Dark Ransom

And as they moved away upstream Charlie heard in the distance, like some evil omen, the long, slow grumble of thunder.

CHAPTER TWO

THE STORM STRUCK an hour later. Charlie had been only too aware of its approach—the sullen clouds crowding above the trees, the occasional searing flash followed by the hollow, nerve-jangling boom. But she’d hoped, childishly, that they’d have reached whatever destination they were heading for before its full force hit them.

She’d experienced an Amazon storm her first day on the Manoela, but at least there had been adequate shelter. The awning provided no protection at all against the apparently solid sheet of water descending from the sky.

There were other problems too. This was obviously the latest in a series of storms, and the river was badly swollen. The boat was having to battle against a strong, swirling current, as well as avoid the tree branches and other dangerous debris being carried down towards them.

Charlie wondered fatalistically if this was where it was all going to end—on some anonymous Amazon tributary, among total strangers, with her family forever wondering what had happened to her.

Her clothes were plastered to her body, and her brown hair was hanging in rats’ tails round her face. She felt numb, but couldn’t decide whether this was through cold or fear. Probably both.

Her companions were clearly concerned at the situation, but no more than that, and she supposed she should find this reassuring.

At that moment the boat’s bow turned abruptly inshore, and Charlie, blinking through wet lashes, saw another landing stage. They seemed to have arrived.

She was too bedraggled and miserable to worry any more about what was waiting for her. All she wanted was to get out of this … cockleshell before some passing tree trunk ripped its side away or tore off the motor.

Muffled figures were waiting. They were expected, she realised as hands reached out to help her on to shore, and a waterproof cape, voluminous enough to cover her from head to toe, was wrapped round her.

She was hurried away. Swathed in the cape, she had no idea where they were heading, only that she was being half led, half carried up some slope. There were stones under her feet as well as grass, and she stumbled slightly, her soaked canvas shoes slipping on the sodden surface. A respectful voice said, ‘Tenho muita pena, senhorita.’

Did kidnappers really apologise to their victims? she wondered hysterically.

The battering of the rain stopped suddenly, although she could still hear it drumming close at hand. She could hear women’s voices—an excited gabble of Portuguese. Her cape was unwrapped, and Charlie looked dazedly into a plump brown face whose smile held surprise as well as welcome.

‘Pequena.’ The woman, tutting, touched Charlie’s dripping hair. ‘Venha comigo, senhorita.’

She found herself in a passage lit by oil lamps. She could hear her shoes squelching on a polished wood floor as she walked along. But she was aware of a faint flicker of hope inside her. Her reception made her think that maybe she hadn’t been kidnapped but was just the victim of some idiotic and embarrassing misunderstanding. Perhaps these were the friends Fay Preston had planned to join, and this motherly soul, urging her along with little clicks of her tongue, was actually her hostess. If so, she didn’t seem particularly miffed that the wrong guest had come in from the rain.

It was an awkward situation, but not impossible to sort out with a little goodwill on both sides, she thought as she was brought to a large bedroom. The furniture was dark and cumbersome, but not out of place in its environment, Charlie thought, casting a yearning glance at the big, high bed with its snowy sheets and pillows as she was hustled past it.

But, when she saw what awaited her in the smaller adjoining room, she drew a sigh of utter relief and contentment. A capacious bath tub with claw feet and amazingly ornate brass taps stood there, filled with water which steamed faintly and invitingly.

The woman pulled forward a small folding screen, vigorously pantomiming that Charlie should undress behind it. Charlie hesitated before complying. She preferred rather more privacy when she took off her clothes. She could still remember petty humiliations at boarding-school and on the occasions when she’d had to share a bedroom with her sister.

‘You really are the most horrendous little prude,’ Sonia had accused scornfully more than once in those unhappy days. ‘God knows, you’ve little enough to hide anyway.’

So she was grateful for the woman’s discreetly turned back. Thankful, too, to be able to strip off the sodden clothes from her damp body. Even her underwear was soaked, she thought as she wriggled out of it.

She lowered herself into the water with a small, blissful murmur. The woman sent her a twinkling glance, gathered all the wet clothes up into a bundle and vanished with them.

Which was all very well, Charlie thought, but what the hell was she going to wear while they were drying? Or had no one yet noticed that their temporary visitor had no luggage with her?

I’ll worry about that when the time comes, she told herself. In the meantime, the bath was wonderfully soothing, easing away the aches and tensions of the journey, and reviving her chilled flesh. Charlie stirred the water with a languid hand, enjoying the faint scent that rose from it.

Perhaps I’ll just stay here, she thought idly. Until I wrinkle like a prune.

She sighed and closed her eyes, resting her head against the high back of the tub, while she silently rehearsed what explanation she could make to her surprised hosts when the time came.

She was so lost in her reverie that she didn’t notice the opening of the bathroom door.

But a man’s voice, deep-timbred and amused, saying ‘Querida, were you nearly drowned …?’ brought her swiftly and shockingly back to reality.

For an unthinking moment she sat bolt upright, staring at the doorway in blank, paralysed horror, her confused brain registering an impression of height, black hair, and a thin, bronzed face currently registering an astonishment as deep and appalled as her own.

Then she reacted, sliding in panic down into the concealment of the water behind the high sides of the tub.

‘Get out.’ Her words emerged as a strangled yelp.

‘Deus.’ No amusement now, only angry disbelief. He tossed the package he was carrying down on to the floor, then walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Charlie stayed where she was for a few moments, until her heartbeat had settled back to something near normal and she’d finally stopped blushing.

Fay Preston’s interpretation of ‘friends’ had indeed been ambiguous, she thought sickly. And the explanation she was planning was going to need considerably more thought than she’d anticipated.

To say that the next few moments promised to be profoundly awkward was an understatement, she thought wretchedly. Merely having to face him again would be an ordeal.

She got slowly out of the tub, and reached for a towel.

The package on the floor had burst open, revealing the contents as a satin robe in a shade of deep amethyst. Charlie shook out the folds, viewing it gloomily. It was sinuous, sexy and obviously expensive. It was also definitely not intended for her, but it was the only thing she had to put on apart from the damp towel, so …

Slowly and reluctantly she slid her arms into the sleeves and tied the sash round her slender waist in a double knot. But a brief glance in the big brass-framed mirror on one wall only served to reinforce her misgivings.

It was far too big for her, she thought, rolling up the sleeves and trying to pull the wide, all too revealing lapels further together. She looked like a child dressing up in adult’s clothing, and therefore was at a disadvantage before she even began.

She took a last despairing glance, then turned away. It was no use skulking here any longer. She squared her shoulders and walked into the bedroom.

He was standing by the window, staring out through the rain-lashed panes. But, as if some instinct had warned him of her barefooted approach, he turned slowly and looked at her.

Charlie moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘Who—who are you?’

‘I think that should be my question, don’t you?’ His English was accented but good.

Charlie found his tone altogether less acceptable. Nor did she like the dismissive glance which flicked her from head to toe.

She lifted her chin. ‘My name is Charlotte Graham.’

‘That,’ he said softly, ‘I already know, senhorita.’ He lifted his hand, and she saw with a sense of shock that he was holding her passport.

‘You’ve actually been through my bag?’ Her voice shook. ‘How—how dare you?’

He shrugged almost negligently. ‘Oh, I dare. I think I am entitled to know the identity of those I shelter beneath my roof. And now I would like to know why you have so honoured me, senhorita. What exactly are you doing here?’

‘You’ve got a nerve to ask that,’ Charlie said hotly. ‘After your … thugs kidnapped me in Mariasanta.’

His brows snapped together. ‘What are you saying?’

‘You heard me.’ She wished that her voice would stop trembling. ‘I was having a drink in the hotel when they … marched in, and told me the boat was waiting. I thought they meant the Manoela, so I went with them. When I realised, I—I told them over and over again they were making a mistake, but they took no notice.’

He shook his head. ‘Oh, no, senhorita. I don’t know what game you are playing, but the mistake is yours, I assure you. So—where is Senhorita Preston?’

Charlie bit her lip. ‘She—she isn’t coming. She’s gone back—gone home.’

The bronzed face was impassive, but underneath he was angry. She could sense the violence of temper in him, and shrank from it.

‘So,’ he said too pleasantly, ‘you have come in her place. Do you expect me to be grateful?’

He made no attempt to move, or lay a hand on her, but suddenly, shatteringly, Charlie felt naked under his mocking, contemptuous gaze.

She knew an overwhelming impulse to drag the satin lapels together, cover herself to the throat, but controlled it. She would not, she thought, give him that satisfaction.

She said quietly and coldly, ‘You couldn’t be more wrong. I haven’t come in anyone’s place. I only went to the hotel to deliver a letter on Miss Preston’s behalf.’ She paused. ‘I presume that your name is Santana.’

‘You are correct.’ The dark eyes narrowed. ‘Where, then, is this letter?’

Charlie felt faint colour steal into her face. ‘I don’t know. Still at the hotel, I suppose.’

‘What a tragedy,’ he said silkily. ‘Then I shall never know how the beautiful Fay chose to give me my dismissal.’

She said haltingly, ‘I think she found the trip—on the Manoela—rather hard to take. Conditions are a bit … primitive.’

His mouth twisted. ‘Clearly, senhorita, you are made of sterner stuff—contrary to appearances.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps you will need to be.’

‘I’m sure there must be some deep, cryptic meaning in that,’ Charlie said wearily. ‘But I’m too tired and too upset to work it out just now. I’m sorry that you’re disappointed over Miss Preston’s non-arrival, but—’

‘I am more than disappointed,’ his voice bit. ‘I am devastated that my lovely Fay can forget me so easily. We met while I was on leave in the Algarve last year, visiting some of my cousins in Portugal. I was introduced to Fay at a party, and … a relationship developed between us.’ He gave her a cynical glance. ‘I am sure I do not have to go into details.’

‘No.’ Charlie’s colour deepened. ‘But this is really none of my business, senhor—’

‘Riago,’ he corrected her. ‘Riago da Santana. And I must point out that you made this your business when you chose to intervene. So—eventually, when my leave came to an end and it was time to return to Brazil, Fay told me that she could not bear to be parted from me. She was flatteringly convincing, so I suggested she should join me here for a while, at my expense, naturalmente.’

‘Oh, of course.’ Charlie’s voice was hollow. And clearly no expense had been spared, she thought, conscious of the sensuous cling of the satin robe against her skin.

She swallowed. ‘Well, I’m sorry, Senhor da Santana, but she’s obviously had second thoughts.’ She wondered if she should add the civil hope that he was not too much out of pocket but, looking at the short flare of his upper lip and the cleft in his chin, decided that any further comment would be not only superfluous, but positively unwise.

‘And so you have come in her place.’ He sounded almost reflective as the dark eyes made another disturbing appraisal of her quivering person. ‘If you imagine your charms are an adequate substitute for hers, senhorita, then you are wrong.’

Nothing had—or could ever have—prepared her for an insult like that. Charlie stared at him mutely, the colour draining out of her face.

She wanted to reach out and claw his face—draw blood, make him suffer—but instead she let her nails curl into the palms of her hands.

She said with brave politeness, ‘You seem to be under some kind of misapprehension, senhor. No substitution is intended, or will take place. As I’ve already explained, your men brought me here by mistake and against my will.’

‘You fought them?’ he asked. ‘You kicked and screamed and struggled? I noticed no marks on either of them, I confess, but my mind was elsewhere …’

‘No—not exactly.’ Charlie bit her lip. ‘I—I tried to explain … to reason with them.’ She stopped, realising how lame it must sound. She said defeatedly, ‘Oh, you wouldn’t understand. But you’ve got to believe that coming here was not my idea, and my only wish now is to leave, and get back to Mariasanta.’

‘An admirable aim.’ Still that mockery. ‘But impossible to gratify, to my infinite regret. There is no way out of here, except by boat, as you came. And while these rains continue the river is too dangerous to navigate.’

Charlie gasped. ‘But how long will all this go on?’ she demanded frantically. ‘I have to get back—to rejoin the Manoela on her way downstream.’

Riago da Santana shrugged. ‘For as long as it takes, senhorita. Until the river falls again you are going nowhere.’ His smile seemed to rasp across her sensitive skin. ‘In the meantime, you are my honoured guest.’

‘But there must be some other way out,’ Charlie protested, her whole being flinching from the prospect of having to be beholden to this man, even on a temporary basis. ‘I mean, isn’t there a helicopter—or something for emergencies?’

‘I regret that your presence in my house does not qualify as an emergency, senhorita.’

‘Well, it does as far as I’m concerned.’ Charlie realised she was perilously close to tears, and fought them back determinedly. ‘I—I haven’t even a change of clothes with me.’

‘Of course not. Why should you have?’ He sounded impatient. ‘But there is no great problem. As you must be aware, I made provision for my … other guest. Feel free to use whatever you need.’

‘How generous,’ Charlie said stonily. ‘But, as you’ve already implied, Miss Preston and I are hardly the same size—or shape.’

‘Rosita, my housekeeper, will be happy to carry out any alterations required.’ He sounded bored. ‘I will give her the necessary instructions.’

She wanted to fling his instructions, his hospitality, and Fay Preston’s entire wardrobe back in his face, screaming loudly while she did so, but she kept silent. She had no idea how long she was going to be here, and if it was to be days rather than hours she could hardly alternate between the cotton trousers and shirt she’d arrived in and this hateful dressing-gown.

Undressing-gown, she amended crossly, hitching the slipping satin back on to a slender shoulder.

‘Thank you,’ she said tightly.

He inclined his head courteously. ‘It is my pleasure, senhorita.’ There wasn’t an atom of conviction in his voice. ‘We shall meet at dinner.’

Charlie watched his tall figure walk out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him as he went. Then her legs gave way under her, and she sank down in a welter of amethyst satin on to the elderly rug which was the floor’s sole covering.

Under her breath she slowly and painstakingly recited every bad word she had ever known, heard, or imagined, applying each and every one of them to Riago da Santana. Then, at last, she burst into tears.

Charlie had every intention of declaring that she wasn’t hungry and of spending the evening alone in her room, but as suppertime approached she found she was getting more and more ravenous. And the savoury smells wafting through the house were also undermining her determination to remain aloof.

Finding something suitable to wear had been a depressing and even humiliating process. Riago da Santana knew exactly what colours and styles would appeal to his former lover, and every item in the capacious guarda-roupa had been chosen with her taste in mind. They were glamorous and exciting, with the kind of labels she’d only ever dreamed about.

‘But they are not me,’ she muttered as each garment was brought out for her inspection.

‘Não percebo, senhorita.’ Rosita’s face was becoming increasingly worried as the pile of rejected dresses mounted.

Charlie patted her arm. ‘It’s not your fault, Rosita.’ Desperately she pointed at a relatively simply styled cornflower-blue model on top of the pile. ‘Perhaps we can do something with that.’

And perhaps we can’t, she added in silent resignation as Rosita pinned, pulled and experimented. Fay Preston had been lushly, even voluptuously curved. Charlie was on the skinny side of slender.

Although Riago da Santana’s crushing words still galled her, Charlie’s sense of justice forced her to admit he had a point.

He’d wanted Fay Preston. He’d been expecting Fay Preston. If he genuinely thought that Charlie had taken her place, with an eye to the main chance, then he had every reason to feel aggrieved.

But he couldn’t have thought that, Charlie told herself. Her own lack of experience and sophistication must have been obvious from the first seconds of their encounter.

No, he didn’t think she’d turned up here as his alternative mistress. He’d just been in a foul mood, and taken it out on her because she happened to be handy. It was the kind of situation she should have been used to. After all, she came across it enough at home, and with some of the more cantankerous of her old ladies.

Yet somehow, coming from a man, and a devastatingly attractive man, as she was forced to admit, it seemed more wounding than usual.

She sighed. Men as unpleasant as Riago da Santana deserved to have a hump, crossed eyes—and warts.

Later, trying to find some redeeming feature in the hastily adapted blue dress, she took a long critical look at herself.

Her lack of inches in vital places was only part of the problem, she decided gloomily. She was—ordinary-looking. Not ugly exactly, but nondescript. Sonia had inherited the warm chestnut hair with the glowing auburn lights, and the enormous eyes, dark and velvety as pansies against her creamy skin.

Charlie, on the other hand, had been left with hair that was plain brown and very fine, accepting only the simplest of styles and requiring frequent shampooing. Her eyes were hazel, and her skin was generally pale. Except when she started blushing.

But her appearance really made little difference, she told herself, turning away from the mirror with a shrug. Riago da Santana had made it insultingly clear that she held no attraction for him—and that should have been reassuring.

As, of course, it was, she told herself hastily. And yet … She brought herself swiftly and guiltily to order, and went in search of her dinner.

Riago da Santana was waiting for her in the sala de jantar. It was a low-ceilinged, rather dark room, and the long, heavily polished table was clearly designed for a large family.

Charlie saw that a place had been set for her on the right of her host’s seat at the head of the table, and groaned inwardly. She would have preferred to sit at the opposite end of that vast table, almost out of sight and out of earshot.

He surveyed the cornflower dress without expression, but Charlie could guess what he was thinking.

He said politely, ‘Would you like a drink? A batida, perhaps?’

Charlie repressed a shudder, remembering the popular fermented canejuice aperitif she’d been persuaded to try in Belém. On the other hand, some alcohol might get rid of that shaky feeling in the pit of her stomach.

‘Could I have a straight whisky, please?’

‘Of course.’ He was drinking whisky himself, she noticed. She took the glass he handed her and sipped. It was a local brand with a distinctive, pungent flavour that stung at the back of her throat and made her blink a little.

He noticed. ‘You are used to single malt, perhaps?’

She wasn’t accustomed to spirits at all, as it happened, and returned a non-committal murmur.

The food, when it came, was good—a peppery soup, thick with rice and vegetables, followed by duck in a mouth-tingling herby sauce. Charlie ate so much that she was forced to refuse the rich chocolate pudding that duly made its appearance, although she accepted a cup of strong coffee. And that was a mistake, she realised instantly. She should have kept eating. It was impolite to talk with one’s mouth full, but conversation over coffee was unavoidable.

He said, ‘With your permission, I shall call you Carlotta. And I hope you will honour me by using my given name too.’

Charlie stared down at her cup. She said, ‘You must do as you please, of course, senhor.’

‘You prefer formality?’ Amusement quivered in his voice.

She said shortly, ‘I would prefer to be elsewhere.’

‘You don’t like my house? It has an interesting history. It was built originally by my great grandfather at the height of the rubber boom in our country. Our fortune was founded on the hévea—the rubber tree.’

‘Of course,’ Charlie said instantly. ‘Manaus—the opera house and all those fantastic mansions. They were all built by rubber millionaires.’

‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘For a while Manaus must have been the richest city in South America. The mistake lay in thinking the outside world would not want a share in such riches.’ He paused, and Charlie shifted uncomfortably, remembering that it had been British botanists who’d brought the first rubber tree seedlings out of Brazil to Kew Gardens, and ultimately to Malaysia.

He went on levelly, ‘While the industry declined, my family’s concern for the house and the plantation dwindled also, as they diversified their interests into other fields. They were not alone in that. Many similar homes have been allowed to die—to go back to the jungle. I decided that should not happen here.’

‘It’s certainly very impressive.’ Charlie glanced around her. ‘Have you lived here long?’ She sounded very prim and English, she thought with irritation. In a minute she’d be discussing the weather.

There was another silence, then he said, ‘A year—two years. It suits me to spend this part of my life here.’ His eyes didn’t leave her face. ‘And you, Carlotta. Why did you come to Brazil?’

She supposed the simple answer to that was ‘for adventure’, but she’d already had far more of that than she could handle, so she hesitated.

She said slowly, ‘I suppose you could say … I came to find someone.’

‘A man?’ He drew a pack of cheroots from the breast pocket of his shirt and lit one from the branched candlestick that illuminated the table.

Charlie was taken aback. She’d really meant herself, but there was a slight truth in what he’d said.