Witch's Harvest

‘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 attack the trees constantly. Vigilance is always needed to protect the crop.’ He sighed. ‘We had just begun clearing the diseased trees when a message came from the house. Beatriz was in labour, six weeks before her time. A doctor was sent for from the settlement, but it was too late. There were complications, and within hours both his wife and son were dead.’

He shook his head. ‘Afterwards, he was a different man. He seemed to lose all will to live—to fight, and I worried about him, about what he might do. I should have returned to university to take up my studies, but I knew it was impossible. Afonso needed me, so I stayed.’

‘Wasn’t that rather hard on you?’ asked Abby. ‘You were very young to be faced with such a decision.’

Vasco shrugged. ‘Perhaps, but I had grown fond of Afonso, and his Beatriz. I understood his grief, and shared it. As time went by he came to rely on me more and more. He began to drink, and I found I was running the plantation with the help of his overseer. At first, I was interested in the cacao crop because I had to be, but eventually I found my interest was genuine. It presented the kind of challenge I would never have met in the comfortable, cushioned existence planned for me in Rio. When Afonso died, leaving me the plantation, I was elated. It never crossed my mind that I was free to return to Rio and take up my life there again. In my heart I had already become part of Riocho Negro. As,’ he added drily, ‘I tried to tell your cousin.’

‘She couldn’t have understood,’ Abby began, but he interrupted, his dark brows snapping together.

‘No, Abigail. It is you who does not understand. My engagement to your cousin is over, and I have asked you to be my wife. I am still waiting for an answer.’

There was a long silence. Abby’s heart was bumping against her ribs. She said, ‘It’s impossible.’

‘Why is that?’ His eyes were fixed unnervingly on her face. She shrugged. ‘Because—well, we’re strangers to each other.’

‘But intimate strangers, you must agree.’ His grin was slow and amused, and she found her own lips reluctantly curving in acknowledgement. ‘Besides, querida, if I’m honest, the possibility of a child is not the only consideration. My neighbours, the workers on the plantation, are expecting me to return married. To go back to Riocho Negro alone would not be a pleasant experience. In such a small community, there would be gossip—speculation.’

‘And you think they’ll say nothing if you turn up with the wrong woman?’ Abby asked. ‘Or do you expect me to masquerade as Della?’

‘Of course not,’ he said impatiently. ‘Why do you insist on mentioning her at every opportunity?’

‘Because she exists.’ Abby waved a hand, rather wildly. ‘You can’t just—dismiss people from your life like that!’

‘The decision was hers alone.’ His face and voice were implacable. ‘The only decision that now concerns me is your own.’

‘But it seems so cold-blooded,’ she protested.

‘Is that what you think?’ he asked cynically. ‘I thought last night would have taught you differently. I am now trying to be practical, yielding to the pressure of our circumstances.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Yes, we are little more than strangers,’ he went on, more gently. ‘But in my world, still, that is not so unusual. Besides,’ he paused again, ‘you cannot deny that in one area at least, we would be—compatible.’

The note in his voice, the overtly sensual reminiscence in his glance, brought the colour flaring in Abby’s face. She said, stammering a little, ‘I don’t know how you can say that, after—after …’

‘After you allowed your sense of grievance at my brutality to supersede everything else,’ he said sardonically. ‘But you must admit that until the moment of truth you had enjoyed being in my arms. You have admitted you wanted it to happen, and I regret that you found the experience a disappointment. Next time will be very different, I promise, carinha.’

‘You don’t have to promise anything,’ Abby said shakily. ‘I—I never want you to touch me again. I couldn’t bear that. That’s why I can’t marry you, Vasco. If there’s a baby, I’ll cope somehow. People do these days. It isn’t the stigma it once was, really …’

His hand fastened on her arm, the fingers biting into her flesh. ‘And you think I can be content with that?’ he demanded harshly. ‘Going back to Riocho Negro in ignorance, never to know, or set eyes on my firstborn? You imagine, do you, that I have no rights in such a matter?’ He shook his head. ‘You are wrong, senhorita. If you carry the heir to Riocho Negro in your body, then I intend him to be born with my name.’ He paused. ‘As for your not wishing to be touched,’ he smiled derisively, ‘I intend to change your mind on that score.’

He pulled her to him before she could take any form of evasive action, his hand twisting in her soft hair, holding her head still, as his mouth possessed her startled lips.

She braced her hands against his chest, trying to push him away, and instead reviving the aching memory of what it was like to feel the warmth of him under her fingers without the barrier of clothing.

Almost instinctively her hands curled like a small cat’s claws into his hard body, and as if he sensed her yielding, Vasco released his punishing grip to allow his own hands to slide the slender, graceful length of her spine, moulding her body against his as the kiss deepened passionately.

When he lifted his head, Abby was dazed and breathless. He had turned her in his arms so that she was lying across him, cradled on his powerful thighs. There was a faint flush along his high cheekbones, and the dark eyes glittered as they looked down at her.

‘Well, carinha?’ There was mockery in his voice, but overlaid with something rather more potent and disturbing. ‘Shall I prove to you exactly how compatible we could be?’

Her eyes dilated as she looked up into his face. She was afraid suddenly of the fierce emotion his caress had engendered. And coupled with the fear was a knot of almost savage anticipation, as her passion-starved body reminded her of its frustration.

Where would be the harm? the siren’s voice whispered beguilingly in her mind. Why shouldn’t she give herself once more to the man she loved, let herself know fulfilment before she sent him away for ever? It might be madness, but wasn’t it a greater insanity to deprive herself of the last opportunity to know the pleasure he had promised her, and which she craved?

She was at the edge of surrender, her hands lifting wordlessly to touch him, when the sound of the doorbell intruded jarringly, bringing her back to reality with a jolt.

She sat up sharply, pulling away from his gently exploring hands, dragging the loosened folds of her robe more securely round her.

‘There’s someone at the door!’

Vasco restrained her, his hand stroking the nape of her neck. ‘They will go away,’ he whispered.

‘You didn’t,’ she said sharply, as she released herself with renewed determination.

‘No, but I had reason.’ He lifted one shoulder in a shrug of resignation. ‘Get rid of them quickly, querida, and come back to me.’

That was the last thing she would do, Abby thought as she went to the door, almost tripping on her robe in her haste. The unknown caller was her salvation, a blunt reminder of the reality which lurked just outside her sensual dream world with Vasco.

Marrying him, living with him on terms of intimacy, was impossible. And letting him make love to her was equally so, if she wanted to go on keeping the secret of her love for him. When all control was gone, self-betrayal was all too probable.

If it was Keith on the doorstep, she thought as she struggled with the recalcitrant lock—or was it just that her hands were shaking?—she would have to use him somehow to get Vasco out of the flat, and out of her life.

She was rehearsing a greeting as she opened the door, but it was never to be uttered. Her jaw dropped. ‘Della?’

‘Yes, Della,’ her cousin said impatiently. ‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’

Abby said numbly, ‘But you’re in Paris.’

‘I was.’ Della’s lip curled. ‘I’ve come back for an explanation. What did you do with my letter?’

‘I delivered it.’ Abby hung on to the door handle. ‘Dell, I can’t discuss it now. I’ll come tomorrow and …’

‘You’ll talk now,’ snapped Della, her lovely face mottled by an unbecoming flush. ‘And you won’t tell me any more lies. You never delivered that letter. I stayed by that bloody phone until midnight, waiting for him to call, so he can’t have received it. So what did you do with it, you scheming little bitch?’