‘He-was the man who-’

‘The man your husband half-killed, a man who has never been the same since. Since my childhood he visited our house many times and was a second father to me. And when I visit him and see him staring into space, trapped in his own head-alive and yet not alive-and when I think that I have shared a woman with the criminal who did that to him-amor de Dios!’

He slammed a hand down on the table, tormented by some violent emotion. Maggie watched him in horror.

‘You knew all this,’ she whispered. ‘As soon as you saw those papers-’

‘I couldn’t be sure. There might be two men of that name, but you told me he died in prison-’

‘You knew,’ she flung at him. ‘You knew I was the last person you should marry, and you didn’t tell me-’

‘Because our marriage had to go ahead,’ he responded harshly. ‘It was too late to change anything.’

‘You had no right to make that decision on your own,’ she cried. ‘It concerned me, too. Did you ever think that I might be as horrified by this discovery as you? Why do you think I changed my name back? Because I didn’t want to be the wife of Roderigo Alva. I’ve spent years trying to hide it even from myself, and now, every time I look at you, I’m going to remember. You should have warned me in time.’

‘It was already too late,’ he snapped.

‘Too late for you, not for me. Oh, God, how could this have happened?’

‘It happened because you concealed the truth about yourself,’ he grated. ‘If I’d known this months ago, I would never have employed you, never have let you near my household. For me, the mere name of Alva is horrible.’

‘For me, too, can’t you understand? I wanted to escape it.’

‘How convenient,’ he scoffed. ‘Felipe Mayorez can never escape it. He lives in a wheelchair, hardly able to move. Some days he can manage to whisper a few words. Some days not. He has nothing to look forward to but death. That’s right, turn away. Block your ears. Shut out the truth. If only he could do the same.’

‘I’m sorry for what happened to him, but it wasn’t my fault.’

‘So you say. And yet you tried to give your husband a false alibi.’

‘That’s not true,’ she said violently. ‘Roderigo wanted me to say he was with me that evening, but I denied it. That’s why-’

She stopped herself. She’d been going to say that was why she felt so bad about Roderigo’s fate. If she had told the lie he wanted, he might have lived. But she couldn’t say any of this to the harsh, judgmental man she’d married.

‘That’s why what?’

‘It doesn’t matter. You’ve made up your mind and nothing I could say will change it. Don’t judge me, Sebastian. You have no right. You don’t know the real truth.’

‘I know that my dear friend is a speechless cripple.’

‘And my husband is dead. There’s your revenge, if you want it.’

‘But you’re forgetting, I am your husband now.’

‘Heaven help us both,’ she whispered.

Suddenly she was seized by a burst of racking laughter. It convulsed her until she was almost sobbing.

‘What is it?’ Sebastian demanded.

‘I told Catalina that no woman in her senses would marry a Spaniard. I thought I’d learned my lesson. You’re not the only one who was duped a second time, Sebastian. Oh, dear God! I thought you were different. More fool me! No Spaniard is different. No man is different. You had no right to keep this to yourself. I’ll never forgive you for that.’

‘And I,’ he said bitingly, ‘will never forgive you for your part in this. For you too kept something vital to yourself, didn’t you?’

‘I’ve explained about my name-’

‘I don’t just mean your name. I mean José Ruiz. He came here as your friend from the days of your marriage. Tell me, how did you come to know him? Tell me.’

‘He’s one of the family,’ she admitted.

‘One of the Alva family?’

‘Yes, but his name isn’t Alva.’

‘His name!’ he said contemptuously. ‘As though his name mattered when he carries Alva blood. And you introduced that creature into my house to corrupt Catalina.’

‘He won’t corrupt her; he loves her. He’s a nice boy.’

‘He is an Alva.’

They looked at each other across a deep abyss.

‘We’re going to have a very interesting marriage,’ Sebastian said at last.

‘Marriage,’ she echoed. ‘You don’t call this a marriage, do you?’ She could hardly get out the last words. A bout of shivering had seized her and her teeth had begun to chatter. She fought to control it but she was in shock. Waves of uncontrollable horror swept over her and she felt as though she were freezing.

Sebastian frowned. With an abrupt movement, he whisked the counterpane from the bed and tried to put it about her but she fended him off with one hand flung out and eyes that burned.

‘Get away from me,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Don’t touch me. Don’t ever try to touch me again.’

‘You must put something on against the cold.’

‘My robe is behind you. Just lay it on the bed and leave it there.’

He did as she said and stepped back, frowning as she seized up the garment and pulled it on, wrapping it right around her as though seeking protection.

‘Now go,’ Maggie said.

‘I don’t want to leave you like this-’

‘Can’t you understand that I hate the sight of you? Go, and don’t try to come near me again tonight.’

‘And tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow,’ she sighed. ‘Yes, tomorrow is going to come, isn’t it? I can’t think of it now. Go away.’ Her eyes fell on the champagne he’d brought in. ‘Perhaps you should take that with you. There’s nothing to celebrate here.’

She watched as he left the room. She was still shivering, and tried to control it by getting into bed and pulling the covers around her. But it was horror that afflicted her, not cold, and at last she got out of bed and went to sit by the window. She remained there, motionless, for hours.

It was her wedding night, the night she’d looked forward to with joyful anticipation. They should have watched the dawn creep in, wrapped in each other’s arms. Instead she watched it alone, dry-eyed, hugging her arms across her chest as though trying to defend herself from some threatened evil.

As the light changed from darkness to grey she could see her bags, ready packed for her honeymoon. A honeymoon that would never take place, she resolved, pulling herself together. At last she forced life into her stiff limbs. She took the smallest bag, emptied it of its beautiful clothes, and began thrusting in a few things that she would need, including nothing that Sebastian had ever bought her. The clothes she had brought to Spain with her would be enough. From now on, she was her own woman, and that was how it would stay.

She showered and dressed quickly. She tried to think of the future, but all she could see was a blank.

At last there was a light knock on her door. Sebastian stood there, fully dressed, his drawn face telling of the night he’d spent, a night that seemed to have been as bad as hers.

‘May I come in?’

She stepped back to let him pass.

‘You’re a little ahead of time,’ he observed. ‘Our plane for New York doesn’t leave until three o’clock this afternoon.’

‘I’m not going to New York,’ she said bleakly. ‘I’m finished with you, Sebastian. I won’t stay married to a man who could do something so cruel as going through with this farce and not tell me until afterwards. You can go alone, and don’t tell me about your reputation, because I don’t care.’

‘You may not, but I have to. Wherever you go, we must go together, and people must think we are enjoying a blissful honeymoon. England, then?’

‘No, Sol y Nieve. I’m going to ski the “Wall of Death”, and find out if it deserves its reputation.’

‘You’re not going there alone,’ he said at once.

‘I shall do as I please.’

‘Not in this mood. I’m not taking chances on you being reckless. We’ll just alter our honeymoon arrangements and go skiing instead.’

‘Whatever you like. But for pity’s sake, let’s get out of this house.’

CHAPTER NINE

THE “Wall of Death” started near the top of Veleta, the second highest peak of the Sierra Nevada, and the highest from which skiing was possible. From here it dropped a distance of four miles, almost sheer in many places, until it ended near Sol y Nieve.

Within an hour of their arrival they had taken the ski lift up the mountain, riding side by side. Now and then Sebastian glanced at Maggie, but he didn’t speak. There was something about her brooding silence that he was unwilling to interrupt. But when they stood together at the top of the run he said, ‘Wait until tomorrow. You’re not ready.’

‘I’ll never be more ready than I am this minute,’ she said, looking down the run, not at him.

‘More reckless, you mean. Margarita, listen to me-’

He reached for her arm, but as though his touch had detonated a flash she was off, darting out of his reach so fast that she was almost out of sight before he’d recovered. Cursing violently he sped after her, suddenly full of dread. He’d descended the wall himself often before, but never unless he was stone cold sober. And he knew that to tackle it in her present mood was almost an invitation to injury, or worse.

He managed to catch her but there was little more he could do. To get in front, hoping to slow her down, could bring about exactly the crash he feared.

After her first explosive dash, Maggie knew it was going to take all her skill and concentration to get down in one piece. A jagged rock appeared in her path, threatened her, vanished. She could feel the surface spotted with moguls, bumps left by turns in the snow from other skiers, but her legs seemed to move instinctively, balancing her weight to deal with them. Her excitement rose as she realised that she was good enough to do this. Best of all, she was outrunning her ghosts.