Dearest Demon

by Violet Winspear

  'Ah, this sounds intriguing.' Cosima played her eyes over Destine, who was glancing back at the slim sun-peeled tower that dominated a heap of broken stones where long ago a Moorish lord had housed his soldiers and his slaves. 'What have you been saying to Artez that seems to have impressed him so much?'

  'I'm sure, señora, that nothing I have said could really im­press the señor' Destine spoke lightly, ever aware that her patient was jealous of any attention not directly given to her. 'I am merely of the opinion that things of the past affect us in certain ways, and here in the deep south many things have remained unchanged—attitudes of mind, let us say.'

  'And of the body, let us add.' Cosima flicked a look at the smooth dark head of the man in front of them. 'So you think that Artez still inclines towards the seclusion of women in preference to letting them lead a liberated life. You are right, of course.'

  He gave his brief, dark laugh when he caught his cousin's remark, but he didn't bother to argue with it. 'Liberating a woman is like revealing a secret,' he drawled. 'Where there is no mystery there is no mystique.'

  'Meaning you would like to see the pair of us in yashmaks? Destine shot at him.

  'Both of you in yashmaks would imply that I had a pair of women all to myself,' he rejoined dryly. 'Is it an implica­tion you would enjoy, Nurse Chard?'

  The shimmering temper came into Destine's eyes at the way he could turn her words to suit himself; playing with her as a tawny cat might play with a mouse. 'I wouldn't enjoy being the slavish plaything of any man, señor!'

  'How can you be so sure, Nurse? The facts of life are like the facts of food—one must sometimes taste the dish before pronouncing it to one's liking.'

  'One can often tell just by looking,' she said, and almost instantly regretted words that could mean only one thing—that having looked at his scarred face she had no liking for what she saw.

  'Oh, do stop bickering, you two,' Cosima said in a bored voice. 'I have rarely known two people so opposed to each other. Like oil and water you will never mix, but for this one day do try to be amicable, even if you only pretend. It is my first social visit in a long while, and I've looked forward to it.'

  Immediately Destine saw a relaxation in the Don's shoulders, as if at Cosima's appeal his entire mood softened. 'I promise you will have a good day, cara. The sun shines for you, and you are looking very attractive in that outfit which must have been bought in Paris at one of the most fashion­able salons. You will outshine all the other woman at the finca.'

  'You really think so?' A purr came into Cosima's voice, and as if to assure herself that the Don was paying her a sincere compliment she took her gold powder-box from her handbag and studied her face in the mirror. 'One thing I'll say for being an invalid, it does make one look thin and interesting. I hope I never get fat like that wife of Fernan­do's! It's true she still has a pretty face, but her hips have pads of fat on them and her ankles have lost all their grace. Who would believe, looking at Susana now, that she was once a very good flamenco dancer? I would sooner go hungry than look as she does!'

  'What does it matter, Cosima, when Fernando still very much loves her?' A dry note had come into the Don's voice. 'In the eyes of a lover a woman never really changes—unless she loses a sweet temper for a sour one.'

  'I have never before heard you speak like that, Artez. Mio caro, when did you develop a liking for the placid temper in a woman? I have seen you polite to the various placid wives of our friends, but I have never seen you—fascinated by them. Just as I have never seen you ride a tame horse!'

  Destine listened to this exchange with a tense interest that she didn't dare to question. What was she listening for? That note of love in the lover's voice? That breathless note of wonder in Cosima's voice? That unmistakable sign that these two were emotionally involved. Ah, she was being a romantic fool! Marriages were arranged every day in Spain, and nine times out of ten they worked out more satisfactorily than the ones that had love for their driving motive.

  Half an hour later they had come in sight of the finca, with its grasslands where the bulls of Fernando Castros grew from rough-coated calves with comical horn-buds into sleek, strong animals that were sold to farmers for breeding pur­poses instead of the slaughter of the bullring.

  There was a sound like thunder as a group of calves went galloping past the car, throwing clods of grass from beneath their hooves and making a primitive picture in the blazing sunlight over the sabana.

  'One should be an artist—a painter in Spain,' Destine exclaimed. 'It must be the clarity of the atmosphere, and the mountains, that make such a picturesque background for every detail. It's like—like living in a vast canvas, with nothing modern or ugly to spoil the scenery; no concrete walls or plates of glass; no enormous container-lorries filled with chemicals; no sky clouded by factory chimneys.'

  Then, a trifle embarrassed by her outburst, Destine gave a self-conscious little laugh. 'I must sound like the most naive tourist on a coach outing, but I do find southern Spain very beautiful, and most unusual.'

  'Beware, señora' said the Don. 'To become enamoured of Spain can be a dangerous thing, for when she bites she holds on, and you have a career in England that must be pursued, have you not?'

  'Yes,' she said clearly. 'But surely I can—like your country without finding myself—held, as you call it.'

  'Like it by all means,' he said, 'but don't let the bite be so deep that when you wrench yourself away a part of you will be left behind. This has been known to happen, and despite your skill as a nurse and your status as a married woman, you have a certain—vulnerability. You were so busy with your career that you forgot to be a girl, but now in Spain the girl m you is let loose—' He turned a brief instant in his seat and his eyes swept her hair, loose and sunlit about her face. It was a look that imparted far more meaning than any words, and a slight flush came into Destine's cheeks. She wished instantly that she had secured her hair at the nape of her neck, and had kept to herself her swift admiration of this land that was so tawny and blue and closed off from the noisy streets where people fell beneath fast wheels and were brought into hospital like broken toys to be mended. Here there was a certain peace and glory to which she had res­ponded, and now she was hurt, and ready to blame him for the dismal reminder that she was but a visitor and must remain so.

  'Don't worry, señor,' she said distantly. 'I shan't outstay my welcome in your country. I am here to do a job of work, and when it's done I shall take my leave without being torn in two. That can only happen once, anyway—' There she broke off, for she still felt hurt, still felt stunned that she could feel with an intensity she had believed had gone with Matt. She had made her work her life, but here in Spain a new set of emotions had grown over the grave of dead ones, and she was suddenly afraid of them and in almost a panic she took stock of the finca as the big car drove into the courtyard, where the sun lay dazzling on the thick white walls, the many different levels of windows and roofs, where the tiles were arched and ox-blood red.

  She held her breath and then let it out. Again the pure, primitive beauty of something Latin had caught her heart in its fist, and she was lost, drowning in delight as she looked around her.

  'No, nothing changes,' Cosima murmured. 'It's still as I remember it as a girl, when we came here to dance in the patio to the guitars of the gipsies. It hurts that nothing changes while I—I am altogether different. I can't dance any more, or run up to the balconies to throw roses at the young men. Oh, why did I come here? I am better at home, shut away from the old memories!'

  'You came to enjoy a good day with old friends,' the Don said, kindly but firmly. 'Only cowards sit alone in dark rooms, spelling their memories like black beads, and you are no coward, carissima.'

  'Circumstances make cravens of us,' she rejoined. 'Turn the car, take me home before—'

  But it was too late, for with a gush of frilled dress and a laugh of welcome the plump and pretty wife of Fernando Castros had come running from an arched doo
rway. Her curvaceous arms were held out as if to embrace each occu­pant of the car, and her eyes were sparkling against the almost Moorish gold of her skin. She was a picture in her­self, thought Destine. The adored mother of two boys and a girl, and quite obviously indulged by the dark-clad Spaniard who followed her across the courtyard at a more stately pace.

  Beyond them Destine saw the tall figure of the Welshman and she felt a quick sense of relief that she wasn't going to be the only foreigner among all these Latins.

  'Mia cara,' Susana reached for Cosima's hands and clasp­ed them, 'how good it is to see you again at the finca! We had such good times, eh, and will have them once again, now that you are so much improved.'

  'From the look of both of us,' Cosima swept her cynical look over Susana, 'I would say our dancing days are quite over, just as the old days are over. I merely called for a few minutes—we shan't be staying.'

  'Of course we shall.' Don Cicatrice had stepped from the car and with that courteous firmness that wouldn't be denied he opened the door beside Cosima and placed his arms around her, lifting her with ease from her seat. 'Fernando, perhaps you will be so good as to get the wheel­chair from the boot? Nurse Chard will show you how it opens and operates, for it is one of those new, light models that appears to run on magic'

  The magic was a concealed battery, and the chair itself had all the comfortable refinements that money could buy, not being unwieldy in any way and designed for self-control. But Destine knew that Cosima hated it, the outward sign that she couldn't use her slim legs and had to propel herself through life from now on.

  Destine expected a tantrum at sight of the chair, but some­thing in the Don's eyes, some secret pressure of his arms seemed to subdue his cousin and she permitted him to carry her to the chair. The laugh she gave was defiant. 'You see how masterful he is, Susana,' she cried. 'He gives me a demonstration of how he will be when we are married!'

  The words seemed to stab through Destine, and she hoped her face betrayed no sign of stress when Lugh Davidson came to her side and she turned to greet him. Her hand felt lost in his warm clasp, and he didn't speak right away but studied her in silence, a sort of wonderment in his eyes at the fairness of her hair in the golden sunlight.

  'I am never sure about women when I see them by the artificial lighting of a drawing-room,' he said at last. 'The sunlight can be terribly cruel to some women, but you are obviously one of Apollo's handmaidens.'

  Destine smiled, unsurprised that a Welshman should speak with poetry in his voice. 'I'm pleased to see you as well, Mr. Davidson. I was rather daunted by the thought of being a lone Anglo-Saxon among a group of Spaniards—they can be rather overpowering, can't they?'

  'Some of them,' he agreed. 'Don Cicatrice, for instance.' Lugh had drawn her to one side, so that they stood apart from the Spaniards, the group having been enlarged by the arrival from the house and stables of weekend guests and resident relatives. Cosima was the centre of the attention, with the Don towering over her, not saying much, but some­how not needing to speak to be noticeable.

  'Did I hear correctly?' Lugh murmured. 'Did Cosima mention marriage, or was she indulging in a cynical jest?'

  'There is a possibility that her husband will divorce her, and if so a marriage will take place between her and the Don.' Destine spoke with composure, but inwardly she was still very much shaken by her own reaction to each mention of the marriage. She couldn't pin down the source of her disquiet, she only felt that it was adding to the tragedy for such a union to take place. Cosima needed to be loved, not pitied, and Destine felt convinced that the Don had no passion in his bones for his invalid cousin.

  'You don't quite approve, do you?' Lugh had caught the note of reserve in her voice. 'Are you a romantic, Destine? Do you live by your name, that destiny should bring two people together, and not the austere voice of duty or pity?'

  'I think it a pity that her husband didn't stand by her,' Destine replied. 'I am sure she still loves him, and responds more to shallow charm and gaiety than to anything—deeper.'

  'And in your estimation the scarred Don is deep waters, eh?'

  'One look at the man is sufficient for that,' she half-gasped, and she didn't need to look to see him standing there, one hand at rest in a pocket of his fawn jacket, his mouth bold and just a little cruel, and above that slight smile on his lips the deeply slanting cheekbones, the proud arch of the nose, hawk-like, with an equally deep arching to the brows, his skin bronzed like Cordoban leather. That face had been close to hers and she had seen how deep were the oceans of his eyes, going down, down into primitive deeps where all women would be lost, but from which Cosima would be safely kept.

  'Such a marriage could work,' Lugh murmured. 'It's bred in Latin bones to marry for family reasons, and there isn't much left for that poor girl but to be cared for and protected. Yes, he's a man who might be cruel, but not to her. You see that, don't you, you with your clear blue eyes?'

  'Yes, I see that,' she agreed, and didn't add that she saw very little warmth in such an alliance—unless the Don saw the heritage of the casa and its lands secured for him by marriage to Cosima. Her heart jolted—ah yes, that could well be his real, true reason, for she had often thought that if he had any love to give, then he gave it to the miles of cane that rustled like a bamboo forest, and to the fruit yards rampant with scent in the valley. It was there, in the long hours, in the hot sun, that his skin had darkened to that saddle-tan, holding all those tangy aromas in his very pores.

  God… she pulled forcibly away from her own thoughts, feeling a sort of dizziness that made her clutch at Lugh Davidson's arm. 'Sorry…'

  'No, don't be.' He pressed her hand to his skin. 'I've been waiting a long time for someone like you to hold on to me—'

  'No,' she pulled her hand away, for he had spoken too intensely to be flirting with her. 'I don't want—what I mean is that I wasn't touching you to start anything—physical between us. I'd like a friend, Lugh. That would be nice, but you'd find me ice-cool marble if you wanted to round out your Spanish visit with an affair. I just seem im­mune from all that boring, permissive feverishness.'

  'Utterly immune, I'd say.' His smile was admiring as it dwelt on her. 'You're cool as the camellia, and what a lovely change that is from the brash and over-eager females crowding out the nice girls and making them feel freakish because they don't indulge in every form of licence. Nice has become a nasty word to the so-called moderns, hasn't it? And as for love—can they even spell it?'

  'I doubt it.' But she didn't want to be drawn into a dis­cussion of that complex and bewildering emotion; she didn't want to believe that she could ever feel again that need to belong to another person. 'I think we'd better join the others, don't you? They won't like it if we appear to be standoffish—'

  'Or are you afraid that they might think we like each other's company a little too much?' He smiled down at her with eyes that were amused and also intrigued. 'I believe you're afraid to unlock your emotions, Destine. You no longer trust life to be kind to you, eh?'

  'Can you blame me?' She started away from him, but he caught her wrist with his fingers, pulling her back among the clambering pink roses. 'Lugh! We'll be noticed and they'll think—'

  'Let them think it.' His voice had deepened and the hint of Celtic poetry seemed more insistent. 'You may be afraid of life, but I'm not going to believe that you're afraid of me, and I won't let you run away from me.'

  'I have my patient to think about,' she said tensely. 'I want to make sure that she's all right—'

  'Cosima is fine and enjoying being the centre of attention. Half her cure lay in facing up to life again, as you must.'

  'Don't tell me what I must do!' Destine fought to release her wrist from Lugh's fingers. 'And don't make me con­spicuous in front of these people or I shall dislike you. Please! I have my job to think about and I shall be dis­missed if the Don thinks I'm playing about with you. You know how circumspect these Spaniards are with regard to their employees, and I'm
only here today to keep an eye on Cosima. I'm not a guest as you are.'

  'Nor is Don Cicatrice quite the dragon that you make out,' Lugh grinned. 'He's looking at us right now, but he isn't scowling and about to toss you out of the finca like a fallen woman.'

  At Lugh's words Destine instinctively glanced in the Don's direction and her heart plunged when she caught his dark eyes upon her and Lugh, her wrist imprisoned in the Welshman's fingers, the pair of them against a background of wild pink roses.

  It was true what Lugh said, the Don wasn't scowling but was regarding them with eyes so inscrutable that there was no telling if he was annoyed or totally incurious. He had lit a cigarro and he casually raised it to his lips as Destine jerked free of Lugh's grip. She felt a flush run across her cheekbones, for she so prized her own attitude of coolness and hated it that the Don had witnessed her slight tussle with Lugh.

  Still feeling that unwelcome heat in her face, Destine strove for dignity as she walked to Cosima's chair, where she bent over the señora and quietly asked if she was comfortable.

  'I'm fine, Nurse, so don't fuss.' Quite gone was Cosima's earlier look of panic and it seemed to please her to be playing the elegant invalid for her friends, who had clustered around her and were gaily laughing at her brave if slightly cynical witticisms.

  'I highly recommend an English nurse if any of you fall and break a bone,' she drawled. 'Not only is my one pretty, but she is wise enough to let me eat chocolates in bed—after all, what else can I do there except read a book?'

  There was a burst of laughter, and a few quizzical looks from the men at the tall figure of Don Cicatrice. He was taller than any of them, Destine noticed. Fernando Castros and his brother Sanchez were many times better looking in the true Latin tradition of sensuous brown eyes, well-shaped features and a smiling glint to the teeth. But hand­some as they were they didn't compel the eyes, the thoughts, the curiosity as did the Don with his scarred face and his sardonic air of being of them and yet apart from them.