'Together with a complete set of claws,' he murmured dryly, releasing his grip upon the towel so that she was able to escape beneath its folds.
Birdie concentrated with unnecessary vigour upon towelling her hair dry, hoping he would, leave before the activity became so prolonged its objective would be revealed as a ploy to hide her mortified expression, to act as a barrier between herself and the man who could fire dangerous emotion into the heart of even a lifeless doll. Cautiously she eased up when a long silence seemed to indicate that she had been left alone, but was consequently all the more startled when she emerged from under the towel and discovered him sitting opposite, quietly watching.
'Have you taken a day off since your arrival here?' he frowned, blue eyes stern.
'I haven't yet felt the need,' she defended in a voice jerky as her heartbeats. 'My duties are pleasant and far from tiring.'
'That may be so,' he rose to his feet to tower over her, 'nevertheless, as I have no wish to earn the reputation of being a slavedriver, I .insist that you take adequate time off to enjoy yourself. For the rest of today you must feel free to do exactly as you wish. I will attend to Lucita—then this evening,' he hesitated slightly, then issued a startling invitation, 'if you will permit me, I will take you to Mahon where we can dine together before visiting an unusual nightclub which I'm certain you will enjoy. Would you like that?'
He made no attempt to touch her, no effort to coerce or cajole, but merely waited, narrow-eyed, watching expressions of amazement, doubt, and then finally shy pleasure chasing over her expressive face. She knew it would be foolish to accept, dangerous as a child playing with fire, yet some inner yearning prompted rash words of acceptance from her lips even while her mind was urging caution.
'You are very kind, senor,' she stammered in her confusion. 'Thank you, I should like that very much.'
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHAKING with reaction, Birdie flew to her room, as breathless as if she had climbed her first mountain, swum a wide stretch of sea, and flung herself on to the bed to contemplate the possible consequences of the only reckless act she had perpetrated in the whole of her young life.
What had possessed her to step within the clutches of a man she had dubbed a dangerous autocrat from the first moment of meeting, a man who had made no attempt to disguise the resentment he felt towards every one of her countrymen, or his personal, puzzling dislike of herself? He had offered her employment simply because he could not help himself from indulging the whims of the child whose mother had been the only woman he had ever loved. Her loss had turned him into a man of stone, a cold, unfeeling statue dedicated to the memory of a girl so dear to him he had not attempted to put anyone in her place—until now, and only because he had decided that Lucita needed a mother.
A dozen times during the rest of the day while she attended to her nails, washed her hair, or simply gazed out of the window indulging in the luxury of solitude, she took up pen and paper to write the Conde a cowardly note telling him she had changed her mind. Yet by the time the sun had dropped behind the horizon and lights shining from the windows of Mahon were reflecting on the surface, of the darkened bay, the note was still unwritten.
'It's too late to back out now!' she admonished the frightened face reflected in her mirror, then stared long and hard at an image—insubstantial as a wraith clad in a mist of pale grey chiffon, skin magnolia-pale against hair parted severely, folded in wings either side of her head, then scooped to the nape of her neck where it lay folded into a soft chignon—thinking the apparition alien, one she could not possibly relate to, because the stranger's tremulous, pink-tinted lips were smiling!
In a panic of confusion she turned her back upon the mirror that seemed to reflect the prophecies of a crystal ball to pick up an evening bag that matched perfectly with shoes fashioned out of soft grey kid, then she drew in a long, steadying breath before leaving to keep her appointment with the impatient Conde.
As she descended a staircase leading down to a hall whose darkness seemed intensified by light filtering from a solitary Moorish lantern, she thought it was deserted until she heard the sound of footsteps and saw a tall dark figure emerging out of the shadows. When the Conde reached the foot of the stairs she hesitated before negotiating the last two steps, poised timid as a dove, its feathers ruffled by the draught from a predator's wings.
'Don't take fright, senorita,' he teased lightly, yet with a confusing lack of humour, 'though I must admit to a healthy appetite, I promise not to gobble you up.'
Appreciatively, he eyed the slow rise of colour that told him he had interpreted her indecision correctly, then continued observing her closely while, with an air of graceful dignity, she drew towards him.
'Your movements are a joy to watch.' The huskiness of his voice set her pulses fluttering. 'The control one senses is wonderful enough, but more wonderful still is the faultless artistry you bestow upon even the most mundane tasks. Sometimes,' he utilised the opportunity of helping her into her coat by bending close enough to murmur into her ear, 'I feel privileged as a ballet-lover being allowed to watch a performance enacted solely for his own pleasure. Did you know, nina, that often, when you are lost in thought, you adopt a beautiful repose that brings to mind a statue of faultless beauty, that when you drop down on your knees, absorbed in play with Lucita, I am reminded of the slow sinking of a cloak to earth, as in one of your dances, its ripples as moving to the spirit as a soft, seductive passage of music? Are you human, I wonder,' he quizzed whimsically, 'or are you a spectre of enchantment sent to bewitch us?'
The fact that she had understudied the role of Cleopatra, Serpent of the Nile, and mastered it to perfection, helped her to slip his seductive net with an aplomb that would not have disgraced the notorious queen.
'If only your words could be put, to music, senor, you would make your name as a composer.' Gravely, she paid tribute to the man whose dedicated study of the piropos had made him an expert flatterer. 'But if any credit is due it must be given to my teachers who not only developed my talent but taught me that dancing helps to cultivate the soul and feeds the imagination, so enabling us to live completely.'
'Is that why you have now decided to opt out of life entirely?' he chided, swinging her round to face him. 'Others besides yourself have coped with frustrated ambitions without sinking into an apathetic limbo. There is no security on this earth,' he reminded her pointedly, 'so when the plate of opportunity is being passed around you would be wise to stretch out your hand when your turn comes and accept your portion gratefully.'
Birdie winced from his snap of words and from the pressure of fingers clenched upon her shoulders with the fierceness of a man desperate to hammer down some barrier that was impeding his progress. Then suddenly he released her and stepped away, once more the urbane, wholly-contained Conde with an appreciative eye for beauty.
'Forgive me, chica, for submitting you to a lecture, there will be other opportunities to discuss whether you should choose a life of turbulence or tranquillity. I should like you to remember this evening only with pleasure.'
A light breeze teased her hair as he led the way through the garden and down to the beach where the empty motor launch was bumping gently against the jetty. He helped her aboard, then left her installed inside the cabin while he went aloft to take charge of the controls. Great gusts of cloud were chasing the moon across the sky, alternately covering and uncovering it with their shadows, as he opened the throttle wide. Birdie peered through a porthole and felt a wrench when she saw the lights of the Casa de Solitario disappearing behind a blind of darkness, leaving her feeling cut off from all that was safe and familiar, cast adrift on dangerous seas in the company of a man who she suspected had inherited all the characteristics of his namesake, Vulcan, god Of fire; conquistador: a Spanish conqueror whose pleasure it had been to invade where he was not wanted, to exploit the defenceless with a ruthless lack of pity.
Their crossing to Mahon was smooth and so swift that barely ten minute
s had passed by the time, as if determined to lay old ghosts of her past, Vulcan skimmed the motor launch to a standstill on the exact spot where the Terre-a-terre had been berthed. A taxi was waiting for them on the quayside, and as he helped her inside his eyes scoured her face made wistful by revived memories.
'You miss your friend Tony, senorita.' It was not so much a question, more a flat, terse statement of fact.
'Very much,' she confessed sadly, making no attempt to prevaricate. Tony had been part of her life for so long that his absence and all that it implied had left a dull aching void in her heart.
'Some wishes are best left ungratified.' In spite of his promise to make the evening a pleasant one he frowned darkly. 'You may feel certain that you know what you want, but I suspect you may have been influenced towards wanting what you are supposed to want. Your friend symbolises everything you have lost, the excitement of the ballet world; the heights you can never reach; the applause of an appreciative audience and the fame that follows such acclaim. If you imagine that all those things can be regained simply by marrying him then forget it,' he told her brutally. 'A man can appreciate cool, classical beauty on stage, he might even be prepared to worship at the feet of a dancer capable of projecting the rare qualities of purity and perfection that are sadly lacking in our imperfect world, but the place for statues is in churches—a man needs a warm, caring woman to share his bed!'
As the taxi wove its way through narrow, darkened streets he left her to reflect in shocked silence upon the truth contained in cruel barbs which, had she really been in love with Tony, would have shredded her hopes to ribbons. The Conde possessed a cruelty that was typical of his race, she pondered bleakly, keeping her head averted as the taxi sped quietly along cobbled alleyways that once had rung with the clattering hooves of Arab stallions carrying hawk-faced Moorish riders, each with a piece of feminine booty thrown across his saddle.
Had any of those girls, plucked from the security of loving homes, fallen in love with their ruthless captors? And if they had, had they perversely kept that love a secret, even to the point of encouraging the lie that their heart was in another man's keeping—as she was!
The notion that her emotions would in any way run parallel with those of a slave-girl was so distasteful she shuddered, but luckily the Conde's attention was directed towards the taxi driver who had drawn to a halt outside a hotel with a surprisingly modern frontage of black marble surrounding huge plate-glass doors.
'Espera, por favor,' he instructed the driver to wait. Then with his hand clasping Birdie's elbow he guided her inside a cool foyer, its stretch of black marble floor dotted with cream leather armchairs placed intimately around low tables of beaten brass.
'Would you care for a drink before dinner?' Taking her acceptance for granted, he led her towards a secluded corner and when they were seated instructed a hovering waiter, 'La Ina, por favor,' without consulting her wishes.
Ruffled by his autocratic assumption that he knew best which drink she would enjoy, she protested mildly:
'I haven't yet sampled the local Sangria; I'm told it tastes delicious.'
'An innocuous wine cup awash with lemon juice and sugar,' he dismissed contemptuously, 'a most unsuitable pre-dinner drink. On the other hand, La Ina, a pale, dry fino sherry produced in the vineyards of Southern Spain, is a wine so delicate and well-balanced it can be enjoyed at any time of the day and is especially ideal as an aperitif. One day, I will take you on a visit to the soleras where the best of our wines are produced.'
With lazy amusement he eyed the sudden blush that suffused her cheeks when he so casually intimated his intention that their relationship should extend into the distant future.
'Soleras ...?' she stalled, willing her whirling thoughts to settle.
He nodded, amused eyes too perceptive for comfort. 'The solera system is the process of progressive ageing and blending that produces fine sherry. The soleras themselves comprise tiers of oak casks, each tier containing wine of a different age. Wine is drawn off for bottling from the oldest barrels in the bottom tier, which are then refilled from the next oldest barrels in the second tier. And so the progress is repeated, so that new wine takes on the older wines' character in taste, colour and bouquet, enabling outstanding quality to be maintained.'
Relief arrived in the guise of a waiter carrying a tray containing a bottle and two stemmed glasses. The Conde poured the wine himself, a thin, transparent stream of liquid that filled the fluted glasses with a pale golden glow. Tentatively, Birdie sipped and was surprised when the wine trickled cool as spring water down her throat, leaving a pleasant, delicate taste upon her tongue.
'Well, what is your opinion ...?' With an assured smile he awaited her verdict.
'It's nice,' she confirmed, then, when his eyebrows rose, she qualified, 'I ... I like its fresh, subtle smell.'
'Bouquet,' he corrected, his smile widening into a grin. 'Never, I beg of you, tell a winemaker that his wine smells!'
'Perhaps I'd better not drink any more.' Huffily, she set her glass down upon the table, made to feel extremely foolish. 'I seem to be conforming to the adage, Wine can of their wits the wise beguile.'
Quickly his smile faded. 'But the quotation also concludes: Can make the sage frolic and the serious smile,' he told her gently. 'Which is why, senorita, it would please me very much if you would finish your drink.'
They were halfway through their meal, seated in one of the secluded alcoves lining the walls of a dining-room given a strictly traditional air by starched white tablecloths, glistening silver, sparkling glass and a bevy of soft-footed waiters ministering to the need of a solidly respectable clientele, when she was startled by his half jesting, half serious request. She had just responded to his query about whether or not the fabada—a spicy bean dish containing a varied assortment of poultry—and meat was to her liking with a polite and truthful, 'Yes, thank you, senor,' when an exasperated sigh forced her to look up with apprehension.
'Am I so terrifying that you find it impossible to use my name? Say it!' he ordered peremptorily. 'I promise the word Vulcan will leave no scar upon your lips.'
It was an impossible request, yet one that she knew she dared not refuse. All during the meal he had been very attentive, advising her on a choice of dishes, topping up her glass with a delicious red wine he had chosen especially because her taste was inclined towards sweetness, and carrying on light, interesting conversation so that eventually she had felt able to relax, even to laugh a little at his quips. But the effect of the wine was heady, which was why, combined with the Conde's intoxicating charm, she found it less difficult than she had imagined to stammer:
'Very well. The fabada is delicious, V ... Vulcan.'
A diamond sparkled in his cuff when he lifted his glass in a mock salute to her courage. 'And may I now be afforded the same privilege as my ward by being permitted to call you pajaro gris, little grey bird?'
It was not fair, Birdie thought, staring into his brown lean face with brows winging blackly over eyes alight with teasing blue flame and a mouth holding a quirk of amusement that obliterated the thin line of cruelty that appeared whenever he was riled, that a devil seemed always possessed of far more charm than a saint!
With the sound of heartbeats pounding in her ears she managed to whisper: 'You may call me by whichever name you wish, but I would not have suspected you of being a romantic, Sen ... Vulcan.'
'All Menorquins are romantic,' he assured her, his glance daring her to look away. 'The secret of our island's enchantment is that she is a woman and so to all males born within her boundaries she is a song we love to sing; a novia who responds to our yearning for love. A sweet secret nestles in her heart, the secret of loving, so whether you leave or stay, mi amor, your heart will remain forever in our island lost in the middle of the sea.'
Birdie was bemused with wine, charm, and pretty piropo by the time they left the hotel and slid once more into the taxi that was waiting to take them to a nightclub, as he had pro
mised. When he laid an arm across the back of the seat, loosely encompassing her shoulders, she felt too relaxed to draw away, too drowsily contented to listen to a breeze that seemed to be sighing a warning, or to wonder why the interior of the cab seemed filled with the pounding of one huge, solitary heart.
When he kissed her for the second time that day she knew that she was in love with him—a kiss that brushed featherlight across her temple, as different from the first as honey to acid, as a gentle caress to a stinging slap, as a hymn to a bawdy sonnet. All day she had been struggling towards the realisation. Because there had been no parents to shower her with affection; because the attitudes of those chosen to look after children in care had, of necessity, to be strictly impartial in order to avoid any accusation of favouritism; because dedication to her work had taken precedence over teenage affairs, his first kiss had been the only one she had ever experienced—her introduction to a strange, new gamut of emotions that she ought to have recognised because through the medium of dancing and mime she had portrayed them all: the delight of Psyche being united with Cupid; the yearnings of the Lady of Shalott; the wanton abandonment of the Foolish Virgins. But now she knew that all that time she had been performing in the manner of a Sleeping Princess under the spell of the ballet. Only now, after years of waiting, had her prince arrived with a kiss of love to awaken her to ecstasy ...
He had promised that she would' find the nightclub he had chosen unusual, but she was unprepared for surroundings that seemed more of an extension of a dream, an enchanted grotto gouged half-way through a rugged cliff jutting far out over the sea. Concealed lighting highlighted the strata and picked out fossils compressed within ceiling and walls that flowed, dipped and curled, making her feel spirited beneath the waves of a petrified sea. Tables and stools that might have been fashioned out of driftwood were dotted around a floor strewn with seaweed, and around the perimeter of a stone dance floor, rubbed slate-smooth by dancing feet, flowed a shallow trickle of water which, besides adding enchanting authenticity to the surroundings, provided men with an ideal excuse to lift their partners into their arms and carry them in one giant stride on to the dance floor.
Castle in Spain Page 8
