Court of Veils Read online

  Roslyn splashed her face, neck and arms with cool water. Her feet were covered with souk dirt and she gave them a good wash, then in her slip she lay on her Arab bed and watched the fan revolving in the paint-scaled ceiling. The air that was passed from blade to whirring blade was warm, but if she lay quite prone and didn’t think too much about the heat it was bearable.

  Later, when that brazen flame of a sun sank down, it would be deliciously cool. She strove to think of that, and that alone, but as she dozed she dreamed restlessly that she was back in the bazaar, and lost. Hopelessly lost No one understood what she wanted and in the end she began to run, stumbling over giant pumpkins and getting entangled in yards of gauze that clung to her face like a veil She came out into a square. The houses all round the square were blank-walled with slot windows like those in a castle...

  She was very frightened. The walls seemed to be closing in on her, and she awoke, crying out in darkness. She sat up. Her heart was pounding ... there seemed no one, not a soul, who really understood how awful it was to be lost... as she was.

  She rose and put on the light. The room looked cheerless and felt airless; she had to get out of it. Throwing on her dressing-gown, she opened the balcony shutters and stepped outside to watch the last of the sunset.

  Towards the west the sky was like an oriental tapestry that had run, carmine and dusky gold mingled with the palest green. A muezzin wailed from his minaret platform, then the tawny sky turned violet and the lake glistened duskily far below.

  Her pulse beat fast under the hand she pressed to her throat. Later, she promised herself. When the moon is up; when everyone is asleep and I shall not be disturbed.

  It was a little crazy, of course, and perhaps dangerous to go seeking ghosts in the moonlight, but nothing was going to stop her. She had to find out who it was who had run half-way out of the mists towards her . . . down there on the lake-shore she felt certain that misty figure waited to materialize ...

  But right now she must get dressed for dinner.

  The dress she had brought with her was one of those she could not remember buying - a trousseau evening dress, knee-length, of knitted blue silk joined together over the shoulders like a herald’s coat.

  She looked like a page in it, she thought, studying her cap of fair hair and her mouth like a coloured bow against her sun-tinted skin that had a paleness underneath. A page carrying a secret in her eyes!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THEY assembled in the bare, stone-tiled lobby of the hotel, the two men in white sharkskin jackets over dark trousers; Roslyn in blue, her shoulders caped in the white fur which Nanette had insisted she borrow. ‘It would be a little out of style in Paris,’ she had said. ‘But El Kadia is a city where past fashions mingle with the new - besides, it grows cool when the sun goes down.’

  It did indeed, Roslyn thought, hugging the soft cape about her.

  Ah, here came Isabela, making her glamorous progress down the stairs. She wore flame-coloured lace and long black gloves. Diamond bracelets flashed on the wrists of her gloves, and her cloak was of thick dark silk. With the gliding grace of the Latin she came across the lobby, her cloak billowing about the sheath of lace.

  She shimmered flame-like as she stood poised in front of Duane, he the Lucifer who had ignited her to such fire and beauty.

  ‘Have I kept you waiting?’ Roslyn watched the upswing of her provocative glance. ‘You must forgive me.’

  ‘You look so fantastically beautiful,’ he smiled, ‘that tonight I might forgive you anything.’

  ‘Would you forgive me for stealing your heart?’ she asked softly.

  ‘I might, if I had one to steal,’ he said lazily.

  ‘Don’t pretend to be heartless.’ Her face raised to his was like an exotic flower preening in the sun. ‘You were not so - earlier on, were you, mon amour?

  He frowned slightly, Roslyn saw, and was about to speak, to say perhaps that she was making too public what should be kept private between them, when she turned gaily to face Tristan. ‘Have you two men decided where you are taking us?’ she asked. ‘Of course, one cannot expect the kind of dance music and cabaret that one would enjoy in Lisbon - such a city! So gay and sophisticated, filled with theatres and night clubs.’

  ‘Naturally El Kadia cannot expect to compete with Lisbon,’ Tristan said dryly. He glanced at Duane. ‘I thought we might go to the Dancing Fawn. What do you say, mon ami?’

  ‘Sounds fine to me.’ A quirk of a smile lifted the corner of Duane’s mouth. ‘You know more about the high life of El Kadia than I do, old man. I’m just a rugged planter, but I must say the name of the place stirs my interest. Do fawns dance?’

  ‘Isabela dances,’ she took his arm possessively, and as they walked out of the hotel ahead of Roslyn and Tristan it had to be admitted that they made a striking couple. The hunter with a gorgeous falcon on his wrist!

  The spellbound city of that afternoon had a more mystic enchantment as the scimitar of a moon glided over the Eastern rooftops and turrets ... how could one doubt that even fawns could dance on such a night? The magic of it! Strange vibrations pulsed in the air, spicy fragrances thrilled Roslyn’s nostrils, the old mysteries and intrigues still haunted this place, she was sure of it.

  The enchantment she felt was in her eyes as she turned to enter the cab, making them jade-dark as she smiled at Tristan and slipped into the seat that held four people. Tristan followed, the door slammed and they shot away so quickly that Roslyn was thrown to the right against a crisp white jacket. Her startled eyes lifted only as far as the arrogant Hunter jaw ... she drew away hastily, electrified into a slim rod between the two cousins while Isabela sat at her ease by the window.

  Their cab sped down the steep road she and Tristan had climbed in the sun, it zigzagged through narrow streets and with a loud blast of its horn joined the busy traffic of the central part of the city.

  Roslyn looked out of the window beside Tristan and hoped the Dancing Fawn was not one of the bright, modern clubs whose lights had sprung to life along, the main boulevard. Then her hopes soared again as they sped on past the shifting, neon-spangled crowds, among which a few women clung to the enticing veil but where in the main the dress was European and the faces bare to the gaze, many of them cosmopolitan. El Kadia was booming and expanding, and its citizens were discarding the old ways for the new ... what a pity, from a romantic point of view! The kaftan and the boumous had a style that nothing manufactured by modem tailors could hope to match.

  The noise and the neons faded away, and Roslyn guessed happily that they were heading into the old part of the city. The realms of oriental fable, where the mysterious and the forbidden might still lurk behind the high walls and heavy oval-shaped doors.

  The cab screeched to a halt in front of an archway, and Roslyn felt excited as she followed Tristan out on to the pavement. It was excitement, or high heels, that caused her to stumble as her brocade shoes encountered the cobbles. At once a pair of hands caught hold of her, saving her from a fall and crushing the soft fur that caped her shoulders ... Nanette’s fur.

  ‘Th-thank you,’ she said, and without glancing round drew away from the touch. She had seen the green eyes flicking the white fur in the vestibule of the hotel ... another perquisite, that inspection had seemed to say.

  She gave a slight shiver, and Tristan must have noticed as he took her arm. ‘Are you feeling cold?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not in this fur cape.’ Her voice lifted involuntarily. ‘Your kind grandmother insisted that I borrow it.’

  She sensed the half turning of a copper head and wondered, a trifle bleakly, why she bothered to defend herself. Her every action was suspect in Duane Hunter’s eyes ... it had been that way from the very beginning and she ought to be used to him by now.

  Tristan was gazing down at her as they crossed the forecourt of the Dancing Fawn restaurant. ‘You were so ready to enjoy this evening,’ he murmured. ‘What has upset you ? Something has, I can tell by your eyes.’

>   She hesitated, but the words would not be held back. ‘A feeling comes over me every now and again, Tristan, a kind of desperate, drowning sensation. I - I want to be pulled out of the darkness into the light, knowing myself. Knowing the other person I might be. Knowing what I’ve done and experienced ... before the crash.’

  ‘Of course, what else would it be?’ His arm came round her in a sympathetic hug. ‘It is easy enough for others, for me, to say don’t worry, all will be well. All the same, my dear, would you prefer that we dine by ourselves? We can go somewhere else - shall we?’

  Roslyn was tempted to say yes, but Duane would guess at once that she was running away from him. From his presence at a table for four. From his eyes across that table, watching as Tristan spoke to her, assessing the interest that his cousin was showing in her. He might even have the audacity to ask her to dance, knowing how much she hated him to touch her ... and it would be a small satisfaction to be able to refuse him.

  ‘No, let’s stay,’ she said. ‘This place looks nice.’

  Tristan ran his eyes over her upraised face. ‘I think you will like it,’ he said, and they entered the restaurant. There was a smell of saffron and smoke, the tinkle of indoor fountains, and a cloudy-amber lighting diffused from small table-lamps.

  Couples were dancing to a small orchestra hidden in the shadows, and Roslyn caught a merging of flame lace and white tuxedo as they passed the dancers and sat down at their table for four. ‘Shall we have a drink, or would you like to dance?’ Tristan asked.

  ‘I'd like a drink,’ she said. ‘Something daring.’

  He beckoned a waiter and ordered a couple of daiquiris, his dark eyes resting on the blue simplicity of her dress as she slipped the white cape from her slim shoulders. ‘You look rather lovely,’ he said quietly. ‘There is a flower that grows in the forests of France, it is blue and cool, but when plucked—’ his hand moved as if to touch her, then drew back. ‘Roslyn, you make me a little afraid of you.’

  Music drifted over, people chatted and laughed around them.

  ‘How could anyone be afraid of me?’ she laughed nervously.

  ‘Don’t you know that men do fear women?’ His smile grew quizzical. ‘Especially those they are in danger of -liking too much.’

  ‘Tristan,’ her eyes grew wide with appeal, ‘we mustn’t talk about anything like that - I - I’m not ready—’

  ‘I know,’ he said quickly. ‘We must wait until you are fully yourself again, with no longer a divided mind - or heart.’

  The waiter brought their drinks, and large menus were placed on the table. Her daiquiri had a pleasant kick to it and she took small sips as she gazed round the restaurant. She liked the soft amber lighting which veiled the eyes without hiding their glimmer. Liked the subtle way in which East and West were blended, even in the dance music. A pair of dark hands thrummed the skin of a tambour. A quembri added its strange fluting notes.

  ‘We will order our meal when Isabela and Duane come to the table.’ Tristan was glancing through a menu. ‘Are you hungry, Roslyn?’

  She nodded, though in truth she felt too strung up to feel like eating. Then she tensed in her chair as the music died to a drumbeat and the dancers dispersed from the floor. She heard a woman’s warm laughter, and then Isabela was at the table, looking pleased with herself as she slipped into the chair which Duane held for her.

  Roslyn glanced up through her lashes, but as always that hawk-face of Duane’s was quite unreadable. His green eyes flicked over her blue dress and the cool skin of her slim neck. Her fingers tightened on the glass holding her drink, and she wondered how Isabela could want a man who seemed to have no use for tenderness.

  ‘You will both be amazed to hear that Duane is an excellent dancer.’ She teased him with a smile as he sat down.

  ‘Isabela seems to have assumed that my social activities were spent among the Indians, snake-dancing,’ he said dryly. ‘Shall we have champagne?’

  He beckoned a waiter, while Isabela sat looking at him drowsily, behind long lashes. ‘Where were your social activities spent?’ she asked inquisitively.

  ‘Some of them in Rio, my pet. Wicked Rio!’

  ‘I see, Duane. You could not stand the monotony of the jungle all the time, eh? You needed the bright lights, and women in pretty clothes. Beware, mon cher, I shall worm out all your secrets one by one.’ Her smile flashed across the table, assured as diamonds. ‘The Dancing Fawn has quite a good orchestra, I must say, Tristan. You and the little Roslyn must try it.’

  ‘We are going to eat first. Come, everyone, let us order dinner. The food here is as good as the music.’

  The next few minutes were devoted to a study of the menus, and then the waiter arrived with their champagne. The cork sighed as it was withdrawn and a blue-blonde foam crowned the bottle. The bubbles were tiny, rising and popping in the glasses as the wine was poured. Tristan skimmed his nose across his brimming glass. ‘Ah, I smell hawthorn, French soil and wood-violets,’ he said, his lips in the wine.

  ‘You have too much imagination,’ Isabela scoffed. ‘You see a Val de Loire label on the bottle and right away you are wafted to France. I wonder you don’t buy a house there and settle down.’

  ‘I shall, when I am ready,’ he rejoined.

  ‘And when will that be, I wonder?’

  Roslyn felt the inquisitive flick of Isabela’s eyes, and then to her relief the singer’s attention was caught by something else. ‘Duane, are those lotus blossoms?’ She gestured to a cloak of flowers trained over the rim of a nearby fountain. ‘Pluck one for me, please!’

  ‘Are you going to eat it?’ He laughed and did her bidding. ‘They say that if you taste of the lotus you will never leave the land in which it grows.’

  ‘Do you want me to put it to the test?’ She teased his lips with the flower.

  ‘I think you will find the poulet braisé oil your plate much more to your taste,’ he said mockingly.

  ‘Brute!’ She tucked the flower in her dark hair with Latin grace. ‘I sometimes find it hard to believe that you are half French. Frenchmen have a respect for the romantic notions of women. They play along with our little games of make-believe.’

  ‘I never did like games of make-believe.’ His voice was suddenly a lash, low, stinging, causing Roslyn to look up from her plate before she could stop herself. Her eyes locked with his, and holding them he said to her, deliberately:

  ‘Will you dance?’

  She couldn’t speak. Words were beyond her as he rose and came round to her, holding out a brown hand. ‘Go on, Roslyn.’ It was Tristan who spoke. ‘You have Isabela’s assurance that Duane will not march all over your feet.’

  It was her feelings, not her feet, she was worried about, and then Isabela said drawlingly: ‘Does an amnesiac know whether she can do this or that? Roslyn might tread all over Duane’s feet.’

  ‘She’s hardly likely to make much impression.’ His hand closed round Roslyn’s and with a slight but determined wrist-jerk he pulled her to her feet and led her from the table to the dance floor.

  ‘I - I don’t want to dance - I can’t!’ It was a desperate whisper, ending in a small gasp as with a sudden adroit movement he spun her into his arms and held her so there was no escaping him.

  ‘Relax and enjoy the dance.’ His downward glance was a cool stab of green. ‘Armand was too fond of a gay time to have fallen for a girl who was not adept at most indoor sports.’

  So that was what he was doing - testing her. A shudder ran through her and she stumbled over his feet, deaf to the rhythm of the music, blind to everything but the cruelty of this man. He made her stumble several times round the floor, then he let her go and, seething, she hurried ahead of him back to the table. Isabela sat there smiling. Tristan rose at Roslyn’s approach, his straight brows cleft by a frown.

  ‘Poor Duane!’ Isabela rose also, her eyes agleam with malicious laughter as they swept from Roslyn’s pale face to his. ‘Let me make up for Roslyn’s inadequacy, my dear.’r />
  ‘By all means,’ he said, and the next moment they were gone and Roslyn was left alone with Tristan. She sat down shakily, not looking at him as he reseated himself beside her. She took up her wine glass, but it shook in her fingers and she set it down again.

  ‘That was a typical Byronic action of my cousin’s!’ Tristan lifted a hand and a waiter came to his side. He asked that their coffee be brought, with two Armagnac liqueurs.

  Then he sat drumming his fingers on the table, frowning, abstracted, distant. Their coffee and liqueurs were soon brought to them, and Roslyn tipped the little glass of old-gold into her black coffee and drank it quickly, needing the false courage it would impart.

  ‘Why Byronic?’ she asked. ‘Having been tortured he has to torture? I don’t think that’s the answer.’

  ‘No?’ Tristan studied her, his Gallic eyelids half drawn down. ‘What is the answer?’

  ‘He simply doesn’t like me. He thinks I’m playing some sort of a game, and I -I begin to wonder—’

  ‘What do you wonder?’ Tristan leant towards her as she paused. She shook her head mutely, her every nerve hammering as the dance music died away and only seconds remained of her reprieve from Duane Hunter’s presence.

  ‘Shall we go?’ Tristan asked, his eyes intent on her pale face.

  She nodded, clutching at the white fur cape and pulling it around her, no longer too proud to run away.

  The remainder of the evening was spoiled for her, though they climbed to the muezzin tower of a mosque like a narrow, decorative wedding-cake and she tried to reach for the stars that gleamed so close ... like ice flowers.

  A breeze blew through the tower openings, and the moon was bruised by small clouds. ‘I think I smell rain in the air,’ Tristan said, and though he might not have been making an excuse to go, it sounded like one and her heart felt heavy as they made their way down the winding steps to the courtyard, where an attendant took the slippers they had had to put on upon entering the mosque.