Читать книгу Forbidden Flame - Anne Mather - Страница 8

CAROLINE awakened with the instinctive awareness that all was not well. For a few minutes she lay still in the middle of the huge baroque bed, with its carved headboard and gilded hangings, once used, Don Esteban had assured her, by the Emperor Maximilian himself, and let the events of the previous evening sweep over her in intimate detail. And then, loath to spoil the new day with such reminiscences, she thrust back the silken coverings and put her feet to the floor.

There was a rug beside her bed, a soft silky alpaca rug, into which her toes curled, and she allowed its sensuous touch to soothe her unquiet thoughts. No matter what she had let herself into here, she was committed to stay for at least four weeks, she told herself severely, but it was not an easy fact to accept.

The night before had been like something out of a dream, or perhaps a nightmare described it more aptly. Remembering the dinner she had shared with the two brothers, she shuddered in revulsion, and her palms found her cheeks as she recalled that grotesque meal in its entirety.

It had been obvious from the start that Don Esteban was by no means sober, and the amount of wine served with the meal had only exaggerated his condition. They had eaten in the ornate dining room, at a table large enough to seat a score of guests, and from silver and crystal worth a small fortune. They were served by an army of waiters, and offered a fantastic number of courses, each cooked and presented with a different sauce. There were several courses of fish, from a spicy stuffed variety to the lightest of shellfish mousses, chilled soups, steaming consommés, wine-flavoured and aromatic, chicken served in wine and cream, stuffed tamales, enchiladas, deliciously filled with cheese, pork served with apples and tomatoes and onions, and every kind of fruit imaginable.

Caroline had eaten little, aware of the dangers of too much rich food on a stomach already churning with nerves, and she had noticed Don Esteban followed her example. But he had continually filled his glass, watching her intently across the expanse of polished mahogany, probing and assessing, and making her overwhelmingly aware that he found her presence at his table pleasing to him.

Luis Montejo had eaten more enthusiastically, drinking only a little wine, keeping his thoughts to himself. It had been left to Caroline to answer Don Esteban’s questions, and to listen in shocked fascination as he deliberately proceeded to provoke his brother.

Remembering it all now, Caroline rose from the bed and padded barefoot across to the window. Without the benefit of the rug, the tiled floor was cool to her feet, but she scarcely noticed. Drawing the heavy curtains aside, she opened the window, and gasped with sudden wonder at the beauty of the view.

Last night there had been nothing to be seen, only darkness, and the troubling obscurity of her own thoughts. But this morning the sun was shining, and even the enclosing wall that surrounded the property had taken on a rose-coloured hue.

But it was beyond the wall that Caroline’s eyes were drawn, to the flower-strewn banks of a river flowing through rugged but open land to where a church tower stood silhouetted against the sky. Her eyes followed the river as it rushed through a narrow gorge to disappear from sight, only to appear again in the shimmering distance, a spreading, shifting expanse of water. Caroline blinked. That was no river, she realised in sudden excitement. It was the sea. Only the sea could give that blue-green tinge to the horizon, and her spirits soared. She had known Yucatan was a peninsula but somehow she had never imagined San Luis de Merced might be near the sea. She gazed at it eagerly, savouring its familiarity, and breathing deeply, as if she could already taste its salty flavour.

With an effort she allowed her attention to be caught by a movement near at hand. There was a herd of cattle grazing some distance from the house, and her eyes widened at their number. There must be hundreds, she thought incredulously, then wondered with some misgivings if one had to negotiate the herds to reach the estuary.

She sighed. No doubt she would find out. But once again the more immediate present gripped her, reminding her that she had yet to meet her charge, the young Emilia, or the elderly retainer, Doña Isabel.

There was a bathroom adjoining the bedroom, and checking that it was still quite early, barely eight o’clock in fact, she went to take a shower. She had been too exhausted the night before to do anything more than wash her face and hands and clean her teeth, but now she surveyed the bathroom’s luxurious appointments with more enthusiasm.

Like everything else, the bathroom was ornate. The walls were lined with gilded mirrors, the taps on the bath and handbasin were gold-plated, and even the shower had a gold-plated spray. Still, the water was hot, and refusing to allow the memory of how the majority of the population lived to deter her, Caroline pulled on a shower cap and stepped beneath the invigorating cascade.

Towelling herself dry, she returned to the bedroom again, viewing her still-packed cases with some distaste. They would have to wait until she discovered what her duties were going to be, she decided, and determinedly dismissed the fleeting urge to beg Luis to take her with him when he left for Mariposa.

Dropping the towel, she rummaged for clean underwear, but when she turned back, the shred of cream cotton clutched in her hand, she encountered her reflection in the long gilded cheval mirrors. They were very narcissistic mirrors, she realised, folding one upon the other, throwing back her image from every angle. But they were candid, too, in their search for perfection, and there was no way one could disguise any possible flaw.

Reluctantly, Caroline allowed herself a moment’s assessment. Her body was slim, without being angular, her hips shaped, her legs long and attractive. She sometimes thought her legs were her best feature, although Andrew had insisted she had equally desirable attributes elsewhere. Her tongue circled lips that were unknowingly sensuous, troubled a little by her thoughts at that moment. It was not of Andrew that she was thinking but of Luis de Montejo, and her own disturbing awareness of him as a man. She had never met a man quite like him before, but then she had never had a conversation with a Roman Catholic priest before. Mr Thomas, the Church of England vicar at St David’s back home, bore no resemblance to the man who had rescued her from Señor Allende’s unwanted attentions, and even now she found it difficult to associate Luis with the Church.

Luis! The way his name came so easily to her tongue was disturbing, too, and she drew her lower lip between her teeth, nibbling on it uneasily. Unwillingly she recalled Don Esteban’s behaviour over dinner. His attitude towards his brother had been deliberately offensive, and, as the evening progressed, increasingly crude. He had spoken of things in Caroline’s presence, things which even she, in her self-asserted role of emancipist, would have preferred not to hear, and she had badly wanted to escape. When he baited Luis, when he made a mockery of his tolerance towards the people, when he spoke of his celibacy, Caroline had wanted to die of embarrassment, but Don Esteban had seemed to enjoy her discomfort far more than his brother’s indifference.

And Luis had maintained a façade of detachment, whether it was real or otherwise. He had refused to answer his brother’s coarser comments, and adopted an air of resigned fortitude, that succeeded inasmuch as it seemed to drive Don Esteban almost to distraction. His speech got more slurred, he filled his glass more frequently, and finally slumped in his chair, the victim of his own frustration. Several of the servants came at once to carry him to bed, almost as if this was a regular occurrence, and Caroline had been left to face Luis’s intent appraisal, with the distinct perception of her own inadequacy.

She had wanted to rant at him then, to accuse him of knowing to what he was bringing her, to question his integrity in allowing her to believe that his brother was an ordinary man—but she hadn’t. How could she blame him for her own foolhardiness? How could she despise him, when she had chosen this job? If anyone was to blame, it was Señora Garcia, in deceiving her so completely; although even that imposition didn’t hold water, when she considered how ambiguously the advertisement had been worded. It was her own fault, and hers alone. She had accepted the post, she had come here with such a high opinion of her own capabilities, and if it proved to be a disaster then she would have to extricate herself.

She gave a grim little smile now, as she recalled their conversation on the way to San Luis de Merced. What must he have been thinking when she made her stand for women’s liberation? How subtly he had avoided discussing his brother’s position. He must have known how soon her eyes would be opened, and yet not then, or last evening, had he voiced the obvious cliché.

With an exclamation of impatience she put on her scanty underwear and reached for the simple pleated skirt, folded on top of her suitcase. The matching silk shirt that went with it was the colour of African violets, and the outfit was in sharp contrast to the pale fall of ash-blonde hair. Her hair was straight and silky, smooth from a centre parting, and ideal in this climate, where more elaborate styles would droop with the humidity. She could wash it and dry it in an hour, without requiring any artificial assistance.

She was smoothing a shiny lip-gloss on to her mouth when there was a knock at her door. Half turning, she called: ‘Come in!’ and after a few moments’ pause the door was tentatively opened. A young Indian girl stood just outside, holding a tray. She was attired in the black dress and white apron, which seemed to be uniform for all the female staff, and she ducked her head politely, and said: ‘Desayuno, por favor, señorita. Puedo entrar?’

Caroline put down her lip brush and smiled. ‘You can put the tray over there,’ she said, indicating the marble-topped table near the windows, and then, summoning what little of the language she could remember, she added: ‘Su nombre—que es?’

The girl put down the tray and straightened nervously, folding her hands together. ‘Carmencita, señorita,’ she answered, the wide dark eyes darting about the room. ‘Puedo salir ahora?’

Caroline sighed. She wasn’t absolutely sure, but she guessed Carmencita had orders not to gossip with the new governess, and spreading her hands, she gave her permission to leave.

With the door closed again she approached the tray with some misgivings. She would have preferred to go downstairs, to accustom herself to her new surroundings before she was summoned to meet her charge, but obviously she was obliged to follow orders. So she lifted the silver cloches that protected hot rolls and scrambled eggs, tasted the peach preserve, and poured herself some rich black coffee into a cup of such fine china it was virtually transparent.

Then, summoning all her composure, she opened her door and let herself into the corridor outside. The night before, Consuelo had escorted her to her room, bidden by Luis de Montejo, after his brother’s undignified departure. Whatever his position in the house, his word appeared to carry as much weight as that of Don Esteban, and Caroline suspected that they respected him more. Two brothers could hardly have been more different, yet the result was the same. And did it really matter to these people?

The long hall stretched ahead of her, its stonework inlaid with panels of carving, and interspersed with portraits of long-dead Montejos. Overhead, the ceiling was an arch of heavily embossed moulding, and because it was without windows, it was constantly lit by a series of gothic sconces, each accommodating an electric bulb. It was curious, but the night before Caroline had scarcely been aware of its eerie isolation, those painted eyes in their canvas sockets troubling her not at all. But this morning, the remoteness of her rooms from the rest of the hacienda seemed infinitely significant, and she could not dispel the realisation that she was completely without support here.

She hurried along the corridor, her heels silent on the softly piled carpet that unrolled its length in shades of black and gold, and emerged at the head of the staircase with a feeling of having navigated a particularly treacherous expanse of ocean.

Thinking of the nearness of the ocean, she endeavoured to dismiss her foolish fears. She was allowing the house, and its lavish appointments, to influence her impressions of her employer, and the sooner she found a true perspective the better.

Downstairs she encountered some of the servants, already at work, polishing the massive width of the hall on bended knees. They looked up curiously as she hesitated, uncertain as to her destination, and then the sound of a child’s laughter erased the last traces of her irresolution. Nothing was more delightful than the spontaneous laughter of a child, she thought, crossing the hall in the direction of the voices she could now hear. Don Esteban must hold some affection in his daughter’s eyes at least, and she was relieved to have the burden of indecision lifted from her.

But when she reached the arched doorway that led into a huge, sunlit salón, she faltered once again. Sure enough, her charge was there, a small, plump little girl, extravagantly arrayed in a white dress with layer upon layer of frills, overset by strings of pink ribbon, but the man who was on all fours, and on whose back she was energetically riding, was not her father.

‘Ah, Miss Leyton! Good morning!’

With a lithe effort Luis de Montejo swung the child down from his back and got easily to his feet, quelling the little girl’s protests with a soothing hand on her long black hair. In the same linen trousers he had worn the night before, but this time a cream silk shirt to complement them, he was relaxed and magnetic, a vibrant masculine being, with the unmistakable glow of good health. His shirt had become partially unbuttoned during his antics on the floor, and now his long fingers probed to fasten it, but not before Caroline had observed the dark arrowing of fine body hair that disappeared below his belt.

‘Tio Vincente, Tio Vincente!’ Emilia, for this was evidently Don Estaban’s daughter, tugged impotently at his sleeve. ‘Quien es?’ she exclaimed, subjecting Caroline to a malevolent scrutiny from beneath dark brows. ‘Que desea? Ella no me gusta!’

‘Hush, little one. Speak in English, remember?’ Luis exhorted her softly, restraining her sulky tirade. ‘Miss Leyton is here to teach you your numbers, as you know very well. And I do not wish to hear that you have been rude to her.’

Emilia’s lips pursed. ‘I know my numbers,’ she declared, in perfect English, surprising Caroline by her lack of accent. ‘Miss Thackeray taught me my numbers, and my letters, and I do not need any more teachers.’

Miss Thackeray? Caroline’s brow furrowed. Had Miss Thackeray been her predecessor, and if so, why was she no longer here?

‘Miss Thackeray used to be my governess,’ Luis inserted, dryly, correctly interpreting Caroline’s little frown. ‘She lived at San Luis from the time I was six years old, but unfortunately she died last year, and since then Emilia has had no formal education.’

‘I see.’ Caroline endeavoured to hide her relief. For an awful moment she wondered if she was the last in a succession of governesses, all of whom had objected to living at the hacienda.

‘You won’t like it here at San Luis,’ Emilia stated now, abandoning her pleas to her uncle and turning instead to the offensive. ‘There are snakes, and spiders, and bats that suck your blood!’ She twisted her face into a horrifying grimace. ‘Do you believe in vampires, Miss Leyton? Because if you do not, you must be as stupid as you look!’ And brushing past Caroline, she ran out of the room, before either her governess or her uncle could prevent her.

‘Well—–’ Left alone once again with Luis, Caroline felt hopelessly embarrassed, as much by her own sense of inadequacy as by what the child had said. ‘What do I do now?’

Luis’s mouth compressed. ‘You are asking me?’

‘Who else?’ Caroline made an encompassing gesture around the otherwise empty room. ‘There is no one else.’ She expelled her breath unevenly. ‘Is she always like that?’

Luis shrugged, tucking his thumbs into the back of his belt. ‘You must make allowances for Emilia. She has had a rather—unusual upbringing.’

‘That I can believe!’ Caroline was vehement.

‘Do not misunderstand me, Miss Leyton. I am not saying that Emilia is without—gentleness, compassion. Only that she has never known a mother’s care.’

Caroline shook her head. ‘But your aunt—–’

‘Tia Isabel is—how shall I say it?—a little unworldly.’ He paused. ‘Miss Thackeray provided the fulcrum of Emilia’s existence. When she died …’

‘But what about her father?’ Caroline had to say it. ‘Surely he—–’ She broke off, and then said inconsequently: ‘For two brothers, you are totally different.’

‘Forgive me,’ Luis’s grey eyes narrowed, ‘but is that one of your famous English non sequiturs? I do not see what relevance it has to the purpose.’

‘It hasn’t,’ Caroline sighed forlornly, bending her head. ‘I mean, it has no relevance, of course. I just wish—–’ She broke off again. ‘Are there really vampire bats here?’

Luis’s mouth softened a little. ‘And if I say yes, will you go running back to Merida?’

He was teasing her, but she could not respond to it. ‘Perhaps, if I could,’ she answered now, and his sudden humour disappeared behind a mask of gravity.

‘I think I must be going,’ he said, moving purposefully towards the door. ‘I promised Tomas I would ride with him this morning, and it grows late.’

‘Wait—–’ Caroline went after him urgently, her green eyes wide and anxious. ‘Please, you have to tell me—what am I do do about Emilia? Where is she? When do her lessons begin? And—and are we allowed to go outside the grounds of the hacienda?’

Luis halted in the doorway and looked down at her with studied consideration. His stillness disturbed her. The penetration of those light eyes was disruptive. Her lungs began to feel constricted, and her throat felt tight, and she wondered if this was how a penitent felt in the presence of a confessor.

‘I suggest you ask my brother these things,’ he advised her at last, his voice curiously constrained. ‘He is your employer, señorita, not I. Now, if you will permit me—–’

‘You’re not—leaving!’

It seemed imperative that she should know this for a fact, and without really thinking what she was doing, she emulated Emilia’s example and gripped his sleeve. Only somehow her fingers encountered the hair-roughened skin of his forearm, and the feeling of the taut muscle beneath his skin caused an involuntary tremor of awareness to ripple over her. She looked down at her fingers, spreading them almost experimentally, then her chin jerked upward as he wrenched his arm out of her grasp.

‘I return to Mariposa in three days, señorita,’ he told her harshly, and without another word, he strode away.

Caroline turned back into the salón, aware that she was trembling. She realised she had done an unforgivable thing by making him aware of her like that, but it had happened completely without her volition. Yet perhaps it was inevitable. He was the only person she could turn to, and she dreaded the thought of his eventual departure. But somehow she had to face that reality, and live with it.

‘Señorita!’

For a moment, the whispered use of her name confused her. She had thought herself alone in the room. But now she saw that the door to an inner salón had opened, and a tiny figure, voluminous in folds of black silk, was hovering on the threshold. A headdress, of the kind Caroline had previously only seen on those ancient portraits upstairs, formed a kind of jewelled halo above the woman’s coiled hair, and her ears and the gnarled knuckles of her fingers glittered with a veritable fortune in diamonds, rubies and emeralds.

‘Doña Isabel?’ ventured Caroline nervously, at a loss to know how else to address her, and the tiny figure bobbed her head in assent. ‘How—how do you do? I’m Caroline Leyton—er—Emilia’s new governess.’

‘Governess, pah!’ Doña Isabel released her hold on the door and advanced a few paces into the room, staring at Caroline with unconcealed contempt. ‘I know who you are, señorita,’ she admonished her, in a low guttural undertone. ‘You are Esteban’s latest puta, that is who you are! Do you think you can deceive me? I have lived here too long!’

Caroline was astounded. Her knowledge of Spanish might not be comprehensive, but she knew exactly what puta meant, and its connotations were not only shocking but insulting.

‘I assure you, Doña Isabel—–’ she began, only to have the old lady interrupt her.

‘Be silent! I do not hold conversations with putas!’ she hissed arrogantly. ‘How dare you enter my sister’s sitting room? How dare you show your legs, like any common—–’

‘That will do, Tia Isabel.’ The cultivated masculine tones came as such a relief that Caroline turned to face her employer with real gratitude in her face. She was fast coming to the conclusion that no one could remain sane in this madhouse, and to see Don Esteban entering the room, apparently composed, and sober, in his elegant grey lounge suit, seemed almost a miracle.

‘Puta! Puta!’ cried Doña Isabel shrilly, her voice rising in her agitation. ‘How dare Esteban permit his women to use my sister’s—–’

‘Tia Isabel, my father is dead,’ declared Don Esteban flatly, spreading his hands apologetically in Caroline’s direction. ‘Senorita, please forgive my aunt. She is sometimes—forgetful.’

Caroline shook her head in bewilderment as the old lady frowned, and tried to absorb what her nephew was saying. ‘Esteban is dead?’ she echoed, thin brows meeting above a long aquiline nose. ‘Then—then who is this girl? What is she doing at San Luis de Merced?’

‘Miss Leyton is Emilia’s new governess,’ explained her nephew calmly. ‘You remember? I told you. She has come from England to teach Emilia geography and history, no?’

Doña Isabel viewed Caroline with suspicion. ‘But she was here, talking with Luis. I saw the way she looked at him!’

‘You are imagining things, mi tia,’ Esteban retorted, evidently losing patience. ‘Go back to your embroidery, tia, I wish to discuss business matters with Miss Leyton.’

Doña Isabel hesitated, but clearly Esteban had the upper hand, and with a gesture that was curiously pathetic she disappeared out the door through which she had entered. Her departure was a definite relief, and Caroline linked her fingers together in an effort to hide their obvious trembling, wishing she had more experience in these matters.

‘Please sit down.’ Esteban was all sympathetic affability now. ‘I do not know how I can satisfactorily atone for my aunt’s behaviour, except to beg your indulgence for her temporary lapses of memory.’ He sighed. ‘She is—was—my mother’s sister, an unmarried lady of uncertain years, and prone, I regret to say, to periods of fantasy concerning my father’s behaviour.’

Caroline, who had subsided gratefully on to a satin-striped sofa, looked up at him. ‘You mean your father is the Esteban she talks about?’

‘That is correct. I was named for him.’

‘I see,’ Caroline nodded.

‘And of course, Isabel was a little jealous of her sister’s good fortune.’ He smiled, showing even white teeth, brilliant in his dark face. ‘Is it not always the way with unmarried ladies?’

Caroline made an awkward gesture, not quite knowing how to answer him, and taking advantage of her momentary confusion, he came down on to the sofa beside her, his bulk causing the cushions to slope a little in his direction.

‘Señorita!’ He looked diffident, and for a moment she thought he was going to apologise for his own behaviour the night before, but he didn’t. ‘Señorita, I am so glad you have come here. Emilia—my daughter, you understand—is sorely in need of young companionship. I do not know how much Doña Elena—Señora Garcia, that is—told you, but since my wife’s death, Emilia has been brought up by an elderly countrywoman of yours, a Miss Thackerary.’

‘Yes.’ Caroline acknowledged this, without explaining how she was so informed, and he went on eagerly:

‘She was not a good influence on the child, señorita. Many times, she went against my judgment in matters concerning Emilia, and unfortunately my brother Luis took her part.’

‘I see.’ This was deeper water. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘So am I.’ Esteban was grave. ‘Luis and I are brothers, and it is always sad when blood turns against blood.’

‘Oh, I’m sure—–’ began Caroline awkwardly, only to break off abruptly when Esteban raised his hand.

‘You do not yet understand, Miss Leyton. Just as Tia Isabel was jealous of her sister, so Luis is jealous of me.’

‘No—–’

‘But yes. I regret so.’ And indeed, Esteban did look melancholy. ‘I am the elder brother, entiende? I have inherited our father’s estate. Luis has nothing, except what I give him. His mother, you see, was the puta of whom Tia Isabel speaks.’

Caroline’s face felt frozen in an attitude of disbelief, and as if realising he had gone too far, Esteban hastened to retract.

‘Forgive me,’ he said, as she shrank back against the cushions. ‘I should not have told you so brutally. I do not mean to be—callous, but I cannot forget that it was Luis’s mother who caused my mother’s death. She killed herself, you know, mi madre. She flung herself from a second floor window down to the courtyard beneath.’ He massaged his temples with the middle finger and the thumb of one hand. ‘Believe me, that is not something one can easily forget.’

‘But—–’ Caroline swallowed convulsively, ‘your—your brother’s name is Montejo.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Esteban heaved a heavy sigh. ‘My father married Luis’s mother—afterwards. My brother is no bastard, señorita. At least,’ he paused, ‘he is not illegitimate.’