Pale Dawn Dark Sunset Page 15

  “Are you feeling better?” he enquired, standing beside the bed, looking down at her with intent eyes.

  Miranda nodded. “Mu—much better, thank you. I—I’m sorry I’ve been such a nuisance. I’ll go as soon as I can get dressed.”

  Rafael shook his head slowly. “You will not be going anywhere, señorita,” he stated uncompromisingly. “You need several days of complete bed rest. You are lucky to get away so lightly. You could so easily have damaged your spine.”

  Miranda stared at him incredulously. “But I can’t stay here!”

  His eyes narrowed, the thick lashes successfully veiling his expression. “No?”

  “No.” She shifted restlessly, aware that the slightest movement caused her some discomfort. “I—nobody knows where I am. And Lucy is at the hacienda. I’m supposed to have a headache—to be resting—”

  “You are resting, señorita,” he observed without humour. “Do not alarm yourself. My family have been advised of your whereabouts. They have also been informed that you are in no fit state to be moved for the present. It is unfortunate, but unavoidable.” His jaw hardened. “As far as I can ascertain at this time there appears to be no irreparable damage to your back, señorita. But the next few days will either confirm or disprove my diagnosis.”

  Miranda heaved a deep sigh. “I see.” She looked up at him, her lips moving mutinously. “Are you very angry with me?”

  Rafael frowned. “Angry, señorita?”

  “Yes—angry.” Miranda was impatient herself now. “You stand there telling me the cold facts of my condition, and all the time you must be despising me for landing myself on you, uninvited!”

  Rafael thrust his hand into the high pockets of his cream corded pants. “You are a patient, señorita. Naturally I will do what I can for you—as I would for anyone in your position.

  “Oh, thank you!” Miranda plucked restlessly at the sheet, her tone deliberately sarcastic, wanting to arouse him as he seemed always able to arouse her. “And I suppose I was just a patient when you picked me up and carried me in here and stripped me of my clothes, wasn’t I?” she taunted, her voice rising unsteadily.

  Rafael sighed. “Do not get hysterical, señorita. There is no shame in what I did. I am a doctor. I have examined many women. I have delivered babies. You were no different from my other patients.”

  Miranda caught her breath on a sob. “I know. That’s what I mean.”

  Rafael drew his hands out of his pockets and she could see they were clenched. “You must be hungry, señorita. I will get you some food.”

  Miranda remembering how she had planned to care for him, felt a terrible sense of contrition. Moving her head in a negative gesture, she caught his wrist between her fingers. “I—I’m sorry,” she groaned, looking up at him through drowned pupils. “I’m sorry. I’m a bitch! I know you’ve done your best for me. Don’t be angry with me, please!”

  Rafael looked down at her hand gripping his wrist and a tormented expression crossed his lean face. “I am not angry with you, señorita,” he declared tautly. “I realise your intentions in coming here were commendable and I appreciate them. But you are my patient now, and I will do my best to look after you.”

  “Oh, Rafael!” His name was torn from her. “Don’t you ever relax your guard? Don’t you ever feel any emotion?”

  His eyes darkened, but whether with passion or anger she could not be certain. He wrenched his wrist out of her grasp and strode towards the door. “I will get you some soup, señorita,” he stated bleakly, and left her.

  CHAPTER TEN

  DURING the next few days Miranda had to learn to suffer Rafael’s impersonal examinations without embarrassment. The morning after her accident, a young Indian girl who introduced herself as Eva Mejor presented herself for duty, and it was she who cared for Miranda—changing her bed linen, supplying medication, serving meals. Miranda saw practically nothing of Rafael himself except in the early mornings when he came to examine her. Then he would strip the covers away, his face devoid of emotion, his hands cool and efficient as they probed her bruised flesh. To Miranda, who longed for those hands to caress her, to touch her in a much more personal manner, it was a bitter-sweet experience, over too soon. Then he would exchange a few words in the Mexican tongue with Eva Mejor and depart about his other business with only a curt: “Adios, señorita!” to last her through the day.

  She had only one visitor during those few days—Constancia. The younger girl arrived on the afternoon following the accident, but it soon became apparent that she had not really wanted to come. She was ill at ease and although she enquired about Miranda’s health there was a lack of enthusiasm in her attitude. Miranda couldn’t understand why until at last Constancia got to the real point of her visit. Twisting her hands together, she said: “My mother does not wish you to return to the hacienda when you are recovered, señorita.”

  Miranda managed not to show her dismay. “Oh!”

  Constancia sighed unhappily. “I am sorry, señorita.”

  Miranda shrugged. “It’s not your fault.” She was sitting up in bed dressed in an ugly cotton nightshirt that would have been more suitable for a man twice her size. She forced a smile. “Perhaps you could arrange to have my—my belongings packed up for me. I—I could do with some pyjamas.”

  “I brought your things with me,” admitted Constancia, her face red. “My mother insisted.”

  “I see.” Miranda swallowed hard. So it was definite, was it? “I’m sorry she feels that way. But she has no reason to feel jealous of me—”

  “Jealous of you, señorita?“ Constancia frowned. “I do not understand.”

  Miranda tugged at the sheet. “I expect she thinks I am a scarlet woman or something, being here alone with Rafael—I mean, Don Rafael. She had no reason to feel so—”

  “But of course!” exclaimed Constancia impatiently. “We know that. Rafael is not her concern.”

  “No?”

  “No.” Constancia shook her head. “It is Juan! Of course, I did not explain myself very well. Juan has broken his betrothal to Valentina.”

  “What?” Miranda was horrified. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Unfortunately, it is so. My brother is obsessed with the child—and you, señorita.”

  Miranda moved restlessly, wincing as she flexed the torn muscles. “I—I didn’t know. I never dreamed—”

  “Carla told our mother she had seen Juan making love to you on the patio.”

  “Carla is a mischief-maker!” Miranda made a helpless gesture. “Constancia, you’ve got to believe me—I didn’t encourage your brother! I’m not interested in him!”

  Constancia shrugged now. “It is no matter. Juan has refused to go on with the betrothal. There was a terrible row last evening and Valentina and her parents left this morning.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “It is so, señorita. So you see, my mother is determined to keep you and Juan apart.”

  Miranda sighed. “I see. And I thought…” She looked down at her trembling fingers. “I seem to have become a nuisance to everybody, don’t I?”

  Constancia looked uncomfortable. “Not to Rafael, I am sure.”

  Miranda felt frustrated. “You say that so calmly—so assertively. Why not to Rafael? Isn’t your mother afraid that Rafael might find me a—a temptation, too?”

  Constancia’s small face was grave. “Rafael is not interested in women, señorita, as I am sure you are aware. His bride is the church. Soon he is to return to the seminary in Mexico City where he is studying to be a priest.”

  It was fortunate that Eva Mejor chose that moment to come in and say apologetically that the visitor would have to leave, that her patient required further treatment. Miranda could not have said anything. She was deeply shocked and a terrifying numbness behind her eyes was giving the whole scene a curiously unreal appearance. It couldn’t be true, she tried to tell herself unconvincingly, fighting the faintness which was threatening to overwhelm her. But she was still too we
ak to offer much resistance, and for the second time in two days she lost consciousness.

  When she came round this time both Rafael and Eva were in the room, but Constancia was gone. The relief on their faces when she opened her eyes would have been comical had Rafael not spoiled it all by saying: “You are trying to do too much with too little strength, señorita. There will be no more visitors.”

  Miranda had to accept this. What other reason could there be for this terrible sense of inadequacy that engulfed her every time she tried to think of the future?

  During the next couple of days she devoted all her energies to recovering her strength. She ate everything they gave her, swallowed sleeping tablets without question, and generally closed her mind to any speculation about Rafael. Only when she was near him did she find this dictate hard to adhere to. He didn’t look well either, despite his apparent energies. But those times were few and far between and she managed to achieve a certain measure of detachment. She had Lucy to think of, she told herself, and as soon as she was able to walk she was going to take the child and herself out of this valley, with or without anyone else’s permission.

  At the end of her fifth day at the house she was able to get out of bed and walk around the bedroom. The strained muscles had responded well to Eva’s massage and the complete physical rest worked its own cure. She still limped, of course, and there was no question of her being able to carry suitcases or cross an airport tarmac unaided, but she was making progress.

  But as her strength increased, so too did her misery over Rafael. While she was partially sedated, living on borrowed time, existing from one sleeping draught to the next, it had been easy to tell herself that she was recovering from that particular malady. To be fully conscious, fully aware of the man who slept only a couple of doors away, was another matter.

  The night after her first experience of getting up, Miranda just couldn’t sleep. Her mind was too active, her thoughts too chaotic to permit her to relax. On her bedside table lay the two sleeping tablets Eva had left her before leaving that evening, but for once Miranda had decided to try and do without them. And this was the result!

  Depression settling on her like a shroud, she leant across and fumbled for the tablets. Where on earth were they? It was so dark, and there was no electric light at Rafael’s house, only gas lights that required lighting with matches. Her fingers struck the glass of water Eva had also left on the table, sending its contents all over the floor.

  “Damn!” Miranda dragged herself upright. “Damn, damn, damn!” Even if she found the tablets now she wouldn’t be able to take them without a drink.

  She slid her legs out of bed. There was nothing for it but to pad along to the kitchen and boil more water. At least her eyes were accustoming themselves to the gloom now and she could see where she was going. She reached for her silk robe and wrapped it closely about her. Although she still slept in her skin she wore pyjamas during the day.

  The passage was cold to her feet and she hurried down it, not wanting to disturb anyone. However, a light showed beneath the kitchen door and when she tentatively propelled it open she found Rafael seated on a wooden form by the blackened hearth, his head buried in his hands.

  Her heart thumped heavily as she stared at his bent head, for the moment completely unaware of her presence. Then as though some sixth sense warned him that he was no longer alone, he looked up and saw her. She gasped at the agony she glimpsed in his face, and then it was gone. He had schooled his features into the polite mask she knew so well.

  “Rafael!” she breathed unsteadily, moved to say something. “Are—are you ill? It’s so late. Why aren’t you in bed?”

  Rafael got unsteadily to his feet and she thought for a moment that he had been drinking. And then she realised that he swayed from weariness.

  “What do you want?” he enquired heavily. “I was just about to retire.”

  Miranda gathered her scattered emotions. She must remember that whatever ailed him it had nothing to do with her. “I—er—I knocked over my water,” she managed, her voice gaining in confidence. “Do you think I might have some more?”

  Rafael blinked, and raked a hand through his tousled dark hair. “What? Oh—oh, yes, of course.” His shirt was unfastened almost to his waist and he tugged absently at the hair on his chest. “I will put on the kettle.”

  “It’s all right, I can do it.”

  Miranda crossed the room and they both reached simultaneously for the kettle. Rafael’s fingers brushed her bare arm where the wide sleeves of her gown had fallen back and a shudder ran through him. Miranda almost snatched up the kettle and moved swiftly away to the sink where a pump handle supplied cold water. She was trembling, and a glance at his set features convinced her that he was not entirely in control of his emotions.

  She filled the kettle and came back to put it on the stove. Rafael, a pulse jerking at his jawline, struck a match and lighted the gas for her, and then stood aside stiffly, like an automaton. Miranda cast another anxious look in his direction and then linking her fingers turned away. The atmosphere was taut with undercurrents of feeling but whether it was apparent to Rafael, too, she could not in all honesty say. She drew a trembling breath. Let the kettle boil quickly!

  She felt rather than heard him move to stand right behind her. Through the thin material of her gown she could feel the warmth of his body, the nearness of the long powerful legs. She wanted to move away, but she felt riveted to the spot, scarcely daring to breathe in case she precipitated some irrevocable move on his part. If she stayed perfectly still, she told herself, he would not touch her.

  But she was wrong. His hands curved over her shoulders almost of their own volition, she felt, and he drew her resistingly back against him. Miranda struggled, knowing he was going to hate himself for doing this and not wanting him to hate her as well, but he stifled her struggles without effort and muttered: “Be still!” against her neck. His mouth was like a lick of flame to her kindled emotions, his tongue a tantalising caress against her skin.

  “No,” she protested, trying to drag herself away from him. “Rafael, no!”

  Her struggles only seemed to incite him, however, and his hands slid from her shoulders over her throat, her breasts, seeking and finding the warm, pliant flesh beneath her gown. She could feel the hardness of his chest and thighs and the desire to yield against him was an intoxicating temptation. But she had to keep her head…

  “Let me go, Rafael,” she implored, arching away from him. “Think what you’re doing!”

  “Do you think I am not thinking?” he groaned thickly exposing the smooth flesh of her shoulder to his caressing lips. “Thinking and feeling and wanting… Do not fight me, Miranda. I am only human and a man can stand so much and no more. You think I am cold, unfeeling—but you are mistaken. Do you think I have never experienced the delights of a woman’s body? It is not so. I will not disappoint you. My father taught me well—too well!” Bitterness had invaded his tones. “The richness of the feast made an abstainer of its most fervent devotee!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” exclaimed Miranda feverishly, continuing to fight him while her strength diminished. “You’ve got to let me go!”

  Rafael’s answer was to twist her round in his arms, crushing her cruelly against him making her wholly aware of the physical needs of his body. “Kiss me, Miranda,” he commanded savagely, “kiss me, love me—cleanse me of this devil that is driving me out of my mind!”

  Miranda pressed her palms against his chest, unable to prevent her nails from curling painfully into his skin. But he didn’t seem to notice. She kept her chin pressed down, refusing to offer her lips for his possession. But impatience brought his hand round her throat, and his thumb forced her face up to his.

  His mouth fastened itself to hers, parting her lips with an expertise that confirmed his earlier assertion of experience. But what began as a hungry assault on her body softened into a lingering intimacy, a seduction of the senses more pa
ssionate than any violent assuagement could be. His hands moved over her back, caressing her, arousing her, destroying her desire to resist him. She could feel him trembling against her and felt a ridiculous sense of triumph that she could do this to him.

  But her triumph was short-lived. Rafael was swinging her up in his arms, carrying her out of the kitchen and along the hall to her bedroom. Cold reason broke through the mists of emotion. She could not go on with this. No matter how Rafael felt, what he thought about her, however he despised her independent existence, she was not accustomed to going to bed with any man, and although Rafael was the first man she had ever wanted to go to bed with common sense in the cool draught of the hall warned her of the dangers. Apart from anything else, Rafael had no intentions of making any lasting commitment, his sole desire was to possess her body and rid himself of the irritating discomfort of wanting her. A cold memory at best when she was back in England.

  But it would be something to remember, her senses teased her. In the bleak years to come when she might have to marry some man she did not love, might it not be some consolation to know that once the man she loved had made love to her? But would that be the end of it? What if something happened? What if she became pregnant? Emotion stirred again. The idea of being pregnant with Rafael’s child was an emotive one.

  The shadows in the bedroom seemed deeper, more sharply defined, as Rafael laid her on the bed and began to tear his shirt from his trousers. But Miranda took the moment’s respite to slide across the bed and get off it at the other side.

  “No, Rafael!” she said determinedly, her voice unsteady. “No. I won’t let you touch me!”

  Rafael became still, a shadowy figure whose expression she could not see. For a few agonising seconds there was complete silence and all she could hear was her own laboured breathing. And then he uttered a tortured expression of pain and disgust, and snatching up his discarded garments left the room.

  For almost five minutes after the door had closed, Miranda remained where she was, frozen into a broken statue. And then reaction set in and she flung herself upon the bed, silent sobs racking her body.