Masquerade

Cádiz, 1976

L
uz set eyes on him for the first time from her seat on Zeyna’s back as the fine white Arab mare stepped down the narrow path from the cliff that led to the beach. He was sitting on the edge of the track, leaning nonchalantly against a wild carob tree, watching her while chewing on a sprig of heather. As she drew nearer, she met his steady gaze, spirited and wild. At that moment she had no idea this man would have the power to change her world and create such havoc in her heart, that she would emerge from the experience a different person. Fate had not yet lit up the winding pathway of her life nor the echoes of history along it, but now, in front of this stranger, a disturbing awareness leapt into flame deep inside her and began to flicker intensely. Without thinking, she tugged on Zeyna’s reins to slow the mare down.

For a moment they stared at each other. He was clearly a
gitano
, one of those people that Luz’s family had always warned her to steer clear of. The frayed, cut-down denims sat low on his hips, revealing deeply tanned, muscular long legs, and his feet were bare as though he had just walked straight from the beach. Unruly chestnut hair, bleached golden in parts by the sun, tumbled to his shoulders; his smooth copper skin glowed more than that of any gypsy she had ever seen. As she allowed her gaze to flick back to his face, Luz caught the flash of amused, provocative arrogance in those bright, burning eyes, mixed with something deeper that she didn’t understand.
She swallowed. The overwhelming masculinity of the
gitano
unsettled her. Luz lifted her chin resolutely but felt the pull of his magnetism reaching out and gripping her, beguiling and dangerous, so that instinctively she nudged her mount and they broke into a smooth canter. The thumping of her heart sounded loud in her ears. She could sense his eyes on her, as a palpable touch, even as she rode away, trembling, and the feeling remained with her until she knew she was out of sight.

Had Zeyna picked up her mistress’s inner turmoil? Luz was pulling on her bridle as the mare tossed her head this way and that, snorting. Surprised by the horse’s unusual behaviour, Luz looked down at her hands and realized that she was clutching the reins much too tightly. She relaxed her hold. ‘I’m sorry, old girl. My fault,’ she whispered, leaning forward to pat the mare’s neck. Feeling free, the handsome creature surged forth without hesitation.

The wind blew warm and salty; it touched Luz’s long black hair like a caress, threatening and tantalizing, wrapping a few silky wisps around her face. An unusual heat coursed through her, even though she was dressed only in a T-shirt, jeans tucked into riding boots. She raised her head against the breeze, letting the briny air course over her body, willing it to drive away this unfamiliar disquiet from her mind.

Gradually her sense of foreboding subsided and the awesome setting regained its hold. She felt an exhilaration and breadth of freedom in the vast solitude of the deserted beach and the wide horizons of the sea. The intense blue of the bay lay before her in the late afternoon sun. The lines of the land were so recognizable to her: no trees, no shrubs, no delicate tinting nor soft beauty, but a pure, distinct outline of form, almost terrifying in its austerity. Then, from time to time, there were the shadows of great clouds moving overhead, staining this infinite expanse of dunes that stretched before her like a vast tapestry in shades of cream, greys and silver. Galloping in the wind on the back of her beautiful white mare, Luz felt in harmony with the Andalucían landscape and with herself.
She had left her flat in Chelsea, finished her job in Scotland and now she was back in Spain, a newly born post-Franco Spain, ruled by an energetic young king and teetering on the edge of new possibilities. She was back at last in her beloved country, this time to stay.

Luz María Cervantes de Rueda was the only child to Count Salvador Cervantes de Rueda and his beautiful half-English, half-Spanish wife, Alexandra. At the time, their love story had made newspaper headlines and had been a favoured subject for wagging tongues in the drawing rooms of Spanish society. There had been a scandal involving Count Salvador, a young gypsy girl and her ne’er-do-well brothers. To add to the gossip, Alexandra de Falla was not from a pure Spanish background. Her foreign ways had caused suspicion and disapproval among the cloistered circles, their traditions still so deeply rooted in conservative Spanish society. The fact that she was a romantic novelist, too, had caused many raised eyebrows. Some predicted doom when the couple’s fairy-tale marriage was announced but, as in all fairy tales, the pair had surprised everyone and were still living happily ever after.

For the first eleven years of her life Luz had lived in Spain, spending July and August in Kent with her Great-Aunt Geraldine. Later, when she was sent to boarding school in Gloucestershire, she would return three times a year to El Pavón, the ancestral home of her father outside the city of Jerez: at Christmas, Easter and for part of the summer holidays.

Luz had just arrived in Cádiz that morning, straight from England. She intended to spend at least a week at L’Estrella, the family’s summer house, before going on to see her parents at El Pavón. She was excited, pulsing with life, feeling as though she was on the verge of embarking on a great adventure.

It had been a long haul that had started with Cheltenham Ladies’ College when she was eleven, through a master’s degree in history and modern languages at Cambridge and, finally, two years spent in the Highlands of Scotland penning the biography of an ancestor for one of the great families of Britain. Now that book was delivered,
she could feel that Spain was where she was meant to be, where she was
always
meant to be. Here, she could breathe, feel her body come alive under the Spanish sun, and let all the pent-up, reckless instincts she had tried so hard to tame all through boarding school in England run wild and free. Luz had never thought that those compulsive feelings she had were the secret machinations of ‘destiny’; there was a sceptical, no-nonsense side to her inherited from her mother, along with a talent for writing, but she knew that the fiery Spanish nature that was her father’s – and always got the better of her – had finally pulled her back to Andalucía.

Only that morning, when Luz had arrived at L’Estrella laden with suitcases, Carmela had handed her a letter that had come the day before. Ever since she had replied to an advertisement in the local paper for a biographer, she’d been praying for an interview. And here it was: a letter inviting her for a first meeting that week. Luz had barely been able to contain her relief and joy as she pulled the housekeeper into a delighted hug. She had really set her heart on this job, not only because she would be writing about Count Eduardo Raphael Ruiz de Salazar, one of the great painters of modern Spain, but also because the artist was from this part of the world and a large portion of the research would be done locally in Cádiz and its neighbouring towns. It seemed that now Luz had been given her reason to stay.

She brought Zeyna to a halt at the edge of the shore. The wild salty air seemed to be sweeping up from the beach as it brushed her cheek. She closed her eyes to savour its breath, delicious odours laden with iodine and fruits of the deep. The sun was setting in the late afternoon and the sky, gloriously mottled with apricot-pink and lilac, was broken here and there by shafts of light reflecting on the surface of the water, turning the calm ocean into a spectrum of peacock colours.

Now she could make out the fishing boats in the distance returning after a day’s work: black toy insects, the antennae of their masts bristling against the flamingo-tinted sky. Gulls and terns mingled overhead, screeching, impatient for the laden fleet’s arrival.
Luz did not care much for birds. She found them – even the beautiful ones – eerie and menacing. It was time to be starting back.

The beach was no longer deserted. As she cantered along the shore she passed a few joggers and a couple of lovers strolling hand in hand. A child and his mother were flying a bright-red kite; a bunch of gypsies loitered on one of the dunes by an upturned wreck of a rowing boat. She was used to seeing these vagabonds around; they did not bother her – on the contrary, she found them colourful and mysterious, stirring her imagination. Today the gentle agitation in her moved a step further and, for a second, Luz’s thoughts flashed back to the young gypsy who had so unnerved her. Her parents were wary of
gitanos
and Luz suspected that the reason she had been swept off to the protective cocoon of an English boarding school was to shield her from something. She had heard whispered snatches of gossip concerning the
gitanos
’ involvement with her family. She had often attempted to prise some answers from her parents but they had always dismissed her questions, brushing off the stories as servants’ tittle-tattle and malicious rumour. Not everyone approved of their marriage, they explained, and there were always narrow-minded and prejudiced people in the world. Every time Luz pushed, she found herself no further forward than before and although her inquisitive nature was dissatisfied by their explanations, she had given up asking questions and, for the time being, dismissed the whole thing from her mind.

As Luz approached the group, she noticed that the young gypsy was among them. She was nearly level with the
gitanos
when he turned, his eyes rising slowly to meet her gaze. For all their lazy manner they were sharp, green and sparkling, shadowed by thick, long dark lashes. Transfixed, Luz felt herself blushing under the watchful lion’s gaze. Her stomach gave a little flutter; her concentration wavered. Then it all happened very quickly.

From the corner of her eye she was aware of the red kite falling. Spooked, Zeyna shied suddenly. The young woman tried to control her, but it was too late: the mare swerved to the right. Luz put her weight on the stirrup to steady herself but the girth was not tight
enough and the saddle slipped sideways. Slowly and inexorably, she came off her mount with a cry. As she hit the hard sandy ground with a sickening thud to her head, the landscape swirled around her and she felt herself sinking into a deep black well. She fought to regain consciousness, hearing rushing footsteps, noises and voices all around her. Then two powerful arms lifted her; she felt her head fall back against a strong shoulder, then the shutters came down and she was plunged into oblivion. The blackout was complete.

‘I’m taking her back to the camp,’ Leandro announced to his companions as he scooped the unconscious young woman carefully into his arms.

His words were greeted with roars of laughter.

‘I’m sure this will improve your relationship with Rosa no end,’ scoffed a lanky youth with tattoos on both arms.

Leandro shrugged and took the lead, heading back up the beach. ‘Her horse has bolted and we must make sure she’s all right. That was a bad fall.’

‘Yeah, yeah, talk about taking advantage of a chaotic situation. Do you think we’ve all been struck blind,
amigo
? We all saw the look you gave each other. And now you’re her rescuing hero.’ The lanky youth grinned, ruffling Leandro’s hair, and playfully dodged the responding sideways kick of his friend’s foot.
‘A rio revuelto, ganancia de pescadores
, it is good fishing in troubled waters!’

‘And you are paddling in the wrong river, Juan. You’re lucky I have my hands full or I’d clip your ear.’

‘Yeah, yeah. But your hands are full,
amigo
.’ Juan winked at him.

‘You’re too cynical.’ Leandro gently adjusted the svelte form higher in his arms and shook his head nonchalantly. ‘I just want to make sure she’s not hurt.’

‘Do you know her?’ Juan and the others fell into step alongside him.

‘I’ve seen her around a few times,’ Leandro said lightly. He deliberately kept his gaze level. Yes, he had seen her around often, going to and from the port at Cádiz every few months, or when his wanderings had taken him along the cliff, close to the house in the clouds. Usually she went riding along the beach and sometimes he saw her jogging; she always seemed to be on the move. He couldn’t fail to notice that her body was supple and strong, yet so graceful. The first time he’d seen her, elegantly stepping out of her boat on to the quay, it was like a goddess had leapt into his vision and his heart had given a corresponding somersault. It was a feeling that had disturbed him. He had always observed her from afar after that, always without being noticed.

Today it had been different. By pure chance he had been at the port to see her motorboat drive in. She was back. He had known she would come down to the beach that afternoon – she always did on the day of her arrival in Cádiz – and he had deliberately waited for her at the side of the track. This time he was fixed on drawing her attention to him. It was his swift glance that had made her look at him; he had
willed
her to look at him. Then, as he had guessed, she headed slowly for the beach and it hadn’t taken long for him to rejoin the others, knowing she would pass by. It was his fault that she had been distracted and fallen off her mount. She was normally a brilliant rider: he had watched her many times as she cantered up and down the beach on her white mare, a beautiful Amazon with her long raven-black mane flying behind her as though she was racing the wind. But he had needed those startling eyes to lock on to his once more.

Guilt washed over him. Protectively, his arms tightened a fraction around her and he clenched the slim, inert body a little closer to his muscular chest. The white V-neck T-shirt she was wearing was close-fitting, making him conscious of the curves beneath his hands. His chin brushed accidentally against her hair. Delicate whiffs of wild rose, jasmine and sandalwood, the essence of the bath oils she had bathed in before going down to the beach, came
to him. The disturbance he felt was deep and strong. He moistened his dry lips and walked up the steep slope of rock, his gaze still fixed straight ahead, not daring to look down at her in case he lost control and gave himself away. The situation was awkward enough as it was. He was breathing hard. Some may have thought it was because his burden was too heavy, but Luz was light as a feather. No, it was not her weight that was making his chest rise and fall laboriously but the warmth of her soft curves pressing against him.