Pale Dawn Dark Sunset. Anne Mather

that they had reached the Landrover and thus was not obliged to make any response.

      Gerardo slung the luggage into the back and raised his hand in farewell, and then they bumped off across the grassy sward that led to the track. The scent of pine and underbrush filled the air, mingling with the baser scents of earth and humanity. Rafael handled the Landrover expertly, accelerating as they left the airstrip behind and began the ascent into the foothills.

      The Hacienda Cueras looked particularly beautiful in the light cast from its many windows, and Miranda exclaimed at the mosaic tiling on the stone fountain in the forecourt which he usually took for granted. He found the sound of its falling waters cooling on a hot afternoon, but that was all.

      He had hardly stopped the vehicle before the shallow steps which led up to the shadowed portico when the mesh door was opened and his mother stood silhouetted against the light beyond. She spread her hands welcomingly and came hurrying down the steps towards him as he stepped from the Landrover.

      “Rafael! Oh, Rafael!” she exclaimed weakly. “Dios gracias, estas aqui! De donde—”

      “No ahora, Madrecita,” said Rafael soothingly. “Estoy seguro.” He took her clinging arms from around his neck, glancing back to where Miranda Lord was just getting out of the Landrover. “Esta Miss Lord, Madrecita. Miss Miranda Lord.”

      Doña Isabella’s eyes widened in surprise as she took in the informally clad girl behind him. “This is—the child’s aunt from England?” she asked in that language.

      Rafael hid his amusement at his mother’s astonishment. If he had been surprised, his mother was shocked.

      “That is correct,” he agreed. “Miss Lord, this is my mother, Doña Isabella Cueras.”

      Miranda held out her hand and Doña Isabella shook it politely, but her expression was far from welcoming. However, politeness was an inbred instinct, and she managed to say: “I hope you had a good journey, señorita.”

      Miranda nodded. “Reasonably so. The flight was delayed twenty-four hours in Jamaica through engine trouble. I’m sorry if you’ve been worried, but your son did send a message.”

      Doña Isabella’s dark eyes turned to her son. “Is this so, Rafael?”

      “Of course. Gerardo told me you did not receive it.”

      Doña Isabella made an impatient sound. “No, we did not. We have been most concerned about you, Rafael. And—and about you, too, of course, señorita.“ This last was clearly an afterthought.

      Rafael leaned into the back of the Landrover and hauled out Miranda’s belongings. “Well, it is over now. We are arrived safely. And if you will excuse me, there are matters which require my immediate attention.”

      Miranda stared at him in dismay. “You’re—leaving?”

      Rafael made her a slight bow. “I am afraid so. As I told you, señorita, I do not live at the hacienda. My mother will take care of you and presently my brother will show himself.”

      She made a helpless gesture. “But—”

      Rafael turned away from the appeal in her eyes and ignoring his mother’s reproachful: “Rafael!” he climbed back into the Landrover. “Adios, amigos. Nos hablaremos pronto. Adios!”

       CHAPTER THREE

      MIRANDA had never slept between silk sheets before. Indeed, she had scarcely been aware that such luxuries existed, born as she had been into an ordinary household whose budget only ran to flannelette in winter and cotton in summer. Of course, after her parents had been killed there had been no household to speak of; her sister, Susan, was already married and as Miranda herself had been only fourteen and still at school at the time she had had little choice but to make her home with them. It had not been an altogether satisfactory arrangement. She and Susan had vastly different temperaments and Susan’s jealousy over the younger girl’s popularity caused a great deal of dissention. In addition to which, Lucy had just appeared on the scene, and as Susan chose to neglect herself in favour of the child, her husband turned more and more towards Miranda. Miranda didn’t encourage him, but she was naturally friendly with everyone and it wasn’t until it was too late that she defined his intentions. It was perhaps fortunate for all concerned that she was able to leave school and go on to college, and in the holidays she always managed to get work that provided living accommodation. But it was still a shock when they went missing, although she did not miss them as much as she would have done had they always been a closely knit family.

      Now Miranda moved her legs lazily beneath the silken coverings and wondered however she was going to sleep with so many disturbing thoughts on her mind.

      Her room, to which she had been shown after Rafael Cueras’s departure, was the most beautiful room she had ever seen. The walls were hung with caramel silk, the wide bed and long windows were draped with apricot brocade, and there was a long fitted unit in a dark wood which she felt sure was not just a veneer. There was a circle of fluffy white carpet on the floor and around its edges the wood gleamed from frequent polishings. Adjoining this magnificent apartment was an equally magnificent bathroom whose appointments, while being a little outdated, were nevertheless built on the grand scale. The whole building exuded luxury and elegance and was far more impressive than anything she had expected. As for the owner, Juan Cueras—well, he was apt to be overshadowed, in her mind at least, by his brother, Rafael.

      She sighed and rolled on to her back. Don Juan! She said the words deliberately. She had never expected to meet an actual Don Juan in the flesh, although the living being had been far different from the legend. His brother would have suited the name more appropriately. Rafael!

      She punched the soft pillows impatiently. Why did her thoughts turn persistently to that man? He had not even treated her with common courtesy. He had behaved as if she were guilty of some crime in coming here to find her niece. All the same, he had been attractive, she conceded moodily, and it was the first time in her young life that any man had treated her with such indifference. His brother had treated her altogether differently, so why didn’t she think of him more favourably?

      After Rafael had driven away, Doña Isabella had escorted her into the hacienda. She, like her son, did not appear to look with favour on his visitor from England, but she was infinitely more polite. She suggested that Miranda was tired and that perhaps it would be as well if she left all further introductions until the morning. She proposed that Miranda should be shown to her room, offered some food, and then retire for the night.

      And, indeed, that prospect was not altogether displeasing to Miranda herself. She was tired, and she guessed that Doña Isabella, like Rafael, had expected someone older and therefore needed time to make the adjustment. But at that moment, a door to their left opened and a man emerged who could only be Juan Cueras. She saw the resemblance to Rafael at once, only this man was more swarthy, thicker set, and only about her own height.

      “Qué?” he exclaimed in surprise when he saw them. “Donde es Rafael?” And then a curious smile spread over his face. “I hear a vehicle, Mama,” he went on in English. “Is Rafael home?”

      His mother’s lips tightened. “Rafael has been and gone, Juan. Miss—Miss Lord’s plane was delayed in Jamaica. That was why he did not come home last night.” She bit into her lower lip. “Er—this is my son, señorita—Don Juan Cueras.”

      Miranda responded to his warm smile. “How do you do, señor. I’m very grateful to you for offering me your hospitality.”

      Juan Cueras surveyed her appraisingly, and then shook his head. “You are the aunt of the child?” He chuckled. “But no—you are little more than a child yourself, señorita.”

      His words were similar to those used by his brother, but his intonation was vastly different. It seemed that at least one person did not object to her presence here in Guadalima, and