The High Valley Page 2

  Laurence Dennison had caught the drift of their conversation, and now he leaned across the table and said: “Are you talking about the Salvador brothers?”

  Morgana felt slightly impatient at his intrusion, but Michael merely nodded. “Yes, we were. Why?”

  Mr. Dennison glanced round surreptitiously. “You have heard they're supposed to be behind the guerillas in Monteraverde?”

  Michael shrugged. “Do you believe it? Would Montoya let them come here like this if he thought –”

  “He can't prove anything,” said Mr. Dennison, authoritatively. “Much as he would like to. And without proof, what can he do? After all, their father did hold a position of power for many years, and they're well-liked in Monteraverde.”

  “Yes, but …” Michael lay back in his seat thoughtfully. “I can't believe they're involved. Besides, isn't Luis entering the priesthood?”

  Mr. Dennison sniffed. “I heard that, too. But nowadays anything is possible. The biggest villain living can wear a saintly smile!”

  Michael shrugged, and David Grover took up the conversation. “Are you saying that the Salvador brothers are villains, Laurie?” he queried lightly.

  “I don't know.” Laurence Dennison shrugged his shoulders.

  Ruth made a face at Morgana. “What did I tell you?” she asked resignedly. “Politics, politics, politics! Do I not get sick of that word?”

  Morgana smiled. “I suppose I'm to blame for this,” she said ruefully.

  Ruth shook her head. “Oh, no. They only needed an excuse. Anything would do.”

  “Well, anyway,” Michael was saying, “Queras has done some pretty doubtful things in his time. Who's to say that a revolution wouldn't be for the better?”

  Mr. Dennison frowned. “Better for whom?” he questioned quietly. “And you be careful what you say, young Lawson. The eyes and ears of the world, you know …”

  Michael grimaced. “What? Here?” he exclaimed. “In this cacophony of sound? I think not.”

  Morgana lay back in her seat, her eyes drifting irresistibly back to that small group of three men and one woman. The man was looking her way and for a moment their eyes met and locked. Then he inclined his head politely and looked away, but not before his brother had observed that salutory recognition. Morgana saw the brother say something to him and then she looked swiftly down at her drink on the table, a hot flush staining her cheeks. She felt strangely exhilarated, and her hands trembled as she lifted her glass. It was ridiculous to feel this way, and yet there was something about the man's dark leanness that disturbed her unfathomably. But to her astonishment, a few moments later she found both of the brothers at her side which succeeded in grasping the attention of every member of their party. Morgana felt terribly embarrassed, and wondered with a sinking heart why they had come.

  The brother she had not encountered seemed to appoint himself spokesman, for he said: “Excuse me, senhorita, but may I be permitted to invite you to dance with me?”

  Morgana was astounded, and she looked awkwardly across at Mr. Dennison for guidance. Mrs. Dennison was looking positively horrified and even Ruth seemed surprised. Laurence Dennison rose to his feet abruptly. “Miss Mallory is with our party, senhor,” he said formally. “I do not think –”

  The man looked at Dennison sardonically. “Is it not permitted that Miss – er – Mallory should speak for herself?” he queried, with a trace of insolence.

  Morgana breathed jerkily. She felt terrible. She was aware of the other man with every fibre of her being as he stood slightly behind her chair, and she wondered why it was that it should be his brother who was asking her to dance. She looked at the taut disapproving faces of Mrs. Dennison, and Ruth, and rose to her feet.

  Mr. Dennison was on his dignity. “Senhor, Miss Mallory is a friend of my daughter's, newly arrived in Brazil, and she is not used to the country yet. The customs are alien to her, and while I am sure she appreciates your gesture, you are not known to her, and naturally she is embarrassed. Indeed, senhor, I do not believe you have ever made the acquaintance of my wife.”

  “That is true.” The man bowed slightly in Mrs. Dennison's direction. “We can remedy that oversight immediately. Allow me to introduce myself, senhores, senhoras, I am Ricardo Salvador, at your service.”

  Mrs. Dennison nodded rather distantly, and Morgana glanced doubtfully at Ruth's father. Then she said: “Of course I will dance with you, Senhor Salvador.” She looked apologetically at the others. “Will you excuse me?”

  Ruth's eyes flickered with amazement at her temerity, and Mr. Dennison gave an impatient movement of his shoulders. Then Morgana turned and encountered for the first time the gaze of the other man. His eyes were narrowed, but she noticed they were a peculiarly tawny shade, and right now they were as cool and distant as those of Mrs. Dennison. This then must be Luis Salvador, she thought swiftly. The man Michael Lawson had said was entering the priesthood. The palms of her hands felt suddenly damp. Was that why he was allowing his brother to invite her to dance? And why was Ricardo Salvador inviting her to dance anyway? The questions buzzed in her head, and she scarcely noticed the ardent gaze Ricardo bestowed upon her as he led her through the arched entrance to the ballroom.

  But when he drew her into his arms he made certain that she was aware of him, holding her close against the broad muscularity of his body with possessive expertise.

  Morgana pressed one hand against his chest in an effort to loosen his hold on her, and he smiled mockingly. “What is wrong, senhorita?’ he queried. “We dance well together, do we not? You are very simpatica with the music, I think.”

  Morgana gave him a wry glance. “And is this how you hold a dancing partner in Monteraverde, senhor? Are you so unsure of your charm that you must prevent any attempt to escape?”

  His smile widened into a grin. “Touché, senhorita, I see you have spirit. That, I like.” He allowed her a little more freedom. “But tell me, why did you agree to dance with the henchman of O Halcão? Particularly as the good Senhor Dennison so obviously did not wish you to do so?”

  Morgana regarded him curiously. “I choose my own dancing partners, senhor.”

  “You are a brave woman, senhorita. Such liberties raise eyebrows in Brazilian society.”

  “But I am English, senhor.”

  “Yes, I know. Besides, such fairness of skin is seldom seen in this dark continent. You are staying with the Dennisons, si?”

  “Yes.” Morgana nodded, her eyes wandering swiftly round the room unconsciously searching for another pair of eyes which were undeniably watching her with brooding concentration. She could sense it like a tangible force. “Tell me, senhor, why did you ask me to dance?”

  Ricardo Salvador laughed. “Such candour is refreshing. Is it inconceivable that I should wish to dance with so beautiful a female?”

  Morgana shrugged. “You did not know me, senhor. And there are many more beautiful women here tonight.”

  “My brother, a ciegas, drew my attention to you, senhorita.”

  “Your brother,” murmured Morgana, softly.

  Ricardo regarded her intently. “You know my brother, senhorita?”

  Morgana shook her head rather too quickly. “No.”

  “But you would like to, perhaps?” His eyes were calculating.

  “No. That is – don't make ridiculous observations, senhor.”

  Ricardo's expression hardened. “To observe is to live, senhorita,” he said, coolly. Then, more gently: “My brother is not for you, senhorita. He is too – how shall I put it – too solenhne, serio! Besides, what need have we for Luis? I am here, and already enchanted by your personality, senhorita.”

  Morgana felt exasperated by his easy familiarity. “You presume too much, senhor,” she said sharply. “We are dancing one dance together, that is all.”

  “You think so?” Ricardo was contemptuous. “I think not. From the moment I saw you I sensed that there was to be more between us than just a dance!”

  Morgana glanced r
ound. “You're very gallant, senhor, but I'm surprised at the hackneyed approach you use.”

  Ricardo frowned. “Hackneyed, senhorita? What is hackneyed?”

  Morgana laughed at the peculiar way he spoke the word. “It means – well-used, a cliché.”

  “Ah, clise, I understand, senhorita.“ His eyes darkened. “But I was not making – how did you say it – an approach? I was serio!”

  Morgana wished the orchestra would come to the end of its medley of popular tunes and allow her to escape back to the Dennisons. Her moment of independence was getting out of hand, and she had no desire to incite an argument with anyone so volatile as Ricardo Salvador.

  To her relief, the music came to its finale, and everyone applauded politely and began to make their way back to their friends. When Morgana would have released herself from Ricardo, he caught her arm in a firm grip and propelled her smoothly across the floor to where his brother and his uncle were waiting together with several other people.

  “You must let me go back to my friends,” Morgana was protesting as they reached the others, but Ricardo merely smiled a rather cruel smile, and said:

  “Presently, senhorita, presently.”

  Morgana heaved a sigh and resigned herself to the knowledge that so long as they were here, in the ballroom, nothing unforeseen was likely to happen to her. Even so, she was apprehensive, and she wondered what Ricardo Salvador's friends and relations would make of all this.

  Luis Salvador looked penetratingly at his brother as they reached the group, and Morgana sensed his hostility. He was at once like and yet unlike Ricardo in appearance. They were both tall, and lean, and naturally dark-skinned, but there the resemblance ended. Ricardo's features were evenly formed and without doubt he was a handsome creature, whereas Luis's face was thinner, his eyes more deeply set, and there were harsh lines beside his nose and mouth. Both had dark hair, Ricardo's sleekly combed against his well-shaped head, while Luis's hair fell forward across his right temple and sometimes he swept it back with an impatient hand. Ricardo returned his brother's stare challengingly, and then said: “You have been watching us, Luis. Perhaps you would like to dance with the senhorita yourself?”

  Luis Salvador's eyes narrowed angrily. “We will settle this later, Ricardo,” he said, in remarkably controlled tones.

  Vittorio Salvador, the man Michael had said was their uncle, stepped forward. He was a much older man, and his long moustache and beard were liberally tinged with grey. But his eyes were startlingly alert, and they became gentle as they rested on Morgana.

  “You must forgive Ricardo,” he said, lifting his shoulders in an eloquent gesture. “He is still a boy in some ways, and he delights in – annoying – his brother. Luis!” He turned to the other man. “Perhaps you would escort the senhorita back to her friends?”

  “Por certo,” responded Luis, politely, and indicated that Morgana should lead the way.

  Morgana glanced once at Ricardo and half-smiled, and he smiled in return. “We shall meet again, senhorita, be assured,” he said.

  Morgana restrained any retort she might have made, and looked about her uncertainly, trying to get her bearings. In the crowds around the ballroom it was difficult to know exactly where she was. Luis Salvador saw her indecision, and placed a hand on her bare elbow to guide her. Morgana was overwhelmingly conscious of that contact, and once as they came up against a barrier of people, she turned and looked up at his face. His features were taut, and a muscle jerked in his cheek, and she frowned. He was as aware of her as she was of him, she thought disturbingly. They were close to the buffet area now, and she stopped suddenly and said: “Why didn't you ask me to dance, senhor?”

  His eyes met hers. “I do not dance, senhorita,” he replied emotionlessly.

  Morgana frowned. “You don't – or you don't want to?”

  The muscles of his jaw tightened. “What would you have me say, senhorita?”

  Morgana shook her head slowly. “The truth, perhaps. If – if I asked you to dance, would you dance with me?”

  As she waited for his reply she wondered what it was that was driving her to say these things. Perhaps it was the unusual amount of wine she had consumed, she didn't know, but she was more curious about this man than about any other man she had ever met. Now, he studied her expression intently, and she moved a little restlessly under that scrutiny.

  “Senhorita, join your friends. Do not involve yourself with people and things that you do not understand.”

  Morgana was impatient. “You are not like your brother, are you, senhor?”

  His nostrils flared slightly. “If you say not, senhorita.”

  Morgana chewed her lower lip. “He, at least, is polite.”

  “I, too, am polite, senhorita. If I have appeared otherwise, then I sincerely apologise.”

  Morgana was annoyed. “Perhaps that was the wrong word to use, senhor. You are polite, too polite, perhaps.”

  Luis Salvador lifted his shoulders. “I was under the impression that you were a – lady, senhorita.”

  Morgana trembled a little. “You did want to dance with me, I know you did!” she averred, her cheeks flushed.

  “You are mistaken, senhorita, but if it means so much to you …”

  His fingers slid down her arm to her wrist, gripping it cruelly, and he turned and thrust his way through the throng to the edge of the dance floor pulling her after him. It was no use protesting. His strength was evident in the iron-like hold he had upon her wrist, and she thought he was hurting her deliberately. When they reached the dance floor, he did not give her time to object, but pulled her closely into his arms, so that she was intensely aware of him with every fibre of her being. The music was slower now, and the floor more closely filled, and it was unlikely that they would be observed from the side. Even so, Morgana felt a sense of outrage that he should dare to treat her in this manner. They moved slowly, and as he was taller than she was, she had to tilt back her head to look at him.

  “I hope you realise you have humiliated me,” she said, hotly, trying to maintain her anger in the face of more disturbing emotions.

  He drew back slightly and looked down at her, his dark lashes veiling the tawny eyes. “Why?” he queried. “This is what you wanted, was it not, senhorita?”

  Morgana compressed her lips. “You are impossible!” she exclaimed, uncomfortably.

  “Why? Because I accepted the challenge you so carelessly offered?” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Forgive me! There are times when my reactions appal even myself.” His face was withdrawn.

  Morgana puzzled over this. Then she lifted her shoulders philosophically. “I suppose I am as much to blame,” she admitted, honestly. “But I don't understand you.”

  Luis's eyes grew distant. “Do not try, senhorita. It is better that you forget this incident. My brother was – using you, that is all. And now, you will go back to your friends?”

  Morgana stared at him impatiently. It was impossible to penetrate that dispassionate façade, and it was devastating to realise just how badly she wanted to do just that. Her youth, her beauty, the yielding quality of her body against his seemed to mean nothing to this man, and all she had succeeded in arousing in him was a momentary spurt of anger. With a feeling of helplessness, she pushed him away from her.

  “I can find my own way back!” she announced coldly, and turning began pushing her way through the dancers to the side. Her cheeks were burning, and yet there was an awful cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. He did not follow her. She did not expect him to, and she knew the rest of the evening would just be an anti-climax. But she still had the Dennisons to face.

  The group was where she had left it, and she slid into her seat almost surreptitiously, hoping her arrival would go unnoticed in the current buzz of conversation. But she might have known it was a vain hope. Mrs. Dennison was far too interested to allow her to get away with it.

  “Well!” she said, accusingly. “You certainly have taken your time. Where have yo
u been. Surely not with that man!”

  Morgana sighed. “Where else do you suppose I have been.”

  Ruth touched her arm. “We thought you might have made some excuse and gone to the powder room,” she said. “Do you mean you didn't?”

  “Of course not. Actually – actually Mr. Salvador was – very polite.”

  The Dennisons exchanged a look. “Indeed.” That was Ruth's father. “It might interest you to know that you played right into his hands by accepting. Good heavens, he could come back right now and ask Ruth or my wife to dance and what excuse could they make?”

  Morgana flushed. “I'm sorry. I didn't think of that.”

  “You didn't think, I agree.” Laurence Dennison lit a cigarette impatiently.

  “Oh, come on, now.” That was Michael Lawson. “Where's the harm? Salvador isn't a savage. Nor are his relatives. If Morgana wanted to dance with him, why not? He's a pretty handsome beast, don't you agree?”

  Morgana looked at Michael gratefully, but Mrs. Dennison was not to be placated. “Morgana is here as our guest. Surely it's obvious that she should adhere to Laurie's wishes. Heavens, it was clear enough that he didn't want her to accept.”

  Morgana bit her lip. “Well, I'm sorry if I've offended you,” she said, awkwardly. “I – I guess this – isn't England.”

  Ruth gave a bored yawn. “Well, let's forget it, eh, Mummy? Morgana's back now – in one piece. Where's the problem?”

  Mrs. Dennison sniffed. “All right, all right. I've said all I'm going to.”

  “Good.” Ruth turned to Lieutenant Bernard. “Come on,” she said, smiling. “You promised to teach me the bossa nova.”

  After they had gone, and Mrs. Dennison's attention had been distracted elsewhere, Morgana turned to Michael.

  “Thanks,” she murmured, softly.

  Michael grinned. “Think nothing of it.” Then he glanced at his wife, saw that she was engrossed in conversation with David Grover's wife, and said: “Seriously though, you did take one hell of a chance. Like Laurie said, the Salvadors are not acceptable escorts for a girl. They are reputed to be involved with the guerillas, and their ideas of what is right and what is wrong are not ours, do you understand?”