Authors: Shirl Henke
Jealous? She was not jealous.
Let him go to loose women like Innocencia, but do it discreetly
. It was just a matter of her pride. After all, as the
patrona
who had governed Gran Sangre these past four years, she was due proper respect. The words echoed hollowly in her mind and she knew they were a lie. Mercedes again massaged her temples as a fierce headache began to build. She was so confused. “I don't want him yet I hate the idea that any other woman has him either.” A fine dilemma. How could she possibly be jealous of him with that whore? Probably because of the way Innocencia had treated Rosario that very morning, she assured herself.
Her turbulent ruminations were interrupted when his footfalls sounded down the hall. She held her breath and picked up the gun as he walked into his room and began to undress. He did not try the door at once. Good. He was going to be civilized about it. That whore had probably tired him out in the bathhouse.
I wish they'd both drowned!
She stood alone in the darkness, waiting for the light to go out on the opposite side of the door, unable to even consider getting into bed before he was asleep.
Then the doorknob turned with a sharp rattle, followed by a muffled oath when the bolt barred his way. He pounded on it twice, sharp raps that sent jarring shivers down her spine.
“Go back to your mistress, Lucero,” she said clearly.
He hit the door again with considerable force. “Open this door or you'll regret it, Mercedes.”
“Don't threaten me, Lucero.”
A loud crash reverberated through the house, followed by a sharp crack as the sash splintered, tearing the bolt from its moorings and sending the door flying inward. Lucero stood in the opening with the light at his back, a tall, dark, menacing silhouette. His face was cast in shadows. Only his eyes glowed in the moonlight. Fathomless wolf’s eyes with silver irises.
He ignored the old Walker Colt she held in both hands, leveled at him. “Don't ever bar a door to me again. Not in my own house, or anywhere else,” he said in a soft, sudden rush. His voice was harsh, angry. He stepped into the room but she did not lower the weapon.
“You've made your point, Lucero. Now get out or I'll use this,” she said quietly.
He advanced another two steps, smirking arrogantly. “Go ahead. Shoot.” She hesitated, just as he knew she would. The pistol wavered the tiniest bit in her white-knuckled grip. “It isn't so easy to shoot a man up close in cold blood, is it?”
Now he was near enough that she could feel his heat surrounding her. Sweet Virgin, he had been drinking! She could smell the brandy fumes. “You obviously prefer Innocencia's skills,” she argued, still holding the gun on him. “Heaven knows she's had enough practice and I've had none. Go back to her and welcome. You don't want me.”
“Like hell I don't,” he ground out, stepping directly in front of her, the barrel of the Colt pressed tight against his heart. “Cenci set this up just to drive a wedge between us and you're falling right into the trap.” He grabbed her wrist and the gun dropped to the floor with a soft thud. She allowed him to pull her against him. “I told you, you couldn't shoot me, love.” His voice was a soft purr now.
“You smell like a distillery,” she said, turning her face away. “Did it take courage from an
aguardiente
bottle to confront me?”
“You're going to listen to me, dammit! I did not encourage Cenci. She came into the bathing room while I was asleep in the tub.”
It had not occurred to her that he would deny what her own eyes had seen. “Don t insult my intelligence, Lucero, she said contemptuously.
“Then use it. Think about what you saw—or thought you saw. She unfastened her blouse and leaned over the tub.” He snarled a filthy oath that made Mercedes flinch as he added, “She had a hold of my cock when I woke up! A man is at a distinct disadvantage under those circumstances.”
“Then you must've spent most of your adult life at the mercy of women,” she snapped back, her cheeks red with mortification. If her
dueña
had lived to hear this, she would have been prostrate!
His angry scowl suddenly turned to an arrogant grin. “Your jealousy is showing, my little shrew. Only you have no reason for it. I don't want Cenci. I want you.” He put his arms around her and lowered his head to kiss her.
“You think it's just that easy. That I'll give in and let you maul me after you've consorted with that—that
puta
? Just because I couldn't shoot you?” She twisted away from his mouth.
“You're jealous of her, aren't you?”
“I despise her. She called Rosario a bastard this morning! If not for Bufón she would’ve struck your daughter.” Mercedes was quivering with fury now.
He went very still, loosing his hold on her. “What do you mean? Explain what happened.”
Mercedes bit her lip. Should she waste her breath? Did he care enough for his daughter to understand her anger with Innocencia? One look at the implacable expression on his face led her to outline the ugly scene in the courtyard and the exchange with his mistress. “I threatened to banish her. She reminded me that only you could do that,” she concluded bitterly.
“So that's why she lay in wait for me tonight. She was afraid I'd send her packing,” he said more to himself than to her.
Mercedes did not believe his story about the scene at the tub, but realized he would protect Rosario. “What will you do with her?”
“She won't ever again do or say anything that would hurt my daughter. I'll handle her.” He tangled his hands in Mercedes’ hair and forced her to look up into his face again. “Now...where were we, hmm?”
“I'm just supposed to accept that. You'll handle her, as I'm supposed to accept your dalliance with her? No, Lucero. Not anymore.” She pushed suddenly and twisted out of his arms, her fury over his arrogance once more ignited.
“Yes, you will accept my word. I'm your husband and I've made you a damn sight more promises tonight than any good little wife has a right to expect.” Damn, he knew Luce would never countenance her stubborn jealousy! He had already given in far too much. He reached out for her again and caught the edge of her robe, pulling it open and tearing the seam at the sleeve.
In pure reflex she slapped him, still shaking with rage and hurt and all the conflicting emotions that roiled inside her. The instant she felt her hand connect with his beard-roughened cheek, Mercedes knew she had committed a terrible blunder. His face was a satanic mask now, smiling, his voice a soft, deadly growl.
“That wasn't well done, for a dutiful wife, not well done at all.” He advanced on her, his arm closing around her waist like a vise as he slammed her against him and held her, crushing the breath from her. Rage boiled inside him. Damn her, she was putting him in an impossible situation. “You know you're wrong, don't you, Mercedes?”
Mercedes looked up into his eyes, those blazing pitiless eyes. She pressed her palms against the wall of his chest. “I'm not wrong, I'm merely weaker. You will do what you wish. I can't stop you from raping me.”
“Technically a husband cannot rape his wife,” he said in a flat voice.
But you are not her husband,
an inner voice reminded him. He sighed, looking into her haunted eyes, dulled by resignation, then he released her. She stumbled back a step, surprised by his sudden move. “I've never resorted to rape, not even in the war where I saw my fill of it. I find I've no taste for it. No taste at all, Mercedes.”
He turned and walked from the room, closing the bedroom door as best he could, leaving her standing alone in the darkness.
* * * *
Over the next two weeks Nicholas and Mercedes slept apart, avoiding each other as much as possible. Every day he arose at dawn and rode out with his vaqueros, returning at dusk, sweat-soaked and exhausted. He fell into dreamless slumber, only to awaken with the first light and repeat the cycle like a man driven. Six days after he had broken down her door, he left with Hilario and the vaqueros to drive the fine horses they had finally captured to a safe hiding place in the maze of canyons around the Yaqui River valley. He told Angelina when he would return, but he did not tell his wife.
Mercedes, too, kept herself continuously busy. Considering the way she had spent these past years, it was no novelty to her. But there was an obsessive quality to the way she worked. She was brittle, short of temper and unsmiling, not at all her normal self. The only exception to her taciturn behavior was in the way she treated Rosario, for Mercedes had come to adore her husband's daughter. The household servants could sense the palpable tension between Don Lucero and his lady. They knew the
patrona
and her husband were feuding and did not sleep together. Smiling, they said once the proud
patrón
brought her back to his bed, all would be well with both of them.
After a long day supervising the digging of the irrigation ditches, Mercedes came back to the house, covered with mud, disheartened and bone weary. The work was going far too slowly and the crops desperately needed water. She soaked the mud from her body and washed her hair, then headed to the kitchen for a light supper at Angelina's hearth, shared with Rosario, a ritual that they had begun since the child had come to Gran Sangre. Rosario's wheedling voice carried across the courtyard as she approached.
“But why not? Please, Angelina, read me the end of the story. The lady has been so tired these past nights I dare not ask her, but I do so want to know how the prince finds his princess after the wicked queen banishes him.”
“I'm sure they live happily ever after,” Angelina replied as she stirred the pot of beans steaming on the stove. “Anyway, I do not know how to read,” she added patiently. “People of my class have no time for education. That is for fine ladies like the
patrona.
”
“Will I learn to read? Mother Superior said if I wanted to become a nun I might learn...but I really don't think I want to be a nun. I only want to read.”
I only want to read
. Mercedes read such a wealth of wistful sadness in those soft words. Rosario wanted more than an education. She wanted to feel she was worthy and that she belonged. No one had ever spent enough time with her, especially needful since her mother had died. She had been thrust into a strange new home with so much to assimilate. The child deserved much better than she had received from life.
Vowing that she would not neglect attending to Rosario's education another day, Mercedes entered the kitchen and walked over to the little girl who sat on the hearth with Bufón at her side. He stood up and barked a greeting, interrupting Angelina's awkward attempts to sidestep the child's direct questions, for the old cook had no real idea about the
patrón's
plans for his illegitimate daughter of mixed blood.
Mercedes thumped the big dog, dodging his slurping kisses, as Rosario giggled. Then she hugged the little girl. “What have you been reading—let me see?” She examined the book. “I don't remember this one,” she said with a frown of confusion.
“That's because my papa gave it to me. He read half the story before he left to catch horses. See, here's the place.” She flipped through the book and found the page, recognizing the line drawings at the top of the chapter.
Mercedes was taken aback. “Your papa has been reading to you?” At once she felt color flood her face as Angelina's eyes averted from her in compassion.
Everyone knows we're not sleeping together, barely even talking
.
“Oh, yes. He said he would finish it when he returned, but I can't wait,” Rosario replied, unaware of the byplay between the lady and the cook.
Given his long hours in the saddle, Mercedes wondered when Lucero had found time. Rosario's chatter quickly answered that question.
“When you were getting cleaned up after you worked so late in the fields, he came to my room and read to me before you tucked me in bed. I guess I got so sleepy by then I didn't tell you,” she added uncertainly.
Mercedes swallowed the lump in her throat. “I've been neglecting you since we've been working on those accursed ditches,” she said, taking Rosario in her arms.
“Don't feel sad. It's all right,” the child consoled her. “Papa was there and now that he has to be away, you're here.” She touched Mercedes’ lavender-scented hair, still damp from her bath. “You smell sweet. Different from Papa. His hair would be wet, too, but it didn't smell sweet. I like the way it smelled, though. Do you?”