Rebecca Stratton - Castles in Spain Page 4

  Marcos Delgaro took her down to the little village of San Adolfo the first evening, although their visit had been brief and mainly for the purpose of buying her a hat, since he had said she must have one. The only available headgear, however, was a kind of wide-brimmed, coarse straw stetson which was not exactly flattering and she had instantly decided against it as soon as she saw it.

  In fact she was given little say in the matter, for she was given little option but to wear it when it was paid for by her companion and put firmly on to her head before they went outside again. She looked, she felt sure, much more like one of his much disliked tourists with it on than she had without it.

  Today she had managed to leave it behind in her bedroom, since she had no intention of leaving the grounds, and gone out bare-headed. Now, as she walked across the sun-dried grass towards the stables and the paddock, she was already regretting her decision, for the sum was almost unbearably hot on the back of her neck. There was something relentless about the Spanish sun, she thought; as relentless as the man who had insisted she wear a hat for protection against it.

  After a moment or two she felt she could stand it no longer and she unknotted the silk square she wore at her throat to fill in the rather low-fastening neckline of a pale green shirtwaister dress, and tied it over her head, the point of it shading her neck from the sun. It was rather annoying to have to admit it, even to herself, but in this case Marcos Delgaro had been right — she did need a hat.

  The horses he bred and of which he was so proud were, she had to agree with her aunt, quite beautiful. Descendants of pure Arab stock, they were exquisite creatures of beauty and temperament, but far different from the quiet-tempered horses she was more used to.

  She had never yet ventured near them on her own, for their wide, wary eyes were constantly alert and they needed little enough excuse to whinney in protest at any unexpected move or sound and then lift their forefeet in the air like circus horses. Holly thought they were beautiful, but she was just a little afraid of them, no matter how much she admired them.

  She was close to the paddock now, a big expanse of lush grass, irrigated by the river that came down from the hills and was channelled into use, just as it was lower down in the fields. The mares were gently grazing and the foals skittering around the enclosed space, expending their surplus energy. Marcos, she knew, was out somewhere riding, and she wondered if she dared, in his absence, go and look at the horses. The grown ones were beautiful enough, but the foals enchanted her.

  The sun was so hot that she made her way along the side of the paddock where the heavy shade of a row of fig trees gave shelter from its fierceness. Along this side too, the paddock was fenced with the more conventional type of ranch fencing that was so familiar at home, and on which she could perch, if she ever felt brave enough to do so.

  There was a magnificent view from here too, down over the valley and the dark patches of fruit-laden vineyards, with those tiny white houses tucked against the hillsides as if they were part of the natural order of things. Clear blue skies, and not a cloud to be seen, with the glint of those life-giving channels of water winking like silver snakes in the brilliant sun. It was perfect, Holly decided, and so were the animals in the paddock.

  Three of the sleek-looking mares already had foals running with them; leggy, dainty little creatures with huge eyes and the same wary skittishness as their mothers, while two more were still waiting for their young to be born. One of them, a lovely silky black, stood in the shade of the fig trees quite near the fence and close enough to tempt Holly over to her, smiling and hoping that her advances would not be greeted with general panic. Their owner would never forgive her if she panicked his valuable stock.

  Those with their families already did little more than raise their heads and look across at her, and the other mare merely tossed her head and walked a little further away. Only the black made no move, possibly because she was reluctant to leave the shade of the trees, and Holly leaned on the rail, a couple of feet away, making soft, encouraging little noises.

  The mare's big eyes regarded her warily, and her ears were pricked forward, but she did not move, and Holly was pleased with even that small success. 'Come on, my lovely, come to me,' Holly whispered softly, extending a hand. 'Come and make friends.'

  The mare still stood her ground and, flushed with success, Holly moved closer, her hand still extended, making more encouraging sounds as she advanced, although what she intended doing when she got close enough to touch the animal and not yet occurred to her.

  It was so incredibly quiet and peaceful, with the high, umbrella shape of the fig trees giving a cool, almost moist shade to the spot where she stood, that she did not for one minute envisage anything untoward happening.

  Much more confident, now that the mare seemed to have accepted her presence, Holly climbed carefully up on to the top bar of the fence with her feet on the paddock side, and sat there for a second with her eyes still watching the black mare hopefully. 'I won't hurt you,' she told the animal, putting out a friendly hand again. 'Come on, lovely, come and make friends.'

  But if the mare had been ready to tolerate her when she was safely on her own side of the fence, she was much less ready now that her own territory had been invaded, and as Holly leaned towards her, she shied. Giving a high-pitched whinny of dislike, she tossed her head, then rose swiftly on to her hind legs, despite her bulk, her front legs pawing the air.

  Being off balance with reaching forward, the mare's sudden panic made her start violently and before she realized what was happening, she felt herself falling, tumbling from the narrow board fence without a hope of saving herself. She let out a cry as she hit the ground, close to the mare's feet, and in a further panic of fear the nervous animal rose again into the air, her shrill cries shattering the still air, determined to deal with the intruder in the only way she knew how.

  Holly, stunned by her fall, but still conscious of her danger, closed her eyes and rolled hastily sideways, trying to avoid being beaten to a pulp by those flailing hooves when they came down again.

  'Fuera! Bastante, fuera!'

  That voice raised in curt command was dismayingly familiar, and for a moment Holly almost wished the mare would bring her hooves down and kick her senseless, for surely that would be the only way she would escape Marcos Delgaro's inevitable anger. She winced when she recognized the sound of the sharp slap of his crop on the mare's shiny hide, and a protesting whinny, but there was no crushing weight on her own head, and she ventured to open her eyes at last.

  She had only time to catch a glimpse of the mare moving away, tossing her head indignantly, before she felt herself lifted into a pair of strong arms and her face rolled against the softness of a silk shirt. He carried her as if she weighed no more than a child and she could feel the warmth of his body against her face through the thin shirt as he went through the gate of the paddock with her, and the tenseness of the muscular arms that carried her so easily.

  She did not dare to move for fear his reaction would be to drop her immediately when he realized she was not hurt, and also because there was a wildly sensuous pleasure in his proximity that she did not attempt to seek an excuse for.

  Once out of the paddock he laid her down on the grass, gently and carefully, and pressed one hand to the throbbing pulse in her neck. She allowed the strong fingers to reassure him that she was still alive, then she opened her eyes slowly and looked up at him. The dark face, with its stern, hawklike features, had an unexpected look of anxiety about it, and for a moment he simply knelt there beside her, without moving or saying a word.

  'I'm sorry,' she whispered.

  She wished she could think of something less trite to say, but the nearness of him, and the warm strength of his arms still impressed on her body, made her silent and tongue-tied. He was angry, she could see that, but that look of anxiety she had seen gave her hope that he would not deal too harshly with her.

  'You are not hurt?'

  His voice was
as quiet and calm as ever, but a small pulse throbbed near one corner of his mouth and she knew his quietness was deceptive. The hand that still held the crop, too, was gripped tightly so that the knuckles showed white-boned on the strong brown fingers.

  'No, I'm not hurt,' she said, and attempted to sit up. The movement brought her disturbingly close to him, and she could feel the tenseness of the muscles beneath the brown skin when her arm brushed against his, as if he held himself in check only with difficulty.

  He looked at her for a moment longer, then got to his feet, reaching down with both hands to help her to stand, holding her hands for a moment longer than was necessary after she stood in front of him. Her eyes were downcast and she was trying to do something about the wildly throbbing pulse at her temple.

  'Bueno!'

  'I - I hope the mare's all right,' she said, and raised her eyes for a moment, reproachfully. 'You didn't have to hit her.'

  The black eyes glittered down at her and she felt a flick of panic when she saw the fierce anger that resented her criticism. 'Would you rather I had allowed her to smash your skull?' he asked coldly.

  There was simply no answer to that, and she merely shook her head. After a moment he turned swiftly and walked across to the paddock fence, leaning on it for a second with his hands held close together in front of him. They looked strong and hard, and somehow conveyed his anger and the tension that held him. That hawklike profile was presented to her in all its forbidding sternness and it made her feel at once both apprehensive and strangely elated.

  'What were you doing in there with the yeguas?' he asked, not looking at her, but speaking over his shoulder, and Holly shrugged resignedly.

  'I - I was trying to make friends with them,' she explained, knowing he would find the reason idiotic. A Spaniard would just not think like that and he would have little patience with her English way of thinking.

  Sure enough he turned and looked at her, his black eyes glittering derisively, leaned back against the fence, one hand tapping the crop impatiently against a leg. 'So!' he said softly. 'You would risk your neck to make friends with an animal, but you will not even allow me to use your first name.' His wide mouth curled scornfully and he made a short, harsh sound that was meant to be a laugh, she supposed. 'Your English logic!'

  'I didn't say—' Holly began, but he cut her short, one large hand indicating the scarf that covered her head instead of the hat he had insisted on buying for her.

  'You would rather wear a banda on your head like a peasant woman than the hat you have, because I gave it to you!'

  She had, without realizing it, moved over to stand beside him at the fence, and without warning he suddenly reached out with one hand for the silk square that covered her head, loosening it with strong firm fingers, and it cracked like a whip in the air when he pulled it roughly from her hair and dropped it on the ground behind him.

  'It is time you learnt that people come first, poco de hielo!' he said softly, his eyes glittering darkly.

  The sudden fierce hardness of his mouth took her by surprise, forcing her lips apart and, after the first swift sense of alarm, robbing her of all feeling except a wild exhilaration. His hands were on the wooden fence either side of her and his body pressed her hard against the boards until she could have cried out.

  Her hands, that had started held tightly together in front of her, were crushed against his chest and she opened them slowly, feeling the warmth and the throbbing vibrancy of his heartbeat under her fingertips. The board fence at her back was pressed cruelly hard against her, but she could not move and neither did she have the slightest inclination to do so.

  She was breathless and felt incredibly weak when he released her at last, but it was something of a shock when he let fall his arms so suddenly and stepped back, looking down at her with a glowing darkness in his eyes that stirred her senses into chaos again.

  She leaned weakly against the fence, her hands going behind her to act as a support, her eyes looking at him wide and a little vague, as she sought for a reason for his sudden change. 'You will see now, senorita,' he said after a moment, 'why I warned you of my countrymen.' A hint of wry amusement touched the corners of his wide mouth. 'Perhaps I should have included myself in their number after all.'

  'Please don't—' Holly began, but he was already turning away.

  'I apologize for taking you by surprise, senorita, but

  I am sure you will forgive me.'

  'Marcos!' She waited until he turned back to her, his black eyes curious, perhaps speculative, it was difficult to guess what was going on in his mind and she was not at all sure what she wanted to say to him. 'I'm - I'm sorry - if you think I'm unfriendly towards you.'

  For a moment he said nothing, then the white teeth gleamed briefly in his brown face, and the soft sound of a laugh slid icily along Holly's spine. 'I think you are well named, little Holly,' he said softly. 'You are prickly, but perhaps your prickles can be smoothed, si?' He made a gesture with one large hand and conveyed a meaning that there was no mistaking, bringing a flush of hot colour to her cheeks as he turned away again.

  She said nothing, but watched him walk across to where his horse waited for him patiently in the shade of the fig trees, waving a casual hand at her as he rode off, tall and arrogant, and dismayingly disturbing.

  It was just as well, she thought, that Helena Mendez had not been around to witness that scene just now. But then it occurred to her that he would probably never have behaved as he did, if he had thought there was the slightest chance of his future wife seeing him - and somehow the realization left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was now nearly three weeks since she had arrived in Spain, and Holly's easy adaptation to a very different way of life had surprised her. She loved the grandeur of her surroundings and the rather formal atmosphere at mealtimes, and she was growing quite fond of her uncle by marriage, Don Jose.

  On the subject of his son she was still a little wary of committing herself, but he had taken her driving several times, to see the surrounding countryside, apparently quite willingly. He had even tried to persuade her to ride one of the quieter horses, but that idea she had turned down adamantly, fearing she would make a fool of herself on those spirited creatures.

  Holly had said nothing to her aunt about that somewhat disturbing incident by the paddock, and she presumed Marcos Delgaro would be discreet enough not to mention it. It was a relief to have him behaving with quite formal politeness again, although they did use each other's christian names now. Not to do so, she felt, would probably have incurred further disapproval and perhaps, even more disquieting, prompted another incident like that disturbing kiss.

  Tonight he was driving her down to San Adolfo so that she could take some photographs of the castle from the valley below, where it was just visible up there on the hillside, like a fairytale castle among its surrounding trees. She had half expected him to refuse to take her on such an obviously tourist type trip, but to her surprise he had complied, if somewhat offhandedly.

  It was a gloriously golden evening and the sun gave a bright glitter to the little streams and channels of water, and a deep, rich tapestry look to the chequered crops of grapes and olives. The little white adobe cottages looked more mellow than in the harsher light of full day, and incredibly picturesque, although her guide had disillusioned her some time ago by describing the less than picturesque standard of living of their occupants. She supposed it was rather unrealistic of her, but she hated to have her idyllic picture spoiled and she still insisted on seeing them as pretty.

  It was harder still to believe that the bigger whitewashed farmhouses, or cortijas, with their big patios enclosed by the houses themselves often as not housed the farmworkers and their livestock too, in a close proximity of noise and very basic hygiene. They looked good from the outside and Holly determinedly photographed them, despite Marcos's ill-concealed scorn for her shortsightedness.

  They were approaching the vil
lage itself now, and she suddenly caught the faint sound of something in the distance that made her raise her head and listen intently. It was only faint at the moment, but Holly knew it for what it was as soon as the first high, wailing notes reached her, and she recognized the exciting, irresistible sound of a flamenco singer.

  She turned to Marcos, her eyes appealing, wondering if he would stop for her to see and hear them, or if he would draw the line at sitting in the car while she went off on her own. He would almost certainly not wish to come with her. She had always wanted to see real flamenco dancing in its right setting, and that did not mean a night club in Seville or Madrid. Now she had the chance, and it would be wicked to waste such an opportunity.

  'Flamenco dancers?' she asked hopefully, as Marcos drove the big car carefully down the narrow hill through the village, and he shrugged his broad shoulders carelessly.

  'Gitanos,' he said briefly, and left no doubt of his opinion.

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'Gypsies,' he translated. 'Very dusty, very ragged and not what you expect at all, nina.' Lately he had taken to using the Spanish version of her aunt's childish name for her, and she had not so far had the nerve to object to it. Also it did sound rather pretty.

  'I'd like to see them, just the same,' she told him, and glanced at the stern, unrelenting profile hopefully.

  He took the car round another bend in the narrow street, his brown hands strong and competent and making light work of the twisty road they were travelling. 'You will be disappointed if you expect frilled dresses and mantillas, Holly,' he told her. 'These are gypsy dancers, they only visit the villages.'

  'I know,' she said. 'But they're the real thing, aren't they?'

  The meaningful look he gave her over his shoulder was meant to remind her of those outwardly picturesque little cottages. 'I thought you preferred not to see the real thing,' he said. 'You will be sadly disillusioned if you expect very much here.'