Pilgrim's Castle

by Violet Winspear

She looked at him and her laughter died away as she became aware of the intimacy of being alone with him, stranded in the mist, shut in a car with the man who out in Lima had been as wicked and charming as his namesake. That current of awareness slowly generated into a force that half frightened her. She dragged her gaze from his and turned to look out of the window.

  'We might be the only two people in all the world,' she said.

  'Will the mist clear, do you think, senor?'

  'Not until dawn.'

  The words were like a magnet, drawing her gaze back to him. 'Do you mean we shall have to stay here ... all night?'

  'Do you find the prospect daunting?' His eyes held a wicked twinkle by the glow of the dashboard. 'We will wait a while to see if another car comes along to give us a lift, if not then we shall have to seek a proper shelter for the night. The windscreen has lost some glass, do you see? The fog is seeping in.'

  It came like little puffs of cold breath and Yvain drew the fur lap robe around her and cuddled down into it. Don Juan opened a thin gold cigarette-case and held it out to her. 'Come, take a cigarette. It will steady your nerves for the possible ordeal of spending the night alone with me.'

  'Your turn to tease me, Don Juan.' She accepted a cigarette, a habit she didn't often indulge but one she had acquired during the years with Ida Sandell. A smoke behind the pantry door had sometimes helped to calm her nerves after being bowled out by madam for not pressing a skirt just right, or for tugging her carroty hair with the setting comb.

  She leant forward to the flame proffered by her guardian, and the strangeness of these past few weeks seemed to intensify into a single searing moment. All that had happened before the night of the shipwreck had taken on the formless shape of something dreamed. She was alive in this moment as never before. The tang of her cigarette mingling with his, the windscreen with its shattered glass, the vivid dark eyes seen through the smoke ... these were painfully real to her.

  'Do you like small boys?' he asked, unexpectedly.

  'Yes,' she smiled. 'Fernando was fun to be with, and that's how come I was late starting for home. '

  'Do you think of the castle as your home?'

  'In a way'.' She met his eyes through the smoke. 'I hope you don't mind?'

  'Not at all. I think the castillo has waited a long time for someone young to come along and dispel the shadows. When the time comes — '

  'For me to go?' she broke in.

  He didn't reply for several seconds, his eyes unreadable behind their veil of smoke. 'Yes, it will seem strange for a while, and now we must think about tonight. It will grow gradually colder in here, for that blow to the engine appears to have put the car heater out of order. I could block up the windscreen with something, but neither of us would rest very comfortably.'

  'Your leg is aching, senor?'

  'A little,' he admitted. 'Sometimes I wish I had let the sawbones have their way, but I am obstinate and I dislike what is artificial.'

  'Senor Fonesca told me of your accident,' she said, half afraid of showing her sympathy. 'It must have been terrible for you.'

  'No more than for a soldier in battle, but I refused to lose my leg, and so whatever aches and pains I now have to tolerate are due entirely to my own self-will.' His smile was a narrow gleam of white teeth. 'Spaniards are not easy on themselves, or on other people, nina mia. Study our paintings, read our books, remember our conquistadores.'

  'There is a feeling of steel and flame and cavalry,' she murmured. 'One feels it here on the island, and sees it in the faces of the people. They are like the faces in portraits by Diaz, like the eyes El Greco painted.'

  'El Greco understood Spain and its people, though he was a Greek. Perhaps it takes someone from a foreign land to know us better than we know ourselves, eh?'

  She met his eyes and saw combined in his face all the elements that went to make Spain so warm and cruel and fascinating a country. Its people were fashioned out of the rocks, the hot sunshine, and the deep shadows. They combined aloofness with passion, and made one very aware of life and its fundamentals.

  'Senor Fonesca is teaching me all about Spain,' she smiled.

  'And do you like what you are learning?'

  'I am fascinated, senor.'

  'By the people or the history or the topography?'

  'By everything. The people are their history and their land.'

  He looked at her as he stubbed out his cigarette. 'What a mixture of wisdom and folly I have in my ward.'

  'It's being young, senor.'

  'Of course.' He leaned forward and studied her wide, fey eyes, her slimness half lost in the lap robe of dark shining fur. 'You are very young in some ways, and yet I can see why Cortez was smouldering when I spoke to him. What did you do - slap his face?'

  'No.' She smiled nervously. 'I hopped out of his car and ran away from him.'

  'Did he give chase?'

  'Yes, until I reached the pier. There were people there, and so I was safe.'

  'From his unwelcome attentions?'

  'Yes.' Her fingers gripped the lap robe. 'Men seem to think that being alone with a girl gives them the right to be ... amorous.'

  'We are alone, nina.' There was a tiny wicked smile at the edge of Don Juan's mouth. 'Are you not afraid of my amorous instincts?'

  'You are my guardian,' she said.

  'I don't make you want to run away from me?'

  She gazed at him, lost for words and aware of his lean strength and darkness with her every nerve. The lines beside his mouth were softened by the shadows and the silver in his hair could not be seen. For a dizzying moment it was as if she found herself alone with the young and daring Don Juan, who had liked fast horses, who had mined for silver in the wilds, and enjoyed the company of exotic women.

  All through her young and untried being she was more uncertain of Don Juan than she could ever be of other men.

  To her relief he turned his attention to the glove compartment from which he took a hand torch. He flicked on the bright beam. 'I suggest that we go and look for a night's lodging at one of the cottages just off this road. Keep that lap robe cloaked around

  you.'

  They emerged from the car on to the mist shrouded road and Yvain gazed around nervously. All sounds were muted. The trees loomed like ghosts in the creeping greyness. 'Wouldn't it be wise to stay in the car, senor?'

  'No.' He spoke firmly. 'You would be risking a chill, and I have this uncomfortable limb of mine. Come, stay close to me and I promise that soon you will be sitting beside a warm fire and drinking hot coffee.'

  The beam of his torch pierced the mist and in a while they found themselves on a footworn path that had to lead to a habitation of some sort. Yvain did as she was told and kept close to her guardian, who was limping more heavily than usual. It was the dampness, seeping into the bones of the leg that had been rebuilt with such torture and slowness, and she wanted to tuck her fingers into the crook of his arm — as Raquel had done so intimately - and impart a little comfort. It always seemed to hurt more if you kept pain to yourself.

  'Ah!' He came to a sudden standstill and Yvain's anxiety turned to relief when she saw that the beam of the torch was tracing the rough whiteness of a wall, a window frame, and then a wooden door with an iron ring for a knocker.

  The torch was flashed upon Yvain, wrapped to her nose and her enormous eyes in the fur lap robe. 'Well, Gretel, we have found a cottage in the woods. Do you suppose Hansel dare use that knocker?'

  She gave a chuckle, for she liked it when Don Juan revealed the humour that lurked in him like a vein of gold. 'Gretel's feet are rather cold,' she said.

  'I noticed you were limping, child.'

  'I lost the heel off my right shoe.'

  'Ah, then here goes.' He raised the knocker and brought it down against the door, once, twice, making echoes in the night. They waited, and then they heard someone open an upstairs window. A disembodied voice floated down to them. 'Who is there?' It sounded elderly and querulous.

/>   'Senora, we would like to beg of you a shelter for the night. Our car has broken down and we are stranded in the fog.'

  'I am sorry, senor, but I have not the room—'

  'I would pay you well, senora.'

  There was silence as the woman hesitated, then they heard the window being closed.

  'Country people are nervous on nights such as this.' Don Juan spoke in English to Yvain. 'The old woman will take us in if I pay her for her trouble.'

  'Tell her who you are,' Yvain suggested.

  'For some reason,' a smile lurked in his voice, 'I prefer that we remain strangers to her.'

  As Yvain pondered his remark, there was a rattling of bolts being drawn back and the door of the cottage slowly opened to reveal a shawled figure holding a smoky lamp. It was raised so the woman could get a good look at her callers. She peered hard at Don Juan, tall and unmistakably distinguished despite his mist-tousled hair, then she gave her attention to his young, fur-draped companion. She seemed not to recognize the Marques de Leon, for she said disagreeably: 'I don't know that I should let strangers into my house. How do I know that you are honest people?'

  Don Juan took his wallet from his pocket and extracted several bank notes. 'Here you are, senora. I trust this will buy us a roof over our heads for the night? Come, the young lady is shivering with the cold.'

  The old woman stuffed the notes into her bodice and opened the door just wide enough for Yvain and Don Juan to squeeze past her into the narrow passage. The door banged shut, the bolts were secured, and they were led into the kitchen, where a fire burned low, casting red shadows on the lime-washed walls and low smoky ceiling.

  Their hostess placed the lamp on a table, and tossed some wood on to the fire. She turned again as the flames leapt to scrutinize her guests, and Yvain thought irresistibly that she was rather witchlike with her sharp eyes and dark, lined face framed in the black head-shawl. She stared at Yvain and said something in rapid Spanish. Yvain glanced helplessly at Don Juan, for she couldn't understand the woman's country dialect.

  'The senora asks if you would like a bowl of soup.'

  'Oh - yes; please.'

  He replied to the woman, who-went to the fireplace and moved a black pot closer to the flames. All the time she threw remarks over her shoulder, and Yvain felt the sudden grip of her guardian's hands as he removed the fur robe from around her shoulders. The old woman hobbled to the table and began to lay out earthenware soup bowls, spoons and bread.

  'What does she say?' Yvain's mist-damp hair clung with a tint of autumn to her temples and her slim neck. She had a fey look, somehow intensified by the lamp shadows and the old-fashioned kitchen with its wooden chairs and three-legged milking stool, the tufted mat in front of the fireplace, and the dresser crowded with china knick-knacks and vases of artificial flowers.

  Don Juan's shadow towered to the ceiling ... in his impeccable grey suit he looked very out of place in this rustic kitchen. Yvain was used to seeing him against a background of old-gold drapes and the mellow gleam of antique furniture, the scent of roses mingling with the smoke of his cigar.

  He seemed to hesitate, as if he wished to spare her feelings ... which was also unusual.

  'The woman says there is only one bedroom ... she is willing to sleep down here in the alcove beside the fire.'

  Yvain looked at him and a helpless feeling swept over her. He was leaning rather heavily on his stick, and a tiny nerve was beating beside his mouth. She knew that his leg was aching; and there was nowhere else for him to rest ... except in that one and only bedroom! She looked away from him and told herself she must not be a prude ... but what had he told their hostess?

  The kitchen was redolent of lentils and herbs as the old woman ladled soup into the bowls. Yvain took her place at the table without daring to look at Don Juan. Her knees felt weak. Her every instinct told her that a stern old Spanish woman would never permit a couple to share a bedroom unless she believed

  them to be a married couple!

  They climbed a narrow flight of cobblestone stairs to the bedroom, the flame of the candlestick Yvain carried lighting up the lime-washed walls and the brilliant bedcover as they entered the low-ceilinged room.

  There was just a bed, a chest-of-drawers, and a chair. The room was under the eaves and it reminded Yvain of her small, cold bedroom at Sandell Hall ... but never had that room been shared by a tall, dark man with a gleam of devilry in his eyes.

  She caught that gleam in his eyes as he glanced from the single wooden chair to the bed, and she felt sure the silence was filled with the hammering of her heart.

  'You seem agitated,' he murmured.

  She met his eyes and saw in them the reason for her agitation. Their darkness held that small, satanic smile that made her very unsure of him. 'I always shiver like this when I'm tired.' She tossed her hair back over her shoulder. 'I ... I'm not being silly because we've got to share this room for the night.'

  'We have got to share the bed as well.' He quirked an eyebrow at her. 'I could be a martyr and sit in that uncomfortable-looking chair all night, but I am sure you have too tender a heart to consign me to such discomfort.'

  'O-of course not.' She felt weak again and wanted to sink down on the side of the bed, with its crazy quilt and its hand-carved wooden posts. She looked everywhere but at the tall, dark figure of Don Juan, whose face by candlelight had a fascination she didn't dare to notice.

  She must try not to act jittery because for a few hours they were forced to share a room ... a bed!

  'I could make do on the chair!' she blurted out.

  'Nina,' his voice was dangerously soft and low, 'I thought you felt quite safe with me?'

  'I do - only — '

  'Only what, child?'

  'I ... I'm not a child.'

  'So that's it! You are old enough to be coy about yourself, and you think that now we are alone like this, I shall lose my selfcontrol and make passionate advances to you.'

  Because she was so unsure of him, it was a second or two before she realized that he was being sarcastic. 'I ... I'm not used to this sort of situation, even if you are,' she flashed.

  The quirk to his eyebrow grew wicked. 'You are not a child, so I can't spank you for that,' he said lazily. 'But there is another way for a man to deal with a girlish tantrum - can you guess what it is?'

  She looked at his mouth and drew as far away as possible from him, the candlelight on her bare young neck and arms, reflecting in her startled eyes, glimmering on the auburn tangle of her hair. The thought alone of being kissed by Don Juan was enough to shatter her composure, and sudden tears of emotion and fatigue shone in her eyes.

  'I ... I don't want to fight with you,' she said shakily.

  'What do you want, nina?' His glance swept over her, taking in her tears and her taut young body. 'Perhaps you hardly know yourself, and I won't taunt you any more tonight. You will sleep beneath the covers of the bed. I shall sleep atop them. Believe me, no sword between a couple was ever as keen as innocence and fear, and you look the picture of both.'

  His smile was brief, but while it lasted it was kind, and once again she felt shattered by feelings she hardly understood. One moment she wanted to claw him and run; the next moment he made her want something quite different. If, when he smiled, he had held open his arms to her, she knew she would have run into them and pressed close to him for warmth.

  She shivered ... it could have been her thoughts, or the coldness of the room, but right away he noticed and came limping round to her. He reached out for her hand and felt its coldness. 'Are your feet the same?' he asked.

  She nodded. 'Cold feet were always a problem of mine. I used to get chilblains in the winter ... Sandell Hall was such a big, chilly place.'

  'And you had a room without a fire in it, eh?' He pressed her down on to the side of the bed. 'Off with your shoes and I will warm your feet for you.'

  It was no use protesting, but without her shoes she felt small, childish, defenceless, and when he t
ook her feet into his hands and chafed them until they tingled, she felt both shy and grateful. It was something a father did for a girl, but this tall man with the dark and enigmatic eyes was in no way paternal. As the warmth from his hands seeped into her, she became drowsy. And when he lifted her legs on to the bed and tucked the covers around her, she gazed up at hint with heavy-lidded, wondering eyes.

  'Is that better?' he asked, and his shadow was an arc against the wall as he leaned over her and stroked the auburn hair away from her face.

  'Mmmm, all nice and tingly,' she said, and the breath seemed to die in her throat as his lean fingers drifted down her cheek. She wanted to turn her head and press her lips against his fingers, but such a gesture might act like a spark to dry tinder and she might find herself in his arms ... at the mercy of his lips hardened by pain, and loneliness, and controlled passion. She shrank away from his touch and at once he turned away from her. Her heartbeats felt as if they must choke her as she lay and watched his shadow against the wall, etched by the candlelight as he removed his shoes, his jacket, his tie and his cuff-links. He placed them on the chair at the bedside, then there was darkness as the candle was snuffed, and Yvain's hand clenched on the quilt as he stretched out on the bed at her side and pulled the lap robe over him.

  Yvain heard him breathing, and then he gave a little sigh, as if it felt good to lie down. The long length of his body was close but for the quilt that covered her, and she knew a sense of shock to the roots of her being.

  No one must ever know about tonight — least of all Raquel, with whom he had spent the day. Raquel's eyes were all too eloquent when they rested on him. She would never believe that a girl could spend a night with Don Juan and not find herself in his arms. Yvain thought weakly of those strong arms only inches away from her, and then he murmured: 'Close those wide eyes, nina mia, and go to sleep. Tonight is our secret. Tomorrow we will smile about it.'

  'What did you tell the old lady?' Yvain dared at last to ask.

  'I told her nothing ... about us.'

  'You mean ... you let her assume that we had the right to ... share a room?'

  'Assumption is the correct word.'