Daughters of the Summer Storm by Frances Statham (best sci fi novels of all time .TXT) 📗

His eyes examined her closely. "Despite your paleness, you look better, Maranta, than you did when I left two weeks ago. And I see you have gained some much needed weight, too."

Hating the way he was staring at her, bringing back to her mind those days when he had taken care of her so intimately, she quickly replied, "I have been eating too many cream cakes with Innocencia."

"You have made friends with my wife? While I was away?"

"Yes. We visited together until. . . until. . ." Maranta stopped.

"Until what?" Dom Ruis prompted.

"Until. . . she became ill again."

Dom Ruis's dark brows collided into a massive frown. "Yes. Innocencia's. . . indisposition," he said bitterly and then walked away from Maranta, leaving her to bite her lip and take one last fearful look at the muçurana before she fled to her apartment.

21

By evening the fazenda had taken on new life. It was true, then. Dom Ruis, by merely returning, could sharpen the steps of the house servants, could bring a fresh glow to the old condessa's wrinkled face.

Even Dona Isobel, the penniless cousin who acted as companion to the condessa, reacted to Ruis's presence with her coy looks only partially hidden by the black lace fan.

But Maranta, seated opposite him in the sala, was nervous at the conde's attention. His eyes bored into her, making her feel as if she had on nothing more than the white lace gown of her wedding night, or worse—nothing at all.

"She is looking much better. Do you not think so, Mãe?" he said.

The condessa's eyes rested on Maranta for a while before answering. "Yes. Much better," she agreed. "Sassia has taken good care of her while you have been away."

"Good."

"Please," Maranta said, embarrassed that the two were talking about her as if she were not even in the room.

"Yes, pequena?" Ruis said, his voice soft and lazy.

"I. . . I don't like to be stared at and talked about."

His amused expression remained on his face while he continued to stare at her, watching her cheeks turn crimson. And then he shifted his attention to Dona Isobel.

"Would it disturb you, Isobel, to be in Maranta's shoes?"

Dona Isobel lowered her fan. "For myself, I would not mind being young again. But as the condessa well remembers, I never had Maranta's beauty—so consequently never knew what it was like to be stared at and talked about."

Her quick glance toward Maranta was apologetic.

Ruis pursued the subject further. "But you think you might have enjoyed the attention, Isobel?"

"Almost every young girl's ambition," Isobel admitted, "is to stir a man's interest, Ruis. It is in a woman's heart to wish to be the subject of some man's love."

"I wonder," Ruis said, more to himself than to anyone else in the room. His sapphire eyes were once again on the slight figure seated on the sofa.

"What about you, Maranta? What is your ambition, pequena? To be a great artist?'

The teasing made Maranta angry. Her lips trembled, but she replied in a firm voice. "I had only one ambition, senhor. But for me, it is now too late."

"And how is that?"

"I wished to become a nun, senhor—in the Convent of Our Blessed Lady."

His dark eyes were disbelieving at her avowal. His face hardened. "And who pushed you in that direction, Maranta?"

"No one, senhor. It was only natural. My own maman was a nun at one time, before my father. . ."

Dom Ruis's laugh filled the room. "But instead, she became the mother of how many children, menina?"

"F-Five." Maranta's cheeks burned at his inquisition.

"Mãe tells me that you resemble your mother very much." In an intimate tone intended only for her ears, he whispered, "Is that not a lesson for you, Maranta? Your destiny does not lie in a nunnery, as you are well aware."

Angry at his insinuation, Maranta jumped from the sofa. She walked to the condessa, and kissing her on her cheek, Maranta said, "I am very tired, Mãe. If I have your permission, I will retire to my room."

The condessa kissed her and nodded. Maranta then laid her cheek against Dona Isobel's cheek, and unable to face Dom Ruis, she left the room.

But she was not to escape him. Ruis remained standing and, bidding the two women goodnight, he headed for his library opposite Maranta's apartment.

"One moment, Maranta. And I will walk with you."

"That is not necessary, senhor."

He caught up with her and placed his hand on her arm. "My name is Ruis. Have you deliberately forgotten?"

His touch made her tremble. She moved away from him.

"Do not be so skittish, Maranta. From the way you are behaving, people would think we were strangers."

"We are strangers."

"No, Maranta. You may speak for yourself. But you are no stranger to me. From the small curves of your body to the formation of your toes—even to the birthmark on your. . ."

"Please," Maranta croaked, tugging at his coat sleeve. "Someone might overhear."

"And if someone does?"

"I will die of shame."

"Then, if you want no one to hear, I shall have to come into your apartment. For there is a question that I wish to have answered."

They were at the door of the sitting room, and Ruis opened it to allow Maranta to precede him into the room. She walked to the hearth filled with greenery and stood with her back to Ruis—waiting to hear the words he would utter.

"Turn around and face me, Maranta."

"I. . . can't."

She felt his hand reach for her and lift her chin upward. But Maranta closed her eyes.

"You know what I am going to ask?"

"Yes."

"Well?"

If she said that she was expecting his child, he would soon discover it to be a lie. But if she admitted that her wedding night had not been fruitful, then the same thing could happen again.

"I'm waiting, Maranta. Are you with child?"

The tears slipped from under her closed eyelids. "No," she murmured, shaking her head.

She was in his arms, and he stroked her hair gently. "Do not be