Lord of the Land Page 3

  'Monte! Monte!' the Conde urged. 'Get on!. We have a long ride ahead of us!'

  Keeping her mind blank, veering deliberately away from the memory of her previous attempt at horse riding that had lasted all of ten minutes, Frances tightened her grip upon the reins, nudged her heels into the horse's ribs, and was lurched suddenly into motion.

  For the first ten minutes she had to concentrate solely upon keeping her seat, trying to adjust to a bumpy, frightening method of transport that entailed being perched precariously above the ground, but as she became accustomed to the rhythm of her mount's stride she felt able to relax and began taking an interest in her surroundings.

  Luckily, the Conde was riding a few paces ahead. After tossing in her direction a smaller version of the flat grey hat tipped to the back of his head with the terse instruction, 'Wear it, you'll be glad of its protection later in the day,' he had taken the lead and lapsed into silence, seemingly absorbed in thought. So she jogged contentedly in the rear, taking mental notes of an expanse of sun-cracked marsh bed, its flatness relieved only by clumps of tall grasses, and in the far distance humps of dun-coloured ground that Bernardo had referred to as vetas, stretches of land left dry even when the marshes were flooded that provided ideal foraging and nesting places for birds and small animals.

  Her spirits rose as she began appreciating the pleasant ride in the comparatively cool morning air, but as the sun began gradually rising higher and higher she became conscious of the first small indications of discomfort—an ache in the small of her back, a stiffness in her joints, sweat that began as a trickle between her shoulderblades and then graduated to a flow that caused her shirt to cling like a sodden rag to her back.

  After a couple of hours, just when she felt the edge of her endurance had almost been reached, the Conde twisted round in his saddle to indicate a spread of cork oak trees outlined upon the horizon.

  'We'll stop there for a rest and a bite to eat.'

  Feeling the quizzical scan of his eyes over her slumped body, she jerked erect and tried to avoid sounding as enervated as she was feeling.

  'Good!' Much to her annoyance the solitary word erupted like a parched croak. Swallowing hard, she managed to enunciate the lie, 'Physically, I feel quite fresh, but I wouldn't say no to a drink.'

  Her dislike of him escalated when a short, mirthless laugh told her that he was not deceived, that he might even be anticipating gaining a great deal of satisfaction from signs of her growing discomfort. Gritting her teeth, keeping her eyes fastened upon the goal shimmering like a mirage on the hot blue horizon, Frances travelled in his wake, hoping to keep hidden from his eagle-keen glance the punishment that every slight rise, every gentle dip, was inflicting upon her racked body.

  As he had promised, she was grateful for the protection of the hat he had provided as the sun-rose higher in a sky empty of all but soaring, swooping birds. Occasionally, a startled boar darted out of their path and herds of grazing fallow deer retreated nervously from the sight and sound of riders intruding into the immense solitude of the marshes.

  Her relief when they finally arrived at their resting place was so great that she forgot the need for pretence and slumped down in the saddle, too weary, aching and sore to muster sufficient energy to dismount. But the living nightmare was intensified when the Conde's horse, probably startled by some small creature running across its path, reared, at the same time letting out a startled neigh that had the effect of a pistol shot upon colonies of nesting spoonbills, herons and egrets that rose screaming and shrieking from the trees to hurl a chorus of raucous protest over the heads of the interlopers. Instinctively, Frances reacted by throwing her arms above her head, alarmed by the obvious resentment of the viciously diving birds whose powerfully flapping wings were blurring her vision. Then suddenly, her senses confused by a combination of heat, fatigue and fear, she experienced a' soaring sensation and felt herself being lifted clean out of the saddle.

  'No need to be alarmed, seňorita, in a few minutes the birds will settle on their perches and soon afterwards you will be able to forget their existence.' Then the Conde's glance sharpened. 'You look all in,' he accused, digging his fingers into her waist as he bent to examine more closely a wan face pinched with exhaustion. In a tone brittle as threaded glass, he demanded, 'Tell me, Seňorita Ross, were you being truthful when you implied that you were an experienced horsewoman?' . Daring to raise her eyes no higher than the third button on his jacket, she gulped, 'I didn't claim to be an expert, all I said was that I'd ridden before.'

  'How many times before, and for how long?' he pressed.

  Quickly, her head drooped low as if she were finding the weight of her grey Cordoba hat unbearable. 'Once,' she admitted in a low whisper, 'and for just a few minutes.'

  'Madre de Dios!' The exclamation hissed from his lips with all the venom of a snake rustling through dried leaves. 'Yet you dare aspire to become a teacher, 'to achieve the stature of a giant amongst pygmies, when you obviously lack even the modicum of intelligence displayed by infants whose first steps are always taken with caution!'

  'I've always considered experience to be the best teacher!' she was stung to retort. 'Life is a succession of lessons whose roots can be bitter but whose fruit is more often sweet.'

  Her heart almost stopped beating when she dared to meet the fiercely angry glare of the man who seemed to use an aloof, haughty manner to clamp down upon passions continuously simmering on the boil, permitting occasional hisses of steam to act as a safety valve in case of a sudden, scalding overflow. He provided proof of this theory by releasing his grip upon her waist, dismissing anger with an indifferent shrug.

  'There is an ancient Eastern proverb that states: "A man's worst enemy cannot wish him worse harm than he imposes upon himself". All I ask, seňorita, is that you refrain from complaining— verbally or otherwise—about your self-inflicted injuries.'

  Looking suitably chastened, Frances sank down on to the waterproof sheet he had spread upon the ground and waited until he had unearthed from his saddle bag a flat, round crusty loaf into which he stabbed a navaja, before extending it towards her with a slice of bread speared on to the tip of the eating knife. She accepted with inner reservations, but when she bit into the off-white, unbuttered slice she was pleasantly surprised to discover that the slightly coarse textured bread tasted delicious, as did the cold tortilla that made up the total sum of their picnic.

  As she sat silently munching, taking occasional swigs of water from the leather wineskin the Conde had detached from the laces on her saddle, her aches gradually began to subside, so much so that she eventually managed to summon up sufficient courage to face him.

  He was sitting with one shoulder propped against a tree trunk, his head flung back and mouth open wide to receive a thin stream of wine spouting from a leather porron. Her carefully rehearsed words were forgotten as she sat entranced watching the ripple of throat muscles beneath skin like oiled silk, tanned to a light shade of coffee. When the convulsive movements ceased she raised her eyes to his face, then blushed at the sight of winged eyebrows that seemed to be accusing her of staring.

  'Would you care for some wine?' He offered her the porron.

  'No… no, thank you, I'm not fond of it, I much prefer to drink water.'

  'Or milk,' he decided, laconically labelling her a milk-and-water miss.

  Deciding that she really could not afford to offend the man who was lord of the particular piece of land she wished to explore, Frances made a determined effort to appear friendly.

  'Although I've no notion what made you change your mind about agreeing to act as my guide to the eagles' eyrie, Conde, I am very grateful that you did.'

  'Various reasons prompted my decision, one of which was to be able to add one more book to the excellent collection of your father's works already in my possession.'

  Warmed by his obvious respect for her father's work, she blurted impulsively, 'I'm sorry that you and he were never able to meet. I'm certain that y
ou would have liked him if ever you'd managed to get to know him well.'

  'I feel I did know him well,' he surprised her by saying. 'Because we shared a mutual regard for his work, Dr Ribero was kind enough—with your father's permission, of course—to share with me the contents of letters which, as time progressed, graduated from sheets of ornithological data into an exchange of confidences between friends. In fact, the last letter we received informing us of the date of his arrival included his acceptance of my invitation to spend part of his visit in my home, the Palacio del Flamenco, that is situated conveniently close to the breeding grounds of the eagles whose habits he was anxious to study.'

  'Palacio del Flamenco,' she mused thoughtfully. 'I've been studying your language, off and on, for the past two years, but not until I actually arrived in Spain did I realise the extent of the gaps in my knowledge. Am I correct in translating Palacio del Flamenco as "Palace of the Gypsy Dance", seňor?' she puzzled with a frown. 'I feel intuitively that the name is inappropriate…'

  'I know of many who would be prepared to swear that female intuition is infallible,' he told her - morosely. 'However, the very fact that you are here with me now must prove such a belief mere fallacy.'

  Ignoring the rasp of her startled breath, he clipped precisely, 'The language of Spain, in common with that of your own country, has many words that have separate and entirely different meanings attached. As you correctly assumed, flamenco can be interpreted to mean "Spanish gypsy dance", but its alternative meaning is "flamingo" which as you are no doubt aware is the name given to the long-legged, flamboyant birds whose fluttering wings can cast a roseate haze over an entire flock before they sheath their wings and revert to their normal white sheen. On a lake in the grounds of the Palacio there are often up to a thousand flamingos cramming the entire surface of the water. They are drawn to the area by the high salinity of the water which suits their requirements. Lately, however, the population seems to have been gradually dwindling.'

  'Perhaps,' Frances choked, grappling to keep a rein on her mounting suspicion of the man whose motives she did not trust, 'they've merely decided upon a change of breeding ground.'

  'Perhaps,' he shrugged. 'I doubt if anyone will ever know for certain. The migration pattern of flamingos has never been investigated in depth; there is still a great deal of mystery surrounding these birds. However, what has been recorded—if only in legend—is the fact that flamingos were using the lake as a breeding place when the first Moorish prince invaded Andalusia. Either from choice or necessity, he settled here and built himself a palace, intending to fill it with young Spanish concubines. However, contrary to Moorish custom, he took into his charge only one—the beautiful Isabella who later became his bride.'

  'How horrible to have been forced into marriage with such a barbarian!' she shuddered, grey eyes dark with compassion for the long forgotten slave-bride. 'Had she no family, no father nor brothers to fight for her release?'

  'Possession is nine tenths of the law,' he crisped, shading his eyes to look towards the sun, 'but as history has recorded that she gave birth to six fine sons, she must have been amenable to his advances at least some of the time! It was she who gave the Palacio its name. It is said that whenever she felt lonely, merely watching the flamingos made her feel happy and contented again.

  'Ah, good!' He peered into the sky with a look of satisfaction. 'Here comes the helicopter. No more questions for the time being, if you please, seňorita, whatever else you wish to know you may find out for yourself once we arrive.'

  'Arrive?' she questioned so faintly the word was almost drowned by the noise of rotor blades. Desperately, she cleared her throat and tried again. 'When we arrive where?'

  'At the Palacio del Flamenco,' he said implacably, 'where you will be staying for an indefinite period as my guest.'

  CHAPTER THREE

  It hardly seemed credible, Frances thought dully, yet there was only one possible conclusion to be drawn from the Conde's words and actions. She had been abducted! Back home in England such a notion could have been treated as a joke, but this was Andalusia, an isolated, sparsely populated region where for centuries time had almost stood still, where the gospel of the Moors and their barbaric commandments still ruled. 'Possession is nine tenths of the law!'

  Dazedly, she gazed out of the window at the fast receding ground. She had barely been given time to voice a protest. Indeed, she had been so shocked, her mouth so dry with fear, that it had taken considerable effort on her part to jerk out the reminder.

  'Dr Ribero will be bound to raise an alarm if I don't return to collect the rest of my belongings within a reasonable space of time.'

  The Conde had cast her a look that had seemed to war between impatience of her stupidity and sympathy for her innocence.

  'Bernardo was pleased to have the responsibility for your welfare taken out of his hands.'

  'You mean that he's aware of, and prepared to condone your high-handed action?' Frances had almost choked on her indignation. 'I'm sorry, but I find that impossible to believe—the doctor impressed me as being the epitome of the sort of chivalrous, honourable gentleman for which Andalusia is renowned. He would never allow—'

  'Of course he would not,' the Conde had brusquely forestalled her, 'so far as Bernardo is aware you have eagerly accepted my invitation to stay at the Palacio del Flamenco so that you may study the Spanish imperial eagle at your leisure. Why else do you suppose he fell in with my plan to take you on a short tour of the Reserve of which he is so proud, and why he even agreed to arrange for the ponies to be collected from the spot where we arranged to leave them grazing?'

  'But why? Why are you doing this?' She had stamped her foot in anger and frustration.

  But in the manner of an imperious Moor he had turned away, brushing aside her protest with the same casual indifference he would have shown towards a persistent sandfly.

  'Make out to sea before setting a course inland, Manuel,' she heard him instruct the pilot. 'I'd like my guest to enjoy a bird's eye view of the whole of the province.'

  Frances was temped to retort that she could enjoy nothing in his company, that she resented, as much as the beautiful young Isabella must have done, being plucked like a sparrow into the talons of an eagle and soared towards his isolated eyrie. But some instinct warned her to hold a tongue that would be bound to babble, spilling out the fear welling up inside her, an emotion that robbed the mind of all powers of reasoning and so had to be suppressed, because never in her life before had she been in so much need of a cool head and calm demeanour.

  When the Conde left his place next to the pilot and clambered into the seat next to hers, it was as much as she could do to suppress a shudder. Nevertheless, when he touched her arm and nodded towards the window she followed his instruction to look downward.

  'That strip of coastline you see below comprises the most desert-like shores of Spain. Miles of straight, smooth, deserted beach backed by a range of gigantic sand dunes that encroach inland for many miles.'

  She craned her neck and saw brilliant blue sea lapping a white sandy shore devoid of all movement, without beach huts or parasols, without bathers or lines of oiled, half naked bodies marring its miles of virgin perfection. She blinked when the helicopter wheeled in the sky and began flying inland over a white sandy waste from which sun rays were bouncing a fierce dazzle.

  'Soon, we will once again be passing over the Palacio de Rocio and afterwards the Reserve. Then once we leave behind the marshes through which we have travelled on horseback, we will begin heading towards the lofty range of the Sierra Nevada where, with its head resting against a background of snowy peaks and its toes dipping into cool green valleys, you will be privileged to catch your first glimpse of the Palacio del Flamenco.'

  'As a prisoner is privileged by the first sight of his dungeon?' she rounded on him, sorely tried. 'As the young slave, Isabella, was privileged to be permitted her first glimpse of the cage inside which she had been condemned to live a lifetime
? What do you want from me, seňor?' Her yell was almost drowned by the noise of rotating blades. 'You've taken great pains to display the inaccessibility of the region in which you live, the impossible task facing any prisoner foolish enough to attempt an escape, yet I'm neither rich, important, nor am I beautiful, so what possible reason can you have for choosing to take me hostage?'

  'Calm yourself, seňorita!' The snapped command, the bite of his fingers into her wrist, acted like a douche of cold water upon her rising hysteria. 'Even when the atmosphere is conducive—which at the moment it is not—I never proffer explanations, have never before been expected to account for my actions. But as you appear to be convinced that you are about to be deprived of your obviously cherished virginity, I will set your mind at rest on that account. No, you are not rich,' he ticked off her first protest with a contemptuous flick of his finger, 'but even if you were, I doubt whether you would be able to outmatch the combined wealth of a Moorish prince and generations of Spanish conquistadors. To your second point I will respond only with a question: How is it possible to even contemplate equating one holding the title "Lord of the Land" with a seeker after importance? And as for your third point'—deliberately, he allowed his eyes to stray over the childish curve of her cheek, along a tender line of neck and shoulder, then lingered so long studying the effect of agitated heartbeats hammering inside her breast she felt the nadir of mortification had been reached, '… compared with the exceptionally high standards set by Andalusian women you cannot be considered a raving beauty—not even your colouring can be regarded as unusual amongst people who still show traces of their blue-eyed, blonde-haired inheritance from Moorish ancestors,' he spelled out with thin-lipped cruelty. 'Your only value to me lies in your talent as a teacher, and for that I am willing to barter. You seek access to the breeding grounds of the Spanish imperial eagle, Seňorita Ross—I need a teacher who is capable of communicating elementary subjects to my children.'