"You have the look of an untouched infant, but that does not mean that you are in no danger of falling into an emotional involvement with a man." He swept his eyes over her, then touched a long, aggressive index finger to the flowers he had called Virgin's Pagoda. "The true flower of passion is a pale one, senhorinha. "
To her chagrin the colour deepened in her cheeks. "The schoolgirl you take me for would hardly know about – passion," she said tartly.
"On the contrary, the most innocent of females are often the most dangerous to males. Take the mantis, for example." He gestured at the topaz shade of the lamp where one of the strange insects clung in a praying attitude. "The mantis prays – you might think – for absolution from the sin of killing the beloved."
Morvenna looked at the spidery front legs of the mantis, clasped as if in an agony of remorse. She gazed fascinated at the cruel, beautiful thing.
"Yes, all that is fascinating has something of the sinister in it," said the senhor. His profile was outlined strongly against the lamplight, stamped with autocracy, shaded by the pagan past, and then with a movement almost savage he lifted the tray from the night-table and sent the mantis winging ahead of him out of the veranda doors.
"This house has no dona de casa from whom I can borrow some night attire for you," he said. "I hope, however, that you will be able to manage until tomorrow. There is a store which provides clothing for the women of the island, and in the morning I will instruct my servant Toriano to bring you whatever you immediately require. Toriano is the father of several girls, so he will know what to bring."
"Thank you for your hospitality to Mr. Challen and myself," she said. "How I'm going to repay you I don't know – all my things, my money, are at the bottom of the sea—"
He stood a moment looking at her, haughty and expressionless. "Repayment of hospitality is not required,"
he said. "But it may be possible to salvage some of your belongings, as well as those of Mr. Challen. I understand that he is a photographer and that he was carrying equipment in a steel box. He was much concerned for it, and I promised to send down divers to see if it could be recovered."
"If there really is a chance of saving my things," Morvenna's eyes had lit up, and her fingers crushed the pagoda blossoms in her excitement, "then my map will be among them. I stowed it away in a small leather writing-case which I've had for years. It's strong, and if your divers go down tomorrow, senhor—"
"They will go down tomorrow," he promised, "but don't set your hopes too high, Miss Fayr. Below the reef there are deep coral canyons into which a torn-open ship could sink with its contents, making recovery of them impossible for days. Within days your writing-case could suffer beyond repair, and your map beyond recognition."
"I realize all that," her aroused hopefulness was not to be damped at this stage, "but at least there is a good chance of the map being recovered. Senhor de Braz Ferro, don't you realize how much even that small hope means to me ?"
"A small hope will not lessen the large hurt if this Aztec treasure map is not recovered," he said dryly. "I'm not interested in the treasure, senhor."
"If you were, senhorinha, I should make no attempt to try and recover it for you. I should leave it where it is."
"You are superstitious, senhor?" Her eyes held challenge, and a hint of curiosity. "I met an old diamond-hunter at Manaos who knew my father, and
he spun me a tale about Aztec gold being guarded by their pagan gods. He said anyone who sought it was in peril. Do you believe such stories ?"
"The fact that you are here, Miss Fayr, would appear to verify the fantasy." His brief smile was tinged with something indefinable. He pushed open the veranda doors with one hand, and she saw the moon blazing through the treetops like an Aztec shield. He was used to the pagan moon and accorded it only a moment's glance before giving her a brief Latin bow.
"Boa noite, meninazinha "
"Good night, senhor."
The doors closed and the tall shadow of him passed in front of the slatted blinds. Morvenna was alone, clutching in her hands the spray of Virgin's Pagoda which grew so delicately out of the barbaric soil of Janaleza.
A strange interlude had begun for her, and until the steamer came to take her to Manaos she must make some attempt to enjoy it. She set aside the vividly scented flowers, and hesitated a moment before plunging the room into moonlit darkness. Cicadas chirred out there among the jungle trees, a million hidden wings that finally carried her off to sleep.
CHAPTER THREE
A LONG tongue of sunshine licked into the room, and Morvenna blinked at its brightness as she opened her eyes. A blue-headed lizard crouched on one of the
carved posts at the foot of her bed, and she absorbed anew the strangeness of this room and the scents that came in with the tropical sunshine.
She caught the tang of coffee and sat up eagerly. She disentangled herself from the ample folds of netting and poured out a cup of the coffee someone had been good enough to bring her. It was still hot and fresh, Brazilian nectar from the estate of Roque de Braz Ferro.
As the coffee woke her up more fully, she noticed a selection of garments arranged neatly across the back of a chair. She guessed that the Indian servant of her host had put them there in readiness for her. In daylight she could appreciate the kindness, but the pagan moon last night, the wine, the ruthless events which had thrown her on the mercy of a stranger, had made his smallest kindness appear in the light of a seduction.
The sanity of sunlight was good, warm on her skin. The motionless clinging of the lizard, the rapid beating in the tiny throat matched the beating of her own pulses. She was excited, not alarmed. Today the senhor's divers would go down under the reef to try and salvage what they could of her belongings — again she might hold the roughly-drawn map which she had carried with her all the way from England.
How far away England seemed at this moment ! Cool and distant, where the sun shone coyly, ebbing and flowing like the blush of a girl who was warm at heart.
Her coffee finished, Morvenna slipped out of bed and took a look at the clothing Toriano had brought her from the island store. A cotton petticoat and panties, denims in a rather noisy shade of pink, a
fawn shirt and, best of all, a pair of sandals. They were the sort made in England for schoolboys, but they fitted her and that was all that mattered.
She washed and dressed, and had a good laugh at herself when she looked in the slightly damp-spotted mirror of the dressing-table. The pink denims were a little too tight, the shirt a couple of sizes too large, and combined with her soap-shiny face and freckles made her look the picture of an urchin. Her London friends would have a pink fit if they saw her, and with a thumb in the pocket of her denims she sauntered out on to the veranda. It was paved, furnished with rattan chairs and tables, and ran the length of this side of the fazeuda. No one was about, and she stood for a minute looking at the moth-sized flower-kissers, the brilliant splashes of bougainvillea, and great shade trees. The palms with their leaves like human hands, the daro and spicy tamarinds, the strange calabash with gourds clustering on the trunks, the soft and feathery plumes of the giant ferns.
Near her hand, as she went to the veranda coping, hung a cluster of the pagoda blossom that seemed less scented by daylight.
Where was everyone? She turned to study the line of shuttered veranda doors, and wondered in which room Leird Challen was lodged. She longed to see Leird so she could discuss with him the rather alarming fact that they were marooned here for almost a month. Leird might not mind too much, if the divers managed to salvage his photographic equipment. The island teemed with wild life, and she knew he could sell his startlingly good photographs and articles to any of the big magazines.
She was the one who would fret until that steamer from Manaos hove into sight. For months she had been haunted by the belief that her father was still alive, lost and ill, perhaps, somewhere deep in the jungle where his wanderlust had led him. And now, by a cruel quirk of fate, she was cast
up on a jungle island, with little hope of continuing her search for several precious weeks.
She gazed across the compound of close-cut lemon grass, silvery under the sun, and on impulse she ran down the veranda steps and crossed the compound towards the forest. A thousand subtle colours beckoned her. Blossoms bright and strange; leaf and flower shapes that left her bedazzled. Here the sunshine was diffused, the air much cooler. The jungle smells were cloying in their sour-sweetness, yet curiously enticing.
Morvenna felt herself succumbing to the pleasure of the moment, for the forest was full of songbirds, large gaudy butterflies, and long-tailed monkeys who made scolding noises as she passed beneath the trees where they lived in family groups. Her father had talked so warmly about the jungle whenever he was at home that she felt she knew and understood it, a little. Because of this feeling for the wilds, which his tales had implanted in her, she had been quite unafraid to come searching for him.
She plucked a wild banana and sat down on a tree stump to eat it — a small girl in gamine attire, who sat alone in a jungle glade as innocently as though she were in an English spinney, relishing with youthful hunger a banana plucked straight from the tree.
Several minutes passed before she grew aware that someone was watching her from among the trees at the other side of the clearing. She glanced up and felt her
pulses quicken as the figure stepped out into the open. He was clad in sun-faded trousers only; his upper body was the colour of copper. His thick black hair caught the sun as with the gait of a young puma he came towards her. A hunting cur ran at his heels.
The animal grace, the smooth copper skin, the tensile feet in thong slippers, were enough for Morvenna. She jumped to her feet, convinced that he was a wild young Indian.
"Born dia, senhorita." His accent was one she had heard last night, in her bedroom at the fa.Zenda. His eyes were a dark contrast to flawless white teeth. "Did you think me a brabo, a wild Indian ?" he laughed.
"Yes, for a minute." Relief made it easy to smile back at him. "You are a Brazilian, of course."
"Sim, senhorita. " He gave her a rather unpolished bow. "My name is Nuno Sebastian. I hunt and fish for the household of the donatario, and I know you are the Senhorita Fair from the yacht that sank yesterday."
"My name is Fayr," she corrected him.
"Just so, Senhorita Fair." An imp of devilry danced in his eyes as he looked at her hair, which seemed to throw off a beam of light as the sunshine caught it. "You have wandered rather a long way from the fa.Zenda, senhorita. This is where I live."
"Here ?" She gazed around her, but saw no sign of a dwelling. "Do you mean you live twin the open — like Tarzan ?"
"Tarzan ?" He quirked an eyebrow, a mannerism probably picked up from his employer. "I have read about him — in the English language. The donatario had me educated, but before that I lived among the Indians of the rain forest and I had grown too used to the forest
and being a hunter to become altogether law-abiding." A flash of white, flawless teeth, and then a quick command in the Indian dialect as the hunting cur sniffed round Morvenna's ankles.
Morvenna looked at the animal and thought she had never seen such a scruffy object.
"I live up there." Nuno Sebastian pointed upwards, into the branches of a great, buttressed tree. "It is a bamboo tree-house, and I should be honoured if you would like to see it, senhorita. "
"A tree-house?" She gave him a look of incredulity. "Are you serious ?"
"Of course. Have you never seen such a house ?"
She shook her head, but was admittedly intrigued by the thought of seeing one. "Do you mean that you live and sleep up there ?" She gazed up at the impenetrable mass of branches and creepers that kept out most of the strong sunlight.
"It is my cabana, where I cook for myself; and have privacy when I want it. Do you think we are que barbaros, here on this island, senhorita?"
"Barbarians ?" She smiled a little as she thought of her reaction to the island's overlord. "Let me amend that to individualists, Senhor Sebastian."
"You must call me Nuno." His smile would have kindled warmth in the most frigid of female hearts. "Do you think it wrong that men should be lions rather than sheep, senhorita ?"
"I am all for men being lions, so long as they don't growl and pounce too often." She gave her husky, rather shy laugh. "Are all Brazilians so unusual and outspoken, Nuno ?"
"We are not shy, I think." He gave a Latin shrug.
"And we don't care to be defied. We take more notice of our instincts than the Nordestino, who is slower to sense danger, and slower to fall in love."
Morvenna blinked, and was about to suggest that he show her the way back to the fazenda, pronto, when he gave her such a direct look that she was compelled to await his question. "Will the Englishman mind if I invite you to my house ?" he asked. "Is that why you hesitate, or do you think it would not be proper to be alone with me ?"
He spoke so formally, and looked so gravely Latin, that in an instant she was ashamed of doubting his good intentions. "I should enjoy seeing your tree-house very much, Nuno," she said. "How do we reach it — by ladder ?"
"Monkey ladder." The smile was back in his densely-lashed eyes. "It is made out of jungle creepers and is very strong. You will not fall, senhorita. And if you do, I shall be right behind to catch you."
She walked with him across the forest clearing to the massive tree he had pointed out to her. Chains of red blossom had bound themselves round the immense trunk, and petals fell like rain as Morvenna was helped to climb the swaying ladder of creepers, thick as Nuno's muscular arm and strongly bound with pliable liana.
It was in more ways than one an unnerving experience for Morvenna, and once she missed her footing and slipped right into Nuno's arms. Swiftly, before she could come to harm, she was caught close against his warm, supple body. He laughed against her hair and murmured something in his own language.
"I — I'm sorry to be so clumsy," she said breathlessly.
"No, you are doing well for a novice." Now they were right in among the leaf-laden branches of the tree. "A few steps more and we arrive."
She breathed a sigh of relief as she felt the sudden firmness of the platform on which the tree-house was erected. Nuno swung to the platform beside her, and she saw with amazement that the thatched beehive was fairly large and cleverly constructed between the tree they had climbed and another that stood a few yards away.
"Up here among the trees, I have as you see a flower garden." Nuno indicated the many flowers that grew high up, seeking the sun. The wild orchids that clung like live things to the hairy palm trunks, the garlands of gay lianas, and iridescent birds. These birds flew in pairs, as did the crystal-blue butterflies. It was as though the island was Eden itself; where love was wild and innocent.
"They love on the wing," Nuno murmured. "What could be more beautiful ?"
"Surely you don't live up here all the time ?" Morvenna said prosaically. "I shouldn't imagine it would be very comfortable when the rains arrive."
"It is a fair-weather house," he agreed with a Latin shrug and smile. "You would like to see inside, no ?" "Yes, please."
"My house is your house, senhorita." He swept aside the bamboo strip curtain and bowed her in gallantly. Light came in through a small window, and she saw that the one room was walled with palm-bark. Palm-posts supported the roof, and the floor was of resilient split-bamboo. There was a table of bamboo, a hammock slung between the roof supports, a couple
of stools, a Primus stove and a shelf of cooking utensils.
"I have books as well." He proudly indicated a shelf of paperback romances and thrillers. "My sister likes to read the romances — love, you understand, is all she has in her head."
"You keep surprising me, Nuno." Morvenna gazed with fascination at some Indian dancing masks which he had hung on the wall as decoration. The masks were carved from a kind of soft, dark wood and were very demoniacal. "Where does your sister live ?"
"
Raya has her own house in the village. We are of independent nature and much alike, for we are twins. Would you like a drink, senhorita? This is made from jungle fruits and is very refreshing."
"Thank you, Nuno." She accepted the fruit drink, which he poured out from a calabash into polished coconut cups. He touched his own cup to hers and murmured, "Salud. "
She drank, and was astonished at how good the jungle juice was. In coconut cups, indeed. Nuno Sebastian was a romantic ! Perhaps all Brazilians were, behind their facade of ruthless good looks and dominant assurance.
A bright macaw fluttered in through the window and perched on Nuno's shoulder. It cast cheeky glances at Morvenna, then squawked, "Ate a vista. Ate a vista !"
"Be quiet, you old sinner," Nuno said with a laugh. "The young lady has only just got here."
"He's a gorgeous colour," Morvenna said admiringly. "Does he say anything else but good-bye for now ?"
"Give him one of those bananas, senhorita, and he will thank you." The macaw strutted on his perch and
spread his cluster of bright feathers as Morvenna peeled a banana and held it out to him. He pecked at it, gave her the eye, then said clearly, "Ate a vista."
She and Nuno laughed together. "So you have a twin sister," she said. "Did you both live with the Indians? Really? How did it come about, Nuno, if you don't mind my curiosity ?"
"I am honoured that you are interested, senhorita." He gave her one of those charming Latin bows. "Twenty years ago the mother of Raya and myself was carried off into the bush by Indians. She was a white woman, my father also. He had a rubber plantation, but this Chief of the Incalas had seen my mother and wished to have her, and in those days there was more wildness in the people of the island and the Chief was not like the one they have now. My father put up a fight, but an arrow from a blowpipe killed him, and my mother was carried off to the camp of the Incalas.
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