Castle in Spain

by Margaret Rome

  'Advantages?' she husked, feeling a trembling mistrust of his suavity. 'What could possibly compensate for loss of freedom?'

  His mouth tightened as he studied her gracefully-poised head, her slightly bitter mouth, and eyes clouded dark with pain.

  'A permanent home,' he suggested coldly, 'a mate to fulfil your needs and to supply protection; a guide to keep you on a straight course so that never again will you be tempted to commit the folly of trespassing upon unauthorised territory. Also,' he concluded meaningfully, 'a husband to satisfy the yearnings of an abandoned orphan whose sense of rejection can only be purged by the sweet penance of motherhood.'

  She jumped to her feet, disturbed by his perception, agitated beyond words by his implied assumption that a wife should be grateful, obedient, adoring, submissive to her husband's demands however outrageous, however contrary to her own.

  His mocking laughter followed her as she ran from the room, her flagging resolution stimulated by his scorn. During their meal she had felt herself wavering, weakened by his charm, but now she felt certain that while he had been flattering her with attention, chatting lightly to put her at her ease, he had been enjoying the taste of triumph, quietly savouring her imminent surrender. But though she had been forced to concede defeat, she planned to spoil the climax he was anticipating when Menorquin wreaked revenge upon the English by exerting superior strength until the enemy was overthrown, pinned helpless and pleading for mercy ...

  She ran inside the master bedroom, the room which for generations had been set aside by the Retz family as part of the bridal suite, keeping her eyes averted from a huge four-poster bed, its covers already turned down, awaiting its occupants, and groped along the wall for the master switch that flooded the heavily luxurious interior with light, chasing away the aura of intimacy formed by deeply shadowed corners and the pool of rose-coloured light beamed upon the bed by a solitary lamp.

  Shaken by a fever of fear, she struggled out of the plain black dress she had worn during dinner, then, conscious that there was not much time left before Vulcan would be following impatiently in her footsteps, she slipped on a dressing gown, unpinned her hair, then sat down at the dressing table and pulled her theatrical make-up box towards her. Swiftly, but with the skill of long practice, she began painting on a face to match the role she had been allotted.

  Part of the fascination of stage make-up is the way a pretty face can be disguised to suit the image of an ugly character, the way with a few expert strokes of a brush, a few lines and smudges, an innocent expression can be transformed into common wantonness. When she had finished Birdie stared with a sort of horrified fascination at her reflection in the mirror, a face with features exaggerated in the manner she had been taught was essential if an expression is to be clearly seen on stage in a big theatre with strong lighting. Her eyes looked especially overdone, the brows thickly winging; lids sparkling with gilt, and liner forming a grotesque frame around scared eyes contrasting oddly against a flamboyantly painted mouth and a wild-silk tangle of hair.

  Reluctantly she closed the lid of her make-up box, wishing there had been time to experiment with nose-putty to create a hooked nose or even a wart or two, but then reason took over—to have gone to such lengths would have been to defeat the object of the exercise, which was to disappoint the Conde by offering him not the dignified, innocent bride he was relishing but a pampered, satin-skinned, fawning houri!

  Nervously she untied Lady Daphne's beribboned parcel, and gasped when she saw the contents. The gift could not have been more appropriate had she outlined her requirements in detail—a diaphanous nightdress and matching negligee in bold scarlet, ruffled and flounced around neck and hem, with a slashed neckline plunging down to meet a broad band of ribbon threaded through a narrow waistband.

  She shivered inside its clinging folds, then without daring to glance in the mirror, grabbed the ultimate weapon—a bottle of cheap perfume that she had received as a parting gift from a hard-up colleague—and proceeded to scatter its contents indiscriminately until the atmosphere was pervaded with a sickly, overpowering scent.

  It might have been its potent attack that halted Vulcan in his tracks immediately he entered the room, or perhaps it was the sight of her slim nakediness gleaming milk-white through a nightdress transformed by the beam of a solitary lamp into a cloud of scarlet gauze.

  'Muy bonita ...!'

  Hesitantly, she turned to face the man whose cry of admiration had sounded choked, and gained the satisfaction of seeing his expression harden into lines of acute displeasure.

  'Diablo! What have you done to your face?' he hissed, striding closer to glare with disbelief upon the painted caricature.

  She trembled in his shadow, very conscious of male virility rampaging beneath a dark silk dressing gown. She tried to speak, but found that she could not. Terror was clogging her throat, her mouth felt arid, her nerves seemed attacked by some form of paralysis. She saw his dark head lift, narrow nostrils twitching as if suddenly assailed by the unpleasant scent permeating the room, then when the astonishment in his eyes was replaced by sparks of anger she knew that her message had been received and was fully understood.

  'So ...!' the softness of' his tone held more menace than a shout, 'yet again you have elected to take refuge in fantasy rather than face up to reality. Will you never cease play-acting?' he grated through lips tight as a slash. 'Am I to be cursed for ever with a puppet-wife who responds only to the pull of one master?' Savage hands descended, branding the heat of frustration upon cold white shoulders. 'What conceit,' he indicted thickly, menacing closer to her quivering mouth, 'to imagine your talents are sufficient to allow you to undertake the role of houri, a woman as dedicated to her profession as any dancer, one who specialises in the art of delighting men. You have much to learn in that respect, pajaro gris!' He scooped her boneless body into his arms and carried her towards the bed, his dark eyes smouldering as he dropped her into a nest of pillows, then bent low to deliver a terrifying promise: 'Though inexperience is no drawback in the pursuit of knowledge, expert tuition is essential—how fortunate for you, querida, that you possessed wisdom enough to place yourself in the hands of a teacher who prides himself on the excellent results he obtains from his pupils!'

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  'THESE slippers are uncomfortable, Birdie, I can feel a blister forming on my heel!'

  Birdie sighed, sensing that Lucita's fretful complaint had its basis in resentment of the fact that since her return from honeymoon in Mahon she had been too preoccupied to bestow more than half her usual attention. 'Take them off and let me look,' she responded mechanically. 'Perhaps the leather backs need bending to make them more pliable.'

  'It's too hot for dancing,' Lucita sighed, sounding decidedly fractious. 'Show me again how to express feelings without the use of words.'

  Birdie made a determined effort to stave off lethargy brought about by a combination of extreme heat and depressed spirits. They were nearing the end of summer, approaching the season of storms, yet the dreaded Tramontana represented no threat to a body that had survived being tossed and buffeted, had bent and writhed, clung and gasped, soared to incredible heights and plumbed new depths, during her initiation into the secret, tempestuous art of making love. In retrospect, her decision to play the role of prostituta in place of a shy, demure bride had been a mistake. Anger had rendered Vulcan savage, blind to terrified eyes, uncaring of panic-stricken heartbeats pounding fear through the silken-skinned novia crushed within the circle of his arms. But then slowly, magically, his storm of anger had abated, gripping hands had relaxed into a soothing stroke; kisses had lost their acidity and developed a probing, lingering sweetness that had caught her unawares, prompting clinging response from bruised, quivering lips.

  The following hours had passed like an impossible dream in which, like the sleeping Aurora, she had been guided gently out of the dense forest of doubt that had held her prisoner, released from a limbo of frozen emotions and sent soaring o
n eager wings to peaks of unbelievable ecstasy. But unlike the wise thrush who sings each song twice over, Vulcan had made no attempt to recapture those wondrous moments, for since that first night of fine, careless rapture she had been left so severely alone she felt shunned, humiliated by a suspicion that far from sharing her sense of bemused happiness, he had found her gauche inexperience amusing but slightly boring.

  'Birdie ...!' Lucita stamped an aggravated foot, 'are you daydreaming again? Tio says that to believe in one's dreams is to spend all of one's life asleep,' she quoted importantly. 'Do waken up and see if you can guess the gestures I am miming!'

  Birdie had to smile at the small, tense figure standing with hands clasped together in an unconsciously imploring gesture.

  'I'm sorry, nina, do carry on, you have my complete attention.'

  Posing vainly trying to snatch a glimpse of her reflection in the practice room mirror, Lucita lifted a hand to her eye.

  'You are indicating sight,' Birdie approved, then had to strive to look solemn when Lucita clasped both hands over her heart and heaved a heavy sigh. 'Love ...?' she suggested doubtfully.

  'Yes!' Lucita cried. 'Now for the next one.' Immediately she extended her left arm and pointed to her wedding-ring finger. Birdie's eyes dropped to the heavy gold band that was Vulcan's mark of possession, the ring that indicated she was now a minor item of Retz property. 'Surely you can guess this one, Birdie?' Lucita was losing patience. 'It means marriage—love and marriage always go together!'

  'Like heaven and hell?' The mocking question sent them both spinning towards the open doorway.

  'Tio!' Lucita squealed with delight. 'Have you come to keep us company? We have missed you so much these past few days.'

  'You must learn to speak only for yourself, nina,' he reproved, his smile tightening as his glance fell upon Birdie standing with hands loosely clasped, her eyes downcast in the manner of a servile muchacha ever conscious of the need to keep her place. 'I have neglected you both lately,' he frowned, 'but I would like to make amends by taking you with me to pay a visit to the gypsies who are gathering for a feria due to be held in two days' time.'

  'A feria?' Lucita seemed barely able to contain her excitement. 'Will there be merry-go-rounds and ocean waves and stalls laden with sweets and toys and all sort of fancy goodies?'

  'Unfortunately, yes ...' Birdie looked up just in time to catch his wry grimace, '... together with all the ceremony traditionally associated with the position of Caixer Senor and his Senora,' he stressed, locking Birdie's glance with a bolt of mockery. 'The Caixer Senor is one who is chosen to represent the nobility at Menorquin ceremonies,' he explained gravely, 'and I'm afraid that as that duty has been allotted to me, the Senora will be expected to ride pillion dressed in a costume of Old Spain.'

  'Ride?' she gasped, wide-eyed with alarm. 'On a horse, do you mean?'

  'On one of the proud, glossy stallions bred on the fincas of Andalusia,' he confirmed, twitching lips giving rise to a suspicion that he was having difficulty controlling his amusement, 'but don't worry,' he hastened to assure when her smooth brow puckered, 'Lucita will show you where the costumes are kept, and I give you my solemn promise that you will not be allowed to slip out of the saddle. And now,' he dismissed the feria to the future and returned to debate the immediate present, 'what about our visit to the gypsy encampment—are you in favour or not?'

  Although she ached to refuse, Birdie knew that the outcome of his invitation was a foregone conclusion even before Lucita threw herself into his arms babbling excited acceptance. He allowed them time to change out of their leotards and waited by the car until they appeared on the front steps of the Casa looking cool and pretty in crisp cotton dresses.

  'Would you like to sit next to me?', he invited, opening the door of the front, passenger seat.

  Nervously she shied from the suggestion. 'I ... I'd better keep Lucita company in the back,' she gasped, averting her eyes from a look that was mocking her timidity, deriding her attempt to appear a closed book to the man who had delved the secrets of every page.

  'Just as you wish, querida,' he responded politely, but in a tone so dry she was made immediately aware of her social inadequacies, was made to wonder at the conceit which for one split second had allowed her to imagine that El Conde de la Conquista de Retz had flinched from her too-hasty refusal.

  He took the road that curved around the bay and set a leisurely tenor to the day by stopping at Lucita's request to allow her to watch a group of boys at play throwing hunks of bread into the crystal-clear water and then waiting expectantly for shoals of tiny fish to swarm like a flock of hungry birds, wriggling and pushing, slithering over each other's backs as the bread became lodged against a rock and they fought for a share of the prize.

  When they reached the far end of the bay where the road branched left towards the capital, he took the right fork leading inland and began travelling through mainly barren hillside where tiny villages and whitewalled farmhouses surrounded by centuries-old dry-stone walls; gently sloping pine woods; olive groves, orchards, and tiny isolated churches lay slumbering beneath the heat of the sun. Occasionally they caught a glimpse of the sea and as they approached a signpost indicating a nearby cove, Lucita pleaded:

  'Please, Tio, may we take a quick peep at the caves?'

  'Not today, nina, some other time, perhaps.'

  'Oh, very well,' she sighed, 'but I did so want to show Birdie where the pirate used to live.'

  'You had a pirate living on your island?' Birdie queried, then immediately wondered why she should consider such knowledge surprising when she was so intimately acquainted with a looting buccaneer who would fit perfectly into the company of men who had walked planks, cut throats, drunk rum, fought duels, and deprived others of their most treasured possessions. Resentment flared in the glance she cast at his proud, dark head, then her colour rose when she caught sight of his bold glance reflected in the driving mirror and sensed the telepathic power that enabled him to delve her innermost thoughts. She was not unprepared when, with a slightly mocking edge to his tone, he confirmed her theory:

  'The caves are situated on the side of a cliff that drops straight down into the sea. Legend has it that many centuries ago Menorca was constantly pillaged by Berber pirates. One day, a Berber swam ashore, the sole survivor of a pirate shipwreck, and sought refuge from hostile islanders by climbing the cliff face and using the caves as a hideout. To stave off starvation he stole from local farms, then in order to assuage an even greater hunger he stole a Menorcan peasant girl as well. Eventually they produced a family and it is said that there are descendants of the Berber living in Menorca to this day. Can you believe that, querida,' he cocked a challenging eyebrow, 'or do you think the notion too far-fetched to be true?'

  'Not at all,' she assured him, managing to achieve a tone clear and even as a cello. 'Every cask retains some trace of the spirit it contained— which probably helps to explain why some men's hearts are black as pirate rum!'

  She wished the words unsaid when a frown of displeasure darkened his features and an ominous silence fell, threatening to spoil the enjoyment of their outing. But when the car eventually breasted a rise and then began descending into a lush valley where caravans resembling covered wagons had been drawn into a circle at the edge of a stream, her spirits rose until her excitement almost matched Lucita's.

  'Look, Birdie, there's a boy running around with a baby pig on a leash just like a puppy!'

  But as she stepped from the car Birdie's gaze was transfixed by a group of strikingly lovely girls wearing the traditional costume of the Spanish gitana, colourful dresses with long tightly-fitting bodices and skirts frilled from hip to hem; long, narrow sleeves; embroidered three-cornered shawls; earrings large as coins that swung and dangled with every toss of their heads; gold bracelets, and scarlet shoes laced above their ankles with ribbon.

  'Do they always dress so splendidly?' she gasped, struggling to equate such finery with the rigours of outdoor livi
ng.

  'No,' Vulcan's smile seemed a little less strained, 'you are about to enjoy the privilege of attending a gypsy wedding. That flower-decorated caravan set apart from the rest has been specially prepared for the newly weds. Come!' her pulses leapt when he linked her hand in his, 'the gitanas have been told of our marriage and are eager to meet my bride!'

  Lucita ran on in front while they began walking towards the camp. The smell of wood-smoke and the flavourful aromas drifting from cooking pots bubbling over numerous camp fires teased her nostrils, yet eager through she was to join the fascinating race of Romanies she could not resist lingering to peep into the interiors of caravans aglow with burnished copper, filled with pots of all shapes and sizes, odd items of porcelain, gaily-coloured ribbons and bunches of artificial flowers that formed part of their industry.

  Immediately they were spotted stepping inside the circle formed by the caravans the gypsies cried out: 'Senor! Senora!' and began crowding towards them with the vital, springy steps of prancing steeds, earrings and bracelets jingling, black eyes sparkling, smiling so broadly that Birdie blinked, dazzled by rows of white teeth contrasting sharply against teak brown skin.

  'Ah, so simpatica! The senora is so simpatica! Fetch flowers—flowers, we must give her flowers!'

  Seconds later her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes were just visible above an armful of flamboyant blossoms, long-stemmed yellow and scarlet poppies, huge, clove-scented carnations;' spikes of purple lilac, and roses, all carefully dethorned, in shades of red, cream, yellow, and some of a shade to rival the pink flush of pleasure rising in her cheeks.