Indiscretion (16 page)

‘Sarita can accompany you,'she added.‘Her old mother lives nearby in Triana, she's not been very well. I'm sure Sarita would welcome the opportunity to visit her for the day.'

Alexandra bristled. She had ambiguous feelings about spending a whole day in Salvador's company. Despite her anger and confusion towards her cousin, part of her thrilled to the idea of being alone with him again but she was still somewhat taken aback by her grandmother's dictatorial tone and the fact that she'd not been consulted. But that was the
Duquesa
's way, as she'd already learned: she was the head of this family and ruled it in accordance with her ideas and plans. It had always been so. For the time being, Alexandra thought it best not to rock the boat.

‘Oh,
Abuela
, please let me go too,' whimpered Mercedes.

However, the dowager's attention had already moved on, the conversation at an end.

Alexandra stole a glance at Salvador, who was cheerfully tucking into his food, the ghost of a smile around his mouth, though he studiously avoided looking at her. Courses were cleared away and dessert appeared, which Doña María Dolores declined.

‘
Tía
, did you know that Alexandra is an accomplished pianist?' Salvador remarked to the
Duquesa
, a smile flickering in his eyes as he watched for his cousin's reaction. Alexandra gave none; she wasn't going to satisfy him by showing any discomfort on his account.

‘I did. You must play for me some time,
querida
,' said the
Duquesa
.

‘Of course,
Abuela
,' answered Alexandra. ‘I should be happy to play for you whenever you wish.'

Doña María Dolores directed a pleased nod at her granddaughter. She looked at Alexandra for a moment and paused before turning to Salvador, her features once more austere.

‘A word,
por favor
.' The
Duquesa
rose from her chair and moved away, motioning for Salvador to join her. The two of them stood in the archway leading to the living room beyond and, as Mercedes began to chatter on to her mother about having piano lessons, the
Duquesa
lowered her voice. ‘We need to talk about the company you're keeping at the moment. I don't understand why you're rekindling this old flame.'

Within earshot, Alexandra purposefully kept her eyes level, concentrating on her pudding, though her stomach turned painfully at the thought of Salvador and Doña Isabel together — for who else could it be that her grandmother was referring to, she reasoned? A few seats away, Doña Eugenia pricked up her ears, giving a sour look to no one in particular when she clearly failed to earwig satisfactorily.

‘Come,
Tía
, you worry too much,' said Salvador. ‘You know what they say,
hacer una montaña de un grano de arena
, don't make a mountain out of a molehill.'

‘Unfortunately, you often give me cause to worry, my boy,' the
Duquesa
muttered. ‘We must discuss this in private, but I want to know your intentions.'

‘My intentions? Oh, the list is endless,
Tía
,' he smiled charmingly at his great-aunt, deflecting her inquisition. ‘Topping it is sorting out the new stock of horses. Speaking of which …' And with that, the sound of their conversation was lost as they walked into the next room and out of sight on their way to the
Duquesa
's apartments.

Alexandra tried to shake off her mood but it wouldn't pass. At home, in England, she had more authority over her feelings; here, she felt constantly baited and vulnerable in a way she didn't care for at all. Salvador seemed determined to provoke her at every turn and she was now apprehensive as to what a whole day with him in Seville would bring, during which she had no doubt he would continue with his infuriating sport. Whatever happened, she must not betray her
attraction to her beguiling cousin, an attraction that frustrated as much as it excited her.

That night, as Alexandra twisted and turned in her bed, unable to find sleep, she heard the sound of furtive footsteps in the corridor. She was certain someone was outside her room. In a few strides she was at the door, wrenching it open.

‘Who's there?' she cried out, hearing the startled tone in her own voice. The ominous silence of the long, deserted corridor answered her. She remained a moment in the doorway and quickly looked about her. Summoning all her courage, she ventured a few steps down the corridor and listened intently. Again she heard the soft footfalls, then the muffled sound of a door closing gently somewhere below, on the ground floor.

She was conscious of the rapid pounding in her chest and realized she was shaking. Slowly she shut the door and turned the key in the lock mechanically. She remained a moment, leaning against the heavy panelled wall separating her from the sinister shadows of the house, and then, turning, suddenly she let out a stifled cry of horror: it seemed as though someone was standing before her.

Her own shadowy reflection gazed back at her from the tall cheval mirror Agustina had brought up to her room before the masked ball. She gave a sigh of relief. ‘No question about it,' she muttered to herself, ‘you're as nervous as a kitten tonight.'

Alexandra poured herself a glass of water and sat for a few seconds on the edge of her bed. Either there had been a prowler outside her room or else her imagination had been playing tricks on her. If it had been the former, she wondered who was creeping around the corridors at such an unearthly hour and why they hadn't answered her.

That night she slept badly, dreaming that ghostly shadows were pursuing her through the hacienda and a voice she knew well was urging her to leave.

T
hey arrived at Seville in Salvador's Hispano-Suiza by ten o'clock. Alexandra's stomach had been beset with a host of butterflies at the thought of the day stretching ahead with him, particularly after he'd helped her into the car with a gentle hand to the small of her back, sending a tingling frisson up her spine. She glanced at Sarita, the maid, huddled in the back, and felt self-conscious. Well, she supposed that was the point of her presence, a chaperone to uphold the family's honour, but as she and Salvador would be alone all day, it seemed a bit of an empty gesture on her grandmother's part and having Sarita there did little to calm her nerves.

Surprisingly, Salvador quickly put her at her ease as they drove through the countryside. He was full of animated and amusing conversation about the surroundings, the Spanish and the delights of Seville that awaited them. Now and again he turned his head to stare at her appraisingly, making her pulse jolt. It was his open, unapologetic, Latin temperament, she told herself, though its intimacy disconcerted her.

They parted company with Sarita near the Golden Tower, the
Torre del Oro
, where the maid was to take a tram across the River Guadalquivir into Triana, the poorest quarter of Seville. After parking the car at the Plaza Hotel, Salvador took a few minutes to drop off a letter for one of his clients before offering to take Alexandra on a guided tour around town.

It was a sunny, immaculate morning, bathed in golden rays, with a velvety, azure-blue sky devoid of cloud. Already a colourful
throng swarmed along the pavements lined with artisans' shops, cafés and taverns.

‘Where are all these people going?' asked Alexandra, surprised at the bustle at such an early hour.

‘Seville is a town for the stroller,' explained Salvador, as they walked down one of the avenues that gave on to the main shopping street, la Calle de Sierpes. ‘You have to wander leisurely, with no particular aim in mind. I suggest we do just that, it's such a glorious day,' he grinned.

He was in a radiant mood and she was discovering he could be all at once cheerful, talkative and funny, a side to his character that had eluded her up until now. Whether it was pride, stubbornness, or simply the desire to savour the relaxed feeling between them, neither one had mentioned the masked ball or the unfortunate incident that had taken place in the drawing room the previous afternoon with Doña Isabel.

For the first time since her arrival in Spain, Alexandra felt truly alive as they walked side by side under the shade of palm trees, mingling with the exuberant crowd. There was no doubt about it: Seville's carefree and happy atmosphere was contagious.

That morning, she had chosen to wear a simple Yves Saint Laurent chemise dress, pale green with three-quarter sleeves, held around her slender waist by a wide striped belt. From time to time, Alexandra would look up at Salvador, the green of the silk material reflecting in her eyes, making them seem softer. She wore no make-up and, with her mass of freshly washed copper hair tumbling down her shoulders, framing the delicate oval of her face, she looked like a schoolgirl, scarcely out of adolescence. From her appearance now, it was difficult to believe that only two evenings before she had been the sophisticated sultana from a bygone era, whirling around the dancefloor, an elegant and mysterious figure in the brightly lit ballroom.

Salvador himself walked with the air of someone who'd decided to take a holiday from a usually stressed life. For once, he seemed relaxed, almost carefree. ‘
Que bonito es hacer nada, y leugo descansar
,
how beautiful it is to do nothing and then rest afterwards, as the proverb goes. That phrase could have been coined specially for the Sevillians, I think.' He turned to her, his eyes alight with a twinkling expression she'd not seen in them before.

‘It's not a sentiment you can relate to?'

‘
Me
?'

He laughed and turned again to look at her. This time the steady grey pupils reflected a gravity akin to melancholy that went straight to Alexandra's heart, reminding her of the way they'd looked at the church in Santa María. ‘I'm always too busy, and too restless in any case to enjoy such a leisurely pastime …' But it didn't last. He was grinning again, she noticed, in that same lighthearted way as he surveyed the passing crowds.

Alexandra took in Salvador's physique as they strolled. She had never had the opportunity to survey her cousin in broad daylight until now. Her first impression when they had met on the night of the ball had been one of height; now this was reinforced as he strode alongside her, towering above the crowd in his impeccably tailored clothes. His handsome Grecian profile was brooding and imperious under a shock of jet-black hair. Stealing a furtive look at his tanned complexion that gave a strange luminosity to his steel-grey eyes, Alexandra realized how unusually changeable those eyes were, varying in tone according to the mood he was in. She wasn't sure whether they affected her most when they reflected the stormy skies of winter or when they mirrored the cobalt-blue depths of the Mediterranean Sea.

What should she make of his many contradictions? He exuded a mixture of strength and vulnerability, candour combined with reserve, confidence tinged with shyness. How should she take his quirky smile, which sometimes revealed a playful humour and at others a sort of gentle disenchantment? Add to this his dignified and somewhat solemn bearing and courteous manners and, without doubt, Salvador was the most seductive man she had ever met.

They finally turned into la Calle de Sierpes, a narrow cobbled Moorish-looking street where no wheels were allowed and which
consisted entirely of pavement. It was lined with historic old houses that seemed to Alexandra the very setting for romance, with their colourful façades, elaborate casement windows and ornate balconies. Salvador pointed out the grandest, at the head of the street: the place where Cervantes was once held prisoner because of his debts. Now a bank, the Royal Audiencia's sixteenth-century façade was a dignified mixture of umber-coloured brick and white mouldings, making Alexandra wonder what dark and desolate tales were hidden behind its old walls.

‘Why is this street named after snakes? It seems rather odd,' she observed, looking at the narrow and short layout of la Calle des Sierpes.

Salvador grinned wolfishly. ‘Ah, one of the city's many legends. The story goes that, some time in the sixteenth century, the children of Seville began to disappear and no one could fathom who was abducting or murdering them. It was a prisoner from the Royal Jail, trying to escape, who dug down into the sewers beneath the prison and found the bodies. It was a twelve-metre snake that had been dragging the children into the sewers and eating them. The prisoner killed the giant serpent and they made him a hero. What do you think of that?'

‘I think that in Seville crime does appear to pay on occasions.' She looked at him mischievously.

Salvador laughed, his eyes sparkling. ‘Well, you know what they say: the devil's children have the devil's luck.'

‘So they say.' Her eyes met his and then she looked away, slowing her pace to absorb the view of the colourful street. ‘It's so full of life here, I can hardly take it all in.'

On either side, low stalls in front of intriguing shops spilled out on to the kerb. Shopkeepers sat on stools, idly chatting or smoking a pungent type of cigar. From time to time, one of them would glance slyly at Alexandra out of the corner of his eye and mutter appreciatively under his breath. As a rare foreigner in Andalucía, she inevitably attracted comments and she was aware of her companion tensing, barely perceptibly, at every remark made. His face had hardened slightly, and once or twice she caught sight
of him glaring dangerously at one of these vocal admirers, instantly silencing the upstart.

‘They have an air of infinite leisure,' Alexandra remarked to Salvador, trying to hide her amusement, ‘as if they've been there since time began and will continue until it ends.'

Salvador's expression relaxed. ‘Sevillians, like all Andalucíans, learn early the Arab maxim: life is shorter than death.'

Alexandra hadn't heard this saying before; it seemed just the sort of thing the cheerfully morbid Spaniards would use, but she kept that thought to herself.

They wandered through a labyrinth of alleys, shaded by plane trees and purple jacarandas, into a plaza full of quaint eating-places. Above one of the doorways of an old government building, Alexandra noticed a carving in the stonework.

‘Salvador, look there. I've seen that sign all over the city. What does it mean?' She pointed to the carved letters ‘NO8DO'. The middle figure, an eight, had been represented like a piece of yarn. They paused in front of the doorway and she felt him standing close as he folded his arms.

‘That rebus appears on Seville's coat of arms and their flag. It provides the city's motto. The knot is the
madeja
… so if you read aloud “
No madeja do
”, it sounds like “
No me ha dejado
”, which means, “It has not abandoned me”, meaning Seville. The people of Seville were awarded the coat of arms in the thirteenth century after they refused to back Sancho IV when he tried to usurp the throne from his father, Alfonso X. They remained loyal to their scholar-poet king.' Salvador glanced sideways at her. ‘It's a legend based on the idea of fidelity and honour.'

‘How rare to find such tenacity in a people.'

His chin lifted a fraction. ‘Not where Spaniards are concerned,' he said, almost arrogantly. ‘Historically, Sevillians are among the proudest and most passionate people in our country. After all, Seville is famous for its Flamenco, its bullfighting, its fiestas …' He paused. ‘Everything we Andalucíans do, we do with intensity.'

His voice had taken on that deep, smooth sound with the knack of obliterating all thought, causing her head to spin. Alexandra gazed up at the carving, deliberately not looking his way, but felt him watching her.

She tried to focus. Her mind went back to Esmeralda and the secret the young woman was keeping, even from her brother. ‘This sense of honour is so very particular, don't you think?' she said, still not meeting his gaze. He was standing so close that their arms were nearly touching.

‘But of course, Alexandra. What is a man, Spanish or otherwise, without honour? The nobleman has his code of honour, as does the gypsy, but at its root lies the same thing: duty. A responsibility to one's family and dependants, to behave with dignity and courage in all things … and to fight for what is right.'

‘It sounds positively medieval.' Alexandra smiled casually as she spoke but when she turned to look at him, his eyes were silver-bright and ardent, almost feverish. Her mouth went dry.

Salvador took her elbow and her heart leapt at the gentle but firm contact of his fingers. ‘Come, Seville is also famous for its food, and we're in the perfect place.'

Stopping at a tavern, they sat outside under a bright red awning, sipping sangria and eating a few olives, shrimps and other tapas that Salvador ordered. Most of Seville appeared to have congregated there to do much the same thing or to stroll aimlessly in groups of three or four.

Salvador grinned, showing off a flash of even, white teeth. ‘As you must have gathered, the favourite pastime in Seville is watching the crowds go by. There is in each Andalucían, and particularly in every Sevillian, something of the voyeur and something of the exhibitionist.'

‘I find this carefree and happy atmosphere intoxicating,' Alexandra admitted, suddenly elated by the lively bustle of the café and the strange perfection of this city.

‘I hope you're enjoying your stay at El Pavón …' Salvador drained his glass of sangria and surveyed her. ‘After your glittering life in London, our remote corner of the world must seem rather dull.'

Alexandra was about to comment sarcastically that, on the contrary, since her arrival she had been greatly entertained by him and various members of his family, but instead she bit her tongue. ‘I find the change refreshing,' she merely replied. ‘It seems as if your life at the hacienda is anything but boring.'

This seemed to catch her companion off guard. He sat just a few feet away and his metallic gaze held hers across the table. For a lightning second the brooding, taciturn man she had glimpsed a few times before reappeared but this lapse of self-control was so brief it might have been an illusory trick of the light, or perhaps Alexandra's own fertile imagination. In the momentary silence that followed, he never took his eyes off her face.

‘I would like to show you the
Alcázar
,' he said, choosing not to answer her question and gesturing for the bill. ‘The visitor at first may take it to be a Moorish palace. Actually, it was the Christian kings who built it on an old Moorish site, of which almost nothing remains today. It's interesting to see to what extent Christianity in Spain has been influenced by Arab culture and by Moorish habits and customs.' He stared at her intently again. ‘Do you like Moorish architecture?'

‘This is my first visit to Spain, so I've not experienced it firsthand, but I've read extensively about its mixed architecture and the pictures I've seen have always caught my admittedly rather romantic imagination.' She laughed somewhat shyly. ‘Isn't there a legend associated with this palace?' She remembered having read that somewhere.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘You mean the love story of Pedro the Cruel and María de Padilla?'

She frowned, convinced she had read something about this. ‘I thought that Pedro the Cruel was in love with another María, the one who burned her own face.'

‘You are referring to María Coronel,' he corrected.

This time she raised her eyebrows. ‘Was Pedro the Cruel in love with
two
Marías?' The moment the words were out, she wished them
unsaid. Her expression and the shocked tone of her voice seemed hopelessly naïve but it was too late to retract them.