The Cruel Count (Bantam Series No. 28) (12 page)

“If I seemed prudish when we first met, it was only because I had never seen a ... gentleman with his shirt ... open before.”

The Count smiled.

“You are very young,” he said softly, “and yet there is so much wisdom in that small golden head.”

His tone was caressing and Vesta stared at him wide-eyed, before her eyes dropped before his and she turned and hurried away through the flowers.

She had only to go a short distance before she found a lemon tree. She imagined the Count wanted them for the fish and thought four would be plenty.

She had intended to keep her hat for the strawberries, but sadly she could not find any.

This valley was obviously more sheltered than the one they had passed through before, and the strawberry plants had already shed their fruit.

Instead there were ripe oranges like golden balls and wild raspberries growing in such profusion that Vesta easily filled her hat with them and was forced to carry the oranges and lemons in her arms.

There was no sign of any snakes, and the beauty of the flowering shrubs, the wonder of the flowers at her feet, made her feel she had strayed into some strange Paradise.

‘How lovely if I could stay here for ever!’ she thought.

Then she need not be afraid of going to Djilas, of meeting the Prince or having to behave in the Royally circumspect manner. That alone had made her feel nervous ever since she had learnt she was to be a Princess.

Then she told herself she was being nonsensical again. She had to look forward to what lay ahead, she had to believe that she would be happy in her new life.

She walked slowly back to the plateau to find the Count had made a fire.

It was burning brightly and Vesta’s first thought was that it would prove very hot until she realised that he had considerately set it to one side of the plateau, where the smoke would blow in the opposite direction from where they would be sitting amongst the flowers. When she reached him he looked up and smiled. “Have you had any luck?” she asked.

He pointed to where at the side of the pool there lay six silver trout.

“You have caught them!” she cried. “How clever of you!”

“I snatched them,” he corrected, “that is, I believe, the right expression used by all experienced poachers.” He saw the admiration in her eyes and added:

“I must be truthful and admit it was surprisingly easy! So few people come here that the fish are almost tame.”

Vesta looked into the pool. Numbers of blue mountain trout were darting about in the water. She put down her fruit saying:

“How are you going to cook them?”

“I have been trying to remember how we did it when I was young,” the Count answered. “With your knowledge of herbs could you find me some wild fennel?”

“But of course,” Vesta answered, “there is masses of it everywhere.”

She pointed to the flat-topped golden flowers, growing to a height of five or six feet amongst the shrubs.

“There it is,” she said. “But I shall need your knife to cut it. The stalks are tough.”

“I will cut it for you,” he said. “Just show me which it is, so I do not make a mistake.”

They gathered an armful of fennel and Vesta watched the Count wrap it round the fish so that they were completely covered.

“Fennel is supposed to give those who eat it long life, strength and courage,” she smiled.

“What are the herbs for love?” the Count asked.

“I do not think I know them,” Vesta answered quickly.

“I think you do,” he replied seeing the flush of colour of her white skin.

“The country folk at home believe in Ladies Slipper and Ladies Tresses,” she said at length as he was obviously awaiting her answer. “They are wild orchids. All orchids have a ... reputation for being used in ... love potions.”

“I am sure we have no need of one,” he said quietly.

Vesta wondered what he meant.

By this time there was plenty of glowing ash in the heart of the fire and the Count laid the fish in it, one after another.

They argued as to how long the fish would take to be well cooked, and Vesta found that her estimate was right when they undid the first one.

The skin came away easily and the flesh was white right to the bone.

The fish of course were very hot and they laughed as they burnt their fingers. They squeezed the lemons over the pieces they wished to eat and nothing could have been more delicious.

“I have never had a better dish in my life!” Vesta cried. “You are a far better cook than I am!”

“I think the answer lies in the fact that we are both very hungry,” the Count smiled. “It is a long time since we have tasted anything edible!”

“Do not let us remember the goat’s meat last night,” Vesta pleaded with a little shudder. “It looked so horrible I felt I was being a cannibal even putting it in my mouth.”

She laughed.

“I am sure those poor dogs had indigestion all night.”

“It was lucky they were there,” the Count said. “It would have been considered an insult not to have enjoyed the animal they had specially killed in our honour.”

Vesta put the oranges and the raspberries in front of him.

“The strawberries are finished in this valley,” she said, “but I think I really prefer raspberries.”

“So do I,” the Count said.

“Could any picnic be more delectable?” Vesta asked as they finished the fruit, “or any setting more beautiful?”

She stared around her. Then looking at her fingers said:

“I must wash in the pool. Incidentally that is something I might have done before luncheon.”

She moved across to the pool and knelt down. She put her arms in up to her elbows and felt the water was icy cold. Yet it was so clean and lovely she wished she could undress and bathe in it.

Then she cupped the water in the palms of her hands and splashed it onto her face.

Only when she was blinded did she remember that her handkerchief was in the pocket of her jacket.

“Please will you bring me my handkerchief?” she called to the Count. “I have left it in my pocket.”

“I will get it for you,” he answered.

Once again Vesta splashed water against her face and then, as she heard him moving beside her, she held out her hand for the handkerchief.

Her eyes were closed, the drops of water on her cheeks iridescent in the sunshine.

She felt him kneel down beside her and he began to dry her face.

“Thank you,” she said putting up one hand to take the handkerchief from him.

Then he pulled her backwards into his arms and before she could realise what was happening, his lips were on hers.

For a moment as she felt the hard pressure of his mouth, she was still from sheer astonishment.

Then as she tried to put out her hands to push him away, something like quick-silver ran through her body—a feeling so wonderful, so ecstatic, she could not move.

She could only feel, as she had never felt before, a rapture that seemed to make her vibrate with an emotion she had not known existed.

The Count’s arms were holding her so tightly she could hardly breathe. His mouth, passionate and possessive held her captive and she felt thrill upon thrill ripple through her until she was no longer herself, but part of him.

She felt as if he drew her very heart and took it from her body. Everything that was beautiful and lovely, spiritual and perfect, was suddenly identified with the feeling he evoked in her.

How long he held her she had no idea, but when he raised his head she could only stare up at him, bemused to the point when she only knew that her will and her very identity were no longer her own.

“God, I love you!” he said hoarsely in Katonian and his voice was unsteady.

Then he was kissing her again, kissing her slowly with deep, fierce, demanding kisses so that she stirred and moved beneath the violence of his lips.

At the same time a flame was flickering within her breast and responding wildly to the fire that burnt in him.

Finally when they seemed to touch the very peaks of the mountains, when she thought the ecstasy within her must lift her into the sky itself, he raised his head once again.

With a little cry and an effort that was almost superhuman, Vesta drew herself from his arms.

She could only move a few feet away from him and then she sank down amongst the flowers, her whole body trembling, her hands going instinctively to her breast.

She stared at him her eyes wide and questioning, her lips quivering from his kisses.

“H-how ... c-could ... you?” she asked in a whisper.

“I love you.”

His voice was very deep, his dark eyes were on hers.

“But ... it is ... wrong,” she tried to say.

Then one hand went to her mouth and she murmured almost as if she spoke to herself:

“I-I did not ... k-know a ... kiss could be ... l-like ... that.”

“A kiss is not like that,” the Count said, “unless two people truly love each other.”

“But we ... cannot, we ... must not,” Vesta stammered.

“Why not?” the Count asked, “I am a man! And no man, my lovely darling, could be with, you as I have been these last two days and not love you.”

“I do ... not ... understand,” she said pathetically. “Is it so very difficult?” he asked. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life! You are also the bravest, the sweetest, and the kindest! Could one ask more of one small person?”

“You ... must not ... say these ... things,” Vesta cried. “It is ... wrong ... you know it is ... wrong!”

“Is love ever wrong?” the Count enquired.

“I do not ... know about ... love,” Vesta said.

“But I do,” he answered, “and real love comes only once in our life. A love which is everything a man and a woman seek, pray for and hope they will one day find.”

He saw her quiver and said gently:

“That is the love I have for you.”

“I ... should ... not ... listen,” Vesta faltered, “I ... I must go ... away.”

But she did not move and after a moment the Count said:

“When you lay last night in my arms, I knew that you were all I wanted, all I asked for in the whole world.”

“I should not have done ... anything so ... i-improper,” Vesta murmured, “but it was the ... rats!”

“If it had not been the rats it would have been something else,” the Count replied. “I believe we were meant for each other and we would have found each other somehow, sometime, whatever barriers lay between us.”

At his words Vesta put her hands up to her face and covered her eyes with her fingers.

“I must ... not ... listen,” she said. “You ... know that I am ... married.”

“To a man you have never seen.”

“That is not ... the point,” Vesta protested. “I am ... married to ... him ... legally. You must not ... talk to me like ... this. Why ... oh why ... did you ... kiss me?”

“I kissed you because I could not help it,” the Count said, “and when my lips touched yours, I felt you respond. You wanted my kiss, my precious, as I want you. Do not lie, tell me that you love me.”

“I ... cannot ... I must ... not!” Vesta cried. “Please ... please do not ... make me ... love you!”

It was the cry of a child and the Count looked at her for a long moment before he said very softly:

“It is too late! Your lips, Heart of my Heart, have told me of your love.”

Chapter Six

“No! No!” Vesta cried.

Then even as she spoke she knew that what the Count had said was the truth.

She did love him! Her hatred had been transformed into love and she had not been aware of it!

She had indeed hated him at first, because he was so imperious, so aggressively determined, so overwhelmingly masculine. She had hated him, and yet there had been a fascination in feeling so intensely about any man.

He had disturbed her and she had found it impossible not to be increasingly aware of him every moment they were together.

Even though she had tried to immerse herself in her day-dreams as they had ridden through the forest, she had known with a strangely sharp awareness that he was there and that he was encroaching upon her consciousness.

‘And now I love him,’ she thought wildly.

She knew then that her hatred had turned to love at the moment when, dreaming about him at the Inn, she had awoken to find him staring at her from the other side of the fire-place.

Her dream had been so vivid, so real.

She had been falling from the cliff’s edge, and as she fell she was petrified with that shrinking, panic-stricken terror which she always felt when she encountered heights.

She had tried to scream for help but knew that no-one could save her. Until suddenly from out of the sky an eagle had swept towards her! She had felt the bird’s wings enfolding her, holding her secure, saving her from the destruction she feared. Then as she gasped in relief, she had known the eagle was the Count!

Her dream had given her a feeling of security and comfort. It had also brought her another emotion, but she had not realised what it was.

‘It was love!’ she thought now—a love which had made her trust the Count to kill her rather than be left at the mercy of the Brigands.

Strangely enough she had not felt fear when . she waited for his knife.

She had thought afterwards it was because she was numb with terror, but she knew now it was because loving him she was prepared to die at his hand and had known he would not fail her.

‘I love him,’ she told herself in her heart and knew that only with a man she loved could she have lain all night in his arms and been neither ashamed or afraid.

How could she have been so blind, so stupid as not to recognise love when it came to her?

Then she remembered the ceremony which had taken place in London in front of the Registrar.

At No. 10 Downing Street, with only her father and the Viscount Castlereagh as witnesses, the Prime Minister of Katona had stood proxy for his Prince and in a few short minutes she had been united in marriage with a man she had never seen.

‘But I am in fact married to Prince Alexander,’ Vesta thought.

How could she have known or even dreamt that she could feel like this for another man and one she had known only for two days?

She drew in her breath, one hand still against her heart as if she would quell its beating, and realised that the Count was watching her.

There was a burning fire in his dark eyes and after one glance at him she looked away towards the cascade.

She looked ethereal and very lovely. The sun turned her fair hair to spun gold, the flowers framed her like a garland, the column of her neck rose white and round above the thin muslin of her blouse.

“You are so beautiful!” the Count said hoarsely. “I did not realise there was so much loveliness in the world.”

Vesta did not answer. After a moment he said, his voice deepening:

“Do you know what I would like to do?”

She shook her head, finding it difficult to speak.

“I would like to carry you away to a cave in the mountains where we would be alone,” he said, “and there I would compel you to tell me that you loved me. I would kiss you, beat you, even torture you, until I knew that you were really mine—as you were always meant to be.”

His voice seemed to vibrate on the air as he went on.

“I would possess not only your soft lips and your wonderful desirable body, but also your thoughts, your feelings, the very breath you draw. I want every scrap of you, Vesta, I want you—the whole of you and forever.”

His words made a quiver run through her. He saw the breath come quicker between her lips as he continued:

“You say you do not know about love. Let me tell you what love means; not to the pale-blooded English who think it vulgar to show emotion, but to me and to men like me who live in this country.”

Again there was a note in his voice to which Vesta could not help feeling herself respond. But she forced herself not to look up at him.

“Love—real love such as I have for you,” the Count said, “is like a forest fire, all consuming, destructive, so violent so that there is no controlling it. Love is also like a tempest at sea, tumultuous and overpowering, ready to destroy those who challenge its supremacy.”

He paused, then his voice rang out:

“It is a force, a power, it triumphs and it conquers! That is love, Vesta! How can anyone as small as you resist it or withstand it?”

Still she did not answer, and now the Count’s voice changed and he said softly:

“Love is also the sunshine, the song of the birds, the sound of the bees, the flowers at your feet. That too is love, my sweet darling. Because it is a part of us, around us and within us, there is no escape.”

“But we ... c-cannot ... we must ... not,” Vesta tried to say.

“Who can stop love?” the Count asked. “Not all the words mumbled over you in London by some legal dignitary, not all the signatures on pieces of paper, not all the Statesmen in Europe can prevent us at this moment from loving each other.”

She did not answer.

“Look at me!”

She trembled but she did not turn her head.

“Look at me, Vesta,” he said commandingly.

Very slowly, her eyes wide and afraid, she turned her face towards him.

For a long moment they looked at each other. Vesta felt as if some force was pressing her towards him. She was being propelled by a power so strong, so irresistible, that it moved her physically.

She felt herself tremble, she felt her whole being reach out towards him and she wanted, because she was afraid, the security and safety of his arms.

Then when it seemed as if it was impossible for her not to touch him and raise her lips to his, she gave a little cry and put her hands up to her face.

“I want you,” he said, “you are mine, Vesta!”

“No...” she murmured against her hands, “no ... no!”

He looked at her for a long moment before he rose to his feet. He walked a few steps away from her to stand looking down into the sunlit pool from which he had taken the trout.

Then in a strange voice, harsh and discordant, he said:

“So a crown does mean more to a woman than love! You love me, but rather than admit it you will go on to Djilas because there you will take your place as a Princess and that is more important to you than anything else. I hope you find the plaudits of the crowd an adequate compensation for my kisses.”

His voice was so bitter that Vesta felt as if he had struck her, and she winced from the pain of it. Then she said, her words fumbling over one another:

“How could you ... think such a ... thing of ... me? How could you believe that it is for that ... reason I am marrying ... the Prince?”

“What do you expect me to think?” the Count asked without turning.

“Please,” Vesta pleaded, “please ... let me ... explain to ... you.”

“What is there to explain?” he asked roughly. “You have made your decision. As you told me when we first met—your place is with your husband.”

Vesta rose and moved towards him, her face very pale. When she reached his side she said:

“May I tell you ... why I ... accepted ... Prince Alexander’s ... offer of ... marriage?”

“I am sure you have a very adequate explanation,” the Count answered, and now he was sneering.

“Please ... listen to ... me,” Vesta pleaded.

“If it pleases you,” he said sullenly.

“Can we sit in the ... shade of the trees?” Vesta asked. “The sun is very ... hot.”

“Of course,” he said in tones of conventional courtesy, “I should have thought of it before.”

She looked up at him beseechingly.

His face was set in hard lines and once again he looked like an eagle, ruthless, detached and somehow inhuman.

She gave a little sigh that was almost a sob and walked away from the sunshine into the shadow of the silver birch trees.

There was moss at their roots and Vesta sat down, smoothing her full green skirt into some semblance of tidiness.

The Count did not sit but leant against the trunk of an adjacent tree.

She felt that he had deliberately withdrawn himself from her and that he despised her. She dared not look at his face because she was afraid of the contempt she would see in his eyes.

“I told you,” she began in a low voice, “that I do not know about ... love, and that is true. I have never been in love. But I have always felt that one day I should find a man that I could ... love and then ... we would be ... married.”

She had spoken hesitatingly and now her voice seemed to falter away into silence. She felt that a great gulf yawned between herself and the Count.

He was making no effort to understand. She was alone and separated from him as she had not been since they first met.

“Please ... please,” she begged, “try to understand what I am ... trying to tell you. It is so ... difficult, but I want you to ... know.”

“I am listening,” he said.

“Will you not sit down?” she asked. “You are so tall and I feel ... you are ... far away.”

“Why do you feel that?”

“I do not know. I just ... feel that you have ... left me.”

“Does that make you feel insecure and lonely?”

“You ... know it ... does.”

His eyes searched her face. Then he sat down almost opposite her, his back against another tree trunk.

He was still withdrawn and yet she found it not so difficult as it had been to continue speaking.

“I have always wanted to love ... someone,” Vesta went on, “because I was not loved as a child as I ... might have been.”

“What do you mean by that?” the Count asked.

“Papa always wanted a son,” Vesta answered. “The Salfonts are a very old family. There were Earls of Salfont in the 13th Century, and when our ancestor was given a Dukedom after fighting with Marlborough, it was only another chapter in the long history of how well the Salfonts served the crown and England.”

There was a touch of pride in her voice before she went on:

“We were all brought up to believe we had a great responsibility towards our country and its people.”

“I have heard of your family,” the Count said.

“Then you will understand,” Vesta continued, “how important it was for Papa to have a son. But he and Mama had five daughters before Gerald was born. Mama has often said to me:

“ ‘I prayed, Vesta, I prayed every night that I could give your father the son he wanted so desperately. When each baby was born, the first question I always asked was—

‘What is it?’ And the midwife would reply: ‘I am sorry, Your Grace, another daughter.’ ”

There was a little throb in Vesta’s voice.

She loved her mother and it never ceased to hurt her that she herself had brought her parents so much disappointment.

“After Gerald was born,” she went on, “the doctor said that Mama should not have any more children. But she and Papa were so anxious to have a second son, just as a safeguard in case anything ... happened to the first.”

Vesta paused for a moment. She glanced at the Count and realised he did not look so contemptuous and her voice was a little stronger as she continued:

“But instead of another boy, I arrived! After that the doctors said very firmly that it would kill Mama to have any more children.”

“So you were unwanted,” the Count said.

“Papa and Mama were always very kind to me,” Vesta said, “but I soon knew how deeply disappointed they were and how happy it would have made them if I had been a boy.”

She looked away towards the sunshine and the falling cascade.

“That knowledge coloured my whole childhood,” she said. “Perhaps that is why I sought escape in daydreams for which I often used to be punished. I suppose I was afraid to face reality.”

“As you are now,” the Count interposed quietly.

“And when Gerald was killed at Waterloo,” Vesta went on, “I felt ashamed of being ... me.”

“So he died at Waterloo?” the Count said.

“I thought it would kill Papa,” Vesta said. “For a long time we dared not speak of Gerald in his presence. Then gradually he became more like his original self, but there was a sadness about him that had never been there before.”

“Surely there is an heir to the Dukedom?” the Count asked.

“Of course,” Vesta answered, “Papa’s brother’s son. We have never liked him, and sometimes I think Papa even hates Rupert, which is understandable.”