White Witch

WHITE WITCH

Elizabeth Ashton

His hatred was as strong as her love

Laurel wanted to keep her nephew, Peter, after the death of her sister and her sister’s husband, Pedro de las Aguilas. For Peter’s sake, however, she felt compelled to take him to his father’s family in Spain.

The family’s hostility over Pedro’s marriage was understandable. Unexpected was the bitter enmity that the arrogant Luis de las Aguilas directed at Laurel personally.

It was inevitable that their passions would flare out of control.

CHAPTER ONE

Had
she done the right thing by bringing Peter to Spain? Laurel wondered for the hundredth time, as she stood by the conveyor belt waiting for her luggage to appear. She was familiar with Malaga airport, she had stood in this very spot four and a half years ago, but in what different circumstances. Then she had been filled with eagerness to see her sister and her new baby, and was expecting Joanna’s husband to meet her and take her out to his villa in Mijas where her welcome was assured. Now Pedro and Joanna were dead and she was bringing their son back to his father’s people, not knowing who was going to meet her, that his grandmother, Dona Elvira, had not mentioned and she was doubtful about her reception when she did arrive.

She glanced at her watch, five a.m. Spanish time, an ungodly hour for any sort of rendezvous, and it was still dark.

The luggage was coming now, cases and holdalls of every shape and size, some new and expensive, others old and battered being seized by their impatient owners as they came within reach. Ah, there was her shabby brown one. She yanked it off the moving band.

‘Where’s mine?’ Peter demanded, rubbing
his eyes
. He had left the bench where she had told him to wait and crept to her side, fascinated by the moving traffic. Not yet five years old, fair-haired, blue-eyed, he looked wholly English, which Laurel feared would not endear him to his Spanish kin. He had his mother’s colouring, and her late husband’s people had every reason to resent Joanna.

She told him, ‘It’ll come soon.’

‘There ... catch it quick!’ Peter yelled, lunging forward and nearly falling on to the belt. Laurel pulled him back with one hand as she reached for the small case with the other. A box containing the rest of his gear had been sent overland, for though her stay would be brief, his was to be permanent. She prayed fervently he would be happy with the Aguilas, and after all, he was one of them, though Joanna had reverted to her maiden name after she left her husband. Peter was by rights, Pedro Lester de las Aguilas—what a mouthful!—and he looked like a Saxon cherub.

She struggled towards the exit, a suitcase in each hand with Peter clinging to the edge of her loose jacket. She had nothing to declare except that she was weary and apprehensive, and she did not like airports, but that was of no interest to the stocky official watching them go through, who actually smiled as he met Peter’s curious gaze.

Out into the forecourt, where the new arrivals were milling round trying to locate friends and transport, Laurel dropped her cases, wondering what to do next. She would have expected to have seen Pedro coming towards her, but in answer to her letter to him, telling of Joanna’s death from a terminal disease, and her difficulties in supporting the child, his mother had informed her that Pedro, her middle son, had died in an accident a year previously, but they would be pleased to receive Pedro’s son, and if she could bring him out, she must stay for a while until he had settled down in his new environment. The letter had been courteous but cold; Laurel could hardly expect it to be cordial when Joanna had persisted in concealing her whereabouts for over three years. She was obsessed with the fear that if he discovered them, Pedro would take her child away from her. Dona Elvira would think that Laurel had abetted her and only desperation had finally forced her to appeal to them. Joanna had been close as a clam about her married life, and Laurel had no idea of what had gone wrong. Any suggestion that she was being unfair to Pedro promptly sent her sister into hysterics.

Laurel gave a gasp and her eyes widened, as she caught sight of a tall man in a perfectly tailored grey suit pushing his way through the crowd towards her. The olive face with dark sideburns, the smooth black head and slightly arrogant bearing were familiar. Could it be that Pedro was not dead after all, or was she having an hallucination, evoked by her memories? Then she recalled that Pedro had had brothers, and this must be one of them, but the family likeness had given her a jolt.

He was staring at her intently as he approached, an enquiring, probing look, with a hint of suspicion, which she found disconcerting. He was assessing her and not liking what he saw. At close quarters the resemblance to his brother was less marked; he was taller, older than she remembered Pedro to be, and the mould of his face was stronger, almost harsh.

‘Miss Lester, is it not?’ He held out his hand. Spaniards always shook hands. ‘I am Luis de las Aguilas.’ Luis of the eagles, an appropriate name, for there was something hawk like about his keen profile and intent regard. ‘I trust you had a good flight.’

Courteously spoken, but what an undercurrent of antagonism! Laurel barely touched the outstretched hand, gazing unsmilingly up into a proud, arrogant face, with eyes as hard and black as jet. This was the eldest brother, head of the family since his father died prematurely, who had set up the most virulent opposition to Pedro’s runaway marriage. He had insisted it must be dissolved, and probably could have obtained an annulment as Joanna had not been a Catholic, and he had been trying to persuade Pedro to consent to it, when her pregnancy had scotched that charming idea. Joanna had spoken of him as if he were akin to the devil, but Laurel had not met him at the time of her previous visit, as he had been away. What on earth had induced him to come and collect them? Surely it would have been better to send a taxi? Laurel was prepared to hate him on sight, for she was convinced he had been instrumental in the breakdown of her sister’s marriage. He had despised and resented Jo for being parentless and brought up in a home, facts which stuck in his snobbish gizzard. The prospect of a long drive in his company was anything but inviting, and if he thought he could intimidate her, he had another thing coming. Although she had been abandoned by her parents, she had made good, and was proud of her ability to earn her living, and was not going to show subservience to any arrogant Spaniard, however affluent he might be. She was here by his mother’s invitation, and if he didn’t like it, he could lump it!

‘It was quite comfortable, thank you,’ she replied with chill politeness, and saw his eyes had gone to her legs, and his lips curled in fastidious distaste. Laurel was wearing brown cords with a matching jacket, and she recalled that Joanna had told her that Spanish men disliked women in trousers. That was just too bad. She was not going to dress to conform with his old-fashioned prejudices.

His searching gaze returned to her face, lingering on her wide low forehead, vivid blue eyes and ash-blonde hair.

‘You are very like your sister,’ he said abruptly.

And that of course would not recommend her to him, who had so furiously resented Joanna.

‘We have ... had, the same colouring,’ she returned.

‘But there is more character in your face, and you have honest eyes.’

What an odd thing to say—and was he going to keep her here all night, or rather morning for the night had passed, dissecting her appearance? Perhaps her similarity to Joanna had startled him, as his to Pedro had done her. That was understandable, but she couldn’t help her looks and they were something else he would have to put up with. Probably he did not admire blondes, preferring the dark sultry beauties of his own nationality. That would not worry her, she didn’t want his admiration. Although many men had found her fair, she preferred his disapproval.

‘Thank you, but my honesty has never been in question,’ she returned tartly, and he smiled sardonically.

She looked delicate and fragile beside his tall virile form, but her appearance was deceptive, because she was neither—she could not have coped with a job, an ailing sister and a small boy if she had been. All the same those years had taken their toll of her, she was too thin and there were violet marks under her eyes, increasing their size.

Luis’s glance went from her to the boy.

‘So this is Pedro, my nephew. He does not look as though he had a drop of Spanish blood in him.’

‘Boys often take after their mothers.’

‘In this case that is a pity.’ His voice was very dry.

Peter stared up into his uncle’s forbidding face.

‘My name’s Peter, and I’m Tia’s nephew, not yours.’ He took told of Laurel’s hand. ‘She’s all I’ve got now Mummy’s gone to heaven.’

His lips quivered as he spoke of his loss, though he had not felt it very keenly. Joanna had spent the last months of her life in hospital and it was Laurel whom he loved and upon whom he depended.

Luis spoke to him in Spanish, and frowned at his blank look.

‘He does not speak his own tongue?’

Laurel shook her head. That was not her fault, she only knew a few words of Spanish herself.

‘But he called you Tia.’

‘Jo used to refer to me as that to begin with, and somehow it stuck.

‘A somewhat inadequate vocabulary,’ he said sarcastically, then he noticed her pallor and heavy eyes and went on more kindly: ‘I must not keep you standing here—come along to the car. You look very tired, and this is an unearthly hour to complete a journey.’

His English was unaccented, if a little precise. Jo had said his family all spoke it; it was their only virtue in her eyes.

Luis picked up their two cases and Laurel followed him out into the car park, still holding Peter’s hand. He led them to what she saw without surprise—she was beyond being surprised by anything—was a Roils, a Silver Shadow. She knew the Aguilas were affluent. Jo had brought a diamond necklace back with her; the sale of it had augmented Laurel’s salary, and financed her medical bills.

Peter stopped and gaped at it.

‘Is it all yours, mister sir?’

‘Por
Dios
, do not call me that!’ Luis exclaimed irritably. ‘I am your Tio Luis; of course it is mine.’ He opened the door to the front seat. ‘Please to get in. Laurel,’ he used her first name quite naturally. ‘The
nino
can lie along the back seat and obtain the sleep he needs. You will remember it is a long drive to Mijas.’

She did, but when she had come before it had been daylight and she had enthused to Pedro about the beautiful country. He had been a much more genial character than his brother. She found the darkness depressing, for although it was May, Spanish time was ahead of British and the latitude much farther south.

Peter objected to this arrangement. He wanted to sit in front with Tia, he was querulous with fatigue.

‘You will do as you are told,’ his uncle said firmly. He picked up the small protesting figure and laid him on the back seat. Peter’s bright head was nodding, and his eyelids half closed. As Luis with unexpected tenderness put a cushion beneath it and covered him with a rug, he was already asleep. Luis put their cases in the boot, then slid into the driver’s seat, as Laurel asked anxiously: ‘He won’t roll off the seat, will he?’

‘I think not. It is wide, and this car runs smoothly.’

Naturally it would, being what it was, and as he started the engine, she said politely:

‘It is a magnificent car.’

‘It is,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘I won it from a client at roulette.’

Laurel was surprised, since she had been told gambling was not encouraged in Spain. He seemed to guess her thought, for he explained:

‘I do not often play, and this was in Monte Carlo. I was challenged by an oil-rich sheik, who was negotiating for land in Marbella, with more money than sense.’ He laughed gleefully. ‘He was unlucky.’

Laurel thought anyone would be who was foolish enough to tangle with Luis de las Aguilas. He would command even Lady Luck. She moved uneasily, aware of the atmosphere of hostility between them. He was a formidable personality, and the enforced intimacy of the car was oddly disturbing.

‘Why was he buying land in Marbella?’ she asked for the sake of something to say.

‘We have a new Arab invasion there. Marbella will soon become a modern Granada. Ironic, when you think of all the effort needed to get them out of Spain at the time of the Catholic kings.’

‘But weren’t those Moors?’ Laurel was vague about Spanish history.

‘The same breed. Your sister made friends among them—unwisely so.’ There was censure in his voice.

‘I don’t know much about her life out here,’ Laurel confessed. ‘She was a bad correspondent, and she wasn’t in Spain long.’

‘Long enough,’ his tone was bitter. ‘A pity she ever came.’ He would feel like that, for he had considered Joanna was not good enough for his brother. She had been only eighteen when she had run away with Pedro, whom she had met at the wine importers where she worked. She had always been impetuous and headstrong, and the young Spaniard had been bewitched by her blonde beauty. At least he had married her, though the rashness of the whole proceedings had dismayed her sister.

‘I agree with you,’ she said quietly, ‘since it didn’t last, but she was very young and very much in love.’ Luis gave a contemptuous exclamation. ‘Oh, she was, and youngsters believe love lasts for ever.’

‘You cannot be very much older. Are you equally impulsive?’ he asked smoothly. ‘If so, you may be something of a responsibility.’

She wondered if he were trying to be offensive, but she replied calmly: ‘I’m a year older than Jo was, and I was always the practical one. I don’t get carried away by my emotions.’

‘That is something to be thankful for,’ he said nastily. Definitely offensive! Laurel glanced at his handsome profile revealed from time to time by the street lighting. He resented her coming, that was obvious, and he was venting his disapproval of Joanna upon her innocent head, which was hardly fair. A proud, implacable Spaniard, she judged, with no sympathy for human weaknesses. Pride was a Spanish failing and Joanna
had wounded
the Aguilas’. He was hardly likely to find herself appealing.

Then she remembered that she was not the only one bereaved, he had lost a brother, and she ought to offer condolences. She said gently:

‘I was so sorry to hear about Pedro’s tragic accident. I ... I liked him, it came as quite a shock; we hadn’t heard anything about him for a long time.’

‘That was your sister’s doing,’ he returned shortly. ‘She should never have married him. She hated Spain and disliked our way of life, and made no attempt to get on with the family.’