Читать книгу Fallen Angel - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 7

ALEXANDRA had never experienced such a sense of space and freedom, miles and miles of long pampas grass stretching as far as the eye could see. Acres and acres of land, grazed by herds of shorthorned cattle, that turned wicked eyes in their direction as they passed, making Alexandra, at least, aware of the thin sheet of metal which separated them from those ugly pointed projections. Cattle in France and England never had such beady little eyes, or moved with the arrogance of the beast, untamed and magnificent.

Ever since the powerful Range-Rover passed beneath the crossed strips of wood which had marked the boundary of Jason’s land, she had been expecting to see the ranch-house, but mile followed mile and there was nothing in sight but the untrammelled grasslands of the Santa Vittorian plateau. The road, which from Valvedra had been passably smooth, was now little more than a beaten track, and she was regretting her impulse to offer Miss Holland the seat beside Jason in front. As she sat in the back of the Range-Rover, the base of her spine was in constant opposition to the springs of the vehicle, and her back ached from being thrown from side to side.

From time to time, her eyes encountered Jason’s through the rear-view mirror, and then she made a determined effort to appear unconcerned, aware that occasionally a trace of amusement lightened their umber depths. But she was here, that was the main thing, she thought with satisfaction, and the awareness of Jason’s lean body in the seat in front of her was all the compensation she needed.

It had not been easy, she acknowledged it now, and until the moment she and Miss Holland had boarded the plane she had been terrified in case he should send some message forbidding her to join him. But from the minute her father had spoken of Jason Tarrant, describing the kind of man he was, telling her about their adventures in Mexico, the rough absorbing outdoor life they had led, she had wanted to meet him. All her life she had wanted to do the things her father did, meet the people he worked with, and share in the thrill of his excavations. She would have followed him to the ends of the earth if he had asked her, but he never had. So far as he was concerned, she was a girl, and girls were not welcome in what he considered to be a male province. Her own mother had died in childbirth confirming his belief that females were weak, defenceless creatures, and he had only sent for Alexandra at the end because he had known he was dying, too.

Even then, he had not known what to do with her. Her assurances that she would make out on her own had not convinced him, but his suggestion of returning her to the nuns of Sainte Sœur had filled her with alarm. It was then she had coined the idea of writing to Jason Tarrant, of telling him her father was dying, and putting her future into his hands. She knew her father had helped him when he was in trouble, but Charles Durham would not even consider such a proposition. Instead, he had dictated a letter to his solicitors, giving them the address of the convent, and asking that if—when—anything happened to him, Alexandra should return there, at least until she was eighteen.

To her shame, Alexandra had never written that letter. Because his eyesight was failing, she had written all her father’s letters for him, and it wasn’t difficult to substitute a letter of her own for him to sign. It was possible that given time, the solicitors might have questioned that particular missive, but Charles Durham suffered a massive heart attack the following day from which he never recovered. Alexandra was left, pale and distraught, at the mercy of her own machinations.

Her first meeting with Jason, at his hotel, had not been exactly as she had expected. Of course, she had expected him to protest about the fact of her being a girl—didn’t everyone?—but she had not imagined he would be so young. She had been prepared to meet a contemporary of her father’s, a man in his fifties, at least, instead of someone perhaps twenty years younger. But that initial hazard had been swiftly superseded by her immediate attraction to the man himself, whose lean hard body and dark-skinned features reminded her vividly of the painting of an Indian the nuns had kept at the convent. Those gentle women would have been shocked by Alexandra’s reactions to that particular picture, the baptism to Christianity of a tall bronzed pagan, which had taken on a different aspect in Alexandra’s maturing eyes.

Jason himself had been as confounded as her father by his new responsibilities, but in the event it proved providential that he had imagined her to be a boy. Without Miss Holland’s intervention, he might never have been persuaded to allow her to go to Santa Vittoria, but she felt now that whatever he had decreed, she would have followed him. It was fate, she decided, which had prompted her to write that letter, and for now, just being with him was enough.

Miss Holland was another matter. That lady had taken her responsibilities very seriously, and seemed to regard her situation as that of a nursemaid, rather than a companion. There were times when she made Alexandra feel like a child in the company of an adult, and those occasions were galling. She was seventeen; granted she had led a comparatively sheltered life, but she had read a lot, much of it books the nuns would have been horrified to discover in the hands of one of their charges. The only thing her father had not kept her short of was money and she had spent it lavishly on literature of all kinds. All her experience of the relationship between a man and a woman had come from books, but she felt adequate to cope should the situation arise. She was a mature and intelligent young woman, or so she believed, and Miss Holland’s behaviour was a source of irritation to her. The fact that since their arrival in Valvedra, it was a source of amusement to Jason, too, only added to her frustration.

Miss Holland had proved useful when it came to providing her with a wardrobe suitable to the climate in which she was to be living. Her knowledge of London was extensive, she having tutored the children of a titled family for more years than she cared to admit, and maybe because she regarded Alexandra as little more than a child, she chose those shops where teenage clothes were sold. Once inside those shops however, Alexandra soon made her own wishes felt, and the sales assistants added their encouragement. The fashions of the day—jeans and sweaters, pants suits, and long flowing skirts and dresses—looked good on Alexandra’s slender figure, and although Miss Holland looked askance at revealing smocks and skin-tight jumpers, her opinion was overruled. Besides, the ear-splitting music which was an accompaniment to the service in these establishments gave her a headache, and she was obliged to wait outside.

Although Charles Durham had not died a poor man, he had not died a rich one either. He had used most of his capital to finance the expeditions which had become the cornerstone of his life, and sacrificed his dream of creating an institute in the tireless search for knowledge. Even so, the sale of the small house he had owned, though seldom occupied, in Ealing did provide Alexandra with a comfortable nest-egg, but her plans of bestowing it on her benefactor were doomed to disappointment. Before departing for South America, Jason had made it very clear that until her majority, he intended to make himself responsible for her maintenance, and the knowledge that she had tricked him into supporting her occasionally gave her a sleepless night. She consoled herself with the belief, however, that once she was living in his house, she would make herself useful to him in every way possible, and somehow she would repay him.

The days following Jason’s departure had dragged. She and the middle-aged lady who was to accompany her were obliged to have jabs for various tropical diseases before their departure, and because Jason could not spare the time away from his estancia, he had left within a week of their first meeting. From then on, Alexandra had lived in a fever of anxiety, as much from the knowledge of her own duplicity as from the after-effects of the vaccination serum.

But eventually the day of departure had arrived, and they had left a cold, grey England, recovering from the chills of January, to fly south into the sun. Their overnight stay in Rio de Janeiro had given Alexandra no thrill, although Miss Holland had marvelled at the twin peaks overlooking Guanabara Bay, and the magnificent statue of Christ whose shadow embraced the city. The thrill for Alexandra had come when they landed the next morning at Valvedra’s much smaller airport, and found Jason awaiting them in the arrivals lounge. In mud-coloured Levis and a matching shirt, half open down the muscled darkness of his chest, he appeared relaxed and casual, only the guarded narrowing of his eyes revealing the doubts he still possessed about bringing her here. But Alexandra had determinedly ignored his restraint, and much to both his, and Miss Holland’s, disapproval she had flung her arms about his neck and greeted him in her usual impulsive fashion. This time, however, Jason had quickly disengaged himself, and the kiss meant for his mouth had slid harmlessly along his jawline. Alexandra had been sad, but unrepentant, despite the effort of Miss Holland to behave as if she was some kind of annoying child who refused to behave with decorum.

Beyond the windows of the Range-Rover, the ground was steadily rising, and she saw to her surprise that they were in rolling hill country now, granite-like ridges casting shadows across the land. In the distance, the purple peaks of the Sierra Grande looked rugged and mysterious, and the whole aspect of the country had changed. It was late afternoon and already the shadows were lengthening, elongating the branches of the wind-torn cypresses that clung to the ridges, and shedding a rippling wave of ghostlike fingers across the land.

Their emergence into a sunlit valley was almost startling, the escarpment dropping away below them where a stream tumbled recklessly down the cliff face. It was then that Alexandra saw him, outlined against the golden rays of the sinking sun on the ridge opposite them, a magnificent black stallion silhouetted by the purplish gold backdrop of earth and sky. Just for a second he was there and then he was gone, plunging into the gully behind him, so that she thought for a moment she had imagined him.

‘Oh!’ she gasped, the sound escaping from her on a soft sigh, and Jason’s response was one of wry satisfaction.

‘You saw him.’ It was a statement, not a question, and Miss Holland, unaware of the tableau, gave an exclamation of surprise.

‘I beg your par——’ she was beginning, when Alexandra leant forward to rest her arms along the backs of their seats, saying eagerly: ‘Yes. Yes, I saw him! Whose is he? Is he yours? Oh, Jason, he’s beautiful!’

Jason gave her a half mocking glance over his shoulder. ‘I doubt that brute will ever belong to anybody,’ he remarked flatly. ‘I suppose technically, yes, you could say that as he runs on my land, he belongs to me, but no one’s ever succeeded in breaking him.’

‘You have caught him, then?’

‘Yes.’ Jason nodded, and Miss Holland’s expression grew even more confused. ‘But he’s a proud bastard—excuse me!’ This as that lady’s brows ascended. ‘He considers running my range with my mares and keeping them happy his prime objective!’

Alexandra’s low laugh was intimate, and as if realising her bare arm was resting comfortably against the broad expanse of his shoulder, Jason’s expression hardened and he moved so that she was not touching him. Fortunately, perhaps, Miss Holland chose that moment to ask a question of her own, and Alexandra sank back against the upholstery as Jason explained what they had seen.

‘You breed horses, Mr. Tarrant?’ she enquired, her lips twitching a little as if at a rather distasteful subject, and Jason’s hard features softened a little.

‘Horses are my passion,’ he admitted, his eyes meeting Alexandra’s for a brief compelling moment. Then, braking as the road took a sharp curve, he added: ‘But the production of beef is my primary concern.’

‘But this animal—the one Alexandra has just seen—is a wild creature?’ Miss Holland persisted.

‘I suppose he is,’ Jason nodded, frowning as the wheels of the Range-Rover slid across a shingly patch of pebbles dangerously close to the edge of the track. ‘But sometimes I wonder if he’s not more civilised than we are.’ His lips twisted at the older woman’s apparent astonishment. ‘There’s little that goes on at the estancia that he doesn’t know about. Some of the Indians think he’s the reincarnation of one of their gods. To them, he’s sacred. To me, he has less saintly qualities.’

Miss Holland shook her head, obviously disturbed by her first introduction to life at San Gabriel, but Alexandra was filled with a mixture of anticipation and excitement. This was what she had always wanted, she thought with satisfaction; travel and adventure, and a chance to live her life instead of just existing. Jason’s disapproval did not disturb her, it was a challenge, and something told her he was not as indifferent to her femininity as he pretended to be.

Then her breath caught in her throat as she suddenly glimpsed a building ahead of them. As yet, it was below them in the valley, but the painted tiles of its roof, leaved across a wide verandah, gave her her first sight of Jason’s hacienda.

Uncaring of his hostility, Alexandra leant forward again, deliberately allowing her slim fingers to stroke the nape of his neck, hidden beneath the over-long straightness of his hair. ‘Is that your house?’ she breathed, and the scent of her breath mingled with the perfume of wild verbena that drifted irresistibly through the open windows of the Range-Rover.

Jason’s hand came up, ostensibly to smooth his hair, but he pushed her fingers determinedly away, as he answered: ‘Yes, that’s San Gabriel,’ and her delight in her surroundings obliterated the coldness of his tones.

‘It’s rather a large house, isn’t it, Mr Tarrant?’

Miss Holland had her own opinion, and Jason chose to tell her that the sprawling outbuildings she could see were the lodgings of the gauchos who worked for him. He pointed out the long bunkhouse and the cookhouse where their meals were served.

‘I have twenty men who work for me on a permanent basis, and at least twice that number who are employed if and when we need them. Then there’s Ricardo Goya, and Andrés Alberoni, who has his own home at the other end of the valley. Ricardo is my foreman, and Andrés is the best herdsman this side of the Andes.’

‘Quite a large establishment.’ Miss Holland was impressed, although Alexandra guessed she still had misgivings about coming out here. It could only be all too different from what she was used to, and unlike Alexandra she was old to change her ways. But pride, and necessity, had taken the choice of working conditions out of her hands, and she had been prepared to sacrifice her desire to remain in England for the very adequate salary Jason had offered her.

The road widened as they reached the grassy lower slopes of the valley, and now they could see the river that meandered beside banks bright with golden rod and curiously yellow poppies. There were cows grazing beside the river, not the wild-eyed beasts they had seen on their journey, but fat, placid-looking creatures that were more interested in cropping the grass than watching their passage. As they neared the homestead, Alexandra saw the corrals where they kept the mares and their foals, and nearer at hand, shaggy-haired goats and chickens that scuttled out of their path.

But the hacienda itself riveted her gaze. Now, she could see that the low-hanging tiles were a deep red in colour, shading a balcony above the verandah, where rattan chairs suggested a shady retreat on hot afternoons. Right now, with the sun sinking lower every minute, the air was comparatively cool, unlike earlier in the day when Alexandra had had to discard the jerkin that matched her blue cotton pants. Beyond the verandah, she could see a shadowy hallway, framed by the sprawling cluster of vines and honeysuckle which had made their home around the pillars that supported the balcony. At the side of the building, a wrought-iron staircase wound, Spanish-fashion, to the upper floor, and along the balcony Alexandra could see long curtains moving in the breeze from open shutters. The shutters were all folded back at present, green slats against a pale-washed wall, as distinctive in their way as the riot of exotic blossoms that tumbled carelessly from urns beside the verandah steps.

Unable to suppress her delight, Alexandra bounced forward again, but Jason was already stopping the vehicle, and as he began to open his door a woman appeared round the corner of the building. She was young, that much Alexandra registered at a glance, tall, with full swelling breasts, and hair as dark as Jason’s own. It was long, like Alexandra’s, but whereas hers was inclined to curl in the heat, this woman’s was perfectly straight, and fell smoothly over one shoulder. Her features were those of the Madonna, calm and impassive, but as Alexandra alighted from the vehicle, too, she felt a wave of hostility emanating from her that had none of the Virgin’s compassion about it.

Jason greeted the woman with a faintly wry expression, turning first to help his other passenger to climb down, before saying: ‘This is my housekeeper, Miss Holland. Señora Vargas. Estelita, this is my ward—and her companion.’

‘Hello.’

Alexandra stepped forward, holding out her hand, determined not to be daunted by this sloe-eyed female. Close at hand, she was not half as young as she had at first imagined, but she was not mistaken that the faintly contemptuous stare Estelita conferred upon her sleeveless vest and creased cotton pants was intended to intimidate. The woman’s attire of long black skirt and loose-fitting blouse was common to women she had seen in Valvedra, but Estelita bestowed a certain grace upon them which was not typical.

Now, she allowed Alexandra to take her limp hand before saying: ‘Bienvenida, señorita!’ in tones which said just the opposite.

‘Inglés, Estelita,’ Jason warned in an undertone, and the housekeeper greeted Miss Holland in her own language, showing more enthusiasm towards the older woman than she had done to the younger one.

‘Come inside …’ Jason was already mounting the steps, and Alexandra quickly followed him meeting his gaze deliberately as he looked back at them. But he refused to answer the question in hers, and strode ahead into the cool, tiled hall of the hacienda.

The walls were plain and adorned with small plaques of saints. There were flowers in a copper bowl, huge lilies with thick creamy petals, and orchids, fragile and exotic. There were jewel-bright rugs and a hand-carved chest, and wind-chimes that whispered in the draught of their passing. No one would have taken it for the home of an Englishman, and yet Alexandra felt a sense of homecoming she had never experienced before.

Gazing at the circular window above the gallery of the first floor landing, whose prismatic light slanted down to the hall below, she hardly realised Jason had left her, or that Miss Holland and the woman, Estelita, had come to join her. Until the housekeeper spoke.

‘You would like to see your rooms?’ she suggested politely. ‘I will show them to you while Pepe prepares some tea.’ She addressed herself to Miss Holland. ‘You would like some tea, señora, I am sure.’

‘Tea!’

Miss Holland made an obeisance of the word, but Alexandra suddenly realised that Jason was not with them, and looked about her in faint annoyance. Several doors opened from the wide hallway, and through open doors she could see an inner courtyard, but she had no way of knowing where he had gone. Estelita, taking her silence for acquiescence, was already beginning to mount the wrought iron staircase that circled the hall, and Miss Holland was eagerly following.

It was irritating to have to go with them. Alexandra wasn’t tired. On the contrary, she was exhilarated, and all too eager to explore her new domain. Jason! she thought impatiently. He must have known how she would feel, and yet he had left her to Estelita’s less than friendly overtures.

Her room temporarily overcame her annoyance. Large, and high-ceilinged, it overlooked the whole sweep of the valley, and although the furnishings were not luxurious, their very spareness was attractive. Long woven beige curtains matched the woven bedspread, and the dressing table and long clothes closet left plenty of room for the velvet-cushioned prie-dieu in the corner. Two candles could be lighted on either side of the carved wooden cross, and Alexandra was enchanted to discover that the candles were hand-made, too. Miss Holland’s room was next door, very little different from that of her charge, and Estelita explained that there was only one bathroom, unfortunately.

‘The men use the showers down at the bunkhouse,’ she said, when Miss Holland revealed her dismay, and Alexandra asked who she meant.

‘Why—Jason, sin duda,’ she explained with a slight curl to her lip, ‘and Ricardo.’

‘Ricardo?’ Alexandra frowned, noticing the familiar way Estelita spoke of her employer. ‘That would be—Mr Tarrant’s foreman?’

‘That is correct.’ Estelita’s black eyes were insolent. ‘You will meet him at supper, no doubt. Now …’ She turned once more to Miss Holland. ‘If you will excuse me, I will see about your tea.’

‘Of course, of course.’

Miss Holland was only too willing to agree, but she followed Alexandra into her room when the woman had gone, and sank down rather wearily onto the bed.

‘Do you think you’re going to be happy here?’ she asked, as the girl walked rather thoughtfully towards the open balcony doors, and Alexandra looked back at her with some misgivings.

‘Why do you ask that?’ she exclaimed, trying to subdue the irritating feeling of anti-climax she herself was feeling, and her companion gave a somewhat helpless shrug of her shoulders.

‘I get the feeling we’re not altogether welcome,’ she confessed, taking out her handkerchief and wiping the grime of the journey from her rather anxious features. ‘Oh, not from Mr Tarrant, of course. He’s been charming. But Señora Vargas …’

‘Estelita,’ said Alexandra firmly, more firmly than she was actually feeling, ‘Estelita is the housekeeper, that’s all. I don’t intend to let a housekeeper intimidate me!’

‘Do you think that’s all she is?’ asked Miss Holland doubtfully, unexpectedly voicing those fears which Alexandra had succeeded in keeping hidden until that moment. ‘She seems—very much in command to me.’

Alexandra determinedly squared her shoulders. ‘Well, maybe she is, at that. But she’s not in command of us, Miss Holland, and that’s what matters.’

The older woman gave a rueful smile. ‘Oh, for the arrogance of youth!’ she murmured, a trifle anxiously, and then started when a male voice spoke brusquely behind them.

‘Is everything all right?’

It was Jason, and Alexandra turned to him mutinously, wondering how much of their conversation he had overheard. ‘Must you creep up on us like that?’ she snapped, thrusting back the weight of her hair with a nervous hand, aware that it must be uncombed and unruly after the journey, and his mouth took a downward curve.

‘I did not creep up on you!’ he declared coldly. ‘I was merely attempting to assure myself that you had everything you needed.’

‘Well, we haven’t!’ said Alexandra childishly, facing him in defiance of her emotions. ‘We’re short on a host, for one thing, and for another—where did you disappear to?’

Jason’s mouth relaxed a little. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid this is not a holiday hotel. It’s a working ranch, with any number of things waiting to be done. I’m sorry if you think I neglect my duties——’

‘Oh, I’m sure we didn’t think any such thing.’ Miss Holland rose now and after a reproving look in Alexandra’s direction moved uncomfortably towards the door where Jason was standing. ‘I expect we’re all tired. I know I am.’

‘I’m not,’ declared Alexandra shortly, tipping her head on one side and daring Jason to argue with her, but he was already standing aside to allow her companion to leave the room.

‘I suggest you rest for a while, Miss Holland,’ he was saying with quiet assurance. ‘Supper isn’t served much before eight, and there’s time for you to take a bath, if you’d like to.’

‘Thank you. I may take you up on that,’ she agreed, moving along the landing, and presently Alexandra heard the door of her room close behind her.

Only then did Jason step into her room, his face eloquent with disapproval. ‘Do you think you could refrain from embarrassing me in front of Miss Holland?’ he demanded, in low angry tones, and her momentary joy that he had chosen to remain was quickly doused.

‘Yes,’ she declared now, holding up her chin, ‘if you can guarantee that—that Estelita won’t embarrass me in front of her!’

‘Oh, God!’ He raked back his hair with impatient fingers. ‘Now what has she been saying?’

‘Saying?’ Alexandra’s shrug was offhand. ‘She hasn’t exactly—said anything. It’s just—her attitude,’ she finished lamely.

‘I see.’ His lips thinned. ‘Is that all?’

‘No, it’s not all.’ Her chin jutted defensively. ‘I like my room. It’s very nice.’ She paused. ‘But I don’t want to rest. I’m not tired. I want to see the ranch. I want to be with you!’

Jason’s features took on the guarded expression she was coming to know so well. ‘The estancia,’ he said, stressing the Spanish derivative, ‘comprises some twenty thousand acres. How much do you suppose you could see before it gets dark?’ He gestured towards the open windows, where already shadows were falling. ‘Tomorrow—or the next day—if you can sit a horse, I’ll have Ricardo show you the home paddocks——’

‘Ricardo!’ Alexandra’s chest heaved. ‘I don’t know Ricardo. I don’t want Ricardo to show me the—the estancia. I want you——’

‘Alexandra!’ His use of her name cut her off in full spate. ‘The sooner you realise your every wish is not my command, the better. All right, so I allowed you to come here as you wanted, but so long as you are living under my roof, there are certain things you will have to learn, and the first is that I cannot devote all my time to your entertainment!’

There was silence for a moment after that while they viewed one another with wary speculation. Then Alexandra spoke, but it was so quietly that he could barely hear the words.

‘You want me to hate it here, don’t you?’ she accused him, in low choking tones. ‘You want me to find it so awful that I’ll pack my bags and go away again, don’t you? Then you won’t have to be bothered with me any longer!’

‘Alexandra!’ With a driven kind of anguish, he crossed the room between them with long easy strides, and grasping her by the shoulders, he shook her until her head felt too heavy for the slender column of her throat. ‘Stop it!’ he ordered savagely. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Of course I want you here. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have allowed you to come, whatever you said.’

‘Is that true?’ The long silky lashes swept upward, and the smouldering torment of his gaze was achingly reassuring. ‘Oh, Jason,’ she whispered, lifting her hand to his face and touching his cheek. ‘Jason, you do care about me, don’t you?’

‘I’ve said so, haven’t I?’ he muttered gruffly, but he held himself away from her, and almost instinctively she moved nearer to him.

Immediately she was aware of the tautness of his body, of the moist male smell of him that no written word had ever warned her about. She could feel the hard muscles of his legs where hers were touching him, and longed, with an incomprehensible yearning, for something she hardly understood; for some contact between them that was not compounded of sympathy and comfort.

‘Jason …’

His name on her lips was a plea for understanding, but when he turned his head and parted his lips against her palm, she fairly snatched her hand away and pressed it tightly to her. Her startled eyes were mesmerised by the probing force of his, her whole body tingling with emotions she was not equipped to handle. She felt her breasts taut against the thinness of her vest, shameless in their eagerness, her head was swimming, and her legs, weak and trembling, scarcely had the strength to support her. Then she glimpsed the dawning cynicism in his gaze, the mocking curve of his mouth—and guessed his intention had been to achieve just this result. With a shudder of reaction, she pulled herself away from him, and his hands fell loosely to his sides.

‘Yes,’ he said, and his voice was low and angry, ‘you are just a child, aren’t you, Alexandra? So don’t try to play the femme fatale. It doesn’t satisfy.’

‘I—I suppose you think I’m afraid of you!’ she burst out jerkily, her arms folding about herself, as if for protection, and he nodded.

‘Aren’t you?’ he demanded, and then, as if his patience had spent itself, he brushed past her and left the room.