Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the publishing industry, having written over one hundred and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful, passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

The Innocent Invader
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE pearly, early morning light stole like a wraith across the island, lifting the wreaths of mist from the trees, and, as the sun rose higher, gilding the fleecy clouds with a golden glow. Jason had seen many such sunrises, but they never failed to move him by their complete detachment from the toils and rigours of the world they so beautifully illuminated.

Leaning against his balcony rail, he saw the shadows disappear among the palms that fringeed the coral beach, and the white-surfed breakers that creamed on the sand sparkled iridescently. This was the time of day he liked best, when everything was fresh and unspoilt, and for a few hours at least, before Irena awoke, he was free from the sound of her hysterical recriminations.

He looked inland, over the fields of waving sugar cane, the brightness of the crop interspersed here and there by the dark brown thatched roofs of the huts belonging to the plantation workers. Beyond the estate, below the terraces where the white population of the island lived in luxury, was the small town of El Tesoro, the treasure, so called because of the legend that one of the many Spanish galleons, loaded with gold and precious stones, had floundered on the reef on its way to Cordova.

The town, which hugged the small harbour, was densely populated, and living conditions for many of the West Indians were squalid. The birth rate continued to rise and consequently, although Jason tried to help them, little was achieved. Jason's money was tied up in the estate, and besides, they did not always welcome help. They were poor but independent, with the kind of contentment found only among people who have never known the urge for power and money and position in society. At times Jason envied them.

Education was gradually being brought to the people, but as yet the schools on the island accommodated only a small proportion of the children. Those children that did attend were restless and dilatory, only waiting for the bell to be free so that they could swarm into the warm sea, or go out with their fathers in the fishing boats as they had done for generations. Whether it was all worthwhile was a problem that Jason sometimes pondered; would they be happier knowing the outside world and its problems, or was it more sensible to leave them in ignorance to live a life which, if narrow in outlook, was broad in experience?

His family, the Cordovas, had governed the island since the first white settlement was made there over three hundred years ago. Only sixteen miles by twelve at its widest point, it had provided little interest for the French or the English, and gradually the white population had increased and today there were over thirty white families on the island. The rest of the near seventy thousand population was made up of Africans, Indians, and Creoles, with a fair proportion of mulattos amongst them.

During the tourist season, a time Jason abhorred, day-trippers from St. Vincent or Grenada came to the island, but as there were no hotels suitable for their accommodation they were forced to leave at nightfall. For this Jason was grateful. He intended that as far as possible the island should retain its individuality. He wanted no neon-lighted, chrome-plated monoliths turning Cordova into another Martinique or Trinidad.

Jason turned now from his contemplation of the view, and reached for a cigarette which he lit before shedding the white bathrobe which was his only garment. He dressed leisurely in the tight cotton trousers and loose shirt which were the usual garb of the planter at his work. He pulled knee-length leather boots on to his feet and after running the comb through his thick black hair which was over-long and brushed his collar, he opened his bedroom door silently, and crossing the wide landing descended the stairs.

The stairs were marble, as was the mosaic floor of the cool hall below. From this hall, corridors led off to the various regions of the house, while the cooking and servants’ quarters were at the rear of the building in a separate one-storey dwelling. Everywhere was painted white, and at this early hour of the morning the scent of beeswax filled the air. The floors of the living rooms were wood, and Beulah, the African housemaid, polished them religiously until they shone like the polished surface of a table.

Jason walked along the corridor to the dining room which he and Irena used, and seated himself at the long refectory table. His place had been laid as usual, with the fruit and rolls and coffee he always enjoyed at this time. Romulus, the elderly manservant, came to see whether there was anything else he required, but Jason shook his head and the man bowed and left him.

The wide french doors were open, and through them he could again see the beach and the shadowy blue horizon. A breeze blew in, ruffling his hair, and he ran a hand lazily round the back of his neck, stretching for a moment.

His thoughts turned to the argument he had had with Irena the previous evening, and his expression darkened. As always, to mar the beauty of the day, the problem of Irena was fresh in his mind. He finished his breakfast, shrugged his shoulders as though to lift the thoughts that plagued him and, leaving the table, he went out of the french doors and stood on the verandah for a moment breathing deeply. Then he turned and walked round to the rear of the building, where, beyond the pool, and hidden among trees was the stable where he kept his horses. He kept two hunters, and three ponies for the children.

Apollo, his black stallion, was being saddled in readiness for him as he approached, and he patted the horse encouragingly, and produced an apple for it from his pocket, holding it in the palm of his hand, and allowing Apollo to nuzzle the fruit with his soft mouth.

Jacob, the stable boy, stood back to admire his handiwork, and said: “Mucho bello, señor!” in a satisfied voice.

Jason straddled the animal, and nodded down at the boy. “Si, Jacob. Esta bien. Gracias,” and pressing his heels into the animal's sides he rode out of the stable yard.

The air was like wine as he rode down the steep incline to the beach, and then, giving the horse its head, he galloped swiftly along the damp sand. Apollo, sensing his master's mood, sped on winged feet, until Jason slowed him to a canter and finally to a trot. Wheeling the horse round suddenly, he rode up the bank and into the shade of the casuarinas. Dismounting, he flung himself down on the sand and stretched before reaching for a cigarette. After lighting the cigarette he lay back, looking upwards through the tracery of leaves to the blueness of the sky above him. It was going to be another perfect day. Although he had visited many foreign countries in his lifetime, and had attended school in England, nevertheless there was nowhere to compare with Cordova.

But, as always, when he had time to think, his thoughts turned to Irena and the terrible argument they had had the previous evening about Serena and the children. Their arguments of late were always about Serena and the children. If only Antonio were still alive, things would not have been so bad. As it was, with his brother dead, he felt responsible for his brother's widow and their three children.

The children were aged eight, seven and five and urgently needed a governess. The schools on the island were only for the West Indian children. All the white families employed tutors or governesses until the children were old enough to attend boarding schools. If Antonio had been alive things would have been different. He would have seen that the children were properly educated. As it was, Irena's attitude towards Eloise, Ricardo and Marie forestalled Jason from acting in the matter for the sake of a peaceful life. But finally he had decided that he could not be responsible any longer for their education. He had tried to instil a little knowledge into their heads, and although Spanish was the most widely used tongue on the island, the children could speak English quite fluently already so that later they could attend an English school as he had done. But the short time he had to devote to them every day was not enough and mostly they ran wild. Serena, child that she was, had no idea how to maintain discipline, and her indifference only made them worse. If only Irena had been a normal, healthy human being, kindly disposed to her nephew and nieces, she could have done so much for them. But Irena refused to acknowledge their existence except in moments of anger, and although they all lived in the same house, there were two separate households. For Jason and the children the situation was intolerable, and the children were most frequently to be found down in the cane fields, playing with the children of the plantation workers. But now Jason had decided it could not go on. They must be taught; not only elementary lessons but how to behave, before it was too late.

He rolled on to his stomach and stubbed out his cigarette in the sand, watching a sandfly flitting across the ground in search of some interesting article on which to settle himself. Its steady progress was relaxing.

If only Serena had been the daughter of one of the Spanish families here on the island, things might have been different, more tenable. But his brother had married a beautiful young Creole in Trinidad and had brought her back to Cordova. That was nine years ago, and Serena had been sixteen at the time. Irena had been outraged. Although at that time Antonio had had his own house, it had been near Jason's own, and Serena had thought she would be as welcome there as in her own home. In consequence, she had often appeared at the villa while the men were at work, until Irena and she had had such a row that neither of them had spoken since. Serena had been eight months pregnant at that time, and it had disturbed her so much that the baby was premature. For a time it had looked as though both Serena and the baby would die. Miraculously both had survived, but Antonio had not entered Jason's home from the time on. He remained friends with Jason, and Jason was always welcome at their home, but there was no social life between the two families. It had caused quite a stir on the island, and Jason had despised the whole affair.

And now he was faced with a much greater problem, a problem which had grown worse during the two years it had been his. Antonio had been killed while on a business trip to the United States two years ago. He had left Serena a widow with three young children, and little money of their own. Antonio had only worked for Jason. He had not had any share in the company. He had forfeited that years ago when he left home to live in Trinidad.

After Antonio's funeral Jason had told Serena that he wanted the four of them to come and live at the villa. To begin with she had refused, but circumstances had forced her to see reason, and that was how things stood today, except for the fact that he had advertised for a governess, and had obtained one.

“You must be mad! Stark, staring mad!” Irena had raged at him the previous evening, when he had presented her with the fait accompli. “Bringing some strange woman into my house. Isn't it enough that I have to live in the same house as that witch and her brood?”

“Irena!”

“Well! Do you want a stranger in the house? Is there no end to your generosity towards these people …?”

Jason had shrugged expressively. “No, Irena, I do not want a stranger in my home, but those children are turning into savages before my eyes. It's for them I'm prepared to have this woman here.”

“They're savages!” Irena had clenched her fists in fury. Her temper at times was quite uncontrollable, and Jason had tried to pacify her.

“Irena, please! This will be someone for you to talk to. She's been brought up in a convent – surely that's recommendation enough?”

“She's a Catholic?” Irena was curious. “You're sure of this?”

Jason spread wide his hands. “That I can't say. But what else can she be? After all, convents are not run by Protestants.”

“That's true. Nevertheless, Jason, I will not have it. She must go back. You must give her her return fare. You say she's coming from England? She can go back there.”

“No.” Jason was adamant. “In this I refuse to be countermanded. This woman will come and take charge of the children, and you will accept her. Goodness knows, her situation here will be far more difficult than she has any idea it will be.”

Irena had argued for a long time and finally, in weariness, Jason had left her screaming and maligning the fates that had brought her to live in this house.

As he remembered, Jason's fingers sought the scar on his right cheek. A livid thing, it stretched from high on his cheekbone, almost to his jawline. Whenever he was emotionally disturbed, the scar throbbed painfully, and with a muffled oath he got to his feet, determinedly putting all thoughts of Irena out of his mind. There was no more time for soul-searching; it was time to go down to the distillery.

The island's main exports were sugar cane and the rum distilled from the molasses, and Jason himself kept an expert eye on the day's work. It was not always necessary; his staff were reliable and efficient, but it kept him out of the house most days until lunch time and saved him the trouble of trying to find excuses for Irena's ill-temper.

He rode back to the house, and leaving the stallion for Jacob to groom, he went and retrieved the Land Rover from the garage. He drove smoothly down the drive, between the neatly laid-out lawns and flower gardens that Irena found so pleasing, and which the children avoided meticulously. The artificiality of it all did not appeal to Jason; he preferred the rather flamboyant confusion to be found in abundance on the island; bougainvillea rioting gloriously with hibiscus and wisteria; the scarlet beauty of immortelles, the oleanders.

An arched gateway in the high stucco wall which surrounded the villa bore witness to the Moorish influence on all the larger dwellings. Balconies, courtyards, fountains, wrought ironwork; all reflected the Moorish artistry predominant in Spain itself.

The hard track wound down towards the town, its surface throwing a film of dust over the Land Rover. As Jason neared the town, stray animals ran heedlessly across his path, and the colourful African women in there floral cotton dresses became more numerous. Dozens of children swarmed about their legs, and waved excitedly as Jason drove by; they all knew Jason.

Before driving to the Cordova distillery, he drove down to the harbour. This was the only part of the island accessible by sea. A coral reef surrounded the island with only a narrow channel that gave access to the small port of El Tesoro. Here a weekly steamer brought mail and supplies, and the occasional passenger, and in return took the export trade of the island. Besides the sugar cane and run, there was a small bottling and canning plant, which was owned by another of the Spanish families. This was only a small concern, as most of the fruit grown was used by the islanders themselves.

To reach the quay Jason had to leave the Land Rover and walk the remaining distance. Adjoining the quayside was a busy open market, where all the commerce of the island was executed, and he had to press his way through the crowds of early traders and shoppers. The scents of the market, always aromatic and sometimes overpowering, were none the less exciting, and the throng of people and the noise gave him an exhilarated feeling. Everywhere was the feeling of suppressed vitality, a steel band practising for the coming fiesta adding their sound to the din. Sometimes the sound of drums reverberated round the shallow hills above the harbour and the pulsating rhythm fired the blood and stirred the primitive emotions of the body. The African ancestry, superstitious and tribal, brought its own kind of mystery, and Jason knew that many of the practices in the villages owed their origin to the dark gods of Africa. But this was something the white population had to accept, and Jason knew there were few who would go against the voodoo. Its power was absolute.

The harbourmaster's office which was his destination was a low wooden building, occupied by Abe Smith, a massive Negro, with ebony skin and a thick moustache. He and Jason were the best of friends; and Jason usually found time to have coffee with him at this hour of the morning.

He entered the wooden office, stretching as he came through the door. Abe was sprawled in a chair, smoking a cheroot, and he grinned amiably as Jason came in and seated himself on the side of his desk. “Morning,” he said, wrinkling his huge nose. “Coffee?”

Jason nodded and helped himself. “Thanks. I could use some.” After pouring a blue striped beaker full of the black liquid, he turned back to his friend and re-seated himself, idly stirring the brew.

“How goes it?” Abe straightened up, and poured himself another mug of coffee. “Have you told her?”

Jason raised his dark eyebrows. “Yes, I've told her.”

“I can guess what she said!” Abe grimaced, and raised his eyes heavenward.

Jason shrugged. “What I expected I got.” He took a long drink of his coffee, savouring it.

Abe smote one fist into the palm of his other hand. “Madre mia,” he exclaimed, “that woman is not human!”

Jason lit a cigarette. “The governess arrives on the steamer tomorrow,” he remarked, changing the subject.

Abe sighed heavily. “She does, eh? Another woman to cause trouble?”

“Let's hope not.” Jason rose to his feet. “I'll meet her.”

Abe grinned suddenly. “And how will you recognise her? If she's not the only woman to arrive tomorrow?”

Jason bit his lip thoughtfully, and his fingers sought the line of his scar. “She's a governess. My only criterion is the other governesses on the island. She'll be like them.”

Abe chuckled. “Ah, I see! A little grey and long in the tooth!”

“I didn't say that,” replied Jason mildly, his eyes smiling. “But yes, that will suit us very well.”

Abe walked to the door of the office, and leaning against it, his bulk blocking out the light from the room, he said harshly:

“How long is this to go on, Jason? How long are you going to exist in this manner? No one could call it living!”

“Enough,” said Jason, abruptly, but Abe was not to be denied.

“Enough is what you've had,” he exclaimed. “You forget I've known you since you were knee-high! I've seen you change these last fifteen years from a man who laughed and enjoyed life, lived it to the full, to a stranger who interests himself only in his work, in business – must you sacrifice yourself in this way? You need a woman in your bed –”

“Abe!” Jason's face was like carved granite, the scar like a pale slash against the dark tan of his face.

Abe moved away from the door, shaking his head. He was genuinely disturbed for his friend, but Jason could not allow him to say such things. He was married to Irena; she was his wife; if anyone was to blame it was him….

As the steamer Celeste neared Cordova, Sarah wondered for the thousandth time whether indeed she was being as impulsive as Reverend Mother had stipulated. After all, here she was thousands of miles away from England and the convent which had been her home all her life, with nothing to commend this man who was to be her employer but a letter from Father Dominic Sanchez, the Catholic priest on the island.

The solicitors in London who had interviewed her on Jason de Cordova's behalf had seemed singularly out of touch with the situation on the island, and Sarah could only assume that they did not have many dealings with her proposed employer.

But when she had read the advertisement in The Times, it had sounded so exciting and different that she had not thought before replying and offering her services. She was always acting impulsively, and in any case she had been sure there would be so many applications her own would not even be considered. But her application had been considered, and a letter had arrived for Reverend Mother, asking for her references. It appeared her convent upbringing was a recommendation in itself, and Sarah refrained from mentioning that she was not herself of the Catholic faith. She was afraid this would influence her case, for it seemed that this was a Catholic family requiring a governess, capable of teaching three infants elementary lessons. And, she had argued with herself, elementary lessons were not religious instruction, so why should she not be suitable anyway?

It had been too good a chance to miss. The West Indies had long been a place Sarah found utterly fascinating, and to live, even for a short while, on an island there sounded marvellous. Besides, she knew she was fast losing the will to leave the convent, and that if she did not leave soon she would never leave at all. Orphaned as a baby and adopted by the nuns at St. Teresa's, Sarah had found a home so completely understanding that many times she had been tempted to become a novice herself. But her parents had not wanted it and the nuns refused to let her decide until she was over twenty-one. They had sent her to a training college in the town after she left school, and she had become an infant teacher. Then she had returned to the convent school and taught the pupils there for the last eighteen months.

At the time she read the advertisement she had been at a crossroads. Unlike most girls of almost twenty-two, Sarah had never bothered about boys. She had never had a date, and she had never been even mildly interested in any male. The priests who visited the convent school were kind and friendly, and that was all she felt she ever needed from any man.

Only Father Donahue had seen things differently. “Sarah, my dear,” he had said, “you've seen nothing of the world outside this town. Even the convent walls provide a barrier to you. It's my belief that you need to be taken from this atmosphere to a place so different that you'll discover for yourself whether you really have a vocation.”

He it was who had pointed out the advertisement in The Times. And it was he who had persuaded Reverend Mother that Sarah should be freed to find her own destiny. Thus it was she was now only minutes from her arrival in Cordova and she felt as scared as a kitten. She was being accepted on a month's probation, and likewise, if she should find the work unsuitable, she would be provided with her return fare at the end of that period. She had flown to Barbados and this steamer was the last leg of the journey. It had all been immensely exciting and thrilling, and even now, with the azure blue waters of the Caribbean lapping the sides of the vessel, she could hardly believe she was here. But the sun was warm upon her shoulders, and the scenery was more spectacular than any technicolor film, so she had to believe it, and she hugged herself for a moment in anticipation. She was so glad Father Donahue had shown her that advertisement. He was right – she was naïve and inexperienced. And now she was to find life an adventure instead of a pilgrimage.

She leaned against the rail of the steamer as the Captain skilfully negotiated the narrows of the reef, and looked across the stretch of calm water to the ant-like activity on the quay ahead of them. This then was Cordova; her home for the next four weeks at least.

From this distance the island was like a green, fertile mound rising out of the sea, its fringing of coral beaches and creaming surf providing a lace-like fragility to the shawl of greenery. It was still comparatively early in the morning, but the glare was strong after an English winter, and Sarah drew a pair of dark glasses from her bag and placed them on her nose. Then she turned to the tall, dark-skinned Barbadian who had left his bridge and joined her at the rail.

“Almost there,” he said, indicating the harbour. “Are you ready to face your new employer?”

Sarah smiled. “I'm terribly nervous,” she confessed candidly. “I'm not very used to dealing with strangers, and the little I know of the family sounds quite intimidating.”

“Intimidating? Jason? No, I don't think Jason is intimidating. The children … well, who can say? They've been allowed free licence since their father was killed. There's no one to care for them.”

Sarah frowned. “But surely, I understand from the solicitors that the children's mother was still alive.”

“Yes, she is.” The Captain touched his cap politely. “We'll be there shortly. I must have a word with my mate.”

Sarah watched him go and shrugged her shoulders bewilderedly. It seemed the Captain did not wish to discuss the Cordova family, and perhaps she had been a little indiscreet asking questions. She sighed. She was not used to subterfuge of any kind. At the convent there had been no secrets and she saw no harm in obtaining the facts about the Cordova children. As she understood it, Jason de Cordova was the children's uncle and their widowed mother lived in the same house. What could be more simple than that? Shaking her head, and shaking thoughts like this from her mind, she turned again to the colourful quay alongside which the channel had been dug to take the steamers passage.

The Captain, from his bridge, watched her interest thoughtfully. In truth he considered the girl might prove rather a responsibility on Cordova. She was so fair she could not fail to cause a stir among the dark-skinned Africans and swarthy Spaniards. Although she was not strictly beautiful she had very large and luminous eyes, black-lashed and blue as sapphires, and her hair was long and plaited and wound round her head in a classical style. It was silvery in colour and in her demure blue poplin dress with the white collar she looked more like a novice than a governess. She had told the Captain of her upbringing in England, and privately he had thought the convent a fitting background for her. What she would make of the intrigues and passions of Cordova, he did not dare to think.

As the Celeste drew alongside, a gangplank was run out to her by several of the dark-skinned boys on the quay, and Sarah experienced a thrill of apprehension as she moved forward to disembark. Her arrival in Barbados had not prepared her for this absolute absence of order, and the hustle and bustle on the quay unnerved her.

She looked above the heads of the jostling crowds on the docks to the town of El Tesoro climbing up the shallow hills above the harbour. Above the flat-roofed dwellings of the African population she could see, set among flowering shrubs and clematis-hung stucco walls, the villas of the white population of Cordova, and she felt a sense of relief. For a moment she had wondered whether she would ever see a white person again. Inwardly chastising herself for her lack of worldliness, she moved to the gangplank, and met the Captain again.

“There are no customs on Cordova,” he said kindly. “Go ahead. Jason is waiting for you on the quay. He won't mistake you.”

Walking down the gangplank, Sarah was aware that almost every eye on the quay had turned in her direction, and she blushed in confusion, and looked about her self-consciously, searching for a white face. Somewhere was this Jason de Cordova; but where?

As she stepped on to the hard surface of the quay, she felt some of the nervousness leave her. The sound of the steel band, playing its own welcome to the steamer, reassured her somehow. Already she could feel a kind of magnetism about the place; the pull of the islands. This was where she had wanted to live and now she had her wish. The passing thoughts of hurricanes and storms, lack of civilisation and ritual magic, all swelled her determination to stay here and make a success of her work. Later, maybe, she would return to the convent and take her vows, confident in the knowledge of having lived life to the full and found the life of seclusion more worthwhile.

Suddenly she felt a hard hand grip her arm, and a deep, attractive male voice said: “You surely can't be Miss Sarah Winter?”

Sarah swung round to face the speaker, her cheeks flushed, her breath catching in her throat when she saw his face, and the livid scar which disfigured his cheek. She saw his eyes, strange yellowish, tawny eyes, like the eyes of the tiger, harden as they recognised her sudden withdrawal, and she immediately felt a sense of contrition that even for one moment he had thought she was repelled by it. Instead, as she took in the other details of his appearance she realised that the scar did not detract from his powerful, attractive features, but rather added to them. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a lean hard body. She realized he was most probably a Spaniard, his hair, thick and black, lying close to his head. He was simply dressed in cotton trousers and a light blue shirt. Who could he be? Not her employer, that was certain! He must be someone Jason de Cordova had sent to collect her. Her eyes returned to the scar, and then she looked swiftly away.

“Yes,” she said clearly, “I'm Sarah Winter.”

Jason stared at her incredulously, and then he moved his shoulders helplessly. She was nothing at all like the woman he had expected. She was young, much too young, and how could she possibly be expected to handle those three wild things that were his nephew and nieces?

As he stared at her, Sarah felt half amused suddenly. Brought up as she had been, supremely conscious of the presence of both heaven and hell, she thought that this man must surely as closely resemble her imaginings of the devil himself as was humanly possible. She wondered what Sister Theresa would have made of him. She thought the gentle nuns might have found him even more overpowering than she did herself.

“Well,” he said at last, “you're certainly much younger than we expected. As I recall it, your age was not questioned. The fact that you'd had experience with young children pointed to your being older.”

“Does it matter?” asked Sarah, beginning to feel uncomfortable under his close scrutiny. “I am experienced, and if you've come to meet me, I suggest we go on up to the Cordova residence and ascertain their views on the matter.”

Her voice was cool now and detached, and Jason admired her veneer of assurance. For that was all it was, he was certain. He could tell from her revealing eyes that she was far from relaxed. And she did not realise to whom she was speaking, that was obvious.

“Very well,” he agreed easily. “Let's go!” It amused him to keep her in ignorance of his identity for the time being. She would learn soon enough.

The market was a mass of moving humanity, and Jason went ahead, forging a way through to the Land Rover. The laughing greetings of the West Indians were acknowledged casually, and Sarah wondered who he could be to be known so well, and to arouse such apparent respect among these people.

He helped her into the seat beside the driving seat, and then walked lithely round the vehicle to slide in beside her. Sarah found herself admiring the rippling muscles of his back and thighs as he walked, and the smoothness of his long legs as he slid in beside her. There was something wholly masculine about him that she had never encountered before in her associations with men. It embarrassed her to think this way. For so long she had considered herself immune from the desires of the flesh.

Forcing her thoughts into more innocent channels, she began to look about her with interest as the Land Rover drove up the curving main street of the town. There were shops, but few shop windows, and the goods for sale were displayed outside the stores. Indians sat in the shop doorways, smoking and drinking, and showing little concern for their progress. The flamboyant colours of material hung outside one store caught Sarah's eye, and she said impulsively: “I should have brought my sewing machine. I can see I must make myself some dresses from these gorgeous materials.”

Jason looked at her briefly, and then said: “I imagine the seamstress who sews for my wife could run you up anything you required.”

Sarah shook her head. “I wouldn't dream of it. Does she have a machine?”

“I'm afraid not. The Indian women prefer to do everything by hand. They produce works of art, believe me!”

“Oh, I do.” Sarah shrugged. “I suppose I'll have to do likewise, I like sewing.”

Jason smiled a little. “You may find your time a little limited. You haven't met your charges yet.”

“That doesn't worry me. I've been used to handling a class of almost forty children, so three on their own shouldn't provide much difficulty.”

Jason refrained from commenting. Already he was thinking that at the end of this trial period of one month, he would have to start all over again in finding a governess.

They were driving now between the high walls of the villas of the white families, and between the wrought iron gateways, Sarah could see the paved courtyards and fountains, the swimming pools and tennis courts, so removed from the squalid little huts down in the town. The swarming children there had appalled her. However could they all be taught?

“So,” said Jason suddenly, “what do you think?”

“About the island?” Sarah gave an involuntary gesture. “I can hardly take it all in. It's very beautiful, but the poverty disturbs me. I think if I lived here I would try to do something for these people. Ignorance is a great breeder.”

Jason nodded his assent, surprised at her remarks. He had not thought she would be any different from the rest of the white population. Particularly the women; they, for the most part, acted as though they knew nothing about the squalor beneath their windows.

“You're right, of course,” he said now. “But they don't welcome help. They're too used to this kind of life. You may be surprised to learn that they've very happy, in their way. And very contented, a word that's gone out of use in so-called civilised countries.”

Sarah frowned. “Are you content?”

“Me?” Jason laughed, amused at her candour. “I suppose you would think I ought to be.”

“Why not? In such idyllic surroundings? After all, the sun can ease a lot of heartache.”

“Are you a philosopher, Miss Winter?”

Sarah laughed now, and looked at him in sudden liking. “You might say that. But I'm afraid I've always been told that talking is not acting, and I do an awful lot of talking.”

As the Land Rover curved round a promontory, Sarah gasped at the precarious angle of the road, and looked down breathlessly on the harbour below them, the steamer much smaller now from this height. “My luggage!” she gasped suddenly, “I forgot all about it!”

“Abe, the harbourmaster, will have it sent up to you,” said Jason easily. “There were no other passengers on the Celeste, so there'll be no cause for concern.”

“Thank you.” Sarah lay back in her seat, and in doing so looked upwards, her eyes caught by the sight of the ruined walls of a house, just visible on a high, jutting headland above them. “What's that place? That ruin?”

Jason did not look up but kept his eyes on the curving road ahead. “That was the old Cordova house,” he replied quietly. “It was burned out about fifteen years ago.”

“Really!” Sarah was intrigued. “That must have been some spectacle, high above the island like that.”

“It was.” Jason's fingers tightened on the wheel, and Sarah, glancing at him, wondered why his expression had darkened in that way. Surely it was no concern of his.

The road was curving down again now, and the sea was getting nearer. They ran down a final incline and turned between wrought iron gates, which were the entrance to the drive of the Cordova house. Sarah saw a cream, colour-washed house, over-hung with pink bougainvillea, with balconies to all the upper windows, the doors of which stood open to the clean air. Storm shutters were bolted back and a stout pair of doors with wrought iron hinges guarded the entrance. A porticoed walk stretched round the building, and its white pillars gave a Grecian touch to an otherwise Moorish-styled dwelling.

Jason stopped the Land Rover at the foot of the steps leading up to the entrance, and without waiting for any assistance Sarah clamberd out. After the drive up the dusty road, she felt travel-stained and sticky, and she wished she might have a wash and brush-up before meeting her prospective employer. The blue poplin dress which had been so crisp and fresh on the ship was now limp, and clung to her body, outlining the curves of her rounded figure. She was a tall girl, but had always been taught that any self-adulation was wrong, so consequently had no idea how attractively moulded she was. But Jason was aware of it, and knew without a doubt that Irena would find her completely unsuitable. But in this, Irena's views were immaterial. The girl was to teach Sarah's children, and if Serena liked her, and the girl herself wanted to stay, she should stay.

As Jason walked round to join her, the front doors opened and three children appeared at the top of the steps. They were all dark-haired and olive-skinned, the two girls wearing their long hair in plaits, and they were all dressed alike in red and white striped shorts and red tee-shirts. They looked remarkably clean and smart, and Jason half-smiled as he studied Sarah's reactions.

“Make the most of it,” he said, dryly. “You'll rarely see them in this condition. I left orders that they should be here to meet you on my return – that's the explanation.”

Sarah moved her shoulders deprecatingly. “I hope in future you'll often see them tidily turned out,” she remarked. “Am I to understand that they usually run wild?”

Jason grimaced. “You might say that,” he agreed smoothly. “Shall I introduce you?”

The children descended the steps slowly, eyeing Sarah cautiously. They had never had a governess before, but they knew children who did, and they were unimpressed.

The youngest, Maria, lost her composure and flung herself exuberantly at Jason, chattering furiously in Spanish, and Jason said: “No, Maria, speak English. This lady has come to improve your English among other things, and I want you always to speak English in her presence, right?”

Maria made a face at Sarah, and Sarah gave Jason a startled glance. But he shook his head slightly and stood Maria on her feet. She guessed he meant that she should take it slowly with them, and with a sigh, she turned to the others. “Now,” she said, taking their hands, “you are Eloise and Ricardo.”

The children were silent, turning mutinous faces to Jason, and Sarah felt the first trepidation about these children. She did not know what she had expected, but used as she was to being liked instinctively by young people, she was unprepared for this antagonism. Particularly as they did not even know her yet!

They quickly released themselves from her hands and as Maria had done, flung themselves upon her companion. Watching them, she wondered again who he could be. He certainly did not act like a paid employee, and yet he dressed like one of the Africans. It was all most disturbing, and she was curious to have it explained to her.

“Come,” said Jason, at last. “It's time we were going into the house. It will soon be lunch time and Miss Winter needs time to shower and freshen herself.”

The children looked up at him. “Can we go now?” asked Ricardo.

“No. You may go to your rooms until lunch is ready.”

The children stared at him, and Eloise began to talk in Spanish again, and although Sarah could not understand all she was saying it was obvious it was something very rude, and Jason looked angry. He resorted to Spanish at last, and told them they were spoiled and unpleasant sometimes, and they must learn to do as they were told.

Sarah understood a little Spanish, and could speak it in like manner, but she did not expect to be able to talk with the children, for they spoke too fast and in this mood would not alter their speech to assist her. She foresaw quite a battle in the next few days.

As they mounted the steps to the house, Jason said: “Would you prefer to have a shower before meeting the children's mother?”

Grateful for his understanding, Sarah nodded. “May I?” she asked eagerly. “I do feel hot and sticky now.”

Jason nodded his head, and led the way into the house, into the wide marble hall which Sarah admired silently. The outside of the house had been beautiful, but this was very impressive. The wrought iron rail of the staircase wound into the upper regions of the house, and the scent of flowers was everywhere. There were great vases and bowls of them placed on every available table and in every corner the gentle perfume of roses mingling with the more exotic fragrance of oleander and hibiscus. The colours, too, were startling against the mosaic of the floor and the light panelling of the walls.

Sarah's curiosity about her companion was heightened when a Negro manservant appeared through an archway behind the staircase and said: “May I show the young lady to her room, señor? And the señora is waiting to see you.”

Jason's face darkened for a moment, and as he looked at Sarah, his fingers sought the line of the scar on his cheek. Then, as if becoming conscious of his action, he drew his hand away, and bowing politely, he said: “Allow me to introduce myself, señorita. I'm Jason de Cordova.”

Sarah's face suffused with colour. She was astounded. This man then was her employer, the man who had contacted Reverend Mother; the man she had thought to be merely an employee!

A cool, amused voice broke into her reverie, and she looked up in surprise. A small but startlingly beautiful figure had walked through another archway which led to the apartments to the right of the huge hall. She was dressed in an elegant silk dress of various shades of purple which suited her dark colouring to perfection; her small dainty feet were encased in very high-heeled sandals and on her fingers and wrists and round her throat sparkled a veritable fortune in diamonds.

“My dear,” said the voice, tinklingly but icily, “I can see from your expression that you thought my husband was one of his own employees!” Sarah blushed anew in confusion and embarrassment, and the woman went on: “It's quite understandable, of course. He dresses like a peasant because he is a peasant, aren't you, querido?”

CHAPTER TWO

SARAH did not dare to look at Jason. She had never felt so de trop in all her life, and she would never have believed that such hate and passion could be conveyed in one simple sentence. The woman was obviously waiting to see what reaction her remark had had, and Sarah sought about wildly in her mind for a reply. But what was there to say?

To her relief, Jason himself spoke, but not to his wife. “Romulus, take Miss Winter to her room, please. And have Constancia go to her in half an hour to bring her down to meet Señora de Cordova. Señora Serena de Cordova.”

“Yes, señor.” They had spoken in English and Sarah moved swiftly to follow the manservant up the stairs. She had not been introduced to the woman down there in the hall, but just now she had no desire to be so. There was a bewildered feeling in her heart and stomach, and she needed time to digest the events of the last few minutes. It had been startling enough to discover Jason de Cordova's identity, without the advent of his wife and her revelations. The children had silently disappeared at the sound of Señora de Cordova's voice, and Sarah thought she did not blame them. In truth that was what she had wanted to do. How could any woman speak to her husband like that? And in front of a stranger? It was inhuman.

Romulus looked rather compassionately at her as he led her into her room which was along the left hand passage at the top of the flight of stairs. The passage was lined with portraits of earlier members of the Cordova family, but Sarah had taken little notice of them. She was too absorbed with her thoughts, and with the feeling of apprehension which had descended on her.

After Romulus had taken his departure, she looked round her room with pleasure. Unlike the rather austere quarters she had occupied at the convent, this room was positively luxurious, with a thickly waxed floor strewn with woollen rugs which she suspected had been hand-made here on the island. The rugs were in vivid colours which complemented the light Swedish furniture and the orange and yellow curtains The adjoining bathroom which Romulus had told her was for her personal use was just as luxurious, with a deep step-in bath and shower attachment, and taps of beaten gold.

Back in her bedroom she discovered the wide french doors opened on to a balcony which was at the side of the house which overlooked the stretch of lawn behind which a swimming pool glimmered greenly in the sunlight. To the right she could see the sea, blue and transparent, the line of the reef vaguely visible from this distance. Nearer, the breakers surfed in to the shore and disappeared on sands as white as Sarah's silvery hair.

She spun round, hugging herself again, unable to prevent the surge of freedom she suddenly experienced. Whatever problems she might have to cope with here, she felt sure she had done the right thing in coming. Until this moment, she realised, she had never known what it was like to be really free, free to eat when she liked and sleep when she liked and act as she liked. For although she was employed as a governess they did not own her spirit as the sisters at the convent had seemed to do, and there was no one to whom she felt she owed her existence. She would support herself, and be independent!

With great daring she stripped off her clothes and stood for a moment studying her reflection in the long wardrobe mirror. Until now, she had never considered herself attractive to men, but suddenly she realised that she was twenty-two and a woman, and that there was more to life than she had ever dreamed.

Smiling at her thoughts, she wrapped the massive orange bath-towel sarong-wise round her body, and marched into the bathroom to take a shower.

Constancia was a pleasant-faced pretty girl of obviously mixed parentage. Although she was more Spanish than African in features, her hair was as tightly curled as Romulus's, and she had a rather squat nose, but Sarah took an immediate liking to her.

Sarah had bathed and was dressed now in a loose shift of a honey-beige colour which she had made herself, and she had combed out her long hair and rewound it in the coronet of plaits. She wore only a coral lipstick for make-up and looked young and fresh and ready for anything.

“La señorita es muy hermosa,” said Constancia admiringly, and Sarah, understanding this simple phrase, replied:

“Thank you. I feel rather nervous.”

Constancia smiled. “You speak Spanish?” she asked haltingly.

“Only very little,” admitted Sarah. “Do you understand English?”

Constancia's teeth were very white as she laughed. “Si, I understand English. But I do not speak well.”

“I think you do very well,” remarked Sarah, and then glancing round the room to see that everywhere was tidy, she said: “I only brought a change of clothes in my bag with me. When will my suitcases arrive from the ship?”

Constancia spread wide her hands. “Eh, eh,” she said, rolling her eyes. “That lazy pig, Abraham Smith, will send them when he gets round to it. Do not worry, señorita. If they have not arrived by … lunch … they will be sent for. The señor will not forget.”

“Thank you,” Sarah smiled. “Shall we go?”

She followed Constancia out of the room and along the corridor to the head of the stairs. As they went down, Sarah was relieved to see that the hall below was empty. She did not desire another encounter with her employer's wife for the moment. It was nearing lunch time and she wondered what the arrangements for meals would be. If there was to be a schoolroom perhaps she and the children would eat there. She expected she would be shown their rooms later.

She began wondering what the children's mother would be like. She hoped she would be far different from her employer's wife. That aspect of the situation had not occurred to her either, and it seemed that her only thoughts had been of whether she would like it here and not whether they would like her.

They passed along a marble-tiled corridor at the foot of the stairs leading to the opposite side of the house from that which the Señora de Cordova seemed to inhabit, and Sarah breathed a sigh of relief and began taking a more concentrated interest in her surroundings. There were several statuettes of saints which they passed, and a magnificent portrait of the Virgin and Child which caught her interest. That this was a Catholic household she was left in no doubt, and she wondered whether they were expecting her to be a Catholic and whether it would present any problems. Deciding not to worry about something which had not as yet happened, she stiffened her shoulders, and prayed that Serena de Cordova was a pleasant Spanish female of middle years, with no pretensions to intrigue whatsoever.

At the far end of the corridor, when Sarah was beginning to wonder how much farther they were going, Constancia stopped before a white door, and tapped gently.

“Si,” called a voice, and Constancia smiled encouragingly at Sarah.

She pushed open the door, and said: La Señorita Winter, señora,” and ushered Sarah into the room.

As the door closed behind her, Sarah found herself in a spacious lounge, overlooking the terrace at the front of the house, and beyond to the fruit trees visible in the gardens. The ceiling was high and arched, and the plain cream walls were a background for the scarlet leather armchairs and ebony furniture. The french doors stood open admitting a cool breeze, and Sarah for a moment was so absorbed in her surroundings that she did not take a great deal of notice of the woman on the low couch.

And then, transfixed, her eyes met those of Serena de Cordova, and she hardly suppressed the gasp of pure astonishment that almost escaped her. Serena de Cordova was of mixed blood, a very beautiful woman, but the complete antithesis of any of Sarah's speculations. It seemed to Sarah that for a brief instant time stood still as she stared at the mother of the three children she had met earlier, and then gathering her composure, she said:

“You must forgive me. But nobody prepared me for this!”

Serena rose to her feet. She was almost as tall as Sarah and was dressed in a green satin pyjama suit, a long cigarette holder with a cigarette smouldering at its tip between her fingers.

She studied Sarah for a moment in silence, and then she said:

“Well, at least you're honest. Didn't Jason explain?”

“He – well –” Sarah ran a tongue over her dry lips. “To be honest, I mistook him for somebody else. We didn't speak of you or the children on the trip up from the harbour.”

Serena indicated an armchair and said: “Sit down, please.” She drew on her cigarette. “You found Jason quite unconventional, I gather.”

Her English was almost faultless and Sarah wondered how she had come to have such a good education if she had been born here on the island.

“Yes, I suppose I did.”

Serena smiled. “Don't concern yourself. Jason can be as correct as any Englishman if the situation demands it. Now, tell me about yourself. Have you had much experience with young children? I should warn you, my children are quite uncontrollable by anyone except Jason, and he doesn't have the time to spend with them.”

“I've already encountered the children,” said Sarah, relaxing under the other woman's casual manner. “They seemed to resent my coming here. Have they had previous governesses?”

“No. You're the first. Eloise, as you'll have been informed, is eight now, and can't read or write. She's quite sharp at picking things up orally, but the written word means nothing to her,”

“Have you tried to teach the children yourself?”

“Me?” Serena sounded flabbergasted. “Good lord, no! I'm no schoolmistresss!”

Sarah wanted to ask her what she did with herself all day, but it would have sounded impertinent. And yet, coming from a household where every member was supplied with tasks to be performed every day, Serena's life sounded quite empty and pointless. “I see,” she said.

Serena lounged back on to the couch and picked herself a handful of grapes from a nearby fruit bowl.

“Jason has been spending a little time with them,” she said, munching the grapes speculatively. “But they're getting too old to be left to run free all day long. Not that there's much else for them to do here.”

“Were you born on the island, señora?” asked Sarah tentatively.

“Here? Me?” Serena laughed. “No, I come from Trinidad. My parents own an hotel there. That's how I met Antonio – he stayed at the hotel. He left the island, too, you know. Sold out to Jason years ago and went to Port of Spain to make his fortune. Needless to say he didn't succeed, and when we got married we came back here so that Antonio could work for Jason.”

Sarah swallowed hard. In two minutes Serena had told her quite a lot about herself and explained her different attitudes.

“I would have liked to go back to Trinidad,” went on Serena, sighing a little, “but my parents haven't room for me and three kids as well, and besides, how would I support them?”

Sarah nodded. Serena's dilemma was quite understandable. Besides, if Jason was fond of the children, it seemed unlikely that he would allow this girl to take them to another island where he would not be able to supervise their upbringing. They were his brother's children, and from what she had gathered from the solicitors in London, he was their guardian as well.

Looking at the other woman, she realised that she must be at least twenty-five, but she looked little more than a teenager. She was very slim and boyish in appearance, and her curly hair had been allowed to grow and was a mass of ebony confusion about her small face. She was elegant but unsophisticated; a mother yet a child still.

“And what do you suggest the arrangements should be?” asked Sarah, reverting to less personal matters. “When will I have charge of the children? Where will we take our meals?”

Serena drew on her cigarette and watched a smoke ring disappear in the air above her head. “Now, let me see,” she said slowly. “The children and yourself, of course, will eat lunch with me here, in the adjoining dining room. They always eat lunch with me, so I see no reason to change that state of affairs, do you?”

“No, señora,” Sarah agreed.

“Good. As to the other, I think you'd better wait and let Jason give you your instructions. You're his employee, not mine. Although,” her eyes grew a little taunting, “I have the say-so as to whether you stay or go.”

Sarah flushed, and at once Serena leaned forward and touched her hand, like a child asking for forgiveness when it knows it has done something wrong. “Of course you'll stay,” she said, leaning back against the red upholstery. “I like you. You're my own age. It will be nice to have someone other than that bitch Irena in the house. Have you met dear Irena?”

Sarah's colour deepened. “That is Señor de Cordova's wife?”

“Yes.”

“I … er … we met as I arrived.”

Serena grimaced. “Old cow!” she muttered, stubbing out her cigarette and leaning forward to take another from the ebony box on the table.

Sarah clasped her fingers together. She did not want to become involved in a discussion about her employer's wife. Their personal affairs were nothing to do with her. Her only concern was the children.

She was relieved when a shadow appeared in the French doorway, and they looked up to see a small, attractive Spanish girl standing there. She was dressed in a flame-coloured swirling skirt and a peasant-type off-the-shoulder blouse of white chiffon. Her dark hair was short and straight and shaped her head like a cap of black velvet.

“Serena,” she said, smiling vividly, “darling how are you?”

She came forward and smoothly kissed the other girl's cheek before turning to Sarah and giving her the benefit of her gleaming smile, which Sarah privately thought was rather too effusive.

“You must be the Señorita Winter!” she exclaimed. “But you are so young! Whatever has Jason been thinking of, Serena?”

Sarah hated to be treated as though she were a child, and that was exactly the impression which this girl was creating, so she rose stiffly to her feet and said: “The señor seemed quite prepared to give me a trial.”

The girl's laugh trilled merrily. “My dear, don't be so quick to take offence.”

“This is Señorita Dolores Diaz,” said Serena, intervening. “Her father and Jason are partners in the distillery. Dolores is a good friend of mine.”

Sarah shook hands with the other girl, but felt strangely intuitive that this Spanish girl's assumed friendship with Serena was merely a ruse to gain access to this house. But why? Shrugging these thoughts away, Sarah allowed herself to be wafted into a seat again, while Serena rang a bell and summoned the African housemaid who appeared to bring them pre-lunch aperitifs.

Sarah, who did not smoke, watched the other two girls light cigarettes, and seated together begin to discuss the coming fiesta which was to take place on the island.

“There is even to be a bullfight this year,” said Dolores proudly. “Have you ever seen a bullfight, Miss Winter?”

Sarah shook her head. “I'm afraid not. Have you?”

Dolores clasped her hands excitedly. “But of course. I have visited Spain, you understand, and in the great bullring in Madrid I saw El Cordobes.”

Recognising the name of the famous young bullfighter, Sarah nodded her understanding. “I don't think I would like to see a bullfight,” she said quietly. “I'm afraid I'm very English. I don't like blood sports.”

“And yet you hunt the fox until it is caught and torn to pieces by the hounds,” exclaimed Dolores, at once.

“Not me,” said Sarah, with a half-smile. “And we do have societies that try to prevent that sort of thing.”

“Pah!” Dolores said something in Spanish which Sarah felt sure was not very pleasant, and Serena, seeing the flashing eyes of her Spanish friend, said soothingly: “What does it matter, anyway? The subject bores me. Tell me, Dolores, are your family having guests for the fiesta?”

After a while, during which Sarah had been sitting quietly sipping her aperitif, Dolores again turned her attention to her. It seemed that the Spanish girl resented her for some reason, and Sarah hoped she was not going to have to do battle with Dolores Diaz every day.

“You are very young to have undertaken a post so far away from your home,” she said sharply. “Do not your parents object?”

“I have no parents. I was brought up in a convent, by the nuns.”

“I see.” Dolores studied her insolently. “But even so, were these sisters of the faith not concerned that you should journey so far to live with people of whom you know nothing?”

“I had contact with the solicitors in London, and Reverend Mother herself corresponded with Señor de Cordova. Also, Father Sanchez of the church here was a sponsor. What more could I ask?”

Dolores shrugged her slim shoulders delicately. “I am glad I do not have to work. I should not care to be tied to some job all day.”

“To become a teacher one must attend a college,” said Sarah carefully. “I don't suppose the señorita has done this.”

After saying these words, she felt penitent. Had all the nuns’ work been in vain? Why was she behaving like this? It could only be that this haughty Spaniard had got under her skin, and she could not help but retort. Linking her fingers behind her back, she said placatingly: “But of course your education will have been at a good public school, will it not?”

Dolores, who had been looking extremely annoyed, now looked slightly mollified, but her tones were acid, as she replied: “I had a governess from a very early age, and afterwards, as you said, I did attend a public school. But I think that travel is the greatest teacher. Why, to have history and geography unfolding before your eyes instead of in some story book is wonderful! I doubt whether you can claim, as I can, that you have travelled all over the world. You may have read a lot, señorita, and have had a college education, but second-hand knowledge can never be anything else than second-hand!”

Sarah swallowed hard. She would not be baited. She merely smiled, albeit a little tightly, and said: “The señorita is right, of course.”

Dolores was obviously astounded at Sarah's acquiescence, and also a little disappointed, and as it showed in her face, Sarah again felt she had scored a victory. But again she felt rather ashamed of her feelings, and was glad when the maid returned to say that lunch was served.

“You're staying to lunch, of course,” said Serena to Dolores.

“Thank you. I would be delighted,” Dolores smiled prettily, and Sarah compressed her lips and followed the other two through the double doors which led into the dining room.

The dining room, although smaller than the huge lounge, was a long room with a polished mahogany dining table set with place mats and shining silver cutlery. Cut glass wine glasses were set at every place, and the sun glinted on the bone china plates and dishes. As they entered the room, the three children appeared from the direction of the garden, through open terrace doors where was glimpsed the sweep of lawn and pool. Their red shirts and shorts were stained with earth and sea water, and their once-tidy hair now looked rough and uncombed. Their faces were smudged and sticky, and they looked defiantly in Sarah's direction as though expecting some horrified reaction from her.

But in this they were disappointed, for it was not Sarah who gasped in disgust, but Dolores. “Serena! Surely these children do not expect to take lunch in that condition!”

Serena gave them a cursory glance, and turning to a tall manservant who was attending to the food on a serving table, she said: “Max, take these horrors to Constancia. She'll deal with them.”

“Oh, but no!” exclaimed Eloise, and lapsing into Spanish she launched into a tirade of anger. “Tengo hambre!”

Serena shrugged indifferently. “You should have thought of that before you got yourselves in this state,” she replied easily.

Sarah bit her lip. No wonder the children were rebellious if they were left in the charge of servants all the time. Did not Serena have any interest in them at all? It did not sound as though she was greatly concerned.

“I'll take them,” she offered. “If you'll tell me where to go.”

Serena looked at her askance, and then shrugged. “All right. Max will show you then. Go along, Max. Anna can see to that.”

Sarah followed Max and the three children out of the room. They did not welcome her intervention, that much was obvious from the glances which were cast in her direction, and she wondered why they resented her so much. After all, they did not even know her!

Max led the way down the corridor, to where, at a bend, a flight of stairs led upwards. “The bathroom is to your right at the top of the stairs,” he said, smiling cheerfully. “The children will show you their rooms themselves.”

“Thank you.” Sarah viewed the three youngsters with some trepidation, and then urged them forward.

The bathroom had obviously been re-designed for their needs, for it contained three baths and three washbasins and three sets of towels. The floor was of the same mosaic as in Sarah's bathroom, but here there were no shower fitments. Two of the porcelain baths were pink and the third was blue, and Sarah thought it all quite beautiful. She shut the bathroom door and studied the three mutinous faces before her solemnly.

“Now,” she said, in a firm voice, “we're going to get something straight. I didn't ask to come here, I was employed by your uncle to teach you not only simple lessons, but some social manners as well, and having met you I can see that I'm going to have quite a job.” She looked at them all to make sure they were listening and went on: “If you considered the exhibition you've just made of yourselves down in the dining room would shock me, I should tell you that I've been used to teaching five-year-olds recently, and although Maria comes into that category, you certainly do not.” She was addressing Eloise and Ricardo now.

Eloise shrugged. “If you think I acted like a five-year-old, I will have to think of something worse to do.”

Sarah sighed. “Then tell me why. You don't know me. Why this stupidity?”

Ricardo turned his back on her and walking over to the washbasins he began taking off his clothes. Sarah watched him for a moment, wondering whether he was going to prove he was different from the other two, when something warned her he was hardly likely to have been converted so easily. Her suspicions were proved when he stripped off the last of his clothes and stood naked before her. The two girls turned away, giggling helplessly, and Sarah felt a rising sense of frustration.

“Ricardo,” she said, shaking her head, “what do you intend to do now?”

“Nada!” he replied clearly, and walked to the bathroom door as though intending to walk outside.

“Now wait a minute,” exclaimed Sarah hotly. “Put on your clothes, Ricardo. You're not very amusing.”

Ricardo shrugged and leaned insolently against the bathroom door.

Sarah looked round to find that the girls were watching her with interested eyes and wondered what her best tactics would be. She was half afraid that the girls would follow his example if she did not think of something soon. To attempt to dress him would be admitting defeat when she knew full well he was quite capable of doing so himself.

“Are you going to get dressed?” she asked brightly.

Ricardo shook his head, and Sarah managed a smile. “Very well. As you seem determined to stay that way, I shan't prevent you. However, nude males, no matter how small, do not take lunch in the dining room.”

She filled one of the basins with water from the tap as she was speaking, and seeing them exchange startled glances she squeezed out a soapy face-cloth and carried it across to him. Taking him firmly by the arm, she turned his back to her and applied the face-cloth to his grimy countenance. He resisted vigorously, but Sarah was young and strong, and quite capable of handling him. After he was clean and dry, she threw the face-cloth back into the bowl.

Then, taking him by the arm, she led him out of the bathroom and into the corridor. She did not bother to ask him which was his room. She was sure he would not tell her anyway, and it was easy enough. The heap of boys’ toys in one room confirmed her belief, and she pushed him inside firmly. Keeping a tight hold on him she closed the door.

She drew down the coverlet on his bed, and lifting his struggling body she put him between the sheets and drew them up to his chin. Tears were vying with his anger now, as his dark eyes met hers over the bedclothes. But she would not allow him to see that she felt any regret whatsoever, and merely said: “If you decide you're hungry at teatime, I'm sure if you put on some clothes, you might be fed!”

Ricardo grimaced, and said: “I hate you!”

Sarah raised her eyebrows. “I'm not too keen on you either,” she retorted, and went out swiftly, closing the door.

Then she opened it again, only a few inches, and put her head round. “Oh, and if you do decide to get up and leave this room before teatime, I've got quite a firm hand with a slipper!”

She closed the door firmly, and leant back against it for a moment. What a beginning! She had hardly been here three hours and already one of the children hated her! Stiffening her shoulders, she walked back to the bathroom. Now for the other two!

Eloise and Maria were standing where she had left them, their faces revealing their mixture of anger and fear as she entered. Sarah sighed. This was not what she wanted. She wanted the children to like her, not fear her. But just now, with Ricardo, force had been the only solution. Was that how Jason de Cordova kept order? By brute force? She doubted it. The children seemed to adore him!

“Well,” she said now, “shall we get washed and go down for our lunch? If you're not hungry, I certainly am!”

When they appeared downstairs again, minus one, Serena looked surprised. “But where is Ricardo?” she asked. “Did he not want any dinner?”

“She put him to bed,” said Eloise, glaring at Sarah. “He's not going to be allowed to have any dinner.”

Dolores Diaz looked triumphantly amused, Sarah thought. “Oh, but surely, Miss Winter, you cannot starve the children!”

“In this instance, it was necessary,” replied Sarah calmly. “Please carry on with your lunch. Eloise, Maria and I can catch you up.”

Maria stared at Sarah blankly. “Aren't you going to tell them what he did?” she asked, in her small, childish treble.

Sarah shook her head. “Eat your lunch.”

Dolores could not leave it alone. “What did he do?” she persisted.

“Nothing of consequence,” replied Sarah. “This scampi is delicious, señora.”

And with that Dolores had to be content. Sarah was conscious that both Eloise and Maria exchanged glances, and she hoped they considered her action that of a friend and not an antagonist.

When lunch was over, Serena said: “If you would like to look around, please feel free to do so – outside, I mean,” she added as an afterthought.

Leaving the two other women, Sarah went out through the French doors, seeking the warm air and the sun on her shoulders. Serena had given the girls permission to leave while they were drinking their coffee, and Sarah had no idea where they were now. Serena had also told her that both she and Dolores indulged in the Spanish habit of siesta, and consequently she was free to do as she liked until five o'clock when tea was served for the children and she would be expected to supervise them.

“We take tea, too,” Serena had said, “but lunch is the only meal the children take with me. They're naturally in bed before dinner is served, and I always breakfast in my room. It's up to you whether you want to take your first meal of the day with the brats!”

Both she and Dolores had laughed at this, but Sarah thought it rather sad. Although the children were antagonistic towards her, they seemed to regard their mother with a kind of repressed admiration, and it seemed a pity that she took so little notice of them.

Leaving the formal front terrace, Sarah walked round to the rear of the building, coming upon the sweep of lawn she had seen from her bedroom window. She walked past the swimming pool which looked as though no one ever used it, and reached the copse of trees which hid the stables from the house.

She saw the African stable boy, and said: “Hello. I'm Sarah Winter. I've come to teach the children. Tell me, are there any ponies for them?”

The boy smiled his broad smile. “Me, Jacob,” he said. “No comrendo inglés, señorita!”

Sarah linked her fingers, and in halting Spanish she asked the question again, and this time he smiled firmly and drew her round to the stable doors, over which she could see the three ponies Jason had bought for his nephew and nieces.

“Oh, good!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands. Recently she had learned to ride at a stables near the convent, and perhaps the horses would provide a link between herself and her charges.

She was allowed into the stall and fed the ponies lumps of sugar which Jacob provided for her. She loved the feel of their soft noses nuzzling against her hand, and said so to Jacob, who nodded his approval.

He showed her the two other horses in the stable, and Sarah guessed without being told which was Jason de Cordova's. Like him, Apollo was dark and powerful and handsome, for although Jason's cheek was disfigured by that stark scar, he was nevertheless a very attractive man. She was surprised at her thoughts about her employer. Coming up from the harbour, she had thought him an employee, of the Cordova family, like herself. To find he was himself the head of that family, and also a married man, had been disconcerting; and she could not understand her interest, for hitherto men had meant nothing to her other than separate beings with whom she could discuss her interest in Catholicism. At college she had encountered young men of her own age, but had refused all overtures by them to become closer acquainted. She had had no inclination to delve into any association with a member of the opposite sex.

But Jason de Cordova had been different somehow. She could not understand the strange feeling she experienced when she thought about him, and felt ridiculously aware that in matters of this sort she was very naïve. Altogether, so far, this day had provided her with rather too many surprises to be thoroughly accepted at one go, and she assumed Jason de Cordova had been just another of those surprises. After all, in truth, she had expected an elderly Spaniard, strong in the hauteur and aloofness of generations.

Leaving the stables, Sarah found herself at the top of an incline which led down to the white sand of the beach. The temptation was too great to miss, and with a feeling of anticipation she ran childishly down on to the sands Releasing her feet from her sandals, she ran impulsively to the water's edge, allowing the creaming water to curl about her ankles. It was incredibly warm, and she curled her toes appreciatively. The air was wonderful, and she felt it was great to be alive. This was worth anything she might have to face here – this feeling of complete independence!

When she returned to the house, carrying her sandals in her hand, her face flushed from the sun, she entered the house by the rear terrace, where the glass doors opened into the corridor that led through to the front hall. Hoping she would not encounter anyone in such an untidy state, she walked swiftly through to the staircase, and was about to climb it when a voice which she recognised immediately said: “Señorita Winter, I would like a word with you.”

Swallowing hard, Sarah turned to face her employer's wife, Irena. “Yes, señora,” she said politely.

“Come in here.” The woman indicated a small ante-room which opened from the hall.

Sarah hesitated for only a moment, before preceding the woman into the room. She felt nervous and apprehensive, and hoped this would not be a long interview. She took in little of her surroundings. She was too concerned with the woman before her.

Now Señora de Cordova was wearing a long, quilted satin housecoat in a deep shade of green, which gave her olive complexion rather a sallow appearance, but she was still startlingly lovely, and Sarah wondered why she treated her husband as she did. There was something faintly repulsive about the fanatical gleam in her eyes, and Sarah hoped there was not going to be a scene. She could feel herself growing hotter as the señora's eyes raked her appraisingly, taking in every detail of her crumpled dress, windswept hair and bare feet. Sarah felt enormous beside the delicate fragility of the Spanish woman, who could not have been more than five feet in height even in her high heels.

“Now,” said Irena, her eyes cold, “just where have you been?”

Sarah twisted the strap of the sandal in her hand. “On the beach, señora.”

“I thought as much. And who gave you permission to go on the beach?”

“The Señora Serena told me I might explore. I decided of my own accord to go down to the beach.” Sarah's voice was cool and clear.

“Oh, you did! Well, the beach is private. It's not to be used by so-called governesses!” Her gaze swept Sarah contemptuously. “And while you're in this house, you will refrain from going around looking like a gipsy.”

Sarah compressed her lips. She did not know what to say in reply. Her position here as yet was so nebulous, she did not feel entitled to retaliate.

“Is that all, señora?” she asked politely, longing to escape from the confines of the room, and the aura of cold hauteur which surrounded this woman, along with something else, something more sinister. Irena was quite a frightening person, and to a girl who had rarely come into contact with frigidity, she was doubly so. And yet Sarah did not feel scared so much as repelled.

“Yes, that is all, for now.” Irena stood aside to allow Sarah to leave the room. “But remember what I have said, señorita.”

“Yes, señora,” said Sarah, with relief, and escaped before she could say anything else.

She crossed the hall and mounted the stairs as though the devil himself were at her heels, and once she had reached the sanctity of her room she sank down on to the bed, her legs giving way beneath her. What a day!

Lying back, she stared at the ceiling. She suddenly felt incredibly tired and unwillingly her lids drooped.

When she opened her eyes the room was dark and for a moment she thought she was back in her small room at the convent. Then the sweet scents from the garden, coming through the open windows, reminded her of her situation, and she sat up with a start, reaching for the switch of the bedside lamp.

A glance at her watch confirmed her worst fears. It was almost nine o'clock. She scrambled off the bed, smoothed her creased dress, and noticed irrelevantly that her cases had arrived from the Celeste and had been carefully unpacked for her and the clothes put away. They must have been dealt with during her walk that afternoon, but she had not noticed them earlier.

She was about to open the door and make her way downstairs in an attempt to discover what was going on, when Constancia herself opened the door and smiled her pleasant smile.

“Ah, the señorita is awake! You are hungry, yes? I will bring you a tray. What would you like? There is chicken, or salmon, or shellfish. You tell me what you would like and I will fetch it –”

Sarah lifted her shoulders helplessly. “But, Constancia, I've been asleep for over four hours. I was supposed to supervise the children's tea at five o'clock. Whatever will Señora Serena think of me?”

Constancia moved her hands in a soothing gesture. “Max supervised the children's tea, as he had done for many months now. And the señor said you were not to be disturbed.”

“The señor? Oh!” Sarah pressed the palms of her hands to her hot cheeks. “Did the señor expect to see me?”

Constancia nodded, and then as Sarah began looking agitated, she said in reply: “At six o'clock, before dinner, he asked me to come and fetch you. When I found you were asleep I told the señor, and he gave his instructions. It is natural that you were tired. You have had a long journey and the weather here can be tiring if you are not used to it.”

“Did the señor say that?”

“Si. Do not worry, señorita. The señor is not a slave-driver.”

Sarah smiled and allowed her arms to fall to her sides. “Do you think he'll want to see me now?”

“No, of course not, señorita. Besides, he is not at home. He left after dinner to visit with the Diaz family. He took the Señorita Dolores home.”

“I see.” Sarah felt that strange feeling stirring in her stomach again. She did not know what it was, but it was not pleasant; it was disturbing.

“He told me to tell you that he would see you in his study tomorrow morning at nine o'clock sharp.” Constancia smiled wider. “You will not sleep in tomorrow, señorita. I will see that you have plenty of time to prepare yourself.”

Sarah had to smile in return “And will you show me where his study is, Constancia? I have no idea where to go. And what time do the children have breakfast?”

Constancia shrugged. “Sometimes seven, sometimes eight – why? Surely you do not intend to breakfast with them? Everyone breakfasts in their rooms, except the señor, of course.”

“That's exactly what I do intend,” said Sarah firmly. “After all, I'm not a guest, Constancia. I'm here to work.” She bent her head. “But will you please call me about six-thirty, please, as I doubt whether I shall wake of my own accord.”

“Certainly,” Constancia nodded. “That is the time I begin my work. I will call you then.” She turned to go. “And now you will leave it to me and I will provide you with a delicious supper, si?”

“Very well.” Sarah allowed herself to relax, and with a flourish of her full skirt, Constancia left to get the meal.

Sarah wandered over to her balcony and leaned against the rail listening to the steady lap of the waves. It was a wonderful night. The sky overhead was an arch of dark blue velvet inset with diamonds, while a sickle of a moon floated behind wispy clouds. Never in England had she felt this aching longing to be out in the night, doing something exciting. Faintly, she could hear the sounds of music and voices, far away, and she thought it must be a party going on at one of the other villas. The music was the throbbing beat of the calypso, and Sarah felt she wanted to move in time to its compelling rhythm.

She thought about Dolores Diaz, and wondered whether it was from her home the sounds were coming. Was she there, dancing with Jason de Cordova? Was that why she was so friendly with Serena, to gain access to this house to see the señora? It did not seem unreasonable. The señor and his wife did not seem on the best of terms with one another. Could it be that he was seeking consolation with another woman? The thought was repulsive. She had liked Jason de Cordova, and she did not like to think of him with Dolores Diaz.

Constancia returned to interrupt her reverie and she was glad. Whatver was going on in the personal lives of the occupants of this house was none of her business, and the sooner she realised it the better.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.