Dark Ransom (7 page)

devastating way.

Forced.
The word stuck in her throat. Could she really justify it? she

asked herself bitterly.

She should have fought. She should have hit him over the head with

his own whisky bottle- kneed him in the groin. It had been crazy—

cowardly just to... submit like that.

Reason told her that, in the end, her struggles would have made no

difference. Riago da Santana would have been too strong. Even now

the memory of his sheer physical power made her shiver. He would

have prevailed—eventually.

But I would still have had my pride, she thought. Whereas now...

Her mind quailed from the remembered reality. She'd become

another person—a stranger at the mercy of her own desires. She'd

disgraced herself totally.

When Rosita returned to tell her the bath was ready Charlie

responded with a vigorous mime, demanding the return of her own

clothes. She shook her head when the older woman went to the

wardrobe and began offering yet more of the garments that hung

there.

No way, she thought grimly. She wanted her own stuff back.

Accepting the cornflower dress, even on a temporary loan, had been

a big mistake, but there would be no more such errors.

But she was grateful for the bath. As she lay in the water she began

to feel refreshed mentally as well as physically. She trickled a

handful of water down her face and between her breasts, idly

listening to Rosita, who was moving around in the bedroom, talking

to someone, presumably another servant, in a high gabble of

excitement.

No prizes for guessing what the prime topic of conversation was,

she thought, wondering with a grimace how many other girls Rosita

had waited on in her master's bedroom.

But when she went back into the room, a towel wrapping her,

sarong-like, from armpits to ankles, she was alone. The bed had

been freshly made with clean linen, but there was no sign of her

clothes yet. Perhaps they would be brought in a minute.

Unless, of course, Riago da Santana had issued orders to the

contrary, intending to keep her imprisoned here in his bedroom, in

naked subservience. But she didn't really believe that. Not even he

would go those lengths—particularly with a girl who was hardly

glamorous, either with or without her clothes.

She swung herself on to the bed and lay back against the pillows,

reflecting that she might as well be comfortable while she waited.

It wasn't raining today, she noticed. Thick golden sunlight oozed

through the half-open shutters and formed a gleaming pool on the

polished floor.

She looked round, taking proper stock of her surroundings for the

first time, finding herself reluctantly admiring the proportions of the

room.

It was odd to find so splendid a house in the rain forest, she thought.

As a residence, it wouldn't have been out of place in Manaus itself.

She wondered how they'd brought the building materials to this

remote place, let alone found the labour.

Or maybe it had just been bewitched—flown from the city, like

Aladdin's palace, to the middle of the jungle, by some demon's

curse.

If that was the case, she thought grimly, the demon had also come

along for the ride. And, come to that, where was Riago da Santana?

She supposed he must be attending to whatever business kept him

occupied in this remote corner of Amazonia. Probably white slave

trading...

Not that she wanted him around. It was very peaceful here, alone

like this in a sunlit room. In fact, the whole house seemed strangely

silent, and the air was almost druggingly warm. Her eyelids were

beginning to feel as if lead weights had been attached to them, and

the bed's welcoming softness was becoming increasingly difficult to

resist.

Riago da Santana's bed, she reminded herself, turning her head to

look at the other pillow, remembering suddenly the darkness of his

hair and skin against the snowy sheet. She shuddered, putting the

image firmly from her mind.

At the same time she wondered what he was doing here—an

intelligent, educated man, living in the middle of nowhere in all this

decaying splendour. It made no sense.

But somehow she couldn't think about it now. She was too

comfortable and drowsy for anything to make sense except the need

to sleep, and with a sigh she allowed herself to drift away.

She was recalled to awareness by a sharp, acrid smell—the scent of

a cheroot, she realised as she opened unwilling eyes.

Riago da Santana was sitting a few feet away from the bed in a

high-backed chair, one booted leg crossed almost negligently over

the other. His black cotton shirt was open to the waist, revealing far

more of his bronzed hair-darkened torso than Charlie wished to be

reminded of.

Instinctively her hands moved to ensure that the towel was still

firmly and primly in place around her, and she saw his lips tighten

as he registered the gesture.

He said quietly and formally,
'Bom dia, senhorita. '
There was no

amusement in his face this morning. No triumph, either, and

certainly no desire. His expression wasn't that of the conqueror

surveying the vanquished, but set—almost grim.

He spoke again. 'Be good enough to tell me once more exactly who

you are, and how you came to be here.'

Charlie swallowed. What was this? she wondered. Some new

torment he'd devised for her?

She said huskily, 'Is there any point? You still won't believe me.'

The hand holding the cheroot moved impatiently, almost angrily.

'Nevertheless, indulge me,' he ordered brusquely, and as her chin

rose he added,
'Faz favor?'

She bit her Up. She said in a monotone, 'My name is Charlotte

Graham. I'm twenty-two years old, and I'm a tourist. I was travelling

up-river on a boat called the
Manoela
when I met a girl called Fay

Preston, who asked me to deliver a letter addressed to you to the

hotel in Mariasanta.' She paused. 'The rest you know,' she added

wearily. 'And why do you want me to repeat it over and over again,

when you don't believe a word of it?'

He said harshly, 'Because,
senhorita,
your story has omitted one

important detail.'

Charlie stared at him. 'I don't think so. I've told you exactly...'

Riago da Santana shook his head. 'What you fail to mention is

that—until last night—you were a virgin.'

It was the last thing she'd expected him to say. Colour burned

helplessly into her face. 'Is that supposed to make some kind of

difference—to change things? It—it didn't seem to...'

He flung down the butt of the cheroot and ground it under his heel.

'Of course it makes a difference, you little fool. It means, God help

me, that I was cruelly, criminally wrong about you. You should

have told me...'

She said unevenly, 'And that would have stopped you?'

It was his turn to flush. 'Perhaps.' He shrugged angrily.
lDeus,

probably not—how can I tell?' A muscle flickered beside the firm

mouth. 'Last night my sole consideration was my own need. It—it

closed my eyes to your obvious inexperience.'

'You don't have to remind me,' Charlie said tautly. 'So—what has

caused this sudden light to dawn now?'

His jaw hardened. 'Rosita—the bed.' He paused. 'There was blood.'

Her blush spread, consuming her. 'Oh,' she mumbled. 'I—I didn't

realise. But I still don't see -'

'Naturally, she could not wait to confront me with the evidence of

your innocence—to reproach me with it.'

'How brave of her,' Charlie said bitterly. 'Why should she need to do

that?'

'Because, as she rightly claims, I have dishonoured you—spoiled

you for the marriage bed.'

Charlie's jaw dropped in incredulity. She didn't know whether to

laugh or cry. 'Isn't that rather an old-fashioned viewpoint?' she

ventured at last.

'Not to Rosita, I assure you. Her family has served mine for too

long,' he said curtly. 'She knows that the fact I have taken you in

such a way has grave implications for the honour of the da Santanas

that I cannot choose to ignore.' He paused, taking a visible breath.

'When the river falls, a priest from the mission at Laragosa will

come down here to marry us.'

THERE
was a long, shaken silence.

Charlie thought, I'm dreaming. I must be. Everything that's

happened is just a nightmare. I'll wake up soon and it will be over.

All I have to do is wake up...

Aloud, she said with taut politeness, 'Would you repeat that, please?'

Riago da Santana said impatiently, 'You heard me perfectly well,

senhorita.
I have sent for a priest to marry us.'

Charlie sat bolt upright, clutching at her towel. 'But you can't,' she

declared wildly. 'You couldn't have. It's not possible.'

'I would not lie about so serious a matter.'

'Then you're crazy,' she said flatly. 'Utterly mad. And this isn't a

house. It's an asylum.' She took a deep breath. 'People do not...
not

marry each other just because...because they've...had sex.'

'Not in your world, perhaps.'

'These are the nineteen-nineties, aren't they— even here?' Charlie

flung at him. 'Or are we in some kind of time warp—back in the last

century?'

'Such principles may seem absurd to you,
senhorita,
but they are all

too real to me, I promise you. I have seduced you, and now I must

make reparation in the only way possible.'

'Let me get this straight.' Her brain was churning. 'If I'd really been

the kind of woman you thought—another Fay Preston, just here for

your entertainment—you'd have let me go?'

He nodded. 'Eventually—when I had finished with you.'

'Gee, thanks.' Her voice shook. 'But, because you've inadvertently

discovered that you were.. .the first with me, you're offering to

marry me through some misguided sense of chivalry, I presume.'

She shook her head. 'Well, it's too late—twenty-four hours too

late—to start feeling chivalrous,
senhor.
I wouldn't marry you if you

crawled on your knees to me.'

'An unlikely proceeding,' he said coldly.

'Absolutely.' Charlie glared at him. 'So let's drop this ridiculous

discussion here and now.'

'There, at least, we are in agreement,' he said. 'There is certainly no

more to discuss.'

Charlie's eyes narrowed. His tone was silky, but she wasn't fooled

by it. This was no graceful capitulation on his part.

She tried to find another way out.

'If you're worried that I'll make some kind of official complaint

about what's happened— accuse you of molesting me—I swear that

I won't,' she began. 'I just want to put the whole ghastly episode

behind me, and I'm sure you do as well, if you're honest.' She tried a

placatory smile. 'So why don't you just give me back my clothes and

let me go, and we'll pretend that last night never took place?'

It was his turn to shake his head. 'That, I regret, is impossible.'

'But it needn't be,' she said eagerly. 'Not if we both agree. I'll even

put it in writing, if you want...'

His tone roughened impatiently. 'You still do not understand. Last

night I also told you the truth, but it seems you did not believe me

either.' He paused. 'There is no way out of here,
senhorita.
The river

is swollen and dangerous. No one can arrive here or leave by boat.

The risk is too great.'

'But for how long?'

He shrugged. 'Who knows? The storms are expected to continue for

several days.'

'You don't seem very concerned,' Charlie said indignantly.

'It's part of life here, and we are self-sufficient for that reason.' He

gestured negligently. 'Why rage against something that we cannot

change?'

'Well, I can't be quite so casual about being stranded in a jungle with

a...a rapist,' Charlie flung at him.

His mouth tightened, and a tinge of colour emphasised the severe

line of his cheekbones.

'You will learn to speak to me with more respect,' he said curtly.

'I'd prefer not to speak to you at all,' she snapped back.

'And there was no rape,' he continued, icily. 'You have not that poor

a memory, Carlotta.'

There was a loaded silence, and Charlie bit her lip. 'All right, I

accept that I'm stuck here temporarily, but as soon as the river's