Anne Mather - The Spaniard's Seduction

by The Spaniard's Seduction (lit)

  'You haven't told him'?' Enrique knew it was a pointless question. Obviously she hadn't or she would have said so.

  'No.' Elena gathered the folds of the robe at her throat and gave him a haughty look. 'You brought that woman and her son to Tuarega, Enrique. It is your duty to tell your father who they are.'

  'They are your daughter-in-law and your grandson, Mami,' retorted Enrique, feeling the nerves coiling lightly in his stom­ach. 'You cannot dispute that.'

  His mother drew a deep breath. ‘The boy is a de Montoya,' she agreed. 'Of that there is no doubt.’

  ‘Then?’

  'But he has not been brought up as a de Montoya, Enrique,’ she exclaimed impatiently. 'As he would have been if he had been your son.'

  'He is my son. Mama.'

  It was as easy as that. The words simply formed themselves and before he could consider their impact they had slipped out, as clear and as damning as the conviction behind them.

  His mother stared at him blankly for a moment. Her eyes dilated, mirroring the numbing effect of his words, and it was apparent that she was in a state of shock.

  He would have gone to her then but she waved him away, moving to the armchair nearest to her and groping for its sup­port. Like a much older woman than she actually was. she lowered herself onto this cushioned seat and sat for several seconds just gazing at him as if she'd never seen him before.

  Then, when his own skin was feeling clammily damp with sweat, she spoke again. Why didn't you tell me this before?'

  'As you told me you had discussed David's future with Sanchia?' Enrique sighed. 'I didn't know before last night.'

  His mother avoided his question and asked one of her own. 'You expect me to believe that?'

  'It's the truth.'

  'But you must have—'

  'No.' Enrique's nostrils flared. 'No. I didn't. How could I? You know how Cassandra feels about me, about us. She didn't even want to come here, to Spain. That was David's idea; the letter was David's idea. If he hadn't written to Papa...'

  'We would never have known of his existence,' said his mother faintly, and Enrique nodded. 'But why not? Surely she must have known how we would have felt if we'd known she was expecting a child?'

  'My child?' suggested Enrique drily, and his mother came unsteadily to her feet.

  'Your child,' she said incredulously. Then, with harsh emphasis, 'How could you, Enrique? How could you? Your own brother's wife!'

  'She wasn't his wife when- when we—'

  'Spare me all the sordid details,' exclaimed Elena, shaking her head in distaste. 'I cannot believe this, Enrique. All the time that I was at Tuarega; all those hours I spent talking with David, believing he was Antonio's child.'

  Enrique shrugged. 'I am sorry.'

  'Sorry?' His mother looked up at him with bitter eyes. 'Sorry does not even begin to cover it.' She paused. 'But how do you know that woman—Cassandra—is not lying? How can you be sure that David is your son?'

  'He is,' said Enrique flatly.

  'But how—?'

  'She was a virgin when I made love to her,' replied Enrique harshly, and his mother winced. 'She and Antonio never had the chance to consummate their marriage. He was killed only hours after the wedding, remember?'

  'How could I forget?' asked Elena bleakly, and then glanced round apprehensively when Bonita came back carrying a tray of coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice.

  The housemaid greeted her mistress warmly, setting the tray on the table nearest to where she was sitting before turning to Enrique. 'Some toast or a croissant, perhaps, señor?' she sug­gested. 'I have some home-made strawberry conserve.'

  'The coffee will do, Bonita,' he replied with a small smile. 'Thank you.'

  'And you, señora?'

  'Nothing, nothing.' Elena waved an agitated hand at the housemaid. 'Leave us.' This as the woman went to pour the coffee. 'My son can take care of it. He seems to think he can handle everything else.'

  'Yes, señora.'

  Bonita withdrew, but not before she had exchanged a star­tled look with Enrique, and after she had gone he pulled a wry face. ‘There's no need to take your feelings out on the staff,' he remarked reprovingly. 'It's not Bonita's fault that you're stressed.'

  Elena's lips tightened. ‘Nor mine either,' she reminded him tightly. 'And please don't use that language in my presence. You are a de Montoya, Enrique. That should mean something to you.'

  'It does,' he said flatly, it means arrogance, and pride, and an overwhelming belief in one's own importance in the scheme of things. But do you know what, Mama? All of a sudden that sounds awfully hollow to me.'

  'Because you've just found out that you have a son you never knew?' she demanded contemptuously. 'We all make mistakes, Enrique. Even you.'

  'Yes, we do,' he agreed, suddenly wanting to be out of the apartment and away from this dried-up old woman who always believed she was right. 'But you'll never guess what my mis­take was. Never in a million years!'

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ENRIQUE didn't return to Tuarega that evening.

  Cassandra had spent the morning in a state of extreme agitation, sure he would want more of an explanation than she had given him the night before and steeling herself to face his anger. But her lunch had been served without any explanation being given for his departure, and she consoled herself with the thought that the longer he stayed away, the shorter time there would he left for them to remain at the palacio when he got back.

  She was reluctant to consider what he might be thinking, if he had believed her, she didn't want to contemplate what his actions might be. No matter how attractive the proposition, the possibility that he might have dismissed what she'd told him as pure fabrication became more and more unlikely as each hour passed. He'd believed her, she thought sickly, and now she had to ponder how she was going to deal with it.

  The most attractive option was to leave Tuarega. The idea of calling a cab, of loading herself and David into it and driv­ing to the airport to catch a flight back to England, was almost irresistible. But she couldn't do that. Apart from anything else, she doubled David would want to go with her and, while she could override his wishes, sooner or later she was going to have to face the consequences of what she'd done.

  Why had she done it? she had asked herself again that af­ternoon, having left the palacio in search of her son and found herself standing at the rail of one of the paddocks where some of Enrique's bulls had been grazing the lush grass. Why had she told him? No one had forced her hand. However loath she might be to admit it, hadn't she secretly just been waiting for a chance to cut the ground out from under him? To wipe the smug smile from his face once and for all?

  She had shuddered, wrapping her arms about herself as the cold suspicion took root. She didn't want to admit that she'd found any pleasure in telling him. She hadn't, she assured herself fiercely. But she must have hurt him and that was an emotion she could identify with very well.

  'Señora?'

  It had been Carlos, his lined face wearing an anxious ex­pression, and Cassandra had wondered if Enrique had confided in him before taking off for God knew where.

  'Hi,' she said, forcing a smile. And then, nodding towards the bulls, one or two of whom had lifted their heads and were regarding them with disconcerting interest. 'I was just admir­ing the stock.'

  'Si, señora.' Although Carlos spoke a little English he un­derstood considerably more and he looked at the powerful herd with a certain amount of pride. Then, with a shrug, 'But you do not like los toros, no?'

  Cassandra tried to be objective. 'I have nothing against the animals exactly...'

  ‘But you do not like the—um—bullfight, si?'

  'Si,' agreed Cassandra, resting her elbows on the rail and gazing at the bulls with doubtful eyes. 'It's—cruel.'

  'Ah, cruel.' Carlos used the Spanish pronunciation. 'Many things are cruel, señora.' He paused. 'El toro dies a—how would you say?—a death valeroso, no?'

  'A valiant
death? No.' Cassandra was diverted from her own problems by his teasing provocation. ‘The bull dies in pain; in agony. It bleeds to death, doesn't it?'

  'Ah, no.' Carlos lifted one finger and shook it from side to side. 'El torero, he kills with la estocada. His sword. Into the neck, so!'

  'I'd rather not hear the details.' Cassandra shivered and the old man smiled.

  ' Señor Enrique: he was Like you when he was younger.'

  'Enrique?' She couldn't believe it.

  'Pero, si.' Carlos watched one of the bulls that was ap­proaching them with wary eyes. 'Even today, he does not at­tend the corrida, señora. These are his bulls; his toros bravos.

  But he has no wish to know what happens to them after they leave, entiende usted?'

  Cassandra shook her head, remembering what she had said to Enrique, what she'd accused him of. Dear God, was there no pan of their relationship that had not suffered from mis­understandings? Was she always to feel the ignominy of being in the wrong?

  'Come, señora.' Carlos indicated the bull which was now only a few feet away and was watching them with sharp beady eyes. 'We would not want to offend nuestros companeros, no? Let me escort you back to the palacio. Señor Enrique would never forgive me if anything happened to you.'

  Cassandra went with him, but she doubted Enrique cared what happened to her. From his point of view, it would make his life considerably less complicated if she were to go back to England. Alone, of course. After her revelations, he would have even more reason to want to keep David here.

  David himself was another matter. She didn't honestly know how her son would react if he was given the choice. He loved her; of course he did. But he loved being here, at Tuarega. And it was bound to be a temptation if Enrique explained that it would all be his some day.

  Depression enveloped her. All this, and she still hadn't taken into account how her son would feel when he learned the truth. Would he blame her for keeping him from his father? Would he ever understand her dilemma after the way the de Montoyas had treated her?

  Somehow, she doubled it. In David's world, things were either black or white, bad or good, and telling lies did not come naturally to him. It was one of the things she had always loved about him. His candour, and his honesty; his willingness to lake the blame if he was at fault. But he wasn't at fault now. She was. Ana she didn't know what to do about it.

  Then, that evening, she got a call from her father.

  She'd left a forwarding address with the proprietor of the pension where they'd stayed in Punta del Lobo, mainly be­cause she hadn't wanted to phone her father and tell him where they were going. She'd known Mr Scott wouldn't approve and it would have taken too long to explain the situation to him. Or that was what she'd told herself. Foolishly, she'd imagined that all explanations could wait until they got home, but now it seemed her father had decided to ring and assure himself that all was well and they hadn't been there.

  'What's going on, Cass?' he demanded, as soon as she came on the line. 'I thought you told me you had no intention of contacting Antonio's family.'

  'I didn't,' said Cassandra quickly, aware of David standing behind her, listening to every word. 'I—David wanted to meet them.' She glanced over her shoulder. 'He's here. Do you want to have a word with him?'

  'No, I want to know why you'd go to Tuarega without tell­ing me where you were,' retorted her father shortly. 'For heaven's sake, Cass! Don't I deserve an explanation?'

  'Of course you do.' Cassandra sighed, and David came to stand by her shoulder. 'Look, we can't talk on the phone. We'll be home in a few days. I'll tell you all about it then.'

  'Is that Grandad?' asked David, catching on. 'Let me say hello.'

  'In a minute.' Cassandra felt as if she was wedged between a rock and a hard place. 'Dad, give me the chance to explain.'

  'Explain what?' He was angry. 'You had all this planned, didn't you, Cass? You knew exactly what you were going to do before you left England. All that talk about worrying whether the de Montoyas might find out where you were was all—rubbish, wasn't it?'

  'No.' Cassandra was hurt that he should think so. 'I had no idea that David—'

  She broke off, not wanting to tell him what her son had done, but her father wouldn't leave it there.

  'You had no idea that David—what?' Mr Scott snorted. 'You're not going to tell me that this was his idea?'

  'It was.' Cassandra sighed again. 'Here: I'll put him on. He can tell you about it himself.'

  David took the phone eagerly, and before his grandfather could speak, he exclaimed, 'You ought to see this place. Grandad! It's fantastic! It's got a gym and a swimming pool, and as well as the horses that Tio Enrique rides there are about u hundred bulls! They're great! A bit scary, sometimes, but Tio Enrique says that so long as you're careful, they won't hurt you.'

  'David. David!’ Cassandra could hear her father trying to calm him down. 'Let me speak to your mother again, will you, son? I'll hear all about the holiday when you get back.'

  David's face dropped. 'But Grandad—'

  'Not now, David.' Cassandra knew her father was having difficulty in controlling his temper. 'Put your mother on. This call is costing me a fortune.'

  David handed the phone to Cassandra with ill grace. ‘Here.’ he said, pushing his hands into the pockets of his shorts and staring defiantly at her. 'Why should I speak to him anyway? He's never been interested in what I do.'

  'That's not true,' protested Cassandra, horrified, covering the phone with her hand. 'David, your grandfather has always eared about your welfare. Where would we have been without him. that's what I'd like to know? Don't be such a baby. He's worried because we'd left the pension without telling him, that's all.' She paused. 'Go and gel your pyjamas on. It's nearly time for bed.'

  David left the room without speaking and she hoped she was not going to have to mediate between him and her father. She seemed to be spending her time lurching from one crisis to another, and it scented to be the pattern at the moment for her to be the scapegoat for everyone's grievances.

  Somehow, she managed to placate her father without telling him about David's letter. She sensed that that would infuriate him still more, and, after assuring Mr Scott that in an emer­gency she would do as he suggested and use her credit card to get an earlier flight home, she managed to end the call. But he wasn't satisfied, she knew that, and he would demand a full explanation when she got back. Someone else, she thought drily. How many more explanations would she have to make?

  She awakened the next morning feeling more hungover than she'd done the previous day. She had slept; exhaustion had seen to that. But her sleep had been shallow and punctuated with nightmare scenes of David being pursued by one of Enrique's fighting bulls, its beady eyes red and glittering with malevolence.

  She crawled out of bed feeling sick and headachy, her mouth tasting foul, and her skin sticky with the sweat her dreams had generated. Even a shower did little to lift her mood, and when she emerged from her bedroom to find David tucking into butter-slathered rolls and freshly squeezed orange juice, she thought how unfair life was.

  'Hi, Mum,' he said, his expression considerably more cheer­ful than it had been the right before. 'T know where Tio Enrique is. He's in Seville. He's gone to fetch Grandpapa home. Isn't that exciting?'

  Cassandra swallowed. Exciting wasn't the word she'd have used to describe her feelings at the thought of seeing Julio de Montoya again. She couldn't even claim to have met him be­fore. A stiff black-suited figure at the service Cassandra had held for her late husband, he hadn't so much as exchanged a word with his daughter-in-law. He'd saved all his comments for the priest who'd conducted the service, and her nerves prickled at the thought of his anger when he discovered the secret she'd been keeping from them all these years.

  'How do you know?' she asked obliquely, pouring herself a cup of the strong coffee Consuela had provided for them. Carlos had said nothing to her, but then the old man was always excessively discreet where his emp
loyer was con­cerned.

  'Consuela told me,' David replied at once, helping himself to another roll. 'They'll be home later today. According to her. Grandpapa is leaving the hospital this morning. He'll he surprised to meet me, won't he?'

  ‘No doubt.' Cassandra tried to keep the anxiety out of her voice. 'Um—just don't expect too much, will you, David? I mean, your grandfather's been very ill. He may need a few days to—to recover from the journey.'

  David's eyes darkened with a mixture of doubt and resent­ment. 'But Tio Enrique said Grandpapa would be pleased to hear he had a grandson,' he protested peevishly. 'Are you sure that's not just you hoping we won't get on? I mean he is my dad's father. I think he'll be rapt when he knows we're here,'

  Cassandra couldn't imagine Julio de Montoya being rapt about anything, least of all a grandson who was half her blood. She was still the outsider as far as he was concerned. And nothing that had happened since she arrived in Spain had given her any reason to think that that was likely to change.

  Apparently preferring Juan's company to hers, David dis­appeared after breakfast and, left to herself, Cassandra decided to start packing their belongings. It would give her something to do, and although there were still a few more days before they were due back at Punta del Lobo to catch the bus which would take them to Seville airport, it made her feel as if she was doing something positive for a change.

  It was early afternoon when she heard the car. She didn't want to admit that she'd been listening for it, but she had. She found herself going out into the sunlit courtyard and staring out across the wide sweep of the valley, wondering with a shameful sense of apprehension if Julio de Montoya would want to see her. Not today, she assured herself firmly. When he was rested, perhaps. She had no illusions as to who would bear the brunt of her father-in-law's wrath, but he must need time to recover his strength.

  In fact it was less than an hour before she heard the sound of footsteps crossing the marble floor of the salon. Cassandra was still in her bedroom, pretending to be engrossed in sorting through the contents of her cosmetics bag, when a shadow lilted the open doorway and she looked up to find Enrique standing there, watching her.