The Golden Madonna

  THE GOLDEN MADONNA

  Rebecca Stratton

  Sally Beckett and her friend Michael were looking forward to spending a very pleasant and instructive three months in Spain, as members of a little party who would be studying art with a world famous Spanish artist. In particular, Sally hoped the interlude would help her make up her mind once and for all whether or not she really wanted to marry Michael. But neither of them had reckoned with the irresistible force what was Miguel Cordova. Sally was disturbingly aware of him from the start - but what did he think of her? Certainly she had the face and hair of the golden Madonna he wished to paint, but wasn't only as a Madonna that Miguel saw her? Wasn't it far more likely that his more worldly thought should be centred on the sophisticated, so suitable Ines Valdaques?

  CHAPTER ONE

  SALLY BECKETT stirred uncomfortably on the hard seat, and a moment later sighed with relief when the train panted its tortuous way to a standstill. She felt hot and dusty and not a little ill-tempered as she pushed back the long fair hair from her face, managing a brief smile at Michael as she did so. The journey had seemed interminable, and quite the most unpleasant part of the trip from London, although it was the shortest. Spanish railways, she felt, were definitely not to be recommended for the fastidious traveller.

  From the window she could see a small, rather ramshackle building which was presumably the station, and surrounded by what appeared to be an endless panorama of hills, fields and hot sunny stretches of valley. The rest of the party were already on their feet, talking among themselves, and apparently far less discomforted by the horrible little train than she was herself. She got up, thankful to stretch her legs, but reminded again that they would soon be meeting the great man at last.

  It had seemed like a good idea when her father had suggested she spend three months in Spain, indulging her talent for painting under the expert guidance of Miguel Cordova. The prospect of a villa on the warm, sunny coast of southern Spain with nothing to do but paint and enjoy herself had been » irresistible, and she had agreed without hesitation.

  Her father had met Miguel Cordova at some grand function where the artist had been guest of honour, and he had been impressed both with the man and his talent, although his description of him had been rather too vague to be satisfactory. Miguel Cordova was well known all over the world, of course, and recognised as one of the greatest of the modern painters, despite his comparative youth. He was about thirty-four or five, according to her father's guess.

  It was Cordova himself who had mentioned that he ran a kind of summer school for young artists, with the idea of passing on some of his expertise, and her father had been very keen for her to go. As was to be expected, of course, the students chosen to attend the course, paid well for the privilege, but they were housed in Miguel Cordova's beautiful fifteenth-century house, the Casa de Principes, so the exchange was a more than fair one.

  One thing had marred Sally's anticipation of the next three months, and that was the absence of Cathy Burton who was to have accompanied her, not only as a companion but as chaperone too, for the other members of the party were all male. But Cathy, a lifelong friend and a married woman, had unfortunately fallen victim to some mysterious virus only days before they were due to leave.

  Sally had laughed at the idea of a chaperone being necessary in this enlightened age, saying it was not only outmoded but laughable. Her father, however, had assured her that it was no means outmoded in Spain, even in this day and age, and that both he, and he felt sure Don Miguel Cordova, would feel much easier if Cathy was with her.

  There had been some rather hasty rearranging when Cathy fell ill, and Michael Storer had eventually gone in her stead. The party, thus reorganised, left Sally as the one female in a party of five males, and her father had been a little dubious about the wisdom of it even though, or perhaps because, Michael was going too.

  Michael, of course, was in love with her, or so he had been telling her for the past two years, ever since her nineteenth birthday party, and she could never quite understand her own reticence about accepting him. After all. he had everything a girl could possibly ask for in a husband - wealth, looks and charm, but she still hesitated about committing herself to a lifetime with him.

  She sighed, wishing she had had more time to appreciate the country they had passed through so far, but their schedule had been a tight one. By air from London and then on this dreadful little train from Seville, without even time to change into something cooler. She had not anticipated the Andalusian spring being so much hotter than the English one, especially as London had been enjoying a particularly warm and sunny May when they left. Herneat blue crimplene suit had seemed summery enough then, now it felt heavy and uncomfortable.

  Maybe a bath would be forthcoming when they finally arrived at San Gregorio; she hoped so. She looked across at Michael, and he turned and smiled, his blue eyes appreciating her golden-haired loveliness, as always.

  Even after that uncomfortable journey she still looked quite cool and lovely, although perhaps slightly more pink-cheeked than usual. A small oval face, with huge blue eyes and a full soft mouth gave her an almost waif-life look at times, which was very deceptive, for Sally was never a docile character, although she was good-natured enough as a rule, and Michael adored her.

  'You look as cool as a cucumber,' he told her, a little enviously, and sotto voce so that the others should not hear. 'I'm boiled alive!'

  'I'm hot and dusty,' Sally complained. 'This has been just about the worst journey I ever remember.'

  'It has been pretty grim,' Michael agreed. He stepped down on to a small rough platform and looked around him for a moment before taking her luggage and his own, then lifting her down from the hot, stuffy coach. His fingers squeezed hers gently and he smiled. 'You've survived it beautifully as always, darling.'

  Sally managed another smile, curious now that they were at last nearing the end of their journey. The sun blazed down from a sky that was unbelievably clear and blue, and she suddenly felt a sense of excitement that stuck in her throat and set her heart pounding so rapidly that it brought a bright spot of colour to each of her cheeks. She had barely time to look around her, however, when someone spoke, so close beside her and so unexpectedly that it startled her enough to make her gasp.

  It was a deep, quiet and barely accented voice, and Sally swung round swiftly to face the speaker. 'You will be Miss Beckett,' he said without preliminaries, and it was a statement rather than a question.

  Sally nodded, deprived of words for the moment by sheer surprise. Presumably this was either their host or someone sent on his behalf to meet them. On second thoughts she decided that this man was unlikely to have been sent anywhere, by anybody.

  She had never seen a picture of Miguel Cordova, it was said that he hated being photographed, but somehow she had always imagined him as a man of perhaps middle height and a little stocky in build. Dark, certainly, and possibly rather 'arty' in his dress. In fact, everything that was in direct contrast to this man.

  'Como esta usted, Senorita Beckett? I am Miguel Valdaquez Cordova. I hope you had a pleasant journey.' He bowed briefly and formally over her hand, but Sally had time only to murmur a faint 'How do you do?' before he turned and gave his attention to the rest of the party.

  They were impressed, Sally could see that, and they murmured their own names, rather like new boys at school, while Sally studied Miguel Cordova with undisguised interest. He was tall, exceptionally so for a Spaniard, and he had a lean and lithe look that reminded Sally discomfitingly of a large, sleek and very dangerous cat, which, she realised a moment later, was quite ridiculously fanciful of her. At any rate he was not a bit like an artist, at least not Sally's idea of an artist.

>   He was certainly dark, as she had expected, perhaps darker than she had expected, so that she was reminded that the Moors had occupied Spain for some seven hundred years, and their occupation was evident in more than the architecture.

  His eyes were black and heavily fringed with thick lashes that would have looked effeminate in any but that stern, arrogant face, now turned in profile to her so that she could fully appreciate the long, straight nose and firm jaw.

  Miguel Cordova, she realised ruefully, was more than a surprise, he was a distinct shock, and he could prove very disconcerting, to say the least, if she was to spend the next three months in his company.

  She was still wondering how on earth her father could have been so vague in his description of him, when he turned again, a small frown showing between straight, black brows. 'It is unfortunate that you came unaccompanied, Miss Beckett,' he said. 'Most unfortunate.'

  Sally looked at him for a moment, puzzled as to why Cathy's absence should make all that much difference, at least to him, but it was obvious from his frown that he disliked the situation. It seemed her father had been correct in his assumption about that.

  'I'm sorry for Cathy, having to miss this opportunity,' Sally told him with a smile. 'But I don't mind for myself so much, and it can't make any difference to anyone else. Senor Cordova.'

  He frowned over that too, so that Sally began to think nothing would please the man. 'It makes a great deal of difference, Miss Beckett,' he informed her sternly. 'In Spain a young lady of good family does not travel in the company of several young men. without a chaperone. Such a thing may not cause comment in England, but I must remind you that you are now in Spain and, what is more, a guest in my house.'

  Feeling rather like a fallen woman, and resenting it, and with the eyes of the party fixed on her with interest, Sally flushed, tossing back her hair in a gesture designed as much to defy the rest of them as for Miguel Cordova. 'In that case, senor,' she said, 'perhaps I'd better go straight back to England!'

  He obviously considered the suggestion either frivolous or unworthy of his notice, for he did not answer her, but instead turned to the others, his firm, straight mouth still showing signs of disapproval.

  'Gentlemen,' he said, 'I'm sure you will be relieved to know that you will be travelling the rest of the way to San Gregorio by car.' He glanced over one shoulder at the old-fashioned little train, puffing its laborious way out again, and for a moment white teeth showed in startling contrast to his dark face. 'I hope you do not imagine that all Spanish trains are as antiquated as that one. We are a country of contrasts, as you will discover.'

  'It was an experience,' Michael ventured, and Sally noted his ingratiating smile with disbelief.

  'It was awful,' she declared bluntly. 'Even British Rail at its worst doesn't sink that low. I've never been so uncomfortable in my life!'

  For a moment the deep black eyes studied her in silence, then he nodded as if something in his mind had been confirmed. 'Then you are very lucky, Miss Beckett.'

  Before she could reply, he had turned away again and was calling over the only other human being in sight beside themselves, then addressed himself to the rest of the party again. 'You will probably find our roads here a little hair-raising, gentlemen,' he told them. 'But it is the price one pays for the privilege of being undiscovered by tourists.'

  His faint smile was greeted with appreciative laughter and Sally looked at her fellow travellers disgustedly. It was obvious that they were impressed with their famous host and were going to hang on to his every word with the fervour of disciples.

  'I imagine the scenery will compensate for any discomfort,' someone suggested, and Miguel Cordova nodded and smiled again.

  'I hope so,' he said. 'You will see much that is beautiful as we go along.'

  It was his hands that drew Sally's gaze, as he used them to lend stress to his words. They were long, lean and strong-looking, almost cruel, like that golden-skinned, black-eyed face, and the tall, lean figure that looked somehow primitive even in the civilising influence of a light fawn suit and a cream shirt and tie. Involuntarily she shivered, and at once felt the black eyes turn to her again, as if drawn by that uncontrollable reaction.

  'Miss Beckett will ride with me,' he announced, as if it was unthinkable that anyone would disagree with the idea. 'You also Mr. Clark and Mr. Blane. The rest of you gentlemen will go with Jose in the Bentley, if you please.'

  No one made a move to disagree with the arrangement, not even Michael, who was apparently quite happy to leave her in the care of this arrogant autocrat, and simply do as he was told. Not so Sally. She looked at their host from the shadow of her lashes and smiled, a small tight smile that her father would have recognised as the prelude to an argument.

  'I'd prefer to go with Michael,' she told him. 'In the Bentley.'

  Michael, along with all the others, gazed at her uneasily as if they found her argument embarrassing, while Miguel Cordova drew his black brows together and regarded her down the length of his autocratic nose. 'I have arranged it as I think best, Miss Beckett,' he told her. 'Since you are unaccompanied by another lady, I prefer that you are in my company until we reach the Casa de Principes, where my mother and my cousin can be responsible.'

  'I don't need a—a guardian,' Sally objected, her blue eyes glowing angrily at him. 'I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Senor Cordova!'

  His straight mouth tilted a little at one corner for a moment in a smile of disbelief and he raised one black brow to emphasise his opinion. 'I will take no chances when your father has put you in my care,' he informed her, and Sally stared at him for a moment unbelievingly.

  'Father?' she said then. 'You've been in touch with my father?'

  'More accurately,' Miguel Cordova informed her, 'your father has been in touch with me, Miss Beckett, and requested that I—keep an eye on you.'

  His pedantic tongue managed the colloquialism with some hesitation, but Sally was much too dismayed to notice it. Her father could have no conception of what he had done by making that simple, and to him quite metaphorical, request. Miguel Cordova would interpret his words literally, if his present behaviour was anything to judge by, and she looked like spending most of her three months' stay in some form of Spanish purdah, which did not appeal to her at all.

  Too stunned to think of a reply for the moment, she followed him obediently when he walked out to a small open square behind the railways building, mtrcifully shaded by one of the tall palms that she was, in time, to accept as an inevitable part of the landscape. The rest of the party tagged along behind her, and a short, stocky man appeared as if from nowhere, out of the shadows, to assist the lone railway official with their luggage.

  There were more palms on the other side of the square, and parked under their shade were a gleaming grey Mercedes and the more English luxury of a Bentley. It seemed no expense was to be spared on the last part of their journey.

  'Miss Beckett!'

  She was given no opportunity to climb into the Bentley beside Michael, but was ushered, politely but firmly, into the front seat of the Mercedes. Her host, it seemed, intended keeping as close an eye on her as possible, and she was already planning in her mind to ring her father and tell him what he had let her in for.

  With two of her fellow travellers installed in the rear seat, Miguel Cordova slid into the driving seat beside Sally, and she felt herself instinctively curl her fingers into her palms as she watched those long brown hands manipulate the controls of the big car effortlessly. There was an aura of masculinity about him that she found almost overpowering in the close proximity of the car seat, and she sensed, rather than saw. the black-eyed gaze he directed at her as they drove on to the road, followed by the Bentley.

  From thereon, for a while at least, she became so absorbingly interested in new things to see that it kept her from feeling too dismayed at her own reaction. The road climbed fast, initially, steep and breathtaking, so that she gasped almost audibly once or twice an
d hung on to the door of the car with one » hand.

  The road took them through a small village and after that down into a valley, turning for the coast at the same time and meeting a slightly cooler breeze that she welcomed with half closed eyes as it cooled her hot forehead.

  The long, low valley, she thought, looked so much more Eastern than European that she was again reminded of those hundreds of years that Spain had been under Moorish rule. The houses betrayed it in their high walls, with iron grilles and arched gateways, built round a central patio, or small courtyard, that looked blessedly cool and inviting with the shade of lemon and orange trees, and the inevitable palms.

  Small brown children played in the hot sun with nothing to shade their heads and little enough on their little brown bodies either. The vineyards, with their complicated irrigation systems, were busy with men and women working with a slowness that was deceptive to the untrained eye. It was all so new and exciting that Sally turned suddenly Without hesitation to smile at the man beside her, her wide blue eyes shining with the excitement of it all.

  'It's wonderful!' she said impulsively. 'Absolutely wonderful!'

  Miguel Cordova's black eyes met hers for a brief moment and he smiled. 'I am glad that we have something you approve of, Miss Beckett,' he told her, and she flushed at the unmistakable sarcasm, her delight at the countryside banished for a moment in a frown.

  'You said it was beautiful,' she reminded him.

  'And now you see that I was right, yes?'

  As he no doubt always would be, Sally thought ruefully, and gave her attention again to the scenery. They were climbing again now, high above where the Atlantic hurled huge waves at the rocks and received them back shattered into a million glistening fragments that glistened in the hot sun like the spray from a fountain.

  It was not the grey Atlantic that she knew at home, but the deep, bright blue of its southernmost point just before it mingled with the Mediterranean in the Straits of Gibraltar. It was all so wonderful and so exciting that she would refuse to let Miguel Cordova, or anyone else, spoil the mythical enchantment of Spain for her.