The Price Of Honour. Mary Nichols

name is Olivia,’ she said. ‘And I do not like the French form of address.’

      ‘Not even when it is correct? But as I have taken on the mantle of your dead husband, then it would be better to use your given name, I agree.’

      ‘You surely do not intend to go through with that wild scheme of yours?’

      ‘More than ever.’

      ‘What have you to gain?’

      ‘A new set of claws.’

      ‘Is that all?’

      ‘All? To me it is everything.’

      ‘Tell me about it.’

      ‘Not now. It is neither the time nor the place; we have to finish our meal and go on if we intend to find a river crossing by dark.’

      She was wise enough to desist from prying and they ate in silence. When food and wine were both consumed, they set off again. ‘That was dinner,’ she said with a laugh which sounded hollow. ‘What shall we have for supper?’

      He smiled. ‘“Sufficient unto the day…”’

      ‘Oh, very droll. If we had turned south, we would have found some habitation, somewhere where we could buy food and drink and a bed for the night. Up here in the mountains…’

      ‘The mountains are teeming with life — hares, goats, boars, maybe a mountain lion or two.’

      She laughed. ‘Leopards with claws.’

      ‘I sincerely hope not.’ His answer was clipped and stopped her jesting. She did not know how to take him; he was cheerful, almost boyish one minute and morose and short-tempered the next, and neither her teasing nor her anger seemed to change that. She should remain silent, allow him to brood on his own if he wanted to, but it was not in her nature to let things lie. He needed taking out of himself and then he might be prepared to confide in her. If he did that, and he had some very compelling reason for wanting to go to Ciudad Rodrigo, she might consider helping him. She brought herself up short. Was she weakening? No, she told herself, she would leave him at the first opportunity. Would he come after her? Riding a mule, she had no chance of outpacing him.

      ‘What’s his name?’ she asked, looking at the beautiful black stallion.

      ‘Thor.’

      ‘The god of thunder,’ she said. ‘Is he thunderous?’

      ‘He is more than you can handle.’

      ‘Indeed?’

      The mischievous note in her voice made him turn to look at her; her green eyes were laughing at him in a way which made his pulses quicken. ‘Indeed,’ he repeated firmly.

      It was dusk when the track turned away from the gorse-clad slopes and entered a pine wood. Once in the shelter of the trees, he stopped and dismounted. ‘Madame desires a good hotel,’ he said, eyes twinkling. ‘This is the very best the region has to offer. The beds are soft and cleaner than most.’ He pointed to heaps of brown pine needles. ‘Supper will arrive in due course. Make yourself comfortable.’

      ‘Where are you going?’

      ‘To find our supper.’

      ‘Another hare.’

      ‘I had my thoughts on something a little tastier. I caught a glimpse of a herd of goats.’

      ‘But they belong to the people. And in any case, what would we do with a whole goat?’

      ‘Not a goat, a kid.’

      ‘No!’ Her voice was sharp. ‘That would be cruel and unnecessary.’

      ‘You may go hungry, if you prefer that,’ he said. ‘But I intend to eat.’ He picked up his rifle, pouch and ammunition and set off through the trees, leaving her to make herself comfortable on the pine needles. She had eaten kid many times before, but then she had not seen it newly slaughtered, nor had a hand in the skinning of it; that had been done by someone in Philippe’s troop. Half the time she had not known what she was eating anyway; hunger had made her less than fastidious.

      She smiled to herself; she was deliberately trying the patience of the Englishman — the leopard without claws — just to see how far she could go before he lost his composure. It was a dangerous game to play. Supposing he left her and supposing the guerrilleros were really after her and not him? Supposing she lost her way? Supposing she was attacked by wolves or wild boars? She ought to be thankful for his protection. She sat down and leant her back against one of the trees. She ought to start a fire or, at least, gather the firewood; he would return soon and she had done nothing but dream.

      He was coming back now; she could hear him walking through the pine needles. She smiled; he had grumbled at her for making a noise, but he sounded like an army on the march. She would tell him so. She turned and opened her mouth to speak as the undergrowth parted, but it was not her companion who faced her but a huge boar with tusks a foot long. She stood frozen for a second which seemed like an hour as they faced each other and then, galvanised into action, she scrambled up the tree she had been leaning against, leaving the animal in possession of their belongings.

      It rooted around for a time and flung her bundle about with its snout but there was nothing edible in it. ‘Go away, you stupid brute,’ she hissed down at it from her perch. ‘There’s nothing there. Oh, go away, do, I feel such a fool.’

      The horse and mule, both tethered near by, set up a neighing and braying as the frustrated boar began snuffling round the campsite. If only she had a gun! She began pelting the animal with pine cones but it did not even feel them. Where was Mr Leopard? Why didn’t he come back? No, she did not want him to find her in this ignominious position, but neither did she want to stay up the tree all night. She took off her boot and flung it at the boar’s head. It landed on its snout. It looked up at her, as if surprised at her temerity. ‘Get out!’ she said, determined not to raise her voice. ‘Don’t you know you are not welcome?’

      She was startled by a chuckle close at hand and turned her head to see the Englishman standing not ten feet away, carrying a dead hare. ‘Oh, I might have known you would think it funny,’ she said. ‘Now would you kindly get rid of that animal and help me down?’

      She expected him to shoot it, but instead he advanced on the boar and raised the butt of his rifle as if he intended to club it to death. ‘You fool!’ she said. ‘It’ll kill you. Shoot it, for God’s sake!’

      The boar faced the Englishman, lowered its head as if to charge and then turned and disappeared into the undergrowth. Olivia, who had not realised she had been holding her breath, let it out in a great sigh of relief. Her rescuer turned and held out his arms. ‘Jump!’

      She eased herself off the branch and dropped into his arms. It was only when she was safe on the ground, with his arm round her and his heart beating steadily against hers, that she realised she was shaking. She hid her head in the rough material of his coat, wishing she had the strength or even the will to pull herself away. ‘It is all right now,’ he said gently, making no move to release her. ‘It won’t come back.’ He thought she was afraid! Well, she had been, just a little, but what was so annoying was that he had witnessed her helplessness. How could she boast that she could manage without him, when clearly she could not?

      She moved away from him and began gathering up pine cones for fuel. ‘You’ve brought supper, I see,’ she said, to cover her confusion. ‘I did not hear a shot.’

      ‘I did not shoot it.’

      ‘No, I suppose you caught it and strangled it with your bare hands. Why must you lie?’

      ‘I always tell the truth. Now, how about a fire, while I skin and clean it? I take it you have no aversion to eating it?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Double standards,’ he muttered to himself as he took a knife from his saddle-bag and set to work on the animal. ‘What is the difference between eating