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

Ruis climbed out of bed and lifted her from the rug. "You are cold, menina," he said with an irritated tone. "Do you wish to become ill again?"

Under the coverlet he placed her, drawing her to the warmth of his body. As she struggled against him, Ruis's strong arms held her.

"Let me go, Ruis," Maranta begged.

"No, little Iemanjá. You cannot escape me until I know you have the seed of my son planted within you."

At his frank words, Maranta moaned.

"You did not object last night, pequena. What has happened? An attack of conscience in the little nun's mind of yours this morning?"

"It is wrong—"

"I have no patience for confession," the man snapped.

"Save that for the family priest."

"Ruis, please. I beg of you. . ."

"Hush, Maranta." His voice brooked no opposition, and she became silent as Ruis's hands began their exploration afresh. But Maranta, determined to show her unwillingness, lay passively in his arms.

Angered at her behavior, Ruis sat up, his cold eyes glaring at the petite girl beside him.

"Do you think it is a pleasure to take a woman against her will, Maranta? I am sick of this, as you are. And I promise when you are with child, I shall be happy to leave you alone with your maidenly prayers."

He leaped from the bed, grabbed his robe, and departed from the room, leaving a weeping Maranta more desolate than ever.

She loved him—not Dom Vasco, her own husband who ignored her, but Ruis da Monteiro, who had just made it plain how distasteful it was to take her to bed, and that it was all for the sake of an heir.

Maranta rubbed her arm where the bat had left its mark upon her. A pity that it had been only a fever and not the deadly rabies that had invaded her body.

And yet, despite his harsh words, had it not been Dom Ruis who had braved danger to himself to save her? He had allowed no one else to be exposed to her illness.

But it was for his heir—not for Maranta. She must remember that. A grieving Maranta turned her face to the pillow and finally slept.

22

Maranta knew that she would never be able to claim her bed as her own until Ruis had accomplished his purpose. Each night she lay in his arms and felt his body upon hers. And the more he drew her to him, the more she fought—for her survival and her pride.

Each time the old condessa looked at her, Maranta shrank in shame, remembering the lovemaking of the evening before. But it was no lovemaking on Ruis's part. It was a cold, calculated plan. Yet, she would never let Ruis suspect the effect he had upon her heart and mind. How much longer was it to go on? How much more disgrace could she bear, sealing her lips—so not to whisper his name in ecstasy? For he must never know she had lost her heart to him as well as her body.

Once again, Maranta remained cloistered in her apartment—too upset to seek the company of anyone in the fazenda.

"Maranta?"

Ruis's voice disturbed her, and she started at his sudden appearance in her sitting room. He frowned at the dejected figure on the pale lilac sofa. "It is not good for you to sit and mope in this apartment, menina. You must get more fresh air—not only for your own sake, but for—"

She jerked her head up and glared at him with her stormy dark eyes, daring him to continue, to put into words what she had tried so hard to forget.

At her behavior, a coldness pervaded his voice. "I have set up an easel on the veranda for you, Maranta, with your paints and brushes. I won't have you behaving as if you have been walled into this room, like a martyr waiting for death. In fifteen minutes, I expect to see you on the veranda."

He turned heel and slammed the door. Maranta closed her eyes and knotted her hands into small fists.

Every action—every gesture. Like a marionette, she was forced to move and behave, with Dom Ruis manipulating the strings. As if she did not have a mind of her own, or as if it mattered not that her very soul was in mortal danger.

Sighing, Maranta arose from the sofa and slowly walked down the stairs, out onto the shaded veranda of the plantation house. A perverseness had kept her from changing her dress. If she ruined it with the paints, then it would be Ruis's fault.

Maranta found the easel, and setting aside her anger at Ruis, she explored the box at her feet. Delighting in the abundance of colors, she began the absorbing task of mixing the paints to her specifications, and in quick slashes, she brushed a light wash over the white linen canvas that stood before her. All her frustrations she put into her painting, using the brushes to blot out her unhappiness. Soon the canvas began taking shape as she remembered the landscape from Santos to São Paulo.

Abruptly, Maranta wiped her hands on the cloth. Fado would enjoy sunning himself on the veranda. And the little green bird could keep her company while she painted, for no one else seemed to be about. Even the conde, certain in his arrogance, had not waited to see that she obeyed him. Maranta hastened upstairs, and with the chirping Fado in his cage, she returned. Innocencia was on the veranda and leaning over the canvas that Maranta had left. Was it curiosity to see what she was painting? For a moment, Maranta watched her. Then she saw that the girl had a brush in her hands, dabbing paint on the canvas, spoiling what Maranta had already done. But instead of becoming angry with her, Maranta felt a gentle sympathy. At least she must be better, to be able to leave her room.

At Maranta's approach, Innocencia, looking guilty, dropped the brush on the floor. "It's all right," Maranta assured her. "Do you