Dark Ransom. Sara Craven
prefer formality?’ Amusement quivered in his voice.
She said shortly, ‘I would prefer to be elsewhere.’
‘You don’t like my house? It has an interesting history. It was built originally by my great grandfather at the height of the rubber boom in our country. Our fortune was founded on the hévea—the rubber tree.’
‘Of course,’ Charlie said instantly. ‘Manaus—the opera house and all those fantastic mansions. They were all built by rubber millionaires.’
‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘For a while Manaus must have been the richest city in South America. The mistake lay in thinking the outside world would not want a share in such riches.’ He paused, and Charlie shifted uncomfortably, remembering that it had been British botanists who’d brought the first rubber tree seedlings out of Brazil to Kew Gardens, and ultimately to Malaysia.
He went on levelly, ‘While the industry declined, my family’s concern for the house and the plantation dwindled also, as they diversified their interests into other fields. They were not alone in that. Many similar homes have been allowed to die—to go back to the jungle. I decided that should not happen here.’
‘It’s certainly very impressive.’ Charlie glanced around her. ‘Have you lived here long?’ She sounded very prim and English, she thought with irritation. In a minute she’d be discussing the weather.
There was another silence, then he said, ‘A year—two years. It suits me to spend this part of my life here.’ His eyes didn’t leave her face. ‘And you, Carlotta. Why did you come to Brazil?’
She supposed the simple answer to that was ‘for adventure’, but she’d already had far more of that than she could handle, so she hesitated.
She said slowly, ‘I suppose you could say … I came to find someone.’
‘A man?’ He drew a pack of cheroots from the breast pocket of his shirt and lit one from the branched candlestick that illuminated the table.
Charlie was taken aback. She’d really meant herself, but there was a slight truth in what he’d said.
‘I don’t think that concerns you.’
‘Then I have my answer.’
‘I don’t see why you needed to ask the question,’ Charlie said with a slight snap.
His brows lifted. ‘You are staying in my house,’ he pointed out with deceptive mildness. ‘Am I not, then, permitted a certain curiosity about you?’
‘As our acquaintance will be short, probably not.’
‘Sometimes when the storms are bad we are trapped here for weeks,’ he said softly, and laughed at her alarmed expression.
She said crossly, ‘My entire holiday has been spoiled, and you think it’s funny.’
‘I am not altogether amused.’ He drew on his cheroot. ‘As for the ruin of your vacation—well, I shall have to try and make that up to you in some way.’
‘Please don’t put yourself to any further trouble,’ Charlie said dispiritedly. She had more or less abandoned hope of seeing the Manoela or her luggage again, and thanked her stars that she’d been travelling light. When she got back to Mariasanta, she thought, she would catch any boat that offered to Manaus, and spend the rest of her holiday in the civilised confines of Rio.
‘So, in England, Carlotta, where do you live?’
‘In the south.’ She paused. ‘If you must call my by my first name, I’m generally known as Charlie.’
‘Charlie?’ he repeated. ‘But that is a man’s name.’
Charlie shrugged. ‘Nevertheless, that’s what they call me.’
‘And who are “they”?’
‘My family—friends—the people I work for. Well, not all of them,’ she amended with a slight sigh, remembering Mrs Hughes.
‘You live in a city?’
‘Heavens, no. In quite a small town—what we call a market town.’
‘And what is this work you do?’
The Inquisition is alive, well, and living in Brazil, she thought resignedly.
‘I look after people,’ she said shortly.
His brows lifted. ‘It must be very well paid—if you can afford a vacation such as this.’
‘This is a once-in-a-lifetime trip,’ she said. ‘From now on I’ll stick to the Greek Islands. I’ve never been abducted there.’
‘You still claim that is what happened.’ His smile annoyed her.
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ she returned with something of a snap.
‘Without a doubt.’ There was a trace of grimness in his tone. ‘So, where did you meet with Fay? In this market town of yours?’
She looked at him in astonishment. ‘I met her here in Brazil—on the Manoela. She boarded at Manaus. I’d joined the boat at Belém.’
He examined his cheroot as if it fascinated him. ‘So, you had never met before, and you were just … travelling companions. Tell me, did you find a great deal to talk about together?’
‘Not really,’ Charlie said wryly. ‘We didn’t actually have a great deal in common.’
Fay certainly hadn’t been a woman’s woman, she thought, and he must know that. On the other hand, perhaps he just needed to talk about her.
She found herself saying awkwardly, ‘She was very beautiful. I—I hope you aren’t too disappointed …’ She hesitated, aware that she was getting into deep water.
He said silkily, ‘Are you asking if I was in love with her? The answer is no. Does that set your mind at rest?’
Why should it? Charlie wondered, discreetly smothering a yawn with her hand. His private life was none of her business. She’d just been trying to make conversation.
But now the events of the day, coupled with the meal she had eaten, were beginning to catch up with her, and she felt desperately sleepy.
She drank the rest of her coffee, and pushed back her chair. She said politely, ‘I’d like to go to my room now, if you don’t mind.’ She gave him a strained smile. ‘Boa noite.’
He flicked some ash from the end of his cheroot. ‘Até logo, Carlotta.’
She wasn’t familiar with the phrase, but presumed it meant ‘sleep well’.
She said, ‘I hope so very much,’ and forced another smile.
In the bedroom a lamp had been lit beside the bed, and the covers had been turned down. In addition to the mesh screens, shutters had been drawn across the windows.
Charlie thought sadly about her light cotton pyjamas on board the Manoela. She’d noticed there were no nightgowns among the froth of silk and lace lingerie that Riago da Santana had provided for his lover.
‘Surplus to requirements, I suppose,’ she muttered. But, whatever the world did, she just wasn’t used to sleeping in the nude. It was just another aggravating aspect of this whole miserable mess, she thought as she slid under the fine linen sheet, determinedly closing her eyes.
Yet she found sleep elusive. The rain seemed to have stopped, but the air was warm and still, as if threatening more storms, and this made her uneasy. She’d pushed away the elaborately embroidered coverlet, wrapping herself in the sheet alone.
‘Relax,’ she told herself impatiently. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’
And, even as she accepted her own reassurance, the door opened and Riago da Santana sauntered