The Velvet Touch

by Margery Hilton

  'Oh no!' Deftly he recaptured her, his slim, wiry fingers biting into the softness of her upper arms. 'They all say that—at first. So tell me, seňorita, is your friend scared? Does she truly send you to pay her forfeit?'

  'Forfeit! I'm paying no forfeit! Let me go—or I'll scream the beach down until—'

  'No one will hear, silly English miss!' With a triumphant laugh he dragged her close and tried to kiss her desperately evading mouth. Her struggles only made him redouble his efforts, and Laurel realised that though he was slimly built and only an inch or so superior in height to herself his strength was steely and his determination no less so. Her thin jacket was being twisted round, its material straining and adding to her plight, and real fear came into her eyes as Renaldo gave an adroit jerk that pinned her right arm behind her back.

  'Did you think you would cheat me?' he exclaimed hotly, fastening cruel fingers round her throat and forcing her to face him. 'Or perhaps you prefer to pretend at first!'

  He laughed again, then Laurel's head was forced back under the onslaught of his mouth, her cry of desperation stifled as pain shot through her pinioned arm. Then suddenly the constricting jacket gave way and Renaldo's exploring hand roamed greedily over her breasts.

  'No!' Laurel strained back frantically, kicking out wildly, and an oath escaped him.

  'You little vixen, you will regret this!' Remorselessly he forced her down to the sand, and Laurel sobbed aloud as she fought for freedom. Fear coursed through her with the realisation of her plight. The ring was forgotten; all that mattered was escape—before Renaldo went completely .berserk and raped her! There was a drumming in her ears, thudding above her gasping breaths and the writhing movements of Renaldo as he sought to pin her down on the shifting sand. With a desperate thrust she freed her arm and struck out wildly, and screamed an anguished: 'Help! Help!' at the highest pitch of her voice.

  The drumming stopped, there was a great shadow above, and then suddenly the dark shape and weight of Renaldo swung away and she saw the star-peppered sky above. There was a grunt and a cry, then a thud, and unbelievably she was free.

  She rolled over and saw the great shadow, and thought she must be in a nightmare, and then hands were supporting her shoulders. 'Seňorita, are you all right?'

  The sharp question came from a long way through her daze. It couldn't be! Not rescue, and not a huge stallion pawing the sand only inches from her head— a great coal black, glistening brute. She must be dreaming it all. But the strong hands drawing her up to a sitting position were real, as was the dark head bending over her, and the voice that seemed strangely familiar.

  She raised a hand to her brow, pushing back her disordered hair, and took a deep shuddering breath. The mists were clearing, and she was dimly aware of the other form tumbled on the sand a little distance away. Even as she moved she saw the spreadeagled figure of Renaldo stir and slowly pick himself up, then back away. Laurel found her voice. 'Stop him—he's got my ring!' She made an effort to stand. After all she had gone through she wasn't going to let him escape with the cause of all the trouble. Her rescuer took two strides away and shot out an arresting arm, while Laurel's legs buckled under her and she sank back on to the sand.

  'What is this?' the tall stranger demanded. 'Have you robbed the seňorita as well as attacking her?'

  She heard Renaldo mumble something, and then a torrent of Spanish was exchanged. Moments later the stranger turned back, holding out an open palm, and the slim figure of Renaldo began to slink away into the darkness under the lee of the cliff.

  'Is this your property?'

  Laurel looked numbly at the ring lying on his outstretched palm and nodded, making no attempt to take it. 'At least, it belongs to my friend.'

  'Perhaps you had better explain—and assure me that you are indeed unmolested.'

  She knew now the identity of her rescuer—if not his name—and shame was covering her in a hot tide. 'I'm all right, thank you—but if you hadn't come…' She tried to steady her voice, to stand up again, to straighten her dishevelled clothing, and found that none of her faculties would obey the dictates of her brain. Tears began to pour down her cheeks and her body to shake all over.

  The stranger stood for a moment, looking down at her from his great height, then abruptly he stooped, and before she could protest he scooped her up into his arms as though she were a child.

  'You do not seem all right,' he observed coolly. 'Twice in one day—do you make a habit of this?'

  She shook her head, too spent to frame a coherent reply, and he turned to the black stallion, murmuring a soft command. Instantly its restive movements ceased. He said to Laurel, 'If I lift you so, can you mount and hold on until I do?'

  She murmured a shaky assent, and felt herself lifted high and swung across the saddle. The world tipped dizzily, she grabbed at the smooth glossy neck, and then her rescuer was astride behind her, a firm arm grasping her waist and tilting her back against him.

  'Relax and lean back,' instructed the deep voice, 'and draw up your knees a little—you will find the ride more comfortable.'

  'It—it's very kind of you, seňor,' she whispered as she obeyed, 'but you don't need to take me back. I could—'

  'Return on foot? I do not think you are in a fit state to do that. Now please do not talk,' he instructed.

  She felt the supreme power of the great black horse ripple beneath her as it moved off, and instinctively she braced herself against falling.

  'I said relax,' came the quiet command. 'I will not allow you to fall.'

  The terrifying gallop she had expected did not happen. As though it knew, or responded to its master's signal, the stallion moved smoothly along the beach at a sedate pace, yet seemingly unconscious of the double burden it carried. Gradually the trembling stilled in Laurel's body, and she began to relax in this strangely unexpected sense of security. It was not until a little while later that she realised they had passed the path from the beach which she should have taken to return through the village and hence to the guest house. She stirred wildly, and the hard arm round her waist tightened.

  'Curb that alarm, seňorita. I am taking you to my home—you are scarcely in a fit state to present yourself at the guest house.'

  'But I—'

  'Please allow me to know what is best for you. I am beginning to suspect you are incapable of knowing that for yourself. Surely you should not need my assurances that I and my household are perfectly civilised— you will come to far less harm than had I not happened on you tonight, while you were at the mercy of that insolent young pup.'

  'Yes, seňor, you are very kind, and I'm grateful. But it is after midnight.'

  'So what?'

  How did one answer that? Unwillingly Laurel subsided. There was much truth in what he said; had he not chanced to ride along the beach at that late hour the outcome to herself could have been shameful, if not tragic.

  The strange sense of security returned to lull her into an acquiescence where she ceased to wonder where they were going or why he had been riding on the beach at midnight, and the gentle rise and fall of motion gradually carried her into a dreamlike kind of trance. The moonlight glimmered on the eternal wash of the sea, and the dark island might have been uninhabited apart from herself and the silent man whose warm strength against her back had become so utterly disarming. What did it matter? What did anything matter, except that her frightening experience was already receding into the limbo of a nightmare now gone.

  The beach petered out a mile ahead, and under the lee of the headland a path wound steeply up the incline. The sandy scrub of the foreshore gave way to dense undergrowth and stunted trees, and then the path opened out into broad track. There was the scent of night blossoms unseen, and the secret stirrings of small nocturnal creatures to hint that life did abound after all. A sharp and raucous cry shrilled without warning, and a wild flurry disturbed the black, rustling leaves. Some bird, startled into wakefulness by their approach, Laurel decided, tensing, and then sighing as
the echoes subsided. But the sound had been enough. to wrench her back to reality.

  She stared ahead, at the broad trellis of scrolled iron silhouetted like an arch of dark lace against the moonlit sky, the broad entrance through which they were already entering, and she saw the great outline glimmering beyond, the outline of towers, massive walls, and turreted stone previously glimpsed only from afar;

  The shock of credulity coursed through her as she recognised her destination. And an even greater shock of prescience brought a gasp to her lips. How had she failed to guess?

  They had come to the castillo. And the dark stranger, who had dismounted, who was reaching up to lift her from the magnificent black stallion, and whose mocking smile glinted down at her while his arms held her steady, could be none other than… the Conde himself!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  'Welcome to Valderosa!'

  To the echoes of the mocking exclamation Laurel walked under the great stone arch that led into the castle. The hall within was high and cavernous, heavy with baroque carving and age-darkened paintings within plaster-gilt frames, and a huge old tapestry that covered almost one wall. There was a broad staircase with a gallery in the sombre shadows above, enough exquisitely carved old chests, high-backed chairs and baronial tables holding porcelain and precious metal curios to delight the heart of any antique lover, and high overhead a magnificent panelled and ornamented ceiling of rich cedarwood. The whole was lit by scrolled iron brackets set above the series of deep niches indenting the walls, and the warm amber radiance seemed to heighten the dreamlike state in which Laurel moved.

  She turned, still dazed from the realisation of the true identity of her host, and gave a start of shock as she encountered the impersonal gaze of a stranger. A manservant in black had materialised silently from a side door and now looked beyond her to the tall figure of the Conde.

  The Conde issued several rapid instructions, then turned to Laurel. 'Go with José. I will join you in a few moments, seňorita.'

  She guessed that he wished to stable his horse, and two thoughts conflicted in her mind; that he had little consideration for his servants when he would keep them up to wait on him until an hour as late as this, yet he was concerned enough to insist on offering hospitality to a stranger regardless of the time of day —or night.

  The manservant betrayed no trace of curiosity or surprise at the arrival of a strange young woman at mid-night as he indicated the way. Laurel followed, along a seemingly endless corridor, until José stopped. 'Here is the sala.' He opened an ornately panelled door and clicked a switch within, then pointed to another door at the far end of the corridor. 'If the seňorita should wish to refresh herself she will find everything she needs.' With the grave deference of the well-trained servant he paused for any further query, then turned and faded back the way they had come.

  Laurel went slowly on to the farther door, which proved to be a spacious cloakroom well equipped with a turquoise-blue tiled shower and thick fluffy towels on heated rails. The water was hot, and Laurel was tempted to indulge in a quick shower—she still felt soiled from her unpleasant experience of a short while ago—but she contented herself with washing her face and hands, and brushing away the sand that still adhered to her person. When she had done this and tidied her hair she felt slightly more human, and more presentable to return to the sala.

  Here she was somewhat relieved to find herself in a room of rather lesser dimensions and more homely atmosphere than the great hall of the castillo. There were well stocked bookshelves and modern pictures, comfortable chairs for relaxing in rather than admiring their antiquity, rugs and cushions lending splashes of cool greens and warm light browns, and on a low table by the window a guitar of definitely contemporary design.

  So someone in the Conde's household was musically inclined. Laurel sank into a chair, conscious of a rush of weariness that wasn't surprising after the events of the day. If only she could turn back the clock! To think that it should be the same man… And of all men, the one on whom she had to make a good impression, for her employer's sake. She had certainly forfeited any hope of that, she thought dispiritedly, for the Conde had made no secret of his opinion of her behaviour. Stupid juvenile folly… foolish niňa… trespassing... And she had thought he pursued her like the blatant Renaldo, worse, he knew that she thought it… Oh, if only she could turn back the clock! The swimming episode was bad enough, but tonight's misfortune…

  Laurel shivered with recollection. Thank heaven the Conde had intervened, whatever he thought of her. But if only Yvonne had not been so self-willed and foolish…

  Yvonne! The thought jolted Laurel out of her despair. She had to get back. Yvonne would be worried sick, wondering what had happened. Oh, why hadn't she insisted on returning to the guest house straight away, instead of… Laurel sprang to her feet, and at the same moment the door opened.

  She met the cool, enquiring gaze of her host.

  'I—I must get back,' she stammered.

  'But you have only just arrived!' One dark brow lifted. 'At least remain for the coffee which José is making.'

  'Oh… you shouldn't have bothered.' She bit her lip; wishing she knew exactly what he was thinking, and subsided back into the chair. 'It's just that it's getting so late.'

  'Assignations at midnight tend to lead to that state if nothing else,' he observed dryly.

  'True, except that the assignation was not of my choosing,' she said flatly.

  'Nevertheless you kept it, seňorita.' He turned at a slight sound. 'Ah, over here, José.'

  The manservant placed the tray on the table indicated and left the sala as quietly as he had entered. The Conde glanced at Laurel, and there was an enigmatic quality in his dark gaze.

  'I believe it is the custom in your country for the inglesa guest to preside over the refreshments when the hostess of the house is not present? You have an odd expression for the occasion which escapes me at the moment. Perhaps you…?'

  Laurel met that mocking gaze, then got up and went to the table, determined not to supply the ridiculous phrase he obviously meant. Play mother indeed! One might as well offer to suckle a tiger! Carefully she lifted the heavy chased silver coffee pot and poured out two cups of the very black coffee. She handed one to her host. 'You appear to be well informed about our customs, seňor,' she remarked tartly.

  'I spent some time in your country a few years ago.' He thanked her with traditionally fulsome Spanish courtesy as he took the coffee, then waited until she was seated before he took a chair that directly faced hers. 'I think perhaps you are not as well versed in ours,' he added dryly.

  Laurel gulped incautiously and gasped as the coffee scalded. 'What do you mean by that?'

  A hint of a suppressed smiled lurked behind the gravity of his mouth. 'That is not for me to enlarge upon, seňorita. I would not wish to cause you further embarrassment by prompting your memories of your somewhat eventful day.'

  The tide of hot colour added painfully to her discomfort as those memories responded all too eagerly to the merest hint of a prompting. She averted her scarlet face, knowing she couldn't take any more of this. She lifted her cup with trembling fingers and sipped at the coffee, then she set it down and took a deep breath.

  'Seňor,' she began shakily, 'I appreciate your hospitality, and I'm deeply grateful for—for all you've done for me today, but I must get back.'

  'Why?'

  The uncompromising query unnerved her. 'Because it's very late,' she stammered, 'and I shouldn't be here. I—we—don't even know—'

  She stopped as he began to laugh. 'What do you call late, seňorita? You are on holiday, are you not? And the guest house does not demand that its guests be in by a certain hour, like miscreant infants!' He gestured mockingly. 'So why should you not be here? Because we have not been formally introduced? Is that what you were about to say?'

  'Well, it's true! And it is rather late. I—'

  'But you are not concerned about convention, surely.'

  The tau
nt of devilry leapt in his dark eyes and his white teeth glinted. 'Oh, come, seňorita, you do not expect me to believe that of a modern inglesa who swims as nature made her, and who keeps midnight trysts with a young waiter patently intent on ravishment! Surely I do not compare unfavourably with Destino's young Don Juan!'

  'I never thought of making such a comparison,' she burst out wildly, 'and I do care about convention, whatever you believe, so don't run away with that idea. I—'

  'I haven't the remotest intention of running away.' He pretended puzzlement. 'Why should I?'

  'Oh, you—! I didn't mean—if you think I'm going to stay here to—to be made fun of and—and—' She clamped back on incoherencies, aware that he had reduced her to the inanities of a schoolgirl yet unable to quell the indignant rise to his needling. She took a deep breath. 'It isn't funny, seňor, even though it seems to afford you great amusement.'

  'Seňorita!' His voice was a model of hurt dignity. 'You think that I make fun of you! Please—a thousand apologies! Command me—how can I make amends?'

  Laurel closed her eyes despairingly. 'Just take things a little more seriously, and believe me when I say that tonight's tryst, as you call it, was no wish of mine.'

  'No?' Suddenly the dark eyes held an intentness. 'Then how did your ring come to be in the possession of Renaldo?'

  'The ring belongs to Yvonne. I wanted to get it back for her.' Laurel looked down at her hands, unwilling to make an explanation which would discredit the younger girl yet suddenly anxious to clear the somewhat dubious aura that seemed to surround herself where this man was concerned. 'I didn't think it wise for her to keep the appointment, and that's how the misunderstanding arose, seňor.'

  The Conde selected a small cheroot from a box on the table and lit it, frowning slightly. 'But wasn't that rather a strange action, seňorita? And why did you give Renaldo a ring which did not belong to you? Or had he stolen the ring?'