for a while, listening intently, but now there was only the wind, a low, insistent moan. She felt uneasy sitting like this, waiting for something, not knowing what. Sliding out of bed, she hurried across the floor and opened her door. Outside the wall lamps glowed, casting soft light, filling the corridor with shadows.
‘Is anyone there?’ she called.
‘Yes,’ came a growl from the darkness.
Now she could just make him out, walking from the direction of his bedroom. In the light of the wall lamp above him his eyes were no more than dark sockets with something burning in their depths. He came closer and now she could see that he looked as though he hadn’t slept for several nights.
‘I’d given you up for today,’ she said.
He came to stand beside her in her doorway. He was wearing a long bathrobe that revealed his broad chest that rose and fell as though he was under some tremendous strain.
‘I hurried back,’ he said. ‘I had the strangest fear that you might have gone away, after all.’ His eyes were haggard, haunted.
‘How could you think that, Sebastian? I promised to stay, and I’m a woman of my word.’
She heard a faint click and realised that Sebastian had closed her bedroom door, shutting out the world.
‘Is that the only reason that you’re here, Margarita? From duty?’
‘No,’ she whispered.
‘Are you sure? I want only what you can give freely. Tell me to go away, and I’ll go.’
He was lying and they both knew it. No power on earth could have made him leave her bedroom now, just as no power on earth could have made her order him out.
‘Tell me to go,’ he repeated.
For answer she leaned forward and laid her mouth on his. Still keeping her hands at her sides, she turned her head, so that her lips moved against his in soft, inciting movements that made him tremble. Sighing into his mouth, she teased him.
She knew at once that she’d driven him beyond the point of safety. His control had been hanging by a thread, and now she’d done the thing that snapped it. His arms tightened fiercely about her, lifting her just a few inches as he hurriedly crossed the floor to the bed. They fell on it together. Her nightdress had vanished, she didn’t know where, and somehow he too was naked. His hands seemed to be touching her everywhere, tracing curves and valleys with skilful fingers that teased and incited her, moving fast because he was driven by an impatience that matched her own.
Tenderness could come later. This was raw, unslaked need, thrilling, imperative, and it had dominated her thoughts since the moment he left. Behind the decorum, the planning, the wedding dress fittings, the demure veil, her being had been secretly concentrated on what was happening here and now, in this bed, in Sebastian’s arms. The way he could make her feel, the things he could make her want: nothing else mattered.
Her kiss was as devouring as his, her embrace as fiercely demanding. She twined her legs in his, urging him on with all her power. When she tried to speak his name, no words would come, only a gasp as he entered her and the pleasure mounted fast. She clasped him close, wanting more of him, wanting everything. And when she had everything, she wanted more. Then he gave more, and she gave back, and gave, and gave.
They were both trembling with the vigour of their mating as they fell apart, but not far apart. They still held on to each other while they recovered.
‘You were away too long,’ she said at last.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I was.’
Suddenly she gave a little gasp of laughter.
‘What is it?’ Sebastian demanded quickly.
‘I was just thinking of me, walking up the aisle in a bridal gown,’ she said. ‘It hardly seems appropriate somehow-after tonight, and the other night.’
‘The things we know are for us alone.’
‘Yes, but you have to admit that it has its funny side.’
He only scowled, and she realised he couldn’t admit anything of the kind. He was a Spaniard, and Spanish men never understood humour in anything that even remotely touched on sex. She smiled fondly. Sebastian wasn’t going to be easy to be married to.
But then he surprised her again, by laying his head between her breasts in a way that spoke of trust and tenderness. She put her arms about him, and held him tenderly.
There would be this too, she thought. Tenderness and the quiet moments when they would grow close in a different way from the wildness of their meetings. And the years would pass, and perhaps they would share love. Or perhaps they would only share something so like love that nobody could tell the difference.
When his head suddenly grew heavier she knew that he had fallen asleep, and then she slept too.
In the dawn light he stirred and sat up in bed. ‘I suppose I should go,’ he said reluctantly. ‘We don’t want a scandal.’
‘True,’ Maggie murmured, still half-asleep. She felt, rather than saw, him stand, shrug his shirt on and wander over to stand looking out of the window.
At last she yawned and stretched, sat up in bed, and realised that he was still there, looking down curiously at a small table by the wall, on which lay some papers.
‘It’s the paperwork for our marriage,’ she said. ‘You were right, Alfonso did everything in time-got all the certificates, the translations, the permission.’ She became aware of a strange silence. ‘What is it?’
‘Who is Senora Margarita Alva?’ he asked slowly.
‘Oh, that’s me. Cortez was my maiden name. I took it back after my husband died, but for our wedding formalities I had to give his name. I explained it all to Alfonso. I meant to tell you, but I forgot.’
‘You-forgot-’
‘Well, it’s not important, is it?’
He regarded her strangely. ‘All this time, you’ve let me refer to you as Senora Cortez, when you were really- Senora Alva.’
‘I told you, I rejected my husband’s name. And it wasn’t really anybody’s business, after all. I had no way of knowing it would matter. Anyway, all the paperwork is correct, and that’s what counts.’
‘And your husband was-Roderigo Alva?’
‘Yes. It says so there.’
‘How did he die?’
‘In prison.’
She wished Sebastian would turn and face her, but he stayed as he was, slowly looking through the papers, until at last he laid them back on the desk and left the room.
Her wedding was a flower-filled dream. By custom a Spanish bride had flowers hung around her home, and Maggie stepped out of her room to find that Catalina and Isabella had been to work. Winter roses were hung about her door, petals were strewn along the corridor as she made her way, more roses hung about the great front doors.
All Granada was in the cathedral. Maggie entered on the arm of one of Sebastian’s elderly uncles, and there were gasps of admiration at the sight of her. The heavy cream satin dress suited her tall figure admirably, and, for a veil, Catalina had persuaded her to wear a lace mantilla, which added to her air of magnificence. Everyone agreed that she was a fitting bride for a great man.
She had wondered how he would behave during the service, and wasn’t very surprised that his manner was distant. What they knew in the heat of their bed was for them alone, and Sebastian wasn’t the man to parade his feelings.
So she imitated his lofty bearing as the great choir sang them to their marriage, and the archbishop pronounced them united for ever. Their time would come, a time of hot lips and fevered bodies gasping, seeking, claiming, uniting. It would concern nobody but themselves.
After the wedding came the reception in the great hall, with five hundred guests standing, cheering as Don Sebastian de Santiago entered with his bride on his arm. As he walked the length of the huge room there was nothing on his face but pride and hauteur.
By tradition there were nine wedding cakes, made of sponge with caramel topping, lavishly adorned with fresh cream, and mounted on a spiral stand. For the wedding festivities of Don Sebastian de Santiago there were no less
