Island Of Pearls

by Margaret Rome

unkind remarks of your neighbours so that now it's become second nature to think only of yourself - your wishes,your feelings! How can you deny me the comfort of pretence when facing reality means accepting the fact that I married an unfeeling autocrat!"

  He could not have been more taken aback if an infant had suddenly exposed claws. During the span of silence that followed her accusation she wanted to flee, but was prevented by a weight of fear that paralysed all movement. Fascinated, she watched a pulse hammering against a jawline taut with disdain, then flinched from the impact of a look, riveting as sunlight glancing from steel, that surprised his dark eyes from their state of disinterest into alert arrogance. Centuries of pride carried in the words ejected through lips drawn thin with anger. "Santa Maria, is nothing sacred ? How dare you allow our private lives to become a matter of discussion between you and your friends!"

  Appalled by the realization that only one part of her impassioned outburst had registered, she pleaded:

  "But you don't understand! I didn't..." She ached to disabuse him of the idea that she was capable of such treachery, but it became immediately evident that she was pitting her strength against barriers too rigid to give way, so she abandoned hope and with a last gasp of despair she fled.

  The wine cellars were situated in a tower built some distance from the Casa on land which had in the past received little attention. Once, someone had attempted to cultivate a garden around the crumbling edifice that poked upwards into the sky a stone finger of contempt raised against those responsible for its rejection, and

  small coloured lights strung between trees lent an illusory beauty to the roses struggling out of bud on the few bushes left unstrangled by weeds. But the estate workers had been busy. Trestles covered in snow-white tablecloths held rows of wine glasses waiting to be filled from large brown jugs containing sherry of every shade ranging from pale liquid gold to full-bodied earthy brown. Dishes of salted almonds and potato crisps waited with crisp cheese straws to tempt nibblers, and in the background, preparing for the arrival of the tourists, musicians tuned their instruments, experimentally strumming an odd chord or two that rippled out of the darkness, sending a promise of almost tropical excitement.

  The party from the Casa decided to wait in the garden for the coaches to arrive before entering the cellars. It was a pleasantly warm night and they were curious to see for themselves the first reactions of their visitors. Robin, who had been enticed from his work by the promise of material for a future documentary, was first to notice approaching headlights. "Prepare for the invasion, folks," he murmured, then in a wicked aside he teased Hazel, "I hope they don't forget protocol when in the presence of royalty!"

  She glanced towards Francisco, then hastily away. His air of breeding was indeed accentuated by the clothes he wore with such assurance that he could have stepped from the framed portrait of one of his ancestors, a conquistador of long ago. A velvet jacket the colour of dark wine added interest to his fine features, lace cuffs contrasting starkly against costly rings flashing emerald and ruby from fingers hovering lightly over the

  hilt of a silver-sheathed sword caressing the calf of a lean, black-trousered leg. He seemed a true son of Spain, an adventurer so untrammelled he knew not the discipline of relinquishing whatever he might covet, a plunderer whose look was unsettling in its threat that whatever he wanted - he took!

  Hazel had avoided that look since its first conception earlier that evening. He had stepped into her bedroom when, in answer to his knock, she had bidden him enter. At first encounter all breath had left her, then as she had waited his approval of her dress of heavy brocade, exquisitely embroidered with silks pink as a flamingo's wing, and a matching mantilla that crowned her small head with unexpected dignity, the spark had been born and with it a response from her so primitive she had felt wanton. She shied from the memory of his words, uttered coolly, but with undercurrents of warning.

  "Tonight, you look as a bride should look, amada, untouched, innocent, and so very unaware. It was most remiss of me to overlook that such lack of awareness is proof to all who seek it that - as you so rightly asserted -no progress has been made. However," he had made no move nearer but she had felt stifled by threat when he had menaced in a tone silken terse, "fortunately that situation can be easily remedied. Soon, Marquesa, the whole island will look at you and think: Ah, there goes a wife who is truly bienquista!"

  Well-beloved! To have dwelt upon his meaning would have been to court disaster, so she thrust it from her mind and tried to concentrate her attention upon Robin, whose candid, modern outlook was a balm to

  her fevered brain. But even that was denied her when she was bidden to Francisco's side as the tourists began filing out of the coaches. English, French and German voices mingled in excited anticipation as the band of Spanish troubadors struck the first chords of welcoming music from their beribboned guitars and began strolling through the throng who were being served glasses of wine by smiling young girls dressed in flounced skirts protected by minute aprons, and blouses with wide sleeves caught in bands around the wrists, their necklines slashed wide to leave smooth-skinned shoulders bare. A huge moon playing hide and seek amongst the clouds lent an air of enchantment to the gardens, scattering moon magic over neglected bushes and softening the harsh walls of the tower with a sheen of silver so that the anticipatory visitors felt surrounded by romance - fairytale romance - within a setting of deeply-shadowed grounds, a majestic tower, and medieval atmosphere that called out for a hero and heroine and found them in the handsome Marques and his delightfully shy bride.

  To Hazel, it was as if she was forced unexpectedly into acting out a major role in a play; her every movement and gesture was noted by hundreds of watchful eyes focused exclusively upon herself and Francisco who, it seemed, had been cast as Adonis to her Venus. Adonis - the hunter who had disdained love - the simile was unconsciously apt; like Adonis, Francisco loved to hunt - human prey - but love he laughed to scorn!

  His reaction to the notice they were receiving was surprising. He began playing up, showering her with

  attentions which he bestowed with an outward show of affection much appreciated by their audience. His brown cheeks were cleft with laughter lines when he forced her to acknowledge his presence. "We are the stars of the pageant, it seems, so I suggest we forget our differences and pretend an enjoyment of each other's company for tonight, at least. Who knows," his teeth snapped, "you might discover after a while that I am not so far removed from being human as you think."

  There was no doubt in her mind that he was human, his warm breath upon her brow, the energy emitting from his lean body, together with the captivating, reckless air he had donned with his outfit of plundering conquistador were all hammering out a warning against the folly of lowered defences. But some moon magic must have rubbed off on her too, because discarding caution like a cloak, she peeped a grave smile from behind the lace mantilla framing her face with the innocence of a coif and satisfied him with the answer:

  "Obviously, you're in a mood for enjoyment - I only hope I haven't forgotten how to play!"

  Under his benevolent charge she blossomed, a moon flower living out her short span without thought for the limbo of tomorrow, and the claims of Carmen, Robin and Catryn faded as Francisco demanded and received her complete absorption. They passed through a wooden door set deep into the grey stone of the tower to enter wine cellars where more trestles and benches awaited occupation. As befitted their position, Francisco and Hazel presided over the main table which had an unobscured view of the floor space set aside as a stage for the evening's entertainers. Around rough-

  cast walls were ranged hundreds of barrels, already tapped, each labelled with information about the type and origin of the stored wine, from which waitresses began filling jugs which were then offered along the lines of tables so that guests might decide upon the vintage best suited to their palate. When a young waitress hurried to serve them, Francisco allowed her to fill his own glass with pale liqu
id, then covered Hazel's with his hand and refused. "No, not fina - the Marquesa does not favour the dry nor the acid. Fetch an oloroso; it is rather heavy, but its sweetness will be more to her taste."

  She knew nothing about wine, but found the tasting enjoyable, although the warm sensation she experienced as she sipped experimentally owed its origin less to pleasantness of taste than to the novelty of basking in his attention.

  "Tell me how you know which wine to choose," she asked, watching a large German holding the contents of his glass up to the light, then discarding it without so much as a sip in favour of another.

  "It is a matter of personal taste, initially," he obliged, bending closer to her ear as a blast of music heralded the arrival on stage of a flamenco dancer. "A novice rarely enjoys the pale, very dry fino, but as a drinker matures his palate almost always progresses towards the slightly acid in preference to the heavily sweet. But it is only by experiment and by experience that one can separate at sight the potent riojas of Castile from the lighter, rougher valdepenas of the plains of La Mancha, or to tell the moderately dry wines of Alicante from the sweet and heavy products of Catalonia."

  Enormous happiness built up inside of her as the entertainment progressed and the flushed, broadly-smiling tourists abandoned their inhibitions to relish to full capacity the rhythmic tapping of the flamenco; the switch to pathos by a young girl who, sad-eyed and mournful, sang of the loss of her lover followed, with a rapid see-sawing of emotions, by the cheerful band of musicians exhorting everyone to follow them outside where a dance-floor was laid out under a canopy of stars and an enticing smell beckoned the hungry to partake of grilled meats and succulent poultry sizzling over charcoal fires, or to quench their thirst from a wider selection of drinks displayed behind an adjacent bar.

  "Are you hungry?" he murmured, pulling her close as they swayed to the romantic music of throbbing guitars.

  "No," she sighed, snuggling closer, happy to encourage the prevalent impression of an adoring and adored wife. When his hand touched her cheek she turned her face inward to meet it.

  "Funny child," he smiled tightly, "you react so blindly to the least hint of kindness that I become afraid for you."

  "Why afraid... ?" she queried contentedly, feeling his hands fastening a steel caress upon her waist. She was shaken impatiently, then placated with a half kiss that feathered across her eyelids before fading somewhere behind her ear.

  "Because not everyone believes in naivete, more often lack of guile is mistaken for encouragement," he said meaningfully.

  "But you are my husband!" she teased, lightheaded with happiness and the small amount of wine she had drunk. "Why should you fear for me, Francisco? I'm not afraid, I trust you completely!"

  "Are you sure?" he whispered, skimming her cheek with lips that left a trail of scorching heat. "If so, there is no reason why you should hesitate to come back with me to the Casa, cara."

  Hazel stumbled and his grasp tightened. It was true that deep down she trusted him implicitly, but the real Francisco, the one she knew and loved, not this renegade whose look jeered, daring her to retract her impulsive statement.

  "Very well," she conceded, tilting her chin in brave defiance of the threat that had echoed at the back of her mind all evening. Bienquista! he had promised; perhaps now was as good a time as any to discover whether his conception of the treatment deserving by one well-beloved tallied in any way with her own.

  The Casa was silent, all the servants had been given permission to attend the pageant, so only the painted, superior eyes of bygone ancestors watched their entry into the hall. Francisco halted at the foot of the stairs and held out a hand to assist her. Hazel felt sudden foreboding when his lips quirked, betraying enjoyment of some private joke, and as her eyes moved swiftly from him to the line of family portraits it seemed to her agitated imagination that they were all smiling - the unkind, malicious smiles of those about to witness the downfall of one who has transgressed. A metallic clatter as Francisco discarded his sword caused her to swing round with a gasp, and she experienced a wave of bitter

  self-recrimination when with an action full of meaning he discarded his richly coloured jacket and began casually to loosen the buttons of his shirt, leaving his chest bare so that flexing muscles were allowed freedom to stretch. His eyes narrowed lazily as colour slowly ebbed from her cheeks, but there was no mercy in his tone when he stated, "We needn't linger here, we'll be much more comfortable upstairs ..."

  Her leaden limbs did not respond to what was virtually a command, but when he took an impatient step nearer she found breath to appeal, "Let's go into the kitchen and forage, I'm hungry . . ." She tried to put distance between them, but he would not be thwarted. Two strides brought him to her side and she was lifted against his hard chest and carried forcibly upstairs to her room. The bang when he kicked shut the door echoed through the house like a shout of laughter hollow enough to bring beads of cold sweat to her brow.

  She was beyond protest when he laid her on the bed; protest in any case would have been useless against a man determined to avenge outraged pride. With the cool reasoning of a detached onlooker, one part of her brain analysed his actions, remembering his angry condemnation of her supposed disclosures about their marriage to Robin and Catryn and his threat of retribution. "Dear heaven" she cried silently, "how he must hate me!"

  He bent over her, studying his reflection in pools of unshed tears.

  "Don't look so reproachful, cara, by and by we must all learn the taste of tears." The mantilla was filched

  from her hair, and her head laid gently back against the pillows. Shoes were slipped from her feet, then the necklace of pearls with its crucifix of agony was removed from its resting place against her breast. Only when his fingers began undoing tiny buttons on her sleeves did she appeal, "Why are you so angry with me, Francisco?"

  One diabolical eyebrow lifted. "I am not angry, amada, far from it - no man about to make love to his bride has room in his heart for anger."

  "You have no heart!" she challenged in a frightened whisper, meeting a look that drained from her every vestige of courage and hope. Dark passion held him in sway; a river dammed, or a damped-down furnace, would have no more tempestuous release! Like a bird tangled in a net she was held helpless waiting for the avenger to swoop and when his dark head lowered she closed her eyes and heard from far off his whispered invitation. "Your mouth of wild innocence urges answers to questions it dares not ask, amada. Come, share with me a thousand honeyed secrets."

  A last desperate appeal was forced from her. "I want no share in hatred and scorn! Please, Francisco, please wait. . ." The plea was murdered, strangled by a kiss that closed upon half-parted lips to plunder and punish and revenge. As the coldness around her heart became seared with the heat of passion she held on tightly to sanity and refused to respond to the call of wild blood racing full flood and caresses increasingly urgent in demand. Lips that were merely submitting to punishment grew cold under his warmth, angering his emotions so that his grip tightened and pain mingled with

  desire and became one.

  Just when her resistance had almost reached breaking point, she felt a shudder ripple through his powerful shoulders, then heard an expletive that rasped his throat as he thrust her savagely away. Against the pillows her hair tumbled bright, contrasting deeply against eyes dark with bewildered accusation. He moved away as if finding the look unbearable and strode to the doorway where he turned to vent his frustrated anger. She shuddered from his contemptuous scorn,then something inside her shrivelled and died under the lash of his condemnation.

  "Thirst cannot be quenched by the cold wine of chastity," he indicted savagely. "Be thankful I put from myself a childish thing."

  CHAPTER X

  Robin stayed all night at the Casa. The hotel where he was staying to be within easy distance of the caves was on the other side of the island, so he had accepted gratefully their offer of hospitality. Catryn was also present at breakfast next morning,
having received permission from her affable boss to stay behind and supervise the clearing up operations found to be necessary after the wonderfully successful evening. Carmen was first to notice Hazel hesitating on the threshold of the breakfast salon. Sun was streaking through half-closed shutters on to Francisco's head bent in close attendance upon Catryn, who sat next to him - a golden girl, with sunlight forming a molten halo around her hair and lending added sparkle to eyes already aglow as she engaged him in animated conversation.

  "Hazel! Are you feeling better?" Carmen scrambled from her seat and ran to meet her. "Tio Francisco said you left early last night because you were indisposed!"

  Hazel felt her cheeks beginning slowly to burn and in her confusion sought help from the one person whose company she had hoped to avoid. His bland indifference as he responded to her silent pleas contrasted shockingly with the ardour he had displayed only a few short hours ago and, with the imprint of his caresses still branding her body, she shivered.

  "As I've explained at least a dozen times, Hazel was tired and I decided she should retire early," he chided

  Carmen icily. "Kindly be seated and allow her to eat breakfast without further fuss!" Casting him a look of sulky dislike, Carmen obeyed, and Hazel slid into a chair, hoping the battery of raking eyes were reading no more than confusion in her hot, embarrassed face.

  Robin continued eating until he felt she was relaxed enough to converse, then giving her time to eat a roll and to drink half a cup of coffee, he demanded in an undertone, "What's the real story behind your abrupt disappearance last night - or," his look switched to Francisco's urbane features, "shouldn't I ask?"

  Her knife fell from nerveless fingers, shattering discord into the peaceful atmosphere. Hastily she retrieved it, sensing Francisco's raised eyebrows and Catryn's satisfied smile. "It happened just as Francisco said." She choked on a particle of roll lodged in her throat.

  Robin eyed her curiously. "You look different - I don't know how exactly, but there's a hint of something too elusive to name in your eyes and your mouth has a Mona Lisa quality that's driving me mad with curiosity."