Lord of the Land

by Margaret Rome

  'No, Sabelita!' In spite of the weakness of her voice Frances managed to project a note of authority. 'You must tell no one—not yet.'

  'But El Conde will insist upon spreading the news!'

  'Not even he must know,' Frances shocked the old servant, who considered that every husband had a right to be told immediately his wife became aware that she was expecting his child—and especially El Conde!

  Frances' heart sank when Sabelita's mouth tightened mutinously. She braced to combat arguments she knew were justified, knowing that she could supply no satisfactory explanation for a decision that even she found puzzling. The reason Rom had asked her to become his wife had been made cruelly explicit. He needed an heir, but had no wish to become emotionally involved with the mother of his child. He was a man who could love only one woman in his lifetime—a man who, because he had once handed his heart into the keeping of a girl who had proved fickle, had decided for the rest of his life to remain heartless…

  To her utter dismay she felt tears spurting into her eyes. Rapidly she blinked, then turned aside hoping to hide her misery, but realised when she heard a hissed-in breath that the wise old woman had seen and interpreted her tears correctly.

  'You think that your man does not want you, that he is in love with another,' she claimed softly. 'That must not be. Trust me, child. As the young Isabella once proved, there are spells potent enough to draw down the moon; love philtres with the magic to make a man besotted.'

  Frances' bowed head jerked erect. 'No, Sabelita! You must not attempt to mix any of your weird concoctions into El Conde's drinks—I absolutely forbid it.'

  'Very well, Bori Rani.' Somehow, Sabelita's deferential response did not ring true, her expression was too bland, her eyes bright with wicked cunning, especially when she reminded, 'Have you forgotten that today is the day you have agreed to accompany Seňorita Peralta and her guests to the corrida that is staged annually by their local villagers? The bullfight afternoon is regarded as a very special occasion; everyone dresses up. Usually, six bulls are killed, every one of them hand-picked from the herd belonging to the Marques de Quesada, Seňorita Peralta's father. Each bull is killed according to the time-honoured ritual known as the lidia. Each lidia takes about twenty minutes and three matadors kill two bulls each during their own separate lidias. First, three bulls are killed, then after a short intermission, the matadors dispose of the remaining three.'

  If her aim had been to take Frances' mind off their previous discussion she could not have chosen a subject more likely to succeed. With a groan of disgust, Frances swung round and disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

  But little more than an hour later, after a refreshing shower and a leisurely period of relaxation, the absence of nausea helped to revive her spirits, even to the extent of making her wish that she had something colourful and exotic to wear. As yet, the proud Conde did not appear to have noticed the glaring discrepancies in his wife's wardrobe. Frances sighed, reaching for the plain white dress that had seen so much service, but which would have to be worn yet again.

  She was standing in front of a mirror, wearing the thin silk slip that doubled as a lining for her dress, critically eyeing a neckline and shoulders gleaming pale as magnolia blossoms that hid behind large glossy leaves from harsh rays of sunlight, when a knock upon the door jerked from her lips the startled response, 'Adelante!'

  Expecting to see Sabelita or one of the young maids, she swung round, then stared, the smile of greeting freezing on her lips.

  'Sabelita has hunted out these dresses.' Rom strode past to dump an armful of brilliant satins and shimmering silks upon her bed. 'I owe you an -apology, cara, it should not have been necessary for a servant to have to point out to me my wife's needs. Soon,' he promised, 'we will fly to Cordova—or better still, Seville, which is the city Maria appears to favour whenever she feels an urge to go shopping. I must admit that Sabelita's pointed references to your lack of suitable clothes surprised me.' He frowned down at her, apparently unaware of her shivering embarrassment. 'You have never seemed to be particularly concerned about your appearance.'

  Perhaps it was his betrayal of a close knowledge of Maria's movements that caused her hackles to rise, or maybe what some might have termed her 'delicate condition' was responsible for an unmistakable note of petulance that caused his black winged eyebrows to soar.

  'Even the best-dressed show falls flat without an interested audience,' she snapped. 'However, as you appear to move in the sort of circles that judge a woman's worth by the price tag on her dress, I suppose I'd better choose something to wear from these ancient cast-offs!'

  She knew it was wrong of her to cast a look of disparagement at the costly, beautifully hand-sewn dresses that had been slid out of the fine cambric covers into which they had been stitched before being stored in chests redolent of lavender and sandalwood.

  'All Spanish girls wear the full, flounced gowns of old Spain for the feria? Rom quietly shamed her by saying. 'Even the men are not above entering into the spirit of things by wearing Cordoba hats, tight jackets and leather chaparajos if they intend riding on horseback.'

  He sounded determined to be kind, to curb the whip-sharp sting of impatience that never failed to cast a shadow across the face of his young bride.

  'What's wrong, Frances?' he urged softly, then checked his movement towards her, obviously puzzled by her shrinking retreat, slightly bitter mouth, and eyes clouded dark with pain. 'If you are not feeling up to it, we could cancel our visit to the ranch.'

  'And what would Maria say to that?' Displaying the temperament of a Spanish condesa, she flounced across to the window and stood with her back turned, willing her trembling to cease, wondering why, instead of revelling in his unusual show of tenderness, she should feel compelled to be contrary.

  Angrily he confirmed her suspicion that it had been foolish of her to remind him of the girl whose rejection had scarred him to such an extent that he had married a nobody just to get even.

  'What man would be idiot enough to claim insight into the workings of the devious female mind? Certainly not I,' he glowered, savagely abandoning all pretence of patience. 'Woman is like your shadow. Follow her and she flies. Fly from her and she follows!'

  She turned on him with sparkling eyes, fiercely glad to have aroused any emotion stronger than the gratitude which she now knew could never be enough.

  'Maria and yourself are so ideally suited,' she flared, 'I can't understand why you decided to marry me!'

  'Perhaps I was influenced by the ancient gypsy adage that advises: "In buying horses and in taking a wife, shut your eyes and trust in God",' he responded wrathfully. 'Sadly, my trust appears to have been misplaced!'

  Her wince of pain did nothing to improve his temper. Grim-faced, he strode across to a chair, sat down, and flicked his fingers in the direction of the dresses piled upon the bed.

  'Time is running short. Make a choice, if you please. I'll wait here to deliver my verdict.'

  'There's no need,' she blushed miserably. 'With Sabelita's help I'm sure to find something suitable.'

  'As Sabelita's taste runs to vulgar colour schemes, and your own is an unknown entity, I wish to approve your appearance before presenting you to friends eager to meet my new bride. Wear anything but white—the colour of innocence is no longer appropriate,' he reminded her cruelly. 'Try pink, to match the shamed colour that is seldom absent from your cheeks. Or blue, because it does something extraordinary to your eyes. As you may have noticed while studying portraits of previous Condesas hung around the Palacio walls, my lusty ancestors showed a definite preference for wives who were physically well endowed—passionate, flirtatious-looking coquettes who knew how to excite their husbands' interest with a daring show of cleavage. You might do well to follow the example of your predecessors, Frances,' he mocked her fiery cheeks and downcast lashes. 'I doubt if any one of them was ever indifferent to her husband's advances, ever allowed her thoughts to linger in the kitche
n when her services were required in the bedroom.'

  Frances turned aside, deciding to ignore the hardbitten challenge that she did not understand but which she sensed was meant to be hurtful. With a heavy heart and only desultory interest, she began rifling through dresses that had been worn long ago by women in love eager to give pleasure to men who loved them.

  Satin, grey and soothing as a marble-floored mosque dappled with colours tossed' by sunshine through a stained glass window. Silk, shimmering and scented as lamps holding aromatic oils. Lace, black and scrolled as grilles spread around balconies and in front of windows secreted within courtyards where blossoms splashed painfully vivid against stark white walls.

  The fragrance of orange blossom seemed to drift beneath her nostrils when she lifted from the pile a puff-sleeved, full-skirted dress of unsophisticated design, printed with sprigs of green, and rosemary petals massed into misty-blue posies strewn against a crisp white cotton background.

  'I like this one!'

  She swung round holding the dress in front of her, ready to defend her choice, knowing that its simple, unpretentious lines exactly suited her personality.

  'Somehow, I suspected that you might.'

  To her relief, Rom no longer sounded angry, just mildly resigned.

  'Very well,' he nodded, rising from his chair, 'put it on while I go and change. But be quick, enough time has been wasted. I shall expect you to be ready when I return in about ten minutes' time.'

  He had opened the door and was about to step across the threshold when Sabelita appeared outside in the passageway carrying a tray containing glasses and a tall frosted jug of limonada.

  'Before you leave, you must try some of this, Rom Boro,' she insisted firmly. 'I've made it specially for you!'

  Hastily, she set the tray down upon a nearby table and poured out a small glassful. He hesitated, then obviously deciding that it would be quicker to drink than to argue, he accepted the drink with a shrug.

  He had raised the glass almost to his lips when Frances happened to glance Sabelita's way and realised with a sudden sense of shock that the obstinate old gypsy was gloating over the ease with which she had managed to persuade Rom to accept the drink—a drink that probably contained herb and plant juices that might inflict irreparable harm, might be poisonous, might even drive a man insane!

  'No, Rom—don't!'

  Surprised by her anguished cry, he hesitated, glancing from her shocked face to Sabelita's uneasy expression. Then to her horror she saw an inscrutable smile appear on his lips before he tossed back his head and deliberately drained the glass dry.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Rom piloted the helicopter to the ranch of the Marques de Quesada and immediately the craft touched down on a landing pad situated inside the cattle baron's estate they saw a car approaching swiftly from the direction of an adjacent hacienda. The servant who alighted had obviously been instructed to tender profuse apologies.

  'Many pardons, Seňor Conde—Seňora Condesa—for the absence of your host. As the Marques was eager to extend a personal welcome, he delayed his departure for as long as good manners permitted. However, the corrida cannot begin before his arrival, so he felt bound to leave for the bullring where his presence was required for the official opening. The crowd was growing impatient,' he explained to Frances. 'To the Andalusian, the corrida is not regarded merely as entertainment but is a fever in the blood. All the best matadors come from Andalusia,' he boasted proudly. 'A knowledgeable spectator can, at a glance, tell an Andaluz from any other bullfighter by his sensuous grace, his proud demeanour, his grave unflinching way of staring death in the face!'

  As if sensing her shudder of repugnance, Rom stemmed the servant's eulogy with the curt request, 'There is no need to apologise, the fault is ours for arriving late. If you would be good enough to drive us,' he stared pointedly towards the car, 'the Condesa and I would like to join our host without further delay.'

  As they were being driven at breakneck speed past the deserted hacienda and along roads ribboning the Marques's estate, Rom mused ruefully, 'In a way, it is a pity that your first impression of the bullfight will lack all the splendour and pageant attached to the major stadiums where, high up in the stands opposite the bullfighters' entrance, the President of the Corrida sits flanked by officials and thousands of excited fans, signalling the beginning or the end of each act by waving a white handkerchief to watching trumpeters who then blast out his interpreted signals.'

  'Each act?' Frances queried, looking apprehensive as a child in her simple flower-sprigged dress. 'You speak as if we were about to attend an opera!'

  The smouldering intensity of his look raced a sweep of wild colour to her cheeks. From the moment he had spun on his heel to watch her rushing like a flustered maidservant into the presence of her master waiting impatiently in the hall, he had reverted once more to the attitude she found confusing—a mood of leashed-in tenderness which, had he been anyone other than the imperious Lord of the Land, might have been blamed upon uncertainty, upon the unwillingness of a clumsy-footed male to trespass upon ground more fragile than eggshells.

  Quickly, she turned her head aside in case her eyes should betray her secret, in case he should guess that simply because his blood had mingled with hers, because for one magical night he had made her feel that she was the only other person in the world, had held her spellbound, had made her feel powerfully, mysteriously, sensuously possessed; and because she could feel his child's heartbeat, feeble as a pulse, beating in time with her own, that she resented his gratitude and was suffering all the symptoms of a jealous, possessive wife!

  'The comparison is very apt.' In spite of her shrinking withdrawal his voice remained determinedly goodhumoured. 'The killing of a bull is a drama in three acts. The first act is the "trial" when the picadors on horseback demonstrate the mettle of the bull to the watching crowd. The second act, the "sentencing" is when the banderillos' darts intensify the bull's rage and then sober him up, changing from a beast who wants to kill everything in sight to one who becomes crafty as he realises that he is about to begin fighting for his life. The last act is the kill, during which the matador uses his cape to display his domination of the bull, making him do whatever he wants, whenever he wants, so that he charges at exactly the right moment to afford spectators the sight of a perfect kill.'

  Feeling a heaving in the pit of her stomach, Frances concentrated hard upon dispersing a squeamish urge to beg to be allowed to miss the gory spectacle, but even as a plea was trembling on her lips a loud roar of approval attracted her attention ahead towards what appeared to be an enclosure with bodies craning over every square inch of its wooden walls. At the farthest end its symmetry was broken by a raised dais that had a gaily striped awning protecting the heads of its seated occupants from glaring sunrays. As she stepped from the car she glimpsed a hot yellow circle of sand and a gate in the wooden wall opening inward. Suddenly the crowd became hushed, staring expectantly towards the black void into which no sunlight was penetrating.

  'Rom! At last, caro, you have arrived!'

  Maria, wearing a black lace mantilla and with a carnation the colour of her pouting, crimson lips tucked behind one ear, stepped down from the dais to greet them, groomed to the last eyelash, a riveting spectacle of old-world aristocratic finery.

  Flicking Frances a look that made her feel a dowdy, travel-stained, creased and crumpled mess of querulous, womanhood, Maria ushered them towards two seats that had been left vacant, attempting a swift introduction to the rest of her guests above the roar of a crowd noisily animated by the sight of a bull hurtling through the void into the sun-scorched arena.

  The clatter of his entry died as his hoofs bit the sand. The bewildered animal paused, dazzled by his sudden emergence from darkness, then spotting the flicker of a red cape over the wooden wall he trotted a few steps, lowered his haunches and began digging his hoofs deeper into the sand. Vaguely, Frances registered the touch of Rom's hand upon her arm while she stared wi
th a mixture of horror and fascination at the magnificent black animal that had begun running with his head slightly lowered, iron-hard muscles rippling as he dipped his horns to ram the infuriating cape. But at the crucial moment the cape was whipped back over the wooden fence and the bull, deprived of any sight of movement, veered away snorting , angrily, his stride lengthening as he sought a fresh source of aggravation.

  'He is a magnificent beast, is he not, Condesa!'

  Surprise distracted Frances's gaze away from the bullring in search of the owner of the feminine voice whose meaningful stresses had left her in no doubt that the subject of interest was not the tormented animal pawing the sand below. Her pulses leapt with panic when her dazed eyes met Maria's glittering stare. Unknown to herself, she and Rom had changed places, probably to make it easier for him to exchange conversation with the frail, elderly gentleman seated on his left whom she had heard introduced as the Marques de Quesada. 'Like myself,' Maria continued to confirm her theory, 'Rom is the product of a hard, harsh land, of a people who have often felt the brush of disaster but who would fight to the death rather than suffer the humiliation of seeing their pride dragged in the dust!'

  Making no attempt to prevaricate, Frances bravely picked up the gauntlet Maria had flung.

  'I'm sorry if you have been made to feel humiliated, seňorita.' In spite of her low, shaken response she somehow managed to retain an air of quiet dignity. 'It is a pity, as you appear to regard Rom as your personal property, that you didn't marry him at the time when he was so much in love with you.'

  'Why do you speak in the past tense?' Maria's mocking self-assurance could not be doubted. In spite of brilliant sunshine, the atmosphere of festive excitement, depression descended upon Frances like a cloud. She did not have the weapons to fight this girl dressed like a beautiful Spanish queen, one buoyed by the knowledge that in the hearts of all her subjects—and of one especially—she reigned supreme.