Dark Ransom (11 page)

spread like wildfire, and the whole estate was preparing to celebrate

the wedding, Agenor added, beaming. Charlie felt like a worm.

She was just debating over the length of her new creation when

there was sudden uproar, and Rosita came flying back into the room.

'A man found in forest,' Agenor translated her excited words. 'Hurt

bad, very sick—maybe die.
Patrao
says make bed.'

'Is it one of the estate workers?' Charlie got up hurriedly, preparing

to follow Rosita.

'No—stranger.'

'Oh.' Charlie gulped slightly. 'One of the
gar- impeiros
maybe?' she

asked dubiously, remembering what Riago had said about them.

'Nao, senhorita.
Senhor Don Riago would not bring here.' Agenor's

chest swelled slightly. 'Besides, I protect you.'

Charlie hid a smile. 'Thank you, Agenor,' she said gently. 'That's

very reassuring.'

Rosita was in her element, fetching clean linen for the bed in one of

the unused rooms, directing water to be heated, and sending one of

her underlings scurrying for the
patrao's
medicine chest.

Charlie was just tucking in the top sheet on the bed, when Riago

strode in, the patient carried behind him on a makeshift stretcher.

'Very sick—maybe die.' No one could argue with that, Charlie

thought with a kind of fascinated horror mingled with compassion

as she watched the man being transferred to the bed. He was thin to

the point of emaciation. He was also filthy, an ugly wound oozing

sullen blood through the matted hair on the side of his head, and his

torn clothing revealed festering sores on his arms and legs.

As she moved forward for a closer look, Riago caught her arm.

'Stand back,' he ordered. 'He has fever.'

'Will he be all right?' Charlie asked, shivering.

'Perhaps,' he said curtly. 'Go now. There is nothing you can do here.

I must establish the form this fever takes, and what other injuries he

has.'

'You're going to treat him?' she said uncertainly. 'But you're not a

doctor.'

'The nearest doctor is at Laragosa—like the nearest priest. I am the

patrao
here. I look after my people. Leave now, please.'

She obeyed reluctantly, turning away with one last look. And, as she

did so, the man on the bed stirred, and muttered something.

For a moment Charlie stood totally transfixed, wondering if anyone

else had heard it. But it was unlikely. Riago was washing his hands

in a basin of water which Rosita had brought him, and Agenor was

hovering in the doorway, well out of earshot.

So maybe she was the only person to decipher the hoarse, cracked

sound coming from the man's throat as, 'Bastards.'

* * *

against it for a moment.

He's English, she thought. My God, he's English.

She closed her eyes, trying to remember the photograph of Philip

Hughes, and if it bore any resemblance to the human wreck who'd

just been carried into the house.

He was about the right height, from what she could recall, and his

hair could be blond under all that dirt and grease. Otherwise it was

impossible to tell.

Don't let it be him, she begged inwardly. Not in that state. I was

relying on him to get me out of here and... She stopped suddenly,

hating herself for the selfishness of her reactions when the man,

whoever he was, could be dying.

It just shows how desperate I am, she told herself appeasingly.

But the sight of him had cured her totally of any wild notions she

might have nurtured of making a solo break for freedom through the

rain forest.

With a shudder she went reluctantly back to her sewing.

She was just finishing off the hem of her dress when Riago walked

in and dropped wearily into the chair opposite.

'How—how is he?' Charlie bit through the thread.

'In the hands of God,' was the laconic answer. 'At the moment he is

unconscious.'

"Then you've no idea who he is—how he got in that state?' She tried

to sound casual.

'I have several ideas,' Riago said with a touch of grimness. 'When he

recovers I shall be asking him some questions.'

'So you think he will get better.'

'He's had the best treatment we can offer, and Rosita is a capable

nurse.'

'I could always help her.'

'I doubt that she would allow it.'

'I'm quite competent.' Charlie was indignant.

'Perhaps,' he said. 'But what matters to Rosita is that you are still an

unmarried woman. It would shock her to see you performing

intimate nursing duties for a strange man.' He paused. 'And I too

would prefer you kept your distance from him,' he added.

'For the same narrow-minded and ridiculous reasons?' she

challenged furiously. 'I've never heard such nonsense.'

'Nonsense or not,' he said coldly, 'it is my wish that you stay away

from his room.'

'You may be the lord and master on this plantation, with everyone

jumping each time you speak,' Charlie said hotly, 'but I don't take

orders. You don't own me.'

'Not yet,' he said softly. 'But it is only a matter of time before you

will take a vow of obedience to me, so why not prepare for this by

learning to respect my wishes?'

'Because I've also taken a vow. A vow that no one will ever ride

roughshod over me again.' Charlie glared at him. 'I came on this

vacation because I was sick and tired of people dictating to me—

making me do things I didn't want to.

You may have forgotten, but that's how I got into this present mess.

'I'm not surprised Fay Preston chickened out,' she added recklessly.

'All you want to do is play the tyrant from morning to night. No

wonder you were alone here before I was fool enough to come

blundering in.'

A muscle moved at the corner of his mouth. His voice was

dangerously quiet. 'Guard your tongue, Carlotta.'

'Why?' she demanded. 'What can you do to me that you haven't done

already?'

'I advise you not to find out.'

'Threats?' An unsteady little laugh escaped her. 'You've already

threatened me with the worst that could possibly happen—the

prospect of being married to you. I suppose you couldn't find

anyone to court in the normal way,' she added bitterly. 'You couldn't

simply fall head over heels in love with someone—and propose. Oh,

no. You—you had to kidnap me. Force a proposal on me instead of

a ransom demand.' She took a deep breath. 'Well, let me tell you, I'd

rather pay any ransom in the world than marry you.'

'Then that is a misfortune for us both,' he said icily, rising to his feet.

'But it changes nothing. You will be my wife, Carlotta.'

He walked to the door, then turned, his face oddly expressionless.

'And I regret that you dislike the manner of my courtship,' he said.

'Once I wooed a girl with flowers and moonlight, and all the love I

had to give. I laid my life at her feet—the life of a da Santana.'

'And she rejected all that?' Charlie shook her head in scornful

amazement. 'How very short-sighted of her—not wanting to be a da

Santana.'

'Not entirely,' he said. 'You see,
carinha,
she married my brother

instead. And that is why I shall take care never to make the same

mistake again.'

And, as Charlie sat in stunned silence, he bowed to her, and left the

room.

CHARLIE
sat for a long time, staring sightlessly ahead of her,

Riago's words whirling in her brain.

Whatever she'd expected him to say, she thought, it hadn't been that,

although she remembered now that, when he'd mentioned his

brother originally, his manner had been... odd.

Had this girl's rejection of him driven him to this remote and

dangerous environment? If so, he must have loved her very much,

she thought, a strange feeling of desolation constricting her throat.

'I laid my life at her feet.' That's what he'd said, and how wonderful

for a woman to be able to inspire passion like that in such a man.

And how tragic that she hadn't returned it. But then, life rarely

worked out that neatly, Charlie told herself forlornly.

At the same time she had to remember that, although Riago's

experience with his lost love might have made him bitter and wary

of serious involvement with women, it certainly hadn't forced him

into celibacy. Fay Preston was sufficient evidence of that.

That had been all he really wanted, she thought. A physical

relationship with an experienced and willing partner, and no strings

attached. And instead...

Oh, come off it, she adjured herself. You'll be feeling sorry for him

in a moment, and you need to save all your sympathy for yourself.

You're the one he's going to marry, knowing perfectly well that he'll

never give a damn about you.

She looked down at the dress lying in her lap. The seams need

pressing, she thought. I'll have to get Agenor to ask one of the maids

to do it for me. And I wonder what it would be like to have Riago in

love with me—as deeply in love as he was with this girl?

She stopped with a gasp, crunching the material in her hand,

wincing as a stray pin stabbed her flesh.

That was where stupid thoughts like that led, she thought as she

sucked the bead of blood away. To pain. And not just the transient

smart of a pricked finger either, but an agony deep enough to drown

your heart and soul.

She tossed the dress impatiently over the arm of the sofa. She'd

intended to choose some more material and start another, but

suddenly she didn't have the patience any more.

Anyway, it must be lunchtime, she thought, glancing at her watch as

she walked to the door, planning to go straight to the
sala de jantar.

But as she stepped out into the passage she saw Rosita come

bustling out of the sick-room, carrying a bowl and spoon on a tray.

When her broad back had disappeared down the hallway Charlie

slipped over to the partly open door and peeped in.

The room was empty except for the figure on the bed, breathing

sterterously.

Charlie trod silently over, and stood looking down on him. He

moved and muttered restlessly in delirium, but this time she could

not catch the words or guess which language they were spoken in.

She still couldn't work out, either, whether the haggard unshaven

face on the pillow belonged to Philip Hughes or not. Only time

would tell, she thought.

She touched his wrist, felt the fevered heat of his skin, and the

shallow pulse.

Please get well, she whispered silently as she turned to leave before

Rosita returned and caught her. Please get strong. Because you

could be my lifeline out of here, and I need you desperately.

The next few days seemed to fly past. Charlie found, rather to her

surprise, that her life was developing some kind of routine. With

Agenor's painstaking help, she was now able to play a part in the

running of the household. Rosita was fully occupied in nursing the

stranger, so Luisa, the cook, came to Charlie to plan the meals each

day and receive instructions for the other servants.

As Charlie's first diffidence wore off she found herself almost

enjoying her involvement in life at the
fazenda.
Domestic work was

what she understood, after all, she told herself, and it fascinated her

to see how the household operated in its isolated surroundings.

Although game was hunted in the forest, most of the supplies came

from Laragosa, and there was a freezing-shed where meat and other

perishables were stored. The electricity for this came from a

generator, but, although the current was available in the house, little

of it was used there. Oil lamps provided most of the illumination,

and wood was burned in the kitchen for cooking and to heat the

gigantic copper where the clothes and linen were washed.

When she queried this with Riago he merely shrugged and said it

was tradition.

Well, it might seem primitive, but it certainly worked, Charlie

thought with amazement, and none of the maids seemed to hanker

for the city or the technical benefits of urban life.

It would be very easy to stop missing them herself, she thought,

realising with a sense of shock that she'd been at the
fazenda
for

almost a week. It would never do to become too accustomed to the

life—too settled. Her prime object was still to get away, she