TWO
‘RUY!’
His name burst past her lips of its own volition in a shocked gasp, his expression going from sheer incredulity to bitter anger as he stared from her slender body, half hidden by the child in her arms, to the faces of his relatives.
‘Madre de Dios!’ he swore angrily, his nostrils pinched and white with the force of his rage. ‘What kind of conspiracy is this? What is going on?’ he demanded harshly. ‘What is she doing here?’
If she had felt shocked before, it was nothing to what she was feeling now, Davina admitted, her face going as white as his, but before she could say anything, Ruy’s mother was speaking.
‘She has come because I requested her to,’ she told her son, holding his eyes coolly.
Davina wasn’t paying much attention to them. She was still too stunned by the fact that this was actually Ruy, the proud and strong, in a wheelchair, to appreciate the full enormity of what her mother-in-law had done.
‘You requested it?’ The thin nostrils dilated further. ‘By whose authority?’ he demanded softly. ‘I am still master in my own house, Madre. I can still say who may and may not rest under its roof, even if I can no longer walk as other men, but must needs propel myself about like a babe in arms.’
With his rage directed at his mother, Davina was able to study him properly for the first time. What she saw shocked her. The Ruy whom she had known had walked tall—a veritable god among men, and if she was honest she would have to admit that she had thrilled to the arrogant grace; the hint of ruthless mastery cloaked by modern civilisation like velvet covering tempered steel. Now there were deep lines of pain scored from nose to mouth which were new to her, and a bitterness in the dark eyes that made Jamie cry out protestingly as her arms tightened round him unthinkingly.
His cry brought Ruy’s eyes to them in scorching denunciation; a look that stripped her of everything and left her aching with a need to escape from it.
He turned his chair abruptly so that she was faced with the sight of his dark head.
‘Get her out of here,’ he told his mother emotionlessly. ‘I never want to set eyes on her again.’
‘And your son?’
His mother said the words so quietly that Davina couldn’t believe that he had heard them, never mind stopped. But he had, and he turned his chair again, his eyes going slowly over the small form held protectively against Davina’s breast.
‘My son, or your grandson, Madre?’ he asked sardonically. ‘Tell me. If I were still man enough to father children, if Sebastian could provide you with grandsons, would you still want that?’
The use of the derisive word, the look he gave them, all combined to arouse within Davina the anger the sight of him, stricken, had tempered. Quivering with the pent-up force of it, she advanced on the wheelchair, her eyes blazing almost as darkly as his, unaware of the arresting picture her erect carriage and pale face made.
‘That, as you call him, just happens to be your son,’ she told him, barely able to form the words coherently. ‘The son you’ve denied from the moment of his birth, but he is your son, Ruy, and he will live here as is his birthright…’
‘How you have changed your tune,’ he sneered bitterly. ‘When I married you, you told me that you wished I were a poor man; that we could live an “ordinary” life. What went wrong, Davina? Or is it just that with age has come the realisation that you will not be young for ever, that there will come a time when men cease to desire your body; when you will have nothing but the dead ashes of too many burnt out love affairs… My son! How can I be sure of that?’
The sharp crack of her palm against his lean cheek split the silence. Behind her Davina heard someone gasp, and she felt faintly sick herself as she stared at the dull red patch against the tanned skin. What had prompted her to behave so outrageously? In her arms Jamie stirred again and whispered, opening his eyes properly for the first time to stare at the man who had fathered him. How could Ruy so coldly deny his own flesh and blood? she asked herself. It was obvious that Jamie was his child…
‘I apologise for striking you,’ she said shakily, ‘but you did provoke me. Did you think I would have come here for one moment had Jamie not been your child?’
‘I know only that you disappeared out of my life, only to reappear now, at the command of my mother. I am not a fool, Davina, no matter what I-might have appeared in the past. It must have been a tempting prospect; a useless cripple of a husband whose presence need not disturb you, and the rest of your life spent in luxury waiting for your child to step into his shoes.’
‘Stop! That is enough, Ruy,’ his mother commanded. ‘If you must have the truth, I allowed Davina to think that you had written to her.’ She shrugged when he stared frowningly at her. ‘Enough of this foolish pride. Jamie is the only son you are likely to have, the only son this house is likely to have. It is only right and fitting that he is brought up here where his place will one day be…’
It was at that moment that Jamie decided it was time he took a hand in the proceedings himself. Struggling against Davina’s guarding arms, he demanded to be put down on the floor. When she did as he requested he toddled solemnly over to the wheelchair, while Davina, her heart in her mouth, darted forward to hold him back. It was only the pressure of her mother-in-law’s fingers biting into her wrist that prevented her from wrenching Jamie away, her grasp restricting her for long enough for Jamie to reach his goal. Once there he stared up at his father, his eyes, so like Davina’s, staring perplexedly at this man who looked back at him with such cool haughtiness.
‘Is he my daddy?’.
The question was addressed to Davina, over his shoulder, the shrill, piping treble baby voice filling the tense silence.
Davina tried to speak and could not. She had a photograph of Ruy at home which she had shown to Jamie, and although she doubted that he could have recognised the man pictured there, she was not going to lie to her son merely to spare the feelings of the father who denied him.
She cleared her throat, but her voice was still husky as she answered his question, going down on her knees to draw him back from Ruy, as though she feared that he might harm the child.
‘Then why doesn’t he talk to me?’ Jamie demanded, turning towards her. ‘Doesn’t he like me?’
Such an innocent question! It brought a lump to Davina’s throat and moisture to her eyes. This was a moment she had faced over and over again in all her worst nightmares, trying to explain to Jamie why his father had rejected them, but she had never, even in the very worst of them, guessed that she would be called upon to do so in Ruy’s presence.
It was the Condesa who came to her rescue, her voice for once almost gentle as she placed her hand on Jamie’s shoulder and smiled down at him.
‘Of course he likes you, pequeño. Is that not so, Ruy?’
‘What man can deny his own flesh and blood?’ Ruy drawled sardonically, and Davina wondered if she was alone in remembering the accusation he had just hurled at her about Jamie’s parentage. She had come to Spain reluctantly, and only for Jamie’s sake, and if anyone had told her that if Ruy had repudiated them that she would insist on remaining she would have denied it most emphatically. It was not in her nature to be mercenary
