Devil's Darling

by Violet Winspear

  ‘Foolish?’ Persepha smiled wearily. ‘Could I ever be more of a fool than I have been already? I married the Devil, didn’t I?’

  ‘There is a balcony out there beyond those windows, and women of this household have been foolish in various ways. The tiles of a courtyard are harder on a woman’s body than even a loveless bed, and it would be a pity to break your white body, for in all truth the Don has only bruised it a little.’

  Persepha could feel those bruises, a distant ache not nearly so acute as the ache she felt in her heart.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll see him dead first.’

  ‘Then I will go,’ said Carmenteira, as if old woman that she was she had grown weary of trying to placate a girl not of her own people. ‘Will it please the señora a little better if I send one of the maids to assist in the bathroom and to lay out a dress for the evening?’

  ‘I shall be all right.’ Persepha shuddered at the prospect of the evening ahead of her. ‘I'm used to looking after myself and don’t require to be waited on like a helpless ninny. Tell your master that I - that I would prefer to remain up here in my room.’

  ‘Very well, señora. I will tell him that, but not the other - that you would like to see him with his eyes out. That would be too unkind, I think.’

  ‘Does he deserve kindness?’ Persepha muttered. ‘I think not!’

  A moment later she heard the door close behind the old woman, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Thank heaven to be alone again, and gathering the sheet around her bare body she made for the alcove door that led into the bathroom. The bath was huge and set round with steps of pale green marble, with taps of solid silver. Persepha mounted the steps, letting the sheet fall away from her. As she turned on the hot water tap she saw herself reflected in the mirror that completely filled the wall at the side of the bath.

  As the steam rose like a gauzy veiling, Persepha stared at herself in the mirror. Outwardly she looked no different, apart from the marks of his handling and the disarray of her pale shining hair. Her eyes were shadowed, but it was on the inside that she was altered. Quite ruthlessly the girlhood had been kissed out of her, and as she placed her hands against her body she realized, with a frightening thump of her heart, that she could have a baby.

  The Don’s baby ... child of Satan ... born of terror instead of love.

  Persepha stepped quickly into her bath and sank down into the scented water. She snatched a container filled with soft green soap and emptied half the contents into the water; it quickly foamed and soon she was sitting in a white froth of soap bubbles, scrubbing fiercely at her skin with a loofah.

  If only she could scrub away his touch as she scrubbed away his scent. If only she could step from this bath a girl again... but she never could. The old days were gone for good, and no more would she hear the sound of men playing cards in the library at Stonehill, laughing loudly, looking at her with admiration, but from whom she was kept safe by Marcus.

  It was ironical that he had kept her safe from comparatively harmless men, only to hand her over before he died to a man like Don Diablo. It had been unforgivable of him, and yet because of the love in her heart she could forgive him.

  It was her husband whom she could never forgive.

  When she had finished bathing she found a towelling robe behind the door and put it on. It came long on her and she knew instantly that it was the kind of robe worn by men; she would have flung it off again had there been anything else at hand. With tightened lips she looked in the mirror at herself and rolled up the peeves. His robe, after all, was less intimate than the touch of his skin had been, and instantly her own skin was tingling and flushed, and her knees felt weak as she went back into her bedroom.

  How long would it take to forget? - and then as her gaze fell upon the disordered bed she knew that there would be no merciful end to the memory. She had looked into his eyes and she had seen the way they had smouldered. He had taken her and would take her again ... to satisfy his arrogance and to please his pride.

  How could she ever forget the supple, languid way he had stretched beside her, like a tiger pleased, holding her hand in that pelt of hair across his chest, pressing her fingers to the medallion that was the same golden tone as his skin. Dark warm gold, overlaid by dark hair.

  Persepha flung up her hands and covered her eyes, but the memory and the vision wouldn’t go away.

  She went to her wardrobe, gazing without interest at the clothes it contained. Before they had left England, the day before their wedding, the Don had taken her to a big shop in London and there she had been equipped with a trousseau of exquisite dresses and outfits; coats, and shoes, and accessories. There they were arranged on the padded hanger and in colourful array on the cedarwood shelves, but they excited no admiration in Persepha; no desire to wear what the Don had bought her.

  She needn’t dress up, for she had decided to remain in her room and would eat up here whatever the manservant brought to her. Her hand reached for one of the simple dresses she had brought from Stonehill and was half-way into it, reaching behind her for the zip, when her bedroom door swept open without ceremony. She heard the slight creak of the door and thought that Carmenteira had returned, or sent one of the maids to assist her.

  ‘You may help me with this zip if you like,’ she threw over her shoulder.

  But the hand that took hold of her and held the zip in abeyance was not feminine. The voice that spoke struck through Persepha like a shaft. ‘For our first evening together at the Hacienda Ruy you will wear something a little more fetching, querida. Something I gave you, which has no memories of any other man attached to it.’

  She stood utterly still in his grasp, feeling again those hands that had not spared her when she had pleaded with him. That she had pleaded with him and lost her pride was more unbearable than anything had been, and this time she endured his touch and made of her face a cool mask.

  ‘I wish to remain here in my room,’ she said. ‘I told the old woman to tell you—’

  ‘Yes, so you did, but what I am told and what I desire are two separate issues.’ He swung her to face him and though she shrank inwardly all through her body she retained that cold look of dignity with which she had decided to oppose him. She had learned that he liked to fight for her, and there was nothing, not a thing on earth, she would ever do willingly for him.

  She looked at him and it felt like the bravest thing she had ever done to meet those eyes which knew her as no other man had ever known her; to see again their intense darkness which had smouldered with a passion which had seemed unholy. She tensed at the white splendour of his dinner jacket, and saw in the white frills of his shirt-front the gleam of jade buttons that matched his cuff-links. He was dressed as if for a wedding celebration, and she supposed coldly that for him there was. something to celebrate.

  ‘I'm not in the mood for an elaborate dinner shared with you,’ she said. ‘I’d sooner be alone.’

  ‘You are behaving like a sulky child,’ he said curtly. ‘I thought I had cured you of that tendency and taught you a little to grow up and be a woman.’ His hand came to her chin and he forced up her head until all that she saw was his dark face, all the sensuality banished from the lips so that he looked stern and distinguished. His eyes raked over her face, searchingly, taking in the fine-boned contours, the smooth skin, the lips that needed no colour to embellish them, for the power of his kisses still lingered and they had a sort of wild flush against the pallor of her skin.

  ‘You are feeling all right, eh?’ He frowned slightly as he studied her. ‘Just understand, Persepha, that I did not marry you in order to be another guardian to you.’

  ‘I'm well aware of why you married me,’ she rejoined. ‘I didn’t dwell under the misapprehension that you meant to be kind even before you - you availed yourself of what you bought. At least you found out that Marcus had guarded me well.’

  ‘Yes, querida.’ His long fingers suddenly ran over the cool contours of her face. ‘Are y
ou such a child that you cannot understand what makes men the way they are?’

  ‘I understand what makes you the way you are, señor.’ She said the word as if she addressed a stranger who meant nothing to her. ‘Your arrogance and self-will have never been opposed in any way, so it was rather hoping for a miracle that a mere girl of twenty could fight you and not be beaten down. I hope you enjoyed an unwilling woman in your bed for once. It must have been a new experience for you, for I understand from old Carmenteira that you are el magnifico to every other female for miles around.’

  ‘And what am I to you?’ he asked, half-mockingly.

  ‘Certainly not magnificent,’ she said scornfully. ‘You’re just my owner, my tamer, who uses a superior physical strength to prove his male superiority. Don’t you trust your own charm, Don Diablo? Did instinct tell you that you’d only get me by using force?’

  ‘You had best beware, Persepha,’ he said, with soft-voiced menace. ‘I may yet decide that my appetite for dinner is less than my appetite for you, for when the fire of anger stirs under that cool disdain of yours, you are more than lovely, and I really don’t care a snowdrop in hell what you think of me.’

  And with these words he deliberately gripped the neck of her dress and tore it from her with that easy and fright-tening strength, that ruthless disregard of what she had possessed and clung to in her former life. The shirt of hyacinth blue, and now the honey-brown dress which she had often worn to take dinner with Marcus at Stone-hill.

  ‘You - you damned brute!’ she gasped, and forgetful of her resolve to remain cool and disdainful, she struck at his face with her hand and then cried out again as he swiftly stayed her hand before it could hit him, almost breaking her wrist in his relentless grip.

  ‘If you want a fight, Persepha, then we’ll have one,’ he said, and his eyes were devilishly alight as he bent his face to her, holding her forcibly, stripped of her dress and clad only in a pale slip. ‘You know how it will end, don’t you? Is that what you want? To be again in my arms, helpless and at the mercy of whatever I want of you?’

  ‘I - I’d sooner be dead,’ she almost sobbed. ‘I utterly hate you, do you know that? Living with you is like living in hell with Satan!’

  ‘In which case life will never become boring for you, will it, my bad-tempered little cat.’ And so saying he marched her to the wardrobe and there he rattled the hangers on the long rail as he took stock of the long gowns and the short ones. He finally selected a gown of mint- green lace, which he handed to her. ‘You will put this on,’ he said, ‘and I will brook no argument. Come, are you going to force me to be your valet, or will you put it on yourself?’

  ‘I notice you say valet and not lady’s maid,’ she said tartly, snatching the dress from him. ‘What a pity it isn’t white lace, then you could really pretend that we were bride and groom taking our first starry-eyed supper together.’

  ‘Sarcasm, querida, does not become you.’ He lounged against the bedpost as she stepped into the dress and he watched her beneath lazily drooping eyelids as she pulled the pale and lovely lace up over her slim body. His eyes followed the movement, and Persepha felt a flush coming into her cheeks. She knew exactly what was going through his mind; he was remembering the look and feel of her in his arms, and when his mouth took on that sen suous curve she knew that in his thoughts he was run ning his lips over her white skin and her soft contours. Her flush deepened resentfully, for she knew the silky texture of her own skin and how it must feel to a man, especially one so hard and so tanned by the hot sun and the high winds of Mexico.

  ‘I don’t think I care for this colour,’ she said. ‘I’m not terribly smitten with green—’

  ‘It becomes you,’ he said, a hand negligently at rest in the pocket of his crisp white jacket, a contrast to his dark superbly cut trousers. The colour brings out the soft gold lights in your hair and pays a compliment to your eyes with their little golden glimmers. Do you wish my help with the hooks and eyes?’

  ‘No, thanks, I can manage perfectly well.’ Her hands trembled as she hooked up the dress at the side, so that it fitted itself to her waist and her slender hips. In truth it was rather a beautiful dress, but she didn’t want to look attractive in it; she didn’t wish to like a single thing he had bought her. She went mutinously to the vanity table and there she took up the ivory hairbrush and applied it to her hair. And through the mirror she could see the Don watching her, and it went through her like a knife that he owned her just as he owned this house, all this wonderful carved furniture, these objects of crystal and silver on the table-top.

  ‘Open the little golden box,’ he ordered. ‘Take out what is inside.’

  Persepha pretended not to hear him, but all the same her eyes dwelt in some curiosity on the box, which in itself was a lovely object, with a look about it of being an antique of Mexican design. She concentrated on arranging her hair in a full, soft chignon at the nape of her neck. A style which Marcus had much liked, and which brought a little shadow into her eyes as she thought of him. He had made the demands of a guardian, that she be a good, sweet, obedient companion to him, but he had not been cruel to her, as the Don had been.

  She tilted her chin and defied her own reflection, which chose to be a most effective one despite her inward misery. Then her nerves jarred as the Don moved and began to approach her at the mirror. He came and stood tall and intimidating behind her, catching and holding her gaze in the glass.

  ‘Open the little box,’ he said again, and his voice had softened in that incredibly menacing way that seemed to play with her nerves as a flame might play with a moth. ‘Surely you are curious to see what is in it? It might be an asp for you to put to your breast - who knows?’

  ‘You wouldn’t be that merciful,’ she said. ‘You haven’t tormented me enough just yet.’

  ‘Little fool.’ His hands slid down the sides of her body and he drew her swiftly against his own hardness, holding her so that they were reflected almost as one in the mirror, her pale green lace shimmering against his black and white, her fairness in startling contrast to his darkness. Her quick fear matched by his lazy amusement.

  Then her heart came into her throat as his hands came caressingly to her shoulders and gripped them. ‘Was it so very hateful?’ he murmured.

  She knew what he meant and her entire body seemed to burn and she wanted to hide herself away from him. ‘W-what do you think?’ she muttered. ‘I have bruises all over me, and Carmenteira saw them and looked at them as if they were medals you’d pinned on to me. I’m not used to brutality, but I suppose I shall have to grit my teeth and become used to it.’

  ‘You said you were made of marble,’ he mocked. ‘Marble doesn’t bruise, surely?’

  ‘What do you think this is?’ She held out her arm and there against her skin, plum-dark, was one of his marks. ‘A tattoo I thought would look rather nice?’

  He took her arm in his fingers and bending his he’d he quite deliberately laid his lips against the bruise. ‘A man has only to breathe on you, querida,’ he drawled. ‘I never in my life saw a skin as fine and white as yours. See how swarthy I am in contrast.’

  ‘Like an Indian,’ she retorted. ‘Isn’t it part of your lore to forcibly take the woman whom you marry? To shake her like a rug and tread all over her, just to prove yourself the lord and master?’

  He laughed low in his throat. ‘You would make a very flimsy rug, chica, and I can’t recall treading on you.’

  ‘Oh, you know what I mean, señor, so don’t quibble.’ She herself quivered at the tightening of his hands, and the sensual gleam of danger in his dark eyes, seen through his lashes like the flicker of flame. In his hands lay a strength which could have broken her in half, and held to him she had a delicate strangeness, a fair fragility, an appeal to those half-primitive impulses she saw slumbering in his gaze.

  ‘Are you going to quibble about opening that box?’ he asked.

  ‘I suppose you’ve put a trinket in it?’ She curled her lip. �
��Is it to pay me for services rendered?’

  ‘My girl,’ he drawled, ‘you are asking for something and I don’t know whether it’s a spanking or a kissing. Take your choice!’

  ‘I think I’ll take the trinket.’ She reached for the little box, chased all over with exotic designs in gold; tropic birds and foliage, and tiny weird masks. ‘Aztec?’ she asked.

  He inclined his head and he himself was like an Aztec figure engraved in bronze, his features in hard repose as Persepha lifted the lid of the box and exposed what lay inside. She had known it was a jewel, but she hadn’t dreamed it would be so exquisite, so unusual, so breathtaking. Her breath caught audibly and she gazed dazzled at the perfect replica of a dragonfly made entirely from diamonds and emeralds, with claws and jaws of shining gold, the gems so arranged in the spread wings that they seemed to give an illusion of trembling life to the lustrous thing.

  ‘It is pretty, no?’

  Persepha gave a start as her husband spoke, for the tiny jewelled eyes of the dragonfly had seemed to catch and hold her own.

  ‘Very pretty,’ she agreed. ‘Are the gems real?’

  ‘Would I give you false ones?’ he asked. ‘It was designed and made by an old Indian who hunts game in the gorge below the hacienda. When he came to me with the brooch I didn’t ask him how he had come by the gems; I could only guess that he either mined them, or murdered to get them. He wished to sell so that he could provide his young daughter with a dowry, and as you remarked earlier today I have a liking for what pleases my eyes, and when I like something I won’t be denied. The dragonfly will look well against the lace of your dress, as if from the jungle it had flown to a tender young plant. Pin it just over your heart.’

  In this instance Persepha didn’t argue with him, for a brief glance at his face showed her that he meant her to have the jewelled dragonfly, and she couldn’t deny to herself that it was entirely charming, even though he had intimated that the Indian craftsman might not have come honestly by the gems.