Читать книгу: «The High Valley»

The High Valley
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 I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

Copyright

CHAPTER I

THE ballroom of the Monteraverdian Embassy adjoined the buffet area, allowing the guests free passage between the two. Tonight it was a blaze of light and colour, the high-arched ceiling with its intricately painted frescoes illuminated by a hidden iridescence in a multitude of shades, from palest yellow to deepest purple. The tall, fluted columns that supported the ceiling were festooned with climbing tropical plants that here and there blossomed into perfumed beauty, while the orchestra on its dais at the far end of the ballroom was partially concealed by a bank of flowers. The dancers themselves in their vivid evening attire provided a constant panorama of visual sensation, and a delicious aroma of Havana tobacco and expensive cosmetics mingled with the more exotic scents of good food and rich wine.

Morgana Mallory glanced towards the spot where Ruth and her parents had been only a moment before, wondering how they were reacting to such an overwhelming atmosphere and found that she was momentarily alone.

Immediately, she felt almost panic-stricken, her eyes searching the crowds that thronged around her in careless haste. She was not used to receptions of this kind, indeed this was the first she had attended, and she had not been long enough in Brazil to feel any confidence when she could not speak the language. After all, her life with her father back in England had been singularly uneventful, and since arriving in Rio to stay with Ruth and her parents she had found the hectic pace of their lives rather terrifying.

Now, she turned and began to thread her way through the assembled groups of guests, avoiding a carelessly-held drink here or a rather too amorous gaze there, wondering all the while how she could have been so stupid as to get separated from her friends. Obviously, her absorbed contemplation of her surroundings had made her deaf to their instructions and now she felt hopelessly alone.

She reached one of the ornately carved arches that led through to the buffet supper room and breathed slightly more freely out of that encroaching mass of humanity. She looked about her desperately, longing to see a familiar face, but suddenly without warning she came up against an immovable force, and strong arms grasped her forearms preventing her from stumbling backwards as she most certainly would have done.

“Oh, I beg your pardon –” she began, apologetically, attempting to free herself with all speed, and looked up into a dark, arresting face, the eyes of which regarded her with faint amusement. Abruptly, the man let her go and stepped back out of her path, and Morgana hastened on, aware that her arms still tingled from that unexpected encounter.

Just as she was beginning to wonder whatever she was going to do a hand grabbed her arm, and Ruth's familiar and slightly impatient voice said: “Morgana! What are you doing? I've been looking everywhere for you!”

Morgana turned, a relieved smile spreading over her flushed face. “Oh, Ruth!” she exclaimed. “Thank goodness, it's you! I was beginning to think I'd never find you again. What happened. Where did you go?”

“Where did we go?” Ruth gave a toss of her head. “I should be asking you that question. Heavens, Mummy and Daddy had to go and be introduced to the Ambassador, and I was with them. We thought you were with us, too, but then – you weren't!”

Morgana bit her lip. “Oh, I'm sorry, Ruth. I guess I was just so excited looking about and everything. I didn't hear what you must have said.”

Ruth sighed, her rather plain features not enhanced by this display of bad humour. “Very well, then, come along. Mummy and Daddy are waiting for us over there.” She waved a careless hand in the direction of the ballroom.

Morgana gave her a slightly placatory smile and Ruth seemed to relent, for she tucked her arm into Morgana's and said: “Aren't there some simply ghastly gowns being worn? Have you seen that enormous woman in a kind of chiffon bell-tent in that awful shade of cyclamen?”

Morgana squeezed Ruth's arm. “That's rather unkind,” she said teasingly. “No doubt the dress is at least worth a dozen times the price of this.” She glanced down at her own gown, a simple affair of dark blue crěpe, with a long straight skirt below a swathed bodice, which nevertheless was the ideal foil for her pale hair.

Ruth eyed her rather enviously. “You must know the cheapest clothes look elegant on you,” she retorted, which Morgana thought was a kind of back-handed compliment, but refrained from saying so. Ruth had always said exactly what she thought and if what she said sometimes hurt her listener it was usually unintentional.

Ruth's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Dennison, were engaged in conversation with an elderly man and another woman who was apparently his wife, and Ruth said in an undertone to Morgana that he was one of the secretaries at the Embassy. “These affairs are always terribly formal,” she complained, glancing round at the guests. “Everyone seems to spend their time discussing politics or business of one kind or another, and I'm sure these receptions are used as an excuse to get all the men together.” She sighed resignedly.

“It is very exciting though, isn't it?” said Morgana, now recovered from her fright of finding herself abandoned. “I mean – do you attend a lot of functions like this?”

Ruth gave her a bored look. “Oh, lord, yes,” she exclaimed. “There's always some kind of social gathering going on in diplomatic circles. You've only been here three days, Morgana, but you'll soon get used to it.”

Morgana smiled. “I imagine by the time I get used to this I shall be leaving Brazil,” she remarked. “After all, I promised my father I'd join him in two weeks.”

Ruth lifted her shoulders. “Yes, that's a pity. Still, I'm only glad you could come at all. After all, had your father not been invited on this lecture tour of California, I doubt whether he would have allowed you to come so far alone.”

Morgana nodded. “That's true. Since my mother died he's felt rather a strong responsibility where I am concerned. That's really how I came to attend Brackenbury. I doubt very much whether, in the normal course of events, my parents would have been able to afford a boarding school for me.”

Ruth raised her eyebrows. “And then we never should have met, which would have been a pity,” she commented sardonically. “Anyway, never mind, you're here now, and you can't imagine how wonderful it is having someone to talk to. There aren't many people of my age in our diplomatic circles, and sometimes I get positively depressed thinking how long Daddy will be here on his mission. You don't know how I envy you your life in England, near London and so on. This is practically uncivilised by comparison.”

Morgana raised her dark eyebrows, and helped herself to two cocktails from a tray held by a passing waiter. Handing one to Ruth, she said: “I don't suppose the Brazilians would care to hear your description of their cultural capital, Ruth. Besides, I think Rio is a marvellous place. You'd certainly miss the sun and the beaches if you came back to England. And, you don't really want to do that. As for preferring my life – well – we don't lead a particularly exciting existence. Oh, now and then we go up to town to a concert or to the theatre, and occasionally there's a local gathering my father wants to attend. But we don't spend our time going from one social function to another as you and your parents seem to do. Nor do I find London very inspiring. I prefer Friars Warren every time.”

Ruth nodded, sipping her cocktail reminiscently. “I remember Friars Warren quite well,” she smiled. “I did enjoy my visits there, Morgana. Your father was so kind to me. I remember on speech days and prizegivings, when my parents couldn't attend, he always made me feel part of your family. I thought he was marvellous. He's so young.”

Morgana chuckled. “He would like to hear you say so,” she remarked dryly. “He's forty-two, you know.”

“It was a pity your mother died as she did,” said Ruth, sighing. “Peritonitis always seems so unnecessary somehow. I mean, if the appendix is such a useless organ, why are we given one?”

Morgana shrugged. “Who knows? Anyway, that was all a long time ago now and we were talking about you, not me. Surely you have some friends here.”

Ruth finished her cocktail. “Not many. As I said before there aren't many young people in diplomatic circles here and the older ones don't seem to have offspring of my age!”

Morgana glanced around. “But there are heaps of young people here tonight.”

Ruth raised her eyes in an expressive gesture. “Oh, yes, there are young people. But Daddy doesn't encourage me to get involved with South Americans!”

Morgana frowned. “Heavens, why?”

“He says they're a very volatile race of people, highly emotional and probably unstable, and quite frankly, darling, I can't see myself succumbing to Latin charms!”

Morgana regarded her friend with amazement. “So all your friends have to be British, is that it?”

“Not exactly. Europeans aren't so bad and North Americans are perfectly acceptable.”

Morgana shook her head. “Well, I think you're wasting a fabulous opportunity,” she exclaimed. “And quite honestly, my father wouldn't dream of trying to influence me when it came to choosing my friends.”

Ruth grimaced. “Oh, well, you know Daddy's awfully socially conscious. He can't help it, and Mother flaps so if I make a scene.”

Morgana turned away, her feet unconsciously moving in time to the rhythmic music that was issuing from the orchestra's dais. She could understand Ruth's problems, having met Mrs. Dennison, but she thought Mr. Dennison's reasoning was narrow and old-fashioned. Personally, she found the dark-skinned Brazilians a particularly attractive combination of their arrogant Portuguese ancestry and modern chivalry. But it was no business of hers and presently Ruth's parents concluded their conversation with the embassy official and rejoined their daughter and Morgana.

“Well, Morgana,” said Mr. Dennison jovially. ‘Are you enjoying yourself? We lost you as we came in, didn't we?”

Morgana smiled politely. “I'm afraid so,” she admitted. “It was all so unusual and exciting I didn't hear what you said. But I am enjoying myself. I didn't realise it would be such an impressive affair.”

Mr. Dennison nodded. “Oh, these affairs are usually well-attended. And particularly here, at the Monteraverdian Embassy. Right now there's trouble brewing in Monteraverde and quite honestly I think this reception is a deliberate attempt to show where the power lies.”

Morgana listened with real interest. The violent politics of these South American states never failed to fascinate her. “Do you mean there is likely to be a revolution?” she asked, excitement making her eyes sparkle.

Mr. Dennison chuckled. “I shouldn't think so,” he answered, dampeningly. “The presidente, Queras, is not a man to risk being overthrown.” He lowered his voice. “Even now, there are rumours of reprisals being taken against a handful of guerillas who were captured some weeks ago. At present they're in prison in Queranova, awaiting trial and sentence.”

“Queranova?” echoed Morgana, with interest. “That's a similar name to the president's, isn't it?”

Mrs. Dennison gave an impatient click of her tongue. “Of course. These revolutionaries always attempt immortalisation by naming highways and towns after themselves, and then the next government comes along and renames them all in their own image. It's juvenile!”

Morgana shrugged her slim shoulders. “I suppose it's life,” she remarked. “And such vagaries are not the sole prerogative of the South Americans. Isn't Kennedy Airport named after the late president of the United States?”

Mrs. Dennison bestowed a slightly impatient glance upon her. “That's quite different, Morgana,” she averred, and turned her attention to other matters. “Laurence, isn't that Colonel Matthews over there?”

Mr. Dennison drew his eyes away from the attractive picture Morgana made in her dark blue gown, her hair a silvery curtain about her shoulders, and looked in the direction his wife indicated. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “And that's his wife, Sheralyn. Do you want to meet her?”

Mrs. Dennison's face grew harsher. “No, thank you. Imagine a man of his age marrying a slip of a girl like her!” There was censure in her voice. “He must be almost forty.”

“You would have had me marry him, Mummy,” Ruth remarked dryly. “And I'm only twenty-two. Sheralyn is around my age, surely.”

Mrs. Dennison grimaced. “That's altogether different. You're – well – mature, for your age.”

Ruth cast a mocking glance in Morgana's direction. “You ought to be grateful you have no designing matron on your heels,” she murmured, in an undertone, and Morgana hid a smile.

Presently, two attachés and their wives joined their group, and as the men had already danced with their wives, the women did not object when their husbands invited Morgana and Ruth to dance. Morgana was glad of the opportunity to escape from Mrs. Dennison's rather boring chatter for a while and Michael Lawson, her partner, entertained her by telling her who some of the guests were. Among this glittering throng of people there were television personalities, film stars, ambassadors and consuls, and the usual accompaniment of officials, all of whom had been welcomed by a huge man who stood by the bar at the end of the room, talking to some of his guests.

“That's Juan Montoya,” said Michael, as they passed the group. “Weren't you introduced to him on your arrival?”

“I'm afraid I got lost,” explained Morgana, with a smile, momentarily remembering the man who had collided with her so briefly.

“I see.” Michael nodded. “And I imagine Mrs. Dennison made a beeline for His Excellency!”

Morgana caught the twinkle in his eye. “Probably,” she agreed.

Later in the evening, they sat in the buffet lounge watching the guests dancing and enjoying some of the delicious food that was available. Morgana had some shell fish, and tasted the em padinhas de camarao, or shrimp pasties, light pastries spiced with olives and peppers, one of the local delicacies. There was plenty of meat, cooked in a variety of ways, and fruit and cheese for those who wanted it. The wines they drank were light and palatable, but Morgana preferred the fruit cordials which were freshly squeezed and slightly bitter.

The Lawsons, and the other man, David Grover and his wife, had stayed with their party, and they had also been joined by a young American army officer called Hugh Bernard. They were all sitting together, talking companionably, in the lounge, when Morgana saw again the man that she had accidentally bumped into. But now he was not alone, two other men and a girl were with him. Curious, in spite of herself, Morgana turned to Michael Lawson who was sitting to one side of her, and said: “Who are they? Do you know?”

Ruth who was on her other side, leant forward to listen, and Michael followed her gaze with interest. “Oh, you mean the Salvador brothers, Luis and Ricardo,” he replied. “That oldish man with them is Vittorio Salvador, their uncle. I don't know the girl. Why?”

Morgana coloured and shrugged her slim shoulders. “I was curious, that's all,” she answered swiftly, taking a sip of the wine from the glass that was on the table in front of her.

Michael studied her expression. “They're certainly a striking pair,” he commented dryly. “But like many handsome animals, they are also dangerous!”

Laurence Dennison had caught the drift of their conversation, and now he leaned across the table and said: “Are you talking about the Salvador brothers?”

Morgana felt slightly impatient at his intrusion, but Michael merely nodded. “Yes, we were. Why?”

Mr. Dennison glanced round surreptitiously. “You have heard they're supposed to be behind the guerillas in Monteraverde?”

Michael shrugged. “Do you believe it? Would Montoya let them come here like this if he thought –”

“He can't prove anything,” said Mr. Dennison, authoritatively. “Much as he would like to. And without proof, what can he do? After all, their father did hold a position of power for many years, and they're well-liked in Monteraverde.”

“Yes, but …” Michael lay back in his seat thoughtfully. “I can't believe they're involved. Besides, isn't Luis entering the priesthood?”

Mr. Dennison sniffed. “I heard that, too. But nowadays anything is possible. The biggest villain living can wear a saintly smile!”

Michael shrugged, and David Grover took up the conversation. “Are you saying that the Salvador brothers are villains, Laurie?” he queried lightly.

“I don't know.” Laurence Dennison shrugged his shoulders.

Ruth made a face at Morgana. “What did I tell you?” she asked resignedly. “Politics, politics, politics! Do I not get sick of that word?”

Morgana smiled. “I suppose I'm to blame for this,” she said ruefully.

Ruth shook her head. “Oh, no. They only needed an excuse. Anything would do.”

“Well, anyway,” Michael was saying, “Queras has done some pretty doubtful things in his time. Who's to say that a revolution wouldn't be for the better?”

Mr. Dennison frowned. “Better for whom?” he questioned quietly. “And you be careful what you say, young Lawson. The eyes and ears of the world, you know …”

Michael grimaced. “What? Here?” he exclaimed. “In this cacophony of sound? I think not.”

Morgana lay back in her seat, her eyes drifting irresistibly back to that small group of three men and one woman. The man was looking her way and for a moment their eyes met and locked. Then he inclined his head politely and looked away, but not before his brother had observed that salutory recognition. Morgana saw the brother say something to him and then she looked swiftly down at her drink on the table, a hot flush staining her cheeks. She felt strangely exhilarated, and her hands trembled as she lifted her glass. It was ridiculous to feel this way, and yet there was something about the man's dark leanness that disturbed her unfathomably. But to her astonishment, a few moments later she found both of the brothers at her side which succeeded in grasping the attention of every member of their party. Morgana felt terribly embarrassed, and wondered with a sinking heart why they had come.

The brother she had not encountered seemed to appoint himself spokesman, for he said: “Excuse me, senhorita, but may I be permitted to invite you to dance with me?”

Morgana was astounded, and she looked awkwardly across at Mr. Dennison for guidance. Mrs. Dennison was looking positively horrified and even Ruth seemed surprised. Laurence Dennison rose to his feet abruptly. “Miss Mallory is with our party, senhor,” he said formally. “I do not think –”

The man looked at Dennison sardonically. “Is it not permitted that Miss – er – Mallory should speak for herself?” he queried, with a trace of insolence.

Morgana breathed jerkily. She felt terrible. She was aware of the other man with every fibre of her being as he stood slightly behind her chair, and she wondered why it was that it should be his brother who was asking her to dance. She looked at the taut disapproving faces of Mrs. Dennison, and Ruth, and rose to her feet.

Mr. Dennison was on his dignity. “Senhor, Miss Mallory is a friend of my daughter's, newly arrived in Brazil, and she is not used to the country yet. The customs are alien to her, and while I am sure she appreciates your gesture, you are not known to her, and naturally she is embarrassed. Indeed, senhor, I do not believe you have ever made the acquaintance of my wife.”

“That is true.” The man bowed slightly in Mrs. Dennison's direction. “We can remedy that oversight immediately. Allow me to introduce myself, senhores, senhoras, I am Ricardo Salvador, at your service.”

Mrs. Dennison nodded rather distantly, and Morgana glanced doubtfully at Ruth's father. Then she said: “Of course I will dance with you, Senhor Salvador.” She looked apologetically at the others. “Will you excuse me?”

Ruth's eyes flickered with amazement at her temerity, and Mr. Dennison gave an impatient movement of his shoulders. Then Morgana turned and encountered for the first time the gaze of the other man. His eyes were narrowed, but she noticed they were a peculiarly tawny shade, and right now they were as cool and distant as those of Mrs. Dennison. This then must be Luis Salvador, she thought swiftly. The man Michael Lawson had said was entering the priesthood. The palms of her hands felt suddenly damp. Was that why he was allowing his brother to invite her to dance? And why was Ricardo Salvador inviting her to dance anyway? The questions buzzed in her head, and she scarcely noticed the ardent gaze Ricardo bestowed upon her as he led her through the arched entrance to the ballroom.

But when he drew her into his arms he made certain that she was aware of him, holding her close against the broad muscularity of his body with possessive expertise.

Morgana pressed one hand against his chest in an effort to loosen his hold on her, and he smiled mockingly. “What is wrong, senhorita?’ he queried. “We dance well together, do we not? You are very simpatica with the music, I think.”

Morgana gave him a wry glance. “And is this how you hold a dancing partner in Monteraverde, senhor? Are you so unsure of your charm that you must prevent any attempt to escape?”

His smile widened into a grin. “Touché, senhorita, I see you have spirit. That, I like.” He allowed her a little more freedom. “But tell me, why did you agree to dance with the henchman of O Halcão? Particularly as the good Senhor Dennison so obviously did not wish you to do so?”

Morgana regarded him curiously. “I choose my own dancing partners, senhor.”

“You are a brave woman, senhorita. Such liberties raise eyebrows in Brazilian society.”

“But I am English, senhor.”

“Yes, I know. Besides, such fairness of skin is seldom seen in this dark continent. You are staying with the Dennisons, si?”

“Yes.” Morgana nodded, her eyes wandering swiftly round the room unconsciously searching for another pair of eyes which were undeniably watching her with brooding concentration. She could sense it like a tangible force. “Tell me, senhor, why did you ask me to dance?”

Ricardo Salvador laughed. “Such candour is refreshing. Is it inconceivable that I should wish to dance with so beautiful a female?”

Morgana shrugged. “You did not know me, senhor. And there are many more beautiful women here tonight.”

“My brother, a ciegas, drew my attention to you, senhorita.”

“Your brother,” murmured Morgana, softly.

Ricardo regarded her intently. “You know my brother, senhorita?”

Morgana shook her head rather too quickly. “No.”

“But you would like to, perhaps?” His eyes were calculating.

“No. That is – don't make ridiculous observations, senhor.”

Ricardo's expression hardened. “To observe is to live, senhorita,” he said, coolly. Then, more gently: “My brother is not for you, senhorita. He is too – how shall I put it – too solenhne, serio! Besides, what need have we for Luis? I am here, and already enchanted by your personality, senhorita.”

Morgana felt exasperated by his easy familiarity. “You presume too much, senhor,” she said sharply. “We are dancing one dance together, that is all.”

“You think so?” Ricardo was contemptuous. “I think not. From the moment I saw you I sensed that there was to be more between us than just a dance!”

Morgana glanced round. “You're very gallant, senhor, but I'm surprised at the hackneyed approach you use.”

Ricardo frowned. “Hackneyed, senhorita? What is hackneyed?”

Morgana laughed at the peculiar way he spoke the word. “It means – well-used, a cliché.”

“Ah, clise, I understand, senhorita.“ His eyes darkened. “But I was not making – how did you say it – an approach? I was serio!”

Morgana wished the orchestra would come to the end of its medley of popular tunes and allow her to escape back to the Dennisons. Her moment of independence was getting out of hand, and she had no desire to incite an argument with anyone so volatile as Ricardo Salvador.

To her relief, the music came to its finale, and everyone applauded politely and began to make their way back to their friends. When Morgana would have released herself from Ricardo, he caught her arm in a firm grip and propelled her smoothly across the floor to where his brother and his uncle were waiting together with several other people.

“You must let me go back to my friends,” Morgana was protesting as they reached the others, but Ricardo merely smiled a rather cruel smile, and said:

“Presently, senhorita, presently.”

Morgana heaved a sigh and resigned herself to the knowledge that so long as they were here, in the ballroom, nothing unforeseen was likely to happen to her. Even so, she was apprehensive, and she wondered what Ricardo Salvador's friends and relations would make of all this.

Luis Salvador looked penetratingly at his brother as they reached the group, and Morgana sensed his hostility. He was at once like and yet unlike Ricardo in appearance. They were both tall, and lean, and naturally dark-skinned, but there the resemblance ended. Ricardo's features were evenly formed and without doubt he was a handsome creature, whereas Luis's face was thinner, his eyes more deeply set, and there were harsh lines beside his nose and mouth. Both had dark hair, Ricardo's sleekly combed against his well-shaped head, while Luis's hair fell forward across his right temple and sometimes he swept it back with an impatient hand. Ricardo returned his brother's stare challengingly, and then said: “You have been watching us, Luis. Perhaps you would like to dance with the senhorita yourself?”

Luis Salvador's eyes narrowed angrily. “We will settle this later, Ricardo,” he said, in remarkably controlled tones.

Vittorio Salvador, the man Michael had said was their uncle, stepped forward. He was a much older man, and his long moustache and beard were liberally tinged with grey. But his eyes were startlingly alert, and they became gentle as they rested on Morgana.

“You must forgive Ricardo,” he said, lifting his shoulders in an eloquent gesture. “He is still a boy in some ways, and he delights in – annoying – his brother. Luis!” He turned to the other man. “Perhaps you would escort the senhorita back to her friends?”

“Por certo,” responded Luis, politely, and indicated that Morgana should lead the way.