The Wildest Heart (48 page)

But he stood back, smiling, and let me dress, and I was angry at myself for being so foolish. For at least the hundredth time I had to remind myself that I was now Mark's wife, and fortunate that he was so patient with me.

That was the day before we arrived in Socorro. I had no way of realizing, as I dozed through most of the journey with my head on Mark's shoulder, how everything would begin to change after we got there.

From the small village of Magdalena, where we had spent the night, it was only some twenty-seven miles to Socorro—that ancient town by the Rio Grande that seemed to slumber wrapped in dreams of its past glories. Today Socorro was still a large town, as Mark pointed out. A meeting place for ranchers and farmers and businessmen from all over the county.

The two-story hotel where we would be staying was larger and more imposing than any we had stayed in so far, and Mark told me with a smile that he had already reserved the very best rooms for us.

“The honeymoon suite,” he said teasingly, and added that we would be staying here for three or four days in order to give me time to recover from the strain of traveling.

“I think you will enjoy this part of the country, Rowena. And I have a friend, John Kingman, who owns a large ranch across the river. I would like to take you to visit him. His wife is a charming woman, a French Creole from New Orleans.”

“You never mentioned this to me before,” I said a trifle sharply.

“I wanted it to be a pleasant surprise. And besides,” Mark added thoughtfully, “I'm afraid I've been too selfish, rushing you off your feet in this fashion. We've hardly had time to get to know each other, have we? And I want our marriage to start out right, Rowena.” His charming smile flashed out at me, disarming me. “Come now, admit it! Aren't you glad at the prospect of a few days' rest?” I had to admit that I was. What heaven it would be to lie abed late without a feeling of guilt, and to spend leisurely days just
walking
instead of being cooped up in the swaying interior of a coach.

Mark put his arm around my waist and squeezed it. “I am going to enjoy showing you the town—and showing you off, of course. Later this evening, when the sun is lower, you might care for a stroll around the plaza. It's an old Spanish custom. Everyone comes out, lovers exchange secret glances, and the young men and women like to display their finest clothes.” He looked at me consideringly as he added in a lower voice, “I would like to see you wear a high comb and a white mantilla over your dark hair, like the Spanish women. And after our promenade, we'll have a champagne supper in the private dining room. I'll be the envy of every man who sees you.”

I looked at him in some surprise, unused to such flowery speeches from him. “You're becoming as gallant as a Spaniard yourself.”

“Why not? I am only just becoming used to the fact that you're mine, and that I have the right, at last, to tell you all the things I've had to hold back for so long. You're everything I've ever looked for or wanted in a woman, Rowena.”

But in spite of the ardent note in his voice, that uneasy feeling crept over me again, and it was all I could do to force a smile. I was being ridiculous, I told myself. Mark was my husband. Why shouldn't he give me that long, slow look, as if he was undressing me with his eyes? He had that right too, and I had given it to him.

Mark left me to take a siesta while he made arrangements for the stabling of our coach and horses and accommodations for our escort. He had insisted on unhooking the back of my gown himself, and I could still feel the warmth of his kiss on the back of my neck.

“I don't think I shall ever permit you to hire a lady's maid,” he had teased. “I enjoy dressing and undressing you far too much to let anyone else usurp my privileges.”

To please him, I had slipped on a flimsy wrapper while he pulled the heavy, fringed drapes together to shut out the sunlight. He had even turned back the covers on the large bed for me, and fluffed up the pillows. How solicitous of me he was, and I should really sleep, if only to please him. This was what I told myself, but the moment he left the room I found myself far too restless and hot to stay in bed.

I did not like the opulence of this room, with its turkey-red carpet and gilt-framed mirrors. The crimson and gold wallpaper made me feel as if the walls were closing in on me. The room was too dark, too gloomy; even the enormous four-poster bed with its heavily embroidered brocade bedspread and red-tasseled canopy made me feel stifled.

I felt the perspiration beading on my body and the slight, nauseous feeling that I had learned to dread seemed to curl like a fist in the pit of my stomach. I told myself I was being fanciful. If I didn't look out I would end up a hypochondriac, like my mother. All I needed was some fresh air.

And so I made excuses to myself, swinging my bare legs off the edge of the bed and feeling the soft plush of the carpet under my feet as I went to the window, which was closed. I had a slight struggle opening it, wondering crossly as I did so, if people in this town were all afraid of fresh air. But with that much achieved I stood there for a while, studying the people on the street. I thought I recognized Mark, standing hatless, his fair hair burnished by the sun as he talked with a group of men. One of them, a portly gentleman wearing a dark suit and stovepipe hat, shook Mark's hand as he clapped him heartily on the back.

Another acquaintance? I frowned slightly. Strange that I should have had no idea before that Mark knew so many people. He had never spoken to me of his friends in the territory; only of people he knew in Boston and New York. A misfit, he had called himself, and yet he seemed perfectly at ease down there. I saw him throw back his head and laugh at something the older man had said—a mannerism that reminded me strangely of Todd, and which I had never observed in Mark before. He had always seemed so restrained, so reserved. But ever since we had been married I had noticed an air of self-assurance, even of firmness about him that had seemed lacking.

And now, I scolded myself, I was being fanciful again. I had only known Mark in the shadow of his uncle. And now he was free—we both were. Perhaps I was only just discovering the real Mark, the promising young attorney who was so highly spoken of in Boston, the gay young man-about-town who had all the eligible young females there setting their caps at him. I was lucky, I repeated that to myself as I saw Mark and the portly man detach themselves from the others and walk down the street together, talking earnestly. They went into a building that adjoined the town marshal's office, with a boldly painted sign that proclaimed it to be the Bank of Socorro. And why shouldn't Mark visit the bank? No doubt he needed money to take care of all our expenses and pay the wages of the men who had escorted us here.

And then I forgot Mark, for my eyes were drawn with morbid curiosity to the white-painted structure on the other side of the marshal's office, with a covered walkway connecting the two. The courthouse. I remembered the story I had heard so long ago, when none of the protagonists were familiar to me. Had my father occupied a room in this very hotel while he waited for Lucas to come to trial? And Lucas himself… what had he been like then? I imagined him standing at the window of his cell, staring out at the mountains which had been his home. Perhaps he had wondered if he would ever see them again… And then I thought, oh, God, must everything I see remind me of Lucas? When would I come to accept that
that
part of my life was finished and done with?

But in spite of everything I could tell myself, it was difficult
not
to remember, especially when Mark himself brought the subject up.

As he had promised, we went walking in the plaza that evening. It was getting dark, the mountains a dark purple, like enormous shadows splashed against the fading blue and crimson sky. Mark named these ranges for me, the names Spanish and musical. “Magdalena, Galinas, Los Piños…” He had surprised me with gifts when he returned to our rooms. A ruby and diamond-studded comb for my hair, a white mantilla made of the sheerest lace to wear over it, and even a white silk shawl to put around my shoulders. He had insisted upon choosing the gown I would wear—a burgundy red silk with deep blue and green threads woven into the material, giving a shot effect when it caught the light. I had never worn this particular gown before, thinking it a trifle too flashy for my taste, and cut too low in front, but Mark liked it. It made me look Spanish, he said, and I had given in to his wishes with a shrug.

Mark was very attentive to me, keeping his arm around my waist and whispering to me that every man on the street envied him, and all the other women paled to insignificance beside me. I wished that he had not fallen into the habit of flattering me so excessively; it had begun to embarrass me. I was almost glad of the crowds that surrounded us and the bustle of activity on the street.

The lamps had been lit everywhere, cowboys dressed in their Sunday best with slicked down hair rode into town whistling and whooping. And in the plaza where, following the Spanish custom, people paraded slowly around and around from one end to the other, a mariachi band played lively music.

We received many curious glances, Mark and I; perhaps because of the contrast we formed—I with my black hair and he so blond.

“You see, my love? You're so beautiful that no one can help staring at you.”

“I don't enjoy being stared at.” I retorted more sharply than I had intended. “Mark, can't we sit down for a while? All this walking round and round is making me feel quite dizzy.”

Somehow he managed to find a stone bench under some trees, apologizing for his thoughtlessness. We sat there in silence for a while, alone and yet not alone. Anyone who noticed us would have taken us for lovers, choosing this quiet corner to whisper to each other,

Mark's arm had been around my waist, now he moved, drawing me closer to him. I felt his hand slide up my back under the shawl I wore; and then his fingers, moving lightly over my skin, were caressing my shoulder and the curve of my breast. I could not help stiffening. I turned my head, and he was watching me intently, a slight smile curving his lips. I repeated the thought that was on my mind aloud.

“Sometimes I feel as if I do not really know you, Mark.”

“And I feel as if I have always known you. But not enough. All human beings are strangers to each other, I think. Marriage can be a dull affair of a contract between two persons, or a voyage of discovery—shall we spend the next few days discovering each other, my darling wife?”

I could not help widening my eyes. “I've never heard you speak that way before. I think you are quite a complex person, Mark.”

“Does that frighten you or intrigue you? My dearest Rowena, if you only knew how puzzled you look!” His tone became almost teasing. “At least I've managed to take that lost and distant look from your face and to make you see me as a man. My poor girl, has it really been so bad? Is forgetting him so hard to do?”

I caught my breath, but I did not pretend not to know what he meant. “Has it been so obvious? I've tried…”

“Perhaps you try too hard. Sooner or later, you will see Lucas Cord for what he is—a conscienceless, predatory killer, not far removed from the level of a beast. And then you will stop romanticizing what happened to you, and go back to being your true self.”

“Mark,” I began, “I don't—”

“You must not stop thinking of me as your friend, just because we are now husband and wife,” he said gently. “And that is all the more reason why we should be completely frank with each other. It does not pain me to hear you speak of him, Rowena, because you see, I have you; he does not. And the day will come when you will make your own choice, of your own accord, and turn your back on the past forever.”

An impassioned speech, but a slightly puzzling one, unless Mark meant that he was wooing me with gentleness, where Lucas had taken me by force. What would he think if he knew the truth? Dare I tell it to him? I might have been tempted to make a clean breast of everything, including the last visit Lucas had paid me, if Mark had not kissed me at that moment, his arms holding me possessively. And this time his kisses held a passion and ardency he had not shown me before as he forced my lips apart with his.

I felt myself thrown off balance, a feeling I did not altogether enjoy. And I found myself wondering, as we walked slowly back to the hotel, what other surprises Mark might have in store for me this evening.

There were none, at first. Mark had reserved a table for us in the corner of one of the smaller dining rooms, where we could eat in privacy. The food was tolerable, and the champagne was iced. Under Mark's amused eyes, I drank far too much of it. Perhaps I was preparing myself for the test of the night that lay ahead of us—Mark had made no mention of his joining his friends later.

He
drank more champagne than I did, and I noticed that his face became slightly flushed, but he made no attempts to draw me into an intimate conversation again, limiting his remarks to the kind of thing we used to talk about before. Books and music and the theater, some of his experiences in the law courts.

And then… “The law has always fascinated me; I suppose it comes from being born into a family of lawyers.” He spoke casually, twirling the stem of his glass between his fingers. “Even when I was not directly involved, I would make a point of visiting the courts whenever I could, particularly when a case that was exceptionally interesting or controversial was being heard. The territorial courts fascinate me; the atmosphere here is so much less formal than it is in the more civilized parts of the country. As a matter of fact,” he went on in the same casual tone, “I traveled up here to Socorro with my uncle for Luke Cord's trial, but more to hear Jim Jennings, the attorney from San Francisco your father retained, than from morbid curiosity.” He looked up at me. “You've heard about it?”

“Mr. Bragg told me the whole story before I ever came here,” I said through stiff lips. “He—his descriptions were very vivid.”

“Cord was guilty, of course. He should have been hanged in the interests of justice—it would have saved so much trouble and unhappiness if he had! Did he tell you he was innocent? My poor Rowena!” My expression must have given me away, for Mark shook his head slightly. “I talked to Flo afterwards, at your father's urging. He imagined—well, the poor girl had always been a flirt—you saw how she was. He thought that perhaps it was her fear of my uncle that made her cry rape. But she swore to me that that was what actually happened, and if you could have seen the state she was in, with her clothes ripped and bruises on her body, you would have had no choice but to believe her too.”