Devil's Darling

by Violet Winspear

  They turned from the sea and walked to the steps that led up to the plage, and Persepha had the conviction that somewhere along the beach Gil Howard was watching their departure. It may have been this that made her careless, for as she mounted the steps the heel of one of her shoes caught in a crack and she stumbled, catching at the Don for support. Instantly his hard arm swept around her.

  ‘Be careful, querida! I shouldn’t want you to fall and hurt yourself.’

  No, she thought resentfully. I have to be kept in one piece in order to produce the hidalgo’s heir!

  ‘I’m all right.’ She jerked free of his arm and hurried to the car, where on the drive home she sat alone in the back, shrouded in a sense of gloom, intensified as the night deepened and fell. The lanterns were alight in the courtyard when they drove in through the gates of the hacienda, and Persepha quickly opened the car door and made her way into the house ahead of her husband. She wanted to be alone with her forlorn thoughts ... it hurt a lot more than she cared to admit that there was no one who loved her just for herself.

  Marcus had cared for her because she resembled his beloved Daisy, whose portrait now hung in Persepha’s bedroom. The Don exulted only in her virtue and her fair looks ... those were his requirements for the mother of his son. She mustn’t damage either of them, and as she rushed upstairs to her room she thought of Gil Howard swimming all alone, and she recklessly hoped that she would see him again, when the Don wasn’t around to make friendship seem like a clandestine affair.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WHEN Don Diablo told her that he had to go away for about a week, Persepha could hardly contain or hide the relief that she felt, and the sense of being given a holiday from his ever watchful eyes.

  ‘I can see that you’re pleased that business calls me away,’ he said dryly. He then told her that he was flying to the Argentine where he was to negotiate a beef-breed-ing deal with one of his all-powerful fellow Dons. ‘You could come with me,’ he added. ‘If you wish. I am also buying a stallion and some mares, one of which will be your very own riding horse, so you could make your own choice.’

  For a brief moment she felt tempted by the prospect of the journey, but even more ardently she wanted to be free of his sway for a while, and to perhaps augment her friendship with Gil Howard.

  ‘While you’re away, señor, may I have the use of your car?’ she asked. ‘Juan Feliz can drive me into town to see the shops, for it does make a break from being in the heart of the country. Please?’

  He quirked an eyebrow at the softening of her voice. ‘You are being very persuasive, chica, and therefore you make me wonder if I would be wise to leave you alone for a week.’

  ‘Alone?’ Her heart drummed a warning that she tread carefully if she was to win her reprieve or she’d be snatched back again into his possessive arms. ‘I’m sure Juan Feliz would be given your strict orders not to let me stray.’

  ‘True,’ he drawled. ‘I never asked, but you don’t drive yourself, do you, Persepha?’

  He looked at her with narrowed eyes, searching her face which she schooled into a bland mask. Though she had never acquired her driving licence, she had taken lessons from Marcus, who had had a way of teaching her the odd accomplishment, the skill with cards being the only thing he had not taught her in his fond and faintly cynical fashion. With his Regency soul he had believed that women should be decorative, quite good at one or two things, but never so accomplished that they lost what he had called their essential appeal as women.

  In all truth she had never driven her guardian’s car on her own, but she had driven it with Marcus beside her at the wheel.

  ‘Marcus was hardly the sort of man to allow his superb Rolls to be used by a woman,’ she said, and hoped that her voice was convincingly casual. ‘Now and again he promised me a car of my own, but it never came to that - as you once told me, señor, destiny weaves the pattern of our lives and it wasn’t to be that my guardian should give me my own means of transport when I had my next birthday. The poor darling—’

  She broke off, biting her lip, and hoped that mention of Marcus had detracted the Don from pursuance of whether or not she could drive. His frown flickered and he rose to his feet, his teeth clenched around his cigar. ‘I have some letters to write.’ He spoke abruptly and strode to the door of the salita, pausing there to look at her. ‘Very well, remain here at the hacienda if it will suit you better - perhaps you wouldn’t care to pretend in front of my friends that you are a radiantly happy bride. I shall give Juan Feliz instructions to drive you into town whenever you wish, but no hanky-panky, querida. Do you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, señor,’ she said demurely, but she didn’t entirely relax until the door had closed behind his tall figure, clad in one of those dark velvet smoking-jackets which he sometimes wore in the evenings. As silence prevailed in the salita and all that lingered was his cigar smoke and the echo of his words, Persepha sank back against the tapestry of the sofa and folded her arms around a cushion, as if to shield herself from his possible fury when he discovered that she had lied to him.

  He could be so utterly a devil when she, or anyone else, really angered him, but she knew that while he was absent from home she wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation to take the car when the chauffeur’s back was turned. He wouldn’t punish Juan Feliz for something that she did - he wasn’t that unjust, for his driver had a family of small children whom the Don found amusing in his spare moments.

  If she could snatch a little freedom for herself, then the punishment that followed would be bearable. It was the feeling he gave her of always being watchful that made her need this freedom from him. She needed to talk with bantering ease to Gil Howard again, and not be on edge all the time as she was with her husband.

  Husband ... it was a word that should mean companionship, security, and a warmth beyond the passion of the body. Don Diablo owned her, but when he flew off to the Argentine she would be her own mistress for seven heavenly days. She smiled at the prospect and couldn’t wait for the day of his departure to come.

  The Don left abruptly one morning, striding into her bedroom to wish her adios.

  He leaned over her as she lay against the pillows, her hair shining against the lilac silk, and his arms imprisoned her slim figure beneath the silk sheets. -

  ‘Dare I hope that you might miss me?’ he murmured, looking deep into her drowsy hazel eyes, as vital and spruce himself as if he had not spent half the night working with some of his men to save a foal that had blundered down a crevice. Persepha had been there as well, and she had wept after they had released the young horse and it had limped off to join its mother. She tried not to think of those tears as she gazed back at the Don, tiny nerves tightening like little bowstrings in her body as he trailed his fingers down the side of her neck.

  ‘Por deus, but you’re beautiful,’ he said, the words rough and low in his throat. ‘You can’t know what you look like as you lie there, with your eyes the colour of dark honey as your pupils fill them up. I could break you in my hands, queridisima, and I shall if you ever betray me and give even a glance to another man. You are mine, my little iceberg, and I don’t want to leave you here alone. Come with me! Put on a dress and fly with me to the Argentine. You will like it, I know.’

  ‘No—’ She turned away, pressing her face into the pillow, and unwittingly pressing his hand to her heart. ‘Give me time - a little more time before I meet your friends. I - I can’t pretend to be radiantly in love with you - you said so yourself.’

  A tense silence followed her outburst, and then he forced her to face him, turning her over and holding her with hands that were no longer caressive.

  ‘Then at least kiss me good-bye - and kiss me properly!’

  ‘Very well,’ she lay passive as his lips came down on her, and then as if her cool compliance woke the devil in him, his kiss became cruel, demanding, leaving her mouth feeling bruised. His eyes raked over her, as if he memorized every detail of her person before leaving her
. His fingers took hold of a strand of her hair and as he drew it across his lips, she had a vision of him last night, forcing that foal to obedience, and safety. His lips came to bury themselves in the soft bareness of her shoulder and she clenched a handful of the silk sheet and strove for an icy stillness in his arms.

  He let go of her and rose from the bedside, straightening the dark maroon tie that he wore with a lighter hue of maroon shirt, contrasting with the pearl-grey of his suit. He thrust a hand over his black hair, and his lips thinned into a stem line.

  ‘We say adios but not good-bye, Persepha, no matter how much you want it. Wish me a safe flight, at least.’ Flight... the word seemed to fork through her. If only she might find a way to fly out of his reach when he was all those miles away.

  ‘Are you wishing, instead, that the plane will crash?’ he drawled, and before she could speak, even protest, he swung on his heel and strode to the door. ‘There is an old saying, querida, that the devil looks after his own, so I shouldn’t be too hopeful of being a fair young widow.’ With these words he was gone, and Persepha lay staring at the closed door, still seeing him in all his vital darkness, still hearing him as he spoke those sardonic words. All at once a shudder ran all through her and she flung back the bedcovers and ran to the door. She couldn’t let him go believing a thing so cruel, not after last night, when she had seen the sweat plaster his shirt to his back as he fought to save a young animal from pain and fear. Whatever his attitude with regard to her, he had a strange compassion that she couldn’t ignore.

  ‘Señor—’ But the gallery was empty and her cry echoed in the stillness, broken as a car started in the drive and sped off under the hacienda gateway, leaving her as she had wished, her own mistress.

  She glanced around her bedroom and for the first time in weeks it was unoccupied by his presence at breakfast, and it had a curious emptiness that troubled her as she walked into the bathroom and stared at herself in the huge wall-mirror. Because of the slim, fair-haired figure that she saw reflected in the mirror she was here at the Hacienda Ruy, coerced into a loveless marriage through the sheer necessity of needing a home. That was what he liked, the Don her husband. That slenderness, that slim and youthful grace. Had she not pleased his dark eyes, then he would have left Stonehill without a backward glance, and when she stepped under the shower Persepha turned the shower nozzle so hard that the water pounded against her body, as if to wash from her skin his lingering touch. She didn’t want to feel anything ... she wanted to be ice and marble where the Don was concerned.

  She was in her bedroom and about to slip into her clothes when the door opened, as usual without a preliminary knock, and gave entrance to Carmenteira. The old woman carried a vase of white camellias for the white cane table that stood between the long windows, but Persepha knew that the flowers were just an excuse, a means by which the inquisitive old person gained access to the privacy of Persepha’s bedroom, for the Don did not insist that his wife have a maid to wait on her. He allowed her to be reserved with everyone but himself.

  ‘You are going to be lonely for a while, señora.’ Carmenteira chuckled to herself as she fiddled with the flowers, sniffing at them and rearranging them with her stiff old fingers. ‘But knowing the patrón as I do he would have left you with memories to last two weeks, let alone one. I would have thought that you’d have gone with him on his journey . . . are you not afraid, señora, that in South America he will see a lovely Latin girl and find solace for his loneliness in her arms? Men will be men, when all is said and done, and the Don Diablo is much of a man, eh?’

  Persepha gave the old woman a look of hauteur, for she thoroughly disliked these insinuating conversations, and the sly glances which were cast in the direction of the big bed with its rumpled pillows.

  ‘It makes a break for a husband and wife to be apart now and again,’ she said, and she had to suffer the scrutiny of this woman who had been so long at the hacienda that she was no longer treated as a servant but as almost a member of the family. The deep-set eyes stared at the garment which Persepha had just put on, a pair of cabin-boy breeches laced below the knee, in cat-green corduroy. She sniffed as Persepha put on a white cuffed shirt with the breeches.

  ‘Boy’s clothes,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter with you, señora? Don’t you like being a woman and need to wear those things in order to give yourself confidence? The Latin woman is born confident, for she knows her destiny from the cradle, and that is to be the centre and the joy of a man’s life. But you - you rebel against your destiny.’

  ‘My destiny?’ Persepha looked scornful. ‘I’d never have seen this place if it hadn’t been for my father, and he left my mother even before I was born! I think that love means different things to men and women. I see only sacrifice in it for women; it’s men who get out of it exactly what they want. Well, no man, not even your señor hidalgo, is going to make a slavish fool out of me, seeing only gloom when he isn’t around, and basking like a cat in the sun whenever he shows his face. I’m my own person!’

  ‘You are a little fool,’ Carmenteira said. ‘If you think that, then you don’t deserve the honour of being mistress of this magnificent hacienda, which puts into the shade most other residences in Mexico. You are a shallow and ungrateful young woman, and the Don will realize his folly in marrying the likes of you, once he gets over his admiration for that silky white skin of yours and those honey-coloured eyes, not to mention the white-gold hair. You’ve taken his eye, my lady, but you haven’t taken his heart, have you?’

  ‘How dare you be so insolent!’ Persepha could actually feel herself trembling at her resentment of her life here, among people who neither understood her nor gave her any sympathy. Tears rose up in her throat and threatened to turn her into a weeping fool in front of this mocking old woman.

  ‘Get out!’ Her voice was thick, her eyes blurred, as she flung out a hand towards the door. ‘Go on, get out of my room and stay out of it! I - I’ve just about had enough of your insinuations - you think everyone’s afraid of you because they take you for a witch who can cast spells. I only take you for what you are, a grubby old woman with nothing better to do with your time than to make mischief with it, and you just couldn’t wait for the Don to turn his back before you came in here with your nasty remarks. I know you resent me, you and the rest of the household - know you compare me to the mistress you might have had - well, she’s dead and I’m alive, and I’m not going to tolerate any more the way you come in here without even the decency of knocking on the door. I’m English and we like a bit of privacy, do you hear me? You’ll stay out of my room from now on and you’ll keep your opinions to yourself - for as you pointed out, Car-menteira, I am the mistress of the Hacienda Ruy, and as such I don’t have to take rudeness from you or any other member of the staff. Is that understood?’

  All through this outburst Carmenteira had looked at Persepha with eyes that gleamed like pieces of jet buried in parchment, but curiously enough the look was not vindictive.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘the Inglesa has some fire in her after all, and she is not entirely the milk-and-honey creature that she looks. All the same, señora, would you deprive a poor old creature who has worked hard for this family of the privilege of speaking her mind? Are you afraid of the truth when you hear it?’

  ‘Not afraid,’ Persepha walked to the door and held it open, ‘just human enough to resent comparison to the Latin paragon you might have had here in my place. No doubt she would have welcomed you in her bedroom, and you could have shared all sorts of secrets and all sorts of hopes regarding the future sons and daughters of the house. I’m sorry I can’t oblige on that score, but I am English and nothing on earth is ever going to change me into a Latin woman - even your incantations!’

  Carmenteira came to the door and stood there looking at Persepha, whose eyes were sparkling both with temper and tears. ‘It’s very true,’ she said. ‘You will never be like a Spanish woman, for you will never want to give the Don a generous parcel of child
ren. Be that as it may, he will want a son of you for his trouble in going to England to get you. As you say he learned of you from the peddler of pots and pans who came to stay here—’

  ‘My father.’ Persepha said it with a quiet dignity. ‘Tell me before you go, is he buried on the estate? I’ve wondered about that, and all at once I feel like putting flowers on his grave. I never knew him, but he loved my mother in his own fashion, I understand.’

  ‘There is a burial ground at the back of the chapel,’ said Carmenteira. ‘There I shall go when my time comes, for even you, señora, would not credit how old I am. I knew the hidalgo's grandmother as a girl, and I held her hand when she passed from this life. But you won’t hold mine, will you?’

  At these rather pathetic words Persepha bit her lip, for she wasn’t a hard person and it gave her no pleasure to quarrel with people. ‘I am sure you’ll live to be a hundred,’ she said. ‘Tell me, has the hidalgo no brothers or sisters? He never mentions them if they exist.’

  ‘He had a young brother, señora, who died of polio some years ago. A fine young man named Alvarado, some years younger than the Don himself.’

  At this surprising piece of information Persepha caught her breath and thought of what the Don had said about being instrumental in cleaning up the beach where they had gone only last week. He had said that polio had struck the region a few years ago, and it came as a shock to learn that he had lost his brother to that dread disease.

  ‘What a shame,’ she murmured. ‘He has never mentioned that he once had a brother.’

  ‘Perhaps the señora has never thought to ask him about those who have been close to him.’ Carmenteira made her way out of the room, looking exactly like an old bruja in her long black dress, her skimpy hair black-netted, and around her neck an assortment of coins and charms. ‘Take warning and appeal to the human side of him, young woman, or he may become the devil you take him for. In the men of Ezreldo Ruy there runs a streak of cruelty inherited from the past, but clever women know how to turn cruelty into kindness—’