‘What are you trying to say, senhor?’
Trevellyan sighed. ‘It’s not easy, senhor. Rachel is my wife, and I love her. But I don’t always understand her.’
‘Go on!’ Luis was impatient.
‘Very well. At the time her father died, Rachel was pregnant. The man, whoever he was, had deserted her, and she was alone. Her father and I had always been friends and I couldn’t see her destitute. I offered marriage on the understanding that she could continue with her painting, and she accepted. Unfortunately she miscarried, and the child was never born.’
‘I see.’ Luis felt a sense of distaste. ‘And you could not tell my mother of this?’
‘How could I? Is it something you could baldly write in a letter?’
‘Perhaps not.’ Luis shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘So what do you expect her to do now?’
Trevellyan lay back weakly on his pillows. ‘Rachel knows me, senhor. She knows my likes and dislikes, and she has cared for me, after her fashion. I wouldn’t like to leave her here alone, at the mercy of her own weaknesses.’
‘You are suggesting that—that your wife accompanies us to Mendao?’
The other man’s eyes sought his appealingly. ‘Would it be such a trial to you—to your mother? I promise you, she would cause no trouble.’
Luis could have almost laughed at the farcical aspects of this situation had it not been so serious. How could Trevellyan expect to control his wife from his bed—or even a wheelchair for that matter? Unless years of marriage with him had tempered her rebellious nature, destroyed the streak of wildness which had previously caused such unhappiness. He took a deep breath. Even after everything he had heard, the idea of that girl being married to Malcolm Trevellyan could make him feel physically sick. And he couldn’t imagine why. It was nothing to do with him.
Now Luis ran a hand round the back of his neck, over the smooth black hair that brushed his collar. ‘But it seemed obvious when I arrived that—that Senhora Trevellyan knew nothing of my reasons for being here.’
Trevellyan plucked at the bedcovers. ‘I know, I know. I haven’t mentioned my plans to her yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘How could I? I didn’t even know whether you—or your mother—would permit her to accompany me.’
‘I see.’ Luis’s hand fell to his side.
There were footsteps outside in the hall and presently the girl entered the room again carrying a tray. Luis’s immediate instinct was to take the tray from her, but then he stood politely aside and allowed her to place it on the table beside the bed.
Malcolm Trevellyan seemed to come to a decision. ‘Allow me to introduce you, senhor,’ he said. ‘This is my wife Rachel. Rachel, this is the son of a good friend of mine, Senhor Martinez.’
Rachel looked up at the tall dark Portuguese. ‘Senhor Martinez introduced himself at the door,’ she said, without expression in her voice.
Her husband sniffed. ‘Is that all you have to say?’ he demanded in a low tone, and Luis intercepted the look that passed between them and there was no friendliness in it. He felt repulsed. Repulsed by them, by this whole situation.
However, the girl seemed stung by her husband’s contemptuous tone. Her voice when she spoke was low and attractive with little of the Cornish drawl evident in that of Malcolm Trevellyan. ‘Why is he here, Malcolm?’ she asked, rather heatedly. ‘What did he mean earlier about you finding some foreign place less demanding than here? What’s going on?’
Trevellyan looked to Luis for guidance and with a sigh Luis said: ‘You may or may not be aware, senhora, that your husband’s family cared for my mother many years ago when she was orphaned. Afterwards, she married a Portuguese, my father, but she and Senhor Trevellyan’s family maintained a correspondence and in latter years she visited England with my father and met your husband again.’
The girl looked puzzled. ‘I didn’t know that, but what of it?’
Luis’s lips thinned. He was not accustomed to being spoken to in that cursory manner, particularly not by such a slip of a girl.
‘Naturally when—when your husband became ill, my mother was concerned about him. I must confess she did not know he had taken a wife, but nevertheless she suggested to Senhor Trevellyan that he might come to Portugal, to our estates at Mendao, to recuperate for a few weeks.’
‘I see.’ The girl’s eyes were wide as she turned back to the man in the bed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Malcolm Trevellyan sniffed. ‘I wasn’t sure about the arrangements. I didn’t want to—raise your hopes unnecessarily.’
‘Raise my hopes?’ She stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘You mean I can stay here?’
‘No, that’s not what I mean!’ Trevellyan looked momentarily incensed. Then he calmed himself. ‘I simply meant that I didn’t want to raise your hopes about this holiday in Portugal until I was sure you would be welcome there.’
‘A holiday in Portugal!’ echoed the girl. ‘I—I don’t want to go to Portugal.’
Luis clenched his fists. ‘Surely you would not allow your husband, a sick man, to travel there without your ministrations, senhora?’
The girl Rachel turned stormy green eyes in his direction. ‘I’m sorry, senhor, if I sound ungrateful. But I can assure you my husband doesn’t require my ministrations.’
‘Rachel!’ Trevellyan’s face was grim. ‘Stop this at once! If Senhor Martinez will overlook this unpleasantness, naturally you will accompany me to Portugal.’
Rachel Trevellyan’s breast rose and fell with the tumult of her emotions. Animated like this, she was quite startlingly attractive and unwillingly Luis felt a sense of compassion for her. Whatever she had done in the past she had forfeited a great deal in becoming the wife of a man as old as Malcolm Trevellyan.
Then he inwardly chided himself. She had not been forced to marry him. A girl with more strength of mind, with more courage in her convictions, would have managed somehow, would have found a way to support herself and the unborn child. No, Rachel Trevellyan had taken the easy way out of a difficult situation and now resented the very person who had helped her most. Luis allowed contempt to replace his earlier compassion. Rachel Trevellyan deserved nothing else.
Malcolm Trevellyan shuffled across the bed. ‘Come along, Rachel,’ he said. ‘Pour Senhor Martinez some tea, and stop behaving like a spoilt child.’
For a moment Luis thought she was about to refuse, but then, obediently it seemed, she lifted the teapot and poured the hot liquid into two cups. Turning to him, she said: ‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Thank you, sugar only,’ he replied quietly, and she added two lumps before passing the cup to him.
‘Do sit down, senhor.’ Malcolm Trevellyan indicated a chair now, and although it was not his nature to sit in the presence of an adult female who happened to be standing Luis subsided into the cane chair by the
