Forbidden Flame

‘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 am most happy to meet you, señorita,’ Don Esteban assured her ardently, and the odour on his breath was unmistakable. Was this the indisposition his brother had hinted at? Caroline wondered faintly, smothering her revulsion, and knew a moment’s incredulity that features that had so much in common should be so amazingly different.

Realising she had to say something to retrieve her hand, she forced a smile. ‘You—you have a beautiful home, señor,’ she said, determinedly withdrawing her fingers from his. ‘It—well, it’s not at all what I expected.’

Don Esteban rocked back on his heels, casting a satisfied glance towards the intricately-carved ceiling, the white walls and pilasters, the iron balustrade that formed a gallery above them. ‘You like it?’ he drawled. ‘It is a modest dwelling compared to the palaces my family left behind them in Cadiz, señorita.’ He shrugged. ‘But—–’ and here his dark eyes, much darker than those of his brother, returned to her face, ‘it serves the purpose. And there is room enough for the three members of my family who live here.’

‘Oh, but—–’ Caroline’s brows ascended, and she glanced in some confusion towards the man who had brought her here. How could there only be three members?

And as if understanding that silent enquiry, Don Esteban spoke again. ‘My brother?’ he suggested. ‘Luis?’ His tongue slurred over the man’s name. ‘Did he not tell you, señorita? Did he not explain?’ His lips curled. ‘My brother does not live with us here at San Luis, Miss Leyton. Like his namesake, Luis is in search of immortality also. He lives in Mariposa, señorita. At the seminary of San Pedro de Alcantara.’

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_d9835eca-efbc-5301-8796-48921bd82f07)

CAROLINE awakened with the instinctive awareness that all was not well. For a few minutes she lay still in the middle of the huge baroque bed, with its carved headboard and gilded hangings, once used, Don Esteban had assured her, by the Emperor Maximilian himself, and let the events of the previous evening sweep over her in intimate detail. And then, loath to spoil the new day with such reminiscences, she thrust back the silken coverings and put her feet to the floor.

There was a rug beside her bed, a soft silky alpaca rug, into which her toes curled, and she allowed its sensuous touch to soothe her unquiet thoughts. No matter what she had let herself into here, she was committed to stay for at least four weeks, she told herself severely, but it was not an easy fact to accept.

The night before had been like something out of a dream, or perhaps a nightmare described it more aptly. Remembering the dinner she had shared with the two brothers, she shuddered in revulsion, and her palms found her cheeks as she recalled that grotesque meal in its entirety.

It had been obvious from the start that Don Esteban was by no means sober, and the amount of wine served with the meal had only exaggerated his condition. They had eaten in the ornate dining room, at a table large enough to seat a score of guests, and from silver and crystal worth a small fortune. They were served by an army of waiters, and offered a fantastic number of courses, each cooked and presented with a different sauce. There were several courses of fish, from a spicy stuffed variety to the lightest of shellfish mousses, chilled soups, steaming consommés, wine-flavoured and aromatic, chicken served in wine and cream, stuffed tamales, enchiladas, deliciously filled with cheese, pork served with apples and tomatoes and onions, and every kind of fruit imaginable.

Caroline had eaten little, aware of the dangers of too much rich food on a stomach already churning with nerves, and she had noticed Don Esteban followed her example. But he had continually filled his glass, watching her intently across the expanse of polished mahogany, probing and assessing, and making her overwhelmingly aware that he found her presence at his table pleasing to him.

Luis Montejo had eaten more enthusiastically, drinking only a little wine, keeping his thoughts to himself. It had been left to Caroline to answer Don Esteban’s questions, and to listen in shocked fascination as he deliberately proceeded to provoke his brother.

Remembering it all now, Caroline rose from the bed and padded barefoot across to the window. Without the benefit of the rug, the tiled floor was cool to her feet, but she scarcely noticed. Drawing the heavy curtains aside, she opened the window, and gasped with sudden wonder at the beauty of the view.

Last night there had been nothing to be seen, only darkness, and the troubling obscurity of her own thoughts. But this morning the sun was shining, and even the enclosing wall that surrounded the property had taken on a rose-coloured hue.

But it was beyond the wall that Caroline’s eyes were drawn, to the flower-strewn banks of a river flowing through rugged but open land to where a church tower stood silhouetted against the sky. Her eyes followed the river as it rushed through a narrow gorge to disappear from sight, only to appear again in the shimmering distance, a spreading, shifting expanse of water. Caroline blinked. That was no river, she realised in sudden excitement. It was the sea. Only the sea could give that blue-green tinge to the horizon, and her spirits soared. She had known Yucatan was a peninsula but somehow she had never imagined San Luis de Merced might be near the sea. She gazed at it eagerly, savouring its familiarity, and breathing deeply, as if she could already taste its salty flavour.

With an effort she allowed her attention to be caught by a movement near at hand. There was a herd of cattle grazing some distance from the house, and her eyes widened at their number. There must be hundreds, she thought incredulously, then wondered with some misgivings if one had to negotiate the herds to reach the estuary.

She sighed. No doubt she would find out. But once again the more immediate present gripped her, reminding her that she had yet to meet her charge, the young Emilia, or the elderly retainer, Doña Isabel.

There was a bathroom adjoining the bedroom, and checking that it was still quite early, barely eight o’clock in fact, she went to take a shower. She had been too exhausted the night before to do anything more than wash her face and hands and clean her teeth, but now she surveyed the bathroom’s luxurious appointments with more enthusiasm.

Like everything else, the bathroom was ornate. The walls were lined with gilded mirrors, the taps on the bath and handbasin were gold-plated, and even the shower had a gold-plated spray. Still, the water was hot, and refusing to allow the memory of how the majority of the population lived to deter her, Caroline pulled on a shower cap and stepped beneath the invigorating cascade.

Towelling herself dry, she returned to the bedroom again, viewing her still-packed cases with some distaste. They would have to wait until she discovered what her duties were going to be, she decided, and determinedly dismissed the fleeting urge to beg Luis to take her with him when he left for Mariposa.

Dropping the towel, she rummaged for clean underwear, but when she turned back, the shred of cream cotton clutched in her hand, she encountered her reflection in the long gilded cheval mirrors. They were very narcissistic mirrors, she realised, folding one upon the other, throwing back her image from every angle. But they were candid, too, in their search for perfection, and there was no way one could disguise any possible flaw.

Reluctantly, Caroline allowed herself a moment’s assessment. Her body was slim, without being angular, her hips shaped, her legs long and attractive. She sometimes thought her legs were her best feature, although Andrew had insisted she had equally desirable attributes elsewhere. Her tongue circled lips that were unknowingly sensuous, troubled a little by her thoughts at that moment. It was not of Andrew that she was thinking but of Luis de Montejo, and her own disturbing awareness of him as a man. She had never met a man quite like him before, but then she had never had a conversation with a Roman Catholic priest before. Mr Thomas, the Church of England vicar at St David’s back home, bore no resemblance to the man who had rescued her from Señor Allende’s unwanted attentions, and even now she found it difficult to associate Luis with the Church.

Luis! The way his name came so easily to her tongue was disturbing, too, and she drew her lower lip between her teeth, nibbling on it uneasily. Unwillingly she recalled Don Esteban’s behaviour over dinner. His attitude towards his brother had been deliberately offensive, and, as the evening progressed, increasingly crude. He had spoken of things in Caroline’s presence, things which even she, in her self-asserted role of emancipist, would have preferred not to hear, and she had badly wanted to escape. When he baited Luis, when he made a mockery of his tolerance towards the people, when he spoke of his celibacy, Caroline had wanted to die of embarrassment, but Don Esteban had seemed to enjoy her discomfort far more than his brother’s indifference.

And Luis had maintained a façade of detachment, whether it was real or otherwise. He had refused to answer his brother’s coarser comments, and adopted an air of resigned fortitude, that succeeded inasmuch as it seemed to drive Don Esteban almost to distraction. His speech got more slurred, he filled his glass more frequently, and finally slumped in his chair, the victim of his own frustration. Several of the servants came at once to carry him to bed, almost as if this was a regular occurrence, and Caroline had been left to face Luis’s intent appraisal, with the distinct perception of her own inadequacy.

She had wanted to rant at him then, to accuse him of knowing to what he was bringing her, to question his integrity in allowing her to believe that his brother was an ordinary man—but she hadn’t. How could she blame him for her own foolhardiness? How could she despise him, when she had chosen this job? If anyone was to blame, it was Señora Garcia, in deceiving her so completely; although even that imposition didn’t hold water, when she considered how ambiguously the advertisement had been worded. It was her own fault, and hers alone. She had accepted the post, she had come here with such a high opinion of her own capabilities, and if it proved to be a disaster then she would have to extricate herself.

She gave a grim little smile now, as she recalled their conversation on the way to San Luis de Merced. What must he have been thinking when she made her stand for women’s liberation? How subtly he had avoided discussing his brother’s position. He must have known how soon her eyes would be opened, and yet not then, or last evening, had he voiced the obvious cliché.

With an exclamation of impatience she put on her scanty underwear and reached for the simple pleated skirt, folded on top of her suitcase. The matching silk shirt that went with it was the colour of African violets, and the outfit was in sharp contrast to the pale fall of ash-blonde hair. Her hair was straight and silky, smooth from a centre parting, and ideal in this climate, where more elaborate styles would droop with the humidity. She could wash it and dry it in an hour, without requiring any artificial assistance.

She was smoothing a shiny lip-gloss on to her mouth when there was a knock at her door. Half turning, she called: ‘Come in!’ and after a few moments’ pause the door was tentatively opened. A young Indian girl stood just outside, holding a tray. She was attired in the black dress and white apron, which seemed to be uniform for all the female staff, and she ducked her head politely, and said: ‘Desayuno, por favor, señorita. Puedo entrar?’

Caroline put down her lip brush and smiled. ‘You can put the tray over there,’ she said, indicating the marble-topped table near the windows, and then, summoning what little of the language she could remember, she added: ‘Su nombre—que es?’