Isle of Desire

by Anne Hampson

  The two figures down there on the patio moved into the light and were then easily discernible. Dona Eduarda was attired in a slinky black dress and on both wrists the diamonds glittered like stars. Dom Duarte was in a dinner jacket and even from here the contrast of white shirt against the bronzed skin of his neck and face was startling. At last Laura turned and went from the balcony into her bedroom, walking slowly towards the long giltframed mirror, where she stood critically to examine the reflection that looked back at her. Of. only medium height, she had neither the self-assurance nor the cool confidence of the Portuguese girl. Height did make a difference, Laura decided, thinking of the Conde, and what his height did for him. She looked at her hair, a shining mass of russet-brown dropping to her shoulders. She had altered the style slightly and now the ends turned under in a pageboy bob. Her eyes ... Like her mother’s, her father had always said, large and beautiful and tender. Her mouth, generous but not large. Dona Eduarda’s mouth was wide and inviting and faintly sensuous, like the Conde’s. Despite the strong veneer of coldness that encompassed both Dom Duarte and his glamorous friend, Laura was in no doubt at all that they could display an inordinate passion in their lovemaking—Laura checked her thoughts with a swiftness born of embarrassment. She found she was actually blushing at her own mind-wanderings.

  And yet she could not check these visions of those two locked in a passionate embrace. She had noticed Dom Duarte’s hands, slender and perfectly-formed with the skin drawn tight and the nails immaculate. They were sensitive, yet she knew they had a hidden strength that could hurt if need be. And now she could imagine those attractive hands touching Dona Eduarda’s cheek, her neck, her firm mature curves ...

  With a frown and a shake of her head Laura turned from the mirror, sprayed her hair with perfume, then went from the room, her feelings very mixed as she imagined her own position at the dinner table. Surely the two would have preferred being together? Yet Dom Duarte had not given any indication that he would prefer Laura to dine elsewhere than in the lovely high-ceilinged saloon where a footman was ready to serve his master and his guests. In fact, Dom Duarte had said, in the Gallery that morning, that there would be three of them at the dinner table that evening.

  Oh, well, the evening would pass, thought Laura; and it might be interesting to watch the two together and attempt to ascertain whether or not there was any real basis for the rumours of which Teresa had spoken.

  They were in the lounge when Laura entered and the Conde rose at once, inviting her to sit down. He poured her a drink and she thanked him, profoundly aware of a pair of very dark eyes fixed upon her—Dona Eduarda’s eyes. The girl spoke, with the merest trace of an accent.

  ‘I hear that you came to do some work on Dom Duarte’s paintings?’ The cold voice was dispassionate, arrogant. ‘Your father should have come, but he died. I’m sorry to hear that.’

  Laura looked directly at her, fully aware that the girl spoke automatically, saying what she knew she ought to say and not what she really meant. Laura felt a tinge of contempt at the hypocrisy of the girl who, after all, need not have said anything about the death of Laura’s father in the first place.

  The Conde spoke into the silence, easing it.

  ‘What did you think about my young niece, Miss Conroy? I saw you playing ball with her and Marianna soon after they arrived. ’

  ‘I think she’s a very charming child,’ answered Laura sincerely. ‘And so attractive in looks.’

  ‘Pretty, yes.’ His eyes surveyed her before resting on Dona Eduarda’s face. Laura, wondering if he were comparing them, glanced down at her dress, a white cotton one with a pleated skirt and tight-fitting bodice. She had made it herself and until now had liked it very much, feeling proud of her achievement as a dressmaker. Now, she felt a dowd, and wanted to make her exit from the presence of these two polished aristocrats whose attire was superlatively correct. Dom Duarte certainly appeared to be interested in her dress at this moment, she noticed, and her discomfiture increased. The Portuguese girl was reclining in her chair, casually sipping her drink, her dark eyes moving very slowly from Dom Duarte’s face to that of Laura.

  ‘Clara’s here for three months, you said?’ Dona Eduarda spoke at length, addressing Dom Duarte.

  ‘That’s correct. Maria desires to accompany Felipe on his business trip.’

  ‘I do feel that Maria should put Clara before Felipe,’ said Dona Eduarda with a frown. ‘A young child needs her mother around all the time. Why, Clara will have forgotten what Maria looks like long before the three months is up.’

  The Conde shot her a strange glance and Laura, with keen perception, guessed what he would have said, had he and Dona Eduarda been alone.

  ‘You believe that a wife should put her husband second, after her children?’ Aloud he merely said that he could understand Maria’s desire to be with Felipe, and that as Clara was five years old she could not possibly forget what her mother looked like. Soon after that they went in to dinner; Laura, even more uncomfortable than she had expected to be, was silent for the most part, but now and then Dom Duarte would speak to her, bringing her into the conversation. However, soon the Portuguese girl would intervene with some irrelevant comment which would automatically switch the subject and once again leave Laura out.

  She was relieved when at last the dinner was over and they all went into the lounge for coffee. With little obvious haste, Laura nevertheless finished hers quickly and, rising, asked to be excused.

  ‘Certainly,’ returned Dom Duarte in his clipped and alien voice.

  ‘Goodnight, Miss Conroy,’ said Dona Eduarda. And then she added, ‘You are not going to bed yet, though?’ Her eyes flickered to the French clock on the mantelpiece.

  ‘No, I usually take a stroll in the garden first.’

  ‘You do?’ in a strange tone, and her eyes now went to the Conde. ‘A habit of yours, Duarte. Do you ever meet out there?’

  Laura went hot, while the Conde’s brow creased in a darkling frown. But he merely looked at Laura, who had managed to reach the door without appearing in too much of a hurry to leave the room.

  ‘Goodnight, senhorita. Don’t go too far from the Palacio; I think we shall have rain before very long.’ She went out, closing the door softly behind her. A strange and inexplicable heaviness had settled on her; she knew that this evening’s meal was not nearly so pleasant an experience as those that had gone before, but what really puzzled her was why she should be feeling so dejected about it.

  The following morning she awoke to the song of birds in the sunshine and, throwing open the drapes, she stepped out on to the balcony. Lovely! Sundrenched island with tall palms and white sandy beaches! The mountains stood towards the east, lush and soft beneath the tropical sky. In the opposite direction was the infinite expanse of the Indian Ocean, aquamarine and scarcely moving. On the horizon a ship seemed to be immobile, while closer to the shore, just beyond the lagoon, a yacht could be seen, its white and red sails outlined against the brilliant blue of the sky. It was not the vessel Teresa had pointed out as belonging to the Conde.

  Laura went in and bathed, then put on a bikini. A robe was snatched and within less than thirty seconds she was hurrying across the grounds of the Palacio towards a tree-fringed path which led on to the Conde’s private beach. She was not by any means a strong swimmer, but she could manage a few strokes, and these brought her close to the reef. She turned on her back and floated, staring up at the sky. She felt as though she were in a dream, with the reality of the world a million miles away. The high-rise flats which she saw from her window at home seemed to have no substance; they had melted into nothingness because here, in this tropical paradise, nature reigned supreme, undespoiled by the avid desire of man to destroy. A sound reached her ears and she realised she was not alone, but the sound set her every nerve alert. A child’s scream followed it immediately and she turned, to stare with rising terror at the small figure in the water, some distance from where she was.

  Clara! Wh
at on earth was the child doing here—? But there was no time for asking questions! Laura began to swim towards the child, her fear a blockage in her throat. For she knew she would have difficulty in swimming out that far—and what about getting back to the shore?

  ‘I c-can’t do it I’ she cried, even while she was endeavouring to put more strength into her strokes.

  Another scream rang out, but at least the child was managing to keep herself afloat.

  ‘I’m coming, Clara! ’ Laura tried to make her voice sound loud, so that it would reach the child, but she was so breathless already that she wondered if it carried at all.

  But at last she was with the child, holding her even though she was struggling.

  ‘Don’t, dear. Please don’t struggle.’ Laura’s strength was at a low ebb, and her breathing was giving her some trouble. And then, just as she felt she and the little girl would drown together, here, so close to the shore, she heard a call and managed a little gasp of thankfulness as she saw Dona Eduarda swimming strongly towards them.

  ‘Thank God!’ A great sob escaped her as she turned.

  But she remembered no more, for her head had hit the ragged jutting rock that was part of the reef and that, along with the utter fatigue assailing her whole body, robbed her of consciousness.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  She came to a few moments later, aware that she was being carried along the shore, carried as if she were no heavier than the child she had tried to rescue.

  ‘Clara!’ she cried. ‘Is she--------?’

  ‘Quite safe.’ The voice was ice against Laura’s ear. ‘Dona Eduarda fetched her out. It was most fortunate that she happened to be on hand.’

  ‘Yes.’ Laura, dazed though she still was, could not possibly miss the hostility contained in the Conde’s voice. ‘You—you must have been on—on hand, too.’

  ‘I happened to look through my window,’ he returned, ‘but Dona Eduarda had my niece safe by this time.’

  ‘Oh ... well, thank you for saving me.’ Laura felt a spasm of pain in her head and turned, resting it against him. His chest was bare; she was gradually having it borne in upon her clouded mind that he had probably only just got out of bed when he looked through that window. ‘How did Clara come to be in the water?’ she managed to ask presently.

  The Conde stiffened.

  ‘That,’ he replied with an undertone of wrath, ‘is a question which I am intending to ask you. ’

  ‘Me ...?’ She sighed, aware that consciousness was about to leave her again. She did not, therefore, remember being brought into the house, or being taken up to her bedroom. But she regained consciousness just as Dom Duarte was putting her on to the bed. She felt his warm hands on her near-naked body, felt him above her as he bent to examine the cut on her head. She knew that someone else had followed him into the room and as he moved she saw Teresa, her big brown eyes anxious and yet faintly accusing.

  ‘I’ll have the doctor here shortly.’ Laura heard the Conde’s words and wondered why his voice was harsh. ‘Meanwhile, see to her; don’t let that wound bleed if you can help it.’

  ‘No, Dom Duarte, I will see to it, as you say.’

  Laura opened her mouth to speak, then decided against it.

  She had no idea why, but she was aware of some strange warning, aware that all was not as—within her mind—it appeared.

  ‘You’re badly hurt, Miss Conroy.’ Teresa’s concern was genuine but in her tone was censured ‘You heard Dom Duarte say that the doctor would be here soon?’

  ‘Yes,’ was Laura’s brief reply.

  ‘I’ll put a thick pad of cotton wool on it. But first, you must get out of your bikini and put on a nightgown. ’

  This was fetched and a few minutes later Laura was between the sheets.

  ‘I’ll just go for the cotton wool.’ Teresa went from the room, returning presently with a bowl of warm water and a roll of cotton wool. The wound, deep and very painful, was bathed and then the pad applied.

  ‘If you can hold it in place, senhorita?’

  ‘Yes.’ Laura held it against her temple. She waited for the girl to speak, seeing her hesitancy but sure she would speak eventually.

  ‘Senhorita, the Conde is very angry, I fear. ’

  ‘Yes?’ said Laura again, still disinclined to talk about what had happened out there, by the reef.

  ‘Clara ... you should not have enticed her into the sea.’

  ‘Enticed?’ frowned Laura.

  ‘ She has told her uncle all about it. ’

  ‘I see.’ Even though her thoughts were by no means as clear as usual, Laura was beginning to see a glimmer of light. ‘What did Clara tell her uncle?’

  ‘Of how she was in the garden and you persuaded her to go into the sea with you. Of course, Clara can swim, and I suppose, senhorita, that you thought it would be all right. But Marianna is here to look after her, and she was in a panic when she discovered the little girl’s absence from her bed.’

  ‘From her bed?’ repeated Laura. ‘You said she was in the garden. ’

  ‘That’s right. She had been very naughty to leave her bed in any case. It is the first time she has done such a thing, so Marianna tells me.’

  ‘And Clara told her uncle that I persuaded her to come with me for a bathe?’ It was clear to Laura that the child had told this lie in order to escape the anger of the Conde.

  ‘Yes. She told him as soon as you and she were safely on the beach. I expect her uncle questioned her immediately.’

  Laura was left to digest all this, for Teresa went from the room, saying she would be back shortly.

  What must she do? The idea of the Conde’s believing that she could have taken it upon herself to persuade his niece to forget the authority of her nanny was so troubling that Laura’s first reaction was to disillusion Dom Duarte as soon as possible. But swiftly on this decision came the position of the child in all this. Clara had done wrong, apparently, by leaving her bedroom in the first place. But having escaped the surveillance of her nanny she went still further, taking advantage of her freedom by deciding to go for a swim. How she had got into difficulties was not important. What was important was the little girl’s peace of mind. True, she had told a lie in order to escape the punishment which her austere uncle would most assuredly have inflicted, but to Laura, who both liked and understood children, the lie was in no way wicked. It was impulsive, Laura was sure, told on the spur of the moment when Clara was questioned by her uncle. Laura thought, too, that Clara would not be herself in any case, not after the frightening experience she had just been through.

  A sigh escaped Laura as she recalled her high hopes of being allowed to work on at least one of Dom Duarte’s pictures. Now she would be packed off home on the next plane, the Conde considering her to be a potential danger to the safety of his niece. Well, that was that. Laura felt she could not give the child away, not even for the prospect of staying on the island.

  The doctor arrived and frowned darkly as he examined the wound. Dom Duarte was not present, but Teresa later told Laura that she could not be moved while the injury was so bad.

  ‘The doctor was troubled, and he told Dom Duarte that you cannot possibly go home yet awhile.’

  Laura, automatically putting a hand to her heavily-bandaged head, asked Teresa if she had any idea at all just how long it would be before she could leave Torassa.

  ‘Did the doctor give Dom Duarte any indication at all?’ she added.

  Teresa shook her head.

  ‘No, but the Conde is coming in to see you shortly, so you will be able to talk to him.’ Teresa’s voice-carried anxiety; she liked Laura and it was plain that she was not happy at the idea of the telling off which Laura was about to receive. On impulse Laura said,

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Teresa. I shall not be too put out by the Conde’s anger.’

  ‘Well ... He can be very cutting, senhorita.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that for one moment. However, a dressing-down doesn’t last too lo
ng. In any case, I don’ t expect Dom Duarte will

  want to remain long with me.’

  ‘No, that is something. He and Dona Eduarda are going out to

  lunch with some friends of his.’

  He entered the room about ten minutes later and his abrupt inclination of the head was an order for Teresa to leave, which

  she did, but she glanced commiseratingly at the patient as she passed her on the way to the door.

  ‘The doctor tells me that you will have to remain here for some time.’ The crisp foreign voice held little or no anxiety and Laura knew a strange and inexplicable little pang that the Conde was not in the least concerned about her condition. Even though he was angry, he could have shown a little sympathy, she thought. But looking into that forbidding face she could think of him only as a feudal lord about to censure one of his vassals,

  ‘So Teresa says,’ returned Laura in her quiet, serious voice.

  ‘I have come to seek an explanation of your incredible conduct in persuading my niece to go into the sea with you. ’

  Laura swallowed hard; she was not clever at telling untruths and it took her some time to think out what she must say. Her long pause served only to convince the Conde of her guilt.

  ‘I really don’t have any explanation to offer,’ said Laura at last, deliberately injecting a note of apology into her voice. ‘It was very wrong of me.’

  ‘You must have known that Marianna is in complete charge of Clara?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  The Conde was frowning darkly.

  ‘Having enticed Clara into the sea, why did you then let her get into difficulties?’

  ‘I—er—thought she was a stronger swimmer than she turned out to be.’ No use trying to prevaricate in any way, or to defend herself. Any slip on her part would be instantly noticed by a man with the keen perception of the Conde, and Laura strongly suspected that she would be in even more trouble should he discover that she herself had lied to him in order to cover up for his niece.