Lisbon (28 page)

“Rowan?” she asked questioningly and rose on an elbow.

He did not turn but his voice reached her.

“Charlotte,” he said, “I have taken you to wife and whatever has gone before for each of us is past all undoing. I choose to forget that there was another man before me, just as you must forget that before you there were other women. We will start fresh. Is it agreed?”

Charlotte studied that long frame silhouetted against the late-morning light.

“It is agreed, Rowan,” she said softly.

She meant every word. She had made her vows to this man, not back in Scotland—those were lying vows, forced on her by the desperation of the moment. They no longer counted. These silent vows were the vows she would live by. She felt no need to say it, but she had made her vows to him last night in the full glory of her ardor. And this morning she knew that she would keep her bargain. Tom was gone, forever lost to her. She would always keep a candle burning for him in her heart, but Rowan was here and he loved her. Of that, she felt that his body had given her no reason to doubt.

Still he did not turn. His voice was almost dispassionate.

“But although I will condone what has happened before, I will tolerate no future slips. Is that understood?”

“Of course.” Charlotte sounded wounded.

He whirled about. “
I
s
that understood?”
he demanded with such violence that she shrank back before the naked intensity of his gaze. “We are on even terms now, a man and a woman. You have chosen to be mine
and you will remain mine.
Is that understood?”

He strode across the room and Charlotte watched him in bewilderment. She felt suddenly hunted. “Of course it is, Rowan,” she said placatingly. She felt she should say something more, for he was bending down, staring into her face as if to read something there—some reservation perhaps. “You have been honest with me and I will be as 
honest with you,” she said, lifting her chin and giving him back gaze for gaze.

His long body relaxed and he sank down on the side of the bed.

“Beautiful Charlotte,” he murmured, and reached out to caress her soft young breasts, exposed to view as she lay on one elbow. “You are a miracle, you know.” His head bent down to nuzzle those pink-crested nipples, to make her shiver and fall back, letting her arm go around his neck. “A perfect woman—sheer perfection, had I but found you first.”

Charlotte didn’t feel perfect and certainly not “a miracle.” But she had no time to ponder his last words—“had I but found you first”—for Rowan was already tempting and teasing her into desire. His trousers were open now. His strong hands cupped her buttocks, lifted her and brought her hard against his ready manhood. His lips caressed her, his body strained against her own.

Charlotte closed her eyes and let her quivering senses take her where they would. She moaned beneath Rowan, trying to force her slender body upward against him, seeking, finding. Like birds in flight their bodies beat to a wild sweet rhythm that left them spent but somehow refreshed.

She told herself that this was love.

The moments of making love were precious, but Charlotte found the afterglow cut short, for Rowan rose almost immediately. “Come, rise to face the day—it’s late. ” But he sounded happy, his voice bantering.

“And what does the day hold in store, pray?” Charlotte stifled a luxurious yawn as she threw her feet over the edge of the bed.

“This morning I am going to take you shopping. ”

Charlotte paused with her feet midway to the floor.
“Again?”
she demanded incredulously.

Rowan was grinning down at her. “Not for clothes—for pottery. ”

Charlotte began to dress hurriedly in her smart new gold silk. “I didn’t know you were interested in pottery, Rowan.”

He shrugged. “I have been told of an interesting shop. ”

Confused, because she could not imagine Rowan having much interest in pottery—silver, yes; gold, yes; jewels or swords of fine workmanship, yes; but pottery, no—Charlotte hardly touched the bewildering array of fruits that had been brought for her breakfast and soon found herself accompanying Rowan to a shop whose low entrance belied its large interior.

They moved about among the tall wooden racks displaying wares from different regions. The finished product 
differed in color according to the clay from which it was made, a clerk explained to them earnestly in Portuguese, which Rowan translated into English for Charlotte s benefit. Those pearly-gray jugs, for instance, were made in the countryside hereabout, but those red earthenware pots were from Alentejo—note the Roman form of them—while those black clay pitchers were from Nisa and those vivid green and off-white ones were from . . . Charlotte never learned where they were from for Rowan s voice suddenly lowered and his tone became urgent. "Turn about with your best smile.”

Charlotte did as she was bid, parting her lips so that her white teeth flashed, but she did so with a sinking feeling. There, just arriving at the other side of the rack, were the Talybonts, Katherine gloriously got up in cascading plum silks to complement her husband's silver encrusted pale-blue suit.

Eustace Talybont stopped dead at the sight of them, bringing Katherine, whose arm was tucked in his, to a halt beside him. He got the full impact of Charlotte's smile as she turned about, and so dazzling was the effect that in spite of himself he sucked in his breath. Beside him Katherine's face turned a dull angry red.

Rowan favored his former love with a mocking bow, which was not returned. "It would seem we have the same taste, Katherine,'' he gibed. "Up early with the pots!''

Katherine's lips quivered but she chose not to answer.

"Come, Eustace, we are leaving!'' Katherine turned about so quickly that her elbow caught one of the big earthenware jars and in its fall it knocked off two slender pottery water pitchers that joined it in crashing to the floor. "Oh!” she cried in a fury, and kicked at the fallen sharp-edged debris that now surrounded her thin-soled slippers.

"You really should be more careful, Kate,” drawled Rowan. "And hold in check that temper of yours. Eustace will have to pay for those pots, you know. ”

Katherine whirled, and for a moment Charlotte thought she was going to snatch a piece of pottery and throw it at him. But when Eustace, who had watched sullenly, took a determined step in their direction, she clutched his arm 
and began to talk to him very fast in a low voice. Charlotte had the feeling Katherine was desperately trying to hold her husband back.

On that note Charlotte and Rowan departed, just as the shopkeeper came bustling up to the infuriated Talybonts to collect for the broken pots.

“You did not wish to buy anything?” Charlotte cocked her head at Rowan when they reached the street outside. “Indeed, you never intended to, did you?”

“My interest in pottery was never very strong,” he admitted, “and now it is entirely exhausted. But”—he turned to give her a wicked look, for the incident had delighted him—“I have been told that Talybont s mother collects pottery and he must needs visit the shops to further her collection.”

“I
would be curious to learn how you know that. Charlotte stepped aside to allow two women carrying water jugs from the nearby fountain to go by. “I was under the impression that you did not know Eustace Talybont.”

“Nor did I,” he admitted. “But it is common knowledge. ” Charlotte had to be content with that, although it sounded unlikely.

They were now some distance away, circling the fountain so that Charlotte could study the scenes of mythical characters depicted on the worn
azulejos
. Charlotte looked up and saw the Talybonts burst from the shop, obviously arguing. Katherine came to a halt and stamped her foot, and when her husband—much too far away for them to hear what he was saying—appeared to remonstrate with her, she struck him in the face with her fan, at which point a carriage drove up and received them and they rode away in high dudgeon.

Rowan leaned against the fountain and laughed. Charlotte was not so certain it was funny. She would have preferred to forget the Talybonts and get on with their lives.

“Would you like a bite of lunch?” Rowan asked, adding expansively, “I will take you to an inn where the cook specializes in shellfish—and surely Portugal has the best shellfish in all the world!”

Charlotte said she would like that very much. Indeed, after this morning s encounter, she felt it would be good to go anywhere the Talybonts were not.

Rowan took her to a small rose-painted inn festooned with iron-lace balconies. Its huge dining room faced the sea and was decorated with old glazed tiles in mermaid designs. As usual, Rowan did not ask her what she wanted—he always ordered for her, assuming that whatever he chose would be the right thing. They sipped
vinho verde,
that delicate fruity “green wine” for which Charlotte was acquiring a taste. The food was brought by a supple barefoot waitress wearing a full skirt held out by multiple petticoats with a hint of lace showing about her strong muscular legs. Her posture was superb and Rowan told Charlotte that the girl’s pale Celtic eyes and amber skin probably meant that she was from Nazare, to the north.

Charlotte found herself eating
santolas,
which she readily recognized as stuffed crabs, although she could not identify the tiny shellfish Rowan called
ameijoas.
She took her first bite of the delicious steamed Portuguese crayfish known as
lagosta suada
and looked up to tell Rowan it was delicious—and there were the Talybonts, both of them looking rather fierce, as if they had just had a quarrel, coming through the door.

“It would seem we have company,” remarked Rowan.

“You
knew
they were coming here,” Charlotte accused.

“An informed guess.” He chuckled. “Katherine is very fond of shellfish.”

At that moment Katherine discovered them. She hesitated, glaring at Rowan. Then abruptly she turned on her heel, colliding with her husband, who staggered back a step and then turned to stare angrily in their direction. He leaned down as if admonishing his wife, who charged on past him, and he followed her helplessly out of the restaurant.

“Too bad,” mused Rowan. “I had hoped they would stay long enough that Talybont could admire your beauty and compare your sweet smile and charming ways with Katherine’s arrogance and bad manners.”

“Rowan,” said Charlotte bluntly, putting down her fork, “what it is you want of me?”

He turned and his dark eyes were no longer playful. There were devilish lights in them.

“I want you to make Eustace Talybont fall in love with you,” he said in a cold voice. “I want him to
want
you, and I want Katherine to
see
that he wants you and to be humiliated by it.”

Charlotte recoiled. “But surely enough has already happened to—”

“I want her to suffer,” he cut in silkily. “As she made me suffer.”

Privately Charlotte doubted the possibility of a man who always seemed to be on his way elsewhere ever falling in love with her, but she did not voice it. Somehow the crayfish had lost a little of its flavor. . . .

That afternoon they wandered the stores, looking at beautiful wool embroideries, the designs of which, Rowan told her, were based on rugs from the Orient, which reminded her once again that Lisbon was a trading city and that great Portuguese carracks had opened up the spice trade with the Far East. Happily, the Talybonts did not make an appearance, although Charlotte strongly suspected that this was to have been their destination, aborted because they had retired to their inn quarreling.

Charlotte and Rowan arrived back at the Royal Cockerel fairly late, and Rowan told her she would have to hurry and dress if they were to secure a table.

As they went upstairs, Charlotte saw a tall thin woman hovering at the head of the stairs. Why, it was the same woman who had crashed into Rowan with her boxes yesterday. Now she was running down the stairs past them at just the moment that several youngsters were running up. They charged against her skirts and she would have fallen but that Rowan reached out and caught her. She smiled up into his eyes, the smile momentarily lighting her harsh pointed features, and began to thank him in a veritable outburst of low-voiced French.

Charlotte didn’t speak French, but it did seem to her that the woman was protesting overmuch. Her black eyes 
too had a soft gleam when she looked at Rowan—but then, women often looked at Rowan like that, even those who had never met him. Charlotte was becoming impatient.

“Come, you said we must hurry,” she interrupted.

Rowan shrugged and paused yet a moment longer, listening to another long flurry of words. Then he hurried alongside Charlotte up the stairs.

They were late to dinner, but the Talybonts were later. Charlotte watched them make their appearance, a pale Katherine in vivid emerald-green silk sarcenet being almost dragged into the room by her irate young husband, very red in the face and looking petulant. They looked neither to right nor left but took the first table offered and kept their eyes on their plates as they ate.