Dearest Demon Page 10

  Destine looked into those ironical eyes bent upon her, and once again her fingers itched to land a slap against his sar­donic cheek. He was just about the most infuriating devil she had ever met, and it seemed an impossible feat to try and get even with him.

  'It's a relief to be saying goodnight to you,' she said. 'May I hope that you'll leave me alone in future, now that you know that I'm not the free and easy sort?'

  'Señora' he drawled, 'had you been easy of virtue, then it would have been all too easy to disregard you. Buenas noches, Nurse Chard, and do sleep undisturbed.'

  'I intend to, señor, if you're hoping that I shall be dis­turbed by anything you've said to me. Goodnight!' She swept open the double doors and entered her patient's sitting-room without looking again at Don Cicatrice. She felt she had made a good exit, but she couldn't ignore the unsettling—effect of certain things he had said—nor could she brush away the lingering feel of his hard fingertips against the skin of her throat. Her skin tightened, tingled, and made her feel curiously guilty as she approached the bedside of her patient. It came as a stab of relief that Cosima was sleeping, for it wasn't until she was right beside the bed that she realised the tousled state of her hair. Had Cosima been awake to see her, she would have wanted to know why her nurse was so unusually discomposed.

  Destine lifted a hand to her hair, and her hand was un­steady.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The mornings at the House of the Grilles were always a source of amazed delight to Destine; one of the compensa­tions for working here in the deep south, so far from home and acquaintances, among people whose star of tragedy had crossed with her own.

  It was no exaggeration to say that the sky was clear blue as a gem, with the sun catching the leaf-tips of the palms and a pair of giant fig trees. Near the cane patio table where Destine sat awaiting her breakfast there was a sheer, living screen of golden allamanda, and when she glanced in the opposite direction there were quince bushes with shell-like flowers, huge oleanders of white edged with wine, cascading creepers heavy with scent and some flamboyant velvety red flowers into which the bees flew in and out, carrying gold pollen on their wings.

  Here she chose to start her day, drinking in all the loveli­ness and peace of this secluded, mosaic-paved carmen before proceeding to the bedroom of her patient.

  She listened to the persistent droning of sounds, a mingl­ing of chirps and chortles from the treetops, underlined by the humming of the many hidden cicadas, the very voice of southern Spain, it seemed to her. From morning to dusk they could be heard, so there was never any real silence around the casa. Even when the birds were still, the cicadas could still be heard, and it was a sound that had a curiously sooth­ing effect upon the nerves, for as the maid came to the table with the breakfast tray Destine didn't give that start which had been apt to annoy her before she became used to the agile, almost catlike way these Latin people moved about their business.

  'Buenos dias, señora.' The young maid gave that usual wondering smile as she rested her eyes on Destine's sunlit hair. The sun made it seem even more glistening and fair, especially first thing of a morning when Destine left it loose about her neck. Always before going in to Cosima she rolled it at her nape and pinned it, but for this hour that belonged exclusively to her, she allowed herself to be less prim and proper.

  'Buenos dias, Imelda. Isn't it a stunning morning? I do believe this is almost my favourite time of the day, though I must admit that your Spanish sunsets are breathtaking.'

  'The señora grows to like our country?' The maid arranged the breakfast dishes on the table, the sunlight glinting on the silver domes as she removed them from the plate of ham; thick, home-cured slices fried like bacon, with sliced tomatoes and rounds of crisp potato at the side. There were also ring-shaped rolls fresh from the oven, and cafe bueno—rich dark coffee such as Destine hadn't tasted until she came to this part of Spain.

  Everything that came to the table of the Obregon family came from their own estate; they were, Destine had dis­covered, as self-sufficient as their feudal forebears had been—apart from the modern amenity of gasolene, and she felt sure that if Don Cicatrice had ever found oil on the family land he would have gone ahead and drilled for it.

  He was, in every way, the modern equivalent of one of those self-sufficient overlords of long ago, the reins of every branch of the estate held firmly in his lean, strong hands; his superlative guidance as undeniable as the skill of the knife in the hand of a surgeon.

  Destine glanced about her and had to admit that she had grown to like certain aspects of a place she had expected to hate every minute of the day.

  'Though the casa was haunted for her, it also had a kind of magic that was surely in its walls and trees and intricate lacings of iron and had nothing to do with the Obregons. People came, and people went, but a house had a life of its own, and so she could say to the young maid in all sincerity that she had, indeed, grown to like her surroundings.

  'They are quite unique,' she murmured. 'I—I believe I'm glad now that I came to Xanas. It is a fabulous place.'

  'But very quiet, señora.' The maid sighed. 'Sometimes I feel I should like to go and work in Madrid—do you think I would like it there? My mother says that it has become a fast place.'

  'Oh, it's certainly a lot different from Xanas,' Destine agreed. 'Very busy and overcrowded—I think, Imelda, that you might be overwhelmed by the traffic and the more modern pace of life after the beauty and spaciousness of this region. I'm sure I shall notice the difference when I return to all that.'

  'You will be going soon, señora. Like the other nurses? They, too, found it very quiet here.'

  'No, the quietness doesn't bother me, but one day the Señora Arandas will be much improved in health and I shall move on to another nursing position—this really is delicious coffee, Imelda. One thing is certain, I shall be a coffee addict before I leave the casa.'

  'I am glad you are not yet leaving.' The girl smiled shyly. 'You are not like the other nurses, for they complained much of the time—I think because the Señor Don was a little too haughty and did not unbend to their smiles. Cook says that nurses always hope to make the rich marriage and that is why some of them work in private houses.'

  'Well, that isn't true of me,' Destine protested. 'I don't think I try to make the Señor Don unbend to me! I'm truly not interested in him or his wealth.'

  'You fear his face?' Imelda murmured, with a glance over her shoulder. 'I feel a shiver when he looks at me, for he seems to have the face of two men, one handsome, and the other so sinister. But some girls care only about money and they wouldn't mind his looks—'

  'I don't care to discuss the Don or his looks,' Destine broke in. 'You had best be careful if you do so in the kitchen quarters, for one day he may catch you discussing him.'

  'The saints protect me!' The girl swiftly crossed herself and hurried away, leaving Destine with a rueful smile on her lips. For an instant a sort of pity had stabbed at her—had his face not been ruined by that searing scar, then Don Cicatrice would have been a very striking man. As it was he did produce a kind of terror in a woman when he looked directly at her, the destroyed half of his face in conjunction with the well-marked brow and jawbone of the other side, ruled over by the proud Arab nose.

  Oh, he knew his effect on women, she thought, as she ate delicious ham with a crisp slice of potato. He knew he either frightened them, or produced a sense of fascination, based on the fact that there were women who were drawn to the devil. Destine felt sure that even if fire hadn't marred him, he would still have been something of a devil… it lay in his genes, in his stars, for he was first cousin to Manolito de Obregon, and Destine could never forget it.

  She had almost finished breakfast and was eating a nectarine when she had a premonition of not being alone any more. She endured the feeling for about half a minute, and then glanced over her shoulder to where that great curtain of creepers lay glimmering and scented in the gather­ing heat of the sun.
r />   Though with her every tiny nerve she knew who stood there, treading as silently as a great cat, it still came as a shock to her nerves when she actually saw the Don. In black, narrow-fitting trousers and a black silk sweater he looked like a panther standing there, dangerously supple and unpredictable. In an instant, like fine glass, Destine's sense of peace was shattered.

  'I've never known anyone but a cat to walk so silently,' she threw at him. 'You aren't exactly good for the nerves, señor.'

  'Well, señora, if your nerves are that bad, then I shall take to whistling a tune when I am likely to come upon you.' He strolled across the mosaic tiling, and very deliberately he whistled the corrida theme from Carmen, until he stood above Destine and could look down upon her fair, untied hair. 'What now, Nurse? Are you going to leap to your feet and announce that duty calls?'

  'It does, señor—'

  At once he glanced at the leather-strapped watch on his left wrist; the leather only shades darker than his skin. 'I estimate that you have fifteen minutes before your breakfast hour is concluded—I see that you have been enjoying a nectarine. Would you like to see the fruit trees in bloom with fruit and blossom? Come!' He reached for her hand and drew her to her feet, and because she wore her flat-heeled nursing shoes she felt very aware of his tallness. In that single respect he took after his Australian antecedents; in every other way he was entirely Latin. His skin, hair and litheness of frame were as Spanish as the sun overhead, and under his skin he was imperious and not to be denied by a female of the species.

  'I am proud of our orchards,' he said crisply. 'They are like no fruit gardens that you will see in England, for the valley is protected by the mountains and our sun is undil­uted by that coolness in your British atmosphere. A coolness that gets into the system, eh, as the golden warmth of Xanas gets into the bloodstream of southern-born Spaniards.'

  Destine didn't argue with him, but she was acutely aware of his warm grip on her elbow as he led her from the carmen into the depths of the garden where she had not yet ventured. As it was still so early there were spider-webs glistening on the shrubs, silvery traps for any unwary fly on the wing. The very air had a sparkle to it, and Destine could smell the fruit on the heavily laden trees before they stepped through a wrought-iron gate that had interworked into its iron the name and crest of the Obregon family.

  She gazed in wonder at the regular rows of trees, billowing with blossom, and with the globes and bunches of fruit there on the branches in the midst of the blossom. The Don was right, for nowhere in England could she hope to see any­thing as rich and lovely as this. The very sun had got into the fruit, so that the oranges, the nectarines, the peaches and apricots glowed with a honeyed ripeness. Their fruity musk hung on the air like a wine, and deep breaths of such air seemed to go to her head so that she felt half intoxicated.

  But it was when they reached the lemon and grapefruit section that she really gasped; the citrus scents mingled and it was like no perfume she had ever breathed before.

  'Wonderful, eh?' The Don looked at her, his eyes gleam­ing through his dark lashes. 'The trees bridal and bountiful at one and the same time, so in love with the sun that they give of themselves in this rampant fashion.'

  'The very air is like champagne,' she agreed. 'I suppose the valley bottles it in?'

  'Exactly so, and at this hour in the morning it is uncorked a little, so that it goes to the head—even to mine, and I am fairly accustomed to the orchards. You must feel, señora, as if you have taken a deep gulp of wine.'

  'I believe I do feel slightly intoxicated.' She glanced at him and felt her heart give a quick nervous beat at the way his eyes were wandering over her; she became aware of how alone they were, here among the fruit trees, with Only the birds and the bees in carefree flight around them.

  She was unaware of the flush beneath her skin, and the way her brown eyelashes intensified the blue of her eyes in the frame of her silvery-gold hair. Her lips were a little open as she looked at him, still agleam from the rich juice of the nectarine, and she wore an open-throated blue silk shirt and a cream-coloured skirt.

  'You look very young this morning,' he said abruptly. 'You should always wear your hair in that style, for it is less severe than the one I usually see.'

  'I—have to be neat and efficient, señor. I am a nurse, remember.'

  'But first and foremost a woman.' The sardonic look crept back into his eyes. 'So it is only when you are alone, taking your solitary breakfast, that you permit yourself to look the girl that you still are, despite the ring on your hand and the slab of marble on your heart. As the dueño here, I should insist that you keep to the un-bunned hair and the short skirt that shows your legs; Englishwomen have that advan­tage over the women of several other nations, they have most attractive legs—ah, now you look at me with the sharp nurse-eyes that demand that I be reprimanded for being so personal.'

  He smiled narrowly and reached up a lazy brown arm for a lemon that hung just above his dark head. He plucked it, complete with a sprig of blossom, and deliberately handed it to Destine. 'A man with my face must not pay compliments, eh, nor give to a young widow anything sweeter than a bitter fruit? Despite my devil face I am but a man, and despite your widowhood you are but a woman, and if you wish to hide that womanhood you shouldn't match your eyes to a blue silk shirt, and reveal slim legs in a skirt to your knees. Take instead to the black shawl of the Latin widow—'

  'If you think,' she gasped, 'that I am dressed to lead you on—! I didn't give you a thought until you dragged me here to look at your fruit trees. I was quite happy to be alone, minding my own business, and now you have the audacity to suggest—'

  'No, señora, merely the audacity to admire you in much the same way as I admire these fruit trees. I suppose that even an ugly man may be permitted to do that?'

  Destine bit her lip and looked away from him. She didn't think him ugly, only tough-fibred, with something of the barbarian only an inch or so under that sun-darkened skin of his. Her fingers gripped the lemon he had given her, which would be bitter, for there was still a tinge of green in its skin.

  Had she grown bitter because of the waste of a man like Matt, so that all the old sweet joy of life had been squeezed from her heart, as this lemon could be squeezed so that only the skin and pith were left to be thrown away… was she throwing herself away among the medicine bottles and the sterile white sheets of hospital beds? Oh, surely not, for Matt had loved her dedication to her nursing career and had wanted her to go on to higher things.

  She tilted her chin and said, seriously: 'You and I, señor, could never agree about anything fundamental. You think that a woman's sole aim in life should be to please a man, but I dress to please myself, and I run my life on the same principle.'

  'And were those principles your guide-light, even when you married your doctor, Nurse?'

  'Yes—why not?' She flung a look at Don Cicatrice, who looked so flagrantly male standing among the citrus fruits and their tangy blossom. 'Matt was a civilized man—he didn't expect me to be dedicated to him alone. He understood that a woman needs to express herself beyond the confines of the home—oh, what is the use of saying it all again? You are far too Spanish, señor, to ever understand Matt or me. Your world is here in this valley. Your devotion is to the earth and what it yields. You don't care deeply about people—you'd only care if you could make them as perfectas your trees, growing lovely and silent out of the soil and obedient to your hand only. But a woman isn't a tree, made only to bloom and give.'

  'You think not?' His eyes swept her from head to foot. It would be fascinating to prove you wrong, but right now duty calls both of us and that little lesson will have to be set aside until we find ourselves alone again. I warn you—'

  'And I warn you, Don Cicatrice,' Destine tautened in her every nerve and fibre, braced against his scrutiny and his daring strength. 'I don't want any lessons in female humility from you. Save them for your Latin ladies who appreciate male arrogance rather more than I
do!'

  So saying she swung away from him and uncaring that it looked like flight, she ran from him among the lanes of trees until she reached the iron gate. She took hold of it and was shocked to find that it was too high and heavy for her to move, so that she was obliged to stand there and wait for him to thrust it open with a single movement of his hand.

  She flung him a look through a flying wing of her hair, and a mixture of emotions were there in her eyes—resentment, flight, and excitement. She could feel her pulses pounding, and as she ran on to the casa she felt a tingling aliveness and awareness of the sunlit morning, the blue clarity of the sky, and the warm brush of the sun on her skin. She didn't want to associate these sensations with the Don, but she knew very well that he had somehow lit her to this new aliveness. He had sparked her to this vivacity, which was still showing in her eyes when she hurried in to her patient, having quickly changed her blue shirt and pale skirt for something more sober, and having bunched her hair into a hasty chignon.

  'Buenos dias, señora' she said breathlessly. 'I must apolo­gise for being late, but I was—detained.'

  'Good morning.' Cosima stared at Destine over her coffee cup, as if noticing that aura of added vitality. 'And by whom were you detained—you look as if it might have been someone who has put you on your toes?'

  Directly Cosima said this, Destine realised that she had best not mention Don Cicatrice. Cosima was jealous of his attentions, and Destine certainly didn't want her to think there was anything going on between herself and that high­handed infuriating Spaniard who had a way of imposing himself upon a woman—even one who didn't particularly like him.

  'Oh—I laddered my tights on a rose bush and had to change into another pair,' she said, telling what was only a white lie, for she had ruined a perfectly new pair of tights in her flight from the Don, and if there was one thing she hated it was to be seen going about her duties with a ladder run­ning up her leg.