The Black Eagle Page 3

  ‘I knew what I would have liked to wear for Joel,’ she ventured, then held her breath. So unwise this attitude, so filled with unnecessary risk. Her eyes dilated as she saw the dawning expression in his. The black depths were a smouldering inferno; the thin mouth was drawn back to show his strong white teeth clenched together.

  ‘My God, Roxanne, you’re going to live to regret these taunting remarks you continually make! I’m your husband, and the sooner you accept that the sooner your life will take on a more comfortable aspect. Don’t tempt me, for if you do you’ll be sorry for yourself.’

  She had expected something more forceful than this, judging by his expression, and as she had escaped a more severe and frightening reaction she prudently fell silent, helping herself to more coffee from the silver pot on the table before her. Juan spoke again after a while, and this time he quietly told her that she was to go into the city with him the following morning.

  ‘And,’ he added, ‘you shall buy some of those pretty things a husband likes to see.’

  She coloured, thinking naturally of the nightclothes she wore—long thick nightgowns high in the neck and with long sleeves buttoned at the wrist.

  ‘You are ordering me to go to town with you?’ she queried at last, and he nodded his head.

  ‘If that is how you want it, Roxanne. Yes, it is an order I’m giving you.’

  She wondered how she would have reacted to this had she been one of those strong-willed women, like Claire for example, Claire who had always said no man would master her. Could a girl of Claire’s strength defy a man like Juan? Unconsciously Roxanne shook her head. No woman could combat the power of this dark foreigner, this throwback from the dangerous men of the past, this man whom all the villagers—his tenants, many of them—called the Black Eagle. Roxanne’s eyes strayed to his dark face. Aquiline and angular, it most certainly possessed an eagle-like quality, a pitiless quality that at times—when his fury was at its height—became a mask of evil from which Roxanne would fearfully turn and run. On these occasions he would make no attempt to follow her, and when next they met he would seem to be endeavouring to spread a veil over the whole episode, as if attempting to erase it from her memory. But nothing could erase anything from her memory. All he had ever done to her was stored away, and she would continue storing, day in and day out, supplementing her grievances so that she would always have access to reminders of his treachery, reminders that would keep alive her hatred for him, never allowing her for one single moment to lessen that hatred—and most certainly never to approach even the borderline of forgiveness.

  He rose at last, when he had finished his coffee, and went off somewhere, to a small room which he used a great deal. Roxanne knew not whether it was a study or a sitting-room, and she cared even less. For herself, she spent her time wandering in the grounds or sitting in her bedroom reading, curled up on the wide window-seat. Here before the open window she would find a measure of peace, listening to the birds in the trees outside, enjoying the scent of flowers from the gardens down below. It was March and the jacaranda outside her south-facing window was a shower of misty mauve-blue blossom, while in the distance one of the many avenues in the grounds was one long canopy of colour as these lovely trees bloomed along the whole of its length. Another avenue was lined with cypress trees with green lawns either side where rose gardens and colourful parterres intruded in many shapes and sizes. Beyond the grounds the mountains shone in the sunshine, and down below was the valley and beyond that the exotic golden sands of Acapulco, Mexico’s tropical resort on the Pacific coast. Roxanne had been asked to go there with her husband, but she had refused. She would go on her own one day, she had decided, when the time came that she could take an interest in this country to which she had come, her heart dead inside her.

  ‘Senora.’ At the quietly-spoken word Roxanne turned her head. She was still sitting at the small table in the lounge, lost in thoughts of home, and she felt a prickling sensation on hearing herself addressed by Lupita, the aged housekeeper.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you have finished I will clear away the tray.’

  ‘Where’s Luis?’ inquired Roxanne haughtily.

  ‘It is his afternoon off. You are aware of that, senora.’

  Roxanne’s chin lifted at the woman’s insolent tone.

  ‘I haven’t finished,’ she said and, picking up the coffee pot, she poured some of its cold contents into her cup.

  ‘Your pardon, senora.’ But the woman remained by the table, to which she had slowly proceeded as she and Roxanne talked. ‘Would you like some fresh coffee? That is cold.’

  Reddening, Roxanne looked concentratedly into her cup.

  ‘This is fine, thank you, Lupita. You may go.’

  The woman’s eyes, deep grey and sunken into her head, remained fixed on Roxanne’s bent head.

  ‘You are a proud woman, senora. But the Englishwomen are.’

  Roxanne’s head shot up.

  ‘Get out!’ she ordered in tones which she herself could scarcely recognize, so different were they from the familiar gentle voice which she normally used. ‘And don’t come back until I’ve left this room!’

  The old woman’s mouth curved; she made an elaborate bow and left the room. Rising at once, Roxanne went up to her bedroom and closed the door behind her. Here she was safe ... at least, during the daytime. This thought brought her eyes to the high oaken door leading into her husband’s room. She had never seen inside it and, some compulsion enveloping her, she moved without thought or hesitation and opened the door. The familiar creak as the door swung on its hinges sent a shudder along her spine. It was the sound she would wait for each night, as she lay wide-eyed in her bed. He must remember to have the hinges oiled, Juan had said, but he had not remembered, and so the door continued to make that strident noise that warned Roxanne of her husband’s entry into her room.

  She stood for a long moment, her eyes sweeping the room, from the big bed to the heavy oak wardrobe and the dressing-table, to the window with its view on to the rear of the grounds of the hacienda, and beyond to the mountains.

  At length she entered the room proper, and stood by the dressing-table, her eyes fixed on the drawer in the centre. This one held her gaze particularly because it was the only one having a lock, the drawers down the sides of the dressing-table merely having ornate gold-plated handles. A hand touched the drawer and eased it forward. So it wasn’t locked. Inside was a pair of gold cuff-links and a gold tie clip. There was a small cardboard file and unable to hold her urge in check she lifted it out and turned back the flap. Papers ... She put it back and closed the drawer.

  On her return to her own room she stopped dead.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’ Her eyes blazed as they encountered the sneering face of Lupita. ‘Get out!’

  ‘Senora, I was merely bringing up your mail. It has just arrived. Two letters. They are on your desk.’

  Roxanne’s furious gaze moved to the small, beautifully carved escritoire in the corner of the room.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said shortly, and flicked a hand towards the door.

  ‘You were curious as to what was in Don Juan’s file?’ And before Roxanne could reply she continued, ‘Photos, senora ... photos...’ And with that she withdrew, closing the door noiselessly behind her.

  Photos—For a long while Roxanne looked hard at the connecting door, then, shrugging her shoulders, she turned her attention to her letters. She opened Deborah’s first and read it through.

  ‘My dear Roxanne,

  ‘I hope this finds you well, and happy as possible under the circumstances. I was sad on reading your last letter, but neither I nor your father have any regrets about the attitude we took. There is only one right way, my dear, and that is to marry the man to whom you have given yourself. Understand we cannot, since you were so happy with Joel who, incidentally, called to see me last Friday when your father was away on business. He never mentioned you, but he is thinner than he was, though I expect he will recover—men usually do. Take care of yourself, my child, and write soon.

  Your ever loving,

  Deborah.’

  That was all. Biting her lip hard, Roxanne managed with difficulty to hold back the tears. A bout of self-pity flooding over her, she felt as if everyone had deserted her in her need. For she did need letters from home, letters which despite their references to what she was supposed to have done, brought her some small degree of comfort. Deborah could have found more to say than this. Roxanne looked at the letter again and a tear fell on to the single sheet, causing the ink to run. She returned the letter to its envelope and was just opening the other when she heard someone moving about in Juan’s room. Before she could rise the door opened and her husband stood there.

  ‘Did you hear anyone in here?’ he inquired, puzzled.

  Roxanne shook her head.

  ‘No. I don’t know what you mean?’

  ‘Lupita knocked on my study door and when I answered she said she’d only knocked to see if I was there, as she believed I was; but someone was moving about in my room. She could hear the footsteps from the lounge.’

  A small silence followed. Photos, thought Roxanne, quick to grasp what had happened.

  ‘Can she hear sounds so clearly as that? The lounge ceiling is high, and also, your room has a thick carpet; Lupita would have to have extraordinary hearing to hear anyone moving about in there.’ Her eyes were fixed on the carpet, just in case Juan should ask how she, Roxanne, knew about his carpet.

  ‘I must admit I myself thought it strange. As you say, Lupita would have to possess extraordinary hearing,’ Juan shrugged and, stepping back, he closed the door. Roxanne listened for the closing of the outer door and then leant back in her chair, her father’s letter in her ha
nd. Lupita had deliberately tried to set a trap for her, making the subtle statement about the photographs, and then, convinced that Roxanne would return to Juan’s room and take out the file, she had told Juan that there was someone moving about in his room. Roxanne’s heart turned a somersault as she saw herself caught by her husband in the act of looking at the photographs of the girl he had loved ... the girl he still loved, the girl who, every night, he pretended he held in his arms. Roxanne truly believed this.

  After a while she was able to forget the whole thing and read her father’s letter. He had written, she soon saw, merely as a duty. His letter contained no news whatsoever and it was as short and lacking in real affection as was that of Deborah. Roxanne put her face in her hands and wept, not particularly owing to the disappointment over the contents of the two letters from home, but owing to the fact that both her father and Deborah believed she had let them down by going off and staying the night with a man she had met only a few days previously. Yet it seemed impossible that they had so readily accepted that the girl they had brought up with such strictness could go off like that, not even considering the boy with whom she was in love.

  As the tears continued to fall Roxanne re-lived that dreadful time in her life, bewildered even now and scarcely able to accept the fact that, simply owing to her resemblance to Juan’s fiancée, her whole life had been ruined.

  She recalled all too clearly the way Juan had looked at her as they had said good night after the last dance, which they had had together. The expression in his black eyes had terrified her even before he said, with such confidence, that they would meet again very soon.

  And they had met very soon—at her own door.

  ‘Good evening,’ he had greeted her coolly. ‘I was passing this way and decided to give you a call. I hope you don’t mind?’

  Dazedly she shook her head. Deborah had gone out a short while previously, to see her sister whom she visited once a week, and as Roxanne’s father was away on business Roxanne was alone in the house. Her first instinct on seeing Juan standing there was to slam the door in his face, but of course she restrained the impulse and managed a polite reply. She never could remember exactly what she had said, though, but she was sure she had not asked him into the house. However, before she knew it he was beside her as she went into the living-room, and she must have invited him to sit down, because the next moment he was comfortably seated and stretching his long legs out on to the hearthrug. She must also have made him a cup of coffee, because she remembered his chatting as he drank it.

  And then had come the fatal question that was to wreck her whole life.

  ‘Roxanne, as you’re quite alone, just as I am, would you let me take you out to dinner?’

  Roxanne recalled that the question had made her think of his fiancée, and of the life he had entered into on her death. He was a formidable man and he frightened her, but Roxanne was at the same time sorry for him and in her pity she answered with less firmness than she intended.

  ‘I’m sorry—Juan, but it wouldn’t be right for me to accept your invitation. You see, I’m almost engaged to Joel.’

  ‘Almost is not quite,’ he pointed out, and Roxanne thought at the time that it was just possible that in his austere make-up there might be a small element of gentleness, because of his tone and the way in which he looked at her and because of the manner in which his lips seemed to fill out just as if, when they were not compressed, they might not be so cruelly thin after all. ‘There can be no harm in your coming to dine with me, my dear. I shall be returning to my own country soon and it would be a pleasant memory to take back with me.’

  She made no answer for the moment. She was recalling how, at Claire’s party, she had suspected she resembled his dead fiancée in some way, because of the questions he asked and the apparent interest he had in her.

  ‘I really shouldn’t,’ she began, her big violet eyes looking at him with a sort of pleading, as if she were begging him not to press her any more. For she knew herself so well; she was already conscious of a deep compassion, of thinking that to afford him the pleasure of her company for a few hours was not too impossible a gesture on her part. Hadn’t Deborah often said that one should never miss an opportunity of spreading happiness?

  ‘You’re charmingly conscientious, Roxanne,’ he observed, and there was a smile in those black eyes that softened them miraculously. ‘It’s so refreshing to meet a girl like you. I feel honoured that I have met you.’

  The apparent sincerity tipped the scale in his favour, and the flattery might just have gone to Roxanne’s head a little; this she would never know. All she did know was that it seemed very right that she should accept his offer, despite the fact that undoubtedly he frightened her in some way she failed to understand. It could have been his appearance, or the piercing black eyes, or even the story she had heard about his being a throwback from barbarous ancestors, a throwback with the grim name of the Black Eagle.

  However, she went upstairs and changed, realizing only afterwards that her full trust in him was, to say the least, a little foolish. After all, he was a stranger, and yet she left him sitting there, while she washed and changed upstairs in her bedroom.

  His eyes widened with pleasure and appreciation when at length she stood at the living-room door, a timid smile fluttering, and said she was ready.

  ‘My ... dear, you look so very lovely,’ and he came close to her and she was unable to move. She felt his cool clean breath on her cheek, and she still remained immobile when his lips lightly touched her forehead. This was the moment when mistrust ought to have been born, but the man seemed to mesmerize her and she did not even have any great desire to move away, or to protest or even to stop him when, on putting her wrap over shoulders as they stood in the hall a moment later, he once again lightly touched her forehead with his lips.

  ‘I ought to have left a note for Deborah,’ she said suddenly, and Juan immediately produced a pen, and tore out a page of his diary.

  ‘Will this do?’ he asked, and she smiled and nodded and wrote her brief note, which she left on the hall table where Deborah would be sure to see it when she came in.

  ‘I’ve just said I’m going out with a friend,’ she told Juan, and then she added, ‘Joel never sees me on Thursdays as he drives his mother over to her daughter’s for the evening. They always did this long before he met me, you see, so it’s a kind of routine which he’s kept up.’

  Juan smiled but said nothing. She gained the impression that he would rather she did not mention Joel, and so she refrained from then on, intending that the evening should be a pleasant memory which Juan could take back with him to his own country, just as he desired it should be.

  He took her to a most expensive hotel and she was treated like a queen. And it was a strange thing, but when at last the meal was finished and it was time for Juan to drive her home in the car he had hired, she experienced a feeling of loss, and she knew that the evening would remain in her own memory for a very long while.

  She never quite knew when her suspicions were aroused; she supposed it was when he took the second wrong turning. The first had occurred as they came on to the main road from a minor road. He should have turned left, she told him, and he said something she could not catch.

  ‘You can get on to the right road at this next junction,’ she told him. But he failed to do so, and he failed to speak in response to her urgent instructions. She eventually found herself in a lonely drive, saw the dark shape of a house before her as the car lights were switched off. She struggled vainly before being carried into the house.

  Juan had rented it furnished for the duration of his stay in England, she was to learn later, but for the present, terrified and almost fainting from the horror of her own imaginings, she faced him in the room where, after closing the door, he put her on her feet.

  ‘Let me go!’ she screamed, but he shook his head. She had a vague impression that he was having a struggle within himself, but the idea passed over her as she continued to cry out angrily and then plead with him to let her go. All the time he kept reassuring her that he would never harm her, but she refused to believe this.