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Крейвен Сара
Witch's Harvest
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CHAPTER TWO
THE CRASH SEEMED to shake the room.
Abby sat up gasping, totally disorientated for a moment. It was early, she realised, probably not long past dawn, to judge by the pale grey light stealing in between the curtains. She struggled free of the morass of blankets and ran towards the flimsy partition which separated her sleeping area from the rest of the accommodation, her hand frantically searching for the switch of the overhead light.
As the light came on, she saw Vasco sitting up in bed, raking a hand through his dishevelled hair, his eyes blank with astonishment as they met hers. Clearly, he had woken before, because the rest of his clothes were now scattered across the floor. The bedside lamp was with them, she noticed, which explained the crash.
She said, ‘Are you all right? Were you having a bad dream?’
He said ‘Deus!’ and touched his forehead, wincing. ‘If I am, I think it is still going on.’
‘You’ll have a headache—shall I get you something for it? Some soluble aspirin, perhaps?’ Abby was anxious to escape suddenly.
Headache or not, Vasco’s eyes were travelling slowly over her, and she’d just realised the kind of spectacle she was presenting, barefoot, and clad in fragile bra and waist slip. She didn’t wait for his answer, but grabbed her robe from the chair where it was lying and fled to the bathroom on the other side of the landing which she shared with the two other girls on the same floor.
When she returned with the aspirin, he was very much in charge of the situation, sitting up fully now against the pillows.
He looked out of place, almost alien in the narrow bed with its charming frilled covers, like a tiger in a rose garden, and the breath caught in Abby’s throat as she made her way across the littered carpet.
She said huskily, ‘Here you are,’ and held out the glass, which he accepted. She bent and retrieved her lamp, noting thankfully that it didn’t seem to be broken after all.
He said softly, ‘Now, Abigail, where am I, and what am I doing here?’
Abby began to pick up his clothes and put them on the chair.
‘You’d had too much to drink,’ she said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘I didn’t fancy trying to get you back into your apartment in that state, so I brought you here instead. End of story,’ she added with an insouciance she was far from feeling.
‘And do you expect me to be grateful for your attentions?’
‘No,’ she admitted wearily. ‘I think that would be unrealistic.’
‘I think that could describe the entire situation,’ drawled Vasco, looking at her through half-closed eyes. ‘Was it you who put me to bed?’
She nodded. ‘As best I could.’
‘I am not complaining, you understand,’ he said. ‘It is merely a new experience for me.’
‘It’s not exactly run of the mill for me either,’ Abby retorted tartly. ‘Now perhaps we could try and get some more sleep. It’s very early.’
‘Presently,’ he said, almost idly. ‘For the moment, all desire for sleep seems to have left me.’
‘But not me.’ She faked a yawn. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to the couch.’
Vasco leaned across and switched on the mistreated lamp. ‘Perhaps you would switch off the main light as you go,’ he suggested.
‘Yes, of course.’ Her hand flew to the switch. ‘Well—goodnight.’
‘Boa noite.’ His voice held thinly veiled amusement, as if he recognised her unease, and the reasons for it. ‘And perhaps you would also take the glass away. I find my surroundings a little cramped, and wish to avoid any more noisy accidents which might disturb you again. I seem to have caused enough inconvenience already tonight.’
Abby trailed reluctantly back to the side of the bed and reached for the glass, but as she did so his fingers fastened like iron round her slender wrist, jerking her forward so that she fell in a tangle of robe on to the bed, and across his body.
Winded and gasping, she stared up at him. ‘Are you mad? Let me go at once!’
‘Oh, spare me the conventional protests, little cousin,’ he drawled derisively. ‘Why else did you bring me here?’
‘Because I wanted to help,’ Abby said breathlessly. ‘You—seemed in a bad way, and I didn’t think you should be alone.’
‘How noble of you, querida,’ mocked Vasco. ‘I have no argument with that. I am quite ready to be consoled, as you see.’
‘No!’ Abby wailed. ‘You don’t understand …’
‘I understand quite well.’ The long fingers slid into the neck of her robe, pushing it off her shoulders. ‘Your solicitude for me is charming, especially when you are only half dressed. You have aroused my—er—curiosity, senhorita. I wish to see more of you.’ With cool insolence, he untied her sash so that the robe fell open completely. ‘Bela,’ he said in lazy approval.
She said unevenly, ‘Please let me go. Whatever you may think, I didn’t intend this … I only wanted to help …’
‘And so you are, carinha, believe me.’ The dark eyes glittered down at her. With his fingertips he traced the creamy swell of her breasts above the scalloped edging of her bra, making it crazily difficult for her to breathe properly.
She must be dreaming, she thought faintly.
‘You may not have intended this,’ Vasco continued, making no attempt to disguise the scepticism in his voice, ‘but can you look me in the face and tell me you do not want it?’
It was an escape route, she realised dazedly. A way out of this emotional minefield that she desperately needed if she were to avoid making a total and abject fool of herself.
She felt his hand release the clasp of her bra, and gasped.
‘Tell me quickly.’ His voice deepened in challenge. ‘Do you want me to stop?’
Incredibly, shamingly, she was aware of her trembling mouth shaping, ‘No.’
It was madness, and she knew it. In a few hours, Vasco would be gone from her life for ever. He was taking her because she was there, and because he thought cynically that she had thrown herself at him, and neither of those were good enough reasons for what she was contemplating. Her sense of decency and self-respect alone should be making her draw back, making her reject the sensuous, lingering hands so expertly ridding her of her remaining scraps of clothing, the warm mouth hovering tantalisingly mere inches from her own.
But I love him, she thought feverishly, and at least I’ll have this to remember, when I’m alone again.
‘Touch me, little one.’ Vasco brushed his mouth across hers. ‘Show me what you want.’
Silently cursing her total inexperience, Abby lifted her hands to clasp the broad naked shoulders, pulling him down towards her. Vasco made a satisfied sound, deep in his throat, then kissed her again, stroking his tongue along the curve of her chastely closed mouth in intimate invitation. Her whole body seemed to sigh with pleasure as her lips parted for him. At the same time she was dimly aware that he was kicking aside the concealing covers to draw her closer, so that she lay against the warm, muscular length of his urgent body.
The touch of his bare skin against her own was a wild and potent magic. Of their own volition, it seemed, her shy hands began to move, to explore and caress, discovering the realities of bone, muscle and sinew. She was beyond all fantasy already. The most her wistful dreams had ever created for her was, perhaps, a brief kiss under the mistletoe at some Christmas reunion.
Then the dark head bent towards her breasts, and Abby’s head fell back as a little startled cry escaped her. Vasco’s mouth felt like the brush of silk against her slender, scented curves, his tongue a smoothly sensual torment as it explored the swollen heat of her nipples. For the first time in her life she felt her whole body clench in an agony of fierce and frantic excitement.
So this was desire, some part of her brain thought dazedly. It was light years away from the kind of pallid enjoyment she had experienced from Keith’s kisses.
His hands were moving, gliding caressingly over each curve and hollow, down the length of her body to her hips. He paused then, tantalising her, as his fingers traced slow, erotic spirals across the flat planes of her stomach. She lay still and pliant, letting the need, the anticipation build like a quiet storm within her.
Vasco kissed her mouth again, and this time her response was immediate, her lips parting hungrily in sensuous ardour, her own tongue moving in restless delight against his.
Her body was melting in abandonment, her slender thighs slackening involuntarily, as his hand moved again, sensually insistent, explicitly demanding. Shock jarred through her being, commingled with piercing, blinding desire.
‘Touch me,’ he commanded again, his voice husky.
She knew the kind of intimacy he was demanding from her, and for a moment her inhibitions rushed back to engulf her. It suddenly occurred to her that everything was moving too far too fast. She wasn’t ready for this, any of it. Because no matter how wantonly her body might be reacting to the almost calculated expertise of his lovemaking, in her mind she was still Abigail Westmore, spinster.
Impatient at her hesitation, Vasco captured her hand and carried it to his body in silent exhortation. Momentarily she was stunned, shattered by her own ignorance and inexperience. Then, shyly at first, then with increasing confidence, her caresses paid homage to the strength and power of his maleness, while he murmured his enjoyment against her body.
She had at some point stopped thinking, it seemed. In place of the composed, rational being she’d taken for granted was some wild, mindless creature, wholly at the mercy of her sensations and instincts. Touching, she knew dimly, was not enough. Her body burned and ached for more, and as if he sensed her passionate desperation Vasco moved, poising himself to claim her.
His mouth took hers hungrily, almost violently, and at the same moment his body pushed into hers in stark, compelling demand.
Suddenly, horrifyingly, Abby was in pain. She cried out against his lips, her eyes dilating in panic and confusion, trying to wrench her wincing body away from him.
She thought he would stop. But he did not. Instead, his hands slid under her hips, lifting her slightly towards him as he thrust forward, subjugating her completely. She tore her mouth from his, moaning, biting at her lip.
‘Idiota! Why didn’t you tell me?’ His voice was husky. ‘Be still, or there will be more hurting.’
He made no attempt to move, either to withdraw, or further his possession of her. Instead he held her in his arms until the hurt-frightened trembling subsided, and she was quiescent under the imprisonment of his body.
Then, without giving her time to protest, he began to kiss her again, tiny, fleeting caresses on her face, throat and breasts. The motion of his body inside her was gentle too, coaxing her to join him in some universal rhythm.
She could feel this strange beguilement reaching for her, enfolding her, seducing her against her will, and beyond all control. But she had to fight it. Had to, or she would be lost for ever. Her mind saw this with a cold clarity. This new subtlety, this appearance of tenderness meant nothing at all. He was using her, that was all, manipulating a situation her own naïveté had created.
He didn’t care about her, and why should he? She was merely a convenient body to be enjoyed, and that wasn’t enough. It could never be enough.
A voice she hardly recognised as her own said, ‘Stop—please!’
‘Deus, querida!’ It emerged as a groan of disbelief. ‘You cannot mean it?’ His eyes met hers in a kind of anguish. ‘Are you in pain still?’
‘Yes.’ Her face was set and stony as she looked back at him.
He said something softly in his own language, and for a moment his hand stroked her hair back from her damp forehead. The unexpected caress almost unnerved her. It made her want to cling to him, to tell him everything she felt for him in her heart, and that was impossible.
She saw his dark face tauten, felt his possession of her quicken, deepen almost to savagery, heard a hoarse cry of satisfaction torn from his throat, and then it was over. Vasco collapsed beside her and lay breathing raggedly, his face buried in his folded arms.
Abby lay still, staring up at the ceiling. She felt bemused, cheated, every inch of her body crying out for the fulfilment she had denied it. The risk of self-betrayal now seemed small, compared with the agony she was currently experiencing, but it was still real, and his continuing presence beside her was a threat to her self-command.
Swallowing past the knot in her throat, she put out a tentative hand and touched his sweat-dampened shoulder.
‘Will you go now, please?’
There was a silence, then Vasco lifted himself up on to an elbow and stared at her, the dark brows twisted in a frown.
‘We need to talk,’ he said brusquely.
‘No!’ The sound was almost violent, and Abby made a grab for an appearance of composure at least, when she saw the astonishment in his eyes. ‘There’s—really—nothing to talk about, and I want you to leave. Now.’
For a long moment he watched her broodingly, then the bronze shoulders lifted almost negligently in a brief shrug. ‘As you wish.’
He threw back the covers and got out of bed.
For a few heart-stopping seconds Abby’s eyes drank in every strong, supple line of his magnificent body, then she turned resolutely on to her side and lay, eyes closed, listening to the small sounds of him dressing.
Then there was silence, with Abby desperately conscious that he was standing beside the bed, looking down at her. She lay rigidly, eyes clamped shut, nails curling into the palms of her hands.
Let him think she was asleep, she prayed soundlessly and absurdly. Let him—just go.
At last she heard him sigh, and move away towards the door. Then his voice, quiet and almost mocking. ‘Adeus—handmaiden.’
She didn’t reply, or give the smallest sign that she was aware of his departure. Only when she heard the flat door open and close behind him did she dare relax, and allow herself the luxury of her first slow, bitter tears.
She awoke late the next morning, and lay for a long time, trying to summon the energy to get up and tackle the usual weekend chores.
The other tenants were away, spending the weekend with their parents as usual, so Abby was able to spend a long time in the bath, washing her skin and her hair as if she was taking part in some ritual cleansing ceremony. As she dried herself, she inspected herself almost clinically in the mirror. It seemed impossible she should look the same after what had happened, yet she did, apart from the shadows under her eyes, and a few reddened patches on her body where Vasco’s rougher skin had grazed her.
They would fade soon, she told herself vehemently. Then there would be nothing to remind her what an abject, appalling fool she’d made of herself.
For once she didn’t bother to get dressed. She just put on her robe, while she started straightening her small domain, starting with her sleeping quarters. She dragged the sheets and covers from the bed, turned the mattress, and re-made the bed completely and immaculately, before embarking on a thorough dusting, polishing and vacuuming. She had to push herself to do it, but it seemed the only way in which she could exorcise Vasco’s presence from the room. And she needed to do that if she was to preserve some kind of sanity.
Last night had been madness, from that first moment when she had walked towards him across the crowded bar. In some secret compartment of her mind, she’d known what would happen. She’d wanted it to happen—had created it perhaps from her own need. And now she had to block it out. Forget it.
She knew she ought to go out and buy food, but she couldn’t face the thought of the bustling shopping centre, and the cheerful repartee of the shopkeepers who had become used to her regular custom. She would manage on whatever there was in the tiny fridge.
By evening the flat shone, but it had been the longest day she had ever spent, and the walls were beginning to close in on her claustrophobically.
She heated herself a tin of soup in the communal kitchen, and toasted a bread roll to go with it. She was tempted to eat there too, but the silence seemed oppressive, and eventually she carried the tray back to her flat, and had her meal by the fire. She turned on the television and sat through a raucously cheerful quiz show, before turning to a disaster movie on another channel. But the trials and tribulations of the assorted misfits threatened with total annihilation by an impending tidal wave seemed minor, compared with her own problems.
‘Serves them right,’ she muttered.
She was going to turn the set off, when the doorbell rang, and she stiffened. It was probably Keith, calling to apologise for his bad-tempered departure the previous night. She hadn’t the slightest wish to see him, or hear any apology he might wish to make. And if she kept quiet, he might go away.
The doorbell sounded again imperiously, and she sighed. Of course. The passage was in darkness, and he would see her light shining under the door.
She took a reluctant step towards the door, then halted, as another realisation burst on her. It might not be Keith at all. It could well be Della, hotfoot from Paris, and demanding to know what had happened to her letter.
Abby’s mouth felt dry suddenly, and she passed her tongue rapidly over her lips. Oh God, she couldn’t face Della, or the inevitable scene that would ensue.
Now that her cousin’s scheme for bringing Vasco to heel had gone disastrously wrong, she would be looking round for a scapegoat, and Abby was already too consumed with unhappy guilt to be able to cope.
The bell stopped ringing, and she drew a sigh of relief. But any hope that she was to be left in peace proved shortlived. Her visitor was now knocking on the door in a crescendo of sound which would disturb every other tenant in the building.
‘All right,’ she called wearily. ‘Just a minute!’
As she unfastened the latch, the door was pushed determinedly from the outside, and Vasco da Carvalho walked in. He slammed the door behind him and stood regarding her grimly.
Abby’s hand stole to her throat. ‘What do you want?’ she demanded croakily.
‘To talk to you.’ His tone was silken but implacable. ‘Or did you really think I could be banished so easily?’
‘I told you—there’s nothing to discuss,’ she began, but with a snort of impatience he took her arm and propelled her to the sofa.
‘Sit down,’ he directed curtly, walking to the television set and pressing the off-switch.
Abby’s brows lifted haughtily. ‘Please make yourself at home.’
He sent her a sardonic look. ‘I think I already did so—don’t you?’ Two swift strides brought him back to her side. He seemed to dwarf the room, she thought helplessly, and not merely because of his height either.
He took her small, cold hands in his and drew her down on the sofa beside him.
There was a silence, then, ‘Look at me,’ he ordered softly.
She obeyed reluctantly, looking up into his set, unsmiling face, and wondering whether she felt more wretched than foolish, and if it really mattered anyway.
He said, ‘Why did you not tell me you were a virgin?’
She shook her head, allowing a defensive curtain of hair to fall across her face. ‘I—I didn’t think it made any difference.’
He sighed. ‘You cannot be that naïve. Did you imagine I would be flattered by such a sacrifice from you?’
‘I—I wasn’t thinking very clearly at all.’ To her horror, a tear squeezed under her lashes and ran down her cheek. Vasco said something soft and pungent in his own tongue, then brushed the drop of moisture from her face with his forefinger.
‘It is too late for tears,’ he told her brusquely. ‘Now, we must consider what is to be done.’
‘There’s nothing,’ she said flatly. ‘I’m just being stupid and—and female. It happened, and now it’s over, and that’s all there is to it.’
‘There could be a great deal more.’ His voice was quiet. ‘Has it not occurred to you, little fool, that there could be a child?’
Her breath caught. ‘No—it’s not possible …’ Her voice broke off in a little distressed wail.
‘It is entirely so,’ Vasco assured her grimly. He paused, watching the play of colour under her delicate skin, and the way her hands twisted together in her lap. ‘I blame myself bitterly, if that is any consolation,’ he went on tonelessly. ‘You—learn quickly for a novice, otherwise I might have suspected the truth and brought the situation to a halt before any real harm was done. But I wasn’t thinking clearly either. Having discovered that your cousin was a whore, it suited my purpose to believe that you were one also.’
‘That’s not fair!’ Abby protested.
‘To you—undoubtedly not.’ The dark face hardened into bitter implacability. ‘To her—entirely. When I would not pay her price, she sold herself to another fool.’ He shook his head. ‘But that does not excuse my conduct towards you.’ He gave her a measuring look. ‘Although, as I have said, much of that could have been avoided if you had told me how innocent you were.’
‘It never occurred to me that you’d—know.’ Her gaze fell away. ‘I didn’t realise either what—it would be like …’
Vasco’s mouth twisted wryly. ‘As to that, I think you were a little unlucky, querida. And I could have made it—easier for you, had I known …’ He paused again. ‘Com a breca, what am I saying? Had I been—warned, I would never have taken you at all.’
She still didn’t look at him. ‘Vasco—if you’re thinking that I’ll tell Della, I won’t, I promise. You were angry last night, and you had too much to drink, and you said a lot of things you didn’t mean. You can’t just—stop loving someone, no matter what they do.’
‘Whether or not I still love your cousin is immaterial,’ he said harshly. ‘She has made it impossible for our marriage to take place. I do not take as my wife another man’s leavings.’
‘You won’t give her a chance to explain?’
Vasco shrugged. ‘No explanations are possible. I have spent today telephoning my family and friends and telling them the wedding will not take place. I have also spoken to your aunt and uncle, who will make the necessary announcement in the papers.’
‘It all sounds—very final.’ Abby bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry.’
He shook his head. ‘You have nothing to regret. Both Della and I seem to have—used you as a pawn in our selfish games. I can only ask you to forgive me, Abigail, and allow me to make amends to you.’
‘There’s no need.’ Her face burned. ‘You see, you were right about one thing. I—I wanted it to happen …’
‘Yes, I think that is true,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘Which encourages me to say what I must.’ He took one of her nerveless hands and lifted it swiftly to his lips. He said softly, ‘Marry me, querida. Be my wife.’
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