Daughters of the Summer Storm by Frances Statham (good fiction books to read TXT) 📕

he said, slapping his forehead. "Do I have to show you every danger before you'll believe me?"

The leaves rustled as a large snake unwound itself from the tree trunk and slithered away.

"Senhora," Ruis directed to Dona Isobel, "kindly see to this child. And make certain she stays inside the carriage until I tell her she can get out."

"I will be more watchful," the woman promised. "Do not worry."

Muttering angrily to himself, Ruis rode away on his black stallion to catch up with the gauchos.

Despite the recital of supposed dangers each time they stopped, Maranta saw no dread venomous snake called the jararaca, nor a single jaguar—that sleek silent predator of the forest which Ruis had warned her about. Instead, she saw the tiny, green, harmless hummingbirds and beautiful flowers that decorated their journey.

Hundreds of variegated blossoms covered entire shrubs, and Maranta, unable to keep silent, exclaimed over their exotic beauty. "Oh, look at the flowers," she said, only to see the blossoms take wing and fly away.

"Not blossoms at all, Maranta," the condessa said, amused at her puzzled expression. "They are borboletas."

In amazement Maranta watched as they flew through the air to settle on another unadorned shrub, giving instant beauty to it, also.

"Butterflies," Dona Isobel said, translating for Maranta.

After that, the landscape began to change. The tropical coastal rain forest was left behind. With ropes attached from the carriage to the pommels of the gauchos' saddles, they began the climb over the Great Escarpment, or Serra do Mar. One misstep of the horses and the carriage could easily plunge over the precipice and be lost forever. And Maranta, for the first time, began to feel a physical fear of this uncivilized land.

Once, Maranta looked out, and then she immediately closed her eyes and gripped her seat, as if, by her actions, she could keep the carriage safe from harm.

Into the clouds they traveled, and the lightweight cloak that Maranta thought she would never use again she hugged around her body and was grateful for its warmth.

By the time they reached the estallegen, the crude inn where they were to spend the night, the hem of Maranta's delicate dress was in shreds. Her long, silken hair was knotted—tangled—and already she could feel the swelling underneath her eye where an insect had bitten her.

But they had stopped for the night, and Maranta was thankful to give her body a rest from the constant jolting of the carriage.

The odor of food cooking in the open air pervaded her senses, tantalizing her. She was ravenously hungry and she would make no protest over anything that was served. All day she had subsisted on fruit and nuts, but now she was ready for heavier fare, even the feijoada, the rice and black beans that seemed to be a part of every meal.

When the food, cooked by the Indian woman, was ready, Ruis and the gauchos, with the black driver of the coach, took their plates and sat apart from the women. It was only later, when the meal was over, that Ruis came toward the women. Probably to give them more instructions for the night, Maranta decided.

She knew there was no possibility for a bath. Ruis did not have to tell her that. And she had no desire to explore outside the estallegen either, because of the dogs and the remembrance of the gigantic snake wrapped around the tree trunk.

Maranta's hand went up to the area under her eye to trace the outline of swelling. The movement caught Ruis's attention, and before she knew it, the man was beside her, removing her hand to examine the swollen area for himself.

"When did this happen?" he asked in a displeased voice.

"I. . . I don't really remember."'

"And I suppose you don't remember," he added sarcastically, "that you were to inform me immediately if something like this happened?"

"A mere insect bite? I do not make a habit of complaining over something so small. I am used to the gnats and mosquitoes of my own country, senhor."

The sapphire eyes flashed their displeasure at her answer. But instead of responding to Maranta, the conde turned to Dona Isobel and the condessa. "I am taking the naughty pequena to the river to bathe her face in the cool water."

The two women nodded, making no protest. But Maranta pulled back, saying, "It is not necessary, senhor."

His grip tightened on her arm, and in a furious voice he whispered, "I am the one to decide if it is necessary, senhorita."

Prodded and pulled along, with no chance even to get her cloak, Maranta was propelled away from the rude hut and toward the distant gushing water.

It was still light, but the land had taken on an eerie glow. The mist around them resembled smoke from some witch's boiling cauldron, and the sky was brushed with streaks of carmine red. Having heard his whistle, the fierce dogs with their dagger-sharp collars obeyed the conde's summons and ran before him, their legs disappearing in the layers of mist that clung close to the ground.

The fury was still in the conde's voice when he spoke to Maranta. "Brazil is your country now, Maranta. And that I will not allow you to forget."

For a moment, she was puzzled. And then it came to her—what she had said about her own country. Fighting against the conde's domination of her, Maranta momentarily became brave. She pulled back from him, and with her dark eyes flashing, she said, "Vasco will be the one to instruct me. You have no jurisdiction over me, senhor—only over your own wife. And I pray that you will have no trouble remembering that."

His deep laughter destroyed her bravado, and she trembled at her own temerity.

"I see why the condessa was so entranced with you, Maranta. The small, pious São Joana going out to face her enemies, with her knees knocking together in fear."

The laughing eyes hardened, and in a sterner voice, the conde said, "Let me explain once and for all so that there will never