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But he would work his way through that, and could even come to resent her for being the recipient of his private anguish over the way he had been instrumental in sending his father away for that second and final time, the part he had unwittingly played in his sister’s rebellion. He was proud and he was arrogant and knowing he had allowed her to see him at his most vulnerable would be a cause of acute discomfort. And anyway, by then he would have slaked his desire for her, become bored, wanting her gone because her presence would have become an irritant, an embarrassment probably.
But she could stay for a little while, just a week, and take off before he had a chance to grow tired of her, began to regret ever having bared his soul to her. That way she would have beautiful memories, and because she knew she would love him until the end of her life that wasn’t too much to ask for, was it?
No, she had no illusions about this. When she went she would be leaving him for good. And that would be drenchingly painful and the sorrow of it would be with her for a long time to come. But she would have her memories, and in time the pain of it would ease and she would be left with the loveliness of the beautiful days and nights they had shared.
There was no need to waste precious hours pretending to think it over. Her mind was made up. She would tell him now. At least he hadn’t tried to pressure her during the journey; he’d stayed silent, leaving her to her own thoughts. She was grateful for that.
He reached for her hand in the darkness as they walked slowly across the huge courtyard to the castle which, in Sarah’s loving eyes, now took on the misty aspect of a fairy-tale come true, a place she could grow to love and cherish. But there wouldn’t be time for all this to take a stranglehold on her heart and mind. His invitation to stay had carried a limit of a couple of weeks, she made herself remember. Besides, she had promised herself one week only.
His fingers closed reassuringly around hers and her love for him nearly exploded inside her, the sheer enormity of the emotion making her feel faint. But she mustn’t give him the slightest inkling of how she really felt. When they parted she didn’t want to give him an extra burden of guilt to carry. It would be difficult to hide her true feelings, but she would manage it.
Making her voice cool and light, as if this sort of thing happened to her all the time, she told him, ‘About your invitation to stay on for a while—I don’t need to think about it; I—’
And then all hell seemed to break loose. The heavy front door was dragged open, light spilling out into the darkness, and a long-legged whirlwind rushed out and hurled itself at Francisco.
Encarnación. It couldn’t be anyone else, Sarah decided, stepping back quickly, out of the way, as the tall Spaniard gathered the girl into his arms, returning her bear-hug. Glossy dark hair was restrained in a thick braid that reached down to her waist and her generously proportioned body was clad in—of all things—the despised blue jeans and sloppy T-shirt. And she was talking non-stop—explaining?—in a torrent of rapid Spanish, her words seeming to fall all over themselves as if she couldn’t wait to get them all out.
‘Speak English,’ Francisco demanded, pleasure and relief enriching and deepening his voice. ‘We have a visitor.’ He unwound her arms from around his neck. ‘You’re strangling me!’
‘Oh! Of course!’ The Spanish girl twirled round and her eyes were sparkling with merriment, eyes the colour of dark, sweet sherry. She was very lovely, Sarah thought; no wonder Piers had acted out of character and romanced a girl y
ounger than his own daughter. ‘You’re the one he hijacked! Oh, Francisco!’ She launched herself at her brother again, hugging her arms around him. ‘You are wicked! Did you keep her locked in the dungeon? Feed her on bread and water?’
The way Francisco had described his sister had made Sarah equate her with a cup of sweet, tepid, milky tea. But now she was bubbling like champagne, so her adventure obviously hadn’t done her too much harm. And she was back now, safe and sound by all appearances, and from Francisco’s obvious relief and happiness he had forgiven her and would rethink the outdated rules he had made her live by in future. So she should be greatly relieved. Why, then, was her overwhelming feeling one of aching emptiness?
‘Behave yourself!’ Francisco disentangled himself again and Sarah could sense the effort he was having to make to put on the stern big brother act. ‘You went away a meek little angel and return in the guise of a minx. Just because I’m relieved enough to let you get away with it this time, don’t think you can put me through that kind of anxiety ever again.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Encarnación bit her lip. ‘I didn’t think you would be worried. I was only thinking of what I wanted, and he—’
‘Is Bouverie-Scott here?’ The sudden frosting of his voice told Sarah that he might have forgiven his sister for the worry and upset she’d caused, blaming himself for driving her away, but he wouldn’t so readily forgive Piers for taking advantage of a young girl’s natural wish to try her wings.
Encarnación answered quickly, her huge eyes shining, ‘Oh, yes! He got your message. He said you were so angry you’d kidnapped his daughter and we must come back to face the music together!’
Sarah shivered. Only a couple of hours ago Francisco had given his word that he wouldn’t harm the older man and she didn’t doubt him. He was a man who could be trusted to keep his word. But that didn’t mean that the coming confrontation would be anything but grossly unpleasant.
‘Where is he?’ She spoke for the first time, aware that the panicky, shivery feeling inside her made her sound almost aggressive, as if she was blaming the girl for what had happened. And Francisco evidently thought so too, judging by the hard, piercing look she earned herself as Encarnación blithely explained.
‘He’s waiting in the small sala. We didn’t know how long you’d be so Rosalia fed us and they’re chatting away like old friends now, with the brandy bottle for company!’
That figures, Sarah thought bleakly, forcing herself to trail behind the other two as Francisco took his sister’s arm and stalked in through the door. Rosalia was just the motherly, jolly type Piers normally went for. So why hadn’t he stuck to merry widows and kept his hands off beautiful virgins?
If he’d stuck to the pattern of the last decade and more, none of this would have happened. She wouldn’t have met Francisco and fallen blindly and hopelessly in love in the space of a few traumatic days, and that, at this precise moment, seemed no bad thing because the way the Spanish devil and his prodigal sister were an obvious entity, shutting her out, hurt unbearably. He was acting as if she didn’t exist, as if he’d never opened his heart to her, shared his feelings of guilt, told her he wanted her, needed her, asked her to stay…
Her heart was several feet below the soles of her sensible shoes when she followed them through to one of the cosy family rooms she’d investigated the day before. She felt, she recognised sickly, like a faithful old dog which had been discarded by an uncaring master but was tagging along anyway.
Rosalia bobbed out, beaming, as they entered and Piers rose from an armchair at the side of the empty stone hearth, putting his brandy glass down on a side-table. He didn’t look in the least bit ashamed of himself, but then he had never been ashamed of his rumbustious lifestyle and was obviously not thinking of taking that bad habit on board at his time of life.
At least he was wearing clean fawn trousers and although his blue shirt was obviously old and faded it wasn’t too badly crumpled and it wasn’t covered in paint stains. His long hair, grey for a few years now, was still thick and healthy, tied back at the nape of his neck with a bootlace, and the tan he’d acquired made his few wrinkles unimportant and deepened the colour and brightness of his very blue eyes.
The glance he gave Sarah was comprehensive but brief, and, seemingly satisfied that she wasn’t actually dragging a ball and chain behind her, he walked towards Francisco, speaking in fluent but probably very ungrammatical Spanish.
Anger whiplashed through Sarah. She would not be ignored, not by any of them! She refused to behave as if she were a dispensable player in this charade. It was her turn to demand, ‘Speak English! I’ve as much right to know what’s been going on as anyone. So don’t try to shut me out as if I didn’t exist!’
This last had been meant exclusively for Francisco but apparently Piers took it personally, turning to her, his hands outstretched.
‘Sal, I’m sorry. You’re all right, though, aren’t you?’ He took her hands and held them tight and Sarah blinked, biting her lip because the way she was feeling she might easily cry and she wasn’t going to let herself. Piers actually apologising shook her up. He roistered through life thinking he could do as he pleased, and if people didn’t like it then it was their tough luck.
Francisco said darkly, ‘Your father was just explaining—quite colourfully, too—exactly what he would do with men who abducted innocent young ladies for their own advantage. A rather hypocritical stance for him to take, in the circumstances, don’t you think?’
