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Black Lion of Skiapelos

Page 9

by Annabel Murray


  'Marianthe will stay with Chryssanti. They are close in age.'

  'But that would mean Marianthe missing the wedding,' Lena objected.

  'Such events are no novelty to her. You are a visitor to our islands.'

  And soon Marianthe would have her own wedding to look forward to, Lena reflected miserably.

  Chryssanti didn't seem to care who stayed with her, or in fact if anyone did.

  'I want to go home,' she told Lena between renewed sobs. 'I wish we'd never come here. I hate this place. I hate Greece, and most of all I hate Dimitri Mavroleon!'

  'It's not his fault,' Lena tried to reason with her. Personally she liked Dimitri, who was about her own age— a quieter, more introverted character than his younger brothers, Christos and Manoli.

  She was glad she'd attended the wedding, even though the happiness of bride and groom and the traditional ceremony were a poignant reminder of Marcos's unattainability.

  It took place in the old harbour village through which she'd passed on her arrival, and once again their transport was the patient donkeys. The wedding was an interesting and lovely spectacle. In one of the blue-domed churches bride and groom stood before the chanting white-robed and bearded priest. White crowns, bound together by a white ribbon, were placed on their heads, and the best man exchanged them back and forth. The newly-weds were then led around the altar three times, while the guests pelted them with fertility-bringing rice and flower petals. The ceremony over, every guest was given a boboniera—a small gift of sweetened almonds.

  The marriage service was followed by a feast. Long tables had been set up in the streets down by the tiny harbour. Under the benevolent gaze of the priest, the guests consumed course after course, washed down with sweet white wine and finishing only as the sun dipped below the horizon. Then came the dancing—in the little village square, lit by flares and by moonlight. Many of the dancers were in costume, the women in full, colourful skirts banded with white, little pillbox hats and embroidered boleros. The men wore dark baggy trousers, wide cummerbunds and sleeveless jackets over full-sleeved white shirts. There was a touch of the Oriental in the plaintive music of violins, lutes and guitars.

  'In the past,' Marcos told Lena, 'the celebrations would have gone on for five days.'

  'You mean,' she said a trifle acidly, 'that you've actually done away with a tradition?' She felt a sudden desire to needle him, to vent her frustrations in conflict. But, instead of taking offence, he chuckled hugely.

  'You have taken against our traditions, Helena. Why is this? I wonder. Have they affected you adversely in some way?' He was too shrewd, or thought he was.

  'Not at all,' she said coldly. 'But I've seen what they can do to people I like—Irini and now Chrys.'

  'My dear Helena,' he said, at last showing some exasperation, 'do you seriously think that because Chryssanti fancies herself in love with Christos, he should immediately throw aside his plans—plans made many years ago—and marry her instead?' He might have been speaking on his own account and Lena bit her lip, which had developed an ominous tendency to tremble.

  'No, of course not,' she muttered. 'She's too young to know her own mind. I realise that.'

  'Then I fail to see your point.'

  'There wasn't one.' Not one that she was prepared to discuss with him anyway. 'Oh, for heaven's sake,' she cried, 'let's drop the subject! We'll never agree.'

  'True,' he assented. 'And that is because we come from different cultures. Is that not an argument against mixed marriages, such as Irini's?'

  In Irini's case it had proved very successful, Lena thought, but she felt sure Marcos wasn't just thinking of his aunt, and she didn't feel like arguing any more.

  'How much longer do we have to stay?' she asked abruptly.

  'It would be considered discourteous to leave until the dancing is over. Come,' he smiled and extended his hand to her, 'I believe you do not dislike our dances. That is one tradition you may approve of.'

  'I don't feel like dancing. I'll sit and watch.'

  'If you do not dance with me you will surely be claimed by another partner who will not take no for an answer. Many men are watching us with envy.'

  Stubbornly, she shook her head.

  'I'll take a chance on that.'

  'You will not!' The smile had gone and his hand shot out and grasped her arm. 'We Greeks do not like to be refused, and I will not watch you dance with someone else.'

  'You've got no right to monopolise me,' she gasped as he pulled her hard into his arms.

  'Have I not?' He tilted her chin to look into blue eyes stormy with anger. 'Have I not, Helena?'

  'No,' she said more firmly than she felt. 'I don't belong to you.'

  'Not yet, perhaps.' His grasp tightened.

  What did he mean by 'not yet'? He was betrothed elsewhere. They both knew that. Surely he hadn't got the unmitigated gall to imagine that she would be prepared to have an affair with him? She couldn't very well ask him, and he didn't seem disposed to continue the argument. He seemed content to dance, holding her closely, and with each dance her torment grew. Sexual tension lay between them, sharp as a spur. She could feel his body hardening with desire. The clean, masculine scent of his body assailed her nostrils, and she felt small and helpless in his clasp.

  She stumbled slightly and he looked down into her eyes.

  'Tired?' he asked, and without waiting for an answer went on, 'Lean on me. I won't let you fall.'

  She felt herself getting lost in the dark depths of his eyes and she was achingly aware of his heavy breath as his ribcage rose and fell against her soft breasts. And he knew the effect he was having on her, damn him.

  'Please, Marcos,' she pleaded, her voice thick and husky. 'I don't want to dance any more.'

  'Very well.' His ready compliance should have made her suspicious. An arm still around her waist, he led her away from the circling couples, away from the lighted square.

  'I just meant I wanted to sit down,' she protested as their steps led them up one of the steep, narrow streets, further and further away from the music, the voices and the laughter.

  'In a moment,' he soothed.

  High above the village, a green olive-clad hill overlooked the flat roofs of the houses, the blue-domed churches and the moonlit harbour. A jagged semicircle of rocks formed a natural shelter. Here, engulfed in the sweet perfume of the herb-covered hillside, Marcos pulled her down beside him on the rustling sun-dried grass. As he gazed into her face, Lena felt her pulses humming in her ears. Slowly, heat suffused her body and she couldn't look away from him. She couldn't seem . to think clearly.

  'Helena,' he murmured, 'beautiful Helena.' At the sound of his voice, desire flooded her and she began to tremble. She felt her nipples' tingling response as they tightened and thrust against the cotton material of her dress.

  'Marcos, I don't think…'

  'No,' he agreed, 'don't think, just feel.' His arms circled her then, pulling her into the hard planes of his body, fitting her soft curves to him, to his burgeoning arousal.

  With a little defeated moan she closed her eyes and slid her arms around his neck, parting her lips for him. His mouth closed fiercely over hers, claiming it in a hungrily passionate, possessive kiss. His tongue probed, tasting, exciting her, in an erotic simulation of lovemaking.

  The kiss went on and on, deepening, growing hotter, more demanding. Marcos's hands found the tiny buttons that fastened her bodice, and his hands slipped inside, cupping her breasts, teasing their budding tips, kneading the soft flesh with his strong fingers. Her body throbbed and burned. Yet some dim instinct prompted her to groan a protest.

  'But I want to touch you, Helena,' he murmured insistently. 'To touch you, to taste you.' His mouth opened over one swollen nipple, suckling it gently. 'I wanted you from the first moment I saw you,' he muttered against her mouth. 'I tried to hold back until…' He broke off, then, 'But it is no use. I want to make love to you, Helena, now, tonight.'

  But, though she ached for h
im, her head was beginning to clear.

  'No, Marcos! No!' She thrust her hands against his shoulders, trying to push him away from her. But he was big and strong.

  'You want me too, Helena,' he told her. 'I know you do. Don't insult my intelligence and yours by denying it.'

  'All right,' she whispered. 'You can make me want you. I won't deny it. But I'm not going to give in to it. It's not right, Marcos. You're not free and I…'

  'If I were free,' he probed, 'what then?'

  'I don't know. How could I know? You can't theorise about a thing like that.'

  'If I were free, you would let me make love to you,' he insisted. 'I know it.' His hand brushed along the smooth length of her leg until it reached her thigh. 'Suppose I were to tell you I am not going to marry Marianthe?'

  'But you can't tell me that,' she said bitterly, pushing his hand away. 'And if you did I wouldn't believe you. Because you'd only be saying it to get what you want from me.'

  CHAPTER SIX

  'Well?' She challenged him as he released her. 'You can't tell me that, can you?'

  'No.' There was a weary note in the deep voice. 'No, I cannot tell you that, Helena. What I can tell you is that I will never take from you what you do not give willingly.' He stood up and offered her a helping hand. 'Come, we will return to the dance.'

  She ignored the hand, scrambling to her feet unaided.

  'I'd rather go back to the villa.' She hadn't far to look for an excuse. 'I'm still anxious about Chrys. I don't think she'll stay in Greece after this. I think she'll want to go home. And I shall go with her.' It was said as a kind of test. But Marcos did not react as she'd expected— or hoped?

  'Certainly she must not go unaccompanied. But are you sure she cannot be persuaded to stay? My grandfather has accepted her. He will not be pleased if she leaves now.'

  'Your grandfather gets too much of his own way,' Lena remarked tartly. 'The way he arranges his family's lives, it's pretty obvious he doesn't know what it's like to be in love.'

  'On the contrary.'

  'You mean his father didn't arrange his marriage for him?'

  'It is true his first two marriages were arranged, but…'

  'The first two! How many times has he been married, for heaven's sake?'

  'Three times—first to my grandmother—Katarina, then to Tina, Irini's mother. His third wife Rallia was the grandmother of Christos and his brothers. Sadly, Rallia died two years ago.'

  'And that marriage was not arranged?'

  'No. He was deeply in love with Rallia. For her sake he divorced Tina, antagonising her family, who had once been close friends with the Mavroleons. Now the families are sworn enemies.'

  Lena shook her head wonderingly.

  'I know he's your grandfather, Marcos, but I must say I think he's an old hypocrite.'

  As they returned to the square, the flares had been extinguished and the visitors from the villa had begun to disperse, clattering through the cobbled streets on their donkeys. It was a remarkably attractive sight, the steep setting of narrow alleys on a clear night of moonshine, with dark-shadowed hillside standing over the luminous white of the houses.

  Lena and Marcos rode in silence, each immersed in their own thoughts. As they neared the villa, dawn was stealing over the hilltops and vociferous birds greeted the days as the pearly foredawn was rent apart by the streaming rays of the sun.

  Chryssanti was asleep when Lena looked in on her. But it was obvious to Lena's keen gaze that the younger girl had cried herself to sleep. Sighing sympathetically over the anguish of love, Lena went to her own room to snatch a few badly needed hours of rest. She woke to find the household in an uproar.

  When the Black Lions of Skiapelos lost their tempers, they made it known. As Lena went out on to the patio where the family were assembled for a late breakfast, she found them in a subdued mood, but not because of the previous night's frivolities. From Thalassios's apartments nearby could be heard the sound of raised voices, the words indistinguishable but their mood unmistakable.

  'Whatever's going on?' Lena murmured as she slipped into a seat beside Chryssanti.

  'Marcos and my grandfather are having a terrible row. It's been going on for ages. But nobody seems to know what it's about.' The girl's mouth trembled and her tawny eyes were anxious. 'Do you think it's about me and…and Christos?' she whispered. 'People seem to tell Grandfather everything. I suppose it was that hateful Dimitri.'

  'Not necessarily,' Lena returned, her own voice lowered. 'I told Marcos… I'm sorry, Chrys,' as the girl gave an indignant gasp, 'but I thought he was the best person to ask if Dimitri was telling the truth.'

  Chryssanti's whisper became urgent.

  'And now Marcos has told my grandfather. Now everyone will know. Christos will know. I can't stand it. Oh, Lena, how soon can we get away from here?'

  But before Lena could confess her ignorance there was a lull in the raging argument. In the sudden silence the family looked at each other with uneasy, speculative eyes.

  Then Marcos strode out on to the patio. His rugged features were deeply flushed and drawn into lines of anger. The eloquent black eyes took in the assembled company in one sweeping glance, coming to rest on Lena's face.

  'Helena! There you are at last! How long will it take you to pack?'

  'Ten minutes. I didn't bring m…'

  'Right! Ten minutes, then. We're leaving!'

  'But what…?'

  'There's no time to discuss it. Not unless you want to be left behind.' He was gone, as rapidly as he'd appeared.

  Half-way to her room, Lena found Chryssanti at her heels.

  'I'm coming, too. I'm not staying here.'

  Lena stopped short. The poor kid. How could she have forgotten Chrys's problems?'

  'Oh, Chrys, I…'

  'You heard what Marcos said. There's no time to argue. I'm coming!'

  Marcos did not seem surprised to find both girls waiting for him.

  'What about Stephen?' Lena asked anxiously as Marcos hurried them out to the waiting limousine.

  'Stefanos has come home,' Marcos reassured her. 'He is happy and he will be well cared for.'

  'But your grandfather doesn't know Chrys is leaving,' Lena worried. 'Will that make any difference to the way he treats Stephen? Won't he be angry?'

  Marcos shrugged immaculately tailored shoulders.

  'He is already angry. But no, whatever else he is, he is a fair-minded man.' He patted her arm. 'Stop worrying, Helena, the child will be all right.'

  'So you don't think Chrys ought to stay?'

  'I wouldn't stay, whatever he thought—'

  Chryssanti began. She still did not like the eldest of her cousins.

  'Chryssanti!' Marcos cut sternly across her protest. 'Right or wrong, we seem to be taking you with us. Be satisfied. In any case, in a few weeks you will be of age. In your country that means you may please yourself?'

  'Yes.' Despite his tone, Chryssanti was placated. 'My birthday is the same day as Marianthe's. Isn't that a coincidence, Lena?'

  But on her birthday Marianthe couldn't do as she liked, Lena thought. She had to marry Marcos. But then, perhaps she wanted to.

  'You will have Marianthe's company on the voyage,' Marcos said, surprising them both, pleasing Chryssanti and filling Lena with foreboding. 'My great-aunt Arietta,' referring to the nun, 'is also aboard. She wishes to return early to Athens. But we are going to make a detour first, via Marianthe's home. I have to visit her parents.'

  Of course. There would be plans to be made for the forthcoming wedding, and the great-aunt would be there to play chaperon. It was just as well—Arietta's presence would also prevent Marcos from paying attention to herself, Lena mused; but it was not a consoling thought. On the contrary.

  'I think I'll go straight to my cabin, if you don't mind,' she said tautly. 'I've only had a few hours' sleep every night this week, and the tiredness is catching up with me.' She didn't add, as she might have done, 'with its attendant depression'. And she k
new it was not just lack of sleep that was affecting her mood.

  There was a very different atmosphere on board from that which had pervaded the outward voyage. Then, everyone had been in high spirits. On the return trip, without exception, the prevailing mood was one of mingled tension and gloom.

  Lena knew the reason for her own and Chryssanti's depression. But she could not fathom what lay behind the frame of mind of their three companions. Arietta Mavroleon was aloof and decidedly offhand in her attitude towards everyone. Marianthe's dark, piquant little face was drawn and often her eyes revealed apprehension. As for Marcos… Lena understood him least of all. He too was withdrawn, and there was a brooding impatience about him that would not let him rest, so that he was continuously striding the decks of his yacht.

  Since they'd left Skiapelos he had not exchanged more than two words with her, Lena thought miserably. For the sake of her conscience and self-respect she ought to be glad—particularly with his fiancée also on board. But, regardless of these strictures to herself, she missed and ached for his kisses, the caresses that had brought her body to such tingling, vital life.

  The day before they reached Mykonos, the meltemi, the wild, dry north-east wind, began to blow. At first it only ruffled the hitherto placid water. But at midday the sky paled hotly and the colour of the sea began to darken to an angry blue, whipped into a passion of myriad waves. The meltemi blew all day, fretting the sea into more and more ominous behaviour, that made Lena think sympathetically of the perils of the Odyssey. The scouring wind kept the Poseidon's passengers below decks.

  'It's not a day of bounatsa, of goodness,' Marianthe told Lena. 'It's not a day to be on the sea. And now the meltemi has come it will blow for days.'

  Out of the tearing wind the sun's heat was unabated, and, though at dusk there was a little coolness, it was an illusory refreshment. As the evening wore on, tempers were beginning to fray. Chryssanti was inclined to be tearful, even the gentle-natured Marianthe was heard to snap once or twice. And though her calling demanded patience and resignation Arietta played restlessly with the amber kombolaki, or worry beads reminiscent of a rosary, that many Greeks affected.

 

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