The Stand-In Bride Read online

  ‘It’s the paperwork for our marriage,’ she said. ‘You were right, Alfonso did everything in time-got all the certificates, the translations, the permission.’ She became aware of a strange silence. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Who is Señora Margarita Alva?’ he asked slowly.

  ‘Oh, that’s me. Cortez was my maiden name. I took it back after my husband died, but for our wedding formalities I had to give his name. I explained it all to Alfonso. I meant to tell you, but I forgot.’

  ‘You-forgot-’

  ‘Well, it’s not important, is it?’

  He regarded her strangely. ‘All this time, you’ve let me refer to you as Señora Cortez, when you were really-Señora Alva.’

  ‘I told you, I rejected my husband’s name. And it wasn’t really anybody’s business, after all. I had no way of knowing it would matter. Anyway, all the paperwork is correct, and that’s what counts.’

  ‘And your husband was-Roderigo Alva?’

  ‘Yes. It says so there.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘In prison.’

  She wished Sebastian would turn and face her, but he stayed as he was, slowly looking through the papers, until at last he laid them back on the desk and left the room.

  Her wedding was a flower-filled dream. By custom a Spanish bride had flowers hung around her home, and Maggie stepped out of her room to find that Catalina and Isabella had been to work. Winter roses were hung about her door, petals were strewn along the corridor as she made her way, more roses hung about the great front doors.

  All Granada was in the cathedral. Maggie entered on the arm of one of Sebastian’s elderly uncles, and there were gasps of admiration at the sight of her. The heavy cream satin dress suited her tall figure admirably, and, for a veil, Catalina had persuaded her to wear a lace mantilla, which added to her air of magnificence. Everyone agreed that she was a fitting bride for a great man.

  She had wondered how he would behave during the service, and wasn’t very surprised that his manner was distant. What they knew in the heat of their bed was for them alone, and Sebastian wasn’t the man to parade his feelings.

  So she imitated his lofty bearing as the great choir sang them to their marriage, and the archbishop pronounced them united for ever. Their time would come, a time of hot lips and fevered bodies gasping, seeking, claiming, uniting. It would concern nobody but themselves.

  After the wedding came the reception in the great hall, with five hundred guests standing, cheering as Don Sebastian de Santiago entered with his bride on his arm. As he walked the length of the huge room there was nothing on his face but pride and hauteur.

  By tradition there were nine wedding cakes, made of sponge with caramel topping, lavishly adorned with fresh cream, and mounted on a spiral stand. For the wedding festivities of Don Sebastian de Santiago there were no less than a hundred and eighty cakes, mounted on twenty stands. Each cake must be officially ‘cut’ by the bride, for fear of offending many guests, so Sebastian led Maggie ceremoniously around the long tables so that she could briefly touch each cake with a silver knife.

  By the time the long reception was over Maggie was feeling tired, but she knew the feeling wouldn’t last. The mere thought of Sebastian could drive out everything but eager anticipation.

  The wedding dress was gone, its grandeur no longer needed. In its place was a nightdress of simple white silk, gossamer thin, an invitation to the man she had chosen to remove it.

  Now, as she prepared for her wedding night, her thoughts were full of the last time she had lain in his arms, driven almost to madness by the force of her own desire. She didn’t know what else marriage to Sebastian might mean, but she knew it meant heart-stopping sensations, her very self burned up in the furnace heat of the passion they created between them. For the moment, that would be enough. The rest could come later.

  For just a moment she was assailed by qualms. There was an uneasy echo in her head, an echo of herself in times past. Once there had been a young girl who tried to console herself for her failing marriage with the thought that their passion would bind them until matters improved. Because passion meant love. Didn’t it?

  She’d learned better in bitterness and grief, and she wished that sad little ghost hadn’t come to haunt her tonight. She rubbed her eyes, banishing that other girl back into the past, where she belonged. Because Sebastian wasn’t Roderigo. He wasn’t a weakling, always taking the easy way. He was a difficult man in many ways, but she could trust his strength and his honesty.

  As for herself, she knew that she was mentally the right wife for Sebastian as the scatterbrained Catalina could never have been. And he knew it too. They would have a good marriage.

  Then she heard Sebastian’s step outside, and something quickened in her. She gave a wry smile of self-mockery. She’d been fooling herself with prosaic talk about mental suitability. She had married Sebastian de Santiago because he could bring her body to life, because the mere sound of his footstep could throw her into a fever. She thought of the night to come, and the joyous pleasure that would soon be hers…

  The door opened, and Sebastian stood there with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. Maggie knew a twinge of disappointment. She’d pictured him as he’d been on their last night together, when he’d been as eager for their union as she. But Sebastian was still dressed as he had been all day, except that he’d discarded his tie and torn open the throat of his shirt. Still, she thought, consoling herself, she would have the pleasure of undressing him. She smiled into his eyes and was shocked to find there was no answering light.

  She closed the door behind him as he came into the room and set the glasses down. His movements were measured, as though he were under great strain and enduring it with difficulty. He opened the bottle, filled both glasses and handed one to her.

  ‘It has been a long day, filled with toasts,’ he said. ‘But this is the one I’ve been looking forward to-with interest.’

  How strange his voice sounded, she thought. How flat. How dead. How coldly angry. No, that couldn’t be right. But she’d never known until this moment that ‘interest’ was such a dismaying word.

  ‘The interest, of course, lies in deciding what she shall drink to,’ he continued. ‘To deceit, to treachery, to the poor fool taken in for the second time?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  For answer he held up his glass sardonically. ‘I drink to you-Señora Alva.’

  The old hated name could still make a cold hand clutch at her heart. And to it was added a nameless fear that he had chosen this moment to say such a thing.

  ‘Surely, I am Señora de Santiago now?’

  ‘To others, yes. But to me, you will always be Señora Roderigo Alva.’

  His tone put her on her mettle, and she faced him. ‘In that case, it hardly seems worth your while to have married me.’

  ‘I married you because I had no choice. To have cancelled a second wedding within a few days would have given the gossips and the sneerers all they needed. Rather than endure that, I will endure the appearance of marriage to you.’

  ‘Cancel a second wedding?’ she echoed, bewildered. ‘But-why?’

  ‘Because Felipe Mayorez was my father’s closest friend,’ he said bleakly.

  ‘Felipe-Mayorez?’ she whispered.

  ‘You don’t even remember his name,’ Sebastian said scornfully.

  But she did. Against her will it came shrieking out of the black night of things she didn’t dare look at. Felipe Mayorez, a kindly old man, who had surprised an intruder in his house one night, and been left bleeding on the floor.

  ‘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

  T HE “Wall of Death” started near the top of Velet
a, 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.

  And then the end was in sight. She began to slow as Sol y Nieve appeared and grew larger. She reached the end breathless, and feeling as though a cleansing wind had blown through her mind, leaving it empty of everything. There was no pain, no fear, no despair, no joy, no love. There was nothing.

  Sebastian appeared almost at once, watching her face. It seemed to him that the hostility had gone, but he searched in vain for anything softer that might have taken its place.