'It appears to me that in outlook you have not advanced far from the days when Spanish inquisitors resorted to torture as a means of breaking the will of anyone brave enough to oppose their views,' she choked. 'But you must realise that as a member of a civilised race who believes in the sanctity of marriage I find such sentiments appalling.'
He swung on his heel to face her. 'Then your knowledge of English history is obviously shaky,' he charged. 'Until your first divorce court was established some one hundred and fifty years ago an Englishman could dispose of his unwanted spouse quite legally, provided he was wealthy enough to afford the cost of the process. Even in the minds of poorer people it was firmly, established that a wife was a chattel to be bought and sold in the same way as any other goods, and it was habitual for any man in search of freedom to take his wife to market—just as he would drive a pig—then after paying a toll which gave him the right to sell merchandise, to parade her around the market place extolling her virtues to any interested bidders. In spite of your accusation of patronage towards our womenfolk, senorita, we Spaniards have never been guilty of subjecting our wives to such indignity. Even the slave girls of our Moorish ancestors were cosseted in luxurious harems!'
'Slavery is a weed that flourishes in Spanish soil,' she countered bitterly. 'Your countrywomen have been conditioned to wearing the yoke of tyranny, but mine are too far advanced in intelligence and status to countenance such servitude, which is why I consider your proposal insulting and have no hesitation in turning it down!'
'You cannot!' His mocking conviction sent a spear of fear through her tense frame. 'You have informed Lucita of our wedding plans, remember? Also you promised to stay with her as long as she wants you to. I know that you will keep that promise,' he smiled thinly, 'because your tender conscience would not allow you to live in peace with the knowledge that you had broken the heart of a child!'
CHAPTER TEN
'No, I will not wear blue silk!' With all the petulance of a spoiled child determined to have her way, Lucita stamped her foot and glared at the dressmaker who was holding out a swathe of materials for her inspection.
Birdie sighed, wearied by the constant battle of wills being waged between herself and the two arrogant members of the Retz family. One painful surrender had already been forced upon her, but this skirmish was one she felt she must win if only for the sake of bolstering her shattered morale.
For some reason Lucita had decided that she wanted to attend the wedding dressed in the manner of a sugar-plum fairy and nothing, it seemed, was going to deter her from accepting anything other than a white net frou-frou.
'In order to achieve the desired effect, a froufrou must be worn with satin pointe shoes, darling,' Birdie coaxed, 'and though these may look very elegant when worn by dancers on stage their blocked toecaps make them uncomfortable for normal walking. You wouldn't like to have to follow me down the aisle limping from the pain of a strained ankle, surely? Also, if fatigue should cause your limp to become exaggerated,' a long skirted dress would help to hide it.'
Indecision wavered across Lucita's small, stubbornly-set features. 'Well ...' she pondered, 'you could perhaps be right.' She cast a reluctant glance over the swathe of pastel-coloured silks. 'But not the blue—it's too cold a shade to be worn for a wedding, maybe pink would be better ...'
Heaving a secret sigh of relief, Birdie turned away, leaving the patient dressmaker, who had been transported from a fashion house in Mahon, to cope with Lucita's tantrums. Her own decision had been made in a matter of minutes. A plain satin gown cut simple as a habit had seemed to suit perfectly her feeling of being cut off from the outside world, of preparing for a lifetime of servitude, duty, obligation, and the relinquishing of all hope of personal happiness. The tyrant had chosen his victim with care, binding her, tightly as any conquering Moor, with silken cords of conscience, concern and integrity.
Thankful for a respite from having to project the happiness of an eager bride, she moved across to a window and pressed her burning forehead against a pane of cool glass while for the umpteenth time she revived the painful conversation that had revealed Vulcan's true nature as well as the reason behind his deliberate assault upon her youthful emotions. She could not condemn his loyalty to Lady Daphne, a lifelong friend, but he had sounded vengeful, as if the Menorquins' centuries-old defeat at the hands of the English still rankled, when he had replaced the rejected anklet inside the brass-bound box and indicated coldly:
'It appears you have inherited the English trait of always managing to appear shocked whenever the tables are turned, allowing the victim to adopt the methods of his aggressor. Did you ever stop to consider the effect of your infatuation for Tony upon Lady Daphne?' he had asked her tersely. 'Undoubtedly, she must have recognised the threat presented by a much younger woman determined to practise her wiles upon a man already rendered susceptible to her advances by a guilt-ridden conscience, otherwise she would not have proffered the suggestion that you would make an ideal companion for my ward.'
'Oh, no ...!'
'Yes,' he had insisted firmly. 'Naturally, pride would not allow her to admit such fear in so many words. Also she is of too generous a nature to act unkindly towards a fledgling who has toppled from its nest and is desperately searching for support for a broken wing.' Suddenly he had surprised her by allowing his attitude to soften slightly. 'Perhaps, in the circumstances, your panic was not so unforgivable. Marriage to Tony must have appealed as a solution to loneliness, insecurity, and lack of one person to whom you could truly feel you belonged. According to Lady Daphne, Tony is wedded to the ballet, and yet I have no doubt that a passionless half-loaf would have been looked upon with gratitude by a girl such as yourself who, given two loaves, would sell one to buy flowers.' He had loomed down until his aggravated face had entirely filled her vision before clamping: 'All things considered, isn't it just as well, for your own sake, as well as for Lady Daphne's, that I am in a position to offer you a more suitable alternative?'
An alternative form of torture! She closed her eyes in reaction to the pain of knowing what it is like to be a slave, to bear abuse and contempt, to feel trapped inside a cage of conscience that would not allow her to inflict upon a child the same sort of deprivation she had suffered herself, to be aware that although the door of her cage stood open she could not fly away because in spite of being made to quiver in the cold draught of his displeasure, in spite of bewilderment, of a timid fear of rough handling, she was too much in love with her jailor ... !
Suddenly the atmosphere inside the room became oppressive, the swathes of material, the piles of patterns, the dressmaker's arch looks and meaningful comments to the prospective bride, and Lucita's ceaseless chatter about the wedding—a subject she had dissected so thoroughly it was now as tattered as Birdie's nerves combined to form a suffocating pressure that caught her by the throat, making her gasp for air. Guessing that Lucita's preoccupation with her dress could be extending for another hour, she swung away from the window to voice a swift apology.
'Please excuse me, it's so warm in here, I must get a breath of fresh air. When you've finished, Lucita, you'll find me down by the swimming pool!'
Without stopping to listen to Lucita's halfhearted protest she sped out of the room, down the stairs, and on to a deserted terrace where sun-loungers were placed invitingly along the edge of a pool transformed by sunshine into a length of shimmering pink silk. She hesitated, then almost of their own accord her feet impelled her forward along patchwork paths that ran the length of the garden, then plunged downward through an almond orchard before petering towards a flight of stone steps leading down to a beach of silver sand.
Slipping out of her sandals, she ran barefoot down to the sea, scooping up the hem of her ankle-length cotton skirt to tuck it inside the waistband while she enjoyed a deliciously cool paddle.
The sea was so calm, the sky so cloudless, the breeze so light and sweetly caressing, she found it difficult to understand why Menorca should deserve
its title of the Windy Island, or to imagine it as she had heard it described, being battered by the Tramontana, the boisterous north wind whose attacks were so menacing the islanders found it necessary to go all over their homes, to close, bar and tie up anything that might yield to its fury. But the winter of black skies and dark gloomy sea, cold and swelling into towering mountains and deep abysses, seemed a thousand years away until the sound of a voice reaching from behind her caused the sun to grow cool and the sparkling to disappear from the glorious day.
'You remind me of a schoolgirl playing truant!' Vulcan's amused eyes sparkled over her bunched-up skirt and lingered for a second upon the curve of breasts outlined by a tightly-stretched cotton tee-shirt. 'Are you enjoying your paddle, nina?
She swung towards him, resentful of being caught at play by a watcher standing with feet astride, his bare chest a symphony of coffee-coloured skin over rippling biceps; faded denim straining over muscular thighs and tapering shins, his savage masculinity made to appear even more aggressive by a flat diaphragm cinched by a leather belt decorated with rows of sadistic studs.
'Are you implying that I'm infantile?' she asked stiffly, then was annoyed when she realised that she had left herself open to a charge of petulance.
His sparkle of amusement faded, leaving his face grave, almost sombre. 'On the contrary, I believe that your normally happy nature has its roots in an ability to retain a streak of childishness to balance the weight of maturity. The childishness I was referring to was not the immaturity of one who has resisted the pain of growing up, but the conscious childishness of an adult whose uninhibited enjoyment of small pleasures is a joy to watch.'
Birdie blushed, made to feel small, clumsy, guilty as a chastised infant. Her awkwardness must have been communicated to him by the dejected droop of her head, by the way she was paying fixed attention to toes curling in and out of damp sand, because he chuckled, then jeered softly:
'You worry too much about adverse opinion, cara, too much of your life is devoted to pleasing others, to subjugating your own needs! Why not try being selfish for a change—and least some of the time?'
'I have ... I am being,' she admitted, shamefaced. 'I've just fled from the house and left a poor bewildered dressmaker to Lucita's not-too-tender mercies.'
Vulcan threw back his head and laughed. 'Good! Then why not sell your soul completely to the devil and come fishing with me?'
Seemingly deaf to her protests, he hustled her along the length of the jetty where, instead of the motor launch she was expecting, a falucho, one of the small boats with oars and a lateen sail used by local fishermen, was riding the swell. She was lifted inside and left to admire unobserved his suntanned body with muscles of steel, his assured, agile steps as he cast off and handled the sail, the way his dark, handsome face relaxed into a look of boyish enjoyment as his task absorbed the whole of his attention.
They had sailed out of the harbour and passed the buoys before Birdie actually became conscious of movement. The sea was delightfully calm and clear as they left behind sunburned rocks, winding lanes and villages with whitewashed houses inhabited by simple fishermen and their families whose height of ambition could be achieved by one exceptional catch that could be bragged about in the cafes at the end of the day.
Face downward, she leant over the side to plunge her arms into the warm water, endeavouring to catch in her hands one of the small fish teeming just beneath the surface. Exhilarated by a marvellous sense of freedom, she drew back inside the boat to unpin her hair, then lifted her face towards the sun so that long dark brown tresses were caught and teased by the stiffening breeze.
'Are you warm enough?' Vulcan called above the throb of a small outboard motor, his glance questing the surge of perked-up breasts and along the elegant, slender sweep of bared neck and shoulders.
'Perfectly,' she nodded, forcing back an embarrassed blush, attempting, and failing miserably, to meet the challenge of his audacious eyes.
'Good! I'll cut the engine once we reach my chosen fishing spot, then we will be able to talk without strain.'
She doubted the truth of this statement, yet strangely, after taking advantage of currents that helped him to navigate with meticulous precision towards his favourite fishing ground; when he had placed his lines, then dropped down beside her with a sigh of deep satisfaction, she found it easier than she had imagined to lean back against a pile of fishing nets and question curiously:
'I'm not in the least surprised to discover that you're a proficient sailor, but which expert taught you the art of fishing?'
'My grandfather,' he grinned, his teeth flashing white as the wings of a passing gull. 'He retired early, leaving his business affairs in the hands of my father so that he could be free to devote his time to his greatest pleasures—sailing and fishing. I was his constant companion, from him I learned how to handle sails, how to remove a hook from a struggling fish, how to read, hours in advance, from the humidity of the air-, the state of the clouds, the flight of the gulls, any threatened changes in the weather.'
'It must have been wonderful to have had such a grandfather,' she sighed more wistfully than she realised.
'It was,' he nodded, reading the message of regret written across her lonely-orphan's face, 'but now that you have been convinced that marriage to me is your best option, I will endeavour to ensure that you don't miss out on the pleasures of being a grandmother.'
She stiffened, jolted from the dangerous lethargy engendered by euphoric surroundings, a feeling of comfort she had never known as a child, of being cosseted, rocked in a cradle of deep blue sea with golden sunbeams for a coverlet and heat haze hanging like protective gauze.
'I'm far from being convinced that there are any personal benefits to be gained from giving in to emotional blackmail,' she corrected coldly. 'I've agreed to marry you only because I feel certain that to go back on my promise, however mistakenly given, would inflict great distress upon Lucita.'
She was saved from his displeasure when his attention was caught by a tug of activity on one of the lines, then animosity became submerged by excitement when she responded to his instructions and attempted, a little squeamishly at first, to reel in the fish that had descended in a swarm upon the bait. Within ten minutes the bottom of the boat was filled with jumping, gasping fish, their rapidly flashing fins sparking brilliant, metallic colours as they caught the rays of the sun.
Birdie was flushed with exertion by the time Vulcan pronounced himself satisfied with the day's catch.
'Time for lunch,' he grinned. 'Are you hungry?'
Her breakfast had been frugal, yet she felt reluctant to admit to gnawing hunger. 'I'll survive,' she prevaricated lightly. 'Don't curtail your pleasure on my account.'
'I don't intend to,' he glinted, pausing in his task of shovelling fish into a wickerwork basket. 'Pleasure can be found even in a storm-beaten ship, if one is blessed with the right companion.'
Though she took care not to show it she glowed with happiness at the compliment, sensing, as he started the motor and set the boat creaming a course across a solitary stretch of sea, that for once he was seeing her as a person with moods to match his own, discovering attributes of companionship, enjoyment and spontaneity to contradict his view that she was repressed and emotionless as a puppet.
With a leap of the pulses she noted that instead of turning in the direction of home he was steering the boat onward, heading towards a spot of land on the far horizon. She relaxed, allowing a sweet sense of contentment to invade her body, a languor that retained its hold even when he reached his goal, an oasis of an island bobbing small as a cork on a vast expanse of sea, with just a few tall rocks to cast a welcome shade and a mass of seaweed strewn over a sliver of coral sand.
'My grandfather and I regarded this island as our own private retreat from the world,' he confided, swinging her out of the boat and setting her down barefoot on the sand. 'Building that hut was his idea ...'
Birdie turned in the direction he had ind
icated and saw a small wooden structure no bigger than a shed, with a roof of thatched straw, a shuttered window, and three steps leading up to a wooden door.
'He was an expert at culinary improvisation,' he mused. 'Never have I tasted anything to equal his tomato, onion and fish salad eaten in the open air.'
Some sixth sense warned her that she, too, was destined never to forget this enchanted oasis tucked away behind the waves but, knowing his cynical eyes were alert for signs of panic, she suppressed all signs of alarm, even managed to mock coolly.
'There must be more than a little of the schoolboy left in any man who likes to play Robinson Crusoe—if you'll tell me what I can do to help, I'll be glad to act the role of Girl Friday!'
'You can prepare the table while I cook the fish,' he grinned, amused by the comparison. 'You'll find all the crockery you need inside the hut, but I'd advise you to wash it thoroughly, as it has not been used for some time.'
Lighting branches of shrubs to fuel the stove, he gutted the fish while she took plates, mugs and cutlery down to the sea, rinsed them well, then set them out to dry on a smooth plank of wood nailed to supports sunk into the ground adjacent to the hut, which was obviously meant to serve as a table. Two forms set either side, and a pole inserted in a hole carved out of the centre of the plank to support a straw-thatched umbrella, comprised a dining area that was unashamedly crude yet softened by a background of indescribable beauty.
While the fish were sizzling in boiling oil Vulcan went back to the boat and returned to toss her a bag full of boccadillas, crusty rolls which she split, then spread with butter to accompany a dish of tomato salad and a bottle of red wine which he had managed to keep cool by tying string around the neck and lowering it over the side of the boat to dangle in deep water. By the time the meal was ready they were too famished to spare time for talk. Her first forkful of plump, crisply-fried mullet was so delicious she closed her eyes to savour fully the delicate flavour of fish enhanced by the addition of sprigs of wild mint, then the honey-sweet tang of huge tomatoes devilled in a dressing of lemon juice, mustard, oil and sharp black pepper.
Castle in Spain Page 10
