Dearest Demon

by Violet Winspear

  Her blue eyes warred with his dark ones… his strength was absolute, but Destine hadn't known until now that she could feel so shockingly weak in a man's arms. It had never happened before and she panicked. 'Let me go!' And when a smile curled against his mouth she struck out at him and her hand found his scar instead of the smile, and that seemed to infuriate him.

  'You don't like my face, eh?' He thrust it down at her. 'Then find out what it's like to have my face this close to you!'

  She felt the warm rush of his breath, and then she felt the crush of his lips… she had not been kissed for two years, but this kiss from an angry Spaniard brought back no memories of Matt's tenderness. It was like a flame burning across the barren years… it scorched and destroyed the tender yearnings, and all Destine was aware of was a merci­less body locked against hers, and a mouth that didn't care how much it hurt her.

  'Her release when it came was cruelly abrupt… she tried to steady herself but swayed into the hard curve of the arcade. 'Y—you're a devil,' she whispered, 'like he was!'

  'You refer to Manolito?' He regarded her intently, hands thrusting into the pockets of his trousers.

  'Yes!' She flung back her head and hated him with her eyes. 'That's the mark of the devil on your face, though I shouldn't think you've ever been close enough to heaven to have been thrown out of it!'

  His lips twisted when she said that. 'How clever of you to guess,' he said. 'You will want to leave now, eh? I will go and tell Escamillo to get out the conveyance—'

  'No,' she broke in. 'I'm not running away from you! That's what you'd like, to see me scuttle away like a scared rabbit just because you—kissed me. I'm staying, whether you like it or not!'

  'I don't like it,' he said deliberately. 'But if you are stay­ing, then I would advise you to sleep in the bed that is provided for you, and not in a chair. This is an almost tropical region, as I told you, and the occasional mosquito flies in—you would not enjoy its bite. The bed netting will protect that inviting white skin of yours.'

  'Was it you—' Destine bit her lip, while a little colour flared across her cheekbones. 'Last night that bed seemed so enormous and had such strange carvings on it. I—I didn't think about the possible advent of a mosquito.'

  'Or a man?' he drawled. 'It would be droll, would it not, if we had to nurse you out of a fever?'

  She glanced swiftly from his mocking eyes, and tilted her chin to let him know that she wouldn't want his attentions in any capacity, though she didn't doubt that he could take arrogant command of any emergency.

  'Aren't you going to thank me for transferring you from the chair to the greater comfort of the bed?' he asked, look­ing sardonic.

  'Thanks,' she said briefly, and wished to heaven that it were possible to forget the helpless feeling that had swept over her during those conscious moments in his arms. Last night she had not been aware of those arms with their musc­les that rippled like fine steel under the warm, sun-coppered skin. 'And now will you take me to the Marquesa, señor?'

  'By all means, Nurse.' He walked with his silent tread as he escorted her across the hall, and bowed her into the sala, and she caught the mocking gleam in his eyes a moment be­fore he turned away and left her standing there. She strove not to glance after him, but couldn't help herself. He was unusually tall for a Spaniard… an unusual man in several respects, who might brush off most women as if they were moths that bothered him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  That encounter with Don Cicatrice had not helped to com­pose Destine, and in a desperate bid to regain her self-control she took a quick look around the sala and saw at once that nothing here had been replaced by modern items of luxury.

  The sala had that beautiful, gracious air of a room in which the furniture was old but cared for, standing upon carpets dimmed by the years but speckless, and shaded from the full sun by long drapes that harboured not a hint of dust. This was not a family of new riches, but one as long estab­lished as this region in the south, where long years ago the Moors had ruled and set their mark.

  Her eyes dwelt upon the two Goya paintings set side by side on the wall, one of a woman in carnation red, the other of a matador in black and silver. The flesh tones were sup­erb, the eyes bold and black, the colours touchable.

  'You are fond of paintings, Nurse Chard?' The Marquesa came lightly across the carpets towards Destine. 'Goya was a master of his art, was he not?'

  'I thought they must be originals.' Destine looked, then, at the woman who was so unbelievably the mother of Manolito. She wore a fine linen suit in an ivory colour, with beneath it a dark silk blouse. Her hair was a shining white and per­fectly arranged, and a certain curiosity dwelt in her eyes as she studied her daughter's new nurse.

  'You are a very personable young woman,' she said, 'and I wonder why you left London to come here. If you were a plain and efficient-looking nurse then I might be less in­quisitive. But somehow you seem too feminine to be entirely the career-minded type—liberated, is that not how they say it? In her letter the Condesa de Calva intimated that you had no special circle of friends and kept very much to yourself and devoted your time to your work. I therefore expected some­one—well, far less attractive and smart.'

  'I'm sorry if my godmother misled you, Señora Marquesa,' Destine spoke politely, and thought to herself that she was the one who had been misled. 'Since I lost my husband I have lacked interest in anything but my work, and I don't intend to marry again.'

  'If a woman of my age said such a thing, then it would be understandable—please to sit down.' The Marquesa directed a hand towards one of the tawny-gold sofas. 'This is not an interview, but a friendly chat between two people who have in common the care of my daughter. I don't wish to act as an employer and I am hoping, Nurse, that you don't wish to be merely the efficient supervisor of Cosima's comfort? Do you? My main wish when I decided to take the Condesa's advice and employ an English nurse was that you might become a friend to Cosima. You are a young and pretty widow. You know what it feels like to lose what you love. You have that in common with her, and I hoped that you might become her confidante, for she needs one very badly, and she might learn to speak with more ease to a young woman of her own age, who is obviously cultured and intelligent. What do you say—Destine? That is your first name, is it not? An unusual, almost significant name. It might have been destiny that arranged for you to come to us.'

  Destine sat tensely on the edge of the sofa, facing that of the twin sofa on which the Marquesa sat. The other woman smiled and leaned forward, placing a hand lightly on Destine's knee. 'You seem so unrelaxed—don't you feel that you are going to be happy with us? Are you now feeling sorry that you left London to come to Xanas? Why did you when you seem so uncertain of what you have done?'

  'I—I felt I needed a change.' Destine strove to be more at ease, for she liked the Marquesa and felt that Don Cicatrice couldn't be right when he said that the wish to bear malice was her motivation in remaining here at the casa. He couldn't be right, could he? Destine was uncertain and it showed.

  'A change is always good, and no doubt you have felt much saddened at being widowed so young. You could have had no real chance of any real happiness—' The Marquesa sighed and glanced at the heavy ruby and diamond ring on her hand. 'In a way, however, I could almost have wished that Cosima was widowed instead of merely separated from a man whom she remains hopeful of being with again. How she can still love him is a mystery—but love is a mystery, I suppose. It comes like a sharp arrow striking, bringing pain or pleasure, or both at the same time. Who can really be armoured against it, and Cosima was always a vulnerable sort of girl, which makes it doubly worse for her to have been physically hurt by the polio, and mentally hurt by her husband's defection at a time when she needed him so desperately.'

  The Marquesa leaned back in her seat and her lovely dark eyes brooded on the Goya painting of the matador. 'A year ago I lost my son, Destine, so you will understand that Cosima is doubly precious to me. I tell you frankly
that I always hoped she would marry her cousin, but young girls will be swayed by a handsome face and when this other man came into her life I had my doubts about him, but I was persuaded by her passion for him that she would be happy. I should have been cruel. I should have denied him to her, for she was young for her age, and I had some control over her, having been mother and father to her all these years—you may not know it, but my husband was killed at Estremadura where we once had a large finca where horses were bred. The boys were both there, my son with his cousin, both of them being of a similar age. It was a great tragedy! There was a fire in the stables—I thought I should go quite insane, and it was only the intensive care that had to be given Artez—in those days he was always Artez and it was only later that we all fell into the habit of referring to him as Don Cicatrice, and in a strange way the name suits him. He was badly hurt, and caring for him saved my sanity, for I know what it is like to lose a much-loved husband.'

  Destine listened to all this in a rather stunned way. It seemed awful to think of this gracious woman torn heart and mind by such a terrible end to her husband. She looked so calm, so impeccable, so in control of her emotions—had she screamed, as Destine had? Had she cried out murderer!

  'Was it an accident?' she asked quietly.

  'We never really knew—it was presumed so. A fallen cigarette, perhaps, igniting the straw on the floor of the stables. But that is how my nephew came by his scar, for you are bound to be curious about him, and he is almost bound not to satisfy a fraction of your curiosity. There is a streak of irony in him, if not iron.'

  Yet, thought Destine, he would have been acceptable as a husband for Cosima. Was it possible that he loved her? She tried to imagine him in love with a woman and could only visualise a man who might feel a strong desire but never any of the gentler emotions. Perhaps long ago they had been seared out of him at the time of the fire, and Cosima had known this and been swept off her feet by someone with charm and lies on his lips. Destine didn't think that Don Cicatrice would ever deceive with a lie; he would always be painfully frank about his feelings, as he had been last night, and this morning, when he bad told her that he didn't want her here. It wasn't only that she was a threat to his aunt's peace of mind, it could be that she was a threat to his.

  Destine's hands gripped each other… she was young, she was a woman, and there was no doubt at all in her mind that Don Cicatrice was very much a man, with that hard, definite virility that made Spaniards seem more masculine than other men. They had none of that thickening of face and body of European men in their thirties; their bodies remained sleek and lithe, and their features had an El Greco distinctness. The cruel glories and follies of Spain ran in their veins, and it showed.

  'You seem,' said the Marquesa, with a faint touch of hum­our, 'to have taken a dislike to my nephew. He is an un­compromising man who wastes no words on idle flattery—in that he is the un-typical Latin, and it is accounted for by the fact that his paternal grandmother was from Australia, of all places. Her husband met her while travelling around the world; she was a remarkable woman who ran some kind of a hotel out in the wilds of that vast country. A tall, vivid-eyed woman, with a strong personality which she has passed on to Artez.'

  'I see,' Destine was intrigued despite herself. 'So that accounts for his tallness. Spaniards have fine physiques but they aren't always so tall as your nephew—yet, despite that dash of Australian blood, he seems to dislike women of my type. He thinks we are dyed and decadent.'

  The Marquesa broke into a smile. 'Long ago, before the women of Europe began to invade our beach resorts, the Latin had an idealised view of the fair Northerner. I'm afraid that ideal has fallen from its pedestal since the advent of the bikini, and the hunger for romance that many women of Europe bring to Spain. Have romance and modesty quite deserted your country and made our men take the view that European women are of easy virtue?'

  Destine smiled ruefully. 'It's a phase that we are going through, I think. A reaction against the double standard that decrees that men may sow their wild oats but not women. I noticed in Madrid that lots of the girls were attired in European fashions and my godmother told me that the young men now date the girls without always asking per­mission of their parents. It would seem that modern ideas are spreading.'

  'Ah yes, in Madrid.' The Marquesa spoke drily. 'But this is the south, Destine, and here the old ways still prevail. A young woman of the south still has to be careful of her repu­tation, otherwise she will not find a young man to marry her. The old courting ways still go on here at Xanas, and the par­ents still take a firm hand in the selection of a husband for a daughter, especially if she is pretty and has a fair dowry. You may find us very old-fashioned in this part of the world, if you are a very emancipated young woman. Are you?'

  Destine shook her head. 'Too much liberation does make women seem graceless, and it makes the men bad-mannered. I quite appreciate Latin courtesy and always find the Conde de Calva beautifully mannered and always so impeccably turned out in those well-tailored suits of his, and those hand­made Spanish shoes. I think most Spaniards retain that grandee air which is so fascinating to Europeans. I think even the liberated females prefer gentlemen to boors, and that is probably why they flock to Spanish beaches. Even Spanish waiters are superbly mannered.'

  'An inherited trait,' said the Marquesa, looking thought­ful. 'Just as our cruelty is inherited. We can be cruel, you know, Destine. Cosima's husband was cruel to her, and my own son—' She broke off with a sigh. 'Anyway, I think we now understand each other a little better. I want you to be a friend to my daughter—if you can.'

  'I shall certainly try, Señora Marquesa.'

  'I warn you that it will not be easy, Destine. Her illness and the unhappiness over that man whom she married have left their mark on the personality of Cosima. Once she was a girl that anyone could like, but now she is hard to get close to. One has to be firm with her, otherwise she relapses into bouts of melancholia that are frightening. My nephew deals firmly with her—'

  'I can imagine,' Destine couldn't resist saying.

  'Don't mistake me.' The Marquesa looked severe for a moment. 'He doesn't resort to bullying, for he is fond of her. But he has a certain way with her and Cosima listens to him.'

  'He is against the idea of an English nurse—' Destine bit her lip; he was against her for more reasons than one, but for all that some primitive response had been triggered off between them. Their mutual antipathy had set a spark to a dynamic sort of awareness; he didn't like her fair; Northern, modern look, no more than she liked his arrogance of height and personality, but he had kissed her and she was still shockingly aware of it. His face could never frighten her, but his touch had the power to terrify her. He disturbed her as no one had for a long time… he touched her and what had been numb in her was suddenly tingling with life and pain.

  'I hope he won't interfere—' Her voice sharpened. 'As your daughter's nurse, I hope I shan't be under his juris­diction in any way? I—I don't think I could stand for that, Señora Marquesa.'

  'Of course not,' she was reassured. 'My nephew is busy about the estate for most of the day, but he does like an hour with Cosima in the evenings. I think if you are successful with Cosima, he will be more than grateful. Since her acci­dent they have become close, and I believe if she could forget that husband of hers and agree to a divorce—well, it would please me, and suit me, to see Cosima in the total care of Artez.'

  'But isn't divorce awkward for Spanish people?' Destine asked. 'The Catholic laws are still very strict, aren't they?'

  'The man she married is a Californian.' The Marquesa looked scornful. 'It could be arranged without too much trouble—he is there now, you know, and I have it on good authority that he is involved with another woman. I could pay for the evidence to get Cosima a divorce, but she refuses to listen to the good sense of the argument. She remains besotted by the man, and we can but hope when she is feeling more herself that we can persuade her to cut free of him once and f
or all. I am no longer a young woman. I can't live for many more years, but my nephew is strong and in the prime of his manhood. It is, I confess to you, Destine, the dear wish of my heart that I should live to see those two safe together. He would be good to her…'

  'But isn't she paralysed, Señora Marquesa?' Destine spoke impulsively, unable to associate all that leashed power of the Don's with a woman who might always be condemned to a wheelchair. A vivid image of that lean and virile body flashed across her mind… he was a man who would ride his horses like an Arab, and make love to a woman with passion in place of tenderness. Surely a woman like Cosima needed tenderness?

  'There is always hope that she may one day regain par­tial use of her legs.' The Marquesa spoke hopefully, but her eyes remained bleak. 'What are you thinking, Destine, that men marry for physical reasons rather than those of the heart? Quien, sabe? Many Spaniards take a mistress, and I see that you have noticed that my nephew is much of a man. That would not be important, for I should know that with the better part of him he would care for Cosima and be with her when he is needed. He would not be like that other one! In him the devil rules, but only now and then is the devil in charge of Artez. For the most part he is in charge of himself. He knows the taste of pain, and he and Cosima are linked by their Obregon blood, for his mother was my dear sister.'

  The Marquesa gave a sigh and her slim hands looked frail as she linked them together, the heavy antique rings looking heavy on her fingers. 'In many ways this has been a family cursed by more sadness than happiness. The Obregon blood line is a very old one and it goes back a long way into the past, to a time of forebears who were not always kind. It is whispered in Xanas that there is a curse on our family that will not be eradicated until the last male of the line is dead without a son to carry on the blood. In which case it might be for the good if Artez eventually becomes the husband of Cosima. They would be childless, so the curse, if there is one, would be ended. He is, you see, the last male of the line. The last man born into this family with Obregon blood in his veins. We live in a superstitious region, and there are people of the village who cross themselves when they see the scarred face of my nephew. They say that he carries the mark of the devil, and what use is it to tell them that he was burned in a fire as a young boy? They would only say that it was hellfire in which he burned.'