Dearest Demon

by Violet Winspear

  'Yes.' Destine's decision was as final as that, and she was glad to get into the car beside Cosima, and to share the lap-robe that the Don flung over both sets of knees. The top of the car had been closed down, and the interior began to warm up as soon as they were on the road, speeding away from the lights of the finca and the waving hands.

  'Hasta la vista,' Cosima murmured, her head tiredly at rest against the gloving leather of the back seat. 'It was good to see them all, but now I feel weary. I think I shall sleep. Dios, how Artez keeps his vitality so intact I shall never know.' She yawned delicately and her head drooped side­ways, resting on Destine's shoulder. She felt light even in sleep, fragile and wistful as a child being taken home from a party. And like a child how could she be hurt by those whom she trusted? The man she loved had let her down, but the man she didn't love would never do so.

  Destine's eyes dwelt on his dark head and his broad shoulders, and she wanted to reach out and touch him, and felt in the silence a strong sense of communication with him. He had heard what she had replied to Susana Castros… even as it had begun between them, it had ended.

  They arrived at the casa, and Cosima was still drowsy and half asleep as the Don carried her to her apartment. Destine said she would assist the señora into her bed, but he firmly shook his head and pressed the bell that brought Anaya to the bedroom. 'You are weary yourself,' he said to Destine, and with a hand clasping her wrist he led her across the hall to the staircase. 'The emotions are in a turmoil, eh?' he murmured.

  She nodded, and her heart gave a throb as she looked at him and saw the slumbrous fire in his eyes. She gave him a smile, strained out of the secret torment and pleasure of knowing he wanted her. She swayed a little towards him, knowing she was clay when she must be adamant—but, oh, to sin with him would be greater than having to cling to chastity when she loved him from his flame-seared face to the very soles of his silent feet.

  He stared down at her pale face and his own face had a curiously drawn look beneath the bronzed skin. 'Go away soon,' he said harshly. 'Go before I hurt you, and Cosima.'

  'You could never hurt me,' she said in a low, tense voice. 'I think if you raised your hand and struck me to the ground I'd still go on—caring.'

  'Caring?' He took a harsh breath and began to lead her up the stairs to the gallery where the lamps half-glimmered and everything had that dreamlike quality that the late night brings. They came to the door of her room and her heart was beating so fast that she felt almost suffocated. It would be so easy, here in the night, for both of them to slip inside and shut out the world that infringed upon this yearn­ing to be together, if only for the few hours that separated the dark hours from the dawn.

  'Yes,' he breathed, 'at this moment it would be divine to enter that cool dark room with you, shutting the door behind us. But night has a way of turning into day and then I would have to leave your arms—have you the remotest conception, ninita, what agony it would be to leave you after loving you? I'm a man, there have been women in my life, but you I will not use as a body that makes me welcome for a few hours.'

  She flinched when he said this, as if he had struck at her, not because she had thought him some kind of a monk who had never felt the needs of a man, but because it hurt so much that they couldn't be lovers without shame or regret.

  'I beg of you, Destine, go to your bed! Go there alone! When you awake in the morning you'll be able to face the world with unashamed eyes, as you always have. Don't you know how much your pride and dignity mean to me? You wear them like jewels, and I won't tear them from you like some thief in the night.'

  'Artez—'

  'No more talk, ninita. I can bear no more!' With a sudden strangled movement he ripped the tie loose from his shirt and turned away from her. 'I need to have a drink. Go to bed—sleep—forget!'

  He strode away from her, into the shadows of the gallery, and a pang, knife-sharp, went through Destine. She was not to have even a few hours alone with him… he was com­mitted to Cosima and all that he left Destine was the realisa­tion that she must leave the House of the Grilles as soon as possible.

  She entered her bedroom and closed the door. She ached with a sort of grief, and for a long time she sat in the dark­ness on the foot of her bed, and she went over in her mind every word they had spoken, every kiss they had exchanged. It was so small a hoard of loving to see her through the empty months that lay ahead of her departure from the casa, and she shivered and told herself fiercely that she wouldn't have cared a damn about shame or sin, not if she could have spent this one night in his arms.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The next few days had an ominous quality about them, as if a cloud hung persistently in the blue sky, threatening each hour with a sudden storm.

  Yet it was only an illusion, for the days were luminous with beauty, hot and hazy with sunshine and a profusion of flowers in the walled gardens of the casa.

  Seeing the Don had become for Destine a torment and a tenderness, physical and heart-stabbing. He would look at her, and she at him, and a secret awareness would be as palpable between them as a fine steel wire, gripping the nerves, pulling at them, so that Destine always made some excuse to get away before something in her manner attracted the attention of Cosima. The greatest danger was that she would find herself alone with him, and so she avoided all the places where he would be on his own, the orchards, the stables, and the loggia of Moorish design that stood alone in a rather haunted section of the grounds, built into one of the walls, its own walls of intricate ironwork set into plaster its roof a small minaret rising against the palm trees. Entrance into the loggia was by means of key-shaped open­ings, and Destine had grown fond of the place and always had the feeling there of a silent, fragile presence; she could have sworn that once or twice she had caught the faint jingle of ankle bracelets. It might be just imagination, but it would be more than that if one afternoon the Don found her there and they had to go through that flaming hell of keeping out of each other's arms.

  Just to see him was enough to kindle the acutest longing, and when he smiled with a grave charm, so entirely Spanish with its subtle shades of meaning, she wanted to cry out to Cosima that it was wrong—so terribly wrong to play on his chivalry. He had so much more to give a woman than mere compassion, and that was all that Cosima wanted from him. Her preux chevalier, always protective of her and the Marquesa, and deeply involved with the running of the estate. He would make no personal demands. The marriage would be one in name only… Destine knew that with her deepest instincts.

  The knowing was a source of pain and one of acute pleas­ure. It meant that as a man… purely as a man he loved her.

  And it was that love, and the dishonour he didn't want to bring to it, that gave Destine the courage to approach the Marquesa one sunlit morning, where she sat in the salita with her letters. Destine quietly told her that her daughter was now as healed as she would ever be and had no real need of a private nurse any more.

  'No—you must not go just yet.' The Marquesa looked aghast, as if Destine's departure would cause a setback in Cosima's recovery. 'Stay another month with us. Do let us make certain that my carina is really on the mend.'

  'I can't stay a month, Señora Marquesa.' Panic gripped Destine, for she knew in her heart that she wanted to clutch at any excuse for staying here, so that she could see the Don each day even if she didn't dare to find herself alone with him. It would be a heavenly hell, but she had to find the strength to leave him.

  'There is no justification for me to stay,' she said, and she just couldn't keep her voice from shaking a little. 'I'm just hanging around, taking payment for doing hardly anything. Cosima doesn't need me any more.'

  'All the same,' the ringed hands gripped and clung to Destine's, 'remain with us and be our guest for a while. You have earned a holiday and there is no place on earth as wonderful as Xanas in high summer. The days are hot, I know, but the evenings are divine and you have worked hard and had much to cope with. I know that Cosima ha
sn't been an easy patient, but now she seems—resigned. It's because of Artez. He's such a strong and resolute man, so very Spanish despite those strains of Anglo-Saxon blood in him. It will be great relief when that divorce from Miguel Aran­das is an assured fact—but to get back to you, Destine, You look—not exactly tired but tense and nervy, You need a rest, and you like the casa, don't you? It has become something of a second home to you?'

  'Yes,' Destine murmured, and this was true, for the dark ghost of Manolito had faded and was almost lost in the strong living frame of the man she had grown to love. 'There never was a more beautiful house, but I really should leave at the end of the week. I want to make advances in my career and that can only be done in England.'

  'This career,' the Marquesa exclaimed, 'does it never take second place to the desires that should take first place with a woman? You are much too attractive to be among the images on the shelf, and I feel a strong inclination to find a strong young Spaniard for you to fall in love with—what is the matter? Why do you catch your breath? Are you still going to tell me that you don't want the love of a man?'

  Destine felt quietly shattered by the question, for never would she have believed the depth of her longing for the Spaniard who was going to become the son-in-law of this gracious woman.

  'I think, Señora Marquesa, that we must accept whatever destiny has in store for us, and I believe that I am meant to be a nurse and not a wife.'

  'Ah, but what a waste!' The Marquesa smiled and touched a fair strand of hair which had escaped from Destine's nape-knot. 'What pretty children you would have, and how lucky a young man would be to have you in his life, so wise and warm-hearted, and so nice to look upon. Do you still pine for your husband?'

  'I shall never forget him,' Destine said, and it was true. Matthew was forever enshrined in a quiet corner of her heart, and it would always hurt that he had died so young. Had he not died, she would never have come to Xanas, and her life would be set on a contented, even course. As it was she was all at sea, terribly in love with a man she couldn't have, and not at all the outwardly composed nurse who talked of wanting only a career.

  'If you go back to England the old memories will over­whelm you,' said the Marquesa. 'Won't you stay with us?'

  'Until the end of the week,' Destine promised. 'Then I must go—I really must.'

  'You say it in almost a desperate way.' The Marquesa looked at Destine with concern, and a tiny tinge of curiosity. 'Is it because of my nephew that you wish to leave?'

  'No—' Destine felt her heart turn over. 'Why should it have anything to do with Don Cicatrice?'

  'He might have hinted that you are now redundant, with Cosima so much brighter in herself and ready to start a life anew with him—as soon as that other man is out of her life. Has he asked you to leave? He isn't a man to go all round the trees and he would tell you if he wanted you to go.'

  Destine lowered her gaze in case the pain was showing in her eyes. He had told her to go, and how shocking it would be for the Marquesa if she ever knew the real reason. He was like a son to her. She loved and trusted him, and Destine wouldn't have damaged that trust for the world.

  'The Don knows, as I do, that your daughter no longer needs me. He's a logical man, Señora Marquesa. Why should I be paid a salary for just hanging around your home? It's necessary for me to be needed, as it is for everyone.'

  'You are needed, my dear. Be a companion to me for a while. I shall be a lonely woman when Cosima becomes the wife of Artez, for the fact must be faced that he's the type of man to want his wife very close to him, especially in the first months.'

  Destine glanced up sharply when the Marquesa said this, and it struck her that Cosima's mother was deluding herself when she spoke as if this marriage was going to be a close and passionate relationship. Did she really believe her own words? The wild and aching love had hold of Destine and she had to restrain the cry that rose in her, that a forceful and vibrant man was tying himself to an invalid out of a sense of honour, because the Marquesa had been good to him. There was no passion involved, on his side or Cosima's. Anyone could see it… anyone but a loving mother who wanted to believe that her daughter was going to be madly happy in her second marriage.

  'What is it?' The Marquesa looked at Destine with a sharpening of her fine eyes. 'You seemed as if you were going to protest—has Cosima said anything to you about her feelings with regard to Miguel Arandas? Does she still imagine that she cares for him? How can she care when he left her? Artez is many times the man that Arandas is.'

  'Love is not a reasonable emotion,' Destine murmured. 'Somehow or other our hearts have a will of their own and we seem defenceless when the heart chooses to love.'

  'But she has agreed to marry Artez. Cosima knows that Miguel Arandas will not come back to her, and the poor child is deserving of happiness after all she has been through. Perhaps you still don't like my nephew, Destine, and feel that he will be a stern husband. Ah, I knew him as a boy. I knew how affectionate he could be and I feel sure that warm vein of feeling still runs in him. He's in his middle thirties and he needs to have a wife—'

  There the Marquesa broke off and bit her lip, as if for a moment she saw the striking difference between a fully active man and a woman whose lower limbs were helpless. Destine watched as the ringed hands gripped each other and she knew that mother-love was at war with the painful truth.

  'It will work out,' she said at last. 'Artez has the com­pensation of the estate, which means a great deal to him. He knows that when I die he will be in total command, and love of the land runs deep in the soul of the Spaniard. Perhaps deeper than his love of a woman.'

  A cold, secret shiver ran through Destine at those words. It could be the cold truth and it had to be faced. What he felt for her might be a passing desire… a mere masculine urge to possess her white body. But the land was eternal, and capable of giving long after a woman had passed from a man's thoughts.

  'I think we have talked ourselves into a mood of depres­sion, and that must be dispelled at once. Please to ring the service bell, Destine, and we'll have coffee with lots of thick cream. You don't care about getting plump, do you, child?'

  Destine smiled, unaware of the little cloud of sadness in her blue eyes. 'Any odd ounces that I've gained will soon be burned off when I'm back on hospital duty. There isn't much time for sitting about and mooning—'

  'So you are still determined to go back to your hospital work?' The Marquesa gave a sigh and toyed restlessly with the ruby ring that was companion to her wedding ring. 'I shall miss you, child. I have grown used to seeing you about the casa, and our little talks have always been so pleasant.'

  'I shall miss you, Señora Marquesa.' Destine spoke sin­cerely. 'You've been very kind to me and I shan't forget you.'

  They had coffee together and then Destine managed to slip away. She had a letter to write to her godmother, for she had decided that when she left Xanas she would go straight home to England and not call on the Condesa in Madrid. She would ask too many questions, and she might probe into Destine's secret, and that was something to be avoided at all costs.

  After the letter was written, stamped and left in readiness to be posted by one of the servants, Destine made sure that Cosima didn't require her for anything. Cosima lay reading an American magazine on the patio and she seemed hardly aware of the question. She shook her head, a trifle impatient­ly, and Destine quietly left her alone. There was no doubt in her mind that Cosima was lost in some impossible dream of her own, and she was equally certain that it had nothing to do with Don Cicatrice.

  Heart rebellious, and nerves as tautly strung as wires, Destine changed her dress for riding trousers and a casual shirt, snatched her brimmed hat from the hook where it hung, and hurried down to the stables to Madrigal's stall. She knew that at this time of the day the Don would be in the plantations and there was no fear of running into him.

  It came as a shock when he walked in on her as she was saddling up. She felt the skin of her fa
ce go tight and cold, and a tremor shook her body as he stood there against the light, a dark and almost menacing figure.

  He menaced her guarded heart and shattered her self-control just by being there, a white shirt thrown open against his dark skin, his hair moistly ruffled on his brow.

  'You—you startled me,' she said. 'I didn't expect to see you—'

  'I was checking on one of the horses and I saw you pass by. So you are going for a ride.'

  'It will be my last one at Xanas,' she said, and her fingers clenched in Madrigal's mane. 'I have told your aunt that I shall be leaving at the end of the week.'

  'I see.' The words seemed to drag themselves from his throat. 'It's for the best.'

  'The only thing to do.' She led her horse from the stall and was preparing to mount into the saddle when strong hands closed around her waist and lifted her. Her heart beat wildly at his touch and when she looked down at him the betrayal of her feelings was there in her eyes.

  'Don't allow Madrigal to run away with you,' he said, and his lashes were heavy over his eyes as he stood there looking at her. The brimmed hat concealed her hair and she looked faintly boyish, and defiant. He didn't love her, he only want­ed to make love to her, and she could surely learn to forget him if she faced up to that basic truth.

  'I intend never to let anything run away with me, señor. I shall keep a whiphold on Madrigal, and myself.'

  With those words she urged the horse into a canter, and she gazed straight ahead of her and wouldn't look back at the Don. She mustn't look back any more. It hurt too much to see his shoulders stretching the material of his shirt… to see his lips forming impersonal words when she wanted to be told that she meant more to him than a slim shape in his arms, firing his blood for fleeting moments in the silver-dark of a Spanish moon.

  She rode away from him and he didn't call her back… he didn't say the words that would have consoled her.

  Her departure from Xanas was arranged with smoothness and speed, and by Friday evening her suitcases and her trunk were packed, and her seat on the train was booked. She would travel as she had arrived, on the night train, and catch her plane home at an airport just outside Madrid.