63 Ola and the Sea Wolf

by Barbara Cartland

  She had not worn a bonnet for the entire journey for the simple reason that she only had with her the one she had travelled in. When she sat on deck, she either wore a chiffon scarf over her hair or held up a small sunshade.

  Luckily, despite her exceptional red hair, she did not have to take much trouble over her skin, which the Marquis had already noted had a magnolia quality to it. It did not brown in the sun and, although she had been out on deck in the wind, rain and sunshine, it retained a dazzling whiteness, which was in such direct contrast to the fiery hue of her hair.

  The Marquis could understand only too well why some women would not only envy but also dislike her, as it seemed impossible that she would not draw the eye of every man present, wherever she might be.

  It would be simple to dismiss her dramatic colouring as looking theatrical, but that was a very superficial view of her looks, which were far more subtle than that.

  She had, the Marquis thought, the same colouring and the same almost spiritual beauty he had seen in a picture, but he could not remember where.

  Suddenly he knew where he had seen the colour of her hair before and it was in a picture he owned.

  By Rubens, it was a portrait of Marchesa Brigida Spinola-Doria. He had always thought not only that it was lovely but also that the gleaming red curls of her hair would be soft and silky to touch and at the same time would have a springing vitality.

  He was sure that would be what Ola’s hair would feel like.

  Then he told himself severely that he had never admired women who were not fair with blue eyes like Sarah.

  Strangely enough, now when he thought of her there was no longer that stabbing pain in his heart, nor was there a red mist before his eyes and his hands no longer clenched as if he wished to hit somebody.

  He felt instead that Sarah, like England, was far away and, when Ola was talking to him so interestingly, drawing him out on his favourite subjects and listening with a rapt expression in her eyes, which told him she was genuinely entranced by what he was saying, Sarah no longer mattered.

  Her power to hurt him had gone, so too had her power to make him feel that he was a fool to have been betrayed.

  He told himself firmly that he still distrusted and disliked all women and would never put himself in the same position again.

  Equally when the sun was shining and the yacht he had designed was showing how remarkably easy she was to handle, there seemed no point in worrying over what was done and finished with.

  Now he was amused by Ola’s insistence that they must climb the cliff, as he was quite certain that she would find it too much.

  They both started, with only a few feet between them, to scramble up the rough rocks and onto the tiny twisting paths that led them higher and higher.

  The Marquis was remarkably fit, owing not only to the fact that whenever he was in London or in the country he rode one of his spirited horses every morning.

  Although he had not bothered to mention it to Ola, he was an experienced pugilist and sparred regularly in the gymnasium, which was patronised by a great number of his friends.

  He was also a swordsman and, although duelling with pistols was far more fashionable, fencing was still a hobby the Marquis excelled at.

  Altogether he was extremely proud of being so strong and had no intention of becoming flabby through drink and debauchery like so many of the bucks under the last Monarch.

  The King had certainly changed the fashion for large meals set by George IV.

  He had just saved fourteen thousand pounds a year by dismissing his brother’s German band and replacing them with a British one, a patriotic but less skilful substitute.

  He had then sacked the squadron of French chefs who had followed the previous King from residence to residence. This was an economy deplored by a number of those who were habitually at the Royal table.

  “I find it detestable and depressing,” one Statesman had complained to the Marquis, while Lord Dudley, who was celebrated for grumbling sotto voce and caused much embarrassment in doing so, had remarked,

  “What a change, to be sure! Cold pâté and hot champagne!”

  But while the late King’s habitual companions suffered, the public were delighted that William IV had dispensed with the luxurious extravagances of his brother’s way of life.

  They cheered when they learned that the Royal yachts had been cut from five to two, the stud reduced to half its original size and that one hundred exotic birds and beasts, which had been the delight of George IV, were presented to the Zoological Society.

  The King was applauded wherever he went and actually there were few people, if they were honest, who did not admit that a change was overdue.

  As the Marquis climbed steadily up the cliff, he told himself that for the moment it was a relief to be away from London, free from all the complaints and criticisms inevitably voiced amongst those who found the King different in every way from the late Monarch.

  For one thing the Marquis, who was extremely diplomatic when he was in an official capacity, found King William’s indiscretions dangerous.

  He had winced with the Ministers when William had referred to the King of the French as ‘an infamous scoundrel!’

  The Duke of Wellington had given the King a stiff rebuke, which had kept him quiet for some weeks, but actually he was irrepressible and at another time when angry at the conduct of affairs by the French, he had startled a Military Banquet at Windsor Castle by expressing the hope that if his guests had to draw their swords, it would be against the French, the natural enemies of England.

  ‘I deserve a holiday,’ the Marquis said to himself, as he remembered smoothing down the incensed feelings of the French Ambassador.

  Then he realised that deep in his thoughts he had not noticed that Ola was well ahead of him.

  He told himself that she would soon grow tired, but at the same time he moved a little quicker to get level with her.

  “Be careful,” he admonished. “If you slip, you will fall a long way and doubtless end up with a cracked head and a broken leg.”

  She managed a little smile.

  “Stop croaking at me,” she said, “I am as sure-footed as any chamois which, by the way, is an animal I would like to see!”

  “They are more likely to be found further inland,” the Marquis replied.

  “You have visited Spain before?”

  “I have been to Madrid and Seville.”

  “How lucky you are! I was just thinking, as I was climbing, that if I was a man I would be an explorer. What is the point of sitting in one place when one might be travelling all over the world, finding fascinating places where no man has ever been before?”

  “That would certainly be no life for a woman!” the Marquis retorted.

  “I thought that would be your answer,” Ola remarked in disgust.

  She looked at him and then moved towards the cliff top so quickly that he had to make a strenuous effort to catch up with her.

  Then suddenly there was a flat rock and, as they reached it at almost the same time, Ola gave a little exclamation.

  “Look!” she cried. “Caves! How exciting!”

  The Marquis stepped onto the flat rock aware that he was breathing quickly from the exertion of the climb, which had certainly exercised every one of his muscles.

  It astounded him to see that Ola was completely composed and the only outward sign of her exertion was that her gown was stained by the moss and lichen on the rocks.

  She was looking wide-eyed at the caves behind them, large, dark openings. Then, almost as if with an effort, she turned round to look out to sea.

  Below them and it was a long way down, they could see the yacht riding at anchor and the seamen carrying a water butt they had filled from the spring, back towards the boat.

  Then beyond was a vista of sparkling blue sea that seemed to shimmer with light to where in the indefinable distance the horizon met the sky.

  “It is lovely! Absolutely lovely!” Ol
a breathed.

  “I agree with you – ” the Marquis said.

  “I wonder – ” Ola began.

  Then she gave a little cry that was stifled as suddenly a rough hand was placed over her mouth and she was lifted off her feet.

  She found herself being carried away into the darkness of a cave.

  For a moment she could not think what was happening. Then, as she struggled and realised the hands that held her were strong and there were four of them, she knew any resistance was useless and could only desperately wonder where she was being taken.

  She had not long to wait since the dark passage she was carried down opened suddenly into what was a large cavern lit by flaring torches with a wood fire at the far end of it.

  Now she was roughly set down on the ground, but she was still unable to speak because the hand was kept tightly across her mouth.

  But she could see and she saw that standing in the centre of the cave was a man who looked so exactly like the popular conception of a brigand, that it was difficult to believe that he was in fact real.

  He had long dark greasy hair, a moustache that turned down at the sides of his mouth, and he wore a brightly coloured handkerchief round his head.

  In a wide red belt encircling his waist were knives with ornamented handles and in his one hand he held an old fashioned pistol.

  Standing around the cave were a number of other men dressed like him, the only difference being that the majority of them held knives in their hands instead of pistols.

  The Marquis had obviously put up a fight, for Ola had been in the cave a few seconds before three men dragged him in.

  A fourth man was concerned only with keeping his hand over the Marquis’s mouth so that he could not speak and Ola realised the brigands were afraid that if he shouted even though they were so high up, he might alert the attention of the seamen.

  The Marquis, seeing the chief brigand with his loaded pistol, realised that it was useless to fight any further and he stood still, although his captors kept a firm grip on his arms and now the man standing behind him covered his mouth with both his hands.

  The chief brigand merely looked the Marquis up and down and then glanced at Ola.

  “So? What are you waiting for?” one of the men asked. “Kill him and let me have his boots!”

  “I could do with his coat,” another jeered, “and I bet there’s some gold in his pockets!”

  The chief cocked his pistol and Ola saw an expression of delight in his followers’ eyes as they bent forward, obviously excited at the thought of seeing a man die.

  She could not believe that this was happening, but the chief brigand had raised his pistol and she knew that he was in fact going to shoot the Marquis, just as he stood there, in cold blood.

  Frantically she bit hard into the hand covering her mouth, taking her captor by surprise.

  He had been far too intent on watching what his chief was doing to be concerned with her and when he took his hand away she started to speak.

  “No, no, señor, listen a minute, escuchar un minuto!” she shouted in Spanish.

  As her voice rang out in the cave the chief brigand looked at her in surprise.

  “You must hear what I have to say,” Ola went on still in fluent Spanish, “because, señor, if you shoot this Nobleman without listening to me first, you will make a very big mistake because you will lose a great deal of money. Do you understand – entiendes?”

  She spoke slowly although it was difficult for her to control her emotions, as she really wanted to scream at the brigands.

  She had realised as soon as they spoke that their Spanish was not the pure Castilian language she had learned and they might find her hard to understand.

  Then she thought, and she was not mistaken, that the chief brigand was better educated and doubtless better bred than his followers.

  “So you speak our language, señora, or should I call you señorita?” he said. “Which is it? What is this man to you – your husband?”

  “That is not important,” Ola replied dismissively. “What you should know is that he is very rich. You don’t want his boots or his coat. You want the gold he has aboard his ship, which can make you rich for the rest of your lives.”

  The chief brigand and the rest of the party were listening to her, almost as if they were spellbound.

  Then the chief laughed.

  “You paint a very pretty picture, señora,” he said, “But how do you suggest we collect the gold? Ask the seamen to hand it over?”

  “They would be prepared to do so without any trouble in exchange for their Master’s life!”

  “We are far more likely to receive a bullet in the gullet, señora,” the chief answered. “No, no, your idea is impracticable. I have seen ships here before, but it is the first time anyone travelling in them was fool enough to trespass on what is my property.”

  “In which case we can only apologise, señor,” Ola said, “and assure you that, if this Nobleman gives you his word of honour, he will reward you for taking us back in safety to his yacht.”

  As she spoke the chief was looking at her sceptically and she added,

  “Surely I don’t have to explain to a Spaniard that no nobleza would break his word of honour, as you would not break yours?”

  “You are very eloquent, señora,” the chief said, “I admire your spirit, but my men do not want money. They are not hungry, as there is plenty of wild game in this part of the country and, if we fancy a fat sheep or a succulent pig for dinner, the farmers are too frightened to prevent us from taking them!”

  He gave a supercilious smile as he went on,

  “No, señora, what my men hanker after are fashionable boots, a coat that will keep out the rain, perhaps some pretty jewels that a man can wear in his ears or on his fingers.”

  “Those I can definitely promise you,” Ola said quickly. “I have jewels – diamonds, sapphires, pearls. They are there in the yacht and, if you take me back, I will give them to you.”

  There was silence and she desperately hoped that she had made some impression on the chief brigand, yet she was not sure.

  He had certainly listened to her and was looking at her as if he was considering her proposition, but could not make up his mind whether to accept or refuse it.

  One of his followers rose from where he had been sitting and went up to him to whisper in his ear.

  Ola wished she could hear what he was saying, but it was impossible.

  The chief nodded his head, then shook it before he nodded it again.

  Ola looked at the Marquis and thought that if perhaps he was looking at her and their eyes met, she would know if he approved or disapproved of what she was trying to do.

  But he was watching the two men whispering together in the centre of the cave and now Ola felt her heart beating apprehensively and was aware that the position they were in was a critical one.

  There were several men in the cave and she thought that they were more ferocious and, in a way, more terrifying than any creature she could have imagined in her wildest nightmares.

  She was sure they terrorised the countryside and that murder to them was as commonplace as killing the food they wanted to eat.

  She found herself remembering stories she had been told about bands of ruffians who preyed on travellers all over Europe and wished that she had paid more attention.

  The girls at the Convent related how their relatives or friends had been held up by robbers even on the main highways and to save their lives had been forced to hand over everything of value they possessed.

  But these brigands seemed to be different.

  She could understand if they lived in a cave like this that money would not mean a great deal to them.

  Perhaps the excitement of living wild, beholden to no one and outside the law, that was more attractive than possessions.

  Frantically she began to think that her offer of what they could have in exchange for the Marquis’s life was not forceful enough and
she spoke up urgently,

  “Señor, I have another idea!”

  The chief had been in the process of shaking his head at something his follower had suggested and now he looked at her and asked,

  “What is it?”

  “Suppose one of us, either this Nobleman or myself, goes back to the yacht to collect anything you want – clothes, food, boots, gold, jewels. We will put everything on the beach where you can see it quite clearly, then when your second prisoner is released we can – sail – away – ”

  Her voice faltered as if she felt she had not convinced him and she added,

  “What have you to lose by such a suggestion? You could not be identified, nobody could shoot at you and you would have everything you want.”

  She thought, although she was not certain, that there was a murmur of approval from some of the other men listening.

  The chief said sharply,

  “It’s too complicated and anyway why should I trust you? We have you here and the man shall die, but you will stay with us.”

  For a moment Ola did not understand what he meant.

  Then, with an unpleasant smile on his lips, he said,

  “We have no women with us at the moment and some of my men find you attractive, señora.”

  Ola gave a little cry of sheer horror.

  “No! No! Do you really think I would – stay with you?”

  “You have no choice,” the chief said and shrugged whilst meeting her eye.

  As he spoke, he lifted his pistol again and Ola, with a sudden strength that took them by surprise, fought herself free of her captors and rushed towards the Marquis.

  She flung herself in front of him, facing the chief and crying as she did so,

  “If you shoot him, you will have to shoot me first! You are murderers and the curse of God will strike you sooner or later!”

  The words sounded more impressive in Spanish than they do in English and there was a cry of protest from the chief’s followers.

  At that moment the Marquis struggled wildly with his captors and managed in doing so to release his mouth from the restriction of the hands that had held him.

  “Curse you – i maldigo – yes, I curse you!” he shouted, speaking to Ola’s surprise in Spanish.