Witch's Harvest (5 page)

claustrophobically.

She heated herself a tin of soup in the communal kitchen, and toasted a bread roll to go with it. She was tempted to eat there

too, but the silence seemed oppressive, and eventually she carried the tray back to her flat, and had her meal by the fire. She

turned on the television and sat through a raucously cheerful quiz show, before turning to a disaster movie on another channel.

But the trials and tribulations of the assorted misfits threatened with total annihilation by an impending tidal wave seemed

minor, compared with her own problems.

'Serves them right,' she muttered.

She was going to turn the set off, when the doorbell rang, and she stiffened. It was probably Keith, calling to apologise for his

bad-tempered departure the previous night. She hadn't the slightest wish to see him, or hear any apology he might wish to

make. And if she kept quiet, he might go away.

The doorbell sounded again imperiously, and she sighed. Of course. The passage was in darkness, and he would see her light

shining under the door.

She took a reluctant step towards the door, then halted, as another realisation burst on her. It might not be Keith at all. It could
well be Della, hotfoot from Paris, and demanding to know what had happened to her letter.

Abby's mouth felt dry suddenly, and she passed her tongue rapidly over her lips. Oh God, she couldn't face Della, or the

inevitable scene that would ensue.

Now that her cousin's scheme for bringing Vasco to heel had gone disastrously wrong, she would be looking round for a

scapegoat, and Abby was already too consumed with unhappy guilt to be able to cope.

The bell stopped ringing, and she drew a sigh of relief. But any hope that she was to be left in peace proved shortlived. Her

visitor was now knocking on the door in a crescendo of sound which would disturb every other tenant in the building.

'All right,' she called wearily. 'Just a minute!'

As she unfastened the latch, the door was pushed determinedly from the outside, and Vasco da Carvalho walked in. He

slammed the door behind him and stood regarding her grimly.

Abby's hand stole to her throat. 'What do you want?' she demanded croakily.

'To talk to you.' His tone was silken but implacable. 'Or did you really think I could be banished so easily?'

'I told you—there's nothing to discuss,' she began, but with a snort of impatience he took her arm and propelled her to the sofa.

'Sit down,' he directed curtly, walking to the television set and pressing the off-switch.

Abby's brows lifted haughtily. 'Please make yourself at home.'

He sent her a sardonic look. 'I think I already did so—don't you?' Two swift strides brought him back to her side. He seemed to

dwarf the room, she thought helplessly, and not merely because of his height either.

He took her small, cold hands in his and drew her down on the sofa beside him.

There was a silence, then, 'Look at me,' he ordered softly.

She obeyed reluctantly, looking up into his set, unsmiling face, and wondering whether she felt more wretched than foolish, and

if it really mattered anyway.

He said, 'Why did you not tell me you were a virgin?'

She shook her head, allowing a defensive curtain of hair to fall across her face. 'I—I didn't think it made any difference.'

He sighed. 'You cannot be that naive. Did you imagine I would be flattered by such a sacrifice from you?'

'I—I wasn't thinking very clearly at all.' To her horror, a tear squeezed under her lashes and ran down her cheek. Vasco said

something soft and pungent in his own tongue, then brushed the drop of moisture from her face with his forefinger.

'It is too late for tears,' he told her brusquely. 'Now, we must consider what is to be done.'

'There's nothing,' she said flatly. 'I'm just being stupid and—and female. It happened, and now it's over, and that's all there is to
it.'

'There could be a great deal more.' His voice was quiet. 'Has it not occurred to you, little fool, that there could be a child?'

Her breath caught. 'No—it's not possible…' Her voice broke off in a little distressed wail.

'It is entirely so,' Vasco assured her grimly. He paused, watching the play of colour under her delicate skin, and the way her

hands twisted together in her lap. 'I blame myself bitterly, if that is any consolation,' he went on tonelessly. 'You—learn quickly
for a novice, otherwise I might have suspected the truth and brought the situation to a halt before any real harm was done. But I

wasn't thinking clearly either. Having discovered that your cousin was a whore, it suited my purpose to believe that you were

one also.'

'That's not fair!' Abby protested.

'To you—undoubtedly not.' The dark face hardened into bitter implacability. To her—entirely. When I would not pay her price,

she sold herself to another fool.' He shook his head. 'But that does not excuse my conduct towards you.' He gave her a

measuring look. 'Although, as I have said, much of that could have been avoided if you had told me how innocent you were.'

'It never occurred to me that you'd—know.' Her gaze fell away. 'I didn't realise either what—it would belike…'

Vasco's mouth twisted wryly. 'As to that, I think you were a little unlucky,
querida
. And I could have made it—easier for you, had I
known…' He paused again. '
Com a breca
, what am I saying? Had I been—warned, I would never have taken you at all.'

She still didn't look at him. 'Vasco—if you're thinking that I'll tell Della, I won't, I promise. You were angry last night, and you had
too much to drink, and you said a lot of things you didn't mean. You can't just—stop loving someone, no matter what they do.'

'Whether or not I still love your cousin is immaterial,' he said harshly. 'She has made it impossible for our marriage to take place.

I do not take as my wife another man's leavings.'

'You won't give her a chance to explain?'

Vasco shrugged. 'No explanations are possible. I have spent today telephoning my family and friends and telling them the

wedding will not take place. I have also spoken to your aunt and uncle, who will make the necessary announcement in the

papers.'

'It all sounds—very final.' Abby bit her lip. 'I'm sorry.'

He shook his head. 'You have nothing to regret. Both Della and I seem to have—used you as a pawn in our selfish games. I can

only ask you to forgive me, Abigail, and allow me to make amends to you.'

'There's no need.' Her face burned. 'You see, you were right about one thing. I—I wanted it to happen…'

'Yes, I think that is true,' he said unexpectedly. 'Which encourages me to say what I must.' He took one of her nerveless hands

and lifted it swiftly to his lips. He said softly, 'Marry me,
querida
. Be my wife.'

Abby said faintly, 'Have you gone quite mad?'

The dark brows rose. 'I don't think so. It seems to me that my—proposition is the only sensible solution to a number of

problems.'

He'd said 'proposition,' she thought, not 'proposal'.

She said, 'I suppose you're thinking about my being pregnant again.' Her chin lifted. 'Well, you have no need to worry. I—I'm on

the Pill.'

Vasco's eyes narrowed. 'I do not believe you,' he said flatly. 'Now think again.'

A mutinous flush rose in her face. She stared down at the carpet. 'It's hardly likely, after all. Not after…'

'You are not merely innocent but ignorant,' Vasco said acidly. 'But as proof is beyond both of us at this time, it might be wiser to
presume that it has happened. And I cannot return to Brazil, Abigail, and leave you in this uncertainty.'

She bit her lip. 'I could write to you—if the worst came to the worst.'

'Thank you.' he said coldly. 'You presume that I will then be able to drop my responsibilities to the plantation and rush back to

Britain.' He shook his head slowly. 'No—when I leave, I shall not return.' The long fingers cupped her face, making her face him.

'And when I go, I intend to take my wife with me. You,
senhorita
.'

Her throat felt constricted. 'Vasco, you still love Della. It isn't too late. She doesn't want to marry Jeremy Portman, I swear it. It
was just the thought of Riocho Negro that frightened her. It's so different from anything she's ever experienced. She's used to

shops—theatres, restaurants. They're part of her world.'

'I know that.' His face was brooding. 'I was prepared to make allowances. But not to submit to emotional blackmail.'

'But you could meet her half-way,' Abby insisted almost feverishly. 'Couldn't you set some time limit—assure her that eventually

you'll take her to live in Rio?'

'You seem to be suffering from the same misapprehension as your cousin. Understand this, Abigail. Riocho Negro is mine. It

belongs to me, and it owns me too, as I tried to explain to Della. There was never the remotest possibility of my returning to live
in Rio.'

'Perhaps she didn't realise,' she persisted.

'Let us be honest. Della did not wish to realise, although I explained the position over and over again.' His mouth twisted wryly.

'Now I must tell you. I inherited the plantation at Riocho Negro from a distant cousin, Afonso da Carvalho. His family had

occupied the land there for several generations, growing cacao, and he wrote during one of my vacations from the university

inviting me to visit him. As we had almost lost touch with that side of our family, I agreed. I was young enough to consider it an
adventure.'

'And wasn't it?'

'At first, yes. Afonso was much older than myself, and had married late. His wife was very young, and an angel, expecting their

first child. He had made elaborate arrangements for this important birth. Beatriz was to be taken in good time to a clinic in

Manaus. Everything seemed fine.'

His face grew bleak. 'Then one morning, he was called out to look at some of his young trees. They were showing signs of

disease—a fungus called witch's broom, which can only be cured by destroying and burning the damaged trees. It was a

setback he did not need, although God knows he should have been used to it by that time. Ants, pests, a variety of diseases