The Velvet Touch

by Margery Hilton

  'You will forgive me, Abuelita… seňoritas …' he inclined his head gravely to each of them in turn, 'I have some dull and tedious paperwork I must complete tonight. Please call on José should you require anything further.'

  He moved to his grandmother's side and touched his lips to her frail hand, and with a further courteous nod to Laurel and Yvonne he went from the room.

  A strange ennui seemed to descend on the room when the door closed on his tall figure, as though a vital force had also departed. The Condesa uttered an exclamation of despair. 'See? He cannot rest! Always some duty calls. I tell him he needs a bride and many sons to help him. For soon he will become soltero, and no hijos, and then what will become of Destino? But he will not listen to me!'

  Laurel smiled sympathetically. 'I think it will be a long time before your grandson becomes an old bachelor, Doňa Luisa.'

  'Perhaps,' the Condesa did not sound convinced, 'but time steals past ever more fleetly with each passing year, as even you, chica, will discover eventually. And then, one day, one awakes and realises that youth has gone. Ay! Peinar canas…'

  The old lady's eyes dimmed with sadness, and Laurel sought for some cheering remark. But to her surprise Yvonne jumped up and ran to the Condesa, putting impulsive young arms round her black-clad shoulders.

  'No, you've got it all wrong,' Yvonne cried earnestly. 'It isn't being old in body that matters, it's staying young in heart! Just believe that and you'll never grow old!'

  The Condesa looked a trifle surprised, then she smiled and touched Yvonne's cheek. 'Bless you, my child. Perhaps you may be right. I must tell that to my aged and aching bones! But come, let us have some more wine and talk of more cheerful things!'

  Certainly there was nothing senile about the Condesa's intellectual qualities. José brought more wine and she regaled the two girls with anecdotes of her youth, her husband, her family, and her childhood home in Castile. An hour flew by, and at last she stopped. 'I talk too much—like all Spanish women!'

  The girls escorted her to her suite and the care of Maria, and then wandered back to the sala. There were distant voices from the direction of the kitchen quarter, but otherwise the Castillo was silent. 'I'm going to have a few minutes in the garden—coming?' Laurel asked.

  Yvonne shook her head. 'I want to wash my hair-it got so sticky with sea-water this morning. And I'm not going to risk it looking like rats' tails when Carlota arrives.'

  Laurel grinned. 'Be honest! It's not Carlota you want to look your best for.'

  'I don't know what you mean,' Yvonne said airily. 'Anyway, he's leaving tomorrow, isn't he?'

  She scampered off, and Laurel went out into the garden, her face thoughtful. She hoped that Yvonne wasn't going to fall for the magnetic aristocrat of Destino. During the past few days he seemed to have favoured the younger girl particularly, almost as though he had set out deliberately to charm her, taking her riding and swimming and treating her with suave, velvet charm that was guaranteed to turn a head far more stable than Yvonne's. But perhaps she was imagining things. He was simply being a perfect host, and probably trying to ensure that Yvonne had no opportunity for seeking the dangerous attentions of Renaldo.

  Laurel wandered through the archway and into the wide courtyard, trying to dismiss the disturbing thought. She should be thankful that everything had worked out so well. Yvonne could have proved a most troublesome handful, and she seemed to have forgotten completely the unsuitable paramour from whose ken her father had had to remove her. In fact, she was turnover a new leaf!

  The night air was sweet and heady. The wrought iron lamps cast a golden glow through which the night insects fluttered gauzy wings, and the scents of the garden tempted like will-o'-the-wisps. Laurel passed under the inky shadows of the Castillo and quietly opened the iron-grille door that led into the arboretum. Here a path wound under the sleeping branches of flowering shrubs and aromatic pines and sloped down to a crazy-paved terrace immediately above the sea. There was a low wall clad with creeper and rock plants, and here Laurel stood, to gaze out across the moon-swept bay. Who would have thought a month ago that she would be here!

  She had no idea how long she stood there, just savouring the cool sweet night and the heavenly vista spread before her, unable to make the move that would take her back indoors. The sense of sweet timelessness was a spell too potent to break. Then, just as she decided she must tear herself away, she heard the rich, vibrant notes of a guitar.

  Laurel stiffened, her fingers tensing on the rough stone parapet, then she relaxed, laughing weakly at herself for her moment of shock. Sound carried a long way on such clear air; it was probably José or one of the other servants relaxing before seeking the night's rest. But it did sound very close…

  She turned, to make her way back the way she had come, and again froze as a movement in the shadows caught the corner of her vision.

  'Did I startle you, seňorita?'

  The voice came softly, its mocking notes strangely in harmony with the rippling strum of the guitar, and very near. She saw the luminous blue-white of a man's shirt, and the metallic glitter of the instrument, and then as she moved forward uncertainly a hand shot out and fastened round her wrist. She was drawn forward, till she came against hard thighs and looked into the shadowy features of the Conde.

  'You are in a hurry to return?'

  'N-no.' She looked at the niche in the terrace, overshadowed by the heavy foliage above, and the curved iron seat. 'I didn't hear you, when I—until you started to play.'

  'Perhaps I did not intend you to.' His grasp slackened and slid away, and she stared at him, instantly leaping to a conclusion.

  'I'm sorry, I didn't know you were here. I wouldn't have interrupted.'

  'You are not interrupting.' He put the instrument aside. 'Please sit down, seňorita, or courtesy will force me to stand up.'

  Uncertainly, Laurel sat down, her back straight and stiff. 'I—I didn't expect to find you here, at this hour, playing. Why didn't you speak, and I'd have gone away and left you in peace, seňor.'

  'Why shouldn't I be here at this hour? And why should I not relax? As for your unwise little query, seňorita; had I spoken to you out of the darkness I fear you would have suffered fright.' He was very near her. 'Was not the music the most suitable way of betraying my presence?'

  'But you said—Oh, never mind.' Laurel looked down at her hands, aware of the fact that she should be making a firmer effort to extricate herself from this unexpected encounter and also that she had a marked reluctance to start making that effort. 'Please, seňor, continue to play and relax, and let me listen for a, while.'

  'It is my pleasure, seňorita.'

  He drew the guitar across his knee and began to play.

  Laurel listened with increasing pleasure. His musicianship was quite superb, not the idle strumming of a mere accompaniment but the full rich haunting sounds of old Spain, alive with insistent rhythm and the dark warm pulse of passionate flamenco. When the final dramatic notes throbbed into silence Laurel drew an unsteady little breath. At last she murmured, 'I never dreamed you could play like that.'

  'You are surprised, seňorita?'

  'You are full of surprises, seňor!'

  There was a brief silence, then, 'But music and dance and art are a living part of our heritage. Why should this surprise you?'

  She shook her head, aware of his dark eyes studying her closely. 'I would not have thought you could spare much time for such pursuits.'

  'Ah! My grandmother has been talking to you.'

  'Yes.' Laurel looked down at her hands, the beginning of an idea occurring suddenly. Impulsively she turned to face him. 'I wonder, seňor…'

  'Yes?' he prompted.

  'You mentioned paperwork tonight. Is there anything I could do to help? While I'm here? I am a secretary, used to dealing with business matters. I thought,' she rushed on, becoming a little self-conscious, 'perhaps I could do some of your letters or invoices… it would be a kind of return—a very small one�
�for your hospitality.'

  It was so long before he replied that Laurel began to regret her rash offer, then she visibly relaxed as she saw his teeth glint in a smile. 'So this is the reason for your so thoughtful mien this evening at dinner. You are concerned about me?'

  She bit her lip, positive that he was laughing at her. 'Well, yes, in a way,' she said with a defiant little movement of her head.

  'I am touched, seňorita, deeply.'

  Laurel felt a prickle of irritation. 'Well, as long as you are not angry, seňor.'

  'Angry! Why should I be angry?'

  'Don't ask me,' she retorted with spirit, 'but somehow I seem to evoke something remarkably like anger in you, when I least expect it.'

  'Seňorita, you astound me!'

  'Perhaps I am progressing, then.'

  'Or treading warily?' He stroked his chin with long lean fingers.

  Laurel's mouth compressed. 'I have reason for that!'

  'Reason!' The long fingers stilled. 'Do I infer from that remark that you are afraid of me?'

  'Not afraid, seňor, I object to your method of punishment,' she flashed.

  'But offenders do not usually have any choice about their punishment,' he said smoothly.

  She knew he remembered, and knew she was venturing back on dangerous ground, but temerity drove her on. 'Not where you are concerned, seňor, I'm sure. But tell me, do you always punish your women with angry kisses?'

  'If they deserve it; yes! I have found it is the only way of silencing them!'

  'Oh, you're incorrigible!' Laurel sprang up. 'I think I'd better go—it's late.'

  'Before you invoke my anger again?' The needling tone was back in his voice again. 'Seňorita, take care. I am endeavouring to remember our pax, but you are making it extremely difficult for me.'

  'Am I?' Her shoulders moved. 'I only intended to offer my assistance.'

  'Which I sincerely appreciate,' he stood up, 'but I fear you have forgotten one small but vital consideration.'

  'Such as?' She whirled to face him.

  'I would not wish to disparage your business qualifications, seňorita, in your own language.'

  For a moment the meaning in his tone eluded her, then suddenly she realised and cursed her stupidity. How could she forget that those letters she would willingly have typed would be couched in a language of which she knew scarcely a word? She gave a rueful exclamation, and tried to laugh.

  'I am an idiot! I don't know how I—'

  'Forgot?' His features were in deep shadow and she could only guess at the mood in his expression. She made a movement away, and he said quickly, 'Don't go—and please don't say, "It's late" again. I begin to think you must have some possessive person in your life, seňorita. Someone who has managed to instil a sense of guilt if you are missing for more than an hour.'

  Surprise robbed her of response. How had he guessed? She said quietly, 'My parents died when I was a small child and my aunt brought me up. She was kind but very strict, and right up till I left home to work in London two years ago she insisted that I be home before a certain time each night. I have never managed to shake off the habit of worrying about the time once eleven is past.'

  'I see. So we both share one sad feature in our lives.'

  She remembered, and nodded.

  'And so now you try to break the bonds of discipline.'

  'Not really. I realise now it gave me a kind of strength.' She hesitated, and looked beyond his dark outline to the silver shimmer on the sea. 'You may not believe me, but it took a great deal to persuade myself to—to swim as I did that first afternoon when—when you…'

  'I have not forgotten! And there is much I begin to understand.' Suddenly his hands closed about her shoulders and tightened as her tremor of surprise communicated itself to him. 'No, seňorita,' he murmured softly, 'it is not late, and there is no stern guardian with a watchful eye on the clock!'

  Laurel trembled. What was to happen was inevitable, yet a force beyond her control rendered her helpless to make even the token protest inhibition urged was necessary. She whispered, 'No—except for yourself, seňor…'

  He laughed softly. 'But I am a man, seňorita, and very human—although I know you are somewhat doubtful about that second respect.' He drew her closer, slowly, until she was enfolded closely in the circle of his arms, her thudding heartbeats meeting a strong, rhythmic response as she was pressed against the hard warmth of him. His mouth hovered above her own for a moment, touched her lips lightly, once, twice, and then took full sweet possession.

  She stood immobile within his arms, her own hands wanting to reach round him yet uncertain to make the response, while somewhere in the depths of her solar plexus a fuse began to smoulder. The kiss began to stop, lingered, and then she was taking an unsteady breath. Her lids fluttered open, to reveal that waiting, devastating mouth only an inch away and the blaze of bright stars beyond the outline of his dark head.

  He said softly, 'You see, my doubting little inglesa, a kiss is not always a punishment!'

  Laurel's mouth parted tremulously, and he gave a smothered gasp. 'Por Dios! Such sweet temptation…' His arms tightened and his head blotted out the watching stars.

  The fuse raced and exploded into a myriad tingling sparks, and Laurel's hands found their way round his shoulders, thrilling to the warm hard whipcord, of muscle under the sensuous silk covering of his shirt, wanting to keep and hold for ever and ever… Aeons or instants later he broke the kiss and pressed her face into his shoulder, while the fire of his lips burned small sweet crosses into the tenderness of her throat and neck, and lingered in the hollow of her shoulder. Then she heard the slight roughness of his indrawn breath. Slowly he released her and took her hands in his, raising them to his lips.

  'Perhaps I had better escort you back to sanity, carina mia!'

  He picked up the guitar and placed his free hand under her elbow. In silence he guided her back to the castillo, occasionally checking her where she would have stumbled in the darkness of the arboretum. Laurel's senses were in a whirl and she hardly knew what he said when they were indoors and he halted at the foot of the wide staircase. She looked up at him and saw an unfathomable light smouldering in his dark eyes, and she had to look away lest in the light he should read the truth in her own eyes. Never had she been kissed like that before. Never had she imagined that a kiss could be like that!

  'Buenas noches, seňorita,' he said gravely.

  'Goodnight, seňor,' she whispered—and fled.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Laurel awakened in a dreamlike state the following morning, half inclined to scoff at herself—she must have imagined that idyllic interlude the previous evening. But she knew it had been no dream; just the memory of it started the tingles chasing up and down her spine. She bathed and dressed and examined her reflection closely in the mirror, sure that large signals would be written all over her to announce to the world that she was in love. But there were no obvious signals, except the secret little half smile that insisted on dancing at the corners of her mouth, and the sharing of a certain wonderment between the bright eyes in the mirror and her own wide-questioning glance.

  Suddenly she was dissatisfied with her appearance. She whipped off the blue cotton sleeveless dress she had just donned and turned back to the wardrobe, taking down the new embroidered peasant blouse she had not yet worn and the scarlet dirndl skirt with a swirling frill. The dirndl made her waist look tiny, and the blouse emphasised her small pointed breasts in a way that made her feel excitedly feminine. She brushed her hair again, leaving it flowing loose in a cloud that reached her shoulders, added a touch of perfume and a slick of lip colour, then was impatient to be gone. She couldn't wait to get downstairs to desayuno to see…

  She met Yvonne outside, and scarcely restrained herself from hugging the younger girl in joyous greeting. But Yvonne was not wearing the expression of someone who is in the mood to love the whole world because of loving one special person. To the query, 'Sleep well?' Yvonne shrugged.r />
  'Okay—I usually do. And why are you so cheerful this morning?'

  Heavens! Did it show as much as that? Laurel turned to close her bedroom door before she followed Yvonne along the wide gallery. 'Why shouldn't I be cheerful?' she returned lightly.

  'Don't ask me—I haven't been at the cream!'

  Laurel gulped. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

  'Ho ho!' Yvonne giggled. 'You can't see yourself, Laurie.'

  For an awful moment Laurel wondered if by some mischance Yvonne had been out last night and witnessed that precious and revealing little interlude. She felt the tell-tale colour rushing into her cheeks as she exclaimed: 'Well, for heaven's sake tell me if I look frightful or something!'

  'Something, yes!' Yvonne paused at the top of the staircase and dissolved into further mirth. 'Honestly, Laurie, you're a scream. Of course you don't look frightful—you never do. But this is the first time I've seen you with your hair down and looking all sexy and give-it-to-me-quick instead of a prim old turn-off. That blouse… wow!'

  'Thank you!'

  'Well, you know what I mean. Who's it in aid of?'

  'Don't be ridiculous!'

  'Suit yourself. I say, can I borrow it some time?'

  'If you like.' Laurel felt the warmth begin to evaporate from her cheeks with the realisation that she should remember how outspoken Yvonne could be. Then the warmth came back as Yvonne turned and gave her another frankly assessing survey.

  'Of course it would look far better without a bra under it.'

  'Maybe.' Laurel's mouth tightened. 'But I haven't burned all mine yet, and you just remember what your father said.'

  'I've a shocking memory!' Yvonne giggled again, quite unabashed, and danced her fingers down the smooth, mellow old polish of the banister. 'Wish I dare slide down.'

  Laurel sighed under her breath, thankful there were some limits to Yvonne's daring. She still felt a twinge of hurt at Yvonne's blunt remark: a prim old turn-off, indeed. Was that really how she appeared to a sixteen-year-old? Did four years' seniority make so much difference?