Bride of Thunder (40 page)

It was good not to be friendless, though both women knew their impotence. “Thank you,” Mercy said. “Has Thomas asked permission to marry you?”

Celeste nodded, seeming ashamed to admit her fortune in the face of Mercy's despair. “The master has consented. That means he won't have me again. He never uses married or betrothed women. But we have to wait until a clergyman comes through or until the master lets us travel to one. Thomas is very correct.” She spoke with mingled regret and pride. “He wants everything to be proper.”

So a proud servant would never know his master had taken his bride, filled her womb. The deception seemed a shame, but the alternative was worse. Mercy wished Celeste happiness and went downstairs.

Eric was preoccupied, overcourteous when he emerged now and then from his thoughts. Mercy was sure he was trying to decide how to control her, and she dreaded the moment when he'd reach a decision. They were having coffee when McNulty appeared in the doorway.

“Mr. Kensington, there's a message!”

“Excuse me, my dear,” Eric said to Mercy, rose in that lazy fashion that was deceptively swift, and went down the hall with his accountant.

Disturbed, Mercy went out on the terrace and looked down at the river and the pier. Eric was down there with McNulty, talking to several men who were making a good many motions with their hands. After a while, Eric said something that made them cringe, turned on his heel, and strode toward the house while McNulty hurried off toward the sugar works.

What was the matter? Mercy was still staring after McNulty when Eric called from the door, “Come with me, love. This is your chance to learn if that handsome Dionisio will rid me of Canul in return for his freedom.”

Catching Mercy's wrist, Eric pulled her along with him to the stable, called for their horses, and in a few minutes they were heading for the village.

As they rode, Eric cursed the Icaiche Mayan leader, Marcos Canul, who'd come down on one of Eric's logging centers and confiscated the cut mahogany, claiming, it was cut on Mayan land. Eric had three days in which to “buy” the logs, or Canul would sell them to another Englishman. Canul's sixty or seventy men had rifles. Of Eric's men, only the logging overseers were armed, and their men would be more likely to fight alongside the Mayas than against them.

“I thought Canul would try something like this in time,” Eric growled. “It's just earlier than I expected. Well, he'll find he picked the wrong
dzul
to rob!”

“But why send Dionisio to kill him?”

“One can blot out Canul with overwhelming force, which I don't have, or by sneaking an assassin into his camp. Dionisio, as
batab
of an independent group, could be a useful ally to Canul and would certainly be welcomed if he came on the pretext of joining with the Icaiches. There'd be feasting, drunkenness, and, sooner or later, an easy chance to do Canul in and get away.”

“But if Dionisio were suspected, wouldn't the Icaiches raid his people? As I remember, he thought they might, and that was why he bought guns for you.”

Eric chuckled. “There'll be plenty of Icaiches glad to see Canul gone, and Dionisio's people would be less menaced if that firebrand were dead, for then they could make stronger ties with the Cruzob and stir up their general of the plaza, old Crescendo Poot, to chastise the Icaiches. It shouldn't be hard. He hates them as traitors to the Mayan cause and drove them out of Chichénha ten years ago, the same year he sacked Tekax.”

Stopping in front of Don Gerardo's house, Eric lifted Mercy down and curtly told the mayordomo that his help was required. While Don Gerardo was expressing indignation at Canul, McNulty appeared with Dionisio.

The young
batab
seemed thinner, but he still wore the small gold earring and his face was as proud as ever. “Kiss El Señor's hand!” snapped Don Gerardo, but Eric waved him out of the office. “If you will excuse us, Don Gerardo, kindly wait outside in case you're needed.”

With a glance of muffled resentment, the mayordomo went out and closed the door. Eric towered over the Maya, but he couldn't dominate him. It was like seeing a hawk confront a golden eagle. The eagle could kill the hawk, but it wouldn't be easy.

“Canul is a danger to your group,” Eric told the
batab
in fluent Mayan that impressed Mercy in spite of herself. “He's taken one of my logging camps. I want him dead.”

A faint smile curved Dionisio's lips and Mercy noticed that he had tawny eyes. White blood somewhere, in spite of that classic Mayan profile? “Many people of Belize want Canul dead, but he's still alive in the jungle.”

“You could go as if to make an alliance, then find a quiet way to kill him. For that you may have your freedom, the new rifle I will give you, and ammunition.”

“I have said it before,
señor
. I cannot do it.”

“You're afraid?” Eric jeered.

“I don't care what you think of my courage,” shrugged the
batab
. “I bound myself to cut your cane, not to kill in treachery.”

Eric gazed at him a long time. “If you don't change your mind, in a few minutes we're going out of here to the whipping post. You'll be whipped till you agree to go or till you die.”

“
Señor,
I would rather die at once than to be so disgraced.”

“Your preferences don't interest me.”

Mercy looked imploringly at the young man and Eric laughed. “Shall I say it for you, darling? You want to advise him to say he'll commit the murder, but to take to his heels once he's where I can't touch him!” He put this in Mayan for Dionisio, who held his head even higher.

“I will not lie to you. I will not kill Canul.”

Rising, Eric pinioned Mercy's wrist. He brought her along with him as he flung open the door and called out to Don Gerardo, “Fetch your most skillful whipper!”

“Ah,
señor,
I'm that one,” cried the mayordomo, preening his moustache.

McNulty cleared his throat. “Mr. Kensington! Such may be necessary, but I don't agree with it. Let me take the lady along to the house.”

“Take yourself off if you like, James, but Doña Mercy stays here.”

“Sir …”

“James,” said Eric in a cream-smooth tone, “you're excused.”

McNulty cast Mercy an unhappy look, but he wasn't of the fiber to defy his employer, who could have smashed him to the ground with a single hand. He retreated from the village and was out of sight by the time Dionisio had been tied to the post by his wrists, his shirt torn off, forced to stand on tiptoes.

“Please!” Mercy whispered to Eric. “Please! He won't do what you want. You'll have to kill him, and what good will that do?”

As he scanned her, a smile dawned slowly on Eric's face. “Why, this Indian may prove useful even if he won't go against Canul! Begin, Don Gerardo. Flog him till he promises to obey.”

Don Gerardo drew back and raised his arm. The plaited rawhide whip sang, then landed on the brown shoulders with a sound that wrung a cry from Mercy's lips. The lash fell again. Again.

Blood beaded the weals. The man's shoulders began to quiver, though he had not cried out. Mercy was sobbing wildly, trying to get free of Eric and fling herself on the overseer, who was panting now, his eyes gleaming as he swung the whip.

Beside herself, Mercy began to scream. Her helpers stood by the infirmary. She saw, hurrying to their houses, a few women she'd treated. But there was nothing they could do, nothing. Dionisio slumped. His head hung sideways. Blood trickled from his wounds. At a word from the mayordomo, a man tossed a pail of water over the fainting
batab
.

He raised his head.

“Will you go?” called Eric.

No answer. Eric signaled the eager Don Gerardo to proceed. Mercy's throat was raw. She flinched at each descent of the whip, her eyes shut.

The lash halted. Dionisio had lost consciousness again. Eric raised Mercy's chin and made her look at him. “So you hate me? But I treated you like a queen, and you aborted my child. Let us try again, my dear. Shall Don Gerardo finish off that Indian, or would you have him live?”

“Let him live! Don't beat him anymore!”

“You would be grateful?”

“What do you mean?”

“You'd make every effort to hold my seed when it starts to make a child?”

“You know it must be true that it's hard for me to conceive.”

“But you'll try. For every month that proves you barren, this fellow shall be whipped again—and you'll watch.”

“And I'll hate you!”

“Till you have my child.”

Wearily, Mercy said, “Please let them dress his cuts in the infirmary.”

Don Gerardo looked disappointed, but at Eric's order two men untied Dionisio and carried him to the infirmary. Mercy cast Francisca and Paco a pleading glance, but they watched her with closed eyes, then followed the beaten man inside.

Mercy felt as beaten in spirit as the
batab
was in body. Eric had his method now, his way of taming her. She would go mad, she would scream herself into insanity, if she had to watch such a thing again. When Eric lifted her into the saddle, she felt like a puppet, a doll held together by pegs or wires, moved by Eric's will.

“I'm going to get that bastard Canul myself!” he vowed as they rode back to the house. “The militia's been disbanded, and he'll have sold my mahogany to that other blighter, God rot his soul, long before I could get the regular army after him.”

“Are the logs that important?”

“What's important is that Canul's decided to test me. If he gets away with this one cutting of logs, he'll try to exact ‘rent' on all my woodlands, maybe steal some cattle and mules. He's got to be stopped—quickly.”

“How?”

“Most of the men can use guns, and they all have machetes. I'll offer a bonus attractive enough to get them to risk their skins. As soon as they can be organized, we'll go around through the jungle and hit the camp. My guess is that they'll be grand and gloriously drunk from the camp supplies, and we could take them easily if they're off guard.” He gave Mercy an unpleasant smile. “Are you worried about my safety, or, could it be, upon reflection, that you'd rather be raped by me than some savage?”

Mercy didn't answer. Whatever happened, her situation was desperate. But if Eric would be gone for a few days …

As always, when she thought of escape, she remembered the river, the crocodile-infested swamps, and the jungle, where, if she encountered any humans, they would probably be white-hating Cruzob. She would be incredibly lucky to survive those dangers and make her way to La Quinta or any friendly haven. But if she stayed here, Eric was determined to make her pregnant. She couldn't thwart him with the poinciana when that meant another beating for Dionisio, nor could she endure the floggings the
batab
would get till she conceived.

It was intolerable. Eric had found the way to break her. Whatever the perils, she must try to escape. As they climbed the steps, Eric took her hands, standing several steps beneath her so that their eyes were level.

“I don't want you to feel nervous or unprotected while I'm gone,” he said. “So I'll have one guard at your door and a watch on all the downstairs entrances. You'll be perfectly safe. And now, my love, excuse me. I must get my expedition together.”

With a light kiss, he went inside and Mercy stared toward the river. Guards or no guards, she had to get away.

It was easier to resolve than to do. She'd spent that afternoon putting together a pack of her most valuable possessions and things necessary for survival. Celeste now paid in full for Mercy's help. Enlisting the help of her mother and mother's friends, Celeste amassed several weeks' supply of dried meat and the sour cornmeal dough that could either be mixed with water to make a nourishing gruel or eaten as it was. There was honey in an oiled leather bag, matches pilfered from Pierre's kitchen, a hammock, a lightweight poncho for sleeping, an extra pair of sandals, and a waterskin for the northern region, where streams or springs would be hard to find. She also brought from the infirmary Elkanah's books and the
Badianus
translation. And, of course, she wore the black coral necklace.

“But won't Mr. Kensington suspect you?” Mercy asked worriedly.

“But you aren't running off!” Celeste laughed, shaking her head. “No! You died of the black vomit, the cholera, and, of course, had to be buried deep right away. Very sad.”

“What a splendid idea!” cried Mercy, dazzled. No one would suffer for helping her. And there'd be no pursuit, for Eric would think her dead.

Celeste nodded. “I talked to Francisca at the infirmary. She'll be called up to nurse you the day after tomorrow. She and I will wrap up in sheets what's supposed to be you. Everyone fears the black vomit; it's very bad. No one will want to look.”

Embracing her friend, Mercy began to feel more hopeful. The journey was as perilous as ever, but she was strengthened by the goodwill of the people who were helping her.

“You have a headache tonight, and pretend your stomach is upset,” advised Celeste.

The effects of the poinciana and flogging wouldn't make that difficult. When Eric, appearing a little late for dinner, announced that he had eighty men ready to move at dawn, Mercy was glad that his excitement made him less likely to notice hers.

They went to bed early. The march on his enemy seemed to serve as an aphrodisiac on Eric, and he took her repeatedly in spite of her complaints of headache and nausea. “Whatever you took to scour your womb made you ill,” he said roughly. “But you'll have three or four days to cosset yourself and be fragile.”

She gritted her teeth and told herself this should be the last time she ever slept with him, the last time he would spend in her the charged energy and force of that powerful body.