The Abducted Heart (Sweetly Contemporary Collection)

by Blake, Jennifer

  She could not stay here in bed doing nothing. It might be hours before someone came. She had to get up. Perhaps if she had some kind of medication she would be able to move about enough to dress herself and be ready to leave on time. In her pain-filled mind, that seemed more important than anything else. It was a goal to fasten her will and her strength upon.

  By slow degrees she got out of bed and made her way, holding to the furniture, to the door. Surely, she reasoned as she paused after each movement, her appearance at the señor’s door this morning could not be misunderstood. In any case, if he touched her, she would scream, she would not be able to help herself.

  She unlocked the door with difficulty. The hall outside stretched dark except for a single pool of light cast by a hanging lantern onto the crimson, Arabesque hall runner. There did not appear to be another soul stirring in the house.

  An instant later, Anne realized her mistake. A thin line of light was coming from beneath one of the doors just up the hall from her own. Taking a deep breath, she moved toward it.

  A woman’s voice answered her knock. Anne’s relief was short-lived however, for the woman who opened the panel was not María. She was tall and slim, with aquiline features plus the self-possessed air and telltale lines of a woman in her late twenties or early thirties. Her black hair was pared in the center and drawn back into a knot of uncompromising severity on the nape of her neck. She wore a plain robe of fawn velvet that did nothing to relieve the sallowness of her complexion, and her thin-lipped mouth looked as though it had never relaxed into a smile. Her shallow brown eyes widened in shock at the sight of Anne, then an unbecoming flush of anger surged to her hairline.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “I’m Anne Matthews. I came with Señor Castillo,” Anne answered the questions painstakingly. “Do you have an aspirin — anything for pain? I have a terrible headache.”

  “What do you mean, you came with Señor Castillo? I demand an explanation!”

  Anne put her hand to her head. The shrill timbre of the woman’s voice seemed to slice into her brain. “On the plane — from Dallas,” she replied in a low murmur.

  “From Dallas!” The woman bit her lip. “You — you are perhaps a new secretary Ramón has hired for his American operations?”

  Anne shook her head. “Please...”

  “Then I am waiting for you to explain what you are doing here, and why you are wearing the night gown of Ramón’s sister, Estela?” the woman exclaimed, holding her hands together at her waist, her mouth tight with disapproval as she surveyed the soft curves of Anne’s breasts just visible through the lace bodice of the gown in the light falling from inside the room.

  Anne’s patience and endurance was wearing thin. “I am here because Señor Castillo insisted that I stay with him. As for the gown, I had nothing to wear.”

  “So Señor Castillo insisted, did he?” the woman sneered. “I should think you might call him by his given name then, considering...”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Anne began.

  “You should be very proud,” the other woman rushed on. “Yes, proud that you have caused Ramón to alter the principles of a lifetime for your sake.”

  From the corner of her eye, Anne was aware of the approach of a black-garbed figure. It was the housekeeper, María, hastening in their direction, making futile quieting motions with her hands. Inside the door, the other woman was not aware of her advance, or of the appearance in the hall from another room of a frail older woman wrapped in a lace-edged dressing gown.

  “I only hope,” the black-haired woman continued in her tirade, “that you do not live to regret dragging Ramón down to your level, or see the day when he will despise you for it.”

  “It isn’t like that,” Anne tried to say, though her voice was so weak she doubted the other woman heard her.

  She did however. “Isn’t it? Isn’t it indeed? You needn’t deny it. If you were not his woman, his traveling companion, why would Ramón allow you to invade the privacy of his plane, off-limits to his own relatives? Why would he bring you into his home and dress you in his sister’s wardrobe? Tell me that! Explain it to me. I am waiting.”

  “Why, indeed, Irene?” The question came in the faintly querulous voice of an elderly woman in a temper. “It may be,” she went on, “that I have more faith in my grandson than you, but it appears to me there is another explanation.”

  “Tía Isabel!” the thin woman identified as Irene cried, stepping forward into the hall, brushing both Anne and the nurse aside. “What are you doing out of bed?”

  “You know I seldom sleep this time of morning. I came to see what the disturbance was, and here I find you abusing a guest. What kind of conduct is this, I ask you? You take too much on yourself.”

  Irene picked up one of the small hands of the elderly woman, caressing the fine, parchment-colored skin. “This woman has come with Ramón,” she explained in a soothing tone. “In my hurt and anger that he should bring such disgrace to this house I may have let my temper have too free a rein. Forgive me.”

  With a soft mutter of distress, the housekeeper moved closer to the old woman, but her mistress waved her to one side.

  “And what,” Doña Isabel asked, “has led you to believe that Ramón would disgrace his home? Have you proof of this extraordinary statement?”

  Flinging out her hand in Anne’s direction, Irene declared, “There is your proof.”

  The elderly woman lifted fine old eyes to Anne’s pale face. Her aristocratic features were lined with age, but there could be no doubt this was Señor Castillo’s grandmother. Anne, holding to her composure by sheer willpower, returned the searching regard of the older woman for long moments. She thought, as the wise old eyes turned away, that something like warmth had risen in their depths.

  “I see only an attractive young woman who looks far from well,” Doña Isabel announced in firm tones.

  “Por favor, señora,” the housekeeper pleaded, adding what had the sound of a warning admonition in her native tongue. When no one paid the slightest attention to her, she eased away down the hall.

  “Tía Isabel, must I put into words what I suspect?” Irene asked.

  “I am afraid you must,” the old woman told her without the least sign of understanding.

  “This woman, I fear she is the — the mistress, the kept woman, of Ramón.”

  “That is a vicious thing to say of a young woman who is my grandson’s guest. I would not have thought it of you. There is a much more likely explanation that occurs to me.”

  Irene stiffened as at the expectation of a blow. “And that is?"‘

  “That she is the novia, the — how do you say? — fiancée of Ramón, whom he has brought to me so that I might come to know her, and to bless their union.” Lifting her voice, she went on, “Is that not right, Ramón?”

  Señor Castillo, with María trotting at his heels, came striding down the hall, tying the belt of his robe as he walked. That he was in a rage was plain from the frown between his eyes, and yet he checked at his grandmother’s words, his dark gaze holding hers as he came on more slowly. He took her hand in a casual gesture of support.

  “Should you be out of bed, Abuelita?” he asked quietly.

  “I was awake early, as usual, and heard Irene browbeating this young woman. How could I not intervene?”

  “Browbeating?” Irene exclaimed. She would have said more had Ramón Castillo not raised his hand in an imperious command for silence.

  “Browbeating,” the old woman repeated with great firmness. “She was being unspeakably rude to her, hinting at a clandestine relationship carried on brazenly beneath this roof. I felt compelled to tell her such was not, could not be, the case. That I was certain, in fact, that your explanation for the presence of so attractive a young woman must be quite otherwise.”

  Ramón Castillo made no reply. A furrow of concentration between his brows, he stared at his grandmother.

 
Irene broke the silence. “Is it true? Is she your fiancée?”

  “This is neither the time nor the place to discuss such things,” he said abruptly, flicking a quick glance in Anne’s direction. As they talked, Anne had moved back slightly to lean against the wall. Noticing her wan appearance, Señor Castillo’s frown deepened.

  “I see,” Irene breathed. “You do not deny it. How dare you? How dare you? We had an understanding.”

  It was the old woman who answered. “Dare, Irene? Why should he not? Don’t, please, carry on like a — like a Victorian novel. This is the twentieth century. Your father and my son, Ramón’s father, may have spoken of a marriage between you when you were both in your cradles, but the only understanding was in your own mind.”

  María, hovering anxiously, put her hand on the elderly woman’s arm. “Doña Isabel,” she pleaded.

  Irene threw up her head. “Ramón, will you let your grandmother speak for you?”

  The señor lifted a brow. “I doubt that I could better what she has said.”

  An angry spot of color appeared on the woman’s cheekbones as she turned to Doña Isabel. “I knew that you resented me. I did not know that you had poisoned Ramón’s mind against me as well. All right. I will not stay here and be insulted. I will go, now, at once! Perhaps then you will be happy. But when this weak American with her pale face and her headaches in the middle of the night has taken from both of you all you have to give and then gone on her way, I hope that you will think of me, and know what you threw away.”

  Spitting the last words at them, she whirled back into her bedroom and slammed the door.

  The old woman sighed, her shoulders sagging. “I might have known she would take it like that,” she said, half to herself.

  “Yes, you might,” her grandson replied. “Am I to take it that was not your object?”

  “No,” Doña Isabel answered, a reluctant smile twitching at her mouth. “You were always too perceptive, Ramón.”

  He ignored the last. “You look well,” he said. “It would seem quarreling is good for you.”

  “There is a certain truth in that. I was never so ill as to send for you, however. That was Irene’s doing. I grew so tired of her meddling with my routine, rearranging the household to suit herself, and telling me every day that I look more ill than the day before that I took to my bed and refused to see either her or the doctor she had called in place of my own family physician. She panicked, I think. Never have I been so angry as when I heard she had sent for you, taking you away from your business concerns for nothing. If you want her back, I will apologize, of course, but otherwise, no.”

  “I do not consider your well-being nothing. I had no idea that I was leaving you in such bad hands,” her grandson said seriously.

  “I have tried to tell you, though I must admit she has grown worse this last time you were away. But never mind that. You are sure you are not angry? You have no regrets?”

  Anne thought he hesitated a moment before he leaned forward to kiss the soft crepe skin of Doña Isabel’s cheek. “None, so long as you are happy.”

  “And this child here?” she said, indicating Anne. “I think something was said of a headache, and indeed, she doesn’t look at all well.”

  As they all three turned to face her, Anne tried to smile. She felt oddly embarrassed, as though she had been watching a play and the actors had suddenly asked her to come on stage. There was a nimbus of light around the old lady’s white hair and also around Señor Castillo’s dark, arrogant head. The housekeeper seemed to be peering at her with less animosity than she had previously shown. “I’m sorry,” Anne whispered. “I didn’t mean to be so much trouble. I only wanted something for my headache.”

  “Don Ramón...”

  Anne heard the housekeeper’s warning accents; then, though she had not been aware that she was falling, she felt herself caught up and swung high against a man’s chest. She was carried a short way, then placed on the yielding softness of a mattress. When she opened her eyes, she saw through the blur of tears of pain, the rose-colored hangings of her bed. Señor Castillo was a wavering shape beside the bed. Before she could gather her thoughts to speak, he was gone.

  He returned almost immediately. With an arm behind her back, he helped her to sit up. He shook out a capsule from a small bottle and put it into her hand, then gave her a glass of water. When she had taken the capsule, she sank back down on the pillows and closed her eyes. After a moment, she felt the light touch of a sheet and blanket being tucked around her.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. In the recesses of her mind, she realized the señor still stood beside the bed staring down at her. She moved restlessly, disturbed by something she did not understand in his silence. A long moment later she heard his footsteps receding. The door dosed behind him.

  Three

  Sleep. She wanted the drifting unconsciousness to go on forever, and yet she wanted also to awaken. She could not quite achieve either state. Vaguely, she knew when a short, dapper Mexican with a Vandyke beard came to examine her. His probing fingers at her temple made her head start to pound once more. The capsule he gave her was much like the one Señor Castillo had brought to her, and had much the same effect. She drank some beef bonbon through a straw at the insistence of the Spanish nurse, but went back to sleep before she could manage to eat the crackers that came with it. Once, she opened her eyes to see the señor silhouetted against the moonlight beyond her window, staring out in a brooding absorption. When she looked again, he was gone. A young girl she thought of as a maid flitted in and out of the room at odd hours, always trying to be quiet, never quite succeeding. It was she who found Anne awake at last.

  “Buenas dias,” she said, a smile spreading over her round face. “Good morning. Is that not right?”

  With a slow nod, Anne returned the greeting. The movement brought no pain. Her headache was gone.

  Seeing her sudden smile, the maid said. “You are better this morning, no? The doctor, he say you can get up if you feel like it.”

  “What time is it?” Anne asked, nudged by a vague feeling that it was important.

  “It is after eight o’clock in the morning, señorita. You have had a good sleep?”

  The girl’s laugh was infectious. Anne found herself smiling before she realized that the joke was on her.

  “How — how long have I been here?” she asked, a shade of anxiety in her voice.

  “It is not to worry, señorita,” the maid replied soothingly. “It is only two days.”

  Two days! Anne sat up straight in bed. “And today is—”

  “Monday, señorita.”

  “It can’t be,” she cried in horror; still, even as she said it, she knew there was no mistake. What in the world would Judy and Iva and Joe be thinking? They would have a missing-person bulletin out for her at the very least, especially if they found Judy’s car deserted at the airport. Throwing back the sheet, she swung her legs off the bed.

  “Wait, señorita, let me help you,” the maid exclaimed, hurrying around the bed. “There is no need for such haste. I will bring your coffee, and perhaps you will take breakfast in bed, no?”

  “No,” Anne answered “I have to get up and get dressed, right now. I have to speak to Señor Castillo. Where are my clothes?”

  “They have been cleaned and pressed, and I, Carmelita, hung them away in the wardrobe with my own hands. But, señorita, you will make yourself ill again if you get up too soon. Please to have breakfast slowly in bed, then I will run your bath and lay out your clothes. That is the way. Besides, Don Ramón has not left his room to go down to the patio for breakfast, and he sees no one before then. For my life I would not disturb him, not me!”

  Daunted by such a heartfelt declaration, Anne paused. After a moment, she asked, “What about after breakfast?”

  “That would be much better. While you are making yourself ready I will speak to Pedro, Don Ramón’s secretary, and see what may be arranged.”

  Irritation
with such formality touched Anne, then receded. “Thank you,” she replied.

  The light of the sun was blinding after the dim interior of the house. Anne stood for a moment in the doorway to let her eyes adjust. The patio, including the dim recess under the arched and columned loggia that encompassed it on four sides, was large. It was paved with gray stone except for a circle of yellow and blue geometric tiles that made a base for a sparkling fountain. Orange trees lifted their glossy branches to shade one corner. Under the loggia hung baskets of enormous ferns and flowering begonias. Fine green moss grew between the cracks of the floor. Hardy ferns lined the edge of the loggia, and placed at intervals were large terra-cotta pots filled with cascades of white petunias growing around the bases of red geraniums. Through an arched opening in the wall closed by an iron grill could be seen an expanse of the garden and the wall that bounded the property. Roses and sweet peas clambered over the wall, a pink and magenta and rose mass of fragrance with bees drunkenly picking and choosing among them.

  Glancing up from his paper, señor Castillo caught sight of her hovering there under the arcade. He rose to his feet at once, tossing aside the paper, and held out a chair for her at the glass-topped wrought-iron table where he had been sitting.

  “Coffee?” he asked as he resumed his place. A coffee service of heavy, polished silver sat before him on a tray though all evidence of his breakfast had been removed. Since it would give her something to do with her hands, Anne agreed. He poured it out and, without consulting her, added sugar before passing the cup to her.

  “You are rested?” he asked, his narrowed gaze on the pale fragility of her face as he sat back with his own cup.

  “Yes, perfectly,” she answered, “though I must apologize for the trouble I have caused.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “I’m sure it was awkward for you. I — I would like to thank you for taking care of me.” It was difficult to go on in the face of his apparent indifference, but she had to have his cooperation. It might be days before she could untangle the mess she was in and return home without his help. “I cannot quite remember, but it seems I must have told you that I have friends, my employers and my roommate, who will be worried about me. Do you know — is there some way I could get in touch with them and let them know I am all right?”