Her mind was far away when she stepped off the kerb to avoid a toddler playing on the pavement outside his home. A screech of brakes was her first intimation of danger, then as she swung round, startled, to discover a chromium-plated bumper bar brushing her skirt, a string of Spanish imprecations became audible from the interior of a sleek white limousine. Shock held her rigid as a man climbed from behind the wheel and strode furiously towards her.
'Idiota! Imbecil!' She had no difficulty interpreting the meaning of those two words, although the rest of his angrily-snapped tirade was beyond her. Staring with mouth agape, her basket swinging limply, and with plum juice staining her chin, she must have fitted beautifully the role he had allocated with such certainty. Several times the word muchacha was hurled above her startled head before impatient hands gripped her by the waist to lift her bodily on to the pavement.
As he strode back to his car she heard a child's thin treble piping a question from the depths of the capacious rear seat.
'Un poco loco!' he responded, tapping his head with a meaningful gesture and casting Birdie a look of withering scorn. A peal of childish laughter was interpretation enough. Indignation jerked her from her shocked trance, but even as she started towards the car, intending to give the arrogant Spaniard a piece of her mind, she heard the soft kiss of tyres against cobbles, then felt a whoosh of warm air as the glittering white monster drove off, leaving her shaking with anger, feeling scorched by the wake of a fiery dragon.
CHAPTER TWO
THE chef had been instructed to prepare a cold buffet for a limitless number of people.
They began arriving as soon as darkness fell, starting as a dribble of twos and threes, then developing into a continuous stream until the gangplank seemed permanently crammed and an overspill of guests had to be accommodated on neighbouring yachts that were packed so tightly into the harbour it was possible for the young and active to manoeuvre from deck to deck. An international regatta was due to begin the following day, which probably explained, Birdie thought, why every yacht that had ever been built seemed to have sailed into Mahon harbour, their owners all intimately acquainted with Lady Daphne.
Champagne corks were popping, toasts were being proposed for the happy cruises of the newly-christened Terre-a-terre, when she decided that the party had reached a stage where she would not be missed. She began making her way to her cabin, feeling strangely out of tune with the crush of exhilarated guests, the jarring sound of modern hit records drifting on the breeze, the reflection of tiny lights casting a harsh diamante stole over the black velvet sea. Her near accident earlier that day had left her feeling strangely jumpy, as nervy and tense as if she were awaiting her cue to appear on stage at the beginning of an important opening night. The image of the impatient Spaniard had refused to fade from her mind; the grip of his fingers seemed permanently imprinted upon her waist; his ill-tempered sarcasm still resounded in her ears in spite of the babble of conversation, the raucous blare of music.
Birdie had almost reached her goal when a hand clutched her elbow and Lady Daphne's frantic voice wailed in her ear.
'Birdie, why do I do it? I've got to have people with me when I'm at sea, otherwise life would become such a bore, but I never expected such a stampede of guests, my staff can't cope! I'm having to help out myself—would you be a darling and lend a hand?'
She hesitated, casting a dubious glance at her one and only evening gown, a starkly simple black jersey with scooped-out neckline and tiny cap sleeves, but after a quick mental scolding, she hastened to agree:
'Of course, I should be glad to.'
Lady Daphne gaily insisted upon entering into the spirit of things by ferreting out a couple of aprons. Her own looked incongruous worn over an apricot silk dress, but the effect made by dainty white muslin against Birdie's black dress was startling.
Lady Daphne clapped her hands and exclaimed with delighted amusement. 'Ah, si! Tony has often commented upon your genius for adapting to any part you're called upon to play, and he's so right! Simply by donning an apron you've been transformed into a perfect muchacha, a demure little servant girl.'
So that was what he had labelled her! As she circulated the throng with trays of drinks, looking outwardly composed but inwardly seething, Birdie was rehearsing in her mind what she would have liked to have said to the man who had harangued her as he would a servant, no doubt ordering her to stop wasting her employer's time by dawdling in the streets!
Obviously her outfit must have helped to foster the illusion. Many of the young Spanish girls she had seen had been wearing modern dress, most had had kerchiefs binding their hair, and some had even worn sunglasses.
She thought her mind was playing her tricks when, projecting from somewhere behind her shoulder, she heard once again the precisely pronounced, arrogantly assured voice, speaking in English this time, but still unmistakably his! Slowly she turned in the direction of the sound, and immediately her fear was confirmed. His companion was very young, very lovely, and obviously very impressed by the Spaniard who would not have looked out of place in the company of dark-turbanned Moors clattering through narrow streets, hawk on wrist, riding to the hunt, or standing on the quarterdeck of a great Spanish galleon, eager for battle. The puzzling colour of his eyes—deep Saxon blue against dark tan—was explained when unashamedly she eavesdropped upon their conversation and heard his dry, slightly bored reply to a previous remark the girl had made.
'No, it would not be entirely true to say that we Menorquins dislike the English, but I must admit to the existence of a certain animosity. Because many of my race have inherited the characteristics of Moorish settlers, almost Nordic in appearance, we are often accused of possessing English blood. In some cases this is possible—though not in my own—because at one time, senorita, England was an occupying power in our island. Centuries ago English artillery battered our defences until, in order to avoid more unnecessary carnage, we were forced to surrender. But the blood that was shed will never be forgotten. As part of our history, the story of our occupation will be passed on from generation to generation.'
The girl had hung on to his every word, yet it was obvious, to Birdie at least, that her main interest was not the past but in the very exciting present. Casting him a look so flirtatious Birdie cringed, she sighed the outrageous admission.
'I do hope that English women meet with your approval, Conde, for we're all agreed that Spanish men are exceptionally good-looking and experts at making love.'
For the first time in her life Birdie felt an urge to act violently against a member of her own sex. The fact that the girl was young and obviously bowled over by the Spaniard's good looks was no excuse for forgetting that she was now in a country where high moral standards were still the accepted norm, a country whose women, though not physically cloistered, were as morally imprisoned as in the days when they saw the world only through the fretted screens of their windows. She winced for the reputation of all English girls, was even moved to feel pity for the girl who had aroused his distaste, when the Conde's cold, distant reply began to register.
'Unfortunately, senorita, our young men are vain enough to react to such flattery with all the ardour they once applied to acquiring knowledge of fishing and navigation. These days, thanks to shoals of liberated females in search of amorous adventures, our fishing profession is losing all its men, for the youngsters have discovered newer and more amusing ways of earning a living. And now, if you will excuse me, senorita, I must leave.' Stiffly he bowed, his expression cold as the ice clinking in his glass. 'I promised my family that my absence would be a short one, that I would be away only long enough to pay my respects to Lady Daphne.'
He lifted his head, obviously searching, and to Birdie's horror began making straight towards her. Her fingers clenched around the rim of, her tray, using it as a support to steady her trembling hands, as a shield between herself and the advancing foe. But his glance was impersonal when he stopped to deposit his glass upon her empty tray, h
is muttered 'Gracias' almost inaudible as he passed on his way, leaving her feeling, for the second time that day, reduced to the ranks of a serving wench.
It was early morning by the time the last of the guests had made their reluctant departure. Thankfully, Birdie disposed of her apron and headed towards her cabin, feeling tired enough to sleep the clock round, yet with nerves set indefinably on edge. Lady Daphne, however, delayed her with a request. She was too animated for sleep, eager to hold an inquest on the party, to comment on the presence of her many influential and distinguished friends.
'Do join Tony and me in a nightcap before retiring, Birdie dear.'
'Oh, but ...' She searched her weary mind for an excuse.
'Just five minutes more,' Lady Daphne coaxed. 'I'm far too excited to sleep. I would have preferred the party to go on until dawn, but as many of my guests are due to take part in the regatta I dared not suggest it. It went well, don't you think?' She sparkled at Tony, propelling Birdie towards a couch. 'They all seemed to be having an enjoyable evening.'
'You're fishing for compliments,' he chided with a grin, slipping a fond arm around her shoulders. 'You're perfectly well aware that as you're the acknowledged queen of society hostesses your parties are always successful. Although, come to think of it, there was one chap who proved to be an exception, he seemed in quite a hurry to get away.'
'Oh, who ...?' Lady Daphne looked aggrieved.
'Don't know his name,' Tony shrugged, reaching for a cigarette, 'he left before we were introduced, but I took him to be a Spaniard, a tall, dark guy who would look perfect cast in the role of El Cid.'
Birdie tensed, suddenly wide awake. Only one man present at the party had merited comparison with the Spanish hero whose exploits, real and legendary, had inspired tales of romance and tragedy.
Lady Daphne was quick to recognise the connection. 'Oh, you mean Vulcan—Conde de la Conquista de Retz, to give him his proper title— yes, he did leave early, but it was sweet of him to come at all, considering the pressures upon his time.'
Birdie remained silent, mentally clamouring for Lady Daphne to elaborate, secretly shocked by an urgent longing to know more about the man who made her feel insignificant as a servant in the presence of a lord.
Much to her relief, Tony proved to be equally curious.
'Pressure is a hazard one must learn to accept in today's cut-throat society,' he stated mildly, 'a burden everyone has to tolerate.'
'I was not referring to that type of pressure,' she corrected swiftly. 'Vulcan has interests in many successful companies both in Menorca and on the Spanish mainland, nevertheless, I can't imagine him bending under the strain of business, he's too much of a fighter not to enjoy a challenge. As you so cleverly implied, my intuitive darling, Vulcan is a modern-day El Cid who uses boardroom battles as a substitute for slaying Moors. But his stress is emotional, he's manacled by a strict sense of duty, by a determination to fulfil what he considers to be his sole obligation.'
'A contradictory statement to make about a man you've just likened to the ruthless El Cid,' Tony murmured.
'It must seem so,' she smiled agreement, 'but if ever you're privileged to know the Spanish people well, you'll realise that their emotional temperament leads them to extremes which may seem false and contradictory to strangers who don't understand them.'
Birdie blessed Tony for being tuned in to her own wavelength when he let the comment pass with a nod and prodded further.
'Obviously some female has our Spanish friend in her clutches—a compelling, dark-eyed senorita, no doubt?'
Fleetingly, Birdie wondered why Lady Daphne's nod should cause her heart to plummet.
'Yes, you're right, a jealous, possessive little minx who's all of five years old.'
Even the mildly interested Tony was startled to attention. 'Five years old, you say ...?'
Lady Daphne laughed, pleased with the stir she had caused. 'Vulcan is not a man to discuss intimate family affairs, but rumour has it that the child, Lucita, is the daughter of a distant cousin with whom he was very much in love, and continued to love even after she married someone else. Lucita was just a baby when her parents lost their lives in a boating accident, and as neither of them had any close relatives, Vulcan, being the sort of man he is, immediately assumed responsibility for the child. Then about two years ago,' she sighed, 'as if that were not sufficient tragedy in any young life, Lucita contracted polio, a slight attack from which she recovered well except for a deformity of one foot which, as there's been no recent sign of improvement, one must assume will affect her for the rest of her life.'
When Tony made no attempt to broach the next logical question, Birdie asked:
'What about the Conde's wife, doesn't she help out with the child?'
'He has no wife, Lucita has seen to that. Many lovely girls, all aspiring to the title of Condesa de Retz, have entered Vulcan's life and then been immediately ousted, vetoed by an autocratic infant determined to keep him to herself.'
'Then he can't have been in love with any of them,' Tony snorted. 'No man worth his salt would allow any obstacle to stand between himself and the woman he wanted to marry.'
He realised that he had fallen into a trap of his own making when her reply came, sweetly iced. 'My own sentiments exactly, Tony darling! Isn't it amazing how quickly we can spot in others failings that we refuse to acknowledge in ourselves?' Smothering a yawn, she rose to her feet. 'Which reminds me, I've invited Vulcan and Lucita to tea tomorrow—today,' she amended, 'and if I'm to retain my reputation as a perfect hostess I must try to get some sleep.'
After hours of tossing restlessly in her bed, Birdie was forced to come to terms with the fact that ironically, she and Lady Daphne had swapped roles. Eventually, when daybreak dawned, she abandoned all thought of sleep, consoling herself with the fact that her pale face and shadowed eyes were immaterial because she intended to abscond, to absent herself from the yacht until she was certain that the danger of having to pass around tea and scones and of making polite conversation with the intimidating Conde was well past.
She sauntered into breakfast dressed in the uniform of the sun-worshipper, skimpy shorts pulled on over a swimsuit; a loose camisole top, flat sandals, and carrying a wide-brimmed straw hat and beachbag containing towels, purse, suntan lotion and a jar of after-sun cream.
Tony was sipping coffee, Lady Daphne was toying with a minute portion of scrambled egg, but both looked up, registering surprise at her appearance.
'Are you going somewhere special?' Tony sounded slightly accusing.
'I thought I'd take a bus down to the nearest beach,' Birdie replied brightly, helping herself to toast and marmalade. 'Last night I was given directions to the nearest bus depot and assured that there's a regular shuttle service from the town to the beach every half hour. As I'll probably be away for most of the day,' she apologised to Lady Daphne, 'I hope you don't mind my having asked the chef to let me have a packed lunch to take with me?'
'Of course I don't mind,' Lady Daphne assured her politely, 'but what a shame you'll miss meeting the Conde de Retz—he too is a lover of the ballet and also a very interesting conversationalist.'
'I'm sorry too,' Birdie trained all her attention on the piece of toast she was buttering, almost choking on the lie, 'but as he's such an old friend you're bound to have lots to talk about, so I thought my presence would be superfluous.'
'And what about me?' Tony sounded indignant. 'I don't fancy playing gooseberry while Daphne lavishes attention upon her Spanish conde!'
Birdie's face was a picture of indecision when Lady Daphne came to her rescue. 'I make only one strict rule for my guests, Tony dear, and that is that they must spend their time exactly as they wish. And besides that,' a dimple flashed in her cheek, 'with young Lucita to keep you company, I can safely promise that you won't be bored.'
A long queue had formed by the time Birdie arrived at the bus depot, tourists mostly, whose pale complexions, perspiring faces and fractious children labelled
them fairly recent arrivals. The din and the heat inside the bus once they were all crammed inside was unbearable. Squashed into a rear corner seat with a fat woman's elbow digging into her ribs and sunshine dazzling through glass with the precision of a laser beam, Birdie found her thoughts winging with envy back to the yacht where Tony and Lady Daphne would by now be stretched out beneath a shady awning with an ice-cool drink near to hand, gaining maximum benefit from the offshore breeze that continually teased around the perimeter of the island.
'It's your own stupid fault!' mentally she scolded herself, gritting her teeth as the bus jolted over rough, unsurfaced roads leading to the south of the island. Rivulets of sweat were trickling between her shoulderblades, the atmosphere inside the bus had the damp humidity of a Turkish bath, by the time it jerked to a halt to allow its gasping passengers to escape on to a dusty, sunbaked car park.
But just a few hundred yards away lay a flat blue strip of sea. Uttering whoops of. delight, the children began racing towards it, floundering ankle-deep in soft white sand, but struggling onwards, their gazes fixed as if fearing their goal might turn out to be a mirage.
Birdie hesitated only long enough to attract the attention of a man in charge of sun-loungers and beach umbrellas, then, once she had staked her claim to a minute portion of the crowded beach, she stripped off her shorts and top and ran down to the breakers to bask blissfully in the shallows.
She had finished her lunch and was stretched out in the sun to dry when sounds of unusual activity jerked her upright. The entire beach population seemed to be on the move, shaking sand out of towels, packing items of picnicware, gathering up toys and a miscellany of articles scattered all around. She just had time to register that the sky had darkened when the first raindrops splashed, large as coins, upon her bare shoulders. Hastily she scrambled to her feet, intent upon following the example of the crowd, but she had left it too late; the heavens parted and a deluge rained from the sky, soaking in seconds the shorts and top she had left lying on the sand, plastering her swimsuit to her limbs and lending a seal-dark sleekness to her head.
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