The Velvet Touch

by Margery Hilton

  'So,' his shoulders moved slightly, 'no sparks, seňorita?'

  'No sparks,' she said flatly.

  He turned away slightly and glanced up at an age-mellowed portrait of a brooding-visaged ancestor in whose painted eyes there dwelled a certain recognisable light. The Conde's lips twitched. 'It seems I forge my rapier to no account!

  Laurel had followed the direction of his gaze. 'If you consider a weapon essential, I'm afraid so.'

  'Seňorita, I am devastated!'

  Suddenly Laurel's eyes stung and she could not meet the challenge she saw in his lean features. 'Surely not by so untempered an opponent, seňor.'

  'Do not underrate yourself, chica!' he exclaimed. 'There is a certain steel beneath the softness of a woman which can render a man's weapons useless.'

  Laurel sighed. 'Perhaps you speak from experience, seňor. I assure you, I have no desire either to fence with words or cross swords, and certainly not to hide beneath a feminine softness.'

  'I should be disappointed if you did.' He moved towards her and looked down at her averted face. 'But do not challenge me with talk of experience, seňorita, lest I be tempted to a sentiment du fer.'

  Laurel could only guess that the expression was a technical fencing term, and one it might be foolish to attempt to parry with ignorance. She looked up at him and tried to instil lightness into her tone. 'Do you always challenge your guests to a duel, seňor?'

  'Only if I consider them worthy of my mettle.'

  The wave of sadness washed over her again and she turned away wearily, no longer caring if he chose to construe the movement as discourteous. 'I think you are making fun of me again, seňor.'

  There was a brief silence, then the sound of a lithe movement behind her before warm hands closed on her shoulders. She felt the slight drift of his breath stir a wisp of her hair, then he whispered, 'Never!'

  An inexplicable shudder coursed through Laurel's body and brought with it a vivid memory of that bruising, fiery kiss of last night. She felt his hands begin to turn her, as though to face him, and the wild, disturbing agitation caused by his nearness made her twist free to put the distance of safety between herself and this enigmatic man. Hardly knowing what she was saying she stammered, 'I—I hope I have answered your question, seňor…'

  'Ah yes…' Perceptibly he changed, the cool mask of courtesy reforming, as he drew himself to his full height. 'Once again I forget and detain you, seňorita. A thousand pardons…'

  He reached out with one hand to open the door for her, but in the second before she moved he had caught and imprisoned the slender fingers that plucked nervously at the froth of lace at the throat of her evening blouse. He drew them to his lips, retaining them within the warmth of his own for a fraction of time more than necessary, then released them and stepped back.

  Laurel inclined her head, murmuring a goodnight in a voice that didn't seem to belong to her, then walked unsteadily out of the room. All the way up the wide staircase she was conscious of him standing down there in the hall, watching her ascent, and all the time she was aware of a strange mingling of emotions making her heart thud breathlessly in her breast. A sense of elation fighting to be free, and oppressing it a sadness that she dared not begin to explain…

  CHAPTER SIX

  'Mm, this is what I call the good life!'

  Yvonne stretched luxuriously and studied the gleaming rose lacquer she had just applied to her well-shaped nails. 'What say you, bella Laurie?'

  Laurel smiled indulgently. 'You're becoming quite a little lotus-eater, aren't you? Enjoying your riding sessions?'

  'What do you think.?' Yvonne grinned. 'Enjoying your poetry sessions with the Condesa?'

  'Actually she's a very sweet old lady. It's a shame her arthritis is so bad.'

  'Yes,' said Yvonne carelessly, blowing gently on the drying lacquer, 'she seems to have taken a liking to you.'

  Laurel shrugged. 'I think she's lonely—and whatever age has done to her it hasn't impaired her intellect and her love of English literature.'

  'So you spend half your days reading poetry to her and discussing obscure nineteenth-century classics. Oh, well,' Yvonne sprang to her feet, 'better you than me! The sea is calling—see you!'

  Laurel watched Yvonne snatch up her beach jacket and run from the room. Her half smile was a little wry and not for the first time she found herself envying the younger girl's riding ability.

  They had been at the Castillo for three days and Yvonne was having the time of her life. She adored horses, and immediately the Conde had discovered she was a proficient horsewoman he had provided a suitable mount from his stable and each morning escorted her himself, high on the superb black stallion called Caesar. Yvonne was certainly seeing the island from an undoubted vantage point, and her guide could not be bettered. After the ride came coffee, partaken with Laurel and the Condesa in the Condesa's apartment, and in the afternoons the two girls swam, sunbathed, and explored the extensive gardens of the Castillo. The Conde seemed to be setting himself to be the perfect host, nothing was too much trouble for his young guests, and Yvonne revelled openly in the dark, sardonic charm he enfolded her in so effortlessly.

  Laurel herself maintained reservations. She was too conscious of her own vulnerability where he was concerned, and also of the guilt still niggling at her every time she remembered the deception she and Yvonne were practising. Yvonne had no qualms, but Laurel's conscience was not so easily appeased by the younger girl's careless reassurances. But it was too late now, she told herself. She'd had the ideal opportunity that first evening. Sighing, she closed the door of her room and made her way downstairs and along to the Condesa's apartment. Somehow she wished the Conde would stop being so utterly charming; if he reverted to his former angry mien towards herself perhaps she would not feel so guilty… And Mr Searle had enjoined secrecy…

  Maria, the Condesa's maid, answered her light tap on the door and bade her to enter. The Condesa was sitting in her high-backed carved chair by the open french doors, her silver-topped ebony cane by her knee, and a polished occasional table piled with antique volumes to the side of her chair. When she saw her visitor a light of warmth glowed in her fine, dark eyes.

  The Condesa was eighty years old, and the painfully twisted old hands betrayed her affliction, but despite this she sat erect, her fine head held high, and every line of the chiselled bone structure beneath the still petal-soft skin betrayed the beauty she had once been and the breeding of the aristocrat.

  She smiled. 'Welcome, my dear. Come and sit down. Maria, you may leave us for a while.'

  Laurel crossed the spacious room and seated herself in the comfortable basket chair opposite the Condesa. A soft breeze drifted across the terrace, bringing the scents of the gardens and the musical drone of the bees on their eternal quest for nectar, and just beyond the columbine-wreathed arbour a graceful fountain plashed its cool, tinkling rain.

  'Are you admiring my fountain?' asked the Condesa.

  'Yes—all your garden, in fact,' smiled Laurel. 'It's very beautiful.'

  'My grandson had it newly—how do you say it?— rescaped—no, landscaped, for me two years ago, when I was forced to admit I could no longer take walks through the grounds. But I still endeavour to take a little stroll in my special domain,' the Condesa added quickly. 'I wonder, will you be patient with an aged woman and lend me your arm, my dear?'

  'Yes, of course.' Laurel stood up.

  'The air is so fragrant this morning.' The Condesa clasped her hands painfully on her cane, and with Laurel's ready aid rose to her feet.

  Slowly the old lady made her way across the terrace and along the broad, even path that meandered among the sculptured shapes of lawn and massed banks of flowers. The Condesa knew each bloom by name and enthused over each especially prized blossom. 'My grandson chose my favourites and ensured that no steps would interrupt the levels so that I might still walk among my beloved flowers. He is a good grandson, do you not agree?'

  'I'm sure he is,' Laurel sa
id gently. She turned her head, looking about for the source of the bird song and cries which had begun to fill the air. They did not seem to come from the wild birds that fluttered and twittered under the eaves of the summer house.

  The Condesa noticed the questing glance and smiled. 'José is feeding my birds—you will see in a moment, my dear.'

  The path was approaching a tall scrolled iron gate set in a high hedge interwoven with a mass of pink, bell-like flowers. Laurel opened the gate and stood aside to allow the Condesa to pass through, then followed. She found herself in a large, circular clearing ringed by shrubs and arbours with seats, and flowering trees. In the centre of the clearing was a huge domed aviary from whence came the noisy orchestra of bird sound and the rainbow flashing of many bright wings. José stood within the enclosure, a satchel on his hip from which he produced handful after handful of seed, and the birds were clustering about him, some alighting on his head and shoulders and others swooping and darting to him, totally unafraid.

  Laurel had many reservations about confining birds, and she had heard so many reports of the cruelty inflicted on trapped wild birds in certain continental countries, including the infamous practice of blinding songbirds in the belief that they might sing the better, that she pressed nearer to the mesh to assure herself that no such horror had taken place here. But the Condesa must have perceived something of her fear and touched her arm.

  'No, my dear,' she smiled, 'you need have no concern. My feathered creatures are well tended and have no fear of us. See,' she gestured to the leafy branches and shady undergrowth within the aviary, 'everything has been done to provide them with a near natural habitat, and they have ample space for flight. Some of these birds are quite rare, many of them tropical species, but they live and thrive here far more safely and for much longer than they would in their wild forests.'

  Laurel could see this, and she relaxed, her interest caught as the Condesa pointed out her favourites, explaining their origins and how they had been carefully selected to eliminate risk of predatory breeds.

  'And now,' the Condesa turned with movements which obviously brought pain, but to which her indomitable spirit refused to yield, 'we will sit here for a little while. It is cooler here for you, for that so delicate English complexion of yours, is it not?'

  Laurel accompanied her hostess to one of the arbour seats, where it was indeed pleasantly shaded from the hot, strong sunlight. The Condesa chattered desultorily about her garden, but within a few minutes the conversation returned to the subject of her grandson, to whom there could be no doubt of her devotion. Laurel was shocked to learn that his parents, the Condesa's son and daughter-in-law, had died tragically in an air disaster when their son was only sixteen, and within six months a further cruel blow struck the family when the Condesa's husband suffered a fatal stroke while visiting relatives in Madrid.

  The Condesa sighed and gave a gesture of resignation at Laurel's murmur of sympathy. 'What is to be… I can say that now, but at the time… My beloved husband and my only son taken from me in so short a space of time; my faith was tested to its utmost. But the burden of responsibility fell heavily on my grandson's shoulders, before he had even completed his education. Valderosa, and a household of womenfolk dependent on him.'

  The fine old eyes misted as they looked back in time. The Condesa had three daughters, two of whom had since married, and the third, Costenza, of whom the Conde had already spoken to Laurel, had chosen to remain at Valderosa. 'A rebel, that one.' The Condesa's lips compressed. 'She wished to make a marriage of which we disapproved, and so she refused to countenance the suitor we had chosen. Now, I wonder if she regrets her fine show of independence, when she has nothing to look forward to but her old age, and a new mistress in her home when my grandson eventually marries, as marry he must.'

  Poor Costenza, thought Laurel. Just another victim of the old Grandee tradition of mapping out their daughters' futures regardless of whether love entered into it or not. But she kept silent, out of deference to her hostess and also because of an unexpected flash of curiosity; had the Conde's bride been chosen? What was she like? Mental pictures of a sultry-eyed raven-haired seňorita or a dark, fiery Andalusian beauty floated into Laurel's imagination, and suddenly it became very urgent that she should know… She looked eagerly at the Condesa, and saw a smile of reminiscence hovering on the firm old lips. But it seemed she was to be disappointed.

  'I fear Carlota has taken after my foolish daughter. But ah, many times worse! From childhood she has defied authority, and now this latest escapade!' The Condesa paused, momentarily beyond words to describe her opinion of the erring Carlota. She sighed. 'At one time -her parents had hopes that perhaps she might grow to be a fitting bride for my grandson, although we had reservations about yet another intermarriage in the family. But Rodrigo has not given any indication that this would meet with his favour. I sometimes think it was perhaps not wise in all ways to allow him to complete his education at your famous old university. Those dreaming spires imbued him with a somewhat broader outlook on life than we expected!'

  The Condesa paused, then gave a wry smile. 'And so tomorrow we are to be—how do you say it? Incommoded?—by this troublesome minx, while Rodrigo removes himself well out of reach of her tantrums.'

  Laurel hid a smile. She could not imagine Rodrigo being disconcerted by any minx of a girl, no matter how turbulent the tantrums, nor could she imagine him failing to deal summarily with the offender.

  'But she is still very young, isn't she?' Laurel murmured. 'It isn't always easy to see life from the viewpoint of someone of another generation.'

  The Condesa's chin jerked up annoyedly. 'Carlota will not see life or reason from any viewpoint but her own. As you will no doubt discover for yourself very soon, seňorita,' the old lady added with a touch of malice.

  'I trust not,' Laurel said lightly. 'I have to do something to repay your grandson's kind hospitality.'

  'Perhaps,' the Condesa shot her a sidelong glance, 'but I am afraid that Rodrigo will have to deal with the problem himself. As though he did not have sufficient to worry him!'

  Laurel felt a flash of amusement. Only a moment ago the Condesa was grumbling because he would not be at home to deal with the recalcitrant Carlota! She smiled. 'I think my sympathy will be needed by Carlota, all the same.'

  'Then it will be misplaced,' the old lady said tartly.

  Laurel raised her brows.

  'It is Carlota's parents who should ensure she responds to discipline, not, ultimately, my grandson. But he is still conscious of the debt he owes to the family, whose combined efforts enabled him to be absent from the island while he completed his education. Now, sometimes, I fear that he takes duty too seriously, to his own detriment.'

  'Detriment?'

  'Perhaps that is not the word I seek.' The Condesa sighed impatiently. 'No matter, I think you know what I mean when I say he sacrifices much of himself for the family, and for Valderosa and the island.'

  'But it is his inheritance,' Laurel said gently.

  'True. But an island estate such as this brings grave responsibility. Perhaps to you, seňorita, our island seems insignificant and our way of life a simple one. But here we are self-supporting, and our economy finely balanced. There are few so-called more advanced countries who can boast of that in today's financial clime. But it does not happen by good luck,' the Condesa said grimly, 'and already our young look to the ways of the outside world, to the trappings and artifices of technology and the spoils of commercialism. For some countries it will work, has become essential to continue to expand, but for our island with its limited resources I fear that too many breaks with tradition could bring disaster.'

  The old lady fell silent, then she planted her hands firmly on the top of her cane. 'I talk too much!' she exclaimed. 'And I monopolise too much of your time. Let us return to the house.'

  Laurel escorted the Condesa back to the terrace and saw her into the care of Maria. There was no sign of the Conde, but Yvonne h
ad returned from her ride, flushed happily and glowing with health. The two girls spent the rest of the day in leisurely exploration of the Castillo grounds and a walk to the little port to buy stamps and send off cards to friends. Darkness fell as they reached the castillo again and went to their rooms to shower and change for the evening meal.

  As always, the dishes were superb, and their host at his most charming. The Condesa was present, and Laurel found her thoughts returning to the confidences made to her that morning in the garden. In the light of this new knowledge she felt forced to revise her impressions of the Conde, and to feel the warmth of understanding springing when she thought of the tragedy fate had brought to him in his youth. Perhaps this responsibility had forced him to be arrogant and unyielding; without that tempering Destino might well have become a poverty-stricken island and the estate a victim of the auction room. But the hands on the reins, if youthful, had not faltered, and nowhere on the island had Laurel glimpsed poverty. There was a bright new school, white and airy and blending perfectly with the old traditional houses, on the hillside above the thriving little seaport, and the new clinic set in beautifully laid-out gardens overlooking the bay, with wide verandas where the white-coifed, serene-faced nursing Sisters could be glimpsed as they tended their patients, although Laurel suspected that there was not an alarming number of these; the people of Destino looked fit and resilient, and the likelihood of long waiting lists for admission was very remote.

  Laurel sipped her wine, her eyes reflective as she savoured the velvet richness of the full red wine with its subtle undertone of brandy which along with citrus fruit was the island's chief export. Yes, a great deal of unseen work would be necessary to husband and coordinate the resources and skills of the island to their utmost, and who else was there to guide and nurture, other than the Master of Destino? Laurel sighed, unaware that she did so, and suddenly become aware of silence. She turned her head and saw the Conde had risen to his feet.