Free White Witch by Elizabeth Ashton Page B

before. If Esteban had been driving, she might have taken the offered place, for she thought his feelings had been hurt by his brother’s caustic dismissal, but she wanted to avoid intimacy with Luis—no, ‘wanted’ was the wrong word—but she knew it was unwise. She was wearing her beige trousers, with a white blouse, and a long sleeveless over-jacket which came nearly to her knees, a concession to Spanish susceptibilities. It was in knitted acrylic, with a metallic thread running through it, which toned with her hair. Esteban had paid her a flowery compliment when she had appeared in it, but Luis had not even glanced at her. He was no doubt regretting what he had told her in the lounge on the previous evening. She looked yearningly at the black head in front of her. He meant to offer for Cristina when she returned from Madrid, and his fancy for herself would die a natural death. She could only hope her own infatuation would fade as quickly, but it showed no sign of abating, rather it increased every time she saw him. It was a little like sitting on a keg of gunpowder, she mused, any unexpected crisis could cause it to explode.
    The predominant crop in that part of Spain is olives. There are acres and acres of the silvery-leaved trees, and they stretch up the mountains for as far as they can obtain a foothold. The upper portions of these precipitous peaks are bare rock and shale. There are other crops, including com, but a great dearth of animals, except for goats, which browse along the verges and waste patches watched over by some ancient grandfather, gnarled by the sun. Luis explained that there was little pasture for cattle, especially farther north where the land was arid, few cows could be grazed and butter was considered a luxury. The peasants steeped their bread in oil.
    Ronda proved to be, as he had promised, a fascinating city. Ringed by mountains, many feet above sea level, it was split by the Tajo, the sinister gorge caused by some earthquake in prehistoric times. It was spanned by three bridges, the New Bridge, a monumental piece of engineering, high above the deepest part of the gorge, and two where it was much lower, opening to the plain, an Arab one and a Roman. Houses clustered along the edge of the Tajo, and Laurel thought she would not like to live with such an abyss outside her back door. Having parked the car, they walked across the New Bridge, gazing fearfully into the depths on either side, and thence down a narrow street beside it, to look up at it from below. They were in the old part of the town, and it was very old; Moor and Roman had left their mark. Uphill again and past the summer palace of the Marques de Salvatierra, the facade of which looked as though it could do with some redecorating.
    ‘He should turn it into a hotel,’ Luis said, laughing. ‘Then he could afford a lick of paint.’
    Laurel knew he was thinking of his own well-kept residences. He might have stepped down from the aristocracy, but he knew how to make money, and had no regrets for loss of status. In that respect, he was as modern in his outlook as she was herself. They looked in at the Cathedral of Santa Maria, but Peter’s short legs were beginning to tire and he complained that he was thirsty.
    ‘We will lunch at the Hotel del Toro Negro,’ Luis decided. ‘It is in the modern part of the town, so we will go back to the car, if you can walk that far, infant.’ He slanted a mischievous glance at Laurel. ‘I do not think your aunt will appreciate its decor, which consists of scenes from the corrida .’
    ‘Certainly I won’t,’ Laurel declared. ‘Must we go there?’
    ‘Yes, because it will be Pedrillo’s inheritance.’ He did not only mean the hotel, but was reminding her that Peter was Spanish.’
    ‘The frescos are famous,’ Esteban told her, ‘you must see them, they are so lifelike.’
    ‘With all the gory details,’ Luis murmured. He was regarding her with a lazy sensuous expression, a little