Witch's Harvest (19 page)

Abby had once read somewhere that people under sentence of death sometimes welcomed the day of execution, because it

finally put an end to their terrible uncertainty. But she didn't believe it.

Because an eternity of doubt would have been easier to bear than knowing that all her fears had become reality, and that Della

was here in Brazil, and back in Vasco's life and heart.

If, she thought, wincing, she had ever really been away.

'Does her name mean anything to you?'

She had forgotten the man sitting quietly beside her, as she had fought against the tidal wave of hurt and grief rising inside her.

The muscles in her throat were tight as she swallowed. She said, 'Not a thing. Will—will you take me back to the
fazenda
,
please?'

'Right now?' There was a note of incredulity in his voice. 'Aren't you going to give me an answer first?'

'Answer?' she echoed dazedly. How could she answer questions when she was breaking apart inside?

'To my proposition,' said Link on a note of impatience. 'You can't be planning to stay with the guy, Abby. Not now.'

There was a certain truth in what he said, a part of her mind acknowledged numbly. As soon as Vasco returned from Manaus

she would tell him she was leaving—spare him the awkwardness of telling her that he wanted her to go.

Link reached over and possessed himself of her hand. 'So why not come with me?' he urged. 'Riocho Negro hasn't been lucky

for either of us.' He paused. 'I'd look after you, Abby—show you a good time. And I wouldn't—push you too fast. I'd let you

dictate the terms.'

He was attractive, and leaving with him would be a let-out—a salve for her pride, if nothing else.

His fingers were warm against hers, but that was all. There was no
frisson
, no curiosity about the taste of his mouth. She felt
empty, drained of all sensation.

She thought, It wouldn't be fair, and realised only when she heard his sharp intake of breath that she'd spoken the thought

aloud.

'What's fair about anything in this whole goddam mess?' He let go her hand. 'Don't decide now, Abby. Give yourself a few days.

I have some things to finish up at Laracoca. You can get a message to me any time you want.'

But she didn't have a few days, Abby thought, as he re-started the jeep. She needed to make her escape at once. But how? she

wondered desperately. This wasn't London with its trains, and Tube, and taxis. She couldn't just—walk out. But she couldn't

turn to Link for help. Everything within her shied away from such a solution, even from using him merely as a travelling

companion.

It seemed she would have to rely on Vasco, who would be only too glad in the circumstances to help her on her way.

The final degradation, she thought numbly.

They completed the remainder of the journey in silence. Abby was aware of Link's fleeting sideways glance seeking her from

time to time, but she made no attempt to respond. She felt too weary, her mind circling on the same dreary treadmill.

When the lights of the
fazenda
finally blazed through the trees she sat up sharply, feeling her heartbeat quicken erratically.

As the jeep pulled to a halt in front of the veranda steps, Link peered forward with a surprised exclamation. 'He's back!'

Abby said thickly, 'Yes.' She opened the passendoor reluctantly and slid to the ground, her eyes fixed on the dark figure

lounging with apparent negligence on the veranda.

As she approached the steps, Vasco swung his booted legs down from the table and rose courteously to his feet. He was

smiling, but Abby could sense the anger in him, as tangible as a clenched fist.

'
Bem-vindo
,' he said silkily. 'Welcome home,
carinha
.'

'I—I wasn't expecting to see you.' Abby was aware that Link had come to her side.

'So I gather,' he said pleasantly. 'Good evening, Link. I believe I must thank you for escorting my wife.'

'In your absence,' Link said flatly.

'That is true.' Vasco's mouth curled. 'I shall take care to avoid any more such absences.'

'That sounds a great idea.' Link put his hands on his hips and faced him pugnaciously.

'But we must not keep you,' Vasco went on. 'I am sure you have duties to occupy you at Laracoca, and my wife and I wish to

enjoy our reunion.'

'Oh, really?' asked Link. 'Maybe Abby has other ideas about that.' He turned to her. 'What about it? Do you want me to hang

around?'

'The decision is not hers to make.' Vasco's tone was still polite, but it held cold finality. 'And, to you, my wife is Senhora da

Carvalho. Please remember that.'

'Maybe you're the one who needs to remember—' Link began, but Abby caught at his arm.

'No!' she said urgently and miserably. 'Go, Link, please.'

For a moment he hesitated, his face wearing a frankly goaded expression, then he nodded. 'OK, honey—anything you say.' He

lowered his voice. 'But don't forget—all it takes is a message.'

The jeep's engine roared into life, and the vehicle disappeared into the night, leaving husband and wife facing each other in

silence.

I'm not standing here as if I've been struck dumb, Abby thought with a sudden flash of anger. She walked forwards up the steps,

heading for the front door, but Vasco blocked her way.

'Where are you going?'

'To my room. I'm rather tired.' She stared down at the boards of the veranda, avoiding his gaze.

'Oh, but you cannot run away yet,
querida
? He spoke lightly enough, but there was an implacable note in his voice. 'It is some
time since we saw each other, after all, and we have so much to talk about.' He gestured at the bottle of whisky and glasses

which stood on the table. 'You'll have a drink with me? No? Then we'll have a pleasant cup of coffee together.' He clapped his

hands sharply, calling to Ana as he did so.

'I don't want to talk now,' Abby said desperately. The moment of confrontation seemed to be upon them, and she couldn't face

it. 'Please, Vasco…'

'We could talk in the bedroom if you prefer.' His brows lifted mockingly. 'No?' He pulled a chair forward for her '
Faz favor de

sentar-se
,' he added politely.

She was glad to have a seat, because her legs were suddenly shaking under her. She sat stiffly on the cushions, staring into the

darkness, silence closing round them again. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Vasco produce a cheroot from a case in his

shirt pocket, and the flare of the match as he lit it.

She had rarely seen him smoke, she thought. Perhaps he was ill at ease too, with no more relish for the difficulties of the coming
interview than she had.

Ana brought the coffee, setting the tray on the table and almost scuttling away again, her eyes flicking swiftly from one stony

face to another.

Vasco waited a moment for Abby to pour the coffee, and when she made no move to do so performed the task himself, handing

her a cup with an imperative gesture.

'Drink it,' he said, adding acidly, 'You look as if you need it.'

Abby lifted the cup to her lips, swallowing some of the hot, fragrant brew, managing by some miracle to keep her hand steady,

aware that Vasco was watching her.

At last he said softly, 'Well,
minha esposa
? Have you nothing to say to me?'.

So many things, she thought desolately. But all of them totally unutterable. He was planning to end her life, to send her back like
an unwanted gift, and he was sitting there, drinking coffee with that half-smile playing round his lips.

Anger gusted in her. She wondered crazily what he would do if she flung herself at him, screamed at him, kicked him, bit him,

punched him with her fists.

But she couldn't do that. For the sake of what little self-respect she had left, she had to play it cool.

She ran her tongue round her dry lips. 'You— told me to think about our marriage. Well, I have— and I've decided I want to leave

you—go back to England.' She drank some more coffee. 'So I'd be glad if you'd make the necessary arrangements for me.'

'How simple you make it sound,' he said, after a long pause. 'Did it escape your attention,
querida
, that I told you any decision
must be a mutual one?'

'No.' She put the cup carefully back on the table. 'But it's what we both want, after all. It has to be…'

'
Desculpe
, Abigail, but you are wrong. I have no intention of letting you go.' Vasco's voice was heavily sardonic. 'In fact I have
the best reason in the world for keeping you at my side.' There was another silence. 'Well, have you still nothing to say to me?'

Abby was unable to think of a word. She felt stunned, totally bewildered. She looked at him and saw the pleasant, smiling mask

had gone. Vasco looked thunderously, murderously angry suddenly. She shook her head.

'Then you will listen,' he said harshly. 'When I returned today, and Agnello came to me and told me you were still at the

settlement with Dalton, I decided to come and find you—to bring you back.'

Her head lifted sharply. 'You did that? But why?'

'Isn't it obvious? This is not London, Abigail. Here a married woman does not flaunt herself in public with a man who is not her

husband.'

Colour flared heatedly in her face. That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!' Her voice was strained and husky. 'And what
about married men? I suppose they're allowed to—flaunt themselves with anyone they please, and no one turns a hair.'

'That,' he said grimly, 'is not the point under discussion,
senhora
. The fact is I went to the settlement, and failed to find you.

Instead I met my good friend Jorge Arupa.' He paused, then said flatly, 'He was—delighted to see me. I am sure you know why.'

He watched her flush deepen hectically, and nodded. 'Exactly.'

'Oh, God,' she whispered. She couldn't have allowed for that, a voice in her head whispered. If she'd known he would be here

waiting for her like this, she might have stayed in the jeep with Link, made him drive her away somewhere—anywhere.

'So, where were you?' Vasco's voice bit at her, making her start. 'Why was it so impossible to find you?'

She found a voice from somewhere. 'We went to the film show. And had a drink.'

'A drink.' His brows snapped together. 'Where?'

She tried to remember. The—the Olinda, I think…'

'Ah,' he said too quietly. 'So he took you there— where the whores go. Perhaps he thought it appropriate.'

Abby made a little sound in her throat, then snatched up her cup and hurled its contents at him. Realising her intention, he

dodged, but the coffee still spattered the shoulder and sleeve of his shirt, and he swore furiously.

He gritted between his teeth, 'You need to be taught a lesson,
senhora—
in manners, if nothing else!'

He took a step towards her, and Abby backed away. 'Don't come near me!' Even in her own ears, her voice sounded thin and

nervous.

'And don't tell me what to do,' said Vasco with soft but chilling emphasis. 'You are my wife, Abigail, and you are staying here

with me, no matter what plans your lover may have for you.'

'He isn't my lover!' she said on a little wail of protest, because he was still advancing on her, and she was trapped against the

veranda rail nowhere left to retreat to.

'Not yet, perhaps,' he corrected icily. 'In fact, not ever. You belong to me,
senhora
, and I think you need to be reminded of that in
a way you will never forget.'

He scooped her up into his arms as if she was a child, and holding her against his chest, carried her into the house,

accompanied by a series of loud and malevolent squawks from Don Afonso.

'Put me down!' Abby's low voice simmered with rage. 'Let go of me—or I'll scream my head off, and the servants will hear.'

Vasco laughed harshly. 'Scream away,' he advised. 'No one will come to your help. They will think only I am giving you the

beating you so richly deserve.'

The arms which held her were like bars of steel, making a nonsense of her struggles. Vasco walked with her into the bedroom,

kicking the door shut behind him, before carrying her to the bed and dropping her against the pillows.

Gasping, Abby hurled herself on to her knees and slapped him across the face as hard as she could.

The force of the blow sent a shock up her arm, and left the imprint of her fingers in bruising relief against his bronze skin.

She stayed on her knees, staring up at him, frozen with horror, as she awaited his retaliation.

He said, half to himself, on a note of bitter mockery, 'And I promised myself I would be gentle with you.' His hands closed on the
V-neck of her cotton shirt, dragging the edges apart with a kind of considered violence, ripping the buttons from their holes.