Free Bride of Fortune by Shirl Henke

he growled into the silence. She had grown into a woman of spirit and, doubtless, had reason to despise Luce's touch. From the way his brother had described their brief time together, Nick could understand her unwillingness to share his bed. Yet when they had first laid eyes on each other, Nick had sensed a magnetic pull. She had responded to him, he was certain of it, and Nicholas Fortune was no novice at such matters. He wanted to win her over slowly, to woo and seduce her so she would come to him eagerly, desiring his touch. But he knew the role he was playing all too well. He knew Lucero Alvarado all too well. Patience was not one of his virtues, least of all where women were concerned.
           Nick smiled grimly and inhaled the cigarette smoke. Luce liked his women with fire, but he also liked them cheap and lusty. And no woman, regardless of her station, would dare refuse his advances without risking his wrath. Nick had ridden with him for over six months and seen his casual brutality toward women, which was not unusual among soldiers. He had done some pretty ugly things himself, but never rape. On several occasions he'd come close to blows with Luce to keep him from taking an unwilling woman.
           Luce had laughed and given in, humoring his “big brother” because it amused him to do so. But here at Gran Sangre, Nick knew that everyone expected the to claim his husbandly rights. Not to do so would be completely out of character for Don Lucero. Mercedes herself knew she had made an impossible request. Luce would never let his own wife defy him. If he acceded to her wishes, people might become suspicious. But if he acted as Lucero, would he forever forfeit the chance for happiness with his beautiful wife?
           The soft hum of insects and the melodic call of a night bird gave him no answer. He would have to make a decision soon. Muttering a curse, he ground out his cigarette and stretched out on the big lonely bed.
     
    * * * *
     
           Nick slept late the next morning, a luxury his hard life on the trail as a contre-guerrilla had not afforded him. When he walked into the dining room, Baltazar bowed officiously. Seeing the food had been taken from the sideboard and Mercedes was not in the room, he asked, “Has my wife broken her fast yet?”
           “Doña Mercedes always arises at six, sir. She rides, then eats her breakfast in the courtyard. She is working on accounts this morning. Shall I summon her?”
           “No, don't disturb her now.”
           “Shall I tell Angelina to prepare your breakfast, ?”
           “Yes, and be certain the steak is seared and bloody,” he reminded the old steward, knowing Luce's penchant for exceedingly rare meat, a taste he himself had acquired by force of necessity.
           “But of course, , ” Baltazar replied, then vanished into the kitchen.
           There had been so much to learn—and unlearn—while Luce had been coaching him. He was ambidextrous, a trait passed on from his mother and a handy skill for a professional soldier; but Luce was right-handed, so he had practiced doing everything with only his right hand. He loved French food in mellow cream sauces, but his Mexican half brother detested all things foreign and preferred the burning hot tang of chilies. Since Luce, too, had taken up smoking, there at least was one thing he had decided not to change. They were both skilled horsemen and when he had admired Luce's splendid Andalusian his brother had carelessly gifted him with Peltre, saying it would be remarked upon if he did not ride home on the big gray.
           He was contemplating what to do first that day when the kitchen door opened behind him and a voluptuous woman with waist-length black hair and bold striking features emerged carrying a tray laden with a silver coffee service. The smoldering look in her dark eyes and the provocative sway of her hips as she set down her load would