Unaware that silent sobs were shuddering through her body, Petra leant across his shoulder, willing the small, limp head to move; a wing to lift, a heartbeat to disturb the still roundness of the feathered body. Servant crowded at a distance, shaking their heads to communicate doubt about the success of the life-saving operation, but Stelios continued with infinite patience massaging and breathing until long after Petra had given up hope.
She sighed with regret, and was just about to suggest that he should abandon the exercise so that the tiny creature could be laid to rest, when an almost imperceptible movement of its feathered breast drew her startled attention.
'Stelios,' she breathed against his ear, completely oblivious to the fact that she had used such a familiar form of address, 'I think I saw a sign of movement! I'm sure I did. Look, there's another! And another… Stelios, you've done it, the bird's alive!'
Success was confirmed when a pair of gem-bright eyes flickered open and one panicking wing lifted as the canary attempted a feeble escape from the hands that had saved its life.
Ecstatic with relief, Petra flung an arm as far as she could reach across the width of Stelios's broad shoulders and bent her head close to his to peer like a proud mother upon an alert, bravely struggling offspring.
'Fetch a glass of water!' Stelios called out, his cheek brushing against hers as he tossed a questing glance across his shoulder. 'Also, we need a cage. Sophia, do you know whether or not we have a birdcage on the premises?'
The servants surged forward, delighted to see smiles radiating from the face of the young English girl who for several anxious minutes had seemed ready to burst into tears.
'I have a spare cage at home, thespinis!' a voice offered.
'And so have I! My children's pet died only last week; I feel I should wait a short while before suggesting a replacement!'
'Certainly we have a birdcage!' Sophia elbowed her way forward. 'Is there a home on the island which has not, at some time or another, satisfied the needs of its children by choosing a canary as a pet in preference to a destructive cat or a dog that requires much feeding?' Imperiously, she called out to one of the younger servants.
'Nikos! Go down to the cellar and bring up the cage you will find under a dustsheet in a far corner. Hurry now!' Already the bird is getting stronger—look how eager it is to quench its thirst!'
Less than five minutes later Nikos returned triumphant bearing a large ornately gilded cage, and the servants dispersed amid much good-humoured badinage to continue with their duties.
With a sigh of complete contentment Petra clipped back the door of the cage, inviting Stelios to scoop the bird inside what was, in comparison with its previous residence, a palace fit for a feathered king. But instead of releasing the nervously pulsating bird immediately, he cupped his palms into a detaining cell and regarded his prisoner thoughtfully.
'It is not often,' he mused, 'that one is able to study at close quarters the intimate habits and behaviour of a shy, timid creature, consoled by the certainty that however hard it may struggle it cannot get away.'
Petra's blood ran cold. His gaze was fixed upon the tiny yellow bird whose panic was increasing second by second as it fought against the pressure of alien fingers, yet instinct warned her that his words were directed towards herself, that his gentle persecution of the creature that owed him its life contained a message too frightening for her to contemplate.
'A flower seen for the first time can be picked and examined at leisure,' he continued tormenting, 'but often a bird is observed for mere seconds before it runs for cover or flies out of reach of its admirer.'
She gave a nervous jump when suddenly he released the bird and snapped shut the door of the cage.
'Catching ends the pleasure of the chase.' His voice held a savage edge. 'Obviously, that must be the reason why men quickly become indifferent to wives who always rush to greet them instead of occasionally running the other way.'
CHAPTER SIX
When a Greek is upset he sounds furious. Absently, Petra brushed the palm of her hand over the tiny leaves of a basil plant, then stooped to inhale the scent that freshened the air inside her bedroom like a spray wafting a delicate, mint-scented perfume. She had dressed for dinner with special care, choosing to wear her only decent dress—a sleeveless sheath made of whisper-soft silk which Gavin had once been moved to observe matched exactly the grey-blue veil that shimmered over her eyes whenever she was moved to the brink of tears. She lingered by the window, trembling at the prospect of having to endure the company of the man whose rasped words had communicated resentment of a duty to wed which he obviously regarded as a threat to his freedom, a man whose calculating eyes, intimidating physique and dominating will made her feel nervous, insignificant, and frighteningly vulnerable.
If only Gavin were here! she fretted, badly in need of a confidant, missing her brother's lighthearted teasing, his cheerful grin, the optimism she grasped like a lifeline whenever she was depressed. But Gavin was imprisoned—she winced from the shocking reminder—not trilling blissfully like Pini who was fluttering and hopping around his spacious gilt cage, but probably sitting lonely and dejected in a dark, cold cell, willing her, relying on her, to get him out!
The thought acted like the spur she needed to snatch up a light woollen stole and hurry downstairs, determined to confront the man of authority who was powerful enough to control Gavin's destiny merely by lifting a finger to dial a number on the telephone.
But her wave of courage ebbed immediately she caught sight of her suave, impeccably dressed host waiting at the foot of the marble staircase. Ancient Moorish oil-lamps suspended on chains from a ceiling lost among evening shadows guttered in the path of draughts penetrating crumbling masonry and age-shrunken windows and doors, turning the hall into a Danteesque inferno of flickering flame and dense voids of darkness.
'Kalispera, elika!'
In spite of an ultra-civilised effect achieved with the aid of a perfectly tailored dinner jacket, sharply creased trousers, and a crisply elegant evening shirt displaying a glint of gold links at each cuff, Stelios Heracles looked perfectly at .home in his satanic environment.
'Would you care for a drink before dinner?' He eased a hand under her elbow to lead her across the hall.
'No, thank you,' she refused primly, nervous of a dark Greek presence whose bold eyes and aquiline features betrayed some far-off strain of Moorish blood. 'I don't care for the taste of alcohol.'
He laughed softly as he guided her inside a room whose walls, lined with pleated silk the colour of buttermilk, imposed upon her a strong impression that she was being led inside a Bedouin tent.
'I'm beginning to understand how you earned your unwelcome title, Miss Grundy!' he glinted wickedly. 'Quite unintentionally, I feel sure, you managed to refuse the offer of a drink as if you had just been invited to indulge in an act of debauchery. Certainly, the sexual associations in names given to some of our local drinks are very noticeable—Maiden's Tears; Volcanic Virgin, and Bachelor's Bracer, to quote just a few examples— nevertheless, all I am offering at this precise moment,' he mocked, strolling across to a drinks cabinet, 'is an innocuous rose cordial, a drink distilled from the flower chosen by your country as its national emblem because of its symbolic connection with females who are paragons of virtue. Sweet and fragrant,' he drawled, bending to hand her a pink drink in a tall frosted glass, 'but with a slow-to-melt heart of crushed ice!'
With cheeks flaming pink as the glass that was freezing her fingers, Petra sat with eyes downcast, wondering how to cope with the devil in a tormenting mood, how to avoid further embarrassing conversation by introducing the topic uppermost in her mind.
Stelios sat down opposite with a glass of wine and unwittingly provided the opening she needed with the casual enquiry:
'How is your rescued pet? No doubt you have already begun smothering it into a state of lethargy, stifling all initiative to fend alone, just as you did your brother!'
'Pini seems wel
l on the way to recovery,' she told him stiffly, steeling herself to remain calm, to continue placidly sipping her drink before beginning a mildly accusing barrage. 'But then one can never gauge with certainty the feelings of any creature confined behind bars. Gavin, for instance, must have made a tremendous effort to sound as composed as he did during the one telephone call he has been allowed to make since his arrest.' Forgetting her earlier resolution, she leant forward to plead: 'This morning, Minister, you intimated that you might have some news of my brother later in the day.' She paused to swallow the lump of trepidation that had suddenly blocked her throat, then raced her remaining words in case her voice should break. 'Please don't keep me in suspense—whether the news is good or bad, for heaven's sake tell me now!'
She sensed from the unhurried way he laid down his glass before rising to stretch to his full height that he had every intention of keeping her on tenterhooks.
'Such a weighty discussion must be postponed until after we've eaten. We Greeks, irrespective of status, regard eating as one of the greatest joys in life. Much thought goes into the preparation and serving of our food, so in fairness to Sophia and her helpers, we must attach the same degree of importance to our meal as did one ancient Persian culinary wizard who divided pleasure into six categories—food, drink, clothes, sex, scent and sound—then selected food as the noblest and most consequential pleasure of all.'
'But, Minister…!' She jumped to her feet to protest but was coolly interrupted.
'Mere hours ago you called me Stelios! Please continue to do so, and in return I promise that never again, unless deliberately provoked, shall I cast a cloud of hurt over your beautiful eyes by referring to you as Miss Grundy!'
In sober silence she accompanied him into the dining-room, then faltered just inside the threshold to stare, intimidated by the opulence of a spacious, gilded interior bathed in the golden glow of light cast by an ornate chandelier suspended over a long, narrow table glistening with silver dishes and cutlery; crystal wine glasses and tall slender-necked water jugs; crisp white napkins and a centrepiece of flowers spiking the air with the heady scent of wild violets, pale lilies, and coyly drooping heads of columbine. Tall windows draped in rich velvet spilled a flow of deep burgundy red the length of panelled walls inset at regular intervals with strips of mirror reflecting her awed approach within each gilded frame.
Nervously, she murmured her thanks to the formally attired manservant who assisted her into a high-backed brocaded chair, then failed dismally to respond to the amused smile cast by the man enthroned with godlike superiority at the head of the superbly appointed table.
Conscious of his intent scrutiny, she mustered all the confidence she had gained while helping Lady Holland to extend hospitality to foreign ambassadors, and strove to appear at ease when she indicated to a hovering manservant her choice of titbits from a bewildering selection of meze, dishes of delicious-looking hors d'oeuvres made appealing to the eye as well as to the appetite by artistic attention applied to displaying pale green cucumbers next to a creamy dip; cubes of hard white cheese with bright red tomatoes; deep purple figs with pink taramasalata; yellow and white garnishes of hardboiled eggs, lemon wedges, red radishes, and deep green, delicately flavoured sprinklings of chopped parsley.
'I'm pleased to see that you appreciate the need for small helpings of our traditional Cypriot starter, elika.' His dark eyes derided the minute amount of food on her plate. 'Mezes means delicacy, and delicacies, in common with members of your own delicate sex, are always more appreciated if sampled in small doses.'
'That remark betrays an extremely sexist outlook,' she returned steadily. 'You're surely not implying that eating and drinking are pleasures appreciated only by men?'
The clash of dark eyes meeting blue over a bowl of riotous blossoms was almost audible.
'Not entirely,' he drawled, obviously intrigued by her flash of spirit, 'but in common with most of my countrymen I do believe that it is a woman's duty to ensure that plates are kept full and her husband kept happy. Regrettably, even in this mountain stronghold some old customs treasured by men are being allowed to fade.'
Petra eyed him warily, suspecting that the napkin he had lifted to his lips was screening a smile.
'In days gone by,' he continued smoothly, 'wives served meals to husbands reclining upon a carpeted floor supported by huge feather cushions while they dipped their fingers into platters placed upon a low table, washing their hands in bowls of rosewater replenished at regular intervals by their devoted wives.'
'Slaves would be a more apt description!' she flared, incensed by a masculine conceit which she had long ago decided was a vice inherent in all undeniably attractive men; shaken by the return of the puzzling sensation she had experienced while he had been ministering to Pini—when his cheek had brushed against hers for a cool, intimate second and her heart had reacted as if suddenly possessed of fluttering, panic-stricken wings.
'Perhaps so,' he agreed, his features hardening into a mask of scowling ill humour, 'but the curse of slavery is shared equally between the sexes. No man alive can boast absolute freedom, each one is forced either by conscience or convention to conform.'
A substantial dish of moussaka with a minced meat filling and a crust of toasted cheese was followed by skewered cubes of chicken and lamb grilled over charcoal. Desultorily, Petra picked over each item of food on her plate, making a pretence of eating before pushing her plate aside. But the sight of a platter laden with sweetmeats— still-warm puffs of pastry sprinkled with icing sugar and dripping with honey—forced her to voice a protest.
'I'm sorry!' When a manservant approached with the platter she waved him away. 'I simply couldn't eat another bite.'
'You have the appetite of a canary,' Stelios observed unkindly, nevertheless he followed her example by waving the sweet away. 'We'll have our drinks in the blue drawing-room where it is much more comfortable,' he declared, tossing aside his napkin as he rose to push his chair away from the table.
'Nothing more for me, thank you.' She shied in panic from the proposed intimacy of being enclosed within a dark blue den of seduction with only a moody, unpredictable devil for company. 'I still haven't finished my cordial.'
'I was not suggesting that you should pour infinite quantities of alcohol down your throat,' he growled sarcastically. 'We Cypriots look upon drink as an aid to making new friendships. A few sips of wine helps to loosen the tongue, enabling shy individuals to relax and unhappy ones to view the future with optimism. After all, as you have no pressing engagement looming, what possible objection can you have to sharing with me what might turn out to be a very enlightening evening?'
He had issued no command, yet when he stood aside waiting for her to precede him out of the room, she knew that he was expecting an obedient reaction. Her lashes swept down to hide a glint of .rebellion, yet she did as he expected, knowing that she had no choice but to pander to the whims of the Greek despot who possessed the influence needed to free her brother, whose ego had to be flattered, whose massive conceit would have to be quietly, subtly manipulated if ever she were to achieve her aim.
The blue drawing-room must have been the smallest room in the castle, even so, it seemed to Petra more spacious than the entire interior of her flat. Comfortable divans and armchairs had been arranged to form an oasis of cream brocaded comfort that helped lighten the density of walls and curtains matching the deep blue depth of her companion's mood. Torch-shaped lamps blazed at intervals around the walls, but their glow barely encroached upon the sumptuous divan which she tried to avoid, only to be cleverly outmanoeuvred by a hand that grasped her shoulder, checking her instinctive retreat and levering her downwards until she felt in danger of being swamped by a cocoon of plush upholstery and piles of silken cushions.
'Let me get you a drink that will help to relax your tension,' he offered dryly. 'At this moment, you remind me of a stiffly-perched bird which I may be required to stalk with patience and cunning if ever I am to get within r
ange!'
He left her to blush unseen while he turned his attention upon a manservant who had just arrived pushing a trolley laden with an assortment of bottles, a tray of pretzels, and the inevitable small dishes of peanuts to which all Cypriot males seemed madly addicted.
'Thank you, Thasos,' he nodded dismissal, 'I will pour out the drinks myself. Please ensure that we are left undisturbed for the rest of the evening.'
'Very well, kyrie.' The servant's response was bland, yet instinctively Petra stiffened, her finely attuned ear sensitive to a nuance of satisfaction so faint that anyone less familiar than herself with Greek tone and temperament would have found it impossible to interpret. A feeling that she was being manipulated, made to play a part in a scene set up so many times before that even servants had become familiar with it, sent prickles of alarm chasing along her spine.
Why hadn't she foreseen the danger threatening any female, however lacking in sexual experience, foolish enough to condone solitude with a Greek whose athletic namesake had been worshipped as the god of physical prowess!
'A small glass of filfar should help to educate your unsophisticated palate!' She came back to earth with a start, her eyes unable for a second to focus upon the glass he was holding out towards her. 'You'll find it a perfect after-dinner drink, an orange-flavoured liqueur whose origins have been lost in time. The drink itself would almost certainly have vanished had not the son of a family owning extensive orange groves discovered an old recipe which an ancestor of his had been given by monks who once lived in a monastery that today is no more than a ruined shell. Fortunately, the finder of the forgotten recipe recalled from childhood the method used by his mother and grandmother to make the liqueur. He began experimenting, confining the results of his labours to his own family at first, then eventually giving away bottles to friends whose clamouring for more convinced him that his product should be marketed. Try a little,' he urged, 'and tell me what you think.'
Castle of the Lion Page 7
