The kisses and the wine

by Violet Winspear

  She looked at him then, and he slowly raised a sardonic eyebrow, as if to let her know that he read her mind.

  'The Brazilian bride of a former Marcos Reyes,' he said.

  I believe I told you about her . . . the sapphire came from the jungles of Brazil and was carved to the shape of a heart in a Spanish workshop. Now and then it has been worn by a happy bride, for who am I to say that the men of this family

  are easy to get along with. However, my grandmother was happy in her marriage, and who can blame her if she wishes the same for me?'

  `No one,' Lise murmured. But to find happiness it is surely best to marry for love.'

  `I agree with you,' he said smoothly. 'Is it love, or is it simpatia of the heart, an expression which cannot be translated into English. It stands alone, wholly Latin; a thing of the soul and of the senses.'

  `You know,' she moistened her lips, 'you really haven't much time in which to talk philosophy. Why did you bring me here?'

  `I am sure you have already guessed.' And suddenly his face looked pitiless as he carne towards her, so that she backed against one of the dark marble pillars and felt it cold against the grip of her hands. Her eyes were wide and grey in her pale face, and she had taken almost a crucified attitude against the pillar.

  `I have to go to Madrid, and you have to stay here,' he said, and now he stood over her and she could see a tiny nerve tensely at work in his jaw. 'I know what is in your mind, amiga. As soon as my back is turned you plan to pack and run, and I am warning you that if you do so and Madrecita suffers as a consequence, I shall come after you, no matter where you are, and I shall, make it my business to make you suffer. Do you believe me?'

  `Yes,' she said faintly. But, Leandro, if I came with you to Madrid we could pretend to quarrel there and then we'd have a way out of this — this muddle, and you'd be free to — to live your own life.'

  `You stay here at the castillo,' he said again, and his lips looked firm as iron around the words. 'When I told Madrecita that I was returning to Madrid for a few days, she made me promise that you would remain behind at El

  Serafin. She became quite agitated, which means that she has become fond of you and now looks forward to having you — anyway, as you say there is no time for a fuller talk, just enough time for me to warn you that while I'm away you will not do something that I could never forgive.'

  Abruptly, as he said these words, his hands gripped the pillar at either side of her head, and his look of menace was aggravated by the patch over his left eye. 'You quiver like an arrow in a bow,' he said quietly. 'You long to be released so that you can fly away, and because I know this I have removed from your car, and from the other two that stand in the garage, a tiny part of the mechanism that renders all the rest incapable of movement. I only wish, pequeña, that I could have trusted you, but as I can't, as I know you will behave like an irrational child—'

  `It's exactly like you to behave like an arrogant, bossy lord of the manor,' she broke in, hating him for his distrust of her, and for his assumption that he and his grandmother could make a prisoner of her and force her to do what they wanted. 'I hate you, Leandro! And I know who you are going to see in Madrid!'

  `I am sure you do,' he drawled, and with a mocking little laugh he deliberately bent his head and his kiss brushed across her furiously turned face.

  `Keep your kisses for her!' Lise choked the words. 'They disgust me!'

  `What a pity,' he drawled. 'And now what shall I bring you from Madrid? Perfume, bonbons, or perhaps a fur?'

  `Keep your presents as well! Give them to her, as you plan to give yourself!'

  `You seem very sure of my plans,' he said, and swift and lethal his fingers were at her chin, gripping it and forcing her face into line with his own. 'If you were a woman grown I'd say your female intuition was at work, but as you behave

  rather more like a child – oh yes, my little Doña Immaculate! If you were truly adult, you would understand a man a little better; if you were less quick to take temper and more composed, as a woman should be, you would not condemn so wildly.'

  `I'm sure,' she panted, 'I'm everything she is not. It must be terribly frustrating for you that your grandmother can't see eye to eye with you over this matter of a wife. I can understand all right why you need to go haring off to Madrid, señor. I'm not that childish!'

  Colour was stormy in her cheeks as she flung these words at him, and her fair hair was flung across her brow from the wild turning of her head. Her young breast rose and fell under the thin material of her shirt, and something of her inner torment was beginning to show itself. He had to go . . . go now, before she howled like a kid that he was going, leaving her at the castle while he went to Franquista.

  `For heaven's sake don't waste another precious minute on me,' she said, coldly.

  `You will be here when I return?' His fingers dug into her chin, making her wince.

  `You've made sure of that, haven't you? You've put my car out of action, and played on my good will with regard to the Condesa. I–I like her, and I only wish—'

  `Yes, pequeña? What do you wish?' A quizzical light seemed to come into his uninjured eye.

  `I wish to heaven I could tell her the truth and end all this!'

  `You will keep the truth to yourself,' he snapped. 'If you say one word about the true state of your feelings with regard to me, and cause Madrecita a shock to her heart, then I will break your lily-white neck.' And to emphasize his words he placed both hands about Lise's neck and forced back her head until her senses felt as if they were whirling.

  Then he let her go and she stood clutching the marble pillar for support, and still felt the warm, hard impress of her fingers against her neck. She stared at him and realized that he was as emotionally churned up as herself . . . all the fury and the frustration smouldering in him, running molten through his veins, and just about ready to overwhelm someone.

  He backed away from her and she knew that he was controlling himself with an effort.

  I am now going to say hasta la vista, Lise. You will not come to the car — I don't wish Ana or Chano to see how you hate me at this moment. Take good care of Madrecita, and expect me back on Tuesday.'

  He walked to the door, opened it and gave her a brief inclination of the head. 'Are you not going to say farewell to me?'

  I am sure you will fare well, Señor Conde.' She forced a cold insolence into her voice. 'And please don't insult me by bringing back a gift of perfume or chocolates . .. and as for fur, I would never wear it, because I don't like cruelty.'

  `Muy bien, amiga! His gaze flicked her figure from head to foot, and then he was gone and the door was closed, and there wasn't a sound in that crimson-curtained room until all at once Lise gave a sob and buried her face in her hands.

  The castle seemed very quiet after the car had left with its three occupants. After bathing her face in cold water, and combing her hair into a clasp at the nape of her neck, Lise went down to the stables and asked the groom who was in charge to saddle her a mount. She felt a stifled need to get away from the castle for a while, and if she couldn't have the use of her car, she would ride one of the horses.

  `Si, señorita,' said Juan. 'The horse of Señorita Ana is

  well-behaved and she would like him to be exercised while she is away.'

  Lise nodded, and also bit her lip, for it hurt such a lot that she had been left alone here while those three went to Madrid, all on missions of love.

  Jacinto, the sleek black horse which Ana looked so well on, wearing the divided skirt, soft white shirt frilled at the front, and hard-brimmed Cordoban hat tilted at an angle above her dark eyes, was used to a slim, light rider but Lise and he were soon used to each other and as soon as he snuffed the sea, for which she was heading down the gradual slope of the cliffs, he jingled his harness and trotted at a lively pace.

  Upon reaching the lonely stretch of beach they galloped, splashing through the waves that ebbed and flowed along the edge of the sands. The sun glitte
red on the water, and far out Lise could glimpse the rock to which she had swum that morning Leandro had saved her when cramp had gripped her leg.

  Was that when she had fallen in love with him? There was no sense in evading the truth any longer . . . she loved the man, and that was why she had cried when he had left her alone in that room, there beneath the portrait of the Brazilian girl wearing the blue stone heart. Lise had never cried over a man before; she had never dreamed that love could be an actual physical ache. Her eyes shimmered again as she gazed ahead at the long serpentine of pale gold sand, pierced here and there by the dark rocks, some of which were mantled with blue-green seaweeds.

  The lonely sands and the rocks, and the sea whispering and sobbing, were so evocative of her mood that Lise felt like staying here for hours, but if she did so, and her absence was noticed, they would become anxious at the castle, and she couldn't forget the look there had been on Leandro's face

  when he had warned her not to upset the Condesa by attempting to run away while he was absent.

  She brought the horse to a halt and sat still in the saddle and took a deep steadying breath of the sea air, filling her eyes and her lungs with it in an attempt to dispel her melancholy. Above the sea rolled clouds like great golden dragons and she wondered for a moment if there was going to be a storm. Somehow she would welcome the crash of thunder and the hiss of lightning, flashing round the castle and shaking the ancient walls.

  Perhaps if Leandro heard of the storm while he was in Madrid he would be a little anxious, even guilty that he raked off seeking the pleasure of Franquista's company, knowing all the time that she was a woman intensely disapproved of by his grandmother.

  Lise gripped the reins as she pictured him with his arms around the Latin woman, who would not thrust him away, or struggle, or tell him childishly to let her go. She would smile and offer him those red and luscious lips. She would warmly enclose him with her creamy arms and allow her fingers to caress the nape of his neck ... and being a man that was what he wanted and needed — not the puerile behaviour of a girl who reacted to him as if he were a villain.

  The trouble was ... a sigh shook her. Oh, she knew what lay at the root of her reactionary behaviour. It wasn't enough to be kissed, or thought of as pretty enough to produce the next heir to the castle ... she wanted Leandro to be as shaken by love of her as she was shaken by love of him. It wasn't enough to have him for a husband, not if he gave only his body and not his heart. It wasn't heaven which he offered; it was only a castle in Spain and a life made easy, instead of a life made electrical with love triggered off by a look, a brush of hands, a flash of words, a softly molten smile.

  The dragon-shaped clouds swam lower over the sea, and as the horse jibbed with sudden restlessness, Lise felt certain that she caught a murmur of thunder above the sierras.

  'Come on, boy,' she said. 'Let's go back.'

  The shining hooves churned the sand, and the sea wind blew over Lise's brow and throat, tossing her hair from her neck and catching the golden motes in it. When she and her mount trotted into the courtyard, there was colour in her cheeks, a sea-blaze in her eyes, and she looked for all the world like a girl who hadn't a care at heart.

  When suddenly she caught sight of the Condesa, taking lemon tea and biscuits beneath the colonnade of the patio, she brought Jacinto to a halt and called out a greeting.

  Leandro's grandmother gazed at her in silence for several moments, taking in her fairness against the sleek darkness of the horse. 'Hullo, my child. You must come and join me in a glass of tea.'

  I should like that.' Lise smiled involuntarily, for the Condesa looked such a marvel for her age, seated there in a chair of woven cane with a high fan back, wearing a lilac-coloured dress, and a mantilla of cobweb-lace over her perfectly groomed silver hair. There were tiny jewels in the lobes of her ears, diamonds glittering about her wrists, and her feet in small, shining shoes were perched on a footstool. A newspaper lay at her elbow, and a lorgnette moved in her fingers like a fan. She looked as if she ought to be painted, but Lise knew that the tedium of sitting for the portrait would have exhausted both her strength and her patience.

  'How lovely you look, señora.' The words broke with shy sincerity from Lise, who then trotted Jacinto to his stall and left him in the care of the groom.

  'You had a good ride, señorita?' Juan gave her the respectful but slightly indulgent smile she was beginning to expect from the Conde's staff. It was as if they found her

  young and strange but quite guapa as the prospective bride; almost as good as a Latin girl. She did not put on airs or try to humble them, and as she gazed into Juan's dark and leathery face, she could have wept at their trust in Leandro. They believed in him as she couldn't. Good, strong, sensual people that they were, they thought he loved her. They approved his choice of a fresh and innocent girl, for like the Condesa they were old-fashioned and would have been shocked had he brought to the castle a divorced woman as his future wife.

  `I had an excellent ride, Juan,' she smiled. 'Along by the sea — but I noticed there were clouds about. Are we in for some rain?'

  `Much rain, señorita. Perhaps a storm.' The groom gave her a gravely amused but searching look. 'You don't fear storms, eh? Not the novia of el señor?'

  `I should hope not.' She gave a laugh as she took the deeper meaning in his words; it wouldn't do for any woman involved with the Conde to be afraid of the elements. She caressed the velvety nose of Jacinto, and then went quickly indoors, and up to her rooms to change from trousers to her lemon-flowered chiffon. This was a concession to the Condesa, who considered that trousers were unbecoming on a woman. Lise combed out her hair and left it loose on her shoulders, and with rather solemn eyes she studied her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks were still flushed from her ride and she had a fresh and charming look. She bit her lip and was vaguely confused that she could have this look of a girl in love when in her heart she knew that love to be doomed. Nothing lasting could come of what she felt for the Conde, for she did not intend to go through with this impossible marriage.

  Nothing could persuade her short of a declaration of love from him, and that would not be forthcoming.

  The soft chiffon swirled about her slim legs as she turned from the mirror and left her bedroom. She made her way quickly down the stairs and went out to join the Condesa under the cool cloisters, where a tangle of blue columbine drooped, spilling their sweet coolness to the tiles.

  While she had been absent the Condesa had wrung the little silver bell and a plate of cream cakes had been brought to the table, along with a little jug of cream. 'I know you prefer your tea in the English way.' The old lady gave Lise an approving look. 'I believe that in the time you have been with us, child, you have become so charming as to be called lovely. To Latin eyes, you know, the fair skin and hair of the Anglo-Saxon is most refreshing. I am pleased with you. I think that you and Leandro between you will make fine and spirited children.' And then the Condesa chuckled as the flush deepened in Lise's cheeks, and she busied herself with the little velvet bag in her hand while Lise poured out a cup of tea and battled for composure. Such personal comments seemed to draw her ever deeper into the plot from which, somehow, she had to disentangle herself.

  `Please help yourself to cakes, child. They are made from an old Moorish recipe which has been in the family for years. The Moors were always fond of sweet things, and I am sure you have guessed, or been informed by Leandro, that the Marcos Reyes have a dash of the Moor in their veins. All the most handsome men of Spain have this strain in them.' And with these words the Condesa opened the velvet bag and took from it a small object that caught the sun and sparkled madly. 'I wish you to have this trinket, child, because it was given to me with great love. Hold open your hand!'

  Lise could not refuse to do so, and the next instant the object sparkled in her palm and she was staring at the perfectly wrought love-knot set with diamonds and small

  gleaming rubies.

  `Passion and warm
th, child. Two of the ingredients so essential when it comes to love.'

  `It's beautiful, senora, perfect, but I—'

  `If you dare to say that you cannot accept it, then you and I will have words. I want you to have the brooch, and you will give me the pleasure of pinning it on your dress; there above your heart where it belongs.'

  `You really are too kind.' Lise's hand shook slightly as she pinned the love-knot into place, for like a real knot it seemed to bind her ever closer in relationship to this family. Oh God, not that she wouldn't have gloried in those bonds, had they been bonds of love and desire; a true warmth of passion instead of a sham.

  `The brooch looks very pretty, child, and you must promise me you will wear it on the day you marry—' There, to the intense relief of Lise, the Condesa broke off her words as a manservant came to her elbow with a letter salver. Both Lise and the Condesa stared at the blue envelope, and Lise recalled that other letter on blue paper, in which that friend of the Condesa's' had gossiped about Leandro's association with Franquista.

  What now? Lise wondered.

  `Gracias The ringed fingers took the letter and Lise could see it shaking slightly as the Condesa studied the handwriting. Then as the manservant walked away and disappeared inside the castle, there came a ripping sound as Leandro's grandmother deliberately tore the unopened letter into pieces.

  `It is a strange fact, Lise, that one's friends can sometimes be too well-meaning. My old friend in Madrid means to do me a service by letting me know about the women who chase after Leandro, but I no longer need to be put into that particular picture. Also it would upset me to be reminded that

  he—' she spread her jewelled hands. 'He is tiene buena sombra, tiene gracia, so naturally there have been these women to amuse him. That is now all over—'