Rachel Trevellyan

A little of the tension left him. ‘No. No, I suppose you’re right. In any case, a man like Martinez wouldn’t look at somebody like you, even without——’

He broke off abruptly and Rachel’s eyes narrowed. ‘Even without what, Malcolm? Exactly what have you been telling him?’

Malcolm shrugged. ‘This and that.’

‘How did you explain—our marriage? Surely being married to someone so much younger than yourself hardly enhances your image.

Malcolm’s thin lips quirked. ‘There are ways of making the most of every situation,’ he replied.

Rachel sighed. It Was obvious he had no intention of telling her anything. And in any case, did she want to know? Wasn’t it better to remain in ignorance than to hear something which might make her feel even more embarrassed in Luis Martinez’s presence?

‘Now, get me out of these clothes,’ commanded Malcolm, unfastening his tie and the top two buttons of his collar. ‘I’m almost roasting alive.’

‘What are you going to wear this evening for dinner?’ Rachel asked, as she went forward to help him slide his arms out of his jacket.

Malcolm tugged his braces off his shoulders and made an indifferent movement of his head. ‘I don’t know. I may not join them for dinner. I can always feign tiredness after the journey.’

Rachel took charge of the chair to wheel it into the bedroom. ‘You surely don’t expect me to join them alone,’ she exclaimed.

‘No!’ He was adamant on that score. ‘No, indeed. You’ll stay here with me like the dutiful wife you are. I didn’t bring you here to Mendao for your amusement, Rachel.’

Rachel stopped the chair beside the bed and came round to face him. ‘Exactly why did you bring me, Malcolm?’

Her husband began levering himself forward in the chair and she helped him on to the bed. ‘You’re my wife, Rachel. I own you, don’t forget that. I wasn’t going to leave you behind in Mawvry!’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m not blind, Rachel. I’ve seen the way men look at you. That Bart Thomas, for example.’

‘I’m not interested in the way any man looks at me!’ she declared. ‘You should know that.’

‘Huh!’ Malcolm stared at her impatiently. ‘That’s what you tell me. But how should I know what goes on inside that head of yours?’

Rachel heaved a sigh and began to help him off with his clothes. ‘I shan’t leave you, Malcolm. Much as I’ve been tempted to do. I made a promise, and I’ll keep it——’

‘Promises! Promises!’ Malcolm dragged himself up the bed to relax on the soft pillows. ‘I’ve heard that before. But you’re my wife, Rachel, and no one else is going to touch you, do you understand?’

Rachel straightened, hiding the pain in her face. ‘No one else would want to,’ she said quietly.

‘What the hell do you mean?’

Rachel turned away. ‘Nothing.’

‘Well, you listen to me: where I go, you go, do you hear?’

‘Then why didn’t you warn me—about coming here?’ she cried, turning back to him. ‘Why keep it all such a secret?’

Malcolm sniffed, running a hand across the hollow caverns in his throat. ‘I didn’t want anything to go wrong. I wanted to come here. Joanna owes me that much. If I’d had to tell her about you ...’ He shook his head. ‘It would have been difficult, very difficult. Portuguese women aren’t like English women. They have a very strict code of ethics. A man of my age marrying an eighteen-year-old girl!’ He pointed a finger at Rachel. ‘She’d have seen no possible reason for that.’

‘But this woman is English! And in any case, how can you now satisfactorily explain it? By telling the truth?’ She looked sceptical.

‘Joanna has lived so long in Portugal, she’s become like them,’ said Malcolm, ignoring her questions. ‘I saw that four years ago when she came to England. She came for my mother’s funeral, both she and Raul. That was her husband, the old Marquês, this man Luis’s father. Just like his son, he was. Cold and arrogant, conscious of his own importance!’

Rachel shook her head. ‘That still doesn’t explain——’

‘Leave it, Rachel.’

‘But why couldn’t you tell me?’ she sighed frustratedly.

Malcolm considered her thoughtfully. ‘If I’d told you what I’d arranged, how would you have reacted? Would you have been prepared to wait for this man to come and discover who you were?’

Rachel saw the logic of this. If she had known in advance she would have had to have written and told them the truth. She wasn’t like Malcolm. She couldn’t have waited, depending on their indulgence as he had done. And besides, Malcolm might have been afraid she’d run away at a crucial moment. She had wanted to do so many times in the past and he knew it.

She turned away. ‘I need a wash,’ she said vaguely. ‘I think I’ll take a shower. You’ll be all right, won’t you?’

Malcolm closed his eyes. ‘I suppose so.’ He opened them again. ‘And no disappearing if I fall asleep.’

‘Where would I disappear to?’ she exclaimed defensively.

‘I don’t know. But don’t, anyway.’

Rachel picked up one of the suitcases and flicked it open. Inside she found some clean underclothing and a towel. Leaving the bedroom, she entered the luxurious surroundings of the bathroom and although there was no need to do so, she locked the door. Then she turned on the shower and began stripping off her clothes. Her brain felt thick and fuzzy, and she was finding it hard to assimilate all this. It was too much in twenty-four hours, and she gave up the will to think ...

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_cd1ba3c8-9fd3-5103-b607-0ce0f9ab359c)

WHEN she returned to the bedroom some twenty minutes later and spoke to her husband there was no answer. From the heaviness of his breathing he was obviously asleep, and she tiptoed through to the sala and closed the door behind her.

She felt somewhat brighter now and infinitely fresher. She had cooled the water of the shower as she had stood under it, so that her flesh still tingled from that contact and her blood had cooled.

It was almost dark and someone had lit lamps on the patio outside. In the fading light all manner of moths and flying insects came to dance with death around the flames to fall with singed wings upon the mosaic tiling below.

Rachel put on a tall standard lamp with an exquisitely embroidered shade that shed mellow light over the room, and then stretched her length on one of the soft hide couches. It was early yet and she knew that dinner here was served much later. Besides, no doubt she and Malcolm would eat here in the suite.

But with the relaxation came time to think and she wondered with a sense of despair exactly what Malcolm had said to Luis Martinez to explain his marriage to her. She believed what Malcolm had said earlier. To these people such a marriage would need some explaining. He could not possibly have, told the truth.

She sighed. What was the truth? Did she know any more? Or had her mind rejected everything connected with this unholy alliance? If this state of affairs here, this unexpected removal to Mendao had changed her life overnight, how much greater had the change been three years ago when she married Malcolm Trevellyan?

She had lived in Mawvry for most of her life. She had moved there with her father when her mother had died and Rachel herself had been only seven years old.

Her father had been an artist, too. Until her mother’s death he had made a pretence at earning a living for her sake, but after she was dead he had seen the opportunity to remove himself and his daughter from the tiny house in Bloomsbury which he had owned, to an even tinier cottage in the Cornish fishing village of Mawvry.

Rachel had loved it. She had her father’s appreciation of beautiful things, and Mawvry was beautiful. Her father had indulged his passion for painting and sculpture, buying a small fishing boat to supplement his income during the summer months by taking tourists out for pleasure trips around the bay. They had lived simply and Rachel had never considered to wonder how her father managed to support them.

Occasionally in the summer, he would sell a painting and then he would buy steaks and wine and he and Rachel would have a feast. But mostly they lived more modestly, with Rachel learning to cook and sew and care for them both.

Malcolm Trevellyan had always lived in Mawvry. His house was visible on the cliffs above the bay, and Rachel had soon learned that he was not liked among the villagers. He owned property in Mawvry, cottages which he rented to the fishermen and their families, but he was not a good landlord. He loathed spending money, and the roofs of his cottages leaked during the winter months, making them damp and unhealthy.

Fortunately, or so Rachel had always thought, her father had been able to buy their cottage so in that respect they had no dealings with Malcolm Trevellyan. She had never cared for the man. Ever since she was about fourteen, he had gone out of his way to speak to her, but she had not liked the predatory look in his eyes. Of course, she had not understood then why he should look at her in such a way.