Dancing in the Shadows (24 page)

‘On the sixteenth of this month. In Spain, we do not celebrate birthdays as you do. We celebrate our saint's day. My Rose insists on her English birthright to celebrate her birthday. It is good, yes? We have two countries, two sets of customs.'

‘Yes, señor, it is good.'

‘My Rose's birthday is always special.' He smiled on a private thought. ‘This year it will be even more special than usual. As you will see, Dorcas.'

Rose Ruiz was right. Don Enrique was acting like a grown-up child.

Dorcas had already bought parting presents for everyone. For Rose Ruiz the had chosen an antelope carved in wood, poised as for flight. Carlos had once likened her to a gazelle. She hoped that sometimes he would look at it and think of her. It would have been too obvious to give the wooden animal to Carlos. She still had a little money left, so she would buy the señora an extra gift for her birthday. Something personal and frivolous. Perfume perhaps.

Later that same day, Carlos handed her the dreaded plane ticket which would take her home.

I look the same, she thought whimsically, but I'm not me. This man has taken me apart,
and
put me together again. Outside, I look nice and tidy and composed. Inside, I don't know where anything is. My independent spirit is there somewhere, but I can't find it.

‘What date is my flight?'

He seemed to be regarding her closely. ‘The fourteenth.'

She had expected more grace. A week, even longer. ‘That's in two days' time,' she gasped, her composure sabotaged by the finality of it all. ‘It's just that—' Searching for a plausible explanation to account for her distress—‘I'll miss your mother's birthday.'

‘By what misguided thought did you arrive at that?'

‘Can we start again, please. You've just lost me.'

‘That, my love, is precisely what I am safeguarding against not doing.'

‘This is crazy! Your mother's birthday is on the sixteenth? Right?'

‘Right.'

‘Well . . . if I'm going home on the fourteenth . . . ? I don't understand.'

‘In Spain, birthdays are considered of less importance than one's saint's day. Were you aware of this?'

‘I wasn't until your father told me.'

‘Mother claims her birthright to celebrate her birthday. This year my father thought it would add a special touch if it was celebrated in the country of her birth.'

‘You
mean . . . England?'

‘I might as well take this back to keep with the rest,' he said, plucking the plane reservation he had just given her out of her hand.

‘The rest?'

‘I've got tickets for all of us. Grandmother in particular is looking forward to the trip.'

‘You mean you are all coming to England to celebrate your mother's birthday?'

He gave her the kind of tolerant smile he might have awarded a much-loved child. ‘Yes, of course!'

‘So that's what your father meant when he said your mother's birthday was to be even more special this year. It also accounts for that smug look of yours these past few days.'

‘Oh? Have I been looking smug then?'

‘You know you have.'

His eyes, resting on her so tenderly, were tempting her to hope. Yet when had hope ever fulfilled its promise? Hope beckoned—to disappoint. Tempted—to disdain. Yet here it was, resilient as ever, rising again. This time don't let it bank her into a brick wall. This time, let it be different.

‘I thought you were sending me away. I thought you didn't want me any more,' she said in a small voice.

‘Sending you away?' he said incredulously. ‘Not want you!' He groaned. ‘If only you knew!'

‘I
know you've played a mean trick on me. You deliberately led me to believe what I did.'

‘You think I should have told you about the extra birthday surprise my father was planning for Mother? But Dorcas, you must see the secret wasn't mine to divulge. My father went to a lot of trouble to keep it from Mother. You can't deny the two of you are as thick as thieves. Could I risk Mother wheedling it out of you?'

‘You are doing it again, Carlos. You know that's not what I meant. Anyway, I think you would have a hard task keeping anything from your mother. The only person who has been in the dark about what's been going on is me.'

‘No, you are wrong there, Dorcas. I haven't been too enlightened myself.'

She braced herself. She wanted to enlighten him . . . but how could she enlighten the cautious Englishman without stepping on the arrogant Spaniard's toes? By agreeing, she decided.

‘It's like you said about the balance not being right. We have tipped too easily into misunderstanding.'

But not any more. Her expression was both exultant and tender. Of course! Carlos was no ordinary man. In trying to understand him, she hadn't taken into account that by virtue of his English mother and his Spanish father, he was two men. He was Charles, the fun loving, cautious Englishman. And Carlos,
the
romantic, arrogant Spaniard. What a devastating combination! And she was hard-pressed to know which she loved best, and it was a bonus to be able to love them both in the same extraordinary, gentle, dominant, compassionate, arrogant man.

‘Would you say the balance of understanding was about right now?' Carlos suggested.

He had been studying her face closely, and now it was his expression that seemed to drive the breath from her body.

‘Yes.'

‘That's what I think.' That arrogant smile played so sweetly about his mouth. ‘If I did mislead you—and yes, I intended to a little!—I was also giving you time to sort yourself out. I thought that if I could find the patience to wait until we were in England, I would stand a better chance of getting the response I wanted. I won't take no for an answer.'

‘You won't have to, Carlos,' she said shakily.

‘My beloved.' The tenderly spoken endearment melted her eyes to tears. ‘Yes, you are that, Dorcas. I never meant to keep you in suspense about my feelings.' His hands worked their way up to her elbows and then he drew her the rest of the way into his arms. ‘I love you.' He seemed to sigh the words, as if finding a long-awaited release in that so joyously received declaration.

Dorcas took it, this precious gift . . . his love
.
. . into her humble and grateful heart.

‘I love you too, Carlos.'

‘We must never misunderstand each other again. I won't allow it.'

She couldn't resist asking mischievously: ‘And what will you do to prevent it? Beat me?'

‘No. I'll range our children on my side and outnumber you.'

‘Children . . . our children! Oh . . . Carlos.'

‘Not straight away, so you can wipe that blissful, maternal look off your face. To begin with I am going to be very selfish and insist on having you all to myself. Aren't you arguing?'

‘No.' There was a certain wisdom in what Rose Ruiz said about letting time take its course.

‘That's settled then.'

‘Not quite, Carlos.'

His puzzled look was quickly replaced by a smile. ‘Ah . . . yes! As I only intend doing this once, I might as well do it in style.' And now his eyes were solemn to suit the occasion. On bended knee he said: ‘Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?'

‘Thank you,' said Dorcas, swallowing hard. ‘That was a beautiful thing to do. I'm sure no one proposes like that these days.' Then, realizing, ‘Dearest Carlos, of course my answer is yes.'