A taxi transported Emma and Miguel to her brother's house in the suburbs, but by the time they reached their destination half their allotted time had been wasted. Inconsequence their conversation had to be brief, but at least Emma was a.s.sured of one thing: her father thought she was happy. And indeed with Miguel behaving in the charming way he was capable of doing she was happy. But as soon as they left he reverted-to his usual detachment and she hadn't the courage to ask what was wrong.

They flew on to Mexico in the late afternoon, arriving at Mexico City's international airport late at night. But here one of Miguel's father's limousines was waiting for them and this took them into Mexico City itself where they spent the night at another luxury hotel.

They spent three days in Mexico City while Miguel saw specialists about his injured fingers and Juan conducted some business of his own. As far as Emma was aware, no one contacted Miguel's family while they stayed in Mexico City, and this surprised her somewhat.

But she was too eager to get used to the rarefied atmosphere and take in the warmth and beauty of her surroundings to pay much attention to anything else.

She got to know Loren rather better, too. Although she doubted they could ever be close friends, nevertheless, being of a similar age and left to their own devices, they went about a lot together.

Loren knew the city well, of course, and so long as they avoided personal topics they could spend many interesting hours together. Emma came to know Chapultepec Park and the Paseo de la Reforma almost as well as the Mexican girl, and they spent hours in the Museum of Anthropology studying the fascinating remains of the mingled cultures that had helped to shape Mexico's development. They saw the murals, too, at the National Palace which Were painted by the Indian patriot, Diego Rivera.

They depicted the story of the conquest of the Aztecs by Hernando Cortes and his Spanish conquistadores, and Emma used to hearing the story from other sources deploring the human sacrifices made by these primitive Indian tribes, was almost shocked to be told that Cortes was the usurper, destroying a civilization far in advance of its time. The guide was Indian, of course, and she was quite glad to emerge into the sunlight again and realize that it had all happened more than four hundred years ago.

More humbling an experience was entering the imposing Cathedral, the oldest Christian Building in the Americas, built over the ruins of the Aztecs' Great Temple.

They eventually left Mexico City on Wednesday afternoon, this time travelling by helicopter, bound for Puebla, which was the nearest big city to Lacustre Largo.

The nearer they drew to Miguel's home, the more morose he seemed to become, and Emma couldn't understand it. She wished he would just talk to her, share with her a little the fears and apprehensions she was experiencing in this strange and alien environment. She needed him more with every mile they travelled, while he seemed to need her less and less ...

The country over which they were flying was rather terrifying, too.

Mountains and gorges, inland lakes and fertile- valleys, the whole possessing a wild and savage beauty that Emma had never seen before. Miguel sat up front with the pilot while she, Loren and Juan were closely pressed together behind. If Miguel spoke at all it was to the pilot or to Juan, who, while seeming to appreciate Emma's anxieties, could in no way alleviate them.

They landed on a private airfield at Puebla in the late afternoon.

Emma, who had-eaten practically nothing all day, was feeling hot and a little faint, but no one seemed to notice. The owner of the airfield turned out to be a man called Felipe Alvarez, a big fat individual who welcomed Miguel like a son and proceeded to ignore everyone else.

Juan seemed unconcerned. 'We will have a meal here,' he explained to Emma, as she smoothed the white skirt she was wearing over her slim hips and watched her husband disappearing into the airfield buildings with Felipe Alvarez; 'Will we?' Emma's tone was dry and she endeavoured to hide her frustration. Then what?'

'Then we fly on to Lacustre Largo,' announced Juan firmly.

The meal Alvarez's wife provided was not to Emma's taste. Until then she had managed quite well with the highly spiced food, choosing only those dishes she had known and recognized. But the tortillas , stuffed with meat and onion and tomato, and served with a thick spicy tomato and chilli sauce, were far too rich, and she had to swallow mouthfuls of the liquid they were given to drink to get anything down. It ' wasn't until afterwards when her head felt slightly swimmy that she realized that what she had been drinking must have been alcoholic.

She remembered little of the journey from Puebla to Lacustre Largo except waking up once with her head on Juan's shoulder to find Miguel remonstrating angrily with him in Spanish about something which she couldn't understand. But it was dark anyway, and there was nothing much to see.

They landed some distance from the house and now Emma was wide awake. She could vaguely make out the silhouette of Miguel's father's home and there were lights and the sound of voices almost before the helicopter was fully landed. Shimmering away to the left was a stretch of water painted palely now by the moon and she supposed that was Lake Largo, Lacustre Largo, from which the house got its unusual name..

With the propellers slowing, Miguel thrust back his door and climbed out, standing for a moment looking out towards the lake. Then he turned and began to help Loren disembark. Juan was last, and he took a deep breath of the sharp air, savouring it like wine.

' Marvilloso ,' he declared, with a smile at Emma. 'There is nowhere like it.'

Miguel regarded them for a moment, dark and brooding in black slacks and a black silk shirt he had worn for travelling. Overall he wore a dark green suede waistcoat that hung loosely from his shoulders, and Emma thought lie had never looked more attractive or more alien.

'Come,' he said, taking Emma's arm, surprising her by this gesture. 'I will take you to meet my father.'

Emma went with him, as much out of curiosity as anything else.

She noticed he had not mentioned his mother or the other members of his family and decided that in Mexican households the man of the family was obviously considered of supreme importance. She wasn't altogether sure she agreed with this premise.

They crossed a sweep of gra.s.s before the house which Emma could now see stood on a rise of ground, stone built, with the sloping roof of a hacienda. It was a split-level dwelling, she saw, thickly surrounded by tropical foliage which in daylight would look quite startlingly beautiful...

But for the moment her surroundings were of secondary importance to what was before her. Before they could reach the house, however, several servants appeared, chattering excitedly in their own language, which Miguel answered with good-natured fluidity, obviously glad to see him back again. The Indian girls were dark-eyed and dark-skinned, peeping at Emma curiously, clearly speculating as to her ident.i.ty. Emma wondered if Miguel's father had told them that his son had married an English girl.

Juan and Loren were following them and they mounted the shallow stone steps, crossed the terrace, and entered through an arched doorway into the hall. It was tiled in a blue and gold mosaic, and the walls were exquisitely painted in murals ill.u.s.trating Indian art in its most moving form. It was an intricate design of costume and craft and humanity. Although the lighting was electric, the lamps through which it filtered were again of Indian design, and the vase supporting some exotic orchids appeared to be of Aztec origin.

Emma stared about her in wonder ,as Miguel released her to speak to one of the manservants hovering about him. It was all so s.p.a.cious, so beautiful, so vastly different from even her wildest imaginings.

Imagine being born here.

She returned her attention to her husband as Juan and Loren came into the hall, and hearing the word padre in Miguel's conversation realized that he must be asking where his father was. Surely no one could not have heard the helicopter overhead.

And then, as though Carlos Salvaje had just heard the sound of his son's voice, or perhaps the sudden upheaval of his house had attracted his attention, he came striding through a doorway to their rights and walking up to Miguel, embraced him warmly and pa.s.sionately. This was undoubtedly Miguel's father, Emma realized. He was tall, like his son, and the facial resemblance between them was p.r.o.nounced, but whereas Miguel's hair was dark, his father's was turning grey, and the older man's body was looser, less muscular.

'Miguel! Mi hi jo, mi hi jo!' he cried, his voice husky with emotion, and Emma felt a lump in her throat watching them.

Then Carlos drew back to look searchingly at his son. Lifting Miguel's injured hand, he shook his head. ' Que tragedia,' he muttered fiercely, and then went on to talk swiftly in Spanish so that Emma lost all track of what they were saying.

But gradually Miguel drew away from his father and Carlos paid attention to the other members of the group standing in the hall.

He spoke warmly to Loren and to Juan, but his gaze lingered longest on Emma and there was no doubt about his surprise at seeing her there.

Emma's stomach plunged, and she had the first inkling that everything was not as it should be. Carlos turned to his son and in rapid Spanish asked who she was.

Then Miguel came across to her, putting an arm protectively across her shoulders. 'We will speak English, padre,' he said quietly. 'My wife speaks very little Spanish.'

'Your wife?' There was bitter disbelief in Carlos's angry protest.

'Miguel, you cannot be serious!'

'But I am,' replied Miguel calmly, and Emma sensed the pleasure he was gaining from telling his father this. 'Are you not going to congratulate me?'

Emma slid out of bed now. She could not bear to remain there any longer. She walked to the long windows and releasing the catch stepped out on to the terrace. She cared little that the air was cool and that all she was wearing was" the chiffon nightgown she had bought on the Avenida Insurgentes in Mexico City. The coldness she felt came from within, not without, and no one was likely to see her here at this hour of the night.

Everyone was asleep.

She thought back over the last few hours with chilled foreboding.

Juan had told her that Miguel had a mother - brothers - sisters - but where were they? The only other person who appeared to share this house with Carlos Salvaje was his niece, Miguel's cousin, Carmen Silveiro.

Emma shivered. She had not liked Carmen Silveiro, and it was certain that Carmen did not like her. Like her uncle, she had been ignorant of Miguel's marriage to the English girl, and her greeting to him had been warmly possessive. "Carmen was very beautiful and very Spanish, small and dark and, exotic, her hair a cap of ebony silk. She made Emma feel tall and ungainly, although that was only her opinion. She had thrown herself into her cousin's arms only a few minutes after Miguel had exploded the shock of his marriage on his father when they were all still standing there looking at one another, and the kiss she had given him had been more than just cousinly.

But when Carlos had pa.s.sionately informed her of the facts the change in her had been quite remarkable. Her olive cheeks had paled and the glance she had cast in Emma's direction had been purely malevolent.

The scents from the flowers below the terrace invaded Emma's senses, and she stretched her arms disconsolately, longing for the peace of mind she seemed to have forfeited for ever. The cry of the mountain lion came again, and she stiffened. Perhaps if she remained here it would come for her and destroy her, and take away this misery that was engulfing her once and for all. Then she would not have to see Carlos Salvaje again, not have to bear witness to his extreme displeasure with his son for marrying without his permission, not have to share this house with people who she knew despised her - not least of these being her own husband ...

She leant wearily against the terrace wall, her hands spread dejectedly along the stonework, the rounded contours of her body outlined through the filmy chiffon, her hair, silvered by the moon, cloaking her slender shoulders with heavy silk.

'Dios! Emma, have you taken leave of your senses?'

Emma almost jumped out of her skin at the unexpected sound of Miguel's voice, low and angry, behind her. She turned slowly, one hand pressed to her throat, and looked at him as though she couldn't really believe he was there, as though he were some figment of her imagination conjured up out of the depths of her despair.

'Miguel,' she murmured faintly.

'What are you doing out here?' he demanded, stepping towards her, and now she could see he was still fully dressed in the black clothes he had worn to travel in.

'I - I, couldn't sleep,' she replied unsteadily, becoming conscious of the scarcity of her own covering. A chiffon nightgown was hardly the thing to confront an irate husband, she thought hysterically. Or perhaps it was. Perhaps that was how woman's weakness overcame ^ man's strength.

The roar of the mountain lion sounded closer now, and Emma glanced round almost fearfully, as though she half expected to find the animal behind her.

'You had better go inside,' said Miguel, indicating the opened gla.s.s doors of her bedroom. The puma has been known to seek the more civilized districts of this area in search of its kill.'

Emma looked at him tremulously. 'Do you think I care?'

'What do you mean?'

'I wish-it would come here - I wish it would come - for me /' Her voice broke and she half turned away from him, unwilling for him to see her distress. 'You don't know what you're saying,' he muttered, his accent thickening. 'Emma - please to go back to bed.'

She moved her head slowly from side to side, and he swore softly before saying: 'I insist you do as I ask.'

Emma put up a hand and ma.s.saged the nape of her neck tiredly, unaware how the careless action drew attention to the pointed swell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. But Miguel was aware of it, and in a tormented voice he said: ' Madre de Dios , Emma, do as I say!'

'Why?' She looked at him out of the corners of her eyes. 'Why should I do anything you ask? Do you realize this is the first time we've been really alone together since that night in your hotel suite?' She shivered involuntarily. 'Just go away and leave me alone!'

Miguel clenched his fists. 'You're cold. Do you want to get pneumonia?'

'I don't particularly care,' she answered huskily, bending her head.

Miguel moved then, taking the s.p.a.ce between them in a couple of strides, sliding his arms around her from behind, dragging her roughly back against him. Emma resisted only for a moment, and then the warmth and urgency of his body invaded hers, and she let herself yield against him.'

(Deus, esta demente!' he groaned thickly, his mouth moving against the soft curve of her shoulder, bared by his fingers as they pushed the offending chiffon aside. Emma knew those words, they meant that what he was doing was insane, but he didn't stop. Instead, he twisted her round in his arms and then his mouth was on hers, all fire and pa.s.sion and hungry need. Her lips parted willingly, and weakness made her cling to him so that he slid his arms beneath her and swung her up against him, carrying her across the terrace and into the quiet intimacy of her bedroom.

He laid her on the bed, and as though the action had brought him to his senses he tried to straighten up again.

But Emma's arms were about his neck, and when he would have drawn away she pulled him down to her, seeking his mouth with hers.

Miguel lost his head then, bearing her back against the silken bed-coverings, possessing her mouth with a pa.s.sion that weakened and yet terrified her. It was one thing to want the man one loved, and she knew she loved him now, to make love to her, and quite another to realize that he was virtually a stranger to her who had married her for some nefarious purpose of his own. She knew so little about him, and when he began to unb.u.t.ton his shirt and she felt the hardness of his flesh against hers, she panicked. Taking advantage of his sensually induced weakness, she pulled herself away from him and slid off the bed at the other side, stumbling across the room to stand panting against the far wall. Contrarily, once she had left him, she longed to be back in his arms again, but when she looked towards the bed and saw Miguel still lying there, she could not move.

There was a moment's stillness, and then with a shrug Miguel fastened his clothes and slid off the bed himself, looking across at her intently. She could not make out his expression, his face was in shadow, but she sensed his contempt.

'Perhaps now you will appreciate the dangers of wandering about the terrace without adequate covering!' he said, with bitter mockery.

'Miguel, I-'

'Don't say anything else!' he commanded, and turning, walked out through the long gla.s.s doors, sliding them together with a definite click.

CHAPTER NINE.

THE following morning, Emma had the opportunity of seeing quite a lot more of her husband's domain.

She must have slept for some time after Miguel had left, for she was awakened by one of the smiling Indian girls soon after eight o'clock with a tray of coffee and hot rolls and b.u.t.ter. She struggled up in bed to take the tray, blinking in the sunlight that streamed through the windows, and although she felt sure she would be unable to eat a thing, the rolls smelt so delicious she couldn't resist trying them.

Afterwards, she thrust the tray aside and rushed to the long windows for her first glimpse of the grounds in daylight. But before lingering there she pulled a cord to the right of the windows which the maid had shown her the night before and which caused a swathe of ruched nylon curtain to slide across the windows providing her with privacy from outside.

The brilliance of the garden was not subdued in the bright sunlight, and beyond the terrace where several shades of bougainvillea twined, there were oleanders and creamy magnolias, and vivid splashes of hibiscus. There were lots of other flowering shrubs which Emma had never seen before, the whole giving an impression of wild cultivation and lush tropicality.

Stretches of lawn, interspersed with mosaic paths and small powering trees, led down to the wide waters of the lake" which shaded from turquoise to deepest blue. Beyond the lake, the high reaches of the Sierra Madre cast their own shadows, a fitting backcloth for so much colour and fertility.

Leaving the window with reluctance, Emma sought the coolness of her bathroom, marvelling again as she had the night before, at its tiled luxury. As well as the usual accoutrements there was a round step-in bath, big enough for half a dozen adults, and a shower. The tiles were in various shades of blue and green, and there were mirrors everywhere, giving her back her reflection in a thousand different ways.

Later, she dressed in yellow cotton pants and a sleeveless ribbed yellow jumper," and went in search of the other members of the household. It took a great deal of courage to leave the sanctuary of her room, but it had to be done and there was no point pretending otherwise. She simply refused to let Miguel see how much he could hurt her.

Soft rubber tiles cushioned her feet as she followed the pa.s.sage back towards the lounge they had entered the night before. She had to descend several steps to reach that level, the bedrooms being, above the servants' quarters on the higher level.

But the lounge was deserted and she looked about her distractedly, not quite knowing what to do. Somehow this room was not the sort of place one could relax in alone with its intricately carved ceiling and frescoed walls. The highly polished wooden floor was strewn with animal skins, while all the furniture was of palest hide. The cabinet in one corner which housed a collection of silver and porcelain must have been worth a small fortune, while there was a picture above the wide, tapestry-screened fireplace which she suspected was priceless: But where else, could she go? She didn't know the layout of the-house well enough to explore.

And then, as though in answer to a silent prayer, she heard the sound of footsteps crossing the hall and swung round in relief.

But that relief was tempered when she encountered Carlos Salvaje's brooding stare.

He regarded her for a long moment, taking in the delicious picture she made, all in yellow, her tawny hair loose and catching the vibrant rays of the sun. Then he said politely: ' Buenos dias, senorita - senora!'

'Good - good morning, senor' Emma did not trust herself to speak his language in case he a.s.sumed she was conversant with it.

'You slept well?'

Emma hesitated. 'Quite well, thank you.' She glanced round, gesticulating awkwardly towards the garden. 'It's a beautiful morning.'

'We have many such mornings,' commented Carlos curtly.

'Yes. Yes, I suppose you have.' Emma endeavoured to remain cool.

'I'm afraid I'm used to a less reliable climate.'

Carlos raised his dark eyebrows at this, and her gaze flickered away from his face, taking in the fact that he was dressed for riding in pale grey breeches and black, shiny boots, a cream shirt open at his strong throat. Miguel would look like this in perhaps thirty years' time, she thought perceptively, and her heart lurched when she considered what that thirty years might mean to her.

'You have had desayuno?' he asked, tapping the short whip he held in his hand against his boot.

'Breakfast?' Emma nodded vigorously. 'Yes. A maid brought it to my room.'

'That is good.' Carlos considered her thoughtfully. 'Do you ride, senora?'