Rachel Trevellyan. Anne Mather

had not suspected that Malcolm intended to take her away.

      She drew a trembling breath. He had wanted to do so, goodness knows, only circumstances had prevented it. Since his illness he had been almost fanatical in his attempts to keep her away from people she knew, but she had believed his hands had been tied. How he must have laughed to himself to think that the very thing which she had thought would keep them in Mawvry among her friends, among the people she knew and cared about, was the very thing which had provided the means to get them away.

      The car braked smoothly at a bend where a narrow bridge negotiated a rippling stream below them. The water ran swiftly over smooth stones worn by the passage of time, and an enormous elm spread its branches casting avenues of shade. The lush green turf invited relaxation beside the stream where the sunlight dappled quiet pools and muted the birds’ song. Rachel could have climbed out of the car then and paddled in that stream, and she sighed, attracting the attention of the man at her side.

      ‘You are tired?’ he queried politely, his clipped tones betraying a certain impatience.

      Rachel shook her head. ‘No. Not tired.’ She did not add senhor, and she was almost sure he noted this.

      ‘What then?’

      ‘I was just thinking how delightful it would have been to paddle in that stream we passed,’ she answered quietly.

      His long-fingered brown hands tightened on the wheel, but he made no comment. His hands were very attractive, she thought, her artist’s eye appreciating their length and shape. They were slender without being thin, the bones smooth beneath brown flesh. She wondered if they were hard hands; she felt sure they must be. In spite of the fact that they must have done very little actual hard work, they nevertheless possessed a certain strength and toughness evident in the bones of his knuckles. She would have liked to have touched them, to have felt their texture and shape for herself, to have painted them ...

      She drew herself up sharply. There was no question of her being allowed to paint any part of the Marquês de Mendao, and in any case, why should she want to do so? She glanced round at her husband sleeping peacefully in the back of the limousine. It was just as well he was unaware of her foolish thoughts.

      She settled lower in her seat, lifting the weight of her hair off her neck with a careless hand. Again her action drew the attention of Luis Martinez, and he said: ‘As your husband appears to be sleeping at present, perhaps this would be a good moment for me to make certain things clear to you.’

      Rachel stiffened. ‘What things?’

      ‘First of all, I would prefer that you remember to add the word senhor to the statements you address to me.’ Rachel gasped, but he went on: ‘This is not something that is of a great deal of importance to me, senhora, but my mother is of the old school of Portuguese who expect a certain standard of behaviour. Also, it is more fitting that our acquaintanceship should be seen to be on a formal footing, do you not agree?’

      ‘I thought your mother was English—senhor.’ Rachel just remembered the suffix.

      ‘She was—she is, of course, although lately she has taken Portuguese citizenship. Nevertheless, the customs of my country have always been her customs.’

      ‘I see.’ Rachel’s tone was dry.

      ‘Secondly, your—appearance, senhora.’

      ‘My appearance?’ Rachel looked at him in astonishment.

      ‘Sim, senhora, your appearance. It is obvious that you do not pay a great deal of attention to the manner of your clothing, but in Portugal women do not wear slacks except on very rare occasions. They adhere to certain principles. A simple dress or perhaps a blouse and skirt are considered much more suitable—can you appreciate this, senhora?’

      Rachel felt angry. It had not been her wish to come to Portugal, and now this man was daring to criticise her manners and her clothes. Just who did he think he was?

      Controlling the tremor in her voice, she said: ‘I’m afraid I disagree—senhor. For me, trousers are the most comfortable thing in my wardrobe.’

      His dark eyes encountered hers and there was unconcealed anger in their depths. His lips were drawn into a line of disapproval and she thought that even in anger he was the most disturbingly attractive man she had ever seen. He was not handsome; it would be an insult to use so paltry a term to describe the carved lines of his tanned features, the high cheekbones, the deepset eyes, that mouth, the lower lip of which when it was not drawn tight as now portrayed an almost sensual fullness. The whiteness of his shirt lay against the brown column of his throat, brushed by the straight black thickness of his hair. What woman, she thought, could not be aware of him as a man, of his extreme masculinity, even if she was married?

      Now he looked back at the road, and said: ‘Do I take it you intend to oppose me, senhora?’

      Rachel sighed, her own anger evaporating under other, more disruptive, influences. ‘I don’t intend any disrespect, senhor,’ she answered carefully, ‘but in the matter of my clothes, I consider I am the best judge of what or what not to wear.’

      ‘I see.’ His tone was chilling. ‘Perhaps I have approached this wrongly. Perhaps I should have mentioned the matter to your husband first and allowed him to broach it with you.’

      Rachel’s face burned. ‘Is that a threat or a promise, senhor?’

      His eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Surely it must have become apparent to you, senhor, that I am an—obedient wife?’

      The dark eyes were enigmatic. ‘You do not wish me to mention this matter to your husband?’

      ‘Do my wishes matter—senhor?’ Belatedly she remembered to add the word.

      His brows drew together in a frown. ‘I am afraid I do not comprehend your meaning, senhora.’

      ‘For once we agree. You do not.’ Rachel pressed her lips tightly together to prevent them from trembling, realising that this time she had forgotten to use his title altogether.

      He expelled his breath through his nostrils. ‘Tell me what you think of Mendao,’ he said, changing the subject so unexpectedly and so completely that for a moment she was startled. ‘This is the valley where our village is situated, the valley of the Rio Meigo.’

      Rachel forced herself to pay attention to her surroundings. They were descending into the valley through tree-clad slopes where the scent of pine was strongest. There were more vines, the sound of running water heralding the appearance of the broad but shallow waters of the Meigo which gurgled its way through orchards of cork trees.

      Nearer the village, cottages came into view, colour-washed dwellings that while looking picturesque could not, Rachel felt, be very comfortable. They passed black-clad peasant women leading donkeys on which were laden baskets of fruit and vegetables, and children stopped what they were doing to watch them pass.

      Many people saluted the car as they passed and Luis Martinez raised a casual hand in acknowledgement of their greeting. Rachel looked at him with sudden perception, beginning to appreciate his concern for formality. Here he was well known, the Marquês de Mendao, and while in England that might mean little or nothing, in his own country, in this valley where no doubt his family had been masters for generations, he was the Senhor, the Patrao, arbiter of their fates.

      ‘It’s very beautiful,’ she said at last. ‘But of course you know that. Do you own all this land, senhor?’

      Luis shrugged. ‘The land belongs to all of us. We work for it, we till the soil and sow the crops, we gather the harvest; but no man can pronounce himself the owner of something that is the means of livelihood for so many people. The days of slavery are abolished, senhora. These people are free. Here in Mendao all men are treated as equals.’

      Rachel considered this carefully. ‘Nevertheless, it’s obvious that