Rachel Trevellyan. Anne Mather
other man, but why? What possible reason could he have? Back in England he had been only too eager to agree with everything Luis had said. She could only assume that since arriving in Portugal her husband had known himself home and dry and therefore he had no further need to behave subserviently. This was much more the man she was accustomed to.
‘Nevertheless, senhor, another room will be prepared,’ stated Luis quietly. ‘It is possible that your wife might prefer somewhere that she can undeniably call her own as well as sharing your rooms.’
Malcolm made an indifferent gesture. ‘Very well.’ He looked round. ‘Where’s Joanna?’
Luis stiffened at the familiarity. ‘My mother is no doubt resting, senhor. I suggest you allow Luisa to show you to your suite. We can all meet later in the library before dinner.’
‘All right.’ Malcolm inclined his head and looked round straight into Rachel’s face. ‘You wheel my chair, Rachel. I prefer you to do so.’
Rachel moved to do as he asked and Luis was forced to stand stiffly aside. But she sensed his silent impatience, his annoyance that in his house a woman should be made to do a man’s work when there was a man there capable of doing it. But he made no comment and with a brief bow left them, striding across the hall to take the stairs two at a time.
Luisa led the way down a hall to their left while Mario disappeared outside again to collect their cases. The hall was panelled, inset with narrow windows which overlooked the front courtyard where the fountain played. There were portraits on the opposite wall, grim-looking images of past members of the Martinez family, and Rachel thought how much more attractive the present Marquês was than his predecessors.
Presently Luisa halted before double white doors and throwing them open with a flourish, announced; ‘A sala, senhor, senhora. Is satisfactory?’
Rachel propelled Malcolm’s chair into the room looking about her with enjoyment. It was a large drawing room that they had entered, the polished floor strewn with skin rugs, the furniture all pale hide and coolly comfortable. Crossing the room she was able to see an inner courtyard which could be reached by opening long french doors, and she stared with wonder at the tiled patio outside, with its hanging baskets of hydrangeas and geraniums, and attractive striped garden furniture.
Malcolm had said nothing, looking about him without interest, but Rachel could not contain her enthusiasm.
‘It’s very satisfactory, thank you, Luisa,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m sure we shall be very comfortable here.’
Luisa smiled, her teeth very white against the darkness of her skin. ‘Is good. See!’ She opened another door. ‘The bedroom!’
Rachel looked into the next room and saw it was almost as large as the sala. A soft cream carpet covered the floor, there were lilac hangings at the windows, while the bedspread was of shades of African violet. Adjoining the bedroom was a bathroom also decorated in lilac and pink. Rachel was quite intoxicated by the beauty of it all.
Malcolm was waiting impatiently in his wheelchair, his fingers drumming on the wooden arms. Mario had arrived with their suitcases, but when Luisa offered to unpack for them, Malcolm was rude.
‘There’s no need for that,’ he snapped ungraciously. ‘My wife’s quite capable. Besides, I don’t want anyone poking around in my things. You can go.’
He dismissed them without a word of thanks and Rachel felt terribly embarrassed. She supposed she ought to be used to her husband’s attitude by now, but she was not, and here she had thought he would behave if only to present a façade of geniality.
Luisa and Mario closed the doors behind them and then Malcolm turned on Rachel. ‘What the hell do you mean by making eyes at that Portuguese all the way from the airport?’ he demanded.
Rachel’s lips parted in dismay. ‘What?’ she murmured faintly.
‘Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. Did you honestly imagine I slept all the way here?’
‘I—I—naturally I assumed you were tired.’ Rachel was too shocked to be retaliatory.
‘Well, I wasn’t. Not that tired, anyway.’
Rachel tried desperately to remember what she and Luis Martinez had spoken about on the journey. Her clothes, of course, but mostly they had argued. There had been no occasion when Malcolm could have imagined that the Marquês de Mendao was aware of her in any other way than that of the wife of a friend of his mother’s. Except for that moment at the foot of the drive ...
‘I think you’re the one who’s imagining things, Malcolm,’ she said carefully, dropping her shoulder bag on to a damask-covered ottoman. ‘Senhor Martinez and I spoke very little on the journey from the airport, and as you’ve seen to it that he regards me with scarcely veiled contempt, I fail to see how you can accuse me of making eyes at him!’
Malcolm stared at her for a long moment. ‘But you are attracted to him, aren’t you?’
Rachel gasped. ‘Of course not.’ Her expression hardened. ‘I’m not attracted by any man!’
Malcolm’s face grew ugly. ‘Well, see it stays that way. Or by God, I’ll find some way to make you pay——’
‘Please, Malcolm!’ Rachel pressed her arms about her thin body. ‘I’ve told you, you have no need to concern yourself about me.’
A little of the tension left him. ‘No. No, I suppose you’re right. In any case, a man like Martinez wouldn’t look at somebody like you, even without——’
He broke off abruptly and Rachel’s eyes narrowed. ‘Even without what, Malcolm? Exactly what have you been telling him?’
Malcolm shrugged. ‘This and that.’
‘How did you explain—our marriage? Surely being married to someone so much younger than yourself hardly enhances your image.
Malcolm’s thin lips quirked. ‘There are ways of making the most of every situation,’ he replied.
Rachel sighed. It Was obvious he had no intention of telling her anything. And in any case, did she want to know? Wasn’t it better to remain in ignorance than to hear something which might make her feel even more embarrassed in Luis Martinez’s presence?
‘Now, get me out of these clothes,’ commanded Malcolm, unfastening his tie and the top two buttons of his collar. ‘I’m almost roasting alive.’
‘What are you going to wear this evening for dinner?’ Rachel asked, as she went forward to help him slide his arms out of his jacket.
Malcolm tugged his braces off his shoulders and made an indifferent movement of his head. ‘I don’t know. I may not join them for dinner. I can always feign tiredness after the journey.’
Rachel took charge of the chair to wheel it into the bedroom. ‘You surely don’t expect me to join them alone,’ she exclaimed.
‘No!’ He was adamant on that score. ‘No, indeed. You’ll stay here with me like the dutiful wife you are. I didn’t bring you here to Mendao for your amusement, Rachel.’
Rachel stopped the chair beside the bed and came round to face him. ‘Exactly why did you bring me, Malcolm?’
Her husband began levering himself forward in the chair and she helped him on to the bed. ‘You’re my wife, Rachel. I own you, don’t forget that. I wasn’t going to leave you behind in Mawvry!’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not blind, Rachel. I’ve seen the way men look at you. That Bart Thomas, for example.’
‘I’m not interested in the way any man looks at me!’ she declared. ‘You should know that.’
‘Huh!’ Malcolm stared at her impatiently. ‘That’s what you tell me. But how should I know what goes on inside that head of yours?’