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  ‘What do you mean?'

  ‘I wish it would come here—I wish it would come—for me!’ Her voice broke and she half turned away from him, unwilling for him to see her distress.

  ‘You don't know what you're saying,’ he muttered, his accent thickening. ‘Emma—please to go back to bed.'

  She moved her head slowly from side to side, and he swore softly before saying: ‘I insist you do as I ask.'

  Emma put up a hand and massaged the nape of her neck tiredly, unaware how the careless action drew attention to the pointed swell of her breasts. But Miguel was aware of it, and in a tormented voice, he said: ‘Madre de Dios, Emma, do as I say!'

  ‘Why?’ She looked at him out of the corners of her eyes. ‘Why should I do anything you ask? Do you realize this is the first time we've been really alone together since that night in your hotel suite?’ She shivered involuntarily. ‘Just go away and leave me alone!'

  Miguel clenched his fists. ‘You're cold. Do you want to get pneumonia?'

  ‘I don't particularly care,’ she answered huskily, bending her head.

  Miguel moved then, taking the space between them in a couple of strides, sliding his arms around her from behind, dragging her roughly back against him. Emma resisted only for a moment, and then the warmth and urgency of his body invaded hers, and she let herself yield against him.

  ‘Dios, esta demente!’ he groaned thickly, his mouth moving against the soft curve of her shoulder, bared by his fingers as they pushed the offending chiffon aside. Emma knew those words, they meant that what he was doing was insane, but he didn't stop. Instead, he twisted her round in his arms and then his mouth was on hers, all fire and passion and hungry need. Her lips parted willingly, and weakness made her cling to him so that he slid his arms beneath her and swung her up against him, carrying her across the terrace and into the quiet intimacy of her bedroom. He laid her on the bed, and as though the action had brought him to his senses he tried to straighten up again. But Emma's arms were about his neck, and when he would have drawn away she pulled him down to her, seeking his mouth with hers.

  Miguel lost his head then, bearing her back against the silken bed-coverings, possessing her mouth with a passion that weakened and yet terrified her. It was one thing to want the man one loved, and she knew she loved him now, to make love to her, and quite another to realize that he was virtually a stranger to her who had married her for some nefarious purpose of his own. She knew so little about him, and when he began to unbutton his shirt and she felt the hardness of his flesh against hers, she panicked. Taking advantage of his sensually induced weakness, she pulled herself away from him and slid off the bed at the other side, stumbling across the room to stand panting against the far wall. Contrarily, once she had left him, she longed to be back in his arms again, but when she looked towards the bed and saw Miguel still lying there, she could not move.

  There was a moment's stillness, and then with a shrug Miguel fastened his clothes and slid off the bed himself, looking across at her intently. She could not make out his expression, his face was in shadow, but she sensed his contempt.

  ‘Perhaps now you will appreciate the dangers of wandering about the terrace without adequate covering!’ he said, with bitter mockery.

  ‘Miguel, I—'

  ‘Don't say anything else!’ he commanded, and turning, walked out through the long glass doors, sliding them together with a definite click.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE following morning, Emma had the opportunity of seeing quite a lot more of her husband's domain.

  She must have slept for some time after Miguel had left, for she was awakened by one of the smiling Indian girls soon after eight o'clock with a tray of coffee and hot rolls and butter. She struggled up in bed to take the tray, blinking in the sunlight that streamed through the windows, and although she felt sure she would be unable to eat a thing, the rolls smelt so delicious she couldn't resist trying them.

  Afterwards, she thrust the tray aside and rushed to the long windows for her first glimpse of the grounds in daylight. But before lingering there she pulled a cord to the right of the windows which the maid had shown her the night before and which caused a swathe of ruched nylon curtain to slide across the windows providing her with privacy from outside.

  The brilliance of the garden was not subdued in the bright sunlight, and beyond the terrace where several shades of bougainvillea twined, there were oleanders and creamy magnolias, and vivid splashes of hibiscus. There were lots of other flowering shrubs which Emma had never seen before, the whole giving an impression of wild cultivation and lush tropicality.

  Stretches of lawn, interspersed with mosaic paths and small flowering trees, led down to the wide waters of the lake, which shaded from turquoise to deepest blue. Beyond the lake, the high reaches of the Sierra Madre cast their own shadows, a fitting backcloth for so much colour and fertility.

  Leaving the window with reluctance, Emma sought the coolness of her bathroom, marvelling again as she had the night before, at its tiled luxury. As well as the usual accoutrements there was a round step-in bath, big enough for half a dozen adults, and a shower. The tiles were in various shades of blue and green, and there were mirrors everywhere, giving her back her reflection in a thousand different ways.

  Later, she dressed in yellow cotton pants and a sleeveless ribbed yellow jumper, and went in search of the other members of the household. It took a great deal of courage to leave the sanctuary of her room, but it had to be done and there was no point pretending otherwise. She simply refused to let Miguel see how much he could hurt her.

  Soft rubber tiles cushioned her feet as she followed the passage back towards the lounge they had entered the night before. She had to descend several steps to reach that level, the bedrooms being above the servants’ quarters on the higher level.

  But the lounge was deserted and she looked about her distractedly, not quite knowing what to do. Somehow this room was not the sort of place one could relax in alone with its intricately carved ceiling and frescoed walls. The highly polished wooden floor was strewn with animal skins, while all the furniture was of palest hide. The cabinet in one corner which housed a collection of silver and porcelain must have been worth a small fortune, while there was a picture above the wide, tapestry-screened fireplace which she suspected was priceless. But where else could she go? She didn't know the layout of the house well enough to explore.

  And then, as though in answer to a silent prayer, she heard the sound of footsteps crossing the hall and swung round in relief. But that relief was tempered when she encountered Carlos Salvaje's brooding stare.

  He regarded her for a long moment, taking in the delicious picture she made, all in yellow, her tawny hair loose and catching the vibrant rays of the sun. Then he said politely: ‘Buenos dias, señorita—señora!'

  ‘Good—good morning, señor.’ Emma did not trust herself to speak his language in case he assumed she was conversant with it.

  ‘You slept well?'

  Emma hesitated. ‘Quite well, thank you.’ She glanced round, gesticulating awkwardly towards the garden. ‘It's a beautiful morning.'

  ‘We have many such mornings,’ commented Carlos curtly.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose you have.’ Emma endeavoured to remain cool. ‘I'm afraid I'm used to a less reliable climate.'

  Carlos raised his dark eyebrows at this, and her gaze flickered away from his face, taking in the fact that he was dressed for riding in pale grey breeches and black, shiny boots, a cream shirt open at his strong throat. Miguel would look like this in perhaps thirty years’ time, she thought perceptively, and her heart lurched when she considered what that thirty years might mean to her.

  ‘You have had desayuno?’ he asked, tapping the short whip he held in his hand against his boot.

  ‘Breakfast?’ Emma nodded vigorously. ‘Yes. A maid brought it to my room.'

  ‘That is good.’ Carlos considered her thoughtfully. ‘Do you ride, señora?'

&nb
sp; Emma caught her breath. ‘Please—call me Emma,’ she said. ‘And yes, I have ridden. Although not for several years, I'm afraid.'

  ‘It is not something one forgets.’ Carlos inclined his head. ‘Very well then—Emma. Would you care to accompany me this morning? I want to ride over to the village to see my—how do you say it—mandatario? Manager?'

  ‘I'm afraid I don't have any riding clothes.’ Emma made a helpless movement of her shoulders. ‘Much as I should like to come with you…'

  Carlos frowned, his dark eyes, so like Miguel's, assessing her appearance. ‘Surely what you are wearing now, together with some stronger shoes—’ He pointed his whip towards her thonged sandals with distaste. ‘You have some boots, perhaps?'

  Emma glanced down at her feet. ‘Yes, I have some boots.'

  ‘Good.’ He tapped his boot again with his whip. ‘Come outside when you are ready.’ And he turned and strode away across the hall again.

  Emma gazed after him with some misgiving. If only Miguel were here to advise her—or Juan. Someone else to consult before going with this tall, arrogant stranger.

  But there was no one else about, and she dared not keep him waiting. Besides, if she was really honest with herself, she knew she wanted to go. After all, this was Miguel's father, and there was something exciting about the prospect of spending a morning exploring the magnificent countryside beyond the formal grounds of the house.

  She put on cream suede boots, allowing her trouser legs to fall over them, and then rummaged in her bag for the dark glasses she had bought in Mexico City. Huge frames accentuated the pure lines of her oval face, and the girl reflected in her dressing-table mirror was almost as much a stranger to her as Carlos Salvaje.

  Collecting a chunky white cardigan, she made her way back to the hall and passed through the arched doorway on to the terrace, which ran all round the house, with particular areas bracketed by trellis-work intertwined with the ubiquitous bougainvillea.

  She saw her host some distance away round the side of the building talking to one of the Indian servants, and she tried not to walk too eagerly towards him. However, he saw her coming and dismissed the man with casual ease. Then, when Emma had joined him, he said: ‘Come: the stables are through these trees. I have had José saddle Candida for you. She is a quiet mare, not given to violent fits of passion.’ His expression had softened slightly, but Emma sensed it was because he loved his horses and not for any other reason.

  His own horse Nubarro was a vastly different proposition. Tall and dark like its master, Nubarro possessed a fiery, excitable nature, evident in its flashing eyes and stamping impatience, and Emma, unused to such spirited temper, avoided its restless hooves as she was helped on to Candida's back.

  It was very hot, and she was draping her unwanted cardigan across the front of her saddle when Carlos leant across and handed her a worn cream sombrero. ‘Put it on,’ he directed. ‘It will protect the back of your neck.'

  Emma shrugged, but she slipped the hat on to her head, noticing as she did so that Carlos apparently needed nothing. But then he was used to the sun.

  They cantered out of the stable area and down the grassy slope towards the lake. Emma took her first real gulp of pure mountain air and sighed in delight. In the distance, across the lake, she could see a small boat with two occupants, and Carlos allowed her mare to come alongside him and commented that the water was good for fishing.

  They followed the line of the lake for some distance before branching off to trek a short way beside a gurgling stream. It cascaded down the mountainside, splashing over rocks and fernlike growths, as clear as tap water. The air was filled with the sounds of the birds and other animals, and bees hummed busily from one exotic bloom to another. Every now and then Carlos made some comment concerning their surroundings, but mostly he left Emma to simply enjoy the beauty of the day.

  It was getting much hotter, and she was glad of the sombrero, although she looked rather concernedly at Carlos's bare head.

  ‘You don't wear a hat,’ she said, and he shook his head.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he conceded. Then, as though by her question she had broken the silence between them, he went on: ‘Tell me: what has Miguel told you about me?'

  Emma's fingers tightened on Candida's reins. ‘Not a lot,’ she admitted awkwardly.

  Carlos studied her bent head. ‘You were not curious about his family?'

  ‘Of course I was curious.’ Emma sighed and looked at him. ‘Where is his mother—your wife?'

  Carlos's mouth tightened. ‘I have no wife,’ he replied harshly.

  Emma absorbed this with difficulty. ‘You have no wife?’ She shook her head. ‘You mean—you are divorced?'

  ‘My wife is dead.'

  Emma stared at him in surprise. ‘But—but Juan said—'

  Carlos's eyes hardened. ‘Yes? What did Juan say?'

  She flushed. ‘Oh, nothing.'

  ‘But yes, I insist’ He cantered close to her. ‘What did Juan tell you?'

  Emma drew a trembling breath. ‘It's not important.’ But it was! Juan had said Miguel's mother was alive; that he had brothers and sisters! He had said that.

  Carlos looked as though he was about to argue with her further, but then he looked away, and said: ‘Miguel was born here, at Lacustre Largo, in the bed in which I myself was born.'

  Emma was interested in spite of herself. ‘He's very lucky.'

  ‘Yes.’ Carlos said the word slowly. Then: ‘Perhaps he does not think so.’ His lips twisted. ‘I do not always understand him.'

  That makes two of us, thought Emma dryly, but she didn't say it. Instead, she said: ‘This village we are going to—what is it called?'

  ‘Largo,’ said Carlos briefly, guiding Nubarro between a clump of jacarandas, their blossoms scenting the air, fluttering to make a pale carpet at their feet. ‘Miguel tells me you are to have a wedding in the church here in Puebla.'

  ‘He told you that?’ Emma played for time.

  ‘Yes. Last night, before he went to bed. I regret keeping him so late. We talked until the early hours of this morning.'

  That explained why Miguel was still dressed when he found her on the terrace, thought Emma, looking up at the network of branches above their heads. She wondered what they had talked about for so long. What had Miguel told his father about them, about their meeting for the first time, the reasons for their marriage? Had Miguel explained the circumstances surrounding his injuries, for example? Had he any idea of the difficulties she was likely to encounter when she didn't even know what he was thinking?

  In the distance she could see some houses now, small, single-storied dwellings, curls of smoke rising from their chimneys in spite of the heat of the day. Nodding towards them, she asked: ‘Is this Largo?'

  Carlos nodded. ‘Yes, this is the village. No doubt you will find it all rather primitive after England. Unfortunately, people here either cannot, or will not, improve their lot.'

  It was primitive. Emma tried not to let Carlos see how appalled she was by the houses which were little more than thatched-roofed huts jostling together beneath the trees beside the mud-baked track. Open doorways gave glimpses of bare interiors where a charcoal stove was the only means of cooking, while half-naked children played in the dirt with a complete disregard for sanitation. There were few men to be seen and Emma guessed this was because they were all away working in the fields or wherever else they might be employed, but the women, who all seemed to wear the same type of peasant blouse and full skirt, bobbed before Carlos and herself as if they were visiting royalty.

  ‘You see,’ said Carlos, pointing with his whip towards one of the huts. ‘They live like animals, or perhaps that is an unfair analogy. Animals, generally speaking, take more care of their young.'

  Emma felt repelled by the cold indifference in his voice, and yet at the same time she recognized what he was saying was the truth. ‘But how do they sleep?’ she exclaimed.

  Carlos indicated the straw mats which littered the fl
oor of the huts. ‘They sleep on those,’ he said. ‘They are called petates. It is all they have ever known.'

  Emma was amazed. She would never have believed that human beings, so close to a modern civilization, could live so primitively, changing little over the centuries.

  Clearing her throat, she said: ‘Where does this man live who we are going to see?'

  ‘It is not far now,’ he replied. ‘Just beyond the village.'

  Emma was not sorry to leave the village behind, and now she could see ahead of them some distance up the track, the white-daubed walls of an adobe house. Two-storied, with curtains at the windows, it contrasted violently with the primitive dwellings in the village, and Emma looked at Carlos in surprise.

  ‘Alfaro Diaz is a good worker,’ he commented. ‘He has been in my employ for many years now.'

  ‘And he—looks after the estate?'

  ‘Part of it, yes. But I employ many people, Emma. One manager would not be enough.'

  She nodded slowly, and as they neared the house some children appeared and came running down the track to greet them. There were three, the eldest perhaps ten, the youngest no more than five or six. Carlos dismounted, a good-natured smile softening his stern features.

  ‘Ah, chiquillos!’ he exclaimed, leading his horse as he approached them. Then he dropped the reins and gathered the youngest up into his arms, laughing and talking to him in rapid Spanish.

  Hesitantly, Emma dismounted too and followed his example, aware of the speculative stares of the other children. The youngest was a boy, but the others were girls, dark-haired and dark-eyed, and yet not Indian in appearance. Obviously their parents were of Spanish extraction.

  Carlos glanced round at her. ‘Come!’ he said imperatively, putting the boy on his feet again. ‘Meet my little ones. See, this is Rosita—Cecilia, and this—Clemente.'

  Emma smiled at the children. ‘Buenos dias!’ she said.

  ‘Buenos dias, señorita,’ they chorused politely, clearly unaware of the significance of the broad gold band on her third finger.