Forbidden Flame. Anne Mather
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‘All I am saying is, do not judge my country by its weaknesses. If you look for strength, you will find it.’
Caroline hesitated. ‘That’s a very profound view.’
‘Profundity is as easy for a stupid man to mouth as a learned one,’ he remarked, and she saw him smile in the illumination from the dials in front of him. ‘Do not be misled by my enthusiasm. I love my country, that is all.’
Caroline was intrigued, as much by the man as by what he had said. He was a very attractive man, but she had known that as soon as she saw him. What she had not known then was that he had a sense of humour, or that she should find his conversation so stimulating.
‘Your brother,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘he runs a ranch, doesn’t he? Do you work with him?’
There was a moment’s silence before he answered her, and then he said: ‘Here, we call it a hacienda. And yes, Esteban is the hacendado. But he does not run the ranch. He has a—how do you call it?—overseer to run the spread for him.’
‘And what do you grow? Corn? Maize?’
‘Cattle,’ responded Luis Montejo dryly. ‘My brother employs many gauchos. It is a very large holding.’
Caroline nodded. She had known this. Señora Garcia had told her. And about her granddaughter, Emilia …
‘Your niece,’ she tendered now. ‘She’s an only child, I believe.’
Again there was a pause before he replied. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘Emilia has no brothers or sisters. Her mother died when she was born.’
‘Oh!’ Señora Garcia had not told her this. ‘How distressing for your brother! He must have been very upset.’
‘Yes.’
It was an acknowledgement, no more, and Caroline found herself wondering whether she was mistaken in thinking his tone was clipped. Surely there was no suggestion that Don Esteban was uncaring of his wife’s death. Surely Señora Garcia would have warned her if this was so.
Yet, she realised, she really knew nothing of these people, beyond what they chose to tell her. That was why her own parents had been so opposed to her travelling so far on such a slender recommendation. If they had not felt equally strongly about her relationship with Andrew Lovell, she knew they would have done their utmost to make her change her mind. As it was, they were torn in conflicting directions.
‘So, you are young to have come so far alone,’ Luis Montejo remarked, unconsciously interpreting her silence. ‘But then,’ he continued, an ironic twist to his lips, ‘English girls are more emancipated than Spanish women. They do not have the restrictions put upon them as our girls do.’
Caroline struggled to recover her earlier enthusiasm. ‘Do you disapprove, señor?’ she ventured, forcing a light tone, and waited with some misgivings for his answer.
‘It is not my concern,’ he responded, moving his shoulders in a gesture of dismissal, and Caroline knew a moment’s impatience.
‘You must have an opinion,’ she insisted, curious to know his feelings, and with a rueful grimace he avoided a pothole before replying.
‘Let us say I have the usual chauvinist attitudes,’ he remarked. ‘A woman is not a man, and she should not try to emulate one.’
‘You think that’s what I’m trying to do?’ exclaimed Caroline indignantly, and his laughter was low and attractive.
‘No one could mistake your sex, señorita,’ he assured her dryly, and she felt a not unpleasant stirring of her senses. ‘All I am saying is that a woman’s role is not naturally that of the hunter, but that the inevitable conclusion to any continued adaptation is transformation.’
Caroline gazed ahead of her, watching the headlights of the Range Rover as they searched out a marsh cactus, glimpsing, as if in a shadowy reflection, a four-legged creature moving out there in the darkness. His answer had been predictable, and yet more logical, than some she had heard. But it was not flattering to find oneself compared, however indirectly, to a member of the opposite sex, and she wished she had some clever response to flatten his biased argument.
‘I have offended you, I think,’ he commented now, his tone lacking its earlier mockery. ‘I am sorry, I did not mean to do so. But you asked for my opinion, and I gave it.’
Caroline shrugged. ‘You haven’t offended me,’ she declared, although, unknowingly, her whole demeanour suggested that he had. ‘I was trying to think of a suitable answer, that’s all.’
‘I think you mean a suitable set-down,’ he observed, giving her a wry grin. ‘I am sorry, truly. Believe me, you are a very feminine lady, and I salute your courage in pursuing your career.’
‘You don’t really.’ Caroline would not be deceived. ‘You’re probably one of those men who thinks a woman shouldn’t have a brain in her head!’
‘No!’ His humour was infectious, and against her will Caroline found herself responding to it.
‘You do,’ she insisted, abandoning all formality between them. ‘I just hope your brother is more tolerant in his attitudes to women.’
There was another of those pregnant silences, when Caroline wondered exactly what she had said, and when he replied, there was little humour left in his voice. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, and she heard the irony in his tones, ‘Esteban is much more tolerant you will find. It was he who employed you, señorita. How could he think otherwise?’
It was not the answer she would have preferred, and she was left feeling decidedly deflated. For a few minutes she had lost the feeling of apprehension that had gripped her ever since Señor Allende burst into her room. But once again a sense of unease enveloped her, making her overwhelmingly aware of her own vulnerability.
‘How—how much further is it?’ she asked now, needing his voice to dispel her tension, and he frowned into the darkness.
‘Not far,’ he told her. ‘Five miles, at most. Are you tired? Or perhaps hungry? I am sure my brother’s housekeeper will have a meal waiting for you.’
‘And—and your aunt?’ Caroline probed. ‘Señora Garcia told me she also lives at the—the hacienda.’
‘That is correct. She came to San Luis when my father married her sister. She has never married, and she considers San Luis her home.’
Caroline welcomed this information. An elderly aunt sounded infinitely less intimidating than a man whose wife had died in childbirth, and who might or might not have mourned her passing. She stared out blindly into the darkness. It seemed such a long way. The road was so bad, and so twisting. Was this the only link with civilisation?
She was not thinking what she was doing, slumped in her seat, wrapped in the corkscrewing spiral of her thoughts. When the Range Rover swung round a bend in the road, and Señor Montejo braked hard to avoid a pile of rocks and debris brought down by the rain, she was flung about like a doll, cracking her head on the windscreen before being thrown back against him. It happened so suddenly she was unable to save herself, and she clutched at him violently, to prevent further punishment.
‘Dios mío!’ he muttered, as the vehicle shuddered to a standstill, and his arm automatically went around her. ‘Are you all right? Did I hurt you? I am sorry. This road can be treacherous after a storm.’
Caroline breathed shakily, her face pressed against the soft material of his shirt. Beneath the fine cloth, his heart was pounding heavily in her ears, and the clean male scent of his skin filled her nostrils. His body was hard, muscular, unyielding, and yet possessed of a supple strength, that accommodated the flexibility of hers. Even after the Range Rover had ground to a halt, and the uncanny silence had enveloped them in its blanketing shield, she clung to his strength, and knew it was not just the near-accident which had aroused such a desire for his protection.
‘Miss