, thin and wasted, her flesh leached away by the consumption that was slowly draining the life from her. Her complexion was the color of the fat tallow candles flickering by her bedside. The skin across her high Castillian cheekbones was stretched tight. Her dark brown eyes were set deeply as if giving animation to a death mask, but they were clouded with cataracts. In odd contrast, her hair remained inky black with only one streak of silver running through it, woven into the tight coil of braids atop her small head.

      
“So, you've returned to take his place.” Her eyes squinted at him shrewdly as he approached her bed and pulled aside the sheer curtain.