Lord of the Land

by Margaret Rome

  Lord of the Land

  By

  Margaret Rome

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  LORD OF THE LAND

  Frances had only gone to Andalusia to try to finish the book her father had been writing before he died, and she hoped to enlist the help of the local grandee, the aloof Conde Romanes de los Nomadas y Aquila. But he, it soon turned out, required something in return from her…

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  VALLEY OF GENTIANS

  The one place Tarini Brown had always dreamed of visiting was the tiny, romantic Alpine Principality of Liechtenstein—and now at last her dream had come true and she was spending a holiday there. On the face of it, she should have been even more excited when she was offered a job that meant she could stay on—but there were conditions, all of them imposed by the stern, overwhelming Count Hugo von Triesen…

  VALLEY OF PARADISE

  Serena was almost desperate when she answered an advertisement that offered 'lifelong security' to the successful applicant. It was a move that was to take her to far-off Chile, to a husband she had never met—and to what else?

  PALACE OF THE HAWK

  It was with typical ruthlessness that the arrogant Tareq Hawke forced Lucille into becoming betrothed and then into getting married to him. But would Lucille ever learn to care for the domineering man who was her husband?

  First published 1983

  Australian copyright 1983

  Philippine copyright 1983

  This edition 1983

  © Margaret Rome 1983

  ISBN 0 263 74124 9

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was dusk by the time the taxi Frances had hired to transport her from the airport finally swept inside a cobbled courtyard and drew up in front of a simple yet impressive white building fronted by a massive old oak door.

  'El Palacio de Rocio, seňorita!' With an indolent wave the driver indicated the building once used as a hunting lodge by Spanish aristocracy but which was now the headquarters of scientists attached to a nature reserve made up of miles of undisturbed heathland and stone-pine woods that attracted innumerable bird species pausing to rest and feed during their migrations to and from Africa, sometimes lingering all winter and remaining to breed.

  'Thank you—gracias . . .!' she amended, scrambling hastily from the back seat when the gum-chewing driver made no move to assist her to alight. He had emphasised his resentment at being forced into absenting himself from frequent and consequently more lucrative fares by stowing her one large suitcase at her feet instead of placing it inside the boot, and as she began struggling to manoeuvre its awkward bulk over the sill the sound of a savage imprecation directed at the driver shot her bent spine erect.

  'Languido paseante, muevate! De prisa!'

  When Frances's startled head jerked upright to connect with an audible crack against the roof of the taxi a further spate of Spanish invective, too rapid for her to follow, erupted from the man who began hurrying down the steps towards her.

  Belatedly, the galvanised driver heaved out of his seat to assist her, then drew back when his arrival at her side coincided exactly with that of the contemptuous man who, according to the little she was able to gather, knew the driver's family history well enough to condemn him as a worthy successor of generations of ignorant, unchivalrous, idle dogs.

  'Please don't upset yourself on my behalf, seňor,' she interceded weakly, stunned as much by the verbal onslaught as by the crack upon her head, 'there's really no need, I'm quite used to managing for myself.'

  The irate Spaniard spun on his heel, his frown replaced by a look of astonishment.

  'You are English!' he seemed almost to accuse. Then once again his features darkened. 'A thousand apologies, seňorita—to have had to witness uncavalier treatment being meted out to one of your sex is bad enough, but the fact that you are a visitor to our country makes this man's behaviour even more indefensible. May I ask why you are travelling so far off the beaten track—are you on your way to visit friends, or even lost, perhaps?'

  'Neither,' she assured him in a breathless rush. 'I have a room reserved here at the Palacio de Rocio.' Nervously, she began fumbling in her handbag. 'My name is Frances Ross.'

  When the Spaniard's look of concern vanished, leaving him tight-mouthed, eyes narrowed with suspicion, she felt an instant affinity with the subdued taxi driver.

  'Perhaps I had better introduce myself, seňorita,' he suggested frostily. 'I am Dr Bernardo Ribero, director of the Rocio Nature Reserve. As you so correctly stated, a room has been reserved for Dr Francis Ross, the eminent ornithologist, author of several books which his many admirers, including myself, claim to be the most detailed and comprehensive of any dealing with that particular subject. Inside the dust cover of each book is a photograph of the author, showing him to be bearded, rather elderly, and very definitely male.'

  For the past couple of months Frances had been called upon to exercise great control over stricken emotions in order to present a brave face to friends whose pressing invitations to dine or attend numerous social gatherings had only succeeded in emphasising her loss, nevertheless, the brief word-portrait of her father caused her a wince, rendered clear grey eyes dark with pain.

  'I'm Frances with an "e",' she responded simply, 'the late Dr Ross's daughter.'

  'The late…!' Dr Ribero hesitated, obviously stunned, and because fatigue had rendered her incapable of listening to further expressions of condolence without collapsing into tears she rushed into a choked explanation.

  'My father's death was very sudden… a fatal heart attack, totally unexpected… so far as I'm aware he hadn't suffered a day's illness in his entire life. I know that you and he often exchanged correspondence, Doctor, because it was I who typed his letters, his manuscripts, corrected the proofs of his books and made all his travelling arrangements. He was so looking forward to visiting the Rocio Reserve, to meeting you in person, and he was especially excited by the prospect of being given an opportunity to study the habits of one of the rarest birds in Europe whose chief nesting ground is in the region of the Reserve—the Spanish imperial eagle.'

  She blinked hard, hoping his compassionate eyes would remain blind to the glint of tears, that his nature would be sensitive enough to perceive that what she was most in need of was rest and the solitude of a private room. Desperate to stave off a threatened breakdown, she groped inside her handbag for the required number of notes and extended her fare towards the shifting, obviously uncomfortable driver.

  'Gracias, I think you will find that the amount is correct.'

  'Un momento!' As if anxious to perform any service that might help to communicate his wealth of pity for the slender, drooping girl who had landed on his doorstep, Dr Ribero snatched the notes out of reach of the driver, checked their value, then casting him a look of scorn, calmly divided the wad and thrust a substantial number back into her handbag.

  'Marcharse!' he dismissed, handing the depleted wad to the scowling driver. Then turning his back he directed his complete attention towards her.

&nbs
p; 'Welcome to the Palacio de Rocio, seňorita;' he smiled, cupping a hand beneath her elbow to urge her gently up the steps leading. towards the immense oak door. 'There is still much to be discussed, but for the moment explanations can wait, our first priority must be to ensure that you are given adequate time to rest.'

  She was capable of no more than a smile of gratitude, but seemingly it was enough, for after escorting her across a width of hallway and summoning a maid to show her to her room he delayed her ascent of a highly polished staircase just long enough to inform her:

  'We Spaniards are not in the habit of dining early, seňorita, but this evening, in order to accommodate a very special guest whose arrival will be delayed because of a previous engagement, we shall be dining even later than usual. Because he regards your father's work so highly, this gentleman insisted upon rearranging his schedule in order to extend a personal welcome on the first day of your father's expected arrival in Andalusia. Unfortunately,' he shrugged, 'as he has always insisted upon remaining beyond the bounds of easy communication, it will be impossible to send a message informing him of the change of circumstances. I'm certain, however,' his dark brown eyes cast a hopeful look of appeal, 'that your presence at the dinner table would help to ease our guest's disappointment. I know that you must be extremely tired, seňorita, but dinner will not be served until at least ten o'clock, so if after a short rest you feel tempted to join us, I'm certain you would find El Conde most appreciative.'

  With one hand upon the balustrade supporting aching limbs urging her to refuse, Frances hesitated. An aeon seemed to have passed since she had left home shortly after dawn that morning, hours filled with travelling by coach and by train, of hanging around airports in England and in Spain, of flying—which she detested only slightly less than the noise, crowds and inevitable fatigue that had accompanied every mile of her journey. Yet Dr Ribero had shown her such kindness, had forborne to ask questions even though there were gaps in his knowledge he must be aching to have filled. Also, El Conde, whoever he might be, deserved consideration, if only because of his stated admiration of her father's work.

  'I should be honoured to join you for dinner, Doctor,' she accepted with a wan smile, her eyes set like pools of grey mist in a pale, pointed face. 'If you could arrange it, I'd like someone to waken me with a call around nine o'clock.'

  The maid closed the shutters and drew curtains across the window immediately they entered a cool, spacious bedroom, then she opened a door to indicate with a flourish a well appointed bathroom with walls of sparkling tiles, a mirror, vanity basin, and a stack of thick white towels.

  But Frances had eyes for only the narrow single bed made up with crisply laundered sheets, plump pillows, and a striped, drawn-back counterpane.

  'Muchas gracias,' she nodded, battling to suppress a yawn, then immediately the door had closed behind the smiling maid she kicked off her shoes and stretched out upon the bed, meaning to snatch five minutes of complete relaxation before attempting the tiresome chore of undressing.

  But as so often happens when endurance has been stretched to the peak of fatigue, the moment her body relaxed her mind began racing over the events of the day, the purpose of her visit to Andalusia, and the traumatic loss that had led her towards the conviction that to take over where her father had left off was not merely a necessity but a bounden duty.

  She and her father had been so close. Her pride in the world-wide acclaim his work had received had been more than sufficient reward for the many hours of hard work she had put in behind the scenes, organising and planning his many excursions to remote corners of the globe in search of rare and almost extinct species of wildlife that had been driven there to escape the pollution that inevitably follows man's ceaseless encroachment upon normal breeding grounds.

  In common with many scholastic men, her father had possessed no aptitude for the mechanics of modern-day life—even the opening of a tin had been beyond him—so when the departure of the last of a long line of housekeepers had coincided with her own graduation from teachers' training college, she had sacrificed her ambitions without a qualm when he had pleaded:

  'I have neither the patience nor the time to spare for interviewing prospective housekeepers. Also, I am appalled at the prospect of having to introduce yet another strange female into my household. I'm certain you could cope, Frances—with a daily helper, of course—you're such a capable child,' he had sighed. 'Whenever you come home the house is immediately filled with an atmosphere of calm serenity. I need you with me, and after all, there'd be no great sacrifice involved in forgoing a career that you haven't yet embarked upon.'

  Somehow, she had stifled the protest that her love of teaching was secondary only to her love of children, and also that being confined for innumerable hours each day within a house visited only by his male contemporaries would result in her losing touch with friends of her own age. But she had schooled herself to accept that because of the importance of his work her father's needs had to be given first priority.

  During the following two years, as her role of housekeeper had been stretched to encompass the duties of secretary, researcher, confidante, and even co-author of his last book, she had suffered only one regret—that fate should have deprived him of a lifelong ambition to study at first hand the habits of one of the world's rarest birds, the bird that had been responsible for delaying completion of his manuscript because he had planned to devote to it the entire final chapter.

  She drifted into sleep with her father's murmured description running through her mind.

  'The Spanish imperial eagle is an arrogant loner, possessing poise bestowed only upon those in positions of power. A magnificent despot, whose domain must be approached with caution, a proud rebel who refuses to follow the example of the rest of his species who nest in inaccessible mountains, but provides proof of his courage by lording over the plains, building his huge, sprawling nest in low stone-pines as if deliberately challenging would-be raiders of rare eggs who search the skies for evidence of his presence, confidently assured of identifying him in flight because of striking snow-white markings on the leading edge of his wings that render him doubly vulnerable.'

  'Seňorita! It is nine o'clock, time to get up!'

  A hesitant, heavily accented voice intruded into a dream filled with the sound of beating wings.

  'Go away… go away…' Frances murmured restlessly, tossing her arms above her head to flail the air. Then suddenly she shot upright, wide awake and relieved to discover that she was alone in her room and that no fierce beaked predator was hovering overhead.

  'Oh, gracias .. .' she stammered, then sank back against her pillows, confused by the beating noise still reverberating in her ears.

  But when she stumbled across the room to throw back the shutters in search of air, realisation dawned at the sight of a helicopter, its landing lights flashing, lowering towards a stretch of flat ground to the rear of the Palacio. The noise that had accompanied her from sleep into wakefulness had been no more than the whirling of rotor blades causing a draught strong enough to whip branches of garden trees into a frenzy.

  Guessing that she was witnessing the arrival of El Conde, Frances fled towards the bathroom where after a quick shower she began rooting through a suitcase crammed with denim jeans and cotton tops in search of the one dress she had included more or less as an afterthought.

  It was white, simply cut and unadorned as a nun's habit. Hopelessly, she eyed her reflection in a mirror, conscious that it was crying out for the accessories she invariably wore with it—a necklace of brilliant blue beads with matching earrings that had been a gift from her father, bought in some native bazaar and presented with the comment:

  'I thought of you immediately I spotted these, Frances dear. Blue is a colour that you should wear often, it adds violet depths to grey eyes and contrasts superbly against hair pale as silver. If only I could afford to buy you sapphires,' he had sighed, 'but at least the cornelian is your birth stone and the gem is purpor
ted to bestow contentment upon its owner—a blessing for which many would gladly exchange wealth!'

  Blinking back tears of sadness, Frances moved away from the mirror, depressed by the knowledge that she could do nothing more to improve her appearance, that she was exactly what her image projected—simple, unassuming Frances, a dabbler in this and that but expert at nothing; a filler-in of backgrounds against which brilliance shone more brightly; a pair of willing hands; feet that were continuously on the move running errands for others; a nature too easily wounded by an unkind word; a small, pointed face; pale skin and a head that was too often bowed, waiting like the delicate snowdrop for some caring finger to tilt its petals towards the sun.

  Upset by her thoughts, greatly missing the confidence she drew from her sparkling blue beads, she responded without enthusiasm to a rap upon the door and suffered a wave of panic when, after opening it, she saw Dr Ribero waiting on the threshold obviously agog.

  'El Conde has arrived and is waiting to meet you, seňorita!' His note of pride and air of suppressed excitement seemed to indicate that she was about to be greatly honoured. 'If you are quite ready,' he proffered an obliging arm, 'I will escort you to him immediately.'

  Never had a passageway seemed so long, a staircase so extended, a salon, when they eventually entered it, so steeped with one man's presence. Every item of furniture, polished to perfection in preparation for his visit, seemed to be standing to stiff attention. Crystal vases glistened, silver glowed, cushions billowed proudly beneath uncreased velvet covers, yet the personage awaiting their arrival appeared quite unimpressed, patronising as a rich grandee visiting the home of a peasant. All this Frances sensed in the first split second, but the impression remained, even strengthened, when he advanced to chill her to the bone with one terse, clipped sentence.