Indiscretion Page 14

  Salvador himself walked with the air of someone who’d decided to take a holiday from a usually stressed life. For once, he seemed relaxed, almost carefree. ‘Que bonito es hacer nada, y leugo descansar, how beautiful it is to do nothing and then rest afterwards, as the proverb goes. That phrase could have been coined specially for the Sevillians, I think.’ He turned to her, his eyes alight with a twinkling expression she’d not seen in them before.

  ‘It’s not a sentiment you can relate to?’

  ‘Me?’

  He laughed and turned again to look at her. This time the steady grey pupils reflected a gravity akin to melancholy that went straight to Alexandra’s heart, reminding her of the way they’d looked at the church in Santa María. ‘I’m always too busy, and too restless in any case to enjoy such a leisurely pastime …’ But it didn’t last. He was grinning again, she noticed, in that same lighthearted way as he surveyed the passing crowds.

  Alexandra took in Salvador’s physique as they strolled. She had never had the opportunity to survey her cousin in broad daylight until now. Her first impression when they had met on the night of the ball had been one of height; now this was reinforced as he strode alongside her, towering above the crowd in his impeccably tailored clothes. His handsome Grecian profile was brooding and imperious under a shock of jet-black hair. Stealing a furtive look at his tanned complexion that gave a strange luminosity to his steel-grey eyes, Alexandra realized how unusually changeable those eyes were, varying in tone according to the mood he was in. She wasn’t sure whether they affected her most when they reflected the stormy skies of winter or when they mirrored the cobalt-blue depths of the Mediterranean Sea.

  What should she make of his many contradictions? He exuded a mixture of strength and vulnerability, candour combined with reserve, confidence tinged with shyness. How should she take his quirky smile, which sometimes revealed a playful humour and at others a sort of gentle disenchantment? Add to this his dignified and somewhat solemn bearing and courteous manners and, without doubt, Salvador was the most seductive man she had ever met.

  They finally turned into la Calle de Sierpes, a narrow cobbled Moorish-looking street where no wheels were allowed and which consisted entirely of pavement. It was lined with historic old houses that seemed to Alexandra the very setting for romance, with their colourful façades, elaborate casement windows and ornate balconies. Salvador pointed out the grandest, at the head of the street: the place where Cervantes was once held prisoner because of his debts. Now a bank, the Royal Audiencia’s sixteenth-century façade was a dignified mixture of umber-coloured brick and white mouldings, making Alexandra wonder what dark and desolate tales were hidden behind its old walls.

  ‘Why is this street named after snakes? It seems rather odd,’ she observed, looking at the narrow and short layout of la Calle des Sierpes.

  Salvador grinned wolfishly. ‘Ah, one of the city’s many legends. The story goes that, some time in the sixteenth century, the children of Seville began to disappear and no one could fathom who was abducting or murdering them. It was a prisoner from the Royal Jail, trying to escape, who dug down into the sewers beneath the prison and found the bodies. It was a twelve-metre snake that had been dragging the children into the sewers and eating them. The prisoner killed the giant serpent and they made him a hero. What do you think of that?’

  ‘I think that in Seville crime does appear to pay on occasions.’ She looked at him mischievously.

  Salvador laughed, his eyes sparkling. ‘Well, you know what they say: the devil’s children have the devil’s luck.’

  ‘So they say.’ Her eyes met his and then she looked away, slowing her pace to absorb the view of the colourful street. ‘It’s so full of life here, I can hardly take it all in.’

  On either side, low stalls in front of intriguing shops spilled out on to the kerb. Shopkeepers sat on stools, idly chatting or smoking a pungent type of cigar. From time to time, one of them would glance slyly at Alexandra out of the corner of his eye and mutter appreciatively under his breath. As a rare foreigner in Andalucía, she inevitably attracted comments and she was aware of her companion tensing, barely perceptibly, at every remark made. His face had hardened slightly, and once or twice she caught sight of him glaring dangerously at one of these vocal admirers, instantly silencing the upstart.

  ‘They have an air of infinite leisure,’ Alexandra remarked to Salvador, trying to hide her amusement, ‘as if they’ve been there since time began and will continue until it ends.’

  Salvador’s expression relaxed. ‘Sevillians, like all Andalucíans, learn early the Arab maxim: life is shorter than death.’

  Alexandra hadn’t heard this saying before; it seemed just the sort of thing the cheerfully morbid Spaniards would use, but she kept that thought to herself.

  They wandered through a labyrinth of alleys, shaded by plane trees and purple jacarandas, into a plaza full of quaint eating-places. Above one of the doorways of an old government building, Alexandra noticed a carving in the stonework.

  ‘Salvador, look there. I’ve seen that sign all over the city. What does it mean?’ She pointed to the carved letters ‘NO8DO’. The middle figure, an eight, had been represented like a piece of yarn. They paused in front of the doorway and she felt him standing close as he folded his arms.

  ‘That rebus appears on Seville’s coat of arms and their flag. It provides the city’s motto. The knot is the madeja … so if you read aloud “No madeja do”, it sounds like “No me ha dejado”, which means, “It has not abandoned me”, meaning Seville. The people of Seville were awarded the coat of arms in the thirteenth century after they refused to back Sancho IV when he tried to usurp the throne from his father, Alfonso X. They remained loyal to their scholar-poet king.’ Salvador glanced sideways at her. ‘It’s a legend based on the idea of fidelity and honour.’

  ‘How rare to find such tenacity in a people.’

  His chin lifted a fraction. ‘Not where Spaniards are concerned,’ he said, almost arrogantly. ‘Historically, Sevillians are among the proudest and most passionate people in our country. After all, Seville is famous for its Flamenco, its bullfighting, its fiestas …’ He paused. ‘Everything we Andalucíans do, we do with intensity.’

  His voice had taken on that deep, smooth sound with the knack of obliterating all thought, causing her head to spin. Alexandra gazed up at the carving, deliberately not looking his way, but felt him watching her.

  She tried to focus. Her mind went back to Esmeralda and the secret the young woman was keeping, even from her brother. ‘This sense of honour is so very particular, don’t you think?’ she said, still not meeting his gaze. He was standing so close that their arms were nearly touching.

  ‘But of course, Alexandra. What is a man, Spanish or otherwise, without honour? The nobleman has his code of honour, as does the gypsy, but at its root lies the same thing: duty. A responsibility to one’s family and dependants, to behave with dignity and courage in all things … and to fight for what is right.’

  ‘It sounds positively medieval.’ Alexandra smiled casually as she spoke but when she turned to look at him, his eyes were silver-bright and ardent, almost feverish. Her mouth went dry.

  Salvador took her elbow and her heart leapt at the gentle but firm contact of his fingers. ‘Come, Seville is also famous for its food, and we’re in the perfect place.’

  Stopping at a tavern, they sat outside under a bright red awning, sipping sangria and eating a few olives, shrimps and other tapas that Salvador ordered. Most of Seville appeared to have congregated there to do much the same thing or to stroll aimlessly in groups of three or four.

  Salvador grinned, showing off a flash of even, white teeth. ‘As you must have gathered, the favourite pastime in Seville is watching the crowds go by. There is in each Andalucían, and particularly in every Sevillian, something of the voyeur and something of the exhibitionist.’

  ‘I find this carefree and happy atmosphere intoxicating,’ Alexandra admitted, sud
denly elated by the lively bustle of the café and the strange perfection of this city.

  ‘I hope you’re enjoying your stay at El Pavón …’ Salvador drained his glass of sangria and surveyed her. ‘After your glittering life in London, our remote corner of the world must seem rather dull.’

  Alexandra was about to comment sarcastically that, on the contrary, since her arrival she had been greatly entertained by him and various members of his family, but instead she bit her tongue. ‘I find the change refreshing,’ she merely replied. ‘It seems as if your life at the hacienda is anything but boring.’

  This seemed to catch her companion off guard. He sat just a few feet away and his metallic gaze held hers across the table. For a lightning second the brooding, taciturn man she had glimpsed a few times before reappeared but this lapse of self-control was so brief it might have been an illusory trick of the light, or perhaps Alexandra’s own fertile imagination. In the momentary silence that followed, he never took his eyes off her face.

  ‘I would like to show you the Alcázar,’ he said, choosing not to answer her question and gesturing for the bill. ‘The visitor at first may take it to be a Moorish palace. Actually, it was the Christian kings who built it on an old Moorish site, of which almost nothing remains today. It’s interesting to see to what extent Christianity in Spain has been influenced by Arab culture and by Moorish habits and customs.’ He stared at her intently again. ‘Do you like Moorish architecture?’

  ‘This is my first visit to Spain, so I’ve not experienced it firsthand, but I’ve read extensively about its mixed architecture and the pictures I’ve seen have always caught my admittedly rather romantic imagination.’ She laughed somewhat shyly. ‘Isn’t there a legend associated with this palace?’ She remembered having read that somewhere.

  A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘You mean the love story of Pedro the Cruel and María de Padilla?’

  She frowned, convinced she had read something about this. ‘I thought that Pedro the Cruel was in love with another María, the one who burned her own face.’

  ‘You are referring to María Coronel,’ he corrected.

  This time she raised her eyebrows. ‘Was Pedro the Cruel in love with two Marías?’ The moment the words were out, she wished them unsaid. Her expression and the shocked tone of her voice seemed hopelessly naïve but it was too late to retract them.

  ‘That’s right.’ He gratified her with a brilliant grin. ‘Didn’t you know that in Andalucía, love is as inconstant as it is passionate and jealous? A liking for the harem has been handed down to us through centuries of Moorish civilization.’

  Alexandra heard the barely concealed relish in her cousin’s voice. I asked for that, and he’s enjoying this now, she thought. All the same, she laughed, hoping it didn’t ring as hollow in Salvador’s ears as it did in her own. ‘I never know when to take you seriously.’

  ‘But I’m very serious, dear little cousin.’ Salvador’s voice was even, an enigmatic smile touching his lips. His eyes had lost their steely edge and had deepened, as they sometimes did, into a Mediterranean blue. Gleaming, they held a hint of mischief as they scanned her face and Alexandra had no doubt that he was laughing at her. ‘The legend tells of how at first Pedro the Cruel fell in love with Doña María Coronel but she was married to another. He condemned her husband to death but promised to spare him if his wife was accommodating. She refused to yield to him and her husband was executed. She sought refuge in a convent but Pedro the Cruel tracked her down. In despair, she burned her own face, thus putting an end to the accursed love that her beauty had inspired. Don Pedro then consoled himself with María de Padilla.’

  Alexandra shuddered. ‘What a dreadful story!’

  He regarded her provocatively. ‘If the preferred love is unavailable then what can you do but seek out another to soothe your soul?’

  ‘So much for your famous Andalucían fidelity and passion. Not my idea of romance, I’m afraid.’ She tried not to read into his words the whisperings of her own uneasiness: that she was perhaps merely his own diversion, a plaything because Isabel was not available to him.

  Salvador, seemingly oblivious to her concerns, simply grinned. ‘Legends blossom spontaneously on our fertile Spanish soil, each one more fantastic than the other. Like I said before, we Andalucíans do everything with intensity.’ He laughed, taking great pleasure in tantalizing her, but Alexandra had given up. She would remain casually detached and not leave herself open to any more of her cousin’s teasing banter, she had decided.

  They left the café and took a leisurely stroll south through bright, tree-lined streets, eventually arriving at the Alcázar. Alexandra was dazzled by this palace straight out of One Thousand and One Nights, with its vast rooms covered in glazed tiles. Never before had she seen so many marble columns, arabesques, arcades, galleries and cool, echoing corridors. They walked through the silent gardens covered in clouds of roses, laden with the pungent scents of myrtle hedges and the sweet balmy breath of orange blossom.

  ‘This is the chamber of “Las Doncellas,”’ explained Salvador as they were admitted into yet another sumptuously decorated room to the side of a magnificent courtyard.

  ‘I presume this is the room where ladies received visitors,’ she suggested.

  Salvador shook his head. ‘No, not exactly.’

  She turned to him abruptly and met the cobalt blue eyes regarding her with cool amusement. ‘What then?’

  He gave her a wry glance. ‘It is said that every year, as tribute to their victory, the sultans received in this room one hundred captive virgins taken prisoner in each of the Christian cities they conquered.’

  Alexandra lifted a quizzical eyebrow, holding his gaze defiantly. ‘Has a liking for this barbaric custom left its trace on the Spanish people as well?’

  This time Salvador gave his laughter full rein, delighting in her response. ‘I was in no doubt my independent and emancipated cousin would disapprove of such a custom. Did you know you can be read like a book?’

  ‘Yes, so they say,’ she replied lightly, trying to hide her annoyance at herself for still coming across as transparent and naïve when she had tried to meet him with dignified sarcasm. Once again she had waltzed straight into his trap.

  By this time they had come out into one of the formal garden enclosures, constructed in such a way that the occupants could not be overlooked.

  ‘Who says?’ he prompted, imitating her curtness, ‘Your admirers? You’re a very lovely young woman and I’m sure you’re not short of suitors.’ Without missing a beat, he added, ‘Have you left a novio back in London?’

  Alexandra was taken by surprise. His question was bold and indiscreet. To her intense irritation, she felt herself blushing and looked away so that he could not see her confusion. The open challenge in his voice was baiting her but she refused to rise to it. They were slipping towards dangerous ground; the last thing she wanted was to be quizzed by Salvador about her personal life. In fact, there was not much going on in it, now that she came to think of it — apart from dear Ashley, of course. Anyhow, nothing of the kind he was alluding to. Shut away in a world of her own, she had been too busy writing romantic novels to give much thought to her own emotions in that sphere and, for some reason, she was reluctant to let him know that.

  Mistaking her silence for resentment, Salvador laid a hand on her arm. ‘Are you angry, Alexandra?’ Placing two fingers under her chin, he turned her face towards him. His voice was soft and velvety, startling her out of her absorption. The steely-grey eyes fastened on to hers and she stared curiously into them. There was a compelling power there that made her forget her irritation and misgivings. He smiled at her uncertain expression.

  ‘What are you afraid of?’ he asked gently, echoing her earlier thoughts. She swallowed hard, transfixed by his nearness. Though his skin was smooth, underneath the golden tan she could make out the faint shadow of tomorrow’s stubble. The set of his jaw and the line of his mouth appeared softer than th
ey had in the moonlight, the night of the masked ball. His head bent towards hers, his mouth a breath away from her parted lips. She caught an expression in his eyes, vital and aware, as they took in the whole of her face. A current passed between them in the warm rose- and jasmine-scented air. It came like a gentle tremor, as though the invisible magnets of fate were drawing them together, building and engulfing them in a tidal wave, to drag them down into its depths, in a sea of unknown feelings.

  The moment was transient. Without warning, he let go of her arm and turned away, once more unreachable. Alexandra stepped back too, her eyes clouding with confusion, unsure of what to feel. For a short while, the two of them stared out at the stunning gardens but Salvador’s aloof manner didn’t last for long. Regaining his good humour, he galvanized Alexandra, despite herself, into a different mood.

  ‘And now, let’s have lunch. I’m sure you’re as hungry as I am,’ he cheerfully declared.

  He took her to the old Jewish quarter of Santa Cruz, a backwater of twisting streets and unsuspected byways, with fine old green-shuttered houses and whitewashed garden walls. At almost every entrance was a wrought-iron lantern; at every window a bow-shaped iron grille moulded with ornate rococo curls. The garden walls were splashed with overflowing vines and through occasional open doorways Alexandra caught glimpses of flagged patios filled with potted plants, copper urns and jugs, and a fountain tinkling in the centre.

  They ate a hearty lunch in Hasta Luego, a quaint tavern in the middle of the quarter. Salvador knew the owner and although it was already busy, they were given an excellent banquette inside, where it was cool and more private in the pleasantly dim light.

  He poured Alexandra a glass of sangria, studying her face and the delight in her eyes as she took in the surroundings, making mental notes to jot down in her notebook later. The tavern held a charming collection of dark mahogany tables and stools, pots and pans hanging from the ceiling; its walls of sherry-coloured panelling were covered with bright paintings and areas of patterned blue-and-white tiles; giant wooden wine barrels were mounted on shelves and displays of enticingly packaged Spanish delicacies were a feast for the eye.