Flame of Diablo (19 page)

because Maria nodded vigorously. She

led Rachel out into a small courtyard at

the back of the house, where a strange

utensil rather like an old-fashioned

copper steamed over a wood fire.

For one-panic-stricken moment Rachel

thought she might be expected to climb

in and boil gently, but she was reassured

when Maria ladled out a generous

bucketful and handed it to her, gently

urging her this time towards a

completely different door.

The house, she realised, was L-shaped,

and the foot of the L extended to the rear,

providing what she supposed were

bedrooms. She gave Maria a doubtful

smile and opened the door indicated,

taking care hot to slop the bucket on to

the floor.

She was quite right. It was a bedroom,

containing at least two beds, she noticed

at a quick glance. And in the middle of

the floor was an old-fashioned folding

screen. All this and privacy too, she

thought, staggering a little under the

weight of the bucket.

She rounded the screen and stopped

dead. She had been quite right in

thinking that it concealed the bath tub.

What she hadn't bargained for was that

the tub was already occupied.

He was shaving, using an old cut-throat

razor, and holding a small hand-mirror

in his other hand. The glance he gave her

was casual to the point of indifference.

'The fresh hot water that Maria promised

me,' he remarked. 'How good of you to

carry it in here for her.'

'I didn't. At least I—I thought it was for

me,' Rachel knew she was babbling. 'I

mean—why in the world did she give it

to me when she knew perfectly well you

were in here?'

He put the mirror and the razor on the

floor beside the tub and rinsed off the

remaining lather.

'Maria has a romantic soul. You are

travelling with me, so she has drawn

certain—premature conclusions about

our relationship.' He reached to the floor

on the other side of the tub and came up

with one of his thin, black cigars, half-

smoked. 'The water is getting cold,' he

added with slight impatience after a

pause. 'The intention is that you should

pour the contents of the bucket into the

tub. And before you start protesting that

nudity at any hour of the day and night

disturbs you, may I point out that I am up

to my waist in soapy water.'

'Alternatively,' she said, 'I could leave

the bucket here and you could fetch it

yourself.'

He sighed, blowing out a reflective

cloud of smoke. 'I should do nothing of

the sort,
chica.
I should shout for Maria,

who is doubtless busily engaged heating

more water for your bath and cooking

our suppers and should not be disturbed.

She would think it very strange that you

were not prepared to perform this small

service for your man.'

Rachel hesitated. She knew what the

response would be if she protested that

he was not her man. Besides, he had

clearly given Maria a very different

impression, and to make a fuss about a

simple thing like adding some hot water

to a bath would only confuse the good

woman.

Unwillingly she approached the tub,

lugging the bucket with her.

'Do you always smoke in the bath?' she

asked acidly as the pungent smoke from

his cigar reached her.

'Only when I'm alone,
querida,'
he

drawled, and grinned maliciously as a

startled blush rose in her cheeks as she

assimilated the implication in his words.

'But don't be frightened. There is barely

room enough in this tub for me. It would

hardly accommodate the sort of games

you imagine I have in mind. You can

pour your water unmolested.'

She would have liked to have poured it

over his head, but it was as much as she

could do to hoist the bucket to the edge

of the tub.

'I only wish it would scald you,' she

remarked vindictively as she began to

pour the water into the bathtub.

'Fortunately

Maria

has

not

your

bloodthirsty nature, nor does she share

your poor opinion of me. You had better

be careful how openly you display your

hostility towards me. Maria was my

nurse when I was a child.'

'Your nurse?' She glanced up in surprise

as she placed the empty bucket back on

the floor. 'Did your mother die then

when you were very young?'

'My mother is still very much alive,' he

said with a degree of hauteur.

She said, 'Oh—I see.'

But she didn't see. The only explanation

seemed to be that he came from an

altogether wealthier background than she

had concluded. But if that was so, why

had he worked as a
llanero,
and why

was he now hiring out his services as a

guide? It made no sense. Unless, she

thought gloomily, he was the black sheep

of the family and had been made to leave

his home.

'If you intend to stay,' he said coolly,

'then you may as well make yourself

useful. You might care to wash my back

for me.'

'I'll see you in hell first!' The colour in

her cheeks heightened and she took a

hasty and indignant step backwards.

'You are a strange product of the much-

vaunted permissive society.' He leaned

back very much at his ease, watching her

speculatively.

'There

isn't

anything

particularly

permissive about scrubbing a man's

back,' she said shortly. 'I just don't care

to wait on you, that's all.'

'Ah, I understand,' he nodded. 'It is then

on the prohibited list for the truly

liberated woman.'

'You're just being ridiculous,' she

snapped.

'On the contrary,
chica
, it is you who are

being ridiculous.' He held out a piece of

damp sponge to her. 'Wash my back,

Raquel,
por favor.
I will do the same for

you when it is your turn,' he added, the

corners

of

his

mouth

twisting

sardonically.

'You will not!' She paused. 'Very well,

senor.
I'll wash your back on one

condition—that you stay right out of this

room while I am having my bath. Is it

agreed?'

For a moment he studied her, then he

lifted one bare wet shoulder in apparent

resignation. 'Very well,
chica.
If it's so

important to you, then I agree.'

She took a deep breath, then accepted

the soapy sponge and began to rub it

across his shoulders. His skin felt cool

and damp under her nervous fingers, and

as he moved slightly she could feel the

play of muscle like steel under silk. She

felt dizzy and weak, her legs were

shaking, and her mouth felt dry. There

was tension in him too, she could feel it

through her fingertips, and somehow she

had to break this silent spell which

seemed to hold them both in its thrall, or

she would do something disastrous like

sliding her arms round his neck and

bending her head until she could touch

his skin with her lips.

It was the scar that saved her, a long,

puckered ridge of skin running down

diagonally from his shoulder blade.

She said with a little gasp, breaking the

silence, breaking the spell, saving

herself, 'Oh—you've been hurt! When

did it happen?'

'During my time on the Llanos. We bred

bulls for the arena as well as for meat,

and one of them decided to blood its

horns on me.'

'You could have been killed!'

He shrugged. 'It was a glancing blow. I

was fortunate.' He turned his head and

looked up at her. 'There are some who

would say I bear a charmed life,

querida.'

She said with an attempt at lightness, 'Or

that the devil looks after his own.' She

returned the sponge to him, and stood

hesitating. Reason and common sense

were telling her that she should make her

escape now, but still she lingered.

She said suddenly, 'Your neck and

shoulders are as knotted as a piece of

string. I might be able to get rid of that, if

you'd let me.'

She didn't wait for his reply, but put her

hands back on his shoulders, and began

to knead gently but firmly. It was a knack

she'd discovered years before, but she

used it rarely. Sometimes Grandfather

had allowed her to stroke away his

headaches,

and

theatre

friends

occasionally asked for a back rub to

ease away first-night tensions, but this

was the first time she had ever touched a

man that she wanted and it was a new

and painful sensation.

But he was relaxing under the pressure

of her fingers. She could feel that he

was.

He said lazily, 'You have hands like

butterflies,
querida,
and the true healing

touch. Have you never had training for

this?'

She shook her head. 'Years ago, when I

was small, I thought I wanted to be a

nurse, but nothing came of it.' She gave a

slight laugh. 'It was probably a good job

it was only a passing fancy, because

Grandfather would have dug his heels

in.'

'He doesn't approve of the nursing

profession?'

'He's a real old reactionary. If he'd been

around at the time he would probably

have done his level best to -stop

Florence Nightingale going to the

Crimea,' she said lightly. 'But he doesn't

really approve of any profession for

women. I think he only let me go on the

stage because everyone told him it was

overcrowded, and that I would never

actually get any work.'

'Presumably, he was wrong.'

She laughed. 'Yes. I've been very lucky

—the right breaks at the right time.'

'And it means a lot to you—this career?'

She was a little taken aback. 'Why—yes,

of course it does. And you asked me that

before!'

Her hands slowed. But did it mean that

much? It was what she did, and she

enjoyed it, but if someone told her

tomorrow she would never walk on to

another set, would she care altogether? It

was something she had never seriously

considered before.

His fingers came up and gripped her

wrist. 'Don't stop,' he said quietly.

Her breath caught in her throat. That

sensuous trap was closing round her

again, and this time it was no one's fault

but her own. Her fingers continued to

move rhythmically almost like an

automaton's, massaging and soothing, but

who could soothe away the dull ache of

wanting which throbbed deep inside

her? No one except the man who had

awoken it, and that must not be allowed

to happen, because the pain of ultimate

loneliness would be even harder to bear.

She said, hurrying into speech, 'Will you

tell me what happened to your eye? Was

it another accident while you were a

llanero?'

She felt him stiffen instantly. 'I'm sorry.

Shouldn't I have asked? Don't you like

being reminded... ?'

'I have a constant reminder,' he said

bitingly. 'Each and every time I look in a

mirror. And no, it was not an accident. It

happened a long time ago, and it was

quite deliberate.'

She stood motionless, unwilling to

believe what she had just heard.

'Deliberate?' she repeated. 'I don't

understand.'

'Then I will explain. Thirty years ago, a

politician called Gaitan was murdered

in the streets of Bogota. His death led to

ten years of virtual civil war—
La

Violencia.
And for some the struggle

was not merely political, it was just an

excuse—an excuse to murder and rob

and rape. To grow fat and bloated on the

misery of others.' His voice slowed,

lowered. 'Such a man was Juan