Rachel felt angry. It had not been her wish to come to Portugal, and now this man was daring to criticise her manners and her clothes. Just who did he think he was?
Controlling the tremor in her voice, she said: ‘I’m afraid I disagree—senhor. For me, trousers are the most comfortable thing in my wardrobe.’
His dark eyes encountered hers and there was unconcealed anger in their depths. His lips were drawn into a line of disapproval and she thought that even in anger he was the most disturbingly attractive man she had ever seen. He was not handsome; it would be an insult to use so paltry a term to describe the carved lines of his tanned features, the high cheekbones, the deepset eyes, that mouth, the lower lip of which when it was not drawn tight as now portrayed an almost sensual fullness. The whiteness of his shirt lay against the brown column of his throat, brushed by the straight black thickness of his hair. What woman, she thought, could not be aware of him as a man, of his extreme masculinity, even if she was married?
Now he looked back at the road, and said: ‘Do I take it you intend to oppose me, senhora?’
Rachel sighed, her own anger evaporating under other, more disruptive, influences. ‘I don’t intend any disrespect, senhor,’ she answered carefully, ‘but in the matter of my clothes, I consider I am the best judge of what or what not to wear.’
‘I see.’ His tone was chilling. ‘Perhaps I have approached this wrongly. Perhaps I should have mentioned the matter to your husband first and allowed him to broach it with you.’
Rachel’s face burned. ‘Is that a threat or a promise, senhor?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Surely it must have become apparent to you, senhor, that I am an—obedient wife?’
The dark eyes were enigmatic. ‘You do not wish me to mention this matter to your husband?’
‘Do my wishes matter—senhor?’ Belatedly she remembered to add the word.
His brows drew together in a frown. ‘I am afraid I do not comprehend your meaning, senhora.’
‘For once we agree. You do not.’ Rachel pressed her lips tightly together to prevent them from trembling, realising that this time she had forgotten to use his title altogether.
He expelled his breath through his nostrils. ‘Tell me what you think of Mendao,’ he said, changing the subject so unexpectedly and so completely that for a moment she was startled. ‘This is the valley where our village is situated, the valley of the Rio Meigo.’
Rachel forced herself to pay attention to her surroundings. They were descending into the valley through tree-clad slopes where the scent of pine was strongest. There were more vines, the sound of running water heralding the appearance of the broad but shallow waters of the Meigo which gurgled its way through orchards of cork trees.
Nearer the village, cottages came into view, colour-washed dwellings that while looking picturesque could not, Rachel felt, be very comfortable. They passed black-clad peasant women leading donkeys on which were laden baskets of fruit and vegetables, and children stopped what they were doing to watch them pass.
Many people saluted the car as they passed and Luis Martinez raised a casual hand in acknowledgement of their greeting. Rachel looked at him with sudden perception, beginning to appreciate his concern for formality. Here he was well known, the Marquês de Mendao, and while in England that might mean little or nothing, in his own country, in this valley where no doubt his family had been masters for generations, he was the Senhor, the Patrao, arbiter of their fates.
‘It’s very beautiful,’ she said at last. ‘But of course you know that. Do you own all this land, senhor?’
Luis shrugged. ‘The land belongs to all of us. We work for it, we till the soil and sow the crops, we gather the harvest; but no man can pronounce himself the owner of something that is the means of livelihood for so many people. The days of slavery are abolished, senhora. These people are free. Here in Mendao all men are treated as equals.’
Rachel considered this carefully. ‘Nevertheless, it’s obvious that you are regarded with—a certain deference. Surely you’re not saying that you compare yourself with these peasants!’
The hands on the wheel tightened perceptibly. ‘In my country, respect is given to the man, not to the property he calls himself master of.’
Rachel raised her eyebrows. ‘Surely that’s rather a radical viewpoint for someone with such conservative ideas.’
He frowned. ‘We are talking at cross purposes, senhora. You think because my ideas of correctness and dignity seem old-fashioned to you that I must be backward-looking.’ He shook his head. ‘I assure you I am not. The system we have here will bear comparison with any system anywhere in the world and my people are given every opportunity to succeed.’
Rachel was looking at the village. It was quaint and somewhat unworldly to her eyes, but charming nonetheless. As well as a small store and a café, there was a school and a church, and the narrow footbridges over the river which divided the two halves of the village were arched and attractive. The road ran along beside the river for some way, shadowed by evergreen oaks and more of the spreading elm trees.
Beyond the village they branched on to a narrower track and presently came to a gate across the road with the word ‘Privado’ printed upon it. Rachel cast a questioning glance in Luis’s direction, but for the moment he ignored it, sliding out of the car to open the gate before getting in again and driving through. When the gate was closed behind them, he said:
‘I know what you are thinking, but that notice is not for the people who live here. They know they will never be turned away from the quinta. But we have turistas who can be quite a nuisance.’
Rachel had to smile at this. ‘Am I so transparent?’ she murmured lightly, and he looked at her.
‘To me—in this instance, yes,’ he said, and then as though realising the sudden intimacy between them he pressed hard on the accelerator and sent the sleek limousine cruising swiftly up the curving sweep of the drive.
Rachel’s first glimpse of the Quinta Martinez was through a belt of trees. Thickly foliaged trees and bushes encroached on the drive from both sides, successfully providing a natural screen between the quinta and the rest of the valley. It reminded Rachel of the thorn hedge which had grown up around the castle of the Sleeping Beauty in legend, and in fact, the Quinta Martinez did resemble a small castle at that first appraisal.
Nestling among trees, with dozens of small turrets outlined against a backcloth of deep green, it had an unreal quality, a fairy-tale appearance. Mellow stone was warmed by the rays of the sinking sun which winked on the small Gothic windows and gilded the sculptured façade.
Rachel leant forward in her seat, totally absorbed, for the moment oblivious of her surroundings, of her reasons for being there.
Then Luis said: ‘You like my home, senhora?’ and reality asserted itself.
She sank back in her seat. ‘Oh, yes, yes. It’s—unbelievably beautiful!’
‘My father’s family have lived here for many generations,’ he said. ‘Naturally in
