Bride of Thunder (3 page)

“He has a plantation on the way to Jefferson.”

“I might know him.”

“You don't.” Philip didn't meet her eyes. “Stowell's from the North. Just bought Colonel Meritt's old place.”

“You played with a Yankee when you say you can't live here because of them?” Mercy asked unbelievingly.

He shoved back the curling fair hair that fell across his forehead. “Well, I'm not proud of it, but it proves I need to get away! Besides, most of my old friends who lived through the war aren't gambling these days. No money.”

“We don't have any, either! And now I've got no horse!”

“So you
are
upset! Primed to yell at me every chance you get in spite of that sweetly resigned all-for-the-best act!”

“Of course I'm upset! I loved Star!” Mercy tried to curb her tongue, but she couldn't, and all her hurt, anger, and desperation burst out. “You shouldn't be gambling! You shouldn't be drinking! And you certainly had no right to wager my mare!”

Philip turned red to the roots of his hair. He pushed back from the table, jarring the coffeepot so that the brew sloshed over the clean cloth. He must have remembered that he now had no horse to ride off on, for after a moment he said cajolingly, “Mercy, you must see this is no life for me—for us! Give us a chance, darling!”

“What chance?”

“Everybody's going to Mexico—the governor of Texas, Pendleton Murray, the governors of Louisiana and Missouri, the former governors of Missouri, Texas, and Kentucky, and a whole passel of officers and generals!” He leaned forward eagerly, catching her hands. “Let me go, Mercy! As soon as Maximilian wins, I'll send for you and we'll make our fortune there—a whole new life!”

Mercy shook her head, slowly, painfully. “I couldn't stand it again—waiting, fearing, not knowing if you're sick or wounded or dead.” She took a deep breath. “If you're set on going, let's be divorced.”

“You're out of your mind! Decent women don't get divorced!”

“Perhaps not, but I will if you go to fight in Mexico.”

“Mercy!”

“Can't you understand?” she blazed. “I'm sick of wars, sick to death of waiting for you!”

She was to grow sicker, for, though he gave in, she'd seemed to spend most of the next interminable year waiting—for him to come home, usually drunk, for him to find work, or study law, help his brother, or make something of the farm.

She waited for him to be a husband, not a petulant boy. She wanted him as a lover, as her frustrated but healthy body insisted with mounting urgency that it demanded more than his infrequent, awkward usage.

One night she awoke to a painful nightmare, crying out, writhing at savage hurt as he gripped her by the waist and thrust into her from behind. This wasn't natural! He'd kill her, wreak some terrible damage! But as she screamed and struggled, he convulsed and fell from her, shuddering and spent.

Appalled and bewildered, Mercy bit her lip to keep from whimpering as he got up and washed, then salved her injured tissues. Could that be another acceptable way? No. It hurt too much. Neither she nor Philip ever mentioned it, and the shock wasn't repeated, but the dread that it might be added to her misery.

They had food only because of the garden, a bounty of wild fruit and nuts, plus products exchanged for Mercy's healing skills. Almost daily Philip walked to the main road and got a ride to town in someone's buggy or wagon. As he drank and gambled, the few remaining valuables disappeared—his silver-handled sword, her mother's pearls and garnets, silverware, an antique writing set, and Father's ivory chessmen.

And all the time Philip talked of Mexico. The emperor had issued an invitation to former Confederates to take up land as favored colonists. Hundreds were going. It wouldn't, Philip argued, even be necessary for him to fight. They could sell this piddling, hard-scrabble farm to pay their stage fare to the paradise near Vera Cruz and be rich within a year.

“Let's get away from here!” he pleaded. “I know what I'm doing is disgraceful! I hate myself when I'm sober! But I swear, if you'll come I'll make it all up to you. Please, darling!”

At last, because the life they had was insupportable, Mercy agreed. They sold the farm to Stowell, who was swelling his acres with those of impoverished neighbors, and Mercy watched the furniture she'd lived with all her life sold at auction. All she could take on the stage would be her few clothes, herbs and medicines, and her father's letters and some of his medical books.

She made a farewell round of her patients and took a gift of apples to Star, who whickered softly, plump and glistening, obviously spoiled by the small girl who watched jealously as her pet's first owner said good-bye. Jennie paid a visit and left a large hamper of delicacies to eat on the journey.

Numbed, scarcely able to believe what was happening, Mercy was like a sleepwalker when they got on the stage and jostled off toward San Antonio. Philip kissed her cheek and squeezed her hand.

“You won't be sorry,” he promised. “Bless you, darling, if you'll just love me.”

Did she? Now?

2

Frozen by the stark question that forced its way into her consciousness, Mercy's heart constricted and she felt for a moment as if she could not breathe. Of course she loved Philip! He was her husband. Things would be different if he'd been able to finish his education in law and go into practice.

If it hadn't been for the war …

What?
inquired the suppressed and terrifying part of her. Other men, most men, had gritted their teeth, tempered their pride with patience, and set about the task of redeeming their lives and homeland. Robert E. Lee had refused to seek refuge, saying that he preferred to struggle for the country's restoration and share its fate, that Virginia needed all her sons.

No, men had taken defeat in ways as varied as they'd gone to war. Philip chose to hate the North and pursue any desperate measure that would save him from accepting reality. He saw himself as a cavalier. Mercy fought back tears but could no longer lie to herself.

She saw him as a spoiled boy. And she didn't want a boy especially not one she had to cajole and humor, one who'd leave her standing on a darkening street in a strange town. If she must have anything at all to do with the male sex, she wanted a
man
.

The street blurred. She blinked rapidly, trying not to remember her father in this public place, for she missed him terribly. He'd been gentle and kind and strong. His letters were among the few precious things she'd brought with her. She was brushing tears away with her sleeve when a carriage, one of the high four-wheelers common to Mérida, drew up and a darkly handsome man smiled and said something in Spanish. Mercy gave him a frosty stare and turned to go to her lodgings.

She couldn't wait any longer. Men could scarcely be blamed for thinking she was for hire. Philip would be angry, but she was angry, too! And now that she'd finally confronted the bitter truth of their relationship, she meant to have a long talk with him, this very night, if he came in sober! They were married. She'd stay with him and do her best if he'd try.

Otherwise …

She took a deep breath. Otherwise, she'd leave him! She didn't know how she'd manage. Perhaps she could find work as a nurse-companion here in, Mérida till she saved enough for her trip home. But she could not, would not, go on as they were.

Could not
. The words drummed in her ears like a marching rhythm so that she didn't really hear the carriage till it stopped.

“Mrs. Cameron?”

An almost Texas-sounding voice, deep and pleasant. Even as she whirled, afraid that Philip had met with some disaster, she was resentfully aware of the strain of male curiosity and speculation in the stranger's tone.

Swinging down from the high, little carriage, he closed the distance between them with one long stride, gave her a sweeping glance, which, in spite of its rapidity, did not miss much, and bowed so low that she suspected mockery. Even in the failing light, she could see he had a lean, tanned face, eyes of some shade between gray and black, and a long, rather grim, mouth.

“Forgive my addressing you without an introduction,” he said almost brusquely. “The circumstances are most unusual.”

“My … my husband?”

“You needn't fear for him, Mrs. Cameron. His health is good.” The tall man paused, then gave a harsh laugh. “Better than his judgment.”

Bewildered, thoroughly alarmed, Mercy swallowed to get command of her voice before she spoke. “I don't understand, sir. My husband sent you to meet me?”

It might have been the shadows, but something like pity seemed to soften his face for a second before he shrugged and slipped his hand beneath her arm. “He sent me. If you'll get into the carriage, I'll explain.”

Mercy resisted his lightly insistent grasp. “Indeed, sir, you must explain here and now! How am I to know that you haven't murdered my husband and now plan to … to …”

“An entrancing prospect, madam.” Though he chuckled, there was an undercurrent of sympathy or embarrassment in his tone. Reaching into his coat, he produced a folded piece of paper. “If you like, you may take this back to the light of the church to examine. But perhaps even here you can make out the signature. It's a note from your husband entitling me, Zane Falconer, to your services in settlement for a high loss at cards.”

Mercy felt as if the earth had opened up and she was falling into a chasm where no one could hear her cries. She stared blindly at the paper, wanting to say it wasn't true, wanting to scream and call for help.

But to whom could she call, anyway, with her husband
selling
her?

The ugly word brought a purging reality to the melodrama. Assuring herself that it was indeed Philip's signature scrawled at the bottom of a single paragraph, she gave the note back to the stranger.

“You can't fool me, sir. Even though my husband may have been drunk or desperate enough to sign this absurd bond, it can't have validity. Slavery is forbidden in Mexico.”

“But debt bondage is not, dear Mrs. Cameron. If a man makes a loan he can't repay, he and his children and their children may become what amounts to slaves, because they're charged for food, clothing, and shelter at a rate that keeps them permanently indebted. I do assure you that I can enforce what's written on that paper.”

Numb with shock, Mercy stood silent, motionless. “Get into the carriage,” ordered Falconer. He added more gently, “You look weary, Mrs. Cameron, and I believe your husband was to take you to dinner. Let me find you a meal and we'll discuss this reasonably.”

“Reasonably!”

“I won't drag you off willy-nilly,” he promised roughly. “But you have to be someplace, and presumably you won't want to return to your husband. The next man he lost you to might not care about your objections.”

“And you do?” she demanded scornfully.

“My household's harmonious, and I intend to keep it that way.” His tone was cool. “Have no fear, Mrs. Cameron. If, after a pleasant dinner discussion of what I require of you, you prefer to take another course, I'll deliver you at whatever address you desire, wish you luck, and trouble you no more.”

Whatever address?

Where could she go? Returning to Philip was unthinkable. Making a tremendous effort to hold her head high and check the trembling of her lips, Mercy let Falconer help her into the jaunty little high-wheeled vehicle and climb up beside her.

“Please,” she said, “I … I don't wish to see Mr. Cameron again, but my things are at an inn a few streets away. Could we collect them now while there's little chance of encountering him?”

“Distress doesn't unbalance you,” Falconer said. “I admire that. The name of your inn?”

An hour later the carriage had been dismissed after the driver deposited Mercy's baggage in the entrance hall of a spaciously simple house, and she sat with her host in a courtyard scented with flowers and canopied by trees and vines. A dark young man named Vicente brought plates of chicken and rice and a basket of tortillas, thin corn cakes that Mercy had first found tasteless but was now beginning to relish. There was a small dish of spicy sauce that Falconer advised her to use with caution, plus the most delicious, frothy, hot chocolate she'd ever tasted.

Too hungry to make conversation even if she'd had the slightest notion of what to say in this incredible circumstance, Mercy concentrated on the tasty food. By the time Vicente brought melon and crisp, little honeynut cakes, she was feeling more prepared to face whatever Zane Falconer might propose.

He'd talked easily through the meal, explaining that this house belonged to a friend who was abroad and who insisted that Zane stay here when in Mérida.

“Which isn't often,” said Falconer with a note of warning. “My place, La Quinta Dirección, is a hundred fifty miles from here, close to Tihosuco, the outpost whose liberation is being so ardently—and, I fear, unjustifiably—celebrated right now.”

“But surely the Indians were defeated.”

Falconer shook his head. “They abandoned the siege and faded back into territory they've dominated for almost twenty years in spite of countless campaigns and the official end of the War of the Castes. The Cruzob Mayas have their own sacred city, Chan Santa Cruz, where white slaves work for Indian masters and the Talking Cross issues judgments, plans raids, and even, as a sovereign power, makes treaties with the British.”

“The Talking Cross? What is that?”

“A cross that first appeared and comforted the Mayas when their rebellion seemed crushed back in 1850. Probably by use of ventriloquism or a sound box, it inspired them to keep fighting, and its guardian, or
tatich,
is what the pope is to Catholics. Of course, the Cruzob are Catholic, but while other Mayas still need priests and rely on the whites, or
ladinos,
for them, the Cruzob have their own priests, or
maestros cantors,
at their own shrine. They aren't dependent on the white world for anything but guns and ammunition, and these they get from the British in Belize. That's a region south of Yucatán that the English crown has claimed from Elizabeth's time, when it was settled by part-time pirates, or extremely casual members of the British Navy, depending on one's view.”