Counterfeit Bride(22)

It was not just the thought of being alone with him which intimidated  her, or of having to accede to demands which were still, in spite of any  amount of theoretical enlightenment, very much a mystery. He had enough  expertise, enough experience, she knew helplessly, to make it easy for  her, to gentle her into acceptance of him-if he chose.                       
       
           



       

But instead he might simply choose to give free rein to the tightly  leashed passion she sensed every time he came anywhere near her. After  all, he had made no guarantees of consideration, or tenderness. He had  said that he wanted her, and warned her not to fight him. And, worst of  all, he knew that he could make her want him.

She had never dreamed it was possible to be so deeply, physically aware  of another human being. And yet each time he returned to the hacienda  from one of his trips, it was as if she was warned by some secret,  invisible antennae. Long before she heard his voice, or recognised his  long lithe stride, she knew when he was near her.

This was what frightened her-the prospect of total physical enslavement,  the subjugation of her personality to his. If she was honest, it could  already have taken place if he had made the slightest attempt to woo  her, or even be alone with her. But he never did, and never had since  that evening in her room when he had given her the pearl.

She had not worn the pearl since, although she had worn other jewellery  he had given her-family heirlooms, most of them in exquisite if  old-fashioned mountings.

And the best gift of all had been no heirloom, but barely more than a  trinket, which he had handed to her quite casually one evening when they  were all gathered in the salon before dinner. Inside the tissue  wrappings of the small package, Nicola had found a butterfly, its body  silver and its wings mother-of-pearl, to fasten in her hair. She had  exclaimed in delight, turning to him with shining eyes as she tried to  thank him, knowing that if only- if only they had been alone she would  have cast restraint to the winds and kissed him. But she didn't dare,  not as much as a swift peck on the cheek. He had shrugged, turning away.  'De nada, Nicola. You seemed so intrigued with La Mariposa, I thought  it might be appropriate.' Even a muttered comment from Pilar about  'cheap rubbish' had not dimmed her pleasure.

Although she had made a positive effort to establish some kind of  relationship with Pilar, this had borne no fruit at all. The other girl  avoided her whenever possible, and was inimical when they were in each  other's company. Nicola was not convinced her behaviour was prompted by  thwarted love for Luis either. She used no arts to allure him, to show  him what he was missing. Her attitude wavered between bare civility and  smouldering resentment, and in his turn Luis treated her with a guarded  patience bordering on exasperation. Only the blind maternal love of  someone like Dona Isabella could ever have linked them as a couple,  Nicola decided ruefully.

As the days passed, the fact that she wasn't dreaming or that this whole  situation was not some vast hideous joke being perpetrated on her in  revenge began to come home to her fully. There were legal details to be  settled, and papers to be signed, and she found herself obeying like an  automaton, knowing as she did so that there was no turning bark.

But did she even want to? If by some alchemy it was possible to wipe out  the past weeks, to transform her into the girl she had been in Mexico  City with nothing ahead of her but a sightseeing trip, would she do so?

I don't know, she thought. I just don't know. And that, strangely, was the most disturbing thing of all.

From the niche above the altar, the painted eyes of the Virgin looked  down. Nicola found her own gaze returning to the image time and time  again as the ceremony which made her Luis' wife proceeded according to  the time-honoured ritual. It was not so very different from the service  which would have been held at home in England in the village church, as  Father Gonzago had explained during one of his visits in the past week  to instruct her briefly in the Catholic faith.

But the church was very different- almost alien with its carving and  gilding and the smell of incense heavy in the air, and the statue of the  Mother of God was the most alien of all, in her heavy gold brocade  robes stitched with precious stones, and the high gold coronet on her  head. She was nothing like any of the smiling blue-robed Madonnas in  English churches, Nicola thought. An honoured Christian symbol she might  be, but at the same time there was something essentially pagan about  the gorgeous robes, and the fixed almost inhuman smile, reminding  Nicola, if she needed reminding, that the land they stood on had had  Christianity imposed upon it, but that older, darker gods, worshipped in  blood, still lingered in the memory of its people.

How many Montalba brides had those painted eyes watched? She wondered,  as her voice obediently repeated the vows after Father Gonzago. None of  it seemed real, least of all herself in this dress- yard upon yard of  billowing ivory silk--and the exquisite antique lace mantilla which Luis  had asked her to wear. He did not explain, and she didn't ask, but  there was something in the way he touched it as he handed it to her  which told her it had been his mother's.                       
       
           



       

She wondered what her own mother would have thought if she had seen her  like this. Her parents had wanted to come, but there was too much to do  on the farm, so they had promised a visit later. 'When you're settled,  darling,' her mother had written, and Nicola's lips had twisted ruefully  at the homely phrase. It bore no relationship to any life she might  expect to have with Luis.

But she had been surprised to learn that Luis had also written to them.  He had never mentioned any such intention to her, and she had been  pleased and a little touched by the gesture.

In the absence of her father, she had wondered who would give her away,  until Luis's godfather had informed her during one of his visits that it  would be his privilege to do so. He was a correct man, inclining  towards stoutness, with a neat grey beard, and he was so like the mental  image that Nicola had once harboured of Luis himself that she had had  to fight to conceal a smile when she had first been introduced.

But he had been amazingly kind to her as he took her down the aisle on  his arm, patting her hand reassuringly, and telling her that she was as  beautiful as an angel.

Nicola didn't believe him, but she had been satisfied as she took a  final look in her mirror. Señora Mendez was a genius, and her dress was  wonderful, fairytale, dreamlike. And it would bring her good fortune,  the Señora had smilingly assured her. Had she not sewn good luck tokens  into the hem with her own hands?

'And there is also this.' With a droll look, she had slipped a flat  tissue-wrapped parcel into Nicola's hands. 'Always for my brides I do  this. One gown for the day, and another for the night.' She sighed  sentimentally, gave Nicola's skirt one last professional twitch, and  departed.

Nicola undid the white ribbon and unfolded the tissue, knowing what she  would find. It was a nightdress, white as a cloud in chiffon, falling  from the tiniest of bodices in handmade lace. Nicola stared at it,  feeling panic rising in her throat again.

'Ah, how beautiful!' Maria who was hovering nearby, darted forward. 'Let  me take it, señorita. See?' She allowed the material to drift across  her hand and arm so that Nicola could see just how sheer and transparent  the wretched garment was.

Maria sent her an arch look, began to say something, then thought better of it.

Nicola wrenched her thoughts back to the present, aware of a frozen  feeling in her throat, as Luis' ring slid into place on her finger. She  was married-married twice, in fact, because earlier in the cool of the  morning they had driven to Santo Tomas for a brief civil ceremony.

The evening before, she had chosen a moment when she knew Luis was in his study and alone and had gone to him there.

He had risen as soon as she appeared hesitantly in the doorway, his brows lifting in surprise.

'You honour me, querida. I had imagined you busied with a thousand last-minute details.'

'No,' she said. 'There's nothing. Your aunt is very efficient. Everything is ready-except . . .' She hesitated.

'Except?' he prompted.

'Except myself,' she said wretchedly. 'Luis, it still isn't too late. You could let me go.'

He came round the desk to her side, his eyes narrowed, and the dark brows drawn together in a swift frown.

'What nonsense is this?'

'It isn't nonsense," she protested. 'You can't marry me-you know you  can't. Why don't you just-allow me to leave? There might be talk at  first, but Dona Isabella would soon convince everyone you'd had a lucky  escape.'