She reached out wildly at the same moment as he relented and caught her again, and she found she was clinging frantically to him, her arms round his neck.
Again he lifted her, laughing openly now, and slowly slid her down within the circle of his arms, holding her imprisoned so that her toes scarcely reached the ground.
'I wonder…' he said softly, 'a paragon of English virtues. Are you, my chiquita? I hope not.'
'You hope not! What do you mean?'
'Paragons are cold goddesses, without the fire of the spirit to warm a man's veins and excite his senses. No, I would not wish you to be that kind of paragon, seňorita.'
Laurel tried to convince herself that she had not really heard those words, and to keep her cheek away from the sensuous contact with sleek cream silk shirt and the hard male warmth beneath it. She said weakly, 'Seňor, please be serious… We—we were talking about Carlota.'
'Were we?'
'Yes—it was a mistake—if you've given her the impression that I am here to be a sort of companion with authority,' she murmured feverishly, 'perhaps even spying on her. It's only natural that she will resent me, even hate me. I would feel exactly the same.'
'Would you?' His arms slackened and his hands moved lingeringly down to the small of her back. 'You are trembling, seňorita. You are not afraid of my temperamental cousin?'
'No, of course not.' Laurel avoided his dark, discerning gaze, well aware that the tremors running through her body were certainly not induced by fear of Carlota. 'It's just that I—'
'The spray has caught you. My foolish—how do you say it?—horseplay?—has caused you distress. Your dress is quite damp.'
It was also somewhat disarranged. Laurel tugged it down as he released her, and felt the colour flow into her cheeks as she realised two of the buttons had come undone. Her fingers felt clumsy as they tried to discipline the silky material, and awareness of his rather pointed turning away did not make their task any easier.
'I should not concern yourself too much with Carlota's tantrums, seňorita,' he said at last, his features grave and controlled now. 'My grandmother is, alas, frail, but Carlota is still a little afraid of her. Come, we will return, and I think we will find a more civilised young lady awaiting us.'
He touched Laurel's arm and she looked up enquiringly.
His mouth curved sardonically. 'I sent her to her room with instructions to dress herself more fittingly before paying her respects to her grandmother.'
The sun had gone now to its bed of crimson glory and the violet shadows of the evening were deepening across the garden and touching the old stone walls of the Castillo with long fingers of indigo. Already the night blossoms were giving out their scents and the promise of yet another perfect sub-tropical evening lingered on the still air with its subtle invitation to the senses. But Laurel was anxious only to get indoors to sanity. She was still shaken from the interlude by the fountain, even as cool common sense told her that the Conde had once more chosen to amuse himself with the English seňorita whose path had crossed his somewhat disastrously—disastrously for her!—on two occasions already, and she could not shake off a feeling of premonition that further disaster and Carlota were inextricably linked in the future.
The Conde's long, leisurely strides halted as the path widened and the steps to the terrace glimmered ahead. Laurel also stopped and looked at him with unhidden anxiety in her eyes. 'You leave tomorrow?'
He inclined his head.
'You will be away for long?'
'No. One week, perhaps two. Not more. I must return before our annual romeria.'
'Is that a festival—special to the island?'
'It is a pilgrimage as well as festival, and yes, it is very special to Destino.' The Conde paused, one hand resting on the stone balustrade, and looked into Laurel's enquiring gaze. 'It is our commemoration of the Little Virgin or Destino—Nuestra Seňora de la Fuente—you have not yet visited our shrine?'
Laurel shook her head. 'No—is it far from here?'
'A mere seven kilometros or so. It is quite a climb, perhaps, but in the fervour of the occasion one does not seem to notice it. Each year, on the twentieth of May, we make our pilgrimage in honour of the day when our eternal fount was given miraculously to the island in a time of great drought, when our young tender crops shrivelled in a harsh sun and our cattle perished for lack of water. On that day long ago our priest led the islanders in a day and night of special prayer to Our Lady, and our prayers were granted. In a tiny cave Our Lady brought a spring of pure crystal water from the arid rock, and since then it has never been known to dry up all down through our recorded history.'
His voice had softened, losing its normal ring of authority, and Laurel felt strangely moved. She knew that there were many similar legends which were similarly celebrated, but it was none the less moving when one was actually present at the source.
The Conde went on: 'So each year, after special Mass, we make our pilgrimage to the hills and the ermita by the shrine. There we give thanks, and afterwards we feast and celebrate in the grounds of the Castillo. Ah,' he smiled down at her, 'it is a great occasion. I am happy that you will be with us.'
'Thank you, seňor. I shall look forward to it,' Laurel responded gravely, then obeyed his light touch and began to ascend the steps to the terrace.
In silence they entered the Castillo, the Conde with that slight smile of good humour playing about his handsome mouth again, but Laurel felt unaccountably depressed. Her earlier anger at Carlota's unfriendly attack had long since vanished, and so had the wild feeling of elation evoked by the little interlude by the fountain—he could evoke happiness in her so easily, she reflected wryly. But even the thought of the romeria to look forward to could- not banish this air of foreboding that had settled like a pall on her spirit. Suddenly the Conde's time of absence seemed to stretch ahead endlessly, bleak and empty, a germinating period… For what?
Laurel tried desperately to shake off the dull weight of depression, telling herself she was being foolish. She had no concrete reason for fear, had she? There was no real reason why Carlota, or anyone else for that matter, should wish her harm. So why this depression?
She forced a smile as she went to greet the Condesa, who waited for them in the big sala, with a now quiet and gracious Carlota—almost demure in a beautiful, high-necked, simply cut white dress—at her side. Yvonne had also returned, and she too looked unusually sedate and on her best behaviour.
The Conde poured wine, and the talk was light and cordial. But still Laurel wished with all her heart that he was not going away…
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Conde departed immediately after breakfast the following morning.
Laurel watched him go and wished she didn't feel as though he were taking part of her with him. She had not slept very well, and it was useless to deny to herself the truth of the reason why; by the time he returned to Destino it would almost be time for her to leave. There would be the romeria, and then only another week remaining before the day provisionally fixed for the return home of herself and Yvonne. Just this moment, seeing his tall figure in cream pants and dark brown shirt, casual suede jacket slung carelessly over his shoulder, get into the car and raise his hand in farewell salute, gave her a heart-shaking pang of loss. Just a forewarning of the emptiness of the days ahead —and all the rest of the days when he and his island were only memories.
She swallowed hard. There had also been the persistent nag of her conscience during the long wakeful hours. The nag that told her she was still shirking an unpleasant task; that of telling him the truth behind her presence on Destino. At first she had felt it was right that her loyalty and sympathy should be on the side of her employer and Yvonne, and Yvonne's own entreaties had been totally genuine. But now… she desperately wanted to place herself on an honest footing as far as the Conde was concerned—the sense of deceit was unbearable, she felt like a spy!—yet she dreaded what his reaction might be. All this painful division of loyaltie
s had kept her awake and still she had not found her answer. How to tell him and convince him that she had never intended a deliberate deception, and make him understand how the circumstances of her arrival at the Castillo had been beyond her control. But would he understand? She remembered his anger, the arrogance of his unassailable strength, and her heart quailed. Soon it would be too late. Wouldn't it be better and easier to stay silent? In a short while it would all be over, and the likelihood of ever meeting him again in the more nebulous future was extremely remote. The very thought started the miserable black ache again…
'Miss Daneway…?'
The attractively accented voice at her shoulder made her start. She turned to meet the wide, direct gaze of Carlota.
The Spanish girl flashed a brilliant smile. 'Or may I address you as Laurel?'
'Of course.' Laurel forced a smile, still wary of the unknown quantity of the Conde's young cousin. 'Please do—Carlota.'
'Thank you.' Carlota hesitated, then bit her lip with apparent ruefulness. 'I should have said last night… Will you accept my apologies for my so bad manners yesterday? But I was so angry—I did not realise what I was saying. You will forgive me, si?'
Laurel was instantly disarmed. It was difficult to believe that this charming, attractive girl and the tempestuous spitfire of yesterday were one and the same. 'Yes, of course!' She smiled warmly, thankful and relieved that a friendly footing should be established when she had expected sulks and cold unfriendliness.
'Good. And now perhaps—'
'Laurie—' Yvonne bounded down the stairs, 'we're going swimming now. Carlota's going to show me a special little cove—we're going to ride there. Okay?'
Before Laurel could reply the Spanish girl broke in: 'But perhaps Laurel will accompany us?'
'She doesn't ride—and she has a date every morning with your grandmother,' Yvonne said carelessly. 'Are you ready?'
'In a moment. I must tell Abuelita.'
'I think she's going to be fun,' Yvonne remarked when Carlota had vanished in the direction of the Condesa's suite. 'D'you know, she's six months older than me. But I think I look a bit older—of course I'm taller. Don't you think so?'
Laurel tried to hide amusement, knowing how much Yvonne yearned to be twenty and worldly. 'It depends —on how grown-up a mood she happens to be in and how grown-down a mood you happen to be in at the same time.'
'Oh, you're mean!' Yvonne pouted, but she was too excited to take umbrage.
A little while later the two girls set off. They had changed into jeans and shirts, long hair flowing and their laughter ringing out across the courtyard of the castillo as the groom brought out the horses.
The Condesa had walked stiffly into the main hall, and there was a wistful look in her fine old eyes as she leaned on her silver-topped cane and watched the girls urge their mounts into a trot through the high archway of the castillo and out into the open country beyond.
'They speak the same new language, the language of youth which knows no frontiers,' the Condesa observed with a sigh. 'Ah, it is so different today.' She turned and began to make her way back to her world, now made small with the confines of infirmity, leaning slightly on Laurel's arm. When she reached the sunlit patio outside her sitting room she sank painfully into her high chair and gave Laurel a wry glance.
'You should be with them, child, not wasting the sunlit hours pandering to the whims of an infirm old woman.'
'I can't ride—and I don't consider one hour in the morning a waste. It's little enough return for your kindness in making us so welcome,' Laurel said firmly.
The Condesa dismissed this with a wave of her hand. 'No, my dear. I am well aware that my grandson's motive in bringing you here was somewhat less than altruistic. At least he did not make a secret of it—or so he assures me.'
The Condesa sounded tired, and as though she did not entirely approve of her grandson's arrangements. Laurel's own guilt surfaced instantly and she said quickly: 'No, Doňa Luisa. It is I who have cause to be grateful to your grandson.'
'Really?' A sparkle of curiosity lit the Condesa's eyes and she turned her head. 'That sounded quite fervent, my dear.'
Had the Conde not told his grandmother of that fervent-sounding reason? It seemed not, Laurel thought with relief and a flood of warm affection that he had kept her somewhat embarrassing secrets! Aware of the Condesa waiting, she said slowly, 'Yes, Doňa Luisa— he helped me out of a very awkward situation, a few days after we had arrived here. For that I shall always be grateful.'
There was a pause, then the Condesa smiled. 'It is a painful memory, and you do not wish to relive it at this moment? I understand, my dear. Certainly I am grateful that your appreciation has taken this form. I do not think I could have maintained my patience with Carlota during my grandson's absence. She is a dear child really, but oh, so exhausting! She would have been bored and resentful if left to amuse herself, but now the problem is solved. I do hope they become good friends…'
The Condesa's hope was certainly realised during the next few days. Yvonne and Carlota became almost inseparable, riding, swimming, playing together, sharing confidences and developing a close, intense camaraderie that shut out Laurel completely.
She tried not to mind the secrecy of their conversations, which would either cease or mute to whispers and giggles as soon as she appeared, and supposed she should be thankful that she was left with plenty of free time to complete her own research for Mr Searle.
Her folder was becoming quite bulky now, and she decided it was time to begin sketching a new map of the island, adding a code of symbols of her own as a key to her notes. It seemed the best way to collate all the random jottings and make it easier to recall everything clearly when she got home and set it all out for Mr Searle.
She had also taken quite a lot of colour film, which would not be processed until she returned, and she was becoming confident that she was compiling as comprehensive a picture of Destino's potential as she could with her novice's knowledge. Not for the first time she wished she could draw more skilfully and possessed more technical ability to assess what she saw. Those water towers, for instance. There were three of them, stepped up the hillside not far from where she sat, walls dazzling white in the bright sun. She knew that their function was to catch and pump up the water from the little hillside rivulets, but what their capacity might be she had no means of knowing. And the one person who could tell her she dared not ask…
What would be his reaction? Laurel bit her lip and stared across the peaceful vista with troubled eyes. If only Mr Searle had not bound her to secrecy for the time being! After all, it was only a preliminary survey, and if, as she suspected, water was indeed a precious commodity on the island her boss's hopes might well be dashed for that reason alone, apart from any other. So it was not yet time to begin delicate probes, to sound out the possibility of co-operation from the Master of Destino.
If only she had not met him and become his guest. It wouldn't seem so underhand… Laurel shook her head. No, she didn't wish that! Why couldn't she be honest? He was the most wonderful, exciting man she had ever met in her entire life. Just to think of him started shivers down her spine, and just to think of his opinion of her if he learned the true purpose of her visit made shivers of another kind possess her body.
Suddenly she made up her mind. She would tell him, the very first opportunity she had after his return. She must. Because if Mr Searle did decide to come out himself to discuss the possibility of opening a holiday centre on the island the Conde would have to know, and he would be so angry at the part she had played that he would probably refuse to begin negotiations at all. It was only logical to reason it out this way, and Mr Searle would be the first to understand.
She felt happier, as though a weight had lifted off her mind with this decision, even though she knew she would be scared when the moment of truth arrived. She gathered up her notes, added a question mark to the water towers, and stood up. Although the island was ideal for activity holiday
s, for riding, walking, swimming, fishing, and climbing, with scenic views to delight an artist's heart, she could not help hoping secretly that her boss's plan might come to naught. Destino should be left unspoilt and undiscovered. She could not bear the thought of attractive women and provocative girls coming to Destino, perhaps making their way to the Conde's beach as she herself had done, perhaps meeting him, perhaps…
Yvonne and Carlota overtook her as she made her way back to the castillo. They slowed their mounts and looked down at her.
'You enjoy walking, Laurel?' the Spanish girl asked.
'Very much.' Laurel shaded her eyes against the sun's glare as she looked up. 'Have you had a nice morning?'
'Yes, thank you.' Carlota's smile held a tinge of superiority. 'It is a pity you do not ride—you are missing so much, Laurel.'
'Am I?' Laurel was aware of being made to feel wanting in accomplishments and tried to suppress a flash of resentment. After all, she could swim, dance, play a passable game of tennis, read a music score, and she also worked for her living; there were limits to the accomplishments one could fit into one's spare time.
Yvonne giggled. 'Oh, Laurie's experienced this top-of-the-world feeling all right—she has been up on Caesar, you know.'
'On Caesar?' Carlota reined to a halt. 'You have ridden my cousin's stallion? I do not believe it!'
'Oh, he was on as well!' Yvonne giggled.
Laurel flung a furious glance at Yvonne, and the giggle died from the younger girl's face. 'Sorry, didn't mean to give your secret away, Laurie. It—it was only a sort of joke, Carlota—Laurel couldn't ride Caesar if you gave her a million pounds!'
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