The High Valley. Anne Mather

“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,”