White Witch (5 page)

‘Well, darling, how did it go?’ Laurel asked cheerfully.

‘Oh, fine, Tia. I played with Pom-pom and she gave me lots of sweets. I had fish for my dinner and strawberries and cream.’

She took off his shoes, and he lay down on the bed.

‘Tia?’

‘Yes, darling?’ She sat down beside him on the bed.

‘All my toys and things have come, she showed me a little room where they are, and lots of new ones too, it’s to be my room and ... and I’m to sleep there soon.’

Laurel was angry. Peter had had too many upsets lately, he should be given time to adjust himself before making further changes. Dona Elvira was going too fast.

‘It will be nice to have your own room,’ she said carefully.

‘But ... but there wasn’t one for you.’ His voice rose to a wail. ‘Where will you be? I want to be with you!’

‘I expect your granny hasn’t got another spare room,’ Laurel said soothingly, stroking his hair, wondering if this were true. ‘I’ll be here, just across the yard. I can probably see your room from my window. You’re growing into a big boy, darling, and old enough to have your own room. You can’t always sleep in mine.’

‘That’s what Granny said, but you won’t ever go away?’

She repeated what she had said before, ‘Not while you need me,’ and wondered for how long that would be. One thing was certain, she could not leave yet, however much caution warned her; she should not stay near Luis.

‘That will be always,’ Peter said drowsily. He fell asleep holding her hand. Laurel sat watching his sleeping face. She had no place here in this foreign land, and eventually she would have to move on. Her employers had promised they would keep her place for her if she returned within a reasonable time, but it was monotonous work. She was rootless, homeless, with only this small scrap of humanity belonging to her, and him she must relinquish for his own good. Could she possibly find employment in Andalucia so they would not be completely sundered? Luis had wanted her to make her home there, but his offer of the villa must have been during one of his ‘bouts of lunacy’, of which he had spoken on the previous morning, and then withdrawn. He knew very well they were safer apart. There was no niche for her in the Aguilas hierarchy, and Peter would grow away from her as time passed. Better to make a clean break and make a new life for herself, however dreary the prospect.

As Luis had arranged, Peter was served an early supper, after which he played in the garden for a while, and was in bed and asleep when Laurel went to the restaurant for her own meal. A young couple at her table had seen her with Peter and not unnaturally thought he was her own child, and she didn’t think they believed her when she said he was her nephew, but she had no wish to explain her connection with the Aguilas and their rather strange arrangements. Afterwards, crossing the foyer, Esteban came breezing in and waylaid her.

‘Come and have a drink with me in the lounge.’

‘I was going to Peter...
’

‘Oh, Carmen will keep an ear open for him.’ He turned to the desk and spoke to one of the female clerks. She nodded and smiled coquettishly. ‘
Si, si, senor
.’

He swept Laurel through the door into the bar-lounge. She raised no further objection; he would enliven a lonely evening. She asked for coffee, but he insisted she have a cognac with it. When they had been served, he leaned back in the luxurious armchair—the lounge was furnished with very comfortable ones—lit a cigarette, after offering her one, which she refused, and surveyed her through the rising smoke.

‘You are very lovely, Laurel. If your sister was like you, I never saw her. I was doing my military service while she was here, I am not surprised that Pedro lost his head over her.’

‘Beauty can pall if other things aren’t right,’

Laurel said drily, ‘and I think you’re a flatterer, Esteban. What time will your brother be back?’ She had a suspicion that Luis would not be pleased to find her t
ê
te-
à
-t
ê
te with Esteban, though she could see no harm in it.

‘In the small hours. He will be dining with the Ordonez, who live in Sevilla. Pedro was to have married Cristina Ordonez, but since he jilted her, Luis is considering marrying her himself.’

‘I should think the lady would fight shy of another Aguilas,’ Laurel observed, aware of a sudden chill.

‘
Querida
, women do not fight shy of Luis, as you put it, they fall over themselves to win his favours.’

Laurel did not recognise the endearment, and was too perturbed by what Esteban had told her to resent it if she had. But why should she mind? Luis had told her he was expected to marry, and no doubt this girl was entirely suitable to be his wife, if she had been selected for Pedro. She took a sip of her cognac and found it steadying.

‘What’s she like, this Senorita Ordonez?’ she asked with assumed casualness.

‘Dark, handsome—Luis would never contemplate marrying a plain woman. Very rich, of course, and inclined to be jealous as most Spanish women are.’ He laughed merrily. ‘I bet Luis will keep quiet about taking you and the brat up to Ronda tomorrow.’

‘She has no cause to object to that,’ Laurel said with dignity. ‘I’m not a competitor.’

‘No? Do not forget a girl with your complexion robbed her of her first suitor.’

‘For that reason, Luis avoids me.’

‘I have seen no evidence of that,’ Esteban laughed again. ‘Didn’t he follow you up into the town yesterday?’

‘He had an errand there.’

‘Did you believe that? You are being naive, Laurel—you know you are damned attractive.’ The drink was loosening his tongue. ‘If I were Cristina I would insist you return to England on the next plane.’

‘I don’t suppose she knows I exist...’

‘You underestimate the local grapevine. Everyone on the Costa del Sol will know of your arrival by now, and that you are a siren.’

Laurel half rose. ‘I find this conversation distasteful...’

Esteban pushed her back into her seat. ‘Please, do not desert me,’ he besought her plaintively. ‘We can find a more congenial one.’

‘Congenial what?’

Both started violently as looking round, they saw Luis had come up to their table. He stood looming over them, and Laurel was overcome though she had no reason to feel guilty. Esteban smiled up at his brother sunnily.

‘
Que tal
, Luis, I thought you were still in Sevilla. I was trying to console Laurel for your absence, and...
’
a malicious sparkle came into his eyes, ‘explaining your involvement with Cristina, about which you had neglected to inform her.’

‘Why should I? And I have no involvement with Senorita Ordonez ... yet,’ Luis returned coolly. ‘You are an impudent puppy, Esteban.’ His sombre gaze was fixed upon Laurel, who was busying herself with her coffee cup, and looking anywhere but at him. ‘Now suppose you take yourself back to Mama, who, I am sure, does not know you are here.’

‘
Nombre de Dios
!’ The young man sprang to his feet, pouring forth a flood of vehement Spanish, which caused the other occupants of the lounge to stare at them curiously. Luis cut him short with a few curt words, and after bowing to Laurel with a muttered, ‘
Buenas noches
,’
Esteban strode out of the lounge.

Luis sank down in his vacated chair, and beckoned to a waiter. He ordered a brandy and soda, then turned to Laurel apologetically.

‘Please forgive his bad manners.’

‘You provoked him,’ she retorted. ‘He’s still young and sensitive, and you spoke to him as if he were a delinquent teenager.’

‘So you rush to defend him. How come you were here together anyway?’ His black eyes were smouldering.

‘Why shouldn’t we be? He offered me a drink and I was feeling lonely. Am I supposed to be in purdah?’

‘I would like to put you there,’ he said savagely. ‘It is where women like you should be kept. Has
it not occurred to you that your precious sister caused enough disruption in our family without you following in her footsteps?’

The arrival of the waiter with his drink checked the furious words that rose to her lips. When he had gone, she said icily:

‘I shall treat that remark with the contempt it deserves. Now I’m going to bed. Goodnight,
senor.
’ She would have risen, but leaning forward, he shot out his hand and grasped her wrist with a grip of steel. ‘Stay where you are!’

His touch sent fire coursing through her veins. She sank back murmuring, ‘You’re hurting me.’

‘Then do as you are told.’ He released her wrist, and took a swig of his drink. ‘Esteban is, as you say, young and also impressionable. I would be obliged if you do not try to corrupt him.’

‘That’s an insulting thing to say! I’ve no designs upon your brother whatever.’

A smile flickered over his face. ‘But he may have on you.’

‘Then I’m afraid he’ll be disappointed.’

Luis gave a long sigh, drained his glass and wiped his mouth with the paper serviette provided.

‘
Ay mi,
Laurel, have you any idea what that pale beauty of yours does to the men of the South?’

Laurel felt a little thrill of gratification. He really did think she was beautiful and the men of the South would include himself, but she answered sedately:

‘I can’t help my looks, and I don’t see that having a drink with Peter’s uncle constitutes such a heinous offence. Don’t you want us to be friends?’

‘I distrust friendship between men and women.’ He looked away across the crowded lounge with unseeing eyes. ‘I meant to visit the Ordonez tonight to make a formal offer for Cristina’s hand.’

Laurel’s heart seemed to stop. ‘Why didn’t you?’ she asked quietly.

‘She had gone to Madrid.’ He turned his head and their eyes met. She saw a red gleam in the dark depths of his and her own fell to the table top.

‘But she’ll come back?’

‘
Si
, I am afraid she will.’

‘Luis, you aren’t suffering from another bout of lunacy?’ she asked sweetly.

‘Provoking witch,’ he growled. ‘Oh, go to bed, Laurel, this conversation is unprofitable.’ His voice dropped to a whisper: ‘I only wish I could come with you.’

Desire, hot and palpitating was there between them, desire that could not, must not be assuaged, Laurel got to her feet and found she was trembling. With an effort she controlled herself.

‘Do we still go to Ronda tomorrow?’ she asked, and was surprised her voice sounded so normal.

‘But of course.’ A flash of white teeth in his dark face. ‘Esteban and I will chaperon each other.’ He stood up.
‘Buenas noches
, Laurel, sleep well.’

For a long moment they stared at each other, blue eyes meeting black, then with a sigh, Laurel turned away.

‘Goodnight, Luis.’

Quietly she went out of the lounge.

CHAPTER FIVE

The
way to Ronda from Mijas wound through magnificent country, with gaunt piles of mountains rising from the undulating ground. The two men sat in the front seats of the Silver Shadow, with Laurel and Peter in the back. She had been offered the passenger seat, but said she preferred to be with the child. Luis had given her a quizzical look, but made no comment, but Esteban had grinned and remarked:

‘The lady is very discreet.’

‘She needs to be, with you around,’ Luis retorted, which she took to be a veiled allusion to the night before. If Esteban had been driving, she might have taken the offered place, for she thought his feelings had been hurt by his brother’s caustic dismissal, but she wanted to avoid intimacy with Luis—no, ‘wanted’ was the wrong word—but she knew it was unwise. She was wearing her beige trousers, with a white blouse, and a long sleeveless over-jacket which came nearly to her knees, a concession to Spanish susceptibilities. It was in knitted acrylic, with a metallic thread running through it, which toned with her hair. Esteban had paid her a flowery compliment when she had appeared in it, but Luis had not even glanced at her. He was no doubt regretting what he had told her in the lounge on the previous evening. She looked yearningly at the black head in front of her. He meant to offer for Cristina when she returned from Madrid, and his fancy for herself would die a natural death. She could only hope her own infatuation would fade as quickly, but it showed no sign of abating, rather it increased every time she saw him. It was a little like sitting on a keg of gunpowder, she mused, any unexpected crisis could cause it to explode.

The predominant crop in that part of Spain is olives. There are acres and acres of the silvery-leaved trees, and they stretch up the mountains for as far as they can obtain a foothold. The upper portions of these precipitous peaks are bare rock and shale. There are other crops, including com, but a great dearth of animals, except for goats, which browse along the verges and waste patches watched over by some ancient grandfather, gnarled by the sun. Luis explained that there was little pasture for cattle, especially farther north where the land was arid, few cows could be grazed and butter was considered a luxury. The peasants steeped their bread in oil.

Ronda proved to be, as he had promised, a fascinating city. Ringed by mountains, many feet above sea level, it was split by the Tajo, the sinister gorge caused by some earthquake in prehistoric times. It was spanned by three bridges, the New Bridge, a monumental piece of engineering, high above the deepest part of the gorge, and two where it was much lower, opening to the plain, an Arab one and a Roman. Houses clustered along the edge of the Tajo, and Laurel thought she would not like to live with such an abyss outside her back door. Having parked the car, they walked across the New Bridge, gazing fearfully into the depths on either side, and thence down a narrow street beside it, to look up at it from below. They were in the old part of the town, and it was very old; Moor and Roman had left their mark. Uphill again and past the summer palace of the Marques de Salvatierra, the facade of which looked as though it could do with some redecorating.

‘He should turn it into a hotel,’ Luis said, laughing. ‘Then he could afford a lick of paint.’

Laurel knew he was thinking of his own well-kept residences. He might have stepped down from the aristocracy, but he knew how to make money, and had no regrets for loss of status. In that respect, he was as modern in his outlook as she was herself. They looked in at the Cathedral of Santa Maria, but Peter’s short legs were beginning to tire and he complained that he was thirsty.

‘We will lunch at the Hotel del Toro Negro,’ Luis decided. ‘It is in the modern part of the town, so we will go back to the car, if you can walk that far, infant.’ He slanted a mischievous glance at Laurel. ‘I do not think your aunt will appreciate its decor, which consists of scenes from the
corrida
.’

‘Certainly I won’t,’ Laurel declared. ‘Must we go there?’

‘Yes, because it will be Pedrillo’s inheritance.’ He did not only mean the hotel, but was reminding her that Peter was Spanish.’

‘The frescos are famous,’ Esteban told her, ‘you must see them, they are so lifelike.’

‘With all the gory details,’ Luis murmured. He was regarding her with a lazy sensuous expression, a little cruel smile curling his handsome mouth.

‘Peter will have nightmares,’ she began, but he cut her short.

‘No Aguilas was ever squeamish, and in due course he will enjoy a bullfight.’

‘When can I see one?’ Peter demanded.

‘You’d hate it,’ Laurel cried vehemently.

‘Not he, he is a Spaniard.’ Another reminder. Laurel looked from one to the other of the dark, Latin faces of Peter’s uncles, and they were probably right—Peter, for all his fairness, was of their kin. Suddenly she felt utterly alien, entirely alone. In silence she turned away and began to move down towards the bridge. She stumbled over a cobble, and her hand was taken and drawn through a strong arm.

‘You are tired,’ Luis said gently, ‘we have walked you too far. Lean on me.’

‘Peter...’

‘Esteban is carrying him.’

Glancing behind her, she saw the child was sitting astride the young man’s shoulders and clutching at his hair.

‘Gee up, horsey!’ he shouted gleefully.

To please him Esteban was tossing his head and making considerable detours.

‘Oh, but I can’t let Esteban...’

‘Do him good,’ Luis interrupted callously. ‘Leave him less energy for ... other things. Would you like that I carry you?’

‘Thanks, no, I’m fine.’

But she was glad of his supporting arm. A moment ago she had been repelled by the realisation of the gulf between their points of view. Now , his almost tender concern had drawn her close to him—literally. She could feel the hard muscles in his forearm through his thin sleeve. If only she could lean upon his strength for always, unload all her troubles and perplexities on to his broad back, become a meek, adoring Spanish wife ... absurd fantasy! She was an independent British girl, and needed no masculine support. With an effort she returned to reality, and gently withdrew her arm.

‘Thank you, I’m all right now, and it’s not much farther.’

‘Does contact with me repel you?’

What a question, when he must know very well how he could arouse her!

‘You know it’s not that, but ... but...’ She turned her head away, unable to explain.

‘I understand.’

They had reached the bridge and they stopped to look down into the yawning chasm. A thread of water ran along its bottom.

‘At this time of the year, the Guadalevin is a mere trickle,’ Luis told her, ‘but when it rains it becomes a raging torrent. Love between man and woman is like that, Laurel, one moment a placid stream and then, suddenly an overwhelming flood.’

‘Only to subside again,’ Laurel suggested in a strangled voice, for Pedro’s and Joanna’s passion had been exactly that, an irresistible spate, drying up into not even a trickle.

‘What would you? If it maintained its full force it would eventually destroy the participants—that has been the end of most of the world’s great love stories.’ There spoke the cynic, the man of the world. ‘Love should be enjoyed, Laurel, it should not be allowed to become a tragedy, and to make the most of it, it should be indulged when it reaches its peak before frustration sours it.’ He began to stroke her bare arm. ‘Laurel...’ His voice was harsh with feeling.

‘No!’ she said sharply. She knew what he was going to say and she did not want to hear him say it. What was coming to life between them was to her beautiful, she did not want it to be tarnished, but he, being a man, thought only of consummation.

‘I’ve never slept with a man,’ she told him faintly, hot colour staining her cheeks.

Putting a hand on her shoulders, he turned her about to face him, staring intently into her eyes. She met his scrutiny bravely, seeing in the dark depths of his a flicker of flame.

‘Is that true, Laurel?’

‘Yes.’ Unable to sustain that piercing gaze, her own eyes dropped, and she looked what she was, a shy young virgin.

‘In that case...’ he began slowly, but at that moment Esteban charged up beside them.

‘Laurel, for pity’s sake release me from this fiendish brat before he has pulled all my hair out by the roots!’

Luis hastily withdrew his hand—it seemed to her he was glad of the interruption. She said sharply, for the recoil of her own emotion was like the snap of an over-stretched elastic band.

‘Put him down, Esteban, he can walk the rest of the way. It’s your own fault, you should have come straight here.’

If he had she would not have made that foolish confession, now Luis would think she was immature or retarded; no doubt he preferred experienced women. But why should she mind? Did she want him to seduce her? She felt troubled and confused.

Esteban dropped a protesting Peter at her feet, and she went on: ‘Don’t make a fuss, Peter, you’re too big to be carried—you can hold my hand.’

They crossed the bridge in silence, Laurel and a sulky Peter in front, the two men bringing up the rear.

The Toro Negro was palatial, in common with all the Aguilas properties, and as promised, the dining room walls were decorated with pictures of the different phases of the
corrida.
Peter was thrilled by them and poured out a volley of questions. Laurel could not check him, though as she had said, she foresaw nightmares when he went to bed.

The meal was excellent, and rather different from what was being served to the coachloads of tourists who occupied most of the room. They were placed at a secluded table, half hidden by a screen of iron tracery supporting a vine. There was crayfish and lobster for a starter, paella followed by roast lamb, and an iced pudding, covered with flaming chocolate, which had been specially prepared for the little master. The staff had been advised of their coming, and Peter was introduced to the manager, head waiter and the chef. ‘
Es un angelito
,’ the last exclaimed, gazing enraptured at the boy’s fair face.

Esteban stage-managed the little ceremony, but Luis stood aloof. Looking towards him, Laurel caught a faint derisive smile on his lips and a satirical gleam in his eye. It occurred to her that he might not relish the thought of having to hand over the Toro Negro when the time came, which until Peter’s advent he had come to regard as his own. With some idea of placating him, she said to him in a low voice:

‘Peter may not want to be a hotelier when he grows up.’

‘Naturally he must follow his bent,’ Luis returned, ‘which at the moment seems to incline towards the bullring.’

Laurel recoiled. ‘Ah, never that!’
Luis laughed unkindly at her stricken look.

‘Do not distress yourself. Men of good family do not become
toreros
.’

There was something in his voice and expression that she could not fathom, but she rarely had any clue to his thoughts, as he seemed so often to have to hers, and she felt unaccountably uneasy. Later, when they went out into the gardens, she forgot all about her unpleasant impression, but it was to recur to her at a future date.

The grounds were extensive, sloping downwards in terraces with paved paths and flights of steps, and a fine view over open country to the enclosing mountains. Masses of geraniums climbed over walls and spilled out of stone vases; palm trees waved their long fronds and there were clusters of roses everywhere—sweet-scented ones, not like the scentless modern varieties. There were clumps of huge agaves, a succulent that was common in that country, with long green and yellow leaves edged with spines, but these were going to flower, for tall buds on mast like stems rose from the foliage. Peter was soon bored, and after giving them a quizzical look, Esteban took him off in search of something more amusing, but Luis and Laurel wandered on, not noticing their departure. Luis’ manner towards her was gentle and protective; he extended a ready hand to assist her, whenever they came to a rough patch or steep steps. She did not resent it, this was an idyllic spot and she was lulled into contented euphoria, for he did not make any disturbing remarks, and for once, when he touched her, the spark did not ignite. For the most part they were silent, and the silence was one of perfect accord; they might have been strolling through Eden, the tall dark man, with the slender slip of a girl beside him.

Luis stopped by a bush of dark red roses, which exuded a strong perfume. He broke off one of the velvety blooms, touched it with his lips, and handed it to her.

‘A memento of a lovely day,’ he told her, his dark eyes as soft as the petals of. the flower. ‘A red rose of Ronda.’

Laurel pushed the stalk into the front of her blouse, her own eyes azure stars.

‘I’ll treasure it always.’

‘
Ay mi
, it will fade, Laurel.’

‘But not the memory.’

His face grew sombre, and he spoke with a touch of the melancholy that is part of the Spanish make-up and never far away.

‘Memories also fade.’

But this one would remain vivid in hers. True, the rose would wither, but she would keep it always ... Oh, dear God, she was becoming as soppy and sentimental as any teenager—more so, for the modern teenager prides herself upon her sophistication. A Victorian miss would be a better comparison, didn’t they press flowers in books to preserve them? As if he divined her thoughts in his uncanny way, Luis said softly:

‘It is good to feel romantic occasionally in these hardboiled times.’

‘Are you feeling romantic?’ she asked wonderingly, because that seemed out of character.