Forbidden Flame. Anne Mather
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you hurt? Tell me, what is the matter?’
His words brought Caroline to her senses, and with a little gesture of negation she moved away from him. Immediately he withdrew his arm from the back of her seat, and after allowing her a swift appraisal, he thrust open his door.
Sliding his arms into his jacket, he retrieved a spade from the back of the vehicle, and while she endeavoured to compose herself, he vigorously disposed of the pile of debris. He worked in the illumination from the headlights, bending and lifting, and throwing the contents of the spade across the ditch at the side of the road. Caroline watched him with uneasy awareness, troubled as much by her own reactions to him as by their brush with danger. It was disturbing to realise that during those moments in his arms she had known a wholly unexpected sense of anticipation, and she knew if he had chosen to bend his head and find her mouth with his she would not have objected.
It was a shocking realisation, not only because of her feelings for Andrew, but because she had known Luis Montejo for such a short period of time. She had thought herself so self-confident, so emancipated—yet, when the warm scent of his breath had brushed her cheek, she had felt as weak and susceptible as any Victorian miss. She checked the shoulder-length curve of her hair with unsteady fingers. No doubt he had known how she felt, she thought, with some self-derision. He must be highly amused now, after her previous assertions of female rights. Perhaps she should be grateful he had not chosen to take the affair any further. It would have been doubly humiliating to arrive on Don Esteban’s doorstep, with his brother’s brand already upon her.
The spade thudded into the back of the vehicle, and she stiffened as the door beside her opened, and Luis Montejo climbed back into his seat. This time, he kept his jacket on, and the damp smell of the material mingled with the faint odour of sweat from his exertions.
‘You are sure you are all right?’ he enquired again, his voice perceptibly cooler now, yet still polite and concerned, and she nodded, fingering a slight swelling on her temple.
‘I should have been more careful,’ she answered, endeavouring to keep her tone light. ‘Your roads are certainly—unpredictable.’
‘And dangerous,’ he agreed, with grim impatience, starting the engine abruptly and thrusting it into drive, and Caroline turned her head away from him, to gaze through the rain-smeared window.
San Luis de Merced was a village, as well as the place where Don Esteban de Montejo had his estates. There were lights in the village, glowing through the shutters of adobe dwellings, mingling with the smoke from a dozen chimneys. There was the spicy smell of meat and peppers, and the stronger aroma of woodsmoke, and children in open doorways, to watch their progress. Someone shouted after them, and Luis Montejo answered, raising his hand in greeting as Caroline thought she heard the word ‘padre’. But her attention was diverted as the Range Rover lurched on to an upward slope, and she clung desperately to her seat as they wound precipitously up through a belt of trees, to where high wooden gates were set in a grey stone wall. The wall itself was easily eight feet high, a solid barrier to what was beyond, and Caroline’s nerves tightened. Beyond the wall was her destination, and her courage faltered at the sight of that prison-like edifice.
Luis Montejo brought the vehicle to a halt and sprang down again to hammer on the gates. Reassuringly, they were soon opened, by an elderly retainer, dressed in the usual garb of loose-fitting pants, and waistcoat, the sleeves of his shirt rolled back to his elbows. He removed the wide-brimmed hat from his head as they drove through, then replaced it again to close the gates behind them.
‘Gomez,’ remarked her companion shortly, as Caroline glanced back over her shoulder. ‘He used to work for my brother, but now he is too old to ride herd, and spends his days keeping the gate.’
‘Like St Peter,’ commented Caroline, wishing to ease the tension inside her, and Luis Montejo gave her a thoughtful look.
‘Perhaps,’ he conceded at length, but Caroline had the distinct impression that he had been tempted to make another comparison.
Beyond the gates, the tyres encountered the solid mass of a stone courtyard. Caroline decided it resembled an ancient fortress, with its outer walls and solid buttresses, a width of drive leading past stables and outhouses and under an inner archway to the stone-flagged entrance.
Montejo drove under the arch, and brought the Range Rover to a halt at the foot of a flight of steps, leading up to a wooden door. The rain had ceased, and the warmth of the night air dispelled the feeling of chill Caroline had developed when first she saw the house. There was the fragrant scent of oleander and hibiscus, and the soft smell of earth after rain, and as she climbed out of the vehicle Caroline determined not to allow what had happened in Las Estadas to influence her first impressions of her home for the next few weeks.
The door above them opened as Luis Montejo was unloading her cases from the Range Rover. A plump, round-faced little woman descended the steps to greet them, and meeting her round, beady little eyes, Caroline wondered if this could conceivably be Doña Isabel. She was quickly disillusioned.
‘Consuelo,’ remarked the man beside her, straightening with a case in each hand. ‘She speaks little English, but she will do her best.’
‘Buenas tardes, señor.’ Consuelo addressed herself to Luis Montejo, but her eyes were all for Caroline. ‘Buenas tardes, señorita. Bienvenido a San Luis.’
‘Thank you—gracias!’ It was one of the few words she knew and Caroline glanced in some embarrassment towards Señor Montejo, doubting the accuracy of her accent.
But he merely inclined his head and said ‘Muy bien,’ in a low voice behind her, as they followed the gesticulating Consuelo up the steps. ‘No sabia que pedia hablar español!’ he added, confusing her further, and she glanced round at him, pursing her lips.
‘You must know I don’t understand you,’ she whispered, aware of Consuelo’s inquisitive interest, and his smile was a disturbing reminder of the way he had made her feel in the car.
‘No importa,’ he assured her, his meaning obvious this time, and she sighed. ‘Esteban was educated at Oxford. I am sure you will have no difficulty in understanding him.’
The undertones of his words were lost on her as she stepped into the baroque beauty of the exquisitely decorated hall of the house. In the light from a dozen electric lamps, concealed behind bronze shades, her eyes were dazzled by fluted columns supporting the high arched ceiling, by heavily carved mouldings and inlaid mosaics, and by miniaturised statues of the Virgin and Child. The vertiginous twists of a wrought-iron staircase were enhanced by leaves veined in marble, and the chequerboard pattern beneath their feet was coloured in black and gold. If the outer appearance of the house had been daunting, its inner beauty more than made up for it, and she turned to the man behind her with bewildered eyes, seeking some explanation.
‘As you can see, my brother lives in style, señorita,’ Luis Montejo remarked mockingly, and before she could make any protest at his own apparent acceptance of the situation, another voice broke in on them.
‘Señorita Leyton!’ it enquired, in vaguely slurred tones. ‘It is Señorita Leyton, is it not? Ola, welcome to the Hacienda Montejo, señorita. I hope you are going to be very happy here.’
Caroline turned half guiltily, aware of the disloyalty of her thoughts only moments before, to find a man approaching them across the expanse of black and gold marble. If this was Esteban Montejo, and she had every reason to suppose it was, he, too, was tall, though not so tall as his brother, and of much heavier build. Like his surroundings, he looked immaculate, in a formal evening suit of seamed black pants and white jacket, his only apparent concession to the heat, the printed silk cravat about his throat, instead of the usual white tie. But what disturbed Caroline most was the unevenness of his approach; the way he placed each foot with evident precision, and the faintly smug expression he adopted as he neared her.
‘My brother, Don Esteban,’ observed Luis Montejo, with studied politeness, and Caroline felt her hand captured and raised almost to Don Esteban’s lips.
‘I