Counterfeit Bride (14 page)

From the noise of explosions, the flashes of light and colour, she guessed the fireworks had begun. She could hear laughter and applause as she sat in her long waist slip and scrap of a bra and looked at herself defeatedly. Luis didn't need to beat her, she thought. He could take the skin from her by his tone of voice alone. And she had stood there like a fool. Why hadn't she accused him in turn?

Furiously she blinked back the tears which for some unaccountable reason were pricking at her eyelids. Soon, when the display was over, those guests who were not being accommodated overnight in the guest wing would be leaving. Luis would say goodbye to them as a courteous host, and then, angry or not, he would come to her room. She didn't want to be found skulking at the dressing table in her undies.

Quickly she undressed and showered, then reluctantly donned the exquisite nightdress waiting for her. She brushed her hair, then on an impulse looked in her jewellery case and pinned the silver butterfly among the tawny silk strands.

She was just going to close the drawer when she saw the letter her mother had sent on. She wasn't in the mood for Tess's usual brand of cheerful chat, but on the other hand she didn't want to sit here, waiting for Luis and becoming twitchier by the moment, so she tore open the envelope and extracted the thin sheet of paper inside. The envelope had been typewritten, but she knew the writing oa the letter as soon as she saw it. It was Ewan's.

She felt sick suddenly. Ewan writing to her? It couldn't be possible! She unfolded the paper and began to read, her heart thumping slowly and painfully.

'My dearest Nicola,' she read, 'I expect I'm the last person you ever thought to hear from again. After the things we said before we parted, I'm amazed I have the guts to write to you at all, but I can't stop thinking about you, and all we meant to each other once.

'You probably don't know that I've been a widower for over six months. Greta was killed in a road accident. Her car skidded on some ice and went out of control on a bend. It was a shock, naturally, but I won't pretend it was the end of the world for me. Frankly, our marriage wasn't working out, and we'd discussed separation just before she had the accident. You know how fast she always used to drive. I always thought it was out of character, as she was quite a stick-in-the-mud in other ways.

'I was a fool to let you go--I've known that for a long time. I'm beginning to get my life together again now, and I want you back in it. I know I treated you badly, darling. Forgive me, and tell me that we can start again. Don't let one mistake ruin both our lives a second time. The way you used to feel about me, there must be something left in spite of all the hurt. Write to me, Nicky. Tell me you love me still, I need you. All my love, darling, Ewan.'

Nicola sat stunned, the words dancing crazily in front of her eyes. Ewan—Greta—could it be true? Breathing shakily, she read the letter again, then crumpled it into a ball and thrust it back into the drawer which she slammed shut.

She looked at her white-faced image in the mirror. Ewan, she thought incredulously. Ewan was free and wanted her. And lift: had played her its cruellest trick of all by allowing her to know this tonight of all nights. Her stifled laugh sounded like a sob, and she lifted her hands to her head, trying to get her thoughts into some kind of coherent order.

But Ewan— Zurich—everything that had happened there between them seemed light years away, like a half-remembered dream.

Ewan, she thought. Ewan, whom she loved, and who had hurt her so that she would never love again.

Desperately she tried to conjure his face up in her mind. Brown hair, curling slightly, blue eyes always smiling, a deep cleft in his chin, she thought feverishly. But that wasn't the image that she saw. The man in her imagination was as dark as night itself, the planes and angles of his face, harshly carved, with strength and pride in its lines. And his eyes did not smile, but looked at her with bitter scorn.

Oh God! She got up from the dressing stool and began to walk round the room, her hands pressed to suddenly heated cheeks. What did it all mean? Ewan had been her love, her only love. He had broken her heart. How could she have forgotten so soon?

The answer was a sombre one. Because Luis had made her forget. From the moment she had met him, he had occupied her thoughts to the exclusion of everything else. Each time he had kissed her, and God knew they had been few enough, each caress had been indelibly printed on her memory, making her ache with longing. Ewan hadn't been able to awaken half the dormant passion which the first brush of Luis' mouth on hers had brought searingly to life.

Her appalling behaviour downstairs, turning her back on him to dance with his cousin, hadn't been because she fancied Ramon even for a moment, or because she wanted to establish herself as an independent spirit, untrammelled by outworn conventions, but because she had been so blazingly jealous of Carlota Garcia.

All the time she had been dancing with Ramon, driving him near to a nervous breakdown with her come-hither looks, she had been seeing Luis with Carlota, imagining them making love, and the pain had been almost more than she could bear.

She had wanted to hurt Luis, and she had only succeeded in hurting herself, because he didn't care. He wanted her—he had never made any secret of it. He wanted her to give him children, and he would expect conduct from her befitting his wife, but nothing else.

And tonight when he touched her at last, and she turned to starlight and flame in his arms, he would know beyond doubt what she herself had only just come to realise—that she loved him.

She shivered, wrapping her arms round her body. It had been there in her mind for so long, unacknowledged, that it was almost a relief to admit it at last. She had fought it from the beginning, labelling it as a sheer physical attraction, but she had lost.

Now she could confess to herself how empty her life had seemed every time Luis had gone away, and how eagerly she had waited for his return. She had never shown it, of course, and she still could not, because nothing had changed.

He was marrying because he desired her, and that was all. If she hadn't appealed to him sexually, then she would probably be in jail at this moment. As it was, he had decided on some whim to create his own intimate prison for her.

And this room was to be her cell. She lifted her head and stared round her. It was quiet now, the sounds of revelry fading from the courtyard beneath. She would not be alone for very much longer. Did she have the strength to pretend the indifference she had threatened? Could she endure to have Luis only as her lover when the truth was that she wanted him as her love?

She stood, pressing one fist against her lips like a bewildered child, wondering what to do. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, not even from herself.

But in spite of her inner agony, she was becoming slowly aware of something else. Not far away, there was music, softly played on guitars, and someone singing in a warm baritone. She went over to the window and peeped round the shutter. They stood in a semi-circle in the courtyard below, looking up towards the window, a group of mariachi serenaders, probably from Santo Tomas. Hidden by the shutter, she stood and listened, a wistful smile touching the corner of her mouth. Once he had   sent   them   away,   but   they  were   here   tonight probably because it was yet another custom.

Nicola wasn't sure when she first realised that she was no longer alone in the bedroom, but she didn't turn immediately because she could use the song as an excuse.

. Finally it ended, and the guitars took up another melody, sweet and sensuous, and slowly she turned and looked at him. He was standing only a few feet away from her, wearing a dressing gown in some, dark silk, and nothing else, she was certain, because the robe was open to the waist and his legs were bare.

He was looking at her as if the sight of her had turned him to stone, and with a sudden surge of shyness she realised what he was seeing—the gleam of her body through the film of chiffon, her small high breasts cupped but not concealed by the tiny lace bodice. She wanted to speak, but no words would come.

He said huskily, 'Skin like ivory, and hair like gold. Alma de mi vida, do you know how beautiful you are?'

The sensual hunger in his eyes was a devastation, and every fibre in her responded to it in a great blaze of yearning. More than life itself she wanted to take the few steps into his arms. But if she did, she would be betrayed utterly, and she panicked, stepping backwards, lifting her hands as if to ward him off.

Yet he had not moved—and nor did he, for one long moment. She saw that fierce desire fading from his face, to be replaced fleetingly by incredulity, and then an immense weariness as lie turned away and walked towards the bed, untying the belt of his robe as he went.

Realising that she was right about his nakedness, Nicola averted her gaze hastily. When she did venture to look towards the bed, Luis was in it, safely covered by the sheet, staring up at the ceiling with his arms folded behind his head.

He said at last on a note of polite interest, 'Do you intend to stand there all night?'

'Yes—no—I don't know,' she stammered feeling more of a fool and worse than a fool with every second that passed.

'Then I advise you to make up your mind,' he said. There was a pause, then he added expressionlessly, 'Unless you wish me to make the decision for you by raping you?'

Appalled, she gasped, 'No!’

He turned his head on the pillow and looked at her coolly. 'It is what you seem to expect. A moment ago you looked at me with terror in your eyes. I did not enjoy the experience, which is a new one to me, I confess.'

'I'm—sorry,' she said inadequately. 'But—but you're not making this very easy for me.'

'Perhaps because I do not fully understand the difficulty. You have shared a bed with me before, or had you forgotten?'

'No.' She shook her head. 'But that was different.'

'How so?' He sounded faintly bored.

Nicola hesitated. To say 'Well, for one thing you had your clothes on,' was going to sound ludicrously prim and schoolgirlish, and besides that, hadn't she secretly speculated a dozen times or more on what he would look like without them?

Instead she said, 'I—I wasn't your wife then,' which was hardly any better.

His voice was cold. 'Nor are you now, either in body, or in your stubborn little mind, amiga. A few words said over us does not make a marriage. Or did you think that after all I would be content to admire you at a distance?'

'No,' she shook her head again, feeling totally ridiculous. 'You made it clear you wanted—children.'

He turned on to his side, supporting himself on an elbow, a brief crooked smile touching his mouth. 'Eventually, yes. But you are deluding yourself if you think I want you here in my arms simply to make you

pregnant. You do not really believe that?'

Huskily, she said, 'No.'

'Muy bien.' He reached over and threw back the sheet on the other side of the bed. 'Then join me, querida, por favor,' he added mockingly.

Nicola walked across the room as slowly as she dared, and slid under the turned-back sheet, lying rigidly on the very edge of the bed. There was a click and the big lamp beside the bed was extinguished, plunging the room into darkness.

Nicola scarcely breathed, waiting tensely for- what? A kiss, a touch, the removal of her nightgown, all or any of them.

'You see?' Luis said silkily. 'It was not as impossible as you thought. Sleep well, querida. I am glad for your sake that the bed is so wide. A metre or so less and there might have been a chance of my brushing against you accidentally in the night. As it is, you can cower there with your virginal fears in perfect safety. Buenas noches.'

Endless seconds spun themselves into an eternity of minutes as Nicola lay, staring into the darkness. Her heart thudding she said at last, 'Luis . . .' her voice low and tentative.

'Si?' His tone was not encouraging, and he actually sounded drowsy, she thought incredulously.

Taking her courage by the scruff of the neck, she ventured, 'If you want me . . .'

'You do me too much honour, amiga, but no. I have as little taste for rape as yourself. And don't forget you made me very angry earlier. Be grateful for your reprieve, and go to sleep.'

The humiliation of it made her shrink, while the space between them yawned as wide and unfathomable as an ocean.

But how could she explain to him ever that it was not the act of love she feared, but the unwanted emotions she might betray while she was in his arms?

Meanwhile her body ached for fulfilment, and she turned her head miserably, seeking a cool place on the pillow. Luis wanted her: she knew it. Perhaps he was waiting for her to make the next move. What if she turned towards him, touched him, let her hand slide from his shoulder down his arm to his hip ...

And what if he told her to go to sleep again? she asked herself bitterly. Could she face another bleak rejection?

She was still debating the point when exhaustion finally dragged her into a fitful and troubled sleep.

It was late when she awoke. Maria was standing beside the bed, holding a breakfast tray, and smiling self-consciously.

'Buenos dias, señora.' As Nicola sat up dazedly, she seized her pillows and plumped them up for her to lean against before placing the tray across her lap. 'It is a beautiful morning, señora.'

Nicola gave a wry glance at the bright sunlight spilling across the floor. 'I think it's more like afternoon, Maria.'

'Perhaps,' Maria shrugged. 'What does it matter? The Señor Don Luis gave orders that we were not to disturb you earlier.' She giggled. 'Also he sends you this,' she added triumphantly, pointing to a single red rose in a small crystal vase in the centre of the tray.

Nicola stared at it, completely at a loss. 'How kind of him,' she remarked at last.

Maria gasped. 'Kind? Ah, no, señora. You do not understand. It is a local custom.'

'Another of them,' Nicola muttered, but Maria went chattering on.

'Here, when the wedding night is over, the husband sends his wife a flower as a token of how she has pleased him. And the Señor Don Luis sends you a red rose, señora, the flower of love itself.' She giggled again. 'He must be a happy man this morning!'

The Señor Don Luis, Nicola thought savagely, was a cynical, sarcastic bastard. She pushed the tray away.

'I'm not hungry, Maria. I want to get dressed.'

'But, señora,' Maria's eyes nearly popped out of her head, 'should you not—remain where you are?'

Nicola felt a slight flush rise in her cheeks. She said, 'No, Maria. Run me a bath, please, and I'll wear the green dress.'

'Ay de mi!' Maria lamented. She did as she was told, but her expression said plainly that any woman fortunate to be sent a red rose after a night of passion with Don Luis should lie back and wait for further goodies to come her way.

She looked reasonable, Nicola thought, as she gave herself a iast critical look in the mirror. A little shadowy under the eyes, but that would be expected, she thought ironically.

She was on her way to the door when Maria's shocked voice halted her. 'Señora— your flower!' She was holding out the rose.

Nicola stared at it. 'What am I supposed to do with it?' she asked flatly.

Maria gestured almost despairingly. 'Wear it in your hair, señora. Or carry it, or pin it to your dress against your heart.'

'I'll carry it,' Nicola decided with ill grace, but she was beginning to wonder whether the rose had been presented to her with quite the irony she had at first thought. She hadn't realised it was a token she would be expected to exhibit publicly, but now she could see that in its way, the flower was a chivalrous gesture on Luis' part. After last night's fiasco, he could have sent nothing at all, or the Mexican equivalent of bindweed, and given the whole household something to whisper about in corners. Whereas now, everyone would think that the dueno was well pleased with his bride.

She looked down at the rose with sudden tears in her eyes. And it couid have been true, she thought fiercely, if only she hadn't been such a fool.

As she walked slowly towards the stairs, nerving herself for the ordeal by curiosity ahead, she wondered wistfully how differently the day might have begun for her if Luis and she had been lovers. She might have been kissed awake in his arms instead of finding herself alone, she thought, and sighed.

As she reached the foot of the stairs, Pilar came into the hall from the salon and stood staring at her.

'Buenos dias.' Her lips curled unpleasantly. 'Pobrecita, I suppose you are searching for your bridegroom. How sad for you that his ardour cooled so quickly, and what a pity for him that he didn't come to his senses sooner.'

'I can't think what you mean,' Nicola said coolly.

'No? When the whole world knows how early he left your room this morning, driven away by your English coldness, no doubt.'

Nicola suppressed a wince, then deliberately she lifted the rose which had been hidden by the folds of her skirt and brushed it almost casually across her lips.

Pilar's eyes widened incredulously, then, with a noise like a kitten which has just received an unexpected boot in the midriff, she flounced away.

Nicola was still standing rather hesitantly at the foot of the. stairs when Carlos appeared carrying a tray of glasses. He gave her a respectful bow and a smile, and was disappearing towards the comedor when she called him back.

'Carlos, do you know where—my husband is?'

'I think Don Luis is at the stables, señora. Shall I have a message sent to him?'

'Oh no,' she said quickly. 'I'll go and find him myself.'

'As you wish, Dona Nicola.'

Luis was standing talking to Juan Hernandez as she approached, and they both turned and looked at her. Luis smiled, but his eyes were hooded and enigmatic, and she felt herself blush faintly.

He said, 'I was about to request you to join me, mi amada. I have something to show you.'

In some bewilderment she followed him to one of the stalls. Juan Hernandez whisked inside and Nicola heard him murmuring caressingly in his own language and clicking his tongue. When he reappeared he was leading one of the prettiest mares Nicola had ever seen, chestnut with a star on her forehead. She gasped in delight.

'Oh, she's beautiful!’

'I am glad she pleases you, querida,' Luis' voice was laconic. 'She only arrived earlier this morning, so she will need a day or two to get used to her new home— and for Juan to make sure she has no hidden vices. Although it seems unlikely,' he added, running his hand down the satin neck.

Nicola made herself meet his eyes. 'You mean—she's for me?'

'For no one else,' he drawled. 'Her name is Estrella.'

Juan Hernandez had tactfully vanished. Nicola said, 'I —I don't know how to thank you.'

'Don't you, amiga?' His smile slanted mockingly. 'Perhaps we had better postpone any discussion of that to another occasion.'

Her flush deepened hectically, but before she could think of a reply, he had turned away and was putting Estrella back in her stall.

As Luis rejoined her, she said quickly, 'I also have to thank you for this.' She held out the rose.

He gave it a casual look and shrugged. 'De nada. I suppose Maria told you its significance.'

'Yes, she did.' Nicola bit her lip. 'It was—kind of you.' She gave a little uneven laugh. 'It's already saved me from some unpleasant remarks from your cousin Pilar.'

His mouth tightened. 'That girl needs a good hiding— or something to do with her time. I blame myself. At one time she was keen to go to university, but her mother set up such scenes, such weeping and lamentations at the idea that I allowed myself to be persuaded against it.'

'But why?'

He gave her a dry look. 'Tia Isabella belongs to a school of thought which believes that women should be trained solely in the domestic virtues. She sees education as the cause of all the ills in our world. And she believed that if she kept Pilar at La Mariposa and thrust her at me continually, I would eventually ask her to be my wife. She has fixed but mistaken views on the value of proximity,' he added drily.

'But you could have overridden your aunt, surely.'

'Yes—but I had my own doubts about Pilar's wish to go to university. At the time she was very much under an influence which I found undesirable.'

Nicola stared at the ground. 'It might have solved a lot of problems if you'd married her. Why didn't you?'

'You have a poor memory, querida. Only yesterday I married you.'

'Yes—but when you decided to marry me, it was because you wanted a wife, not me particularly. I mean, you were prepared to marry Teresita whom you hardly knew, because your families wanted it—so why not Pilar?'

He said, 'The only time I have been tempted to lay a hand on my cousin Pilar is when I have also been holding my riding whip. Teresita was at least well-mannered and docile. After marriage she would probably have wearied me with her devotion, but she would have created no problems.'

Wearied me with her devotion. The words were like a knife in Nicola's heart.

'You were really going to marry her,' she said slowly. 'And yet losing her hasn't cost you a single sleepless night.'

'Why waste a sleepless night on a woman who is absent?' he asked mockingly. 'And I must correct you, chica. If I'd wanted any wife, I could have married a dozen times over. I married you because I wanted you, Nicola. I was angry at the trick you attempted to play on my family, but at the same time I could not help admiring your audacity and being amused by it. As our journey together proceeded, I began to realise that some of the assumptions I had made about you were untrue. Your reactions to me showed plainly that you were still a virgin, which I had not expected. It was then that I decided to make you my wife instead of my mistress.'

'So really the choice you offered was no choice at all.' She paused. 'What if I'd stuck to my guns and refused to marry you?'

He laughed. Then I would have spent a long and enjoyable night persuading you to change your mind.'

She said in a low voice, 'Then what makes—that night so different from last night?'

The amusement died sharply from his face. He said, 'Because at the ejido, although you were apprehensive, you did not look at me as if I were your executioner.'

Nicola flushed painfully. 'I'm sorry,' she said in a constricted tone.

'And so am I,' Luis said wryly. 'I am not accustomed to being regarded by a woman as if I was a monster, nor having her cringe away from me in sheer terror. But as for the sake of appearances, at least, we should continue to share a room for a few weeks, it is something I must learn to live with.'

Her heart began to thud slowly and uncomfortably. She did not look at him.

'You mean—you're not going to...'

'That is precisely what I mean, I have never forced myself on an unwilling woman in my life, and I do not intend to begin with you. Don't look so troubled, querida,' he added harshly. 'I shall come to your room after you are asleep, and leave before you wake. You will be disturbed as little as possible.'

She moved her shoulders helplessly. 'I don't understand—one minute you say you want me—and now...'

'Oh, I still want you, querida, make no mistake about that. But I shall not take you. Or did you imagine my lust was so great that I would be prepared to pursue my own gratification while you lay there—and thought of England, as I believe your saying is? Muchas gracias, señora. I prefer to wait in the hope that some time you will come to me willingly.' He paused. 'In the past you've used words like "hatred" and "repulsion" to me. I told myself you did not mean them, but after what I saw in your face last night, I am no longer sure.'

But I didn't mean them, she thought in agony, and if you said one word of love to me, I'd throw myself at your feet.'

Aloud she said woodenly, 'You are very generous, señor. Shall—shall I see you at lunch?'

'Of course. As far as the household is concerned, we shall lead a normal life together—and we still have guests.' He gave her a long cool look. 'It would be wiser to give them no more cause for gossip.'

She said, 'Yes, I understand,' and left him.

She was halfway back to the house before she noticed the blood on her hand. She unclenched her fist, and found one last unsuspected thorn left on her rose. As she stood in the sunlight, she felt tears on her face.

She felt limp with exhaustion by the time of the siesta. Playing the part of the happy bride was not easy when she felt as if she was cracking apart, and matters were not improved by Luis' effortless assumption of the role of devoted and attentive groom. Under the approving gaze of everyone at the hacienda, with the notable exceptions of his aunt and Pilar, he hardly stirred from her side, his arm curving possessively round her slim waist, brushing his mouth gently against her cheek or the lobe of her ear, or holding her hand and pressing lingering kisses to each finger in turn.

Nicola burned, and not solely from embarrassment. She was thankful that she was able to look shyly away, and not meet the mockery in his eyes.

Safe at last in her room, she leaned against the panels of the door for a moment, drawing a deep breath, hardly able to believe that she had escaped at last from the indulgent smiles downstairs that said without words that all the world loved a lover.

If they only knew, she thought drearily. She shed her clothes and had a long, relaxing shower before wrapping herself in her thinnest robe and coming back to the bedroom to collapse on the bed in the shuttered half-light.

The opening door was the last thing she expected, and she sat up, propping herself on her elbow and staring in open alarm as Luis came in carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses.

She stammered, 'You—what are you doing here?'

Her evident apprehension made him smile cynically. 'Don't worry, querida. I am simply fulfilling the expectations of our well-wishers by spending the siesta in the arms of my loving wife. Or that's what they are supposed to think. The truth will remain our secret. Would you like some wine?'

'No.'

'As you wish.' Deftly he opened the bottle and poured some into his own glass. 'Now, shall we remain here in silence and contemplate what might have been, or shall we talk?' There was a chaise-longue near the window, and he stretched out on that.