Bride of Fortune Read online

  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.

  “I could never take Don Anselmo's place, Mamacita.” She stiffened at the mocking endearment, just as he knew she would.

  “You could far outstrip your father in debauchery by now, I'd warrant, after the years of war, living with the kind of riffraff who are paid to fight that foreigner's battles.”

  His eyebrows rose in surprise. “Would you rather see that Indian peasant Juarez rule Mexico than the Emperor Maximilian?”

  “Do not be absurd. You know I despise that godless despoiler of Holy Mother Church.” Her bony fingers fiercely clutched a rosary of lapis lazuli and diamonds.

  “We have no other choice but Juarez or Maximilian.”

  She sighed wearily. “I no longer care for politics. God and his saints will preserve the holy faith. Your duty no longer lies in fighting for the emperor.”

  “I know my duty to the House of Alvarado,” he said with stiff formality.

  She tried to give a snort of disgust but her lungs were so weak that it came out a wheezing of breath. “Neither you nor your sire have ever given evidence of knowing your duty before this.”

  “Must the sins of the father always be visited upon the sons?” he asked bitterly.

  “You've sins enough of your own to answer for and well you know it,” she snapped. “Leaving your bride's bed to cavort with harlots, then riding away a scant few weeks after your marriage.”

  “Well, I've answered Father Salvador's summons now,” he replied tersely.

  “It took your father's death to bring you to heel. Even he was displeased when you left without planting your seed in Mercedes’ belly.”

  The image of shimmering dark gold hair and luminous amber eyes flashed into his mind. A slumberous expression came over his face, but it did not soften the harsh beauty of his features. “She's matured into a very beautiful woman. Providing an heir for Gran Sangre won't exactly be an onerous task.”

  “She may think otherwise. The girl has nurtured some foolish notions in your absence. You should never have left her alone all these years.”

  His expression became wary. “What do you mean?”

  “You will see soon enough. But I don't fear your failure to bend her to your will—you were ever your father's son,” she said with bitter irony.

  His body stiffened in outrage, but he bowed formally to her. A long-buried anger resurrected, churning his guts. “I'll do my duty.”

  “A pleasing promise to your father could he hear it. Hateful news to your wife when she does,” Sofia said smugly.

  A chill settled over him as he studied her in silence. She seemed amused by some secret jest. Without replying to her cryptic remark, he turned and strode through the heavy oak door, slamming it as he departed.

  The room was once more as dark and quiet as a sepulcher, the silence broken only by the soft clacking of beads as Doña Sofia resumed her rote prayers.

  He stormed down the hallway headed in the direction of the master suite when a slight figure with a halo of white hair materialized from a side door and stood directly in his way. The snowy brilliance of his shoulder-length hair contrasted with the heavy black cassock he wore.

  “Father Salvador. I should’ve expected you to be hovering somewhere nearby, like a vulture circling, waiting for the death throes. Have you given her last rites yet, or are you saving that for a special treat?”

  Ice-blue eyes set narrowly in a deceptively frail-looking face fixed on him with fierce intensity. “I might have known your years away from home would change nothing. You are as unfeeling and irreverent as ever, Lucero Alvarado.”

  “God, I certainly hope so,” he replied with a grim laugh.

  “Your father has passed to his just reward. Now your mother will soon ascend to hers.” Father Salvador's expression left no doubt of his certainty that Lucero's parents would not end up in the same place. “The least you could do is show a shred of compassion for her while she still lives.”

  “Why? She never showed any for me, not even when I was a small child.”

  “I remember that small child. He stole communion wine from the sacristy and came to my classroom reeling drunk.”

  “I'd forgotten that,” he replied in amusement. “I threw up all over my catechism.”

  “And my cassock.” The priest's voice held no levity.

  “Only because you grabbed me by the neck and caned me.”

  “You also stole coins from the poor box.”

  “Just as the emperor steals from his subjects.”

  Father Salvador stiffened in outrage. “You fought for the emperor!”

  “So I did. After all, the Juaristas don't pay as well,” he replied lightly, enjoying baiting the priest.

  Realizing the game Lucero played, Father Salvador bit back his acerbic reply. “You are the patrón of Gran Sangre. Your irresponsible behavior should be in the past. You have a duty to perform, Don Lucero.” He stressed the title.

  “So I've been reminded once or twice. But that matter is for
me and my wife to settle.”

  “And best you do so quickly. Doña Mercedes has far exceeded her station. She is merely a woman, the weaker vessel meant to rear children and oversee the great house, not the patrón to ride out with coarse vaqueros, hobnob with common merchants in Hermosillo—even defy the army.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Meek little Mercedes? My little mouse?” He chuckled wryly. “She has certainly changed, but then since my father's death, I imagine a great deal has fallen on her shoulders.”

  “Long before your father's death. I do not entirely blame her, although her behavior has been most unseemly,” the priest added righteously. “Even when he was alive and well, Don Anselmo attended to matters of running Gran Sangre most indifferently. He was always off pursuing carnal pleasures.”

  “There is much to be said for carnal pleasures, Father Salvador. And surely they make confessions ever so much more interesting, don't they?” There was a silky insult lurking beneath the words.

  The priest stiffened. It was apparent he wished Lucero a small boy once more so that he might give him another good caning. He swallowed his bile and crossed himself, offering up a small prayer for patience. “Gran Sangre is doomed if the Alvarados must depend on you to preserve their heritage.”

  “Perhaps I may just surprise you all.”

  * * * *

  As he sat soaking in a tub of steamy water, his eyes drifted closed while he remembered his long journey to Sonora. Riding northeast from Tamaulipas he had seen so much senseless destruction of a land once rich and beautiful that it made his stomach turn. The thick adobe walls of pueblo churches were scorched black and desolate, lesser buildings reduced to utter rubble. Dry ocotillo grew in clumps up and down streets where once small gardens had been lovingly tended.

  Wherever the Emperor Maximilian's armies rode, they exacted a terrible vengeance on the populace who overwhelmingly supported President Benito Juarez and his republic. Imperial forces burned out rebel villages and poisoned the water supplies so no one could inhabit an area. After they departed, the peons returned, grimly struggling to reclaim a meager existence amid ruins.