The High Valley

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,” responded Luis, politely, and indicated that Morgana should lead the way.

Morgana glanced once at Ricardo and half-smiled, and he smiled in return. “We shall meet again, senhorita, be assured,” he said.

Morgana restrained any retort she might have made, and looked about her uncertainly, trying to get her bearings. In the crowds around the ballroom it was difficult to know exactly where she was. Luis Salvador saw her indecision, and placed a hand on her bare elbow to guide her. Morgana was overwhelmingly conscious of that contact, and once as they came up against a barrier of people, she turned and looked up at his face. His features were taut, and a muscle jerked in his cheek, and she frowned. He was as aware of her as she was of him, she thought disturbingly. They were close to the buffet area now, and she stopped suddenly and said: “Why didn't you ask me to dance, senhor?”

His eyes met hers. “I do not dance, senhorita,” he replied emotionlessly.

Morgana frowned. “You don't – or you don't want to?”

The muscles of his jaw tightened. “What would you have me say, senhorita?”

Morgana shook her head slowly. “The truth, perhaps. If – if I asked you to dance, would you dance with me?”

As she waited for his reply she wondered what it was that was driving her to say these things. Perhaps it was the unusual amount of wine she had consumed, she didn't know, but she was more curious about this man than about any other man she had ever met. Now, he studied her expression intently, and she moved a little restlessly under that scrutiny.

“Senhorita, join your friends. Do not involve yourself with people and things that you do not understand.”

Morgana was impatient. “You are not like your brother, are you, senhor?”

His nostrils flared slightly. “If you say not, senhorita.”

Morgana chewed her lower lip. “He, at least, is polite.”

“I, too, am polite, senhorita. If I have appeared otherwise, then I sincerely apologise.”

Morgana was annoyed. “Perhaps that was the wrong word to use, senhor. You are polite, too polite, perhaps.”

Luis Salvador lifted his shoulders. “I was under the impression that you were a – lady, senhorita.”

Morgana trembled a little. “You did want to dance with me, I know you did!” she averred, her cheeks flushed.

“You are mistaken, senhorita, but if it means so much to you …”

His fingers slid down her arm to her wrist, gripping it cruelly, and he turned and thrust his way through the throng to the edge of the dance floor pulling her after him. It was no use protesting. His strength was evident in the iron-like hold he had upon her wrist, and she thought he was hurting her deliberately. When they reached the dance floor, he did not give her time to object, but pulled her closely into his arms, so that she was intensely aware of him with every fibre of her being. The music was slower now, and the floor more closely filled, and it was unlikely that they would be observed from the side. Even so, Morgana felt a sense of outrage that he should dare to treat her in this manner. They moved slowly, and as he was taller than she was, she had to tilt back her head to look at him.

“I hope you realise you have humiliated me,” she said, hotly, trying to maintain her anger in the face of more disturbing emotions.

He drew back slightly and looked down at her, his dark lashes veiling the tawny eyes. “Why?” he queried. “This is what you wanted, was it not, senhorita?”

Morgana compressed her lips. “You are impossible!” she exclaimed, uncomfortably.

“Why? Because I accepted the challenge you so carelessly offered?” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Forgive me! There are times when my reactions appal even myself.” His face was withdrawn.

Morgana puzzled over this. Then she lifted her shoulders philosophically. “I suppose I am as much to blame,” she admitted, honestly. “But I don't understand you.”

Luis's eyes grew distant. “Do not try, senhorita. It is better that you forget this incident. My brother was – using you, that is all. And now, you will go back to your friends?”

Morgana stared at him impatiently. It was impossible to penetrate that dispassionate façade, and it was devastating to realise just how badly she wanted to do just that. Her youth, her beauty, the yielding quality of her body against his seemed to mean nothing to this man, and all she had succeeded in arousing in him was a momentary spurt of anger. With a feeling of helplessness, she pushed him away from her.

“I can find my own way back!” she announced coldly, and turning began pushing her way through the dancers to the side. Her cheeks were burning, and yet there was an awful cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. He did not follow her. She did not expect him to, and she knew the rest of the evening would just be an anti-climax. But she still had the Dennisons to face.

The group was where she had left it, and she slid into her seat almost surreptitiously, hoping her arrival would go unnoticed in the current buzz of conversation. But she might have known it was a vain hope. Mrs. Dennison was far too interested to allow her to get away with it.

“Well!” she said, accusingly. “You certainly have taken your time. Where have you been. Surely not with that man!”

Morgana sighed. “Where else do you suppose I have been.”

Ruth touched her arm. “We thought you might have made some excuse and gone to the powder room,” she said. “Do you mean you didn't?”

“Of course not. Actually – actually Mr. Salvador was – very polite.”

The Dennisons exchanged a look. “Indeed.” That was Ruth's father. “It might interest you to know that you played right into his hands by accepting. Good heavens, he could come back right now and ask Ruth or my wife to dance and what excuse could they make?”

Morgana flushed. “I'm sorry. I didn't think of that.”

“You didn't think, I agree.” Laurence Dennison lit a cigarette impatiently.

“Oh, come on, now.” That was Michael Lawson. “Where's the harm? Salvador isn't a savage. Nor are his relatives. If Morgana wanted to dance with him, why not? He's a pretty handsome beast, don't you agree?”

Morgana looked at Michael gratefully, but Mrs. Dennison was not to be placated. “Morgana is here as our guest. Surely it's obvious that she should adhere to Laurie's wishes. Heavens, it was clear enough that he didn't want her to accept.”

Morgana bit her lip. “Well, I'm sorry if I've offended you,” she said, awkwardly. “I – I guess this – isn't England.”

Ruth gave a bored yawn. “Well, let's forget it, eh, Mummy? Morgana's back now – in one piece. Where's the problem?”

Mrs. Dennison sniffed. “All right, all right. I've said all I'm going to.”

“Good.” Ruth turned to Lieutenant Bernard. “Come on,” she said, smiling. “You promised to teach me the bossa nova.”

After they had gone, and Mrs. Dennison's attention had been distracted elsewhere, Morgana turned to Michael.

“Thanks,” she murmured, softly.

Michael grinned. “Think nothing of it.” Then he glanced at his wife, saw that she was engrossed in conversation with David Grover's wife, and said: “Seriously though, you did take one hell of a chance. Like Laurie said, the Salvadors are not acceptable escorts for a girl. They are reputed to be involved with the guerillas, and their ideas of what is right and what is wrong are not ours, do you understand?”

Morgana was glad of the glass of wine in her fingers. It gave her something to do with her hands. “I think so,” she replied quietly. “But it was only a dance!”

Michael frowned. “Yes. I wonder why he chose you.”

Morgana's colour deepened. “So do I,” she said.

CHAPTER II

THE airport at Galeao was cool and air-conditioned after the heat outside the building, and Morgana sat with Ruth in the airport bar, sipping iced lager and waiting for her flight to be called, with pleasurable regret that her holiday was over. These two weeks in Rio had been quite delightful, and she was sorry she had to leave. Yet for all that, in some ways she would be glad to get away. Rio, Brazil, South America; these things were synonymous in her mind with other, more disturbing memories, and she longed to get back among familiar things and familiar people. Of course, she was flying to Los Angeles first, to join her father, but soon afterwards they would be en route for London and home.

Her faint dissatisfaction with her holiday and with herself had stemmed from that eventful night at the Monteraverdian Embassy, and she had found it difficult preventing her thoughts from turning continually to the Salvador brothers. It was ridiculous, of course, and yet she had wondered whether Ricardo might try to get in touch with her. He knew she was staying with the Dennisons, and there were such things as telephones, but no one had called, and she had been unable to dispel the disappointment this had aroused in her. Not, she told herself firmly, that she would have accepted any invitation which might have been offered, but just to satisfy herself that Ricardo had not been using her as Luis had said he was.

Now, Ruth regarded her regretfully, and said: “I shall miss you, Morgana. These two weeks have been marvellous for me. Having someone to go about with, someone to share things with.”

Morgana smiled. “They've been wonderful for me, too, Ruth,” she replied, warmly. “You must persuade your parents to allow you to come to England and stay with us. Not that I can promise you a very exciting life at Friars Warren, but at least we could go to concerts and the theatre, and there are several young men, suitably unattached, I could introduce you to.”

Ruth chuckled. “Now when would a young man notice me with you around?” she enquired, with resigned amusement.

Morgana frowned. “Don't be silly, Ruth, I'm serious. I should hazard a guess that you'd be quite a sensation in our small town with all that russet-coloured hair, and that marvellous tan!”

Ruth sighed. “We'll see.” She traced the pattern in the wood of the bar counter. “I would like to take you up on that some time, though. I'd like to see your father again.”

Morgana raised her eyebrows. “Indeed? I shall begin to think it's my father you're most interested in shortly!” she laughed.

Ruth shrugged. “Well, he is unattached, isn't he”

Morgana stared at her incredulously. “Are you serious?”

“Of course.” Ruth smiled. “No, don't worry, Morgana, I'm sure your father isn't interested in me.”

Morgana shook her head. “I never suspected,” she exclaimed.

“What? What was there to suspect? I guess it was just that he was there, and I was young enough to become enamoured of him. Don't alarm yourself. He did not give me any encouragement. He just regarded me, as he regarded you, I suppose.”

Morgana cupped her chin in her hand. “Thank you for confiding in me. Don't you think though it was just a schoolgirl crush? After all, we're twenty-two now, and you haven't seen him for three years.”

“I know.” Ruth bent her head. “Maybe you're right. In retrospect, though, those times I spent at Friars Warren seem the most happy times of my childhood.”

Morgana frowned. “I don't believe it. Why, your parents used to take you everywhere in the long summer vac. I remember you going to Switzerland and Italy, even to the States.”

“Yes, but that's not the same, is it? I mean, they didn't talk to me, not like your father talked to you. Somehow Mummy and Daddy have always seemed remote from childish contact. We went everywhere, as you say, but just as in Rio they attend these continual social functions when we were abroad they attended others. You see – wherever they go, they have friends, and they give parties …” She sighed. “I suppose now I'm supposed to appreciate it, too, and to a certain extent I do, but just now and then I wish we had an ordinary life, like you and your father.”

Morgana regarded her sympathetically. “Well, as soon as I get home we'll get something arranged,” she promised, gently. “I can't promise you my father's company though. Since he joined the university he's been kept pretty busy.”

“He must be clever,” said Ruth, with interest. “I mean – Daddy's work is so – so boring.”

Morgana smiled. “Economics are not exactly exciting,” she commented dryly.

Ruth squeezed her arm. “Oh, any minute now they're going to call your flight. Couldn't you ring your father and tell him you've been delayed, or something, and stay another couple of days?”

Morgana shook her head regretfully. “No, I've got to go. But I'll write, just as soon as I get home.”

Ruth nodded. “See you do.” She looked round the bar speculatively. “I wonder if all these people are waiting for your flight?”

Morgana looked about her. “Maybe,” she was saying casually, when her palms suddenly moistened, and the colour drained from her cheeks. A man was standing across from them with his back to them. His height and the set of his shoulders were remarkably like those of the Salvador brothers, but then he turned and Morgana saw that he was a stranger.

Ruth had noticed Morgana's sudden tension, and glanced round quickly. “Who is it? What's wrong, Morgana?” she exclaimed.

Morgana let out a deep breath, unaware until that moment that she had been holding it. “Why – nothing,” she denied, awkwardly.

Ruth frowned and looked round again. “It was that man, wasn't it? That dark man. You thought it was Ricardo Salvador.”

Morgana lifted her shoulders indifferently, the colour returning to her cheeks. Sipping her lager, she said: “So what if I did?”

“Well, he had some effect on you, didn't he? What did he say to you that should cause you such a degree of tension? You never did say much about that affair.”

“There was nothing to say,” replied Morgana, wishing she had not caused this topic to be raised.

“No?” Ruth looked sceptical. “And you turn pale at the suggestion of sight of him? Honestly, Morgana, what do you take me for?”

Morgana bent her head. Ruth had been honest with her about Morgana's father. She deserved honesty in return. “It – it wasn't Ricardo Salvador I was concerned about,” she said, slowly. “It was Luis.”

“Luis!” Ruth stared at her in astonishment. “But you don't know Luis, do you?”

Morgana sighed. “Only slightly. I danced with him, too.”

“I see. So that's why you were so long.” Ruth nodded. “And – and was he – well – fresh with you?”

Morgana could have laughed, but there was no mirth in this situation. “Oh, no,” she said. “No, not at all.”

Ruth was intrigued. “Then I simply don't understand,” she said, frowning.

Morgana looked at her through her long lashes. “Well, nor do I, actually,” she confessed wryly.

As Ruth would have said more, the tannoy system came into operation and Morgana's flight was called. Morgana finished her drink and slid off her stool. But when Ruth would have accompanied her, she shook her head. “No, please,” she said. “Don't come with me. I hate goodbyes. Let's just say cheerio here, and I'll see you in London – soon.”

Ruth compressed her lips. “If that's what you want, Morgana,” she agreed. “Until – until London then!”

“That's right. Goodbye, Ruth.” Morgana squeezed her hand gently, and then turned and walked blindly through the tables to the exit.

The aircraft was barely half full when it took off from Galeao. It was a smaller plane than the one which had brought Morgana from New York after she had left her father to fly on to California and she was lucky enough to have a window seat. Looking down on the sweep of shore line that bordered the thickly populated environs of Rio de Janeiro, she felt a pang of regret at leaving so much beauty behind. There was poverty, too, of course, but the rugged coves that could be found only a few miles’ drive out from the city centre with their white beaches and foaming surf more than compensated for the ugliness of the favellas. And yet the remarkable thing was that despite deplorable housing conditions and lack of amenities the people maintained a wholly vital spirit that no amount of misery could destroy. The massive statue of Christ passed away below them and the plane turned inland to cross the jagged peaks of the sierras. Faint patches of cloud dispersed slowly below them as the shadows lengthened and Morgana could distinguish the arid slopes,’ sun-burned above the lush foliage below. It was a panorama of grey and brown and blue, the valleys shadowed by the high slopes of the ranges that towered one above the other. It seemed impossible that the sun should ever penetrate those tropical forests that bordered swiftly running rivers and she felt a quiver of excitement pass through her.

The sun went down in a blaze of glory, and darkness hid the majesty of the primitive land below their fragile craft. Morgana gave her attention to the magazines she had bought at the airport, and tried to relax. Across the aisle she saw the man from the airport bar, the dark-skinned man who had reminded her so vividly of the Salvadors. He looked her way and she encountered his gaze and looked swiftly away again, not wanting to appear inquisitive, and thereafter she concentrated on her books.

Dinner was served soon after, and she ate sparingly, enjoying the coffee that followed the meal. She was in the process of closing her eyes to try and sleep for a while when several things happened all at once which afterwards became inextricably tangled in her confused mind.

She remembered there was a cry from the rear of the plane. Some old man had had a heart seizure, or at least that was what everybody thought. The two stewardesses hastened back to attend to him and while Morgana, like everyone else, was curiously looking back in an attempt to see what was going on the dark-skinned man from across the aisle got to his feet and his companion went forward and entered the pilot's compartment. Morgana knew at once that something was wrong. For one thing, passengers simply did not enter the pilot's sanctum during the night, and she looked up to find the man beside her was holding a small, but very lethal-looking, revolver. She stifled the cry that rose in her throat as the man began to speak, first in Portuguese, and then in English. As the passengers turned to listen, and saw the weapon in his hands there were horrified gasps and one of the women screamed.