'Oh, no!' Horror clouded Laurel's eyes, and she realised she must tell him the truth, even though the little story of youthful folly seemed so inane when recounted to this dark, dominant man whose eyes had become so watchful. 'You see, seňor, I am responsible for Yvonne. She is here because of an unsuitable friendship she formed with a man in London, and I promised her father I'd look after her. So how could I let her get involved with Renaldo? I had to try to deal with the matter myself,' she sighed.
There was a silence. After a moment Laurel looked up again, prepared for amusement, sarcasm, or mere indifference to a tale that must sound like sheer feminine imprudence, and saw instead an expression she had never expected. Sympathy!
He wafted away a thin coil of blue smoke and stubbed out the cheroot. 'She is very young, this companion?'
'Sixteen.'
He nodded. 'I know exactly how you feel, seňorita. I too have a similar problem on my hands.'
'You?'
He betrayed a slight smile at her surprise. 'Oh, yes, seňorita. Coping with wilful youth is not confined to your land of so-called swinging freedom. We too are meeting the problem of teenage rebellion against convention, but we, alas, find it difficult to accept so easily. Our traditions are too valued and ingrained for that.'
Laurel thought suddenly of the elderly aunt who had brought her up ever since the tragedy that had robbed her of her parents when she was little more than a baby. Aunt Adele was kind enough, and Laurel was fond of her as well as grateful, but she knew she would never shed completely some of the inhibitions instilled by an upbringing both strict and puritanical in some respects. That had been part of the trouble with Phil. He wanted more than she was prepared to give, and he couldn't understand why she said no, even though two years working in London had brought freedom with independence and a broadening of outlook undreamed-of back in the years under Aunt Adele's protective wing. Well, she had shed inhibitions with a vengeance today, and look where it had landed her!
Without realising it she sighed deeply, and the Conde, who had missed nothing of the play of expression on her oval face, leaned forward.
'You do not approve, of course. Tradition is something to be swept away, regardless of the unforeseen consequences, is it not?'
'It depends on the tradition,' she said shortly, not wishing to become involved in a discussion where she would be on shifting sand, 'and the person concerned.'
'In this case, the person concerned is young, capricious, and wayward, and completely without the wisdom to judge the worth of our tradition.'
Laurel stayed silent, and after a moment her host leaned back, his patrician features darkening in the shadows.
'My cousin is a little older than your charge, and she too has formed a misalliance of which the family greatly disapprove. A wastrel and—how do you express it?' the Conde gesticulated impatiently, 'seeker of a wealthy wife.'
'Fortune-hunter?'
'Exactly!' The Conde snapped his fingers. 'Carlota will be an extremely rich woman when she comes of age and we do not intend her to be ensnared by a peon who will dissipate her fortune. So she is to be removed from temptation until she returns to her senses. She arrives this coming weekend.'
'Here?'
The Conde nodded ruefully. 'I am not exactly looking forward to her visit with great joy, I'm afraid. Previously she has always been happy to be here, but now, as it is in the nature of a punishment…'
Laurel felt a stirring of sympathy for the unknown Carlota. 'Your cousin may be very unhappy, though,' she ventured. 'After all, she may not have known that this boy was insincere—you could even be mistaken about him.'
'Mistaken or not, the affair is ended. She will not be allowed to see him again. She will soon forget him.' The Conde's gaze rested on Laurel, a quelling power in its depths that dared her to contradict. 'A girl of seventeen does not know her own mind, let alone her heart.'
'Perhaps not,' Laurel said quietly, 'but that does not lessen her capacity for suffering.'
'So you would ally yourself to Carlota.' The considering stare probed again. 'Yet you interfere in the affairs of this young companion of yours, for her own good, naturally. You are even more inconsistent than I suspected, seňorita.'
Suddenly Laurel felt weariness return. For some reason it appeared to amuse this arrogant grandee to challenge her opinions, and it was irritating, to say the least, particularly as the circumstances dictated a more tactful restraint on her part. She gave a shrug. 'I really don't know enough of the facts to ally myself with anyone, and as for my being inconsistent… I'm sure you are too just a man to level that charge because someone doesn't agree with you.'
For a moment his dark eyes sparked, then his mouth curved unwillingly. 'Touché, seňorita, perhaps I underestimate your capacity for understanding. But Carlota is scarcely in need of allies, as you will see, no doubt, when you know her a little better.'
Laurel frowned, then gave a small shake of her head. As she was unlikely to get to know Carlota it hardly mattered what she felt either way. She murmured, 'Perhaps that's so, but as it's scarcely likely to concern me…' She stood up. 'And now, seňor, I'm very tired…'
'Of course, forgive me!' He sprang to his feet. 'I will escort you back. But first…'
'Yes…?' She looked at him warily as he appeared to hesitate over choice of words.
'How long is your stay on Destino to be?'
'About a month.' Laurel found difficulty in hiding her surprise. Then a flash of panic came. Was he going to order them off the island?
'And you have been here… how long?'
'Less than a week—but why do you ask, seňor?'
'For several reasons.' The dark ruthlessness first glimpsed that afternoon on the beach was again in evidence. 'You cannot remain at the guest house now, seňorita.'
Panic fluttered again. 'But why not? I don't understand. We're booked in there for a month, with an option to stay on another two weeks…' A pulse flickered in her throat and she raised an unsteady hand to still its throb as she stared at his dark visage.
'Oh, surely, seňorita.' A grimness entered his expression. 'You must realise, in view of what has happened, it would not be seemly, to say the least.'
'Seemly…?' She bit at her lower lip. 'I don't see—'
'Nor would it be wise,' he said grimly. 'You have been assaulted by a member of Seňora Allen's staff, indirectly through the foolishness of your young charge, but nevertheless it should not have happened. I had thought Renaldo had learned his lesson after…' Abruptly the Conde checked, then went on: 'But rest assured, I shall deal with the culprit. I do not think he will misbehave again after he hears what I have to say to him tomorrow morning.'
Suddenly Laurel remembered, and realised the cause of the scarcely repressed anger in the man before her; he too was remembering Sara…
Laurel twisted her hands together nervously. Surely the Patron could not force them to leave the island, through no fault of their own. And heaven knew what fate lay in store for Renaldo. The Master of Destino was obviously going to live up to his reputation.
She looked at him and said slowly: 'That is for you to decide, seňor. For myself, I wish only to forget it, but I fail to see why we should be the ones to suffer. We can't cut short our holiday just because a silly incident turned from holiday flirtation into something frightening.'
'You were frightened tonight?'
'Of course I was frightened,' she said tersely, 'but not enough to remove myself just because… no, seňor, I can't agree. And there is nowhere else we can stay, except Mrs Allen's.'
'You will avail yourselves of my hospitality.'
'Yours?' Laurel gasped. 'You mean here?'
'Do not look at me as though I were insane,' he said dryly. 'Try to consider the matter from a viewpoint of logic, and think of the worry this will cause the Seňora Allen to suffer when she hears of it.'
'If that's all that's worrying you she need never hear of it from me,' Laurel cried, 'nor from Yvonne. I told you, I
only want to forget the whole unpleasant business, and so does Yvonne, who was worried sick over the loss of her ring. As for Renaldo, we shall certainly keep out of his way in future.'
'Until the next time.'
Her head came up sharply. 'What do you mean by that, seňor?'
'Exactly what I say.' He took several paces across the room, to come to a halt before a big square mirror set in a heavily carved gilt frame. He stood there, facing her, and she saw the twin of his dark handsome head with the thick black hair that ruffled his high brow, and the long, saturnine leanness of his jaw. With a strange fascination she watched the lips in the mirror move as he went on angrily: 'I hold no brief for Renaldo, but I do not entirely blame him.'
Laurel forgot the reflection. 'Who do you blame, then?' she snapped.
'The wanton girls who play with fire and then scream when they are burnt. They flaunt themselves in little or no clothing on our beaches, seek flirtations with our men, and expect a man to turn off desire like snuffing out a candle. They do not know what they unleash, and then they wonder why a man fails to respect their womanhood.'
For a moment Laurel stared at him, wondering if she had heard aright. Did he mean that she …? Because she…? Outrage rose like gall in her, and she burst out: 'Are you suggesting that I am wanton? Just because of something I couldn't help this afternoon? Because of something I got involved in tonight through no fault of my own? How dare you judge me in so insulting a way? What right have you? Simply because you—Oh! I might have expected such an attitude! Men are so ready to condemn. They're impervious to everything except their own arrogant opinions, and their own desires. They are incapable of judging the character of any woman.' She drew a deep sobbing breath, blind now to everything but fury and the sense of injustice of life. 'I wish I'd never set eyes on this island, and you! Nothing—nothing would make me stay here after that I'
She ran to the door, her one thought to escape, and sobbed aloud as the blur of dark movement got there first.
'Oh, no seňorita, not so fast!'
He barred her way, tall, grim, and implacable. 'You condemn me without evidence.'
'As you condemn me! Let me pass.'
'Oh, no!' Fingers of steel fastened like whiplashes about her wrist as she tried to thrust past him. 'No woman talks to me in that way, seňorita, and escapes punishment.'
'And no man talks to me as you have and gets away with it! You're insufferable!'
Beside herself now with anger, she fought to free herself, but it was entirely by accident that one of her flailing hands caught him across the face. He uttered an imprecation, and the next moment she was seized by both arms and held powerless. A strength far greater than her own forced her arms to her sides, and dark eyes glittered down on her distraught face. His mouth was compressed into a thin tight line, and then suddenly his head came down and his mouth clamped on her parted lips.
Laurel was too astounded for any reaction. The fiery kiss locked her in time and space, quelling all ability to move. Her senses began to swim, then she felt the hard pressure of his thighs burning through her thin garments and a choked little moan rose in her throat. And then suddenly her mouth was free.
'You foolish chica!' The force of the words almost brushed against her ravaged mouth. 'I suggested nothing! I did not refer to you at all—nor to your unfortunate escapade this afternoon.'
'You—you kissed me! You dared to—!'
'Lex talionis!' The angry mouth still hovered dangerously near. 'And I shall do it again if you do not apologise.'
'Apologise? Never!' She twisted her head with a desperate movement of evasion. 'You suggest I'm wanton, and then you—you force me to submit to that! It is you who should apologise, seňor!'
'For what?' he hissed. 'For making a generalisation? Do you not listen? When did I specifically term you a wanton?'
'You implied it! And now you are trying to treat me like one! Let me go! You have no right to—'
'No!' The dark fires of anger raged in his eyes. 'Not while you revile me with unfounded accusations and your hands yearn to strike my face. I am trying to keep my temper, but you make it exceedingly difficult! Now will you listen to me, instead of spitting fury? And grant me more discernment than you credit me!'
'I'll grant you nothing while—'
'Allow me to finish what I'm endeavouring to say— please!'
Imperceptibly his tone was altering, although it was strained with the force of intensity, and the tautness in the lean lines of his features betrayed the great anger he was mastering. Something, Laurel did not know what, bade her stay silent, and he said deliberately: 'I made a generalisation, as I believe you did in your condemnation of men's motives in their treatment of a woman. But can you not realise that because of the behaviour of some—as of the young girl for whom you are responsible—you risk suffering as you did at the hands of Renaldo? And for the very same reason I am classed in the same category as young hotbloods like Renaldo! That is the point I am endeavouring to make to you; not a dissertation on your personal character, seňorita.'
The Conde paused, and a sigh passed through him. He released one of her wrists and raised his hand, to slide a lean, curving finger along the soft curve of her cheek. He shook his head, almost sadly.
'Foolish chica! Wantons do not blush! Not as you did today— like an angry rose. As you blush even at this moment.'
'No, I don't!' Laurel's anger was submerged in the hot denial of embarrassment, and then she could have bitten out her tongue for the unguarded words as she saw the trace of a smile touch the corners of his mouth. 'Can't you forget that horrible business?' she cried. 'Or at least allow me to forget it!'
'I am not sure I wish to forget it,' he said softly, and the dark warmth glowing in his gaze brought a renewed surge of colour into her cheeks. 'But I promise never to utter a mention of it again—on one condition.'
Her mouth contracted and she looked away, determined not to yield any sign of assent.
'Will you call it a pax? And promise me never to refer again to this, shall we say, misunderstanding of meanings?'
His hands fell away and he stepped back, watching her with intent eyes which were now enigmatic. Laurel gave a small, bemused shake of her head. She was unable to understand her own feelings at that moment. Her mouth was still remembering that kiss, and her legs were betraying a weakness that indicated sitting down pretty soon. Strangely, she wanted to accept his explanation, believe in his sincerity, and most of all to say she was sorry for her own part in the angry flare of tempers. She took a deep breath. Oh, it was ridiculous! He was charming her—she'd be eating out of his hand in a moment! She'd be an idiot to fall for it. But why had he changed so utterly, after all that grandee business about punishing a woman who dared to answer him back? She banished surmise, aware of his regard, and told herself firmly that she had to remember to be grateful to him. But for his advent tonight…
She inclined her head. 'Very well, if you say so, seňor ...' Her hand reached to the door, then she hesitated, turning back. 'I don't usually fly off the handle so quickly, seňor, but today—'
'The handle?' His brows shot up. 'I do not know the idiom.'
She bit her lip, wanting to laugh suddenly, perhaps from reaction. 'I'm sorry. I meant that I don't usually jump to conclusions—angrily—so fast. But it has been a provoking day, to say the least.'
'I agree.'
She sighed, her expression grave again with weariness. She held out her hand. 'Thank you, seňor, for coming to my aid, and the coffee, and everything. And now I think I'd better—'
She stopped. He was looking down at her with that light of mockery, the small devils tugging again at the corners of his mouth.
'The handshake of formality, seňorita? After such a provoking day?' He shook his head. 'I will never understand the English, even if I live to be a very old man.'
He opened the door and stood back to allow her to precede him, then indicated the way. In silence she walked down the long corridor, at t
he end of which he opened a side door she had not noticed on her way in. It led into a small stone-floored lobby which held an assortment of sporting and fishing tackle stowed on racks, and one wall was hung with a gleaming collection of antique firearms. Laurel wondered fleetingly if the castillo possessed its quota of dungeons, and then the Conde was opening the heavy studded outer door. It gave on to a large courtyard, dimly illuminated by ancient iron basket lanterns, and nearby was a green coupe to which the Conde strode and opened the passenger door.
Laurel got in and looked around. It was impossible not to be fascinated by the scene. The moon was high now, casting inky black shadows and outlining the high, fretted stone battlements and gothic towers, and the broad archway in the outer wall framed velvet midnight sky and a silver flash of shimmering sea.
The journey took only minutes by car, and Laurel felt a twinge of regret that it was over so soon; the island was so very lovely by moonlight, and the narrow winding road from the little port up to the guest house that had become familiar by day took on a new strangeness when traversed in the moonlight by car. The Conde drew to a smooth stop at the gate to the guest house. He turned to her.
'You sigh, seňorita. You must be extremely tired—I regret that I have delayed you over late.'
'No—I sighed because it's so beautiful.' Laurel hesitated. 'I trust you were not serious about—about our leaving Destino?'
'But I never suggested you should leave the island.' He sounded surprised. 'I stated that you and your companion could not remain where you are. And I meant every word of it,' he added flatly.
'You mean that we…?'
He leaned back, one hand still curved reflectively over the top of the wheel. 'It occurs to me that some feminine companionship would not come amiss during my cousin's visit to Destino. Doňa Costenza—my aunt —is at present with friends in Granada, and she will not take kindly to curtailing her visit in order to return here to look after Carlota. Unfortunately,' he sighed, 'I have business to attend to in Madrid which I can't defer, and although it should not keep me away more than a matter of days, it means Carlota will be left to her own devices hoe. My grandmother is too frail and infirm to be irked by Carlota's rebellious and unpredictable tantrums.'
The Velvet Touch Page 7
