Dark Ransom (19 page)

'Nao,'
his voice croaked.
'Nao. Basta. Podo ir.'

'No one's going anywhere,' Charlie said firmly. She could see Rosita

on the other side of the bed, busying herself with a basin and

dressings. Pedrinho was standing beside her, and as Charlie nodded

he stepped forward. She caught a glimpse of the gleam of steel in

Pedrinho's stubby fingers, and suppressed a shudder.

Riago half reared up in the bed, away from Pedrinho, then sank back

with a groan.
'Nao,'
he repeated hoarsely.

'Senhorita.'
Agenor had reappeared at her side.
'Patrao
no move.

You must hold still for Pedrinho.'

How can I do that? Charlie asked herself in dismay.

Weak as he was, Riago was probably stronger than her anyway.

And, if she used all the force she was capable of, she might hurt

him.

They were all watching her, she realised, Pedrinho's brown face

wrinkled with anxiety as he waited.

She clearly had to do something, but what?

Riago's lips parted on a sigh of pain, and, obeying her instinct,

Charlie lifted herself on to the bed and lay beside him.

She said quietly,
'Calma, namorado,'
then, cradling his head in her

hands, put her mouth firmly and deliberately on his. It was the first

time in her life she'd ever kissed a man or taken any kind of sexual

initiative, she realised as she let her tongue trail sweetly and

seductively along the line of his lower lip.

For a moment Riago was quiescent. He might not be responding,

she thought, but at least he wasn't pushing her away. She bent closer

to him, pressing her breasts against his uninjured arm.

She was aware of Pedrinho stepping forward, and closed her eyes,

deepening the kiss, murmuring soft sounds of endearment against

Riago's mouth.

'It's all right, darling,' she whispered frantically as she felt his body

arch up in pain and shock. 'Everything's going to be all right.' That

was the second such promise she'd made in the past twenty-four

hours, she realised ironically. And both times she'd been promising

life. For Ana Maria it had all come right. Please God, let it be no

less for Riago. Let it be true, she thought desperately.

She smoothed the sweat-dampened hair. 'It will all be fine. But

you've got to keep still. Keep still for me.'

She could hear the rasp of Pedrinho's breathing as he worked, and

Rosita's voice, tear-choked, as she muttered an endless stream of

words, which might have been prayers.

She held Riago tightly, locking her mouth to his, smothering the

involuntary groans which rose in his throat, trying to breathe some

of her own vitality into his lungs.

'It will soon be over,' she told him. Dear God, let it soon be over.

Soon...

She heard Pedrinho make a low triumphant sound, and Riago's body

went suddenly limp in her arms.

She lifted her head slowly and stared at them all through tear-glazed

eyes.

'You've killed him,' she said dully. 'He's dead.'

'Nao, senhorita.'
Agenor was horrified. 'Bullet out. Is faint only.'

She felt like fainting herself, particularly when Pedrinho tried,

proudly, to show her the bullet lying in its basin. Rosita had stopped

praying, and had moved into action, staunching the blood and deftly

cleaning and dressing the wound. Her shrewd dark eyes looked

across the bed at Charlie, taking in the girl's pale face and quivering

mouth.

'You come away now,
senhorita
,' Agenor urged. 'Rosita say you do

enough. You rest.'

'I want to stay with the
senhor.'

'Rosita say the
senhor
rest too. She give special drink with herbs—

make sleep. For you, also.'

Agenor took her arm firmly but respectfully, helping her to get up.

For a moment she wanted to resist, but she knew it would do no

good. A solitary vigil beside his bed would benefit no one. It would

be far better for Riago to find her with him—when he recovered

consciousness.

She'd almost thought 'if, she realised with a pang. But she wasn't

going to think like that. She wouldn't consider any alternative but

his restoration to full health and vigour.

Whether he still wanted her or not would, of course, be another

matter. But she couldn't think about that, either. Not now...

Somehow she found herself back in her own room, but she couldn't

relax. Couldn't stop her mind plodding in weary circles. She sat on

the bed, gripping the edge with both hands, staring into space, trying

to keep her thoughts, her fears at bay.

Riago's stormy, devastating arrival in her life had only been a

comparatively short time ago, she remembered wonderingly. Yet

since that first meeting she seemed to have encompassed a whole

lifetime of experience and emotion. Of pleasure and pain. Of

jealousy and anguished longing. To lose him now would create

some black and bottomless void in which she would be lost

eternally.

Fate had brought her here to find him. She knew that now. And

surely that same fate wouldn't be so cruel as to take him from her,

now that she knew—and was prepared to admit- exactly what he

meant to her.

He may never know I love him, she thought. And on the wings of

that came the equally chilling realisation—When I tell him, will he

care? Will it make even the smallest difference?

She bowed her head, feeling tears burning in her throat. Then the

door opened and Rosita surged in.

It was rather, Charlie thought later, like being caught up in a large

and comforting whirlwind, if there could be such a thing. She found

herself being firmly divested of her clothes, and tucked into bed, as

if she were a child. Then, with Rosita's arm around her shoulders,

she was made to sip the promised herb drink, which was not as

unpalatable as its murky green colour suggested. And after that

everything slipped into a confused but pleasant haze.

It was broad daylight when she awoke, startled into consciousness

by Rosita's hand shaking her excitedly.

She sat up instantly. 'What is it? The
senhor?'

'Sim.'
Rosita nodded vigorously, the worried expression on her face

filling Charlie with sick panic.

'Oh, God.' Charlie scrambled out of bed, reaching instinctively for

the amethyst robe. 'What's happened? Is he worse?'

Rosita shrugged in incomprehension, then snatched the robe away,

indicating with a nod that Charlie should put on the day clothes

already laid out for her instead.

'Are you crazy?' Charlie tried to grab the robe back. 'If it's an... an

emergency anything will do.'

But Rosita's expression was mulish, her gesture towards the waiting

pile of clothes adamant.

'Oh, for heaven's sake,' Charlie said, exasperated, as she began to

throw on her clothes. But it didn't finish there. Rosita gave her a

hawk- eyed inspection, then handed her a hairbrush.

I don't believe this, Charlie thought as she gave her hair a few

perfunctory strokes. Riago could be terribly sick. He could even be

dying—and she's fussing about messy hair and too many buttons

unfastened on my shirt. What does it matter—what does anything

matter?

But, as she left her room and turned towards his, Rosita blocked her

once more, her face firm, indicating that Charlie should follow her

in the opposite direction.

'But I want to go to the
senhor
,' Charlie protested, finding herself

being ruthlessly and inexorably propelled instead towards the
sala

de estar.

'Senhor da Santana,
sim,'
Rosita nodded, and Charlie's bewilderment

grew. She tried to hang back.

'Are you telling me he's in the sitting-room? That you've allowed

him to get up already?' she demanded, anger and outrage making her

forget the language barrier. 'What's the matter with you all? Are you

trying to kill him?'

Yet maybe Riago had insisted on getting up, it occurred to her with

chilling force. Perhaps, however weak he still felt, he had something

to say to her that he wanted to be on his feet for. And that could

mean only one thing...

He was going to tell her to go, she thought, her stomach churning in

sudden nausea.

Rosita, still gripping her arm, burst into a stream of excited chatter,

then, throwing open the door of the
sala,
almost pushed Charlie into

the room.

Two men confronted her, both strangers. For a moment she was

icily still, wondering if they were police of some kind, come to

arrest her for helping Philip Hughes. Then she saw they were

smiling, albeit awkwardly.

She lifted her chin.
'Quem e o senhor?'
she demanded, looking at the

taller of the two.
'Que quer?'

The man she was addressing stepped forward. He was more

formally dressed than she was accustomed to seeing, and his hair

was greying not unattractively at the temples. She thought, He

reminds me of someone...

'Senhorita Graham?' He made her a slight bow. His voice was deep

and heavily accented. 'This is an honour for me. Permit me to

present myself. I am Jorge da Santana.'

Her lips parted in astonishment. No wonder he'd seemed vaguely

familiar. Now that she looked at him properly she could see the

resemblance. But what was he, of all people in the world, doing

here?

'How do you do?' She shook hands politely, glancing enquiringly at

the other man, who was plainly older, his hair grizzled, his face

weatherbeaten and shrewd.

'Desculpe
. This is Padre Gaspar, whom you were expecting, I think.'

Charlie gasped. In all the uproar she'd forgotten about the boat

bringing the priest from Laragosa. And not just the priest.

'Wasn't there supposed to be a doctor too?' she asked urgently.

'Dr Afonza is even now with my brother,' Jorge da Santana informed

her gravely.

'That's wonderful,' she said with real relief. She ran her tongue

round her lips. 'You know, of course—they'll have told you what

happened—how Riago came to be shot?' She turned to the priest.

'I—I'm afraid you've had a wasted journey, Padre.'

The thin lips softened into a smile of surprising sweetness.
'De

nada, senhorita.
I am sorry if the wedding is not to take place, of

course, but glad that I am not required for any other reason.'

Charlie looked down at the floor. 'We don't know that,' she said in a

low voice. 'Not yet. Pedrinho had to get the bullet out. There was so

much blood...'

Jorge da Santana made a stifled sound. 'My brother,' he said. 'I

blame myself. But for me, he would not be here. This terrible thing

could not have happened. I only hope he will forgive me.'

The priest gave him a dry look. 'A man of Riago's strength does not

succumb to a bullet in the shoulder,
amigo.
He will be spared for

you to put an end to this quarrel. I guarantee it.'

Jorge da Santana groaned. 'Thank God.'

'As we all should, at each hour of each day,' Padre Gaspar said with

kindly finality. 'Dr Afonza should have finished his examination by

now. Perhaps we can visit the patient, with your permission,

senhorita.'

'Of course,' Charlie said awkwardly. 'Please come with me.'

Rosita admitted them to the bedroom, where the doctor, a burly man

with a beard, was washing his hands. Her face was solemn, but she

gave Charlie a reassuring smile and a pat.

'How is he?' Jorge da Santana asked softly.

'He needs rest, nourishment and the antibiotics I have given him,'

came the reply in English, as Dr Afonza dried his hands on a towel,

inclining his head politely to Charlie as he did so. 'But, above all,

rest, so I have administered a mild sedative.'

'May I speak with him? There is so much that I must say.'

Dr Afonza frowned. 'And plenty of time ahead to say it in,' he said

with a faintly quelling look. 'For now, keep it short.'

Jorge da Santana went to the bed. 'Riago,' he said quietly, 'you do

not need to reply. Just nod, if you understand.' He paused. 'It is

about Melanie.'

Melanie, Charlie thought, her heart beating heavily and erratically.

The woman they'd both loved, whom Jorge had married. The cause

of Riago's isolation here in this wilderness. What about her?

'She has gone, Riago.' Jorge's voice throbbed with emotion. 'She is