'Deserted?' Petra sprang to her feet, distressed to the point of tears by the mere mention of the man whose ghost haunted her thoughts by day and her restless, unhappy dreams by night. 'How like a Greek male to place his loyalties on the side of one of his own sex—however damning the circumstances,' she choked, feeling hurt and betrayed by his seeming shift of allegiance. 'I did not desert my husband. I left him because… because I couldn't bear the thought of spending the rest of my life loving a husband who chose his wife as a gardener would choose a propagator in which to sow his seed and nurture a family of seedlings!'
She felt ignored and cruelly let down when, with an inscrutable smile, her grandfather dismissed the argument he had deliberately provoked by observing mildly.
'Etsi ine i zoi!—that's life! And now, elika, I must ask of you a favour, Patroclos, my oldest and dearest friend, has not been feeling too well lately. I owe him a visit, but because my old bones have been wearied by yesterday's outing, I should be grateful if you would call at his house now—at once—to ask him if he feels able to join in our celebration this evening.'
Five minutes later, having given in to her grandfather's determined persuasion, Petra set off walking along a deserted dust track leading towards a house set a little apart from the rest of the village. A silken breeze rustled through trees falling in graceful swathes from a distant summit crowned by the dazzling pinnacle of an almost hidden monastery housing black-bearded monks whose mystical quality of repose seemed to seep through ancient walls to spread the blessing of peace over the surrounding countryside.
Sunrays played warmly around shoulders left partly bare by the scooped-out neckline of a peasant blouse as she wandered, too painfully numbed for deep thought, through a small orange grove, then up a flight of steps leading to a house with shuttered windows and a door firmly closed, as if its owner was absent or still sleeping.
Three times she knocked, each time a little louder, then when no response seemed forthcoming she frowned, alarmed by the idea of her grandfather's elderly friend being sick and in need of a doctor. Deciding to check the garden and orchards in case he should be working, she walked around to the back and was immediately relieved of anxiety when she spotted a high-backed rocking chair being swayed to and fro by its hidden occupant.
'Kalimera!' she called out, her steps lightening with relief as she advanced to conclude her greeting. 'My grandfather sent me—'
A thunderbolt of shock jolted through her body, rooting her feet to the ground so that she had no option but to remain staring wildly into grave, inscrutable eyes, to rove the planes, hollows and scythe-sharp features of a profile she had thought she would never see again.
'Kalimera, Petra,' Stelios responded softly, easing his lean frame upright. 'Your grandfather is also responsible for directing me to this meeting place.'
'He is?' she responded dazedly, unable to break the link chaining her gaze to his. 'But how? Where? I had no idea that the two of you had even met!'
'Until yesterday,' he simmered, prowling cautiously towards her, 'I was unaware of his existence. Why did you leave so many gaps in your family history, elika?' he questioned keenly, halting within reaching distance. 'Why did you leave me so unprepared for the invasion of my home by a fierce old patriarch thirsting to revenge the harm he was convinced I had inflicted upon his granddaughter?'
'Oh, no!' she gasped, backing away from his intimidating nearness.
'But yes,' he nodded, advancing to regain lost ground. 'I quite seriously believe that, had I not managed to convince him that I had been wrongly judged, he would not have hesitated to carry out the duty imposed by the rules of vendetta which state that the nearest kin of an injured victim is entitled to avenge family outrage by drawing blood.'
He seemed content not to touch her, but waited as if ready to spring, watching the progress of horrified emotions chasing across her stricken features, willing her to ask the question that had begun as a faint flicker of query in her troubled eyes before slowly, gradually, developing into the glow of a penitent's candle casting golden shafts of hope into hushed, densely shadowed places.
'Patero Romios is not easily swayed once he has formed an opinion,' she eventually obliged, hardly daring to look higher than the lion's head emblem chained across an expanse of tanned chest left exposed by a partially unbuttoned shirt.
'I have recently been convinced of that fact.' His words stroked soft as silk across her downbent head. 'No convicted criminal could have faced a judge less inclined to be lenient, or have been made to plead his cause more eloquently than I.'
She stiffened to the immobility of a bird unused to gentle handling, unable to believe words breaking quietly into the hot sunny silence.
'It is not an easy task for a man to bare his soul, kallista, to confess his mistakes, to admit to fear instilled into a boy who was tragically deprived of both parents, left to grow up lonely and afraid, convinced that close relationships are inseparable from unendurable pain, and consequently deciding to avoid at all cost being manoeuvred into any situation that might leave him vulnerable to yet another emotional trauma.'
He moved, closing the space between them, and with the smoothness of inevitability enclosed her unresisting body within the loose circle of his arms.
'Look at me, Petra,' he pleaded huskily, 'tell me that you can forgive the wounds inflicted by a man staring into the sweet innocent face of defeat! A man whose isolated citadel was stormed by a loving assailant dressed in the simple white habit of purity. I adore you, kallista!' he stressed desperately. 'Whenever I am with you or without you, I see only you!'
His tortured cry struck deep, tapping the source of a fathomless well of emotion that surged and overflowed, sweeping her weakened body into his waiting net.
'Stelios, my darling, I love you so much!' she sobbed, raising sweet lips towards his tormented mouth, to be consumed by his fire, lifted by his flame, melted into a vortex of hot Greek sun, burning kisses, fiery endearments, and the molten passion of a virile, hot-blooded male…
The noonday sun was long past its peak when she stirred, reluctant to abandon the almost sinful contentment of his, embrace. They were lying stretched out beneath the trees in the orange orchard, protected from the heat by a canopy of branches, when she drew herself upright and twisted round to lean over Stelios's sleeping form. Her heart ached with love as she searched for signs of the boy who had been reared to hide every trace of heartache; the man who had withdrawn into an unemotional shell designed to protect him from unwanted intimacy; the lover who had swept away all doubts by subjugating pride in order to bare his soul and discovered the innocence of youth in lowered lashes; a lingering shadow of suffering on strained features; a vulnerable tenderness softening lips that had recently been drained of passion.
'Stelios,' she nudged him awake, reluctant to allow even sleep to come between them.
'What is it, kallista, my beautiful, adorable, deep-breasted goddess?' he teased, too lazily content to lift dense black lashes.
Her bones seemed to melt with tenderness when his hands sought for her waist to draw her down towards him. But she resisted their pressure, determined not to court seduction until he had rid her of doubt.
'Why me, Stelios? Why, of all the beautiful women you have known, did you choose to fall in love with me?'
Dark lashes winged upward, revealing slumbrous eyes showing a stirring of hunger in their depths that made her feel wanton—and at the same time shy.
'Unlike Heracles, I was given no choice.' He pretended to scowl, obviously disinclined to be serious.
'What has Heracles to do with us?' she scolded, unknowingly cancelling out the sting of acerbity in her tone with an enchanting dimple.
He sighed, resigning himself to having to waste precious time talking.
'When Heracles was a youth he was accosted by Virtue and Pleasure and asked to choose between them. Pleasure promised him all physical delights, but Virtue promised immortality. He chose Virtue—whereas I had virtue
thrust upon me!' He pounced, pulling her into his arms with the desperation of a sinner whose appetite for penance has been exhausted. 'I don't wish to hold an inquest into the past, kallista, not now that I have the earth, the sun and the moon in my arms—and especially the moon, that symbol of cool femininity, love, peace and mysterious allure,' he groaned, branding a hot kiss of desire upon a cool pale curve of shoulder.
Petra quivered, feeling herself being drawn once more into a sea of ecstasy. But she lingered in the shallows to whisper a last protest.
'But I am so ordinary, Stelios, so… so green and immature!'
Sensing her need of reassurance, he leashed his passion just long enough to pluck with his eyes the blush-pink roses from her cheeks; ivory magnolia buds from her breasts; indigo pansies from eyes soft as velvet, and to bend her body, supple as a willow stem, across his imprisoning arm.
'Those are exactly the qualities I find so enchanting, my prim and pure Miss Grundy! Like fruit plucked from a tree when it is green and tart, you nurtured a secret, impregnable core—then ripened before my eyes into sweet, delectable maturity!'
Castle of the Lion Page 15
