The Flesh and the Devil (32 page)

         
‗Your plans are made already, then?‘ She could not
prevent the question.

         
‗Did you always mean to cross this marriage?‘

         
‗If it profited me to do so – I am a mercenary, and I
help myself. If it had suited my purpose better, you could have had your
title.‘ There was a very slight edge to his voice as he spoke, and then he
turned from her. ‗Wait while I bestow His Grace.‘

         
He stooped and in a single movement rose with the
disgusting slack-limbed thing in his arms, crossed to the open cask nearby and
tipped the body in headfirst, stepping back quickly to avoid the wash of wine
that surged over the rim and on to the flags. Then he slammed the lid down.

         
‗There, Bartolome-‘ he patted the cask – ‗safe
and snug.‘

         
Juana was staring half-hypnotized at the trickles of spilt
wine that ran down the channels carved in the flagstones to drain off any
spillage. The puddles were dwindling…the purple stains were draining away of
themselves, like the last shreds of a nightmare. A spot or two, dark and
sticky, marred the green taffeta of her skirts, and she realized that she would
have to destroy her gown before anyone saw it closely.

         
‗We must go back before we are missed.‘ Tristan‘s
voice made her start, and as he approached her she winced from the warmth of
him.

         
‗Do you mean to hold me to this debt?‘

         
In spite of her resolve, her voice cracked huskily, but he
only said crisply,

         
‗The work is done and must be paid for,‘ before he
moved away, striding soundlessly between the shadowy ranks of casks without
waiting to see whether or not she followed him. Juana darted after him in
sudden, mounting panic; she dared not risk losing sight of him now, for she did
not know her way back.

         
As the panel slid back, the lamp that he had left burning
within it made her lift her hand to shield her dazzled eyes; it was Tristan‘s
fingers, locked about her wrist, that made her lower it, forcing her to face
him. The scar was a shadowy crevasse across his cheek, hair and skin copper and
gold in the flare of light.

         
‗Have patience,‘ he advised as she flinched. ‗You
will come to like the deed, if not the doer.‘

         
‗Senorita.‘ The discreet whisper made Juana lift her
head from her hands.

         
‗Senorita de Arrelanos.‘

         
Trembling, she force herself up from the silk covered couch
on which she had half-sat, half-fallen when the panel closed behind Tristan,
leaving her alone in the locked room that she had left so short a time before. It
was the Condesa, her voice gently but insistent, and Juana knew that she must
answer. Somewhere between thankfulness and fear – the distraction was like
being woken from a bad dream – she stumbled to the door and turned the key in
the lock.

         
‗Yes, Condesa, what is it?‘ Her voice sounded thin
and unreal to her own ears.

         
‗Are you awake now, senorita? I called a few minutes
ago, but you did not answer.‘

         
‗I must have been drowsing again – I did not hear
you. Is there any news?

         
Have they – have they found the Duque?‘

         
Juana learned her cheek against the coolness of the wood as
if its solid thickness reassured her, her great dark eyes unseeing. The Condesa
must have called while she was still traversing the passages on her way back
here, she thought numbly; she could not have been sitting there for more than a
minute when she had tried again. If she had heard anything, suspected anything-

         
With a conscious summoning of all her strength, Juana swung
the door open and faced the woman on the other side, thanking the saints as she
did so that it was almost perfect night now and her face could not be seen. Her
gown, she knew, was inches deep in dust at the hem and streaked with cobwebs;
heart thudding with guilt, she realized that she must change it if she was not
to excite suspicion. But the Condesa was not paying any head to her appearance.
Instead, she seemed intent on some inner anxiety and was looking at Juana as
though she scarcely saw her.

         
‗No, there is still no sign of him, but word has come
that they are searching the kitchens – those are favourite haunts of his, and
he may well prove to be hiding there. And there was another message from His
Grace de las Torres, for you.‘

         
Juana felt her own nervous stiffening, but the other woman
appeared not to notice it. ‗What message?‘ she demanded, striving for
drowsy indifference.

         
‗He gives no reason for it, senorita, but he requests
that when you fell stronger, you will go to Senor de – to the study, and speak
with him. It is of the first importance, he says, or he would not trouble you
at such a time, and it concerns your marriage to Duque.‘

         
Juana‘s fingers clenched so hare on the edge of the door
that the flesh whitened, but she did not notice the pain. ‗What else?‘
she asked, with a laugh that was half a sob, the steadied herself with an
effort. ‗Well, I will go to him, but I cannot be seen in a gown I have
slept in – I must change his before I am fit to see him. Will you escort me,
Condesa?‘

         
Her mouth was dry as she asked the question, but she knew
that in keeping the Condesa close by her side, she was safer from the woman‘s
sharp-eyed scrutiny. Once in her brightly-lit bedchamber, she would have to
improvise. The Condesa‘s next words however, were like an answer to her
unspoken prayers.

         
‗You are still unwell, I fear – take something to
strengthen before you go. There is some wine there, that was sent up for you
when you first fainted – you have not touched it yet.‘

         
‗You are very thoughtful, Condesa.‘ Juana waited, her
pulses pounding, while the elder woman signed for wine to be brought – even
now, she noticed, the Condesa would not demean herself by performing such a
lowly task with her own hands. It shone in the cup as it was handed to her, red
as blood, dark as the stains that already marred her gown…

         
Her hand shook, and the cup‘s contents spilled in a dark,
shining river down the green taffete, swallowing the marks that were there
already. Juana gave a sharp little exclamation, and then said, ‗So stupid
- ! Now I must change whether I will or no.‘

         
‗You must not let these events overrule you,
senorita.‘ The Condesa‘s tone was repressive. ‗It is a sign of weakness
to show emotion before others. Only peasants do so. You are indulging yourself
by allowing your infirmity to show.‘

         
If you knew how much I am keeping from you, Juana‘s
thoughts retorted, you would wonder that I do not tear my hair and rave like a
madwoman. But she only answered meekly, ‗As you say, Condesa.‘

         
‗Come then, I shall go with you to your apartments.‘
The quick severity faded. ‗You need not be afraid – His Grace de las
Torres has reputation for kindness.‘

         
Juana nodded, but it was not of Torres that she was
thinking as she made her way to the Duquesa‘s apartments, leaning on the
Condesa‘s arm with a lassitude that was only partly assumed. Her limbs felt
lifeless and heavy with shock; she was still faintly surprised that they obeyed
her. She remembered their treachery when she had wanted to fight her way out of
Tristan‘s embrace, and wondered for the hundredth time why the mercenary‘s mere
presence had the power to drain her of strength. It was her own weakness she
fought when she abused him, as much as his icy arrogance.

         
Her mind refused, even now, to absorb the full impact of
all that had happened. Bartolome was dead, and Tristan admitted to letting him
die before his eyes; and now Tristan wanted her. More than that she could not
comprehend. Whether or not Tristan had told the truth did not matter, for the
result would be the same – a man was dead, and she was called the cause. As for
the price the Felipe Tristan demanded for his ‗work‘…

         
An inward shudder racked her, but the Condesa made no sign
that she had noticed it; perhaps, Juana thought, she was learning at last to
dissemble. More than disgrace or arrest, even more than the chilling complexity
of the man himself, she was afraid of what Tristan could make her feel; when he
touched her she felt the stirring of everything in her that she had been taught
to smother since her earliest childhood – violence, excitement, a sheer
unbridled passion that shocked her. She had always tried to choke that side of
her nature, because it was so much at odds with the teachings of her gentle
mother and of Tia, and with the happy, placid natures of Teresa, Margarita and
the rest of her sisters. Now the Condesa‘s rebuke, so like those she had been
hearing all her life was like a grim reminder of all that she stood to lose in
paying her debt. She had thought she loved Jaime, she realized, but only
because his cautious tenderness inspired an answering gentleness in her,
enabling her to pretend even to herself that she could be the sort of wife he
wanted. Tristan‘s very presence was a torch to her tinder, and his cold gaze
seemed to strip away all the comforting veils of pretence and self-deception
that had shrouded her idea of her own character. That, she thought, was why she
had hated him so much.

         
Hated him – but he could make her want him, too, if he
chose. Even now the touch of his fingers seemed to throb against her skin, and
her cheeks warmed as she remembered her own involuntary response. And he knew.
He would not be content with a compelled acquiescence, she thought,
panic-stricken, but would strip her soul and take her last citadel of selfhood
before he deemed himself paid. When he took her in his arms again, she knew,
she would lose all sense of everything but his sheer dominant masculinity,
letting reason sleep in the wake of a desire that it tore her to admit.

         
Her heart beat against her ribs so painfully that she
wanted to cry out. That was what he wanted, what he would make her pay as the price
for murder. Not worldly dishonour, for he would take care that no one learned
of it for the sake of his own safety; but a violation of the honour by which
she had lived, forcing her to understand her own nature too clearly for her own
peace of mind. It was ironic that a man who derided women‘s faith and truth
should rape her of the ability to pretend with him.