Flame of Diablo (21 page)

father, his dark face softening to

tenderness as he looked down at a

white-wrapped bundle in his arms. She

had seen earlier how Maria's little boy

had run to him as he had entered, and

how he had swung the child laughingly

up into his arms without a trace of self-

consciousness. Up to that moment she

had never thought of him as a lover of

children, or possessing any of the

conventional urges to settle down and

raise a family of his own, but now she

clearly had to think again. She

remembered what he said about the

Llanos and how he might find his future

there, and wondered if that was where

he intended his future home to be.

She still had very little clear idea of his

own family background, but the brief

glimpses he had afforded her had shown

her that her first impressions of him had

been totally misleading. He was

certainly not an ex-cowboy on the make,

but that did not make him less of an

enigma to her. Besides, a family with a

children's nurse betokened a certain

degree of affluence, she thought, yet the

mere fact that he had not enlightened her

on the subject indicated that it was not

necessary, in his view, for her to know.

She would not be around long enough for

it to matter, she thought, bending her

head unhappily.

When the meal was ended, she rose as

Maria rose, in a mute offer to help with

the clearing away, and was vehemently

gestured back to her seat. Beer was

brought for the men, and for her a glass

of what Vitas told her was
guarapo,

made from fermented cane juice. Its

potency alarmed her and she sipped at it

with care.

Maria cleared the dirty dishes from the

table and vanished, taking the clearly

reluctant children with her—to put them

to bed, Rachel guessed. She was absent

for a considerable time, and when she

returned, she stood in the doorway and

beckoned

to

Rachel

almost

conspiratorially.

She soon discovered the reason. Behind

the screen in the lamplit bedroom, her

own bath had been prepared. Maria

drew her into the room chattering

volubly, and indicating by gesture that

Rachel should undress and get into the

water. Rachel hesitated. How did she

explain to a former children's nurse who

didn't speak a word of English that she

was used to taking her baths without

assistance?

she

wondered

with

embarrassment. Apart, that was, from

summoning Vitas to act as interpreter,

which was the last thing she was going

to do.

She looked down longingly into the

gently steaming water on top of which a

few crushed green leaves were floating,

giving off a faintly aromatic scent.

She turned and saw that Maria was

standing by one of the beds, holding her

saddle pack in one hand, and in the other

the torn shirt and bra that she had

forgotten to burn.

Her face was a study as she held up the

ripped garments and she turned a

wondering face to Rachel, her dark

twinkling eyes suddenly solemn.

'El

senor?'

Her

voice

was

apprehensive, but her face cleared

magically as Rachel shook her head,

although she still seemed puzzled. As

well she might, Rachel thought, as she

began resignedly to unbutton her shirt.

It was heaven to slide down into the

scented water and feel it lap the heat and

grime of the day away from her body.

Maria, busily collecting her soiled

clothes from the floor, gave her a smile

of satisfaction and approval. Her hands

moved in a vigorous mime, and Rachel

realised she was offering to wash her

hair for her. Now that would be heaven,

she thought, her fingers releasing it

completely from its loosened knot, as

she nodded and smiled at Maria. She sat,

her eyes closed, as Maria soaped and

rubbed and rinsed, her fingers firm and

oddly reassuring as they moved on her

scalp. She had a sudden vision of a

number of small dark-eyed children with

hair like ravens' wings lining up

obediently to have their hair washed

under Maria's tutelage, and something

twisted painfully in her heart as she

realised whose children she was

contemplating. There would be a wife

too in the background. Not one of his

casual amours, naturally, but a convent-

trained
senorita
from one of the

expensive suburbs in Bogota. Someone

like Isabel Arviles, who had never

worked or had to work for her living,

and would be content to spend her days

keeping her face and body beautiful for

her husband.

When her shampoo was completed, she

allowed Maria to help her out of the bath

and wrap a towel around her like a

sarong. Then she knelt down at the older

woman's feet as she was gestured to do,

and submitted to having her hair

towelled dry. It was like having all her

worries and concerns whisked away,

and being allowed to lapse into

uncaring,

unencumbered

childhood

again, she thought, and how blissful it

would be to be allowed to stay here for

ever with her head resting on Maria's

comfortable lap.

But already Maria was gently chirruping

at her to rise. Rachel got up and went

across to where her belongings were

strewn across the bed. Her hand reached

down for her nightdress and paused. It

was not there. She turned over the spare

shirt and jeans that remained and her last

set of clean underwear to see if it had

slipped underneath. It was just a brief

lawn shift, after all, hardly taking up any

room at all. And she must have left it in

her luggage, back at Asuncion.

'Que pasa, senorita?'
Maria came to

stand beside her.

Rachel searched her vocabulary.
'Mi

camison,'
she managed at last.

Maria gave the garments on the bed a

perfunctory poke as if expecting the

missing item of nightwear to leap out

and bite her, then patted Rachel

reassuringly on the shoulder before

vanishing out of the door.

She was soon back, her arms full of a

billowing mass of white linen, which

she shook out for Rachel to see. It was a

nightgown, of an age and design which

would have fetched pounds in a second

hand clothes shop in England, Rachel

knew. High-necked and long-sleeved, it

was decorated with what appeared to be

handmade lace, and the full skirt seemed

to spread endlessly. Apart from a faint

yellowing along the creases where it had

evidently been laid away as a cherished

possession, it was in perfect condition.

Rachel began to protest. It was a

beautiful thing, almost an antique, and it

deserved to be in some museum case,

but Maria would hear none of it. Before

Rachel could stop her, the concealing

towel had been deftly whipped away,

and the folds of cool linen were being

tugged over her still-damp hair. Maria

reached for the hairbrush which lay on

the bed and brushed Rachel's hair until it

lay smooth and shining like honey-

coloured silk over her shoulders. Then

she swept the bed clean of clothes and

clutter, and went round the room

pinching out the wicks of the lamps until

only one remained on the cane table

which separated the two narrow beds.

Collecting the damp towels, she went to

the door, flinging Rachel a last arch look

over her shoulder before she vanished

completely.

Left alone, Rachel sat limply down on

the edge of the bed. Bathed, scented,

brushed and dressed in white, she had no

illusions about what she must resemble

—a Victorian bride on her wedding

night. And that was one of the funniest

jokes she had ever heard, only she had

never felt less like laughing in her life.

She spread out the folds of linen

wonderingly. It was exquisite material,

and a faint beguiling scent hung about it

as if it had been stored with herbs. Some

Spanish nun had probably made this

lace, she thought dreamily, for the

trousseau of one of the chaste girls being

reared for wifehood in the seclusion of

the convent. How shocked the good

Sister would be—a painful little smile

quivered on Rachel's lips—if she could

know it was now being worn by a girl

calmly contemplating a night of love

with a man she hardly knew. Although

that wasn't strictly true. There was

nothing calm about her. The humming

birds in the forest had nothing on the

strange quiverings and flutterings taking

place in her abdomen. She wanted Vitas

to come into the room and take her in his

arms and stop her from thinking.

She stood up. The gown was a little too

long for her, completely masking her

bare feet, and she held the folds of skirt

out a little.

She didn't hear the door opening, but

suddenly she was aware with every

sense she possessed that he was standing

in the doorway watching her.

She looked up at him. He was

motionless, almost as if he had been

frozen there on the threshold, and he was

looking at her as if he did not believe

what he saw.

She wanted to make some kind of joke,

for her own sake as much as anything, to

ease the inevitable awkwardness of the

next few minutes, but she couldn't speak.

Her mind seemed to have become a

blank. All that she was aware of was the

ache of wanting him, and the slow

unsteady bumping of her heart.

Hold me, she begged him silently. Kiss

me. Make it all right for me tonight, even

if I regret it for the rest of my life.

He moved at last, walking forward into

the room, and kicking the door shut with

one booted foot. She felt herself tense,

her eyes fixed to his face, as she waited

for him to come round the narrow bed to

her side.

Only he didn't. He stood on the other

side of the bed and began to unfasten his

shirt.

He said coolly, 'Get into bed,
chica,

before you catch a chill. And don't forget

to turn your back because I've no

intention of asking Maria if that

incredible garment has a male twin in

order to spare your blushes.'

She lay on her side, staring at the dark

blank of the window, with its protective

netting against insects, trying to shut out

the quiet sounds of his movements, the

rustle of his clothes as he removed them.

She heard the other bed give a slight

protesting squeak as it took his weight,

then the lamp went out.

For a long moment she lay quite still, not

really believing what was happening,

and then coldly and stiffly her clenched

fists came up and pressed themselves

convulsively against her trembling lips.

It was late when she opened her eyes the

following morning. She could tell that by

the angle of the sunlight across the floor.

She sat up and glanced across at the

other bed. It was empty, and the blankets

were folded back. It looked as if it had

not

been

occupied

for

some

considerable time.

Drearily she pushed her own covers

back and swung her legs to the floor.

Her eyes felt raw as if she hadn't closed

them all night, and yet she knew that

wasn't true. She had slept, with vague,

discomfiting dreams to keep her

company.

Someone—Maria?—had placed a jug of

water, now cold, and a shallow tin basin

on the table between the beds, and she

washed quickly, enjoying the cool

sensation of the water on her face and

body. She folded the nightdress with