Judith paused, panting, to take in the scenery; the village huddled far below, and above her the gorse and ferns of the cliffs, studded here and there with an isolated house. She carried a small rucksack on her back, with a book, an apple and a can of lemonade, intending to picnic and take full advantage of the long walk if her search were fruitless. She decided she liked the village very much. If Rafael was nowhere to be found she might stay here just the same, lie on the beach if the weather was kind, do some walking and running; have herself a quiet, healthy holiday and put all thoughts of him out of her head. But not yet. Not until she had searched every nook and cranny of Morfa first.
Judith set out again up the narrow road which soon swerved upward and inland to climb the headland above the bay, and toiled on until she reached a farm track which forked off the steep, winding lane. At the entrance to the track she found a sign on a post half-buried in brambles, and was just able to make out the word 'Brynmorfa', which sounded promising. She hoisted her rucksack more securely and set off down the ridged track. Casting a doubtful look at the sky, which was suddenly dark and threatening, she broke into a sprint as the first heavy drops of rain began to fall, and in seconds she was soaked to the skin, annoyed with herself for leaving her waterproof cagoule behind, but brightening in spite of the downpour when she found the bramble hedge gave way to a dry stone wall which continued for some distance until she came to a white five-barred gate, firmly secured with padlock and chain.
Hunched against the driving rain, Judith peered at the house which stood behind the walls. It was larger than the others nearer the village; a grander relation, but built of the same stone, and in the same uncompromising form. Under a slate roof satin-dark with rain, the house stood foursquare, durable and hardy, impervious to wind and weather, with five sashed windows on the upper storey and four at ground level bisected by a small porch whose stout wooden door stood tightly shut under a white-painted canopy of wood. Judith slumped despondently against the gate, careless of the rain, disappointment permeating coldly right through to her bones. The house looked deserted, the windows closed and blank. Quite obviously no one. was inside. So much for her hopes. She sniffed miserably as a few hot tears ran down her cheeks to mingle with the rain. Judith trudged a little further past the gate, skirting the high boundary wall of Brynmorfa's garden. The wall made it difficult to see the back of the house and the track eventually dwindled into a field which sloped down into a dingle behind Brynmorfa, leaving only a narrow footpath, slippery now with rain. With an effort Judith could just see the upper windows at the back by standing on tiptoe and craning her neck, and suddenly she sucked in her breath in excitement, her eyes lighting up. Two of the windows were open. Someone, whoever it might be, was in residence.
It could be a housekeeper, Judith warned herself. But the excitement deep inside her refused to admit the possibility. There was a gate in the wall, she found a moment later, with a circular wrought-iron handle. Judith turned it with caution but it moved only half way round and stuck. The gate was locked. She let out an explosive sigh. What should she do now? Judith looked at the wall with a measuring eye. It would take a pole vaulter to get over that. The rain was still sheeting down and belatedly Judith pulled the hood of her track suit top over her sodden head and pulled the drawstring tight. It seemed fairly obvious that the only way in to Brynmorfa was over the five-barred gate, so she retraced her footsteps along the path and back along the track by the wall, then swung herself over the gate, landing on the path inside with a squelch of wet rubber on gravel.
'You! You are trespassing!' A tall, familiar figure shot round the corner of the house, and Judith's heart did a somersault. 'This is private property—' Rafael stopped as she threw back her head, pushing the hood from her hair.
'Hello, Rafael,' she said quietly, and slid the rucksack from her shoulders. 'I hoped you might be here.'
He stared at her thunderstruck, his curling black hair flattening in the downpour. 'Judith?' His voice was hoarse, angry, and there was no welcome on his face as the surprise faded. He looked gaunt, dark shadows under eyes that were unrecognisably dull. Suddenly he came alive to the rain and her sodden state. 'You had better come in,' he said ungraciously and peered behind her suspiciously. 'You are alone?'
'Yes,' said Judith meekly and followed him round the house. The back door stood open and he stood aside for her to enter a large, farmhouse-style kitchen where the cupboards and fittings had been chosen to blend with a Welsh oak dresser, and solid oak table and Windsor chairs. Judith stood dripping on the red-tiled floor, suffering from a strong sense of anticlimax and rebuff, as Rafael silently handed her a towel and rubbed at his own hair with another. Head on one side, he scrutinised her face with a look that seemed to assess her reasons for being there, and was obviously not intending to speak first. The whole scene was very little like she'd imagined. Unknown even to herself until this moment she had cherished a picture of being clasped to his broad chest, Rafael eloquent with gratitude for her arrival. Instead of which there was a distinct chill in the air, an indifference almost bordering on hostility.
'I'm on holiday,' she said lamely at last.
'Es verdad?' he said sardonically. 'And just by chance you happen to choose Morfa for your vacation!'
'Martin mentioned how beautiful it is in this part of the world so I decided to tour in Honor's car.' Judith put the towel down and took a comb from her rucksack, tugging it through her hair to avoid his eyes. 'How are you, Rafael?'
He lifted one shoulder in a negligent gesture. 'I was fine.'
Judith's eyes kindled. 'Until my intrusion, you mean.'
'Your words, Judith, not mine.' His gaze was mocking.
'Martin never actually mentioned your name,' she felt bound to point out. 'He merely extolled the peaceful attractions of Morfa and I did my own detective-work from there on. Did it never occur to you that everyone would be—concerned?'
'I needed to spend time alone,' he said bleakly. 'The life I lead…' His mouth tightened and he turned away to stare through the window. 'Let us say I have never had much opportunity to be alone. Bryn, the owner of this house, came to see me at the clinic and offered me the use of Brynmorfa for as long as I needed it. We drove down here with enough food for an army, and then he left me to it, as you say.'
'To what?' asked Judith bluntly.
'To the contemplation of my immortal soul, querida,' he said with sudden bite. 'Unlike you, Judith, I have difficulty in "keeping things light". You must blame the mixture of Spaniard and Celt in my blood.'
Impulsively Judith went to him, laying a hand on his bare forearm, but to her dismay he moved deliberately away.
'Was—was the operation unsuccessful then?' she asked with difficulty.
'Why no. It was very successful. The growth was not malignant, as at first feared. It was removed very efficiently and now I can even talk again; a little hoarsely, as you can hear, but it improves each day.'
Judith gazed at him unhappily, at a loss for something to say. It hardly seemed possible that this was the man who'd made love to her with such heat and sent flowers so extravagantly one by one. Wishing miserably she had never set foot in Morfa she picked up her rucksack.
'I'll be on my way, then,' she said stiffly. 'I'm glad you're better.' Not that he looked it. 'I'll tell Martin I saw you. Goodbye.'
Rafael moved swiftly to bar her way. 'You cannot walk down to the village like that. You must dry your clothes, have a hot bath—'
'No! Please. I'll only get wet again.' Judith sidestepped to pass him, but he shut the door and leaned against it.
'You might as well stay now you are here,' he said, the hoarseness of his voice so foreign from its normal vibrance.
She looked at his inscrutable face doubtfully, then shrugged.
'Requested with such charm how can I refuse?'
Rafael's face relaxed a little and he led the way from the room. Judith followed him upstairs to a large, recently modernised bathroom, obviously once a
bedroom.
'Shall I try to find something for you to wear?' he asked politely.
'No, thank you. I'm wearing shorts and a top underneath; they should be all right.' She shivered suddenly. 'Perhaps a sweater, though—I'm a bit cold.'
'Yes, of course. Be quick, then.' Rafael closed the door and left her to strip off the wet track-suit. The shorts and top were a little damp, and she draped them on the radiator hoping they would dry while she was in the bath. She lay in the steaming water for ten blissful minutes or so before getting out reluctantly to towel herself dry. She put her black shorts and white cotton knit top back on. Her track shoes were sodden. Bare feet were preferable to squelching around in those, and she balanced the shoes carefully on the radiator and spread her track-suit to join them. As Judith combed the tangles from her damp hair in front of the mirror her reflection was something of a surprise. Even allowing for the effects of wind and rain there was an unusual glow on her face, her eyes bright with suppressed excitement. She gave herself a congratulatory smile; she had found Rafael, however cool his reception, and he had asked her to stay for a while too, which was a minor triumph.
To Judith's surprise Rafael was grilling some fish when she returned to the kitchen. The table was laid for two with a red-checked cloth, a basket of bread and a bowl of ready-tossed salad standing alongside a bottle of wine. He turned as she came in and gestured to a white sweater slung over the back of one of the chairs. His eyes flickered for an instant as they rested on her long brown legs and the clinging shirt, and he said brusquely.
The sweater will be big, but I don't care to venture among Olwen Tudor's possessions. Also I thought you might be hungry; I have prepared lunch.'
That's very kind of you,' she answered quietly, 'and the sweater will be fine.' In fact it was very large when she pulled it on, completely hiding her shorts from view, but she made no comment, smiling at him brightly. 'I'm much warmer now. The weather changed rather dramatically while I was on my way up here. It's quite a steep pull up from the village.'
'Is it? I wouldn't know.' Rafael turned back to the grill. 'I have never been down there. The road past the house also joins the Cardigan Road; it is unnecessary to go down into Morfa.'
'Oh, I see.' Which explained why his presence was unknown to the village. 'I heard in the Anchor that Brynmor Tudor was here recently,' said Judith. The landlord told me he had gone to Cardiff.'
'Bryn made a point of broadcasting the fact. So that I could be left in peace.' The dry sarcasm in Rafael's voice made Judith wince as he slid two large sizzling mackerel on to warmed plates with surprising deftness and carried them to the table.
'And at night?' she asked, sitting in the chair he held out for her. 'Aren't you afraid someone will see the lights?'
The sitting-room and my bedroom are at the back. Besides, very few people ever pass this way at night.' Gravely he offered her salad and poured wine into her glass. Judith tasted the fish and smiled across at him with surprised pleasure.
'This is delicious! I didn't know you could cook.'
'Why should you? We are virtual strangers, are we not?' The cool, quizzical look in his eyes chilled Judith.
'True,' she agreed, her smile fading. 'Where did the fish come from?'
Rafael jerked his head seawards. 'From down there in the bay, caught by Bryn himself and deep-frozen by his wife. Good, no?'
'Very good. So is the salad.' She smiled with deliberate friendliness, and some of the ice encasing him seemed to thaw as he looked at the long hair coiling damply over the wool of his own sweater.
'You look very young like that,' he said abruptly.
'I'm twenty-four,' she said, buttering a piece of bread. 'How old are you?'
'Thirty-nine.' Moodily he pushed his plate away and refilled their glasses. 'Centuries older than you in every way, Judith.'
'Age is a relative thing, Rafael—a state of mind, according to my mother.'
'You think so too?'
'Definitely. She has a habit of being annoyingly right.' Judith studied his sombre face, wondering just exactly how the operation had affected him. He was wearing an open-necked white shirt under a black sweater, but the blue cotton handkerchief knotted round his throat effectively hid any signs of a scar. He frowned as her eyes lingered on him.
'Why do you stare, Judith?'
She took the bull by the horns. 'I was wondering why you felt the need to hide away—to cut yourself off from all those who love you.'
Rafael's expressive mouth curled in derision as he sat twirling the stem of his wine-glass.
'And who are all these people who love me? The hangers-on who crowd around me at parties, enamoured by my success, my money; those who clamour for my autograph—'
'And buy your records and queue for hours to hear you sing,' put in Judith drily.
'Ah, but what about Rafael David the man?' he demanded, his voice raw as he leaned towards her. 'Not Don José, or Rudolpho or Faust, but me. The person behind the voice.'
'Well I, for one, had never really heard you sing before the concert in Hardwick,' said Judith matter-of-factly. 'Remember me? I'm one of the non-musical barbarians of the world!'
The brooding eyes softened a little.
'Yes. I remember well. You ran away to escape from me.'
'I wouldn't have put it quite like that. I meant that for me your musical side doesn't count very much, nor can you say it's the only bond between you and Martin, either. To him you're friend first and celebrity last.'
Rafael smiled faintly. 'Martin is different.'
'Then why wouldn't you stay with him to convalesce?' Judith persisted.
He lifted one shoulder in a bitter, expressive gesture. 'Because, chica, for once in my life I must struggle with this particular, private devil completely alone. No one can help me.'
Judith felt deflated, lacerated inwardly by the implication in his words. Her journey of discovery was shown up as nothing less than an intrusion after all, pointless and immature. She would have done better to leave him in peace.
'I'm sorry, Rafael. My intention was never to trespass on your privacy.' She rose briskly, avoiding his eyes as she took the lunch dishes to the sink. 'I—we were all worried. I just happened to have this holiday coming up, and Martin supplied me with a clue, so I gave in to impulse and followed it up.' She kept her back to him as she rinsed glasses and plates, stacking them with precision. 'I can tell Honor and Martin everything's fine, then, can I? Any messages?'
'You can give them my love,' he said huskily. 'Aunt Vinnie, too. Tell them—tell them that I need to put my house in order, I think you say.'
'I'll do that.' Judith dried the dishes rapidly and turned to face him, a polite smile firmly in place. 'There. Thank you so much for the lunch; now I think I'd better be on my way.' She pulled the sweater over her head and handed it to him, shivering a little without its warmth.
'Keep it on,' Rafael said brusquely, an odd expression on his face. 'You will catch cold.'
'No, I can't do that. I have no way of returning it.' Judith felt deeply depressed, and longed for escape; not only from Rafael, but from Morfa as well.
Rafael held out a hand in a gesture of appeal. 'Stay a little while longer. Drink coffee with me, Judith.' At once the roles were reversed. A surprising hint of entreaty lit Rafael's eyes with a little of their former lustre, and she responded to it involuntarily.
'I should go, Rafael.' She wavered visibly.
'Just for a few minutes, Judith.' His eyes held hers steadily.
'Just until my track-suit dries, then,' she said, capitulating.
He held out the sweater. 'Put it back on, chica?
'I'm not cold—really.'
Rafael drew in a deep breath. 'Put it on, Judith, please. Your shirt is damp. It is clinging to your—your body. For my sake, if not for yours, cover yourself.'
Colour flamed in Judith's face and she dived hastily into the sweater, pulling it over her head with speed, rolling up the sleeves without looking at the man w
atching her, suddenly feeling all bare legs and untidy hair. Rafael turned away to fill a percolator, and with his back to her told her to go on ahead to the small sitting room across the hall. Judith. went, glad to be alone for a moment, and curled up in one of the winged armchairs in the small cosy room, a copy of Horse and Hound open over her bare knees as camouflage by the time Rafael came in with a coffee tray.
'I have no cream,' he said as he put it down. 'Will you take it black?'
Judith nodded silently and accepted the strong, hot brew, sipping it quietly, conscious of Rafael's legs, clad in expensive black linen, stretching out in front of him opposite her.
'Are you cold?' he asked. 'I can light the fire—'
'No, really. I must be going soon.' Judith kept her eyes down, unwilling to meet Rafael's, but he leaned forward.
'How long will you stay in Morfa?' he asked.
'I don't know.'
'You are at the little inn there?'
'Yes. The Anchor.'
'Is it comfortable?'
'Very pleasant.'
'Did you get my flower each day?'
Judith's head jerked up, her eyes wide with surprise.
'What?'
Rafael leaned back, relaxed, an indulgent smile on his dark face.
'You heard me very well, Judith.'
Her chin lifted. 'Yes. I received the flowers. They've stopped coming now.'
'I know. I cancelled them.'
Judith regarded him thoughtfully. 'Why did you send them in the first place?'
'To be sure you did not forget me.' His face hardened. 'Then I decided it would be better if you did.'
'I see.' Judith's legs were cramped from their curled up position and she straightened them slowly, stretching them to relieve a slight ache. Rafael's eyes followed the movement intently, and very deliberately he leaned forward and ran his fingertip delicately from her ankle upward to the hem of her shorts. Judith's stomach muscles contracted and her lips parted as she stared at him in resentment. 'Why did you do that?' she demanded.
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