The High Valley

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.