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Dry rocky mountaintops stretched away forever, severed deeply at the head of the lonely pass by an almost sheer drop of a thousand feet to the valley which sheltered the village.
Shielding her eyes against the shimmering glare of the sun, she could pick out the crumbled remains of the old castle walls, the groves of olive trees, the fields climbing upwards, clinging to the mountainside, each supporting neatly tended rows of crops, the higher areas of scrub home to herds of goats.
‘And I suppose no one in the village knows a single word of English,’ she said thinly, wilting beneath the fierce power of the sun high in the brassy blue sky.
There were wrought-iron seats on the terrace and she sank quickly down on one of them. Ever since he had tricked her into coming here she had been twisting her wits into knots, trying to figure out a way of getting away. But he had turned everything round, paid her back in her own coin—with interest—and she had never felt so despairing in her life. And she didn’t need his lazily amused answer to tell her that the final hope had dissolved as quickly as a morning mist beneath the savage rays of the Spanish sun.
‘No one. Few of them have ever ventured beyond the valley, or felt the need to. And most of them work on my estates. Besides, the road down is long and tortuous, and the road to the pass leads back to Arcos—and you know how far that is. In the other direction it goes only a little way into my estates, for transportation purposes. And the mountains are trackless.’ He rocked back a little on the balls of his feet, just watching her, and she thought that he had never looked so dangerous, so in control of everything, herself included.
A shudder of anguish dredged through her. She could taste the danger, see it, hear its wordless, mind-numbing whisper, could almost name it for what it was.
She pushed herself back to her feet, hating herself for that momenta
ry lapse into weak despair. What had she expected, for goodness’ sake? A half-hourly bus service from the castle gates? After all, nothing had changed. Except that the walls of her prison had expanded somewhat.
She shot him a withering glare and he nodded, as if satisfied, and told her with a flashing smile of masculine superiority, ‘Rosalia will be serving lunch in the courtyard in about an hour. Unfortunately, I shall be involved in estate business until this evening. I look forward to taking dinner with you. Until then, Sarah.’
A brief dip of his head and he was gone, but he left some of his powerful aura behind because for several long, heated minutes she couldn’t think straight, pacing the stone slabs of the terrace distractedly, trying to work out what had changed. She knew something had, and didn’t know what, or how, or when.
And once, just once, a glimmer of understanding flashed into her consciousness like the appearance of a shooting star in a black velvet sky, and she tired to catch it, to hold it, but it went, leaving her more distraught than before.
So, cross with herself, she gave up the attempt. Nothing had changed. How could it? She was letting the sun burn out her brain. She pulled herself firmly back together, walking quickly back the way Francisco had brought her, sitting in the shade of the arcade until Rosalia served her solitary lunch, making herself respond to the older woman’s smiles, her unintelligible comments, forcing herself to consume the salad of hard-boiled eggs stuffed with prawns and ham, the cold rice dish intriguingly flavoured with anchovy, tomato and thyme, quenching her thirst with chilled, delicious white wine.
Which went some way towards helping her to thrust the unwelcome feeling of loneliness out of her head. Of course she wasn’t missing his aggravating company. And of course she wasn’t feeling abandoned because he had chosen to work. He had given her limited freedom, allowed her to see for herself how hopeless the idea of escaping on foot would be and, satisfied that he needn’t bore himself silly by watching her every moment of the day, had taken himself off to involve himself in work—a far more interesting and rewarding project.
And she was glad, she told herself fiercely. Glad!
She took herself off to indulge in a siesta, giving herself a chance to get her mind sorted out, catch up on some of last night’s missed sleep. She fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow in the sinfully comfortable bed, and woke in the late, golden afternoon, all nicely sorted out and knowing exactly how best to handle the horrible situation she’d been plunged into.
So she put her brain on hold as she washed yesterday’s undies and put them on a towel-rail to dry, then had a shower, again, not knowing why she was bothering except that it helped to pass the time, and dressed in the clothes of Encarnación’s she had worn earlier, not caring now that she didn’t look in the least like her usual self.
Francisco had said that he would join her for dinner and she knew that that probably wouldn’t be before nine in the evening, which gave her plenty of time to explore.
She stole like a shadow through lofty formal apartments, a magnificent ballroom, smaller, obviously family rooms where fires would be lit in the evenings when the cold wind scoured the mountaintops and the rain-swollen streams roared down the ravines. And she wondered how brother and sister spent their time here. Did they entertain? And what of their parents? Had their family been here for generations, right back to the Christian conquest? She wouldn’t be at all surprised!
Thoughtfully, she made her way back to the central courtyard and, finding it empty, the sky darkening overhead, tramped back to his suite of rooms in her sensible shoes, trying to push the sensation of loneliness to the back of her mind, and didn’t stop to examine the surge of relief that made her blood skitter light-heartedly through her veins when she walked through to the sitting-room and found him staring from one of the open windows, the mountain breeze ruffling his midnight hair.
He turned slowly, reluctantly almost, as she closed the door behind her. His eyes were brooding, the dark brows drawn down. He looked abstracted, she thought, as if he didn’t know who she was, what she was doing here, and she wondered bleakly why that should hurt quite so much.
‘Of course.’ He shook his head slightly, as if dragging his thoughts back from outer space. ‘Dinner. Rosalia and Marcos will bring it presently. I always dine here when I am alone.’
She nodded briefly, biting down on her lip, stifling the unexpected need to remind him that he wasn’t alone. She was here, wasn’t she?
But to all intents and purposes he was alone. She didn’t count. He could extract a little amusement from her presence when he was in the mood to tease, insult or flirt. But he wasn’t in the mood for amusement at her expense now, so her presence would simply be an irritant.
He must be deeply worried for Encarnación. Because he wanted to know she was safe and well, that she wasn’t being hurt, being taught how to love only to discover she was merely one of an army of women who could count on nothing more than a fleeting, spasmodic place in Piers Bouverie-Scott’s selfish attentions?
Or did his concern cut more deeply, more coldly? Had he had his own plans for Encarnación? A solid dynastic marriage perhaps. One that would not take place if the prospective bridegroom discovered how she had been spoiled. ‘Spoiled’ had been the word he had used.
Her bewilderment must have shown on her face because his eyes warmed suddenly, and he gave her a smile of such magnetism that her mouth went dry. Suddenly her hands were aching to reach out and draw his face down to hers, to kiss those sensual lips, drown in them, explore the secret of his masculinity, to kiss and be kissed until they were both beyond reason.
Horrified, she balled her hands into fists and pressed them rigidly against her side. Now she knew where the real danger lay! She had sensed it, sensed it strongly, but had been unable to name it. She could now. Her physical response to him, something she had never felt for any man before, was the danger. It had been there from the first, she recognised sickly, and was hourly growing stronger.
So she would be firm with herself, root it out. Kill it stone-dead. Remind herself what a louse he was. He was cruel, impatient, impossible, had the insolent arrogance of his personality stamped on every feature of that dark, brooding Latin beauty, a ferocious sexuality that had the power to stun…
Quickly, she slapped down the direction her thoughts were taking her in and, not looking at him because that mouth was still softened by that mindstunning smile as he gestured her towards one of the sofas, said briskly, ‘It’s time for straight talking, I think.’ She tugged the drifting wrap-over skirt demurely back into place and folded her hands in her lap to ensure that her long bare legs didn’t inadvertently get back on display. ‘Keeping me here isn’t a joke, you know.’
‘I didn’t say it was.’ That sexy mouth was still curling as he joined her on the sofa. ‘I recognised the steel in you when I first saw you. I am not such a fool as to treat anything about you as a joke.’ An arm snaked behind her, along the back of the sofa. ‘In fact, I deeply respect your many and infinitely varied—qualities.’
