Fallen Angel Page 6

  ‘I—er—don’t we need a saddle?’ she asked, as her companion adjusted the bridle over the mare’s ears, and he grinned.

  ‘First I see how you sit the horse,’ he said. She had told him about the horse at the convent on their way to the stables. ‘Then we will see about a saddle, no?’

  Adjusting the hat on her head, Alexandra accepted his hand to mount the animal, the sheepskin a comforting barrier between her spine and the mare’s back. She took the reins he handed to her, dug in her heels, and Placida walked obediently forward. Immediately, her sombrero went flying back off her head, and as she twisted in an attempt to retrieve it, the sheepskin beneath her slid sideways, and she would have fallen to the ground if Ricardo’s strong arms had not caught her.

  He set her on her feet, rescued the hat, and then directed her to tie the cords beneath her chin. ‘Right,’ he said, when this was done to his satisfaction, offering his linked fingers for her foot. ‘Shall we begin again?’

  An hour later he had satisfied himself that she would not fall off again, but Alexandra’s legs felt like jellies as she clambered down.

  ‘Qué?’ Ricardo regarded her with humour. ‘Do you not wish to go riding after all?’

  Her spine smarting from the hardness of the mare’s, Alexandra regarded him with ill-concealed resentment. ‘You know I’m aching all over!’ she accused, half tearfully. ‘Why couldn’t I have used a saddle like anyone else?’

  Ricardo’s features softened. ‘Don’t you know that in country like this, it is always best to learn the hard way? To ride without a saddle is an achievement. It means you are controlling the horse from here…’ He indicated his knees. ‘Bodily contact, no? Now, you will never forget what you have learned. You know the feel of the animal. The touch, no?’

  Touching! Again that word, thought Alexandra ruefully. She thought if anyone touched her spine ever again, she would scream in agony.

  ‘So?’ Ricardo smiled encouragingly. ‘You will forgive the lesson, hmm?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes.’ Alexandra sniffed, half regretting her anger with him. ‘I—I suppose I should—thank you.’

  ‘Thank me?’ Ricardo laughed. ‘Why? For hurting you? No, no.’ He shook his head. ‘But look, is not this the elderly lady you brought with you?’

  ‘Miss Holland?’

  Alexandra swung round, a finger raised to her lips in dismay, as she realised she had forgotten all about her companion. Miss Holland, ridiculously out of place in country tweeds and stout brogues, was marching across the paddock towards them, and Ricardo bent his head to whisper outrageously: ‘Shall we teach the lady how to ride, too? I could lend her some pants, and a shirt, no?’

  Ignoring him, although her lips twitched irresistibly, Alexandra walked painfully to meet the other woman. Her somewhat mincing steps did not go unobserved, and Miss Holland looked first at her, and then past her to the grinning black-haired giant behind her.

  ‘Alexandra!’ she exclaimed in alarm, and almost at the same moment Alexandra realised she probably looked as rough as she felt. The sombrero had slipped to the back of her neck, and her hair was a tumbled mass about her shoulders, her cream cords stained from the sweat of the mare’s sides.

  ‘Hello, Miss Holland,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry if you’ve been concerned about me. But as you can see—’

  ‘What have you been doing with yourself?’ Miss Holland spoke to her, but she was looking at Ricardo, and with his usual showmanship, he swept her a deep bow, stepping forward and saying:

  ‘I have been giving your young friend a riding lesson, señora. Regrettably, she has—how do you say?—overdone it, no?’

  ‘Overdone it? Overdone what?’ Miss Holland was not in a mood to be placated so easily, and Alexandra sighed before explaining that her back was aching from the exercise.

  ‘And in this heat!’ exclaimed Miss Holland when she had finished. ‘Do you want to be taken ill as soon as you arrive?’

  It was only as she said this that Alexandra began to realise how warm it had become, and feeling her damp forehead, she guessed her face was streaked with sweat, too.

  ‘Don’t you realise how susceptible you are in a strange climate?’ Miss Holland persisted, but Alexandra waved her protests aside.

  ‘Have you met Ricardo?’ she asked, knowing full well she hadn’t, and their introduction successfully halted any further objections on Miss Holland’s part. Instead, Ricardo took his cue and insisted on introducing the lady to the mare, and because she was such a gentle animal, Miss Holland was diverted.

  But later, when she and Alexandra walked back to the house together, she returned to the attack. ‘I must say, I was surprised to hear that Mr Tarrant had suggested Señor Goya as your instructor. The man looks scarcely civilised. Is he an Indian, do you think? He has a very large nose.’

  ‘Indians don’t usually wear hair on their faces,’ said Alexandra thoughtfully, remembering something she had read years ago. Certainly, the Indian in the painting at the convent had not had any hair on his face, and thinking of the Indian brought irresistible thoughts of Jason.

  Shading her eyes, she looked across the valley, but it was too long and too wide to allow her to see anything more than the sweeping stretch of grassland, and the blue-grey curve of the river where it reflected the arc of the sky. She could see a pall of dust in the distance, which could mean anything, but all she could hear were the domestic sounds of the beasts in the pasture near the hacienda and the continual clucking of the hens.

  From this side, the house looked different, set about with its pens and outbuildings. The store-sheds, Ricardo had told her, contained everything necessary to a community of this size, including animal feedstuffs, and farm machinery, crockery and leather goods, and dried food and meat enough for a siege. There was a smithy, he had told her, at the stockyards, and sheds for shearing the sheep that ran the high ranges, but the hacienda itself was the kingpin by which the estancia was controlled, the axle on which the various spokes of life at San Gabriel turned.

  She wondered if Jason would return for the midday meal, but in this she was disappointed. The meal which was served, much to Miss Holland’s distaste, at the kitchen table, was attended by Estelita, Pepe and themselves, Ricardo having disappeared about his own business. Alexandra guessed her companion found life at the hacienda much different to what she was used to, and she spared a moment to wonder what Jason would do should Miss Holland choose to pack her bags and return to England. It was always possible that she might find the heat, or the isolation, or even Estelita’s familiarity more than she could take, and decide that however difficult her circumstances, life in England was preferable to this remote valley. Whatever else she was, Miss Holland was first and foremost a gentlewoman, and the crude humour of men like Ricardo Goya could only accentuate the distinctions.

  Sighing, Alexandra tried to concentrate on the meat-filled pancake in front of her. She must not think so pessimistically. After all, Miss Holland had been told the circumstances of life out here before she left England. The fact that it was different from what either of them had imagined did not mean it was going to prove unacceptable to them.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IT was the next morning before Alexandra encountered Jason again.

  Following her riding lesson, she found she was very tired, and although she forced herself to go down for supper, the fact that only herself and Estelita were present might have saved her the trouble. The housekeeper took great pleasure in informing her that Jason had sent a message to the effect that it would be late before he got back, and even Pepe had deserted the supper table to join the men in the bunkhouse. Alexandra had seen the men returning earlier in the evening, the thunder of their horses’ hooves bringing her to the balcony doors. But straight from the bath, and only thinly clad in a silk wrapper, she had quickly disguised herself behind the curtains, just in case anyone should come her way. She had expected Jason to be with them, and it was with an acute feeling of disappointment that she listened to Es
telita’s mocking explanation.

  Miss Holland had done as she had the night before, and been served her meal in her room. She was feeling the heat and the change of latitude, too, and Alexandra herself had approved her choice. However, when she found she had only Estelita for company, she dearly wished the older woman had joined them, after all.

  They ate a concoction of beef, black beans and rice, and Alexandra couldn’t decide whether she found its spicy mixture more acceptable because her stomach had adjusted to the flavour, or simply because she was anxious and she was eating to compensate. Whatever, she parried Estelita’s more pointed questions, and succeeded in getting the woman to talk about herself. Estelita, it turned out, was of Portuguese extraction and had been born in Sao Paulo. Although she and Pepe were brother and sister, they had had different fathers, Pepe’s father having lived in Valvedra all his life. It was there that Estelita’s mother had met him when her first husband had deserted her, she said. She didn’t say a lot about her father. Apparently, she hardly remembered him; and also, she didn’t explain what her mother was doing in Valvedra while her father was reputedly looking for work elsewhere. However, it seemed that Pepe’s father’s advent had been the turning point in all their lives, and she and Pepe were very close. She did not mention her own husband, or the fact that he was dead.

  It was only towards the end of the meal that she seemed to realise she had done all the talking, but by then Alexandra was too tired to respond to her deliberate baiting.

  Her offer of help with the washing up being rejected, Alexandra left the room after the meal and sought the sanctuary of her bedroom. During the afternoon, she had explored a little more of the house, and knew that there was a comfortable salón adjoining the room she thought of as Jason’s study, but this evening it had no appeal. She knew if she sat there in solitary state she would fall asleep, and she didn’t want Jason to come upon her snoring or, horror of horrors, with her mouth open. Besides, he would not expect her to wait up, he might not even want her to wait up, and Estelita was waiting in the kitchen, like some jealous spider, in her web.

  As if to compensate for her tiredness the night before, the next morning, Alexandra was awake as soon as it was light. Expecting some hangover from the previous day’s riding lesson, she was pleasantly surprised to find that apart from a little stiffness, she felt fine, and even eager to get into the saddle again…or its equivalent.

  Collecting her spongebag, she went along to the bathroom, expecting it to be empty at this hour of the morning, and walked straight in on Jason, sluicing his neck at the basin.

  ‘Oh, I—I’m sorry,’ she began, awkward at this unexpected encounter. ‘I mean—Estelita said you usually—showered…’

  Jason had grabbed a towel and draped it round his neck as she spoke. He was bare to his waist, the denim pants he wore hanging low on his hips. But it was the jagged scratch that ran the length of his arm from elbow to wrist that caught her attention as he turned, and her lips parted in anxious question. Seeing her immediate reaction, he pulled a wry face, saying dryly:

  ‘That’s why I didn’t take a shower this morning. I decided I’d better wash in filtered water until it heals over.’

  ‘But it should be stitched!’ she protested, forgetting for the moment that she was wearing only the cotton nightshirt she had worn to sleep in, and going towards him. Her tentative fingers reached out to touch the bruised area around the gash, trembling against his warm flesh. ‘How did you do it? It’s so deep!’

  Jason removed her fingers firmly and finished drying his neck. ‘It will heal,’ he asserted flatly. ‘A rogue steer decided he’d put his own brand on me, that’s all. I’ll live, I can assure you.’

  ‘Oh, but Jason, it should have proper treatment,’ she exclaimed, not responding to the warning light in his eyes. ‘Don’t you have any medication—bandages?’

  Jason reached for his shirt, which was lying on the chair beside the bath. ‘Are you a nurse, too?’ he enquired derisively, his mouth pulling down at the comers, but she paid no attention to his sarcasm.

  ‘I’ve treated cuts,’ she defended, her lips pursed. ‘Do you want to get septicaemia? Would you like to lose an arm?’

  ‘My God, you’re a little pessimist, aren’t you?’ he exclaimed, but he hesitated before pulling on his shirt. It was then she saw the shirt he had discarded, dropped in the bath, caked with dried blood.

  ‘Jason, please,’ she pleaded. ‘Let me put some ointment on it for you. Surely a bandage won’t—cramp your style.’

  ‘I’ll get Estelita to do it,’ he said, bending to pick up the soiled shirt, and she could have stamped her foot in frustration.

  ‘Why can’t I?’

  Jason straightened, and his features had taken on a resigned expression. ‘I thought we went into all that,’ he observed quietly, but she didn’t respond. ‘All right,’ he said, after another moment’s silence, ‘I’ll put some ointment on it myself. I have a case of liniment in my room, and I believe there’s some Savlon there, too.’

  Alexandra said nothing. She just stood aside when he went past her, and then, putting down her sponge bag, she followed him.

  Jason’s room was several doors along the landing from her own, above the curve of the staircase. She guessed it was the master bedroom, judging by the size of the bed that occupied the centre of the room. Unlike her bed, it had hanging drapes, and the curtains and coverings were predominantly brown. But it was just as starkly furnished, except for the pictures on the walls.

  She was hovering at the doorway when he saw her. He had pulled a drawer open in the chest beside the long windows, and was attempting to wind a length of bandage about his wrist. It was an impossible task, and the words he was muttering to himself were not words the nuns would have approved of.

  ‘What do you want?’ he demanded, as she stood there, and she stepped into the room, gesturing that she could apply the dressing.

  ‘And what do you suppose Miss Holland would say if she came by and saw you in my bedroom dressed like that?’ Jason asked irritably, making her aware for the first time that she was still in her nightshirt.

  Then, determined not to appear naïve, she said: ‘I’m adequately covered, aren’t I? If I were wearing a bikini—’

  ‘But you’re not, are you?’ Jason retorted. ‘And this is not the beach. Oh—what the hell, all right. Help me. But be quick about it.’

  Alexandra approached him cautiously, but with the roll of bandage in her hand, she felt more confident. However, winding it about his arm brought her close to his lean, muscled body, and every now and then her fingers brushed the skin of his midriff. Although he had smeared some ointment over the cut which had successfully stopped the bleeding, it was still an ugly sight, and she knew the most ridiculous impulse to comfort him. But he didn’t want her sympathy, and she had to content herself with making the best job of it that she could.

  ‘You’re very efficient,’ he murmured, as she reached his elbow and tore the bandage down the middle for a few inches to bind it with a knot. Then, his breath whistling unevenly in his throat, he added: ‘I haven’t seen you since the night you arrived. Are you settling down?’

  Alexandra finished the job, but she didn’t immediately move away from him. ‘I expect so,’ she answered quietly, running her fingers down the ridges of the bandage. ‘Does that feel too tight?’

  ‘It feels just fine,’ he assured her, and she nodded her head with satisfaction. ‘I hear Ricardo gave you quite a riding lesson yesterday.’

  She half smiled at that. ‘Did he tell you? I fell off once.’

  ‘You did?’ Jason’s brows descended. ‘Were you hurt?’ His mouth tightened. ‘He didn’t tell me that.’

  ‘Oh, it was nothing,’ she exclaimed, shaking her head. ‘It was my own fault. And he caught me.’

  ‘Did he?’ Jason’s voice was rough. ‘Well, take more care in future.’

  ‘I will.’ She dimpled. ‘It’s nice to know you care.’

  �
��I care,’ he agreed curtly. Then: ‘I have to go. Estelita will be waiting with my breakfast.’

  ‘Oh!’ Alexandra’s parted lips revealed her disappointment. ‘You’re not going down to the stockyards again!’

  ‘Not this morning, no. I want to drive over to Puerto Novo to collect some stores for Chan.’ He paused. ‘Why? Do you want to come?’

  ‘Could I?’

  Alexandra gazed up at him in delight, and as if regretting his impulsive invitation, Jason grimaced. ‘I guess so,’ he conceded, reaching for his shirt, but she forestalled him, wrapping her arms around his waist and hugging him.

  ‘Thank you,’ she breathed, pressing her lips to the hair-roughened skin of his chest, and then putting out her tongue as the fine filaments tickled her nose.

  ‘Alexandra…’ His impatient protest accompanied his hands gripping her upper arms, pushing her back from him. But the thoughtless action sent a shaft of pain ripping up his arm to his shoulder, and he uttered an involuntary groan, releasing her abruptly.

  ‘Oh, your arm!’ she gasped in dismay. ‘Jason—I’m sorry…’

  ‘Forget it,’ he gritted, between his teeth, but his face was pale under his tan.

  ‘I can’t forget it,’ she persisted. ‘It—it was my fault. If I hadn’t been so careless…’

  ‘I said it’s all right,’ he muttered, but there were beads of sweat standing out on his forehead, and she saw the telltale stains seeping through the white bandage.

  ‘It’s not all right,’ she argued. ‘It’s started bleeding again.’

  ‘God!’ His frustration caused a pulse to throb revealingly near his jawline, and Alexandra, thinking his anger was caused by the re-opening of the injury, started to unwind the bandage. He stopped her with his uninjured arm, grasping both her hands in one of his, and saying tautly: ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing now?’

  ‘I—I was going to dress the wound again,’ she stammered, but the ugly oath he uttered silenced her.

  ‘And what then?’ he demanded. ‘After the wound is dressed to your satisfaction, what then? Will you kiss it better?’