Sweet Revenge Read online

  Laura dominated the conversation. She seemed to find the greatest enjoyment in catechizing Francesca, and Toni thought that maybe this was the only way she got candid answers to her sometimes personal questions. After all, hadn't she herself already had a sample of the Senhora's inquisition?

  'And what have you been doing these last few days?' Laura was asking Francesca now. 'Did you know there was a folk music festival in Oporto?'

  'Oh yes!' Francesca was enthusiastic and unthinking because of it. 'We've been there!'

  'You've been?' Laura's eyes turned to Raoul. 'You went to the festival, querido?'

  The Conde looked a little bored. 'Yes, Laura, we went to the festival. It was very good.'

  'And you did not ask me also?' Laura looked disturbed.

  'I did not think it would interest you,' returned the Conde smoothly. 'What have you been doing with yourself?'

  'Very little, and you must know I love folk music. You took Francesca - and your mother?'

  The Condessa shook her head. 'What would I want with folk festivals, Laura? No, Raoul took Francesca and Senhorita West."

  'Senhorita West?' Laura gasped.

  Raoul gave her a warning look. 'Yes, Laura, Senhorita West.'

  'I see.' Laura cast a malevolent glance in Toni's direction. 'And did you enjoy it, senhorita?'

  'Very much, thank you.'

  Laura replaced her cup in its saucer. 'And when do you plan to leave, senhorita?'

  Toni lifted her shoulders. 'I don't know—'

  'The Senhorita is to stay indefinitely,' said Francesca excitedly. 'She is going to be my governess!'

  'This is so, Raoul?' Laura was astounded.

  'Yes.' The Conde was abrupt. 'But this can be of no interest to you, Laura. Come, I will show you the painting I bought in Coimbra ten days ago. It is a Miro, and should appeal to you.'

  'But this is of interest to me, caro,' insisted Laura. 'After all, your mother must think it strange that the Senhorita should be able to give up her job in England without giving notice.'

  Raoul gave her a darkening look. 'It is not your affair, Laura. If - if the Senhorita chooses to stay here, then we are all delighted, are we not? Surely you can have no objections to Francesca acquiring a governess to whom she has so obviously taken?'

  Laura frowned. 'It is a little unorthodox, that is all. Do you not think so, dear Condessa?'

  The old Condessa seemed unmoved by this exchange and seemed totally intent on helping herself to a cup of tea. 'Whatever Janet decides I shall be entirely in agreement,' she said, absently studying the spoon in her hand. 'Did I put sugar in my tea, or did I not? You see, Laura, you have confused me!'

  Laura rose impatiently to her feet. 'I will see the Miro, Raoul,' she said shortly, and walked to the door without another word.

  After they had gone Toni relaxed and lay back against the soft upholstery. Francesca gave her a conspiratorial smile, but Toni was too engrossed with her own thoughts to pay much attention to the younger girl. With the Conde's peremptory command had returned all her misgivings, and she wondered, with a sense of dismay, how much longer he intended to stay at the castelo.

  The following morning Toni rose earlier than usual. She had slept badly again and there were dark rings round her eyes. She thought a bathe in the warm waters of the Atlantic might banish the faint stirrings of a headache that probed the back of her mind, so she donned a bathing suit and her beach dress and after collecting a towel made her way down to the beach. The sand was already warming in the heat of the new day, but it was still cool enough to cause her to shiver as she ran to plunge into the waves. She swam, forcing her mind to remain blank, floating on her back with her hair around her in the water like seaweed. Then she swam back to the shallows and walked up the sand wringing the water out of her hair.

  She stopped short at the sight of the Conde lounging lazily on the sands near her beach dress and towel and sandals. Then, with slower steps, she approached him.

  'Good morning, senhor,' she said politely. 'I did not expect to find you here.'

  'Perhaps not; and perhaps it would be as well if you were to call me Raoul when we are alone. I do not care for you .to be so formal.'

  'I prefer formality, senhor,' replied Toni deliberately, bending to lift her towel.

  He caught her wrist in a vice-like grip, pulling her down beside him so that she overbalanced and fell in the sand. Then he leant over her, pinning her to the sand with both hands, looking down at her with eyes that had darkened with passion. Toni struggled to free herself, and he said:

  'Why do you persistently fight me? For once, at least, submit!'

  Toni turned her head from side to side. 'I hate you, I hate you!'

  'What is it you hate?' he exclaimed harshly, 'the man - or the scar?'

  Toni's eyes rested on the scar for a moment. Curiously, she realized that she had grown accustomed to its presence. It did not disturb her except in a strangely vulnerable way. She stopped struggling.

  'Your scar doesn't bother me,' she said breathlessly, only aware of him: his warmth and passion, the heavy muscularity of his body, and most of all his eyes and mouth. She wanted him to kiss her, she realized again. As before, his overwhelming attraction had thrust her own inhibitions aside.

  'You do not think perhaps that my mind is distorted because my face is distorted also,' he murmured huskily, caressing the nape of her neck with one hand.

  'Raoul—' she groaned, unable to prevent herself, and with a half-triumphant exclamation he bent his head and parted her lips with his mouth.

  'So,' he murmured, burying his face in her neck, 'you do not hate me after all, cara.'

  It was very quiet on the beach, only the early morning cries of the sea-birds wheeling overhead, and the gentle thunder of the waves upon the rocks to break the stillness. Toni felt a growing feeling of inertia overtaking her, as he continued to kiss her with persistent passion. As she had once imagined in her foolishness, he was expert at getting what he wanted, and just now he wanted her. The awful danger was that she was beginning to want him, too, and that was something she had never before experienced. She had never felt this aching heightening of her senses so that she longed to hold him even closer until their bodies were moulded together.

  With a superhuman effort, she managed to take him by surprise, wriggling out of his grasp when he least expected it, scrambling to her feet with panic- stricken movements. Leaving her beach dress and towel where they lay, she ran swiftly across the sand, unheeding of his angry command for her to return.

  Her legs would hardly carry her up the steep rocky steps. Every minute she expected to hear him behind her, preventing her escape, taking her back and making rough and violent love to her. But there was no sound, and when she reached the top of the steps she looked back and saw him standing with his back to her in the same spot as she had left her clothes.

  She halted uncertainly, a shaking, trembling clutch of nerves. What was he thinking? What terrible revenge might he be planning to take? She shivered, and turning began to walk slowly towards the castelo. It hardly seemed possible that in so few weeks her whole life could have been so altered. Life in England, the bed-sitter, the shock of her parents' death, even Paul himself all seemed a lifetime away. All she could remember was this - this kind of mental agony that the Conde was making her suffer. Whether or not he was conscious of it, his enforced denial of her physical possession was more tortuous than actual submission might have been.

  She reached her room without encountering anyone and took a shower to wash the sand from her hair and her body. As she dried herself and dressed in slim slacks and a sleeveless sweater she wondered why she didn't just pack up and go. She had stayed, she had discovered the Conde could be a charming and intelligent companion, she had given herself time to recover completely from the accident, and most important of all she had given Paul another week in which the Conde ought to have reported his so-called theft if indeed that was what he had intended to do. It was too long now
for him not to have discovered the discrepancy; at least, surely that would be the judgment of the police if they were called.

  She sighed. So why didn't she go? She could easily escape; she was not supervised, and it would not be difficult to leave without being noticed for some time. So why didn't she?

  Her brain tossed the question back and forth insistently, as she rubbed her hair dry and fastened it with elastic bands. There was only one answer, of course, as she had known all along. She didn't want to leave any more. She might fight the Conde, with every ounce of her being, she might refuse his ultimate possession of her, and yet, deep down, that was what- she wanted. But not on his terms, not on his terms! He was a fine man, a wonderful man, cruel and ruthless, when there was something he particularly wanted, and yet basically honest; a man it was fatally easy to love. To love! She stared at her reflection, a horrified expression dawning in her eyes. That was the truth, wasn't it? No matter what he had done, how he had treated her, what manner of punishment he might mete out to her, she was in love with him.

  She turned away, refusing to look into her own eyes and see the truth. It couldn't be true! It mustn't be true! She sank down on to the edge of the bed, the brush dropping heedlessly from her fingers. It was true, it was! She was in love with a man who thought she was easy game, someone to have an affair with, a woman who was cheap! How he would laugh if he ever found out. Or maybe he already had. Maybe her urgent response to his lovemaking had given her away. Maybe even now he was laughing to himself. How easy it would be for him to force her to submit if he knew she had no resistance against him! She shivered, and bending, picked the brush from the floor. She replaced it on the dressing table, avoiding her eyes, and walking to the window. The heat of the day was strengthening. How beautiful was the vista of sea and shoreline. It was a fairytale castle, but she was no fairytale princess. Rather more like a helpless mouse caught in the net of a jungle beast, who wanted to play with its prey before destroying it.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IT was late before she went down for breakfast, but Francesca was still at the table, staring moodily into space, her eyes thoughtful. She looked up when Toni entered, and said:

  'You're late! I thought you weren't going to bother to come at all.'

  Toni seated herself beside the percolator. 'I'm sorry, honey. I - I went down to the beach. I had a swim before breakfast, and then I had to shower before getting dressed.'

  'Oh - I see.' Francesca heaved a sigh. 'Did you know my father was leaving this morning?'

  Toni looked astonished. 'No - I mean - has he left?'

  'Yes. I didn't see him, but he has gone. Maria said he didn't have any breakfast at all.'

  'I see.' Toni swallowed hard. 'Where — where has he gone?'

  'Back to Lisbon, I believe.' Francesca traced a pattern on the cloth. 'I wish he'd told me he was leaving.'

  Toni sensed the girl's disappointment, and got up and came round to her. 'Never mind, I guess he must have had something urgent on his mind.'

  'Do you think so?' Francesca looked up at Toni. 'I cannot help but associate Laura's visit yesterday with his subsequent departure.'

  Toni's heart plunged. 'Why?'

  'I don't know. Maybe she said something. Certainly she objected to his being here with you around. Perhaps she's jealous.'

  'That would be ridiculous,' exclaimed Toni shortly.

  'Why? What is ridiculous about it? I've thought for some time that my father enjoyed your company. Hasn't this past week proved it to you?'

  'This past week has been a week out of time,' said Toni, sighing herself now. 'You've no idea what kind of an opinion your father has of me!'

  Francesca looked impatient. 'You're imagining ; things! If you had known my father as long as I have you would realize that his treatment of you these past days has been more like that of a — an admirer than : anything else! I think he finds you amusing. You're not like Laura, and the other women who try to attract him. In fact, I'm sure you go out of your way to annoy , him, and maybe this is the secret of your attraction.'

  'For heaven's sake, Francesca!' Toni felt exasperated. 'Let's drop it, shall we? You haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. You sound as though you've been listening to petty gossip in the servants' quarters. Those words you've just spoken sound exactly like the sort of thing you read in women's magazines!' She smiled, trying to distract Francesca's trend of conversation.

  Francesca shrugged and rose to her feet. 'Well, J anyway, he left instructions that we should start lessons, I so we might as well.'

  Toni's eyes widened. 'You actually want to start lessons!'

  Francesca looked sulky. 'Well, if we do, at least you won't have time to brood about leaving,' she retorted.

  Toni thought there might be some truth in that. It would help to have something to do to take her mind from her personal problems.

  'All right,' she said. 'Come on, we might as well begin.'

  For all that Francesca was only thirteen she was already well advanced in her studies towards the Portuguese equivalent of the 'O' level. Toni doubted her own capacity for being able to teach her much. It was merely necessary to study her books and advise her on the exercises she should concentrate on. She was particularly good at English, and Francesca confided that her father had said she might attend an English university. She was an apt pupil and she and Toni had many interesting conversations and debates on various sociological subjects. She was well read and could quote Shakespeare and Dickens, as well as many British poets. She loved poetry, and as this had always been Toni's favourite subject they spent hours reading from an old edition of the works of William Wordsworth. So many of the Lakeland poets seemed, to Toni, to express the very essence of a love of nature, and here, among such wild and beautiful scenery, it was not difficult to realize how they gained their inspiration. If the knowledge that one day the Conde would return disturbed her, it was quickly dispelled during the daylight hours when she had the Conde's daughter as her companion. Francesca was so much like her father, with his capacity for learning and expressing herself. She also had a sense of humour, and Toni was almost content.

  It was only at night, when the moon hung low over the castelo walls, and the sky was a velvet background for the jewel-like stars that she felt the stirrings of love ' and desire, arousing an awareness of herself and of the needs of her own body and mind. She remembered every tiny detail about the Conde della Maria Estrada: the thick smoothness of his hair, the long luxuriant length of his lashes, the tanned, artistic, yet hard slenderness of his hands, which could arouse her to such ecstatic delight in submission, and the livid scar which seemed, despite his protestations, to have influenced him in some strange way.

  Many times she sat by her window, listening to the roar of the sea, and the gentle murmurings of the night : animals, wondering where he was, and what he was doing, and when he would come back to claim her, utterly. The old Condessa accepted her presence without question, and Toni could only assume that she took litde interest in the affairs of the castelo, so long as they remained smooth. Francesca saw more of the Condessa than anyone, as from time to time she was confined to her bed by the doctor, and then Francesca went and drank tea with her, and told her what they were doing.

  One hot afternoon, about two weeks after the Conde had left for Lisbon, the Condessa took Francesca out for a drive with her. They invited Toni to join them, but she refused, saying she wanted to wash her hair and catch up on some small mending repairs. It was late afternoon before they left as the Condessa always had a siesta after lunch.

  After they had gone, Toni washed her hair, and collecting her mending made her way down to the arbour behind the castelo, where she could sit in the shade of a huge magnolia tree. It was peaceful there, the sun filtering through the branches on to her bent head. She sewed for a while and then sat combing her hair which was drying in the heat of the air. She did not hear a car arrive at the castelo and so she was surprised when she heard voices and footste
ps approaching along the paved path leading the arbour. She glanced round in time to see Laura Passamentes approaching accompanied by Luisa, the housekeeper. They were speaking Portuguese, but Toni gathered that Luisa was showing Laura where she was.

  When Laura saw her, she dismissed Luisa with a wave of her hand and came through the trellised arch to join Toni.

  'So, senhorita,'' she said coldly, 'you are still here. And alone, I believe. Luisa tells me that the Condessa and Francesca are out for a drive.'

  'That is correct, senhora,' replied Toni politely, putting aside her comb. 'Are you well?'

  'Perfectly, senhorita,' replied Laura shortly.

  'Well, won't you sit down?' asked Toni, indicating the seat beside her.

  'No. I have no wish to sit with you, senhorita,' retorted Laura rudely.

  Toni wet her lips with her tongue. 'But you came here - you asked Luisa to show you the way here - so that you could see me, senhora.'

  'I did, I agree. But not perhaps for the reasons you believe.'

  Toni sighed. 'What reasons?'

  Laura shrugged. She was wearing a dark blue dress which moulded her body, and Toni thought she had never looked so beautiful, or so aristocratic.

  'When I arrived, it was with the intention of procuring a moment alone with you, 'Senhorita Morley,' said Laura, surprisingly. 'However, when I found the Condessa and Francesca were not at home. I could not have been more pleased. Not because I do not wish to see the Condessa, who is a dear and close friend of mine, or Francesca either, although of late she has shown a little rudeness in my presence, but simply because it gives me the opportunity to see you without fear of being overheard.'

  Toni stiffened. 'Senhora,' she said, trying to keep her voice steady, 'this is the third time we have - how shall I put it - had words over the Conde, for I am sure that is what you are here to discuss, and quite frankly, I am sick and tired of it. I do not wish to be rude, senhora, but if you have any complaints about my presence here, you should take them up with the Conde himself, not me!'