Knight in Black Velvet. HELEN BROOKS

contempt as he cast one more withering glance at her frightened face before he carefully removed her hand from his arm and negotiated the car in a semi-circle that brought a cloud of dust wafting into the still hot air.

      ‘You have not answered my question.’ They were travelling at a breakneck speed along the empty road and the suddenness of the change in her circumstances coupled with the sickening pain in her ankle was causing Lorne to feel more than a little light-headed.

      ‘I’m sorry?’ She cast a questioning glance at the harsh profile.

      ‘I doubt it. I doubt if that emotion has ever been a particular weakness of yours. Don’t you realise how stupid—?’ He stopped abruptly. ‘How old are you, really, and how is it that you are travelling alone?’

      ‘I told you.’ She cast an exasperated glance at the dark profile but as she let her eyes rest on the handsome, cold face something jerked deep inside her and she snapped her eyes away quickly. ‘I am twenty-two, whether you believe it or not. I’ve got my passport in my rucksack; I’ll prove it.’

      ‘That is not necessary.’ He raised a bronzed hand for a second from the leather-clad steering-wheel. ‘I am going to take you to my house in order for your ankle to receive attention and then I will arrange for you to be driven to your place of accommodation. Sí?’

      ‘Look, please don’t bother, Mr de Vega.’ Lorne was feeling more uncomfortable by the second. Where on earth was his house anyway and how could she tell him she had run out of money a couple of days ago and was making the small amount she had left make do for the next few days by sleeping under the stars? ‘If you could just drop me somewhere where I can get my bike mended... My bike!’ Her voice was so shrill that he jumped visibly. ‘We must go back; I’ve left my bike—’

      ‘An old bicycle, and damaged, you said?’ The car didn’t slow down. ‘It has let you down this time, which could have resulted in a tragedy. I suggest you get yourself a new bicycle, Miss Wilson, or travel about on your excursions in a taxi like everyone else. Sí?’

      ‘No!’ she all but shouted at him and the hard square jaw stiffened into concrete. ‘You must go back; I can’t get another bike; please...’

      ‘I have no intention of returning from whence I have come,’ he said tightly. ‘I am already very late for an important business appointment and do not wish to miss my dinner engagement in addition.’

      ‘But you don’t understand...’ Her voice trailed away as he raised one black sardonic eyebrow in caustic agreement.

      ‘On that point you are right, Miss Wilson,’ he said silkily, ‘but whether I understand or not for once in your life you are going to do as you are told. You have already proved you aren’t safe to be let out alone. You can telephone your hotel and speak to whoever is waiting there for you and explain the situation. And then my chauffeur will drive you to wherever you want to go.’

      ‘Your chauffeur?’ she asked weakly. He didn’t reply and she sank back into the soft leather seat helplessly. If she told him she had no hotel, no transport, no money and only the clothes she stood up in with a change of underclothes and a clean T-shirt in the rucksack it would confirm every low opinion he had of her. She would have to brazen it out somehow, she had no choice, but where was she going to sleep tonight and how soon could she get back to rescue the remains of her bike?

      She had been so immersed in her thoughts that she had barely taken note of her surroundings, but now she saw that the unfenced rocky land stretching away on both sides of the dusty road was growing greener. Where exactly were they? She wrinkled her brow. She had left the town of Extremadura several days ago after pottering around there for a week soaking up the history of the place. She had heard that the harsh environment of south-west Spain had been the cradle of the conquistadors, the home of the men who had opened up new worlds for the Spanish empire in the golden age when the heroes had returned with their spoils of gold and fabulous wealth to live in ornate splendour and fabulous luxury, and it hadn’t disappointed her. But after several weeks of exploring historically rich towns and feeding her mind and eyes on imperial palaces, crumbling fortresses and churches and impressive monuments she had felt the need to recharge her batteries in peace and quiet. An English tourist had mentioned the Coto Doñana National Park and she had decided to travel in that direction. An unwise decision, with hindsight!

      As the car slowed and turned into a narrow man-made road leading through a sweet-smelling pine forest she darted another glance at the man sitting next to her so silently. ‘We are nearly there,’ he said quietly. ‘I have medication that will ease the worst of the pain.’

      ‘It’s all right,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m fine really.’ He didn’t even bother to reply to such an inane remark and she couldn’t really blame him. She glanced down at her swollen ankle in frustration. What if it was broken? What would she do? She would have to find a British consul somehow, contact Tom in England...oh, hell, what a mess! And things had just begun to work out. She had just been able to sleep again the last few nights without thoughts of Sancho and Janie taunting her like tiny needles...

      As they passed through massive open gates set in a high stone wall the feeling of apprehension intensified. The car scrunched along a pristinely clean drive between immaculate opulent gardens festooned with flowers and shrubs and bordered in the distance with orange, lemon and fig trees. As she saw the palatial mansion in the distance the heat in her cheeks spread all over her body. This wasn’t his home, was it? It was like every stately home she had seen in England rolled into one, and even then some.

      ‘Is this...?’ She paused and licked dry lips. ‘Is this your home?’

      ‘Sí.’ They were approaching the house now and the evening sunshine, still hot and fierce, sent countless shadows over the mellowed stone from the massive oak and cedar trees shading the high walls. The house was huge, stretching endlessly in Moorish beauty rich with turrets, decorative iron fretwork and tiny, exquisitely wrought towers that had been used to maximum aesthetic affect. The geometrical design formed by the mockbattlements and different shades of stone was offset by the blaze of colour from the climbing vines that had found their way over most of the house’s exterior forming vivid splashes of crimson, mauve and pink against dark green foliage. It was beautiful, it was unreal and it fitted this man perfectly.

      ‘Sit still, Miss Wilson.’ His voice was terse and he had uncoiled himself from the car and appeared at her side almost in one movement, lifting her from the interior in spite of her protestations that she could walk. ‘Please do not be ridiculous.’ He glanced down at her as he carried her up the deep stone steps that led up to a beautifully carved front door that was a work of art in itself, complete with an impressive coat of arms, and she saw his eyes weren’t really black but of such a deep dark brown that they appeared so. She had always thought brown eyes were soft and appealing in the past but these eyes were of a different hue. Hard, brilliantly alert, they had all the softness of glittering steel.

      The door opened as they reached the top step and two uniformed maids appeared in the entrance, fluttering agitatedly before being called abruptly into order by a rapier-sharp voice behind them. ‘Señor de Vega.’ A tall, stately looking man pushed the women aside as he hurried to take Lorne from Francisco’s arms but Francisco merely barked a few words in rapid Spanish as he walked with her into a room leading off the huge marble hall. She had never seen so much marble in her life—the floors, the walls, the magnificent winding staircase, all in dusky-pink-veined marble. But she had no time to reflect on what she was seeing. As Francisco deposited her gently on a long low couch the manservant was back again carrying a small black bag.

      ‘Gracias, Alfonso.’

      ‘That looks like a doctor’s bag.’ She tried to smile but the whole situation had robbed her of her normal intrinsic vivacity; in fact she had never felt so frightened or overwhelmed in all her life. Something of what she was feeling must have communicated itself to the tall man in front of her because Francisco’s voice was more mellow as he spoke.

      ‘It is a doctor’s bag. I qualified ten years ago.’

      ‘You’re a doctor?’