Dancing in the Shadows by Anne Saunders Read Free Book Online

compassion in her voice as she said: ‘You look tired, Dorcas. The drive has stolen the colour from your cheeks.’ Rose Ruiz continued to talk, making comforting, welcoming noises that melted into the ice of Dorcas’s reserve. Dorcas disclosed, on kindly probing, that they had eaten, but yes she would love a cup of tea. The conversation was conducted in English, but a cup of tea said welcome in any language.
    The tea was served with cakes and pastries. To be polite, Dorcas selected a biscuit which left a lingering taste of honey in her mouth. There was an underlying taste, a tangy sharpness that Dorcas could not make out. And it was the same with Rose Ruiz’s manner. She was very sweet . . . and yet.
    Carlos was talking now. In making a point, his hand came to rest, not sensually but in friendly familiarity, on Dorcas’s shoulder. She had a sudden craving to turn her cheek into his hand. Her shoulder and his hand were in delicious harmony and she wanted to draw in every last drop of comfort.
    A teacup rattled against a saucer. Rose Ruiz’s eyes were concentrated on her in a look of such fixed intensity that Dorcas’s cheeks turned pink. Something jumped between them. Rose Ruiz set her cup down. Her fingers shook and Dorcas saw that she had splashed some tea on her skirt.
    â€˜Would you like to rest in your room before dinner, Dorcas?’ The slight edge in her voice did not deprive it of kindness and nobody but Dorcas seemed to notice her agitation.
    Dorcas replied gratefully: ‘I would, please. How kind of you to know.’ Still dwelling on the thought of kindness, she said: ‘Thank you for providing me with these lovely clothes. I seem to be causing a great deal of trouble.’
    Before Rose Ruiz could make the appropriate answer, Enrique Ruiz stepped in to say: ‘You could never be a trouble, my dear. As for the suit you are wearing, I’m not sure whom I should compliment. My wife for having the good taste to choose it, or yourself for looking so attractive in it.’
    â€˜Anyone would look attractive in this suit,’ Dorcas replied sedately.
    â€˜You are too modest, Dorcas,’ Rose Ruiz told her. ‘I did not choose that suit. Carlos did,’ she admitted, forestalling the question on Dorcas’s lips.
    â€˜Did you?’ said Dorcas, her eyes swinging back to Carlos in surprise.
    The spontaneity of her delight found its twin in his eye. And more. The warmth she read smoothed out her nervously twisting fingers. It wrapped her in sympathetic understanding and made it easy for her to sparkle a big ‘Thank you’ up at him.
    His return smile encompassed his gratification. She felt a deep wave of relief because they were still friends. Deeper friends than they would normally have been because of his vigil by her bed in hospital. Something stirred in her memory, but it slid away again as Rose Ruiz said:
    â€˜If you are ready, Dorcas?’
    As Rose Ruiz conducted her to her room, Dorcas managed to look around. The feeling was of space and tranquillity. A predominance of white walls and grey-blue floors. Occasional touches of old gold and rose pink, with the odd splash of crimson. Restful, but not dull. The residence of a Spanish gentleman only lightly influenced by his English bride. Don Enrique’s English Rose had obviously slotted into the Spanish way of life and had not tried to imprint her own strong personality, at least not on any of the public rooms.
    Even though Dorcas was dragging her feet with tiredness, she had to stop for entrancing seconds to admire the beauty of a mosaic floor, and to let her eye climb a pillar to a frieze depicting chivalrous deeds from the pages of Spain’s long and turbulent history. The wide, cool hall was hung with tapestries showing scenes from Don Quixote; in the courtyard beyond, water from a fountain splashed into a smooth marble basin.
    A finely scrolled staircase led to a gallery where family