The kisses and the wine

by Violet Winspear

  `Gracias, Florentina.' He gave his cook a warm smile, and once again he directed at Lise an intent look, which seemed

  to fill her clear eyes with his Latin darkness. 'Well, amada, shall we eat supper together? I can assure you that Florentina is the best cook in the whole of El Serafin. She is herself from Galicia and has brought with her all the cookery arts of that famous region, and she will not forgive you if you permit her empanada to grow cold.'

  He held out a hand, the left one on which gleamed the wide band of his ring, set with an emerald that shone like a small malevolent eye. Lise tensed herself for contact with his hand, and then his fingers had gripped hers and she was drawn to her feet. She looked up wildly at his face, and it was so adamant that it might have been carved from tawny teak; his lean fingers gripped hers and he made her walk with him to the table where Florentina had set out the plates and cutlery, and removed the speckless linen which had covered her pie. Lise saw that it had a decorative golden top to it, into which was baked the family coat of arms.

  `Our escutcheon,' he said smoothly, 'is a hawk, a tower and a lily. It makes a pretty picture, eh?'

  He drew out a chair for Lise and as she sat down she caught the aroma of the pie as Florentina sliced into it. Lise was only human and she weakened to that delectable smell of meat, gravy and sliced onion.

  `It smells heavenly,' she said, and when Florentina glanced inquiringly at the Conde he smiled and translated the English words. The plump cook, with glistening black hair drawn back from a rather nice face, broke into a smile that showed several golden teeth which gave her at once a roguish look. She broke into quick Spanish, which Lise could not take in, in her present state of mind.

  `Florentina thanks you for the compliment,' said the Conde, shaking out his table napkin to spread it on his knees. 'She says that I am fortunate to have a novia who appreciates good food.'

  Lise bit her lip, for he was pushing her further and further into the quicksand of his deception. She wanted to protest to Florentina that she was not his novia, had never been so, for his existence had not been known to her until he had come upon her out of the darkness . . . like Lord Pluto himself! Lise sought for the Spanish words that would explain the truth to his cook, but they had fled for the moment, and left her mind blank of the language she had been studying for the past four months.

  She gave a start as the door closed behind Florentina . she was alone with Leandro de Marcos Reyes and there was nothing she could do for the moment but tuck into the empanada . which tasted as delicious as it looked.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE castillo which towered above the region of El Serafin was a truly splendid example of Spanish architecture, preserved down the years and kept in good structural condition by the de Marcos Reyes family. Set there against a background of mountains and forest it looked exactly right, and in daylight it could be seen that its stone walls were a dark tawny shade, with the turrets pointing into the blue sky, graceful, proud and strong.

  It was the kind of place which had always housed a proud and determined set of people, and Lise was very aware of this as she came in from the veranda where she had been standing and met again the dove-like eyes of the portrait over the fireplace. She had slept deeply in the bed with the crown-shaped canopy and long silk drapes to enclose it from draughts, moths or shadows. It had a carved headrest, a long stool at the foot of it, and that portrait on the wall of the woman who had used the room long ago.

  Lise still found it hard to believe that Leandro de Marcos Reyes had been born of such a gentle-faced creature. She had such a quiet beauty as she sat there in the golden frame, the blue-grey folds of her velvet dress falling about a slim, girlish figure; her only jewellery apart from her marriage ring a jewelled crucifix on a gold chain. Her dark hair was looped back in a madonna style from her brow, and Lise remembered what he had said last night ... his mother had come from a convent to be the bride of his father, but the marriage had not been a successful one.

  It had been, Lise thought, a case of a dove mating with a hawk . . . and the result had been a man who swooped on

  whatever took his relentless fancy.

  She, a thoroughly respectable and law-abiding British girl, was the latest victim of that fancy, and she felt like a fly in a gilded web as she gazed around the bedroom to which she had been brought last night, and in which she had slept the deep sleep of the exhausted.

  Now in the morning light she was wide awake, and she was curious, and in the grip of a reluctant admiration of her surroundings. There was no doubt that never in her life before had she slept in such a beautiful room, set within the tower of a Spanish castle. She had realized that she was housed within a tower when she had gone out on the veranda and found it semi-circular and poised above a deep drop to the courtyard below. She had gazed over the stone parapet and there below had gushed and bloomed the blue jacarandas he had talked about during supper in that book room lined with rich Cordoban leather.

  She gazed intently at the portrayed face of his mother and tried to find in the gentle features some resemblance to Leandro de Marcos Reyes, but there was none, and she came to the conclusion that he must look like his father. Or perhaps his grandmother, that formidable old lady who insisted that he take a bride and ensure the continuation of the Marcos Reyes line. Lise didn't doubt that he would do just that, in his own good time, but in the meantime he meant to conciliate the Condesa by producing a fake fiancée, and he had picked on Lise to play the part.

  Suddenly it was as if the pictured eyes of his mother caught and held her own; they were large, reflective and brown, and they seemed to hold two deep wells of sadness, as if she had tried with all her soul to make her marriage a happy one. What had gone wrong? Had she been too spiritual for the man she had been chosen to marry? Had she been too gentle of heart, with not enough fight or challenge

  in her to please a proud, hard, passionate Spaniard?

  Gazing at the face that was the shape of a heart, dominated by the beautiful eyes, Lise felt certain that she had hit upon the truth. How could a dove hope to please a hawk... and the present Conde was afraid of the same kind of marriage for himself He had said very emphatically that he wished to marry a woman of the world . . . the kind of woman of whom his grandmother would be unlikely to approve, for she would not be the kind that a matriarch could dominate, as she more than likely dominated her ward. A lovely girl, he had said, but not the one he wished to marry.

  The eyes of his mother seemed fixed upon the young, spirited, upraised face of Lise Harding, and there seemed to be a sort of pleading in those eyes.

  For what was she asking? The heart within Lise's breast seemed to race ... oh, no, she could not stay here to play a part in a masquerade which could lead to all sorts of complications. She was a, stranger to these people, and it was wrong of Leandro de Marcos Reyes to accept as a stroke of destiny their meeting on that mountain road; to see in her a fortuitous answer to his dilemma.

  She turned away from the portrait of the woman in grey-blue velvet and saw that the sun through the windows was lighting up the apartment and revealing its beauty. There was a wonderful lidded vase on a small carved table of shiny black wood, a striking contrast to the enamelled surface of the vase. In a recess of the wall there was a display of lovely, delicate fans of lace, ivory and paintwork. The wallpaper was patterned with delicate leaves and small golden lilies, and there were wall-lamps with little gold parchment shades. All the furniture was of dark, richly carved wood, but the sheen to it made it seem silken, and beneath her bare feet Lise could feel the thick, smooth carpet.

  She didn't wish to respond to the room, the portrait, or the

  castle, but she had a romantic nature, and perhaps deep down in her heart she had hoped to find herself in a place like this when she had come to Spain. The golden beaches of the Costa del Sol had not appealed to her and she had made no attempt to visit the popular and fashionable places. As her gaze took in each article of this bedroom she felt the urge
in her fingers to touch and caress. Her eyes held a grave and questioning look as they dwelt on the curving walls .. . did she regard herself as a prisoner of the Conde's castle? Did it really lie in her power to escape from the man who had brought her here ... and did she really and truly wish to escape?

  Her thought was interrupted, the answer to it suspended as there came a tap at the bedroom door and it was opened to reveal a young, dark maid carrying a breakfast tray.

  `Buenos dias, senorita.' Even as the maid smiled, she flashed a quick look over Lise, who immediately guessed that the staff had been busy talking about the `inglesa novia' and as a flush swept over her face she saw a little knowing gleam come into the Spanish girl's eyes. She thought Lise was flushing because she was under observation as the bride, to-be of the dark and handsome Conde. The girl wasn't to know that Lise was feeling as guilty as if she had been caught stealing something.

  `The senorita will take her breakfast in bed?'

  Lise had been wandering about in her robe, but she didn't wish to return to bed and she indicated that the tray be placed on the table that stood between the windows that opened on to the veranda.

  `Si.' The girl did her bidding, and as Lise took her seat at the table the sun flared through the windows and tangled itself in the fair disorder of her hair, which had almost a marigold shine to it, but was of a soft, fine texture which made a formal hairstyle an impossibility. All she could do

  was comb it and clip it away from her eyes, and it was this informal brightness of her hair which gave her the illusion of being so young.

  'What is your name?' Her rather uncertain Spanish had returned and she was so pleased with herself that she smiled and looked far less anxious and trapped.

  I am called Rienta, senorita. I am to be your maid and when you have finished your food I will return to help you with your toilet.'

  'But I don't need any help.' Lise gave a startled laugh and took the top off her boiled egg. 'I'm not used to having a maid and—'

  'My orders come from the Senor Conde.' Rienta looked a trifle shocked that his novia should say she was unaccustomed to being helped to bathe and dress. 'It is promotion for me, senorita, and I do hope you will not refuse to have me for your maid. The senor would think that I do not suit you—'

  `Oh, it's nothing personal,' Lise said hastily. 'I'm from England, as you know, and we don't have maids any more -- oh dear, I can see that you are anxious about your job. Very well, Rienta, if the senor insists that I have a personal maid, then I suppose we had better comply with his imperial wishes.'

  Lise took a bite of her egg and it wasn't until she caught the astounded widening of Rienta's eyes that she realized what she had said. She had not only been mildly imprudent, but she had more or less allowed it to be understood that she was his English fiancée. And the Spanish girl, with a delighted smile, was leaving her for the moment to return to the kitchen with the news that she was acceptable to the novia and from now on would have a more important and congenial occupation in the household.

  `Rienta!'

  `You require something else, senorita?'

  Lise looked into the dark and sparkling Spanish eyes and the words would not come . . . she couldn't say what should be said and see bewilderment, perhaps scorn come into the eyes that looked at her and liked her. The sun flowed warm through the windows from the Spanish sky, and Lise had been assured that the masquerade would only last for a few days.

  She smiled at the girl. 'Please tell Florentina that my breakfast is very nice.'

  `Si, senorita.' The girl gave an old-fashioned bob which was not out of place in castle surroundings, so far away from the informalities and rather dull activities of Lise's life in England. 'We all wish to make the senor's novia feel at home.' The door closed behind Rienta, and Lise bit her lip as she buttered a piece of toasted bread. Well, she had committed herself and must now play her part as the Conde's mythical fiancée. She bit into her slice of toast and thanked heaven that Spanish couples were far less demonstrative than English couples, and were not allowed to really give way to affectionate feeling until the actual wedding took place. It would have been an impossible situation had she been expected to act the ardent bride-to-be, hanging on his every word and glance, and almost faint with longing.

  All he required, thank heaven, was her English presence at the castle in order to prevent the Condesa from handing him her ward as his future bride. If he openly refused the girl, he would make it seem that she was not good enough for him, and Lise believed that Latin people took very seriously these real or imagined slights to their matrimonial desirability. A Latin girl openly refused by a conde, a man of title and position, might be doomed to spinsterhood, which in Spain was about the most awful thing which could happen to a girl . . . so Lise had heard. But if he could produce a

  bona fide fiancée the girl named Anastasia was let off gracefully, his grandmother was conciliated for the time being, and Lise spent the latter part of her holiday as a guest at a picturesque castle.

  Lisa finished her breakfast with an orange, probably plucked from one of the trees down in the courtyard, and as she tasted the sweetness of it, she hoped that nothing bitter would spring from this masquerade between herself and Leandro de Marcos Reyes. She glanced again at the portrait of his mother, but there was nothing there of his dark and penetrating eyes, his firmly sculptured nose with the tempered nostrils, or his mouth which combined the sardonic with the passionate.

  Lise was unsurprised that she recalled his face so vividly. Once seen it was a countenance hard to forget. ' Spaniard, of lightning and fire,' she thought, as she finished her coffee.

  Rienta returned to the Dove Suite, and Lise submitted to the attentions of a maid for the first time in her life. Her bath was run for her, and when she entered the bathroom she couldn't suppress a gasp of admiring astonishment. It had a glazed shower, a toilet in its own blue alcove, and set within a lining of mirrors was the sunken tub. It was extremely sybaritic to have belonged to a bride who had come from a convent, and as Lise slipped into the scented water, she wondered what had been the reaction of that dove-like creature when she had arrived here to be the wife of a man she had never met before the wedding. It seemed a barbaric practice to Lise, and a little shiver ran through her as she thought again of the present Conde.

  Thank heaven she was only a make-believe novia and had no need to fear him as a real lover.

  When Lise climbed out of her bath, Rienta was waiting to wrap her in a large soft towel, and there was in her eyes

  an expression of wonderment as they dwelt on Lise's slim white shoulders.

  `Are all English people so lily-skinned?' she asked. 'Even the men?'

  Lise broke into a smile. 'My brother Bob wouldn't care to be called lily-skinned, but I suppose our men haven't the tawny-gold look of your Spaniards. When they toast themselves in the sun they go a sort of tan colour, which I must admit is rather attractive, but the trouble is it soon fades away. In England we don't get days and days of sunshine.'

  `You mean it is cold, like the tops of the sierras? I should not like that, senorita, and I understand why you came to Spain to be a bride.'

  `Oh, but I shan't be marrying the Conde just yet.' Lise flushed again and hastened into the adjoining bedroom. 'I—I have merely come to El Serafin to meet the Condesa. She may not approve of me.'

  Lise was suddenly aware that she would have to learn to be more composed each time her supposed relationship to the Conde was mentioned. At the moment her fingers were shaking as she slipped into her lingerie, and she could feel how her cheeks were burning as Rienta looked at her. But there was a smiling indulgence in the Spanish girl's eyes, as if she thought that Lise was shy. She had unpacked Lise's suitcase and now she stood looking at the everyday apparel she had taken from it. The cotton shirts, and the spare trouser-suit, and the single dress of white, sleeveless piqué.

  `Is your other luggage to be sent on, senorita?'

  `Y-yes,' Lise fabricated. A visiting f
iancée would be bound to have more clothes than she had brought with her on her driving holiday, and if the mythical luggage failed to arrive it would be assumed that it had got lost in transit. 'I'll wear the blue shirt and the fawn trousers, and save the dress for this evening.'

  'Yes, senorita.' But Rienta obviously disapproved of the trousers as she handed them to Lise. Her manner said quite plainly that the Senor Conde wore the trousers around the castle and that was as it should be.

  'Trouser suifs are very fashionable in my country,' Lise explained. 'They are so comfortable and casual.'

  'The Senorita Ana wears trousers only when she rides, and then it is the Cordoban style, the divided skirt, you understand, with a short jacket and the hard-brimmed hat. She looks very charming in the outfit.' As Rienta said this she looked at Lise with a hint of injured patriotism in her glance, as if the members of this household, and very' possibly the residents of the region, had expected the Senor Conde to become betrothed to a Spanish girl.

  Lise felt again the fraudulence of her position here, and she was about to rush into words that would end it all when there was a sudden demanding rap on her bedroom door. Rienta had been brushing Lise's hair, and now they both stared into the mirror at each other, and the words which Lise had been about to say were hushed like birds at the approach of a hawk. The accelerated beat of her heart told who was at the door and a sense of panic seized her. She didn't want to see him . . . she wanted an end to this game they were playing before it became dangerous.

  I had better open the door, senorita. It may be the senor.'

  Each nerve in Lise's body told her that it was he, and she sat tensely at the dressing table as Rienta went to the door and opened it. He stood there looking every bit as tall and demanding as she remembered him from last night, only this morning he was wearing a white shirt open at the throat, breeches and long boots, and in his hand he carried a whip.

  'Good morning,' he said in English. 'May I come in? I see that you are dressed.'