Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Pale Dawn Dark Sunset
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IT was dawn. Already the sky was lightening in the east and a pale apricot gilding was touching the fleecy clouds that shrouded the horizon. Mist rose ghostlike from the trees down in the valley, and the Angelus bell was ringing in the small chapel below. The air was crisp and cool as Rafael came to the door and he breathed deeply, feeling its coldness against the sweating dampness of his flesh.

But it was over, and behind him he could hear the shrill cries the child was still emitting, audible above the relieved protestations of its father. That its mother was alive, too, was due more to the will of God than the skill of its enforced midwives. Franco Maqueras knew nothing about bringing a child into the world, in spite of the fact that this was the seventh daughter his wife had borne him.

But somehow they had succeeded, and Rafael could feel waves of weariness sweeping over his aching body. Only yesterday he had driven a hundred scorching miles to Sustancia to share in the celebration of Mass being held in the new cathedral and then, on his return, Franco had come knocking at his door in the dead of night, begging his help, panic-stricken that his wife was about to bear his child with the overworked doctor many miles away at Pagueri. Rafael had agreed to come, to use the skills which had lain dormant for many months, but in spite of his success he felt no sense of elation, only one of extreme tiredness. His thin cotton shirt and pants were clinging wetly to his skin, and rivulets of sweat, cooling now, mingled with the fine dark hair on his chest. He desired nothing so much as a shower, a change of clothes and a couple of hours’ sleep.

But these were luxuries he could not, and would not, have. At least, not for the present. There were more important matters to claim his attention. As he sluiced his face and neck from the pump in the yard he reflected that Father Domenico would be expecting him at the chapel, to join in the early morning Sacrament, and afterwards there was the message from Juan which had been awaiting him on his return last night, requesting his presence at the hacienda. He stretched and wondered with a swiftly suppressed feeling of cynicism whether he had done the right thing in temporarily abandoning his studies in Mexico City to come home to attend his uncle’s funeral. His mother had been so appealing, so eager he knew to see her eldest son again after their separation, and he had not refused her. His uncle had worked all his life in the service of the Faith and it was not unreasonable to expect his nephew to attend his burial.

That had been almost two months ago, however, and still he was here in Guadalima. A week, two weeks at the most, he had expected to be away from the seminary, but circumstances had served to detain him. Father Domenico was beginning to rely on his assistance, the people of the villages brought their problems to him, he was becoming involved again…

He thrust long lean fingers through the thick strength of his hair. Soon, he told himself urgently, soon he must return to the seminary, to finish his studies, to accept whatever responsibilities would be placed upon him once he became a member of the priesthood. His life would not be here in this remote fertile valley in the highlands of the Chiapas where his family had lived for generations, but possibly thousands of miles away in some other part of the vast American continent.

He turned back to enter the one-roomed dwelling where the Maqueras and their five surviving children lived and ate and slept, and encountered Franco Maqueras just behind him. The Mexican’s broad features creased into a smile and he spread his thick peasant’s hands extravagantly.

“What can I say, señor?” he demanded. “I am most grateful for all you have done. Without you…” He made an expressive gesture. “I am in your debt, señor.”

Rafael shook his head. “No, my friend, not my debt. You must thank God for your wife’s deliverance. I did nothing more than serve as his instrument.”

“Oh, but yes, señor, of course, señor!” Franco crossed himself piously. “But you understand I am so relieved that Maria is well and that the child is healthy that I do not always make myself clear. If there is anything I can do, any service I can perform for you—”

“I know, I know.” Rafael flexed his aching back muscles and went past him into the room, reaching for the cotton denim jacket he had shed the night before. Maria Maqueras was lying prostrate among the tumbled covers, the baby a squirming bundle in the shawl beside her. A flicker of impatience momentarily darkened his features and then he gave a characteristic shrug of his shoulders. It was not for him to question the burden this extra mouth to feed would place on the family. These people were taught to accept their lot and be thankful. Only occasionally he experienced doubts that life should be built on so precarious a premise, but these he determinedly squashed.

“You’ll call Doctor Rodrigues as soon as he gets back?” he confirmed with Franco, and the other man nodded vigorously.

“But of course, señor. No doubt he will be glad it is over without needing his assistance.” He moved his head philosophically from side to side.

Rafael nodded, hesitating a moment as he saw the greyness in Maria’s face. The woman was exhausted. But in a few short days she would be required to take up her duties as wife and mother to her husband and the six children with whom he had now provided her. How would she cope? How could she be expected to wash and clean and prepare food with the baby draining every last ounce of strength from her scrawny breasts? His hands curled into fists. This was not his concern. He could feel sympathy—compassion; but that was all. He could offer no alternative.

After a final word with Franco he crossed the yard where skinny chickens scratched a living and climbed into the dust-smeared Landrover that belonged to the estate. He raised a hand in farewell and started the engine with a flick of his wrist. He drove away from the humble collection of dwellings that clung to the mountainside down a track from which dust spurted liberally, creating a cloud of mud behind him.

The sun was rising and below him he could see the fertile acres of the valley thick with wheat and fruit orchards, exotic with colour and brilliance. This valley had been his home for more than thirty years, it was his heritage, the Cueras estate which his brother Juan now ran had been his inheritance.

But he had not wanted it. From an early age, he had been more interested in feeding the mind than the body, and the people and their problems had always been his primary concern. He and his father had clashed on that. The estate had been in the family’s hands for more than three hundred years, since the days of the conquistadores. His ancestor, Alberto Cueras, had been a rich and influential man in the old country—in Spain—but when he had come upon this fertile valley he had abandoned his ideas of returning to his homeland. He had built a house and put down roots, sent for his wife and children; and in the years that followed expanded his holding until today it was the largest in the district. Eldest son had followed eldest son, always working for the estate, always making more money, exploiting the workers and using the women for their own pleasure. Of course, in recent years, things had changed a little; large estates were no longer so common, although in these remote districts the quality of life had changed little over the centuries.

But Rafael had rebelled. Taught from childhood to take whatever he wanted as his right, he had followed his father’s example until its very selfishness had sickened him. He had been appalled the first time he had discovered his father had mistresses, but under his father’s guidance he had become accustomed to winning the affections of any woman that took his fancy. In truth, he had encountered no opposition. His lean frame and dark good looks had disarmed the most reluctant doncellas and he was always generous to those he pursued.

And then he went to university, and away from his father’s influence his innate decency began to assert itself. He no longer found the satisfaction of the senses an adequate substitute for books and learning and his studies began to occupy more and more of his time. During his vacations, the poverty of the peons or peasant workers, the deplorable housing conditions, the spread of disease—these things began to trouble him, and he no longer felt any identification with the inanimate chunk of land that was his heritage.

He didn’t really know what he would have done had his father still been alive. He knew the decision to abdicate from his responsibilities to the estate would have appalled him. But his father had died from a heart attack while Rafael was taking his degree in medicine, and it had been natural that his younger brother, Juan, who had never shown any intellectual leanings, and who had been there at the hacienda at the time of his father’s death should take over the running of the estate in Rafael’s absence.

After that, for a while at least, he had been content. He was able to practise medicine and things had been good. But restlessness had followed hard on the heels of his mother’s increasingly frequent urgings that it was time he got married, fathered sons to ensure the continuation of the Cueras line. Rafael had had no desire to get married, to have children. His youthful decadence had left its mark on him, and the placid Spanish girls produced for his delectation aroused no sexual interest in him. On the contrary, he had serious doubts that any woman could attract him now. And besides, he wanted to serve the community, not his family. And so, in spite of his mother’s tears and recriminations, he had taken the short step from uncertainty to the seminary…

Now the Landrover was crossing the plain scythed by the rushing, gleaming waters of the Rio Lima. On either side of the river stretched acres of wheat and maize fields. Lush vegetation sprang up the wooded walls of the valley, interspersed here and there by the brown thatched roofs of peasant dwellings.

Far across the valley, on a rise in the lower slopes he could see the rambling walls of a larger, more imposing building. This was the Hacienda Cueras, the place where he had been born, where he had lived until he went to university, where his mother and brother and younger sisters lived. But their demand of his services would have to wait for the present.

He crossed the river by means of a wooden bridge, its patched slats bearing witness to the numerous occasions it had been partially swept away by the rain-swollen waters. He could hear the chapel bells, too, increasing in persistence. Just ahead of him now, set among trees, the Capilla de los Inocentes looked like a bride dressed for her wedding. Its grey walls were hung with purple and white blossoms, tiny star-shaped flowers in the colours of the Eucharist. Already he could see women hurrying up the worn stone steps, drawing black scarves over their heads, and he felt the familiar sense of well-being that always came from this duty. This was what he wanted, he told himself. Everything else came after.

Later in the morning, when the sun was climbing steadily to its zenith, Rafael drove through the wide stone gateway that gave access to the grounds of the hacienda. Although it was still early the shutters were thrown wide, and the scent of beeswax which he always associated with its polished floors was in the air. He could remember sliding across them as a child, incurring the wrath of Jezebel, the housekeeper, who always knew who to blame when she found skidding marks of muddy feet marring the shiny surface. Jezebel, Rafael smiled. Whoever had chosen her name had paid little heed to the connotations of her namesake.

He walked into the wide hall and looked about him appreciatively. It was a beautiful old building and it never failed to please him. This hall, the two rooms adjoining, and the gallery above were all that was left of the original building, but successive generations had added to its bulk, strengthening its foundations and rebuilding where necessary so that today it rambled over half an acre, split level, and partially two-storied. The furnishings, much of them antique, had the worn patina of years upon them, but its faded elegance went well with the heavily carved panelling and baroque ironwork.

“Senor Rafael!”

The housekeeper’s voice was filled with warmth and devotion. So far as Jezebel was concerned, Rafael was still master here. She came towards him eagerly from the door at the back of the hall which led to the kitchens and servants’ quarters, taking one of his hands in both of hers.

“Good morning, Jezebel.” Rafael looked kindly on the elderly Indian woman who had served his family for over thirty years and who still ran the household with a rod of iron. “I had a message that Juan wanted to see me. Do you know where he is?”

Jezebel released his hand with reluctance, her fingers indicating the lines of sleeplessness around his eyes. “You do not take care of yourself in that little hut down in the village,” she exclaimed.

Rafael was patient. “It’s hardly a hut, Jezebel,” he protested mildly. “Where is my brother?”

‘señor Juan is breakfasting on the patio, señor. You have had breakfast?”

“As a matter of fact, no.” Rafael shook his head.

Jezebel glared at him disapprovingly. “You see? You do not eat—you do not sleep—”

“Jezebel, I had work to do last night—”

“Ay, ay!” Jezebel nodded her head. “Of course. I am remembering. It was the Maqueras woman, was it not? Her time had come. Her husband—he come here looking for you last night—very late!”

“That’s right.” Rafael moved his shoulders wearily. “Maria had another daughter. And now—I must see Juan.”

“I will bring you coffee and croissants, señor,” insisted Jezebel firmly, and Rafael inclined his head.

“That would be very nice, Jezebel,” he agreed, and with a faint smile he passed her and walked through the arched entrance to the reception lounge which opened out onto the patio at the back of the house.

Juan Cueras was seated in a cane-latticed chair at the glass topped table. He was like Rafael, yet unlike. Rafael was tall, lean and dark, his features clearly defined. Juan was not so tall and thicker set, and yet the similarity was there in the darkness of their skin, the curve of their brows, the thin firmness of their mouths. Juan’s mouth was perhaps a little fuller, a little more sensual, but that was only to be expected in a man who did not share his brother’s desire for asceticism. He looked up now, as Rafael came through the long glass doors to join him, thickly spreading an apricot preserve over the croissant in his hand. He took a mouthful, nodding at his brother in welcome, and then wiping his lips with a napkin he said:

“Good morning, Rafael. I see you got my message.”

“Did you doubt it?” Rafael lounged into the chair opposite his brother, flicking an insect from his sleeve. “But I’d be obliged if you’d be brief. I have a lot to get through today.”

Juan finished the croissant with evident relish, and poured himself more coffee, offering the jug to Rafael.

“Jezebel’s bringing me some more,” said Rafael, shaking his head. “She has this inescapable idea that I’m not looking after myself.”

“You’re not.” Juan was candid. “I simply can’t understand—” He broke off. “But we’ve had that argument before.” He pushed a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice towards the other man. “Go ahead—have some. I don’t enjoy eating alone.”

Rafael took the glass that was proffered and poured himself some of the fresh fruit juice. He tasted it experimentally and then, finding it to his taste, drained the glass.

“That’s better,” remarked Juan with a smile. “Don’t you think you deny yourself enough without including food?”

“I eat enough,” replied Rafael quietly, toying with the empty glass. “It’s perhaps a question of how little one needs. One should not gorge oneself when half the population of the world is dying of starvation.”

“And do you think if I deprived myself of one more croissant—one extra cup of coffee, I would be doing anything to aid those starving peoples?” exclaimed Juan impatiently

“We have had this argument before, Juan, as you pointed out,” observed Rafael, pushing the glass away from him.

Jezebel appeared with a laden tray, setting it down on the table and setting out a second coffee pot, cream and sugar, croissants and curls of butter, and more of the thick apricot conserve.

“Now you make a good meal, señor,” she instructed severely, casting a less than respectful glance in Juan’s direction. “Your brother, for once, can show you a good example!”

Rafael hid a smile as he obediently lifted a croissant on to his plate and spread it thinly with butter. Jezebel waited a moment to satisfy herself that he did indeed intend to eat it and then went away, muttering imprecations against anyone who neglected the common necessities of life.

Juan waited until Rafael was tackling his second croissant and then he said: “I wish you to do something for me, Rafael.”

Rafael looked up. “Yes?”

“Yes.” Juan felt about his person for his case of cheroots. “You remember the child from the mission, do you not?”

Rafael frowned. “The English girl—of course.”

Juan nodded, putting a cheroot between his teeth and making a second search for his lighter. “Yes. Well, it appears that her name may be Lucy Carmichael.”

“Maybe?”

“That is correct. As the child has apparently forgotten who she is, it is impossible to say with any certainty who she might be. But aboard this aircraft which crashed several weeks ago there was a family called Carmichael; mother, father—and daughter of some eight years.”

“I see. And you think this might be the child found by Benito Santos?”

“Well, it may be.”

“But is that possible? Where did this aircraft crash?”

“In the mountains—some eighteen miles from here.”

Rafael wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It seems a remote possibility.”

“But a possibility nevertheless. And unfortunately the authorities have insisted that I investigate every possibility.”

“Unfortunately?” Rafael was intrigued.

“Yes, unfortunately. You must know that the child has taken a liking to me—that I have had her here several times to visit.”

Rafael lay back in his chair viewing Juan through narrowed eyes and his brother felt a fleeting sense of envy that Rafael could exude such an aura of latent sensuality without any apparent effort. It was not fair in someone who was prepared to deny even his own masculinity. “But what were your intentions towards the child?” he asked curiously.

Juan sighed. “I don’t know. It’s too soon to say. I may have considered adoption—”

“Adoption?” Rafael lifted his shoulders in surprise. “But she may have relatives.”

“She has.” Juan got irritably to his feet. “That is why I need your assistance.”

“My assistance?” Rafael shook his head. “I’m sorry, I seem to repeat everything you say. But I do not see what I can do.”

Juan puffed impatiently at his cheroot. “If you wait a moment, I will explain.” He walked round his brother’s chair and back to the table again. “The authorities have discovered that there is someone—an aunt—the sister of the child’s mother.” He drew a deep breath. “As one would expect, she lives in England.”

“And has she been informed of the possibility that her niece may still be alive?”

Juan nodded. “Yes. Yes, she has. And that is how you can help me.”

Rafael frowned. “Yes?”

“Yes.” Juan licked his lips. “This woman is on her way to Guadalima to see the child—to find out for herself whether indeed she is this Lucy Carmichael.”

“I see.” Rafael inclined his head. “But how can I be of assistance?”

“Wait—wait!” Juan was obviously finding it difficult to put into actual words what he wanted his brother to do. He drew deeply on his cheroot and seated himself opposite Rafael again, resting his elbows rather nervously on the table. “You see, Rafael, it is like this. This woman—her name is Lord, Miss Lord—is arriving from England tomorrow. I—well, I want you to meet her!”

“Me?” Rafael was taken aback. “Why me? Where is she arriving?”

“Mexico City, where else?”

“Juan!” Rafael stared at his brother incredulously. “You cannot be serious! I cannot go to Mexico City to meet this woman. She does not know me. I hardly know the child. If you wish to see her you must meet her yourself.”

Juan flung himself back in his seat. He heaved a heavy sigh and spread his hands expressively. “You ask me this?” He shook his head. “What am I to say to her?”

“What am I to say to her?” remarked Rafael dryly.

“It is different for you,” exclaimed Juan, leaning towards his brother again. “You are used to talking to people—you have—authority. And besides, you have a much better grasp of the English language than I have.”

Rafael poured himself some coffee. “And this is why you sent for me?”

“Yes.”

Rafael drank some of the black coffee reflectively. “I do not understand all of this,” he said at last. “Why are the authorities not arranging for this woman to be brought to Guadalima?”

“Father Esteban at the mission left the matter in my hands.”

“I see. And what do you hope to achieve?”

Juan coloured slightly. “Achieve? That is a curious word to use, Rafael. It smacks of conspiracy.”

Rafael shook his head. “On the contrary, what you wish to do for this child is admirable. I just cannot think that Valentina will welcome a ready-made daughter into your household.”

“Valentina and I are not married yet, Rafael.”

“No.” Rafael conceded that point slowly. “Even so, you know that it is expected.”

Juan scowled. “Will you meet the woman? Madre de Dios, Rafael, what would I find to say to some middle-aged spinster? How could I explain my feelings for the child? If she is this Lucy Carmichael, how can I persuade her that the child might be happier here with us than taken back to that cold and unfeeling country of her birth?”

Rafael half smiled. “I think you are being rather uncharitable, Juan,” he commented mildly. “You really know nothing about England, and the child may be content to return with her aunt—a blood relation. After all, seeing her aunt again may restore her memory.”

“I know, I know. Do you think I have not thought of that?” Juan sounded impatient. “That is why I wish you to speak with this woman—this Miss Lord. I want you to tell her about me—to explain that I am not a villain with designs on her niece. I want you to explain that the child herself likes me, that I find her enchanting. And that for her aunt to take her away without first considering what she might be depriving her of would be—how shall I say?—precipitate?”

“In other words, you want me to extol your praises,” observed Rafael ironically. “You think perhaps she might then look more kindly on the possibilities of leaving the child here?”

Juan tapped his nails irritably against the glass surface of the table. Across the patio a walled rose garden was giving off a fragrant perfume, and humming birds vied with the butterflies for brilliance. He turned back to his brother. “And you, Rafael? Do you not think the child would be happier here, amongst all this?” He spread his hands again. “This woman—this aunt—she cannot possibly give her what I can give her.”

“How do you know that?”

Juan sighed. “It is obvious. The child’s clothes—the pitiful things she was found in were not the garments of a rich child. Her reactions to everything I have done for her have not been the reactions of a child already satiated by luxury.”

“And might she not have forgotten these things also?”

“No. Ordinary every day things, she remembers. It is the personal details she has forgotten.” Juan pressed out the stub of his cheroot in the onyx ashtray. “The doctors are confident that she will recover. It is only a matter of time. I have had Delgado out from Mexico City—”

“Ramon Delgado?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“As a matter of fact we were at university together.”

“I see.” Juan’s lips twisted. “Well, as I say, Delgado expresses the opinion that it is only a matter of time before her memory returns completely. Needless to say, this news arouses mixed feelings inside me. Naturally I want her to regain her faculties, but I am afraid if this woman comes here—stimulates the child’s recollective abilities and then takes her away without first giving her a chance to decide for herself—”

“But you say the child is only some eight years old?”

“That’s right.”

“Then how can she decide what would be best for her future? Juan, you have to accept that in this instance you are helpless.”

“No, I will not accept that.” Juan’s face was grim. He turned again to his brother. “Rafael, I ask very little of you—surely it is not too much to ask you to help me in this…”

Rafael sighed now. “I don’t see how anything I can say can make the slightest difference.”

Juan hesitated. Then he said: “Rafael, you have influence. Won’t you use it? The influence of your position?”

Rafael had known this was coming, of course. “Juan,” he said patiently, “Juan, I have no influence, I am nothing yet.”

“But you will be soon. You already assist Father Domenico—”

“In a lay capacity only!” Rafael shook his head and pushed aside his dirty cup and plate. “These people, Juan—the Carmichaels—were they Catholics?”

Juan moved his shoulders awkwardly. “I—no! I believe they belonged to the Church of England.”

Rafael’s hand descended heavily on the table. “And you expect this woman to leave her niece—the only surviving member of her sister’s family—with you, the brother of a man who may ultimately become a priest in the Roman Catholic Church?”

Juan’s jaw moved spasmodically. “So you won’t help me?”

“I don’t see how I can.”

“Then you’re not listening to me, Rafael. What can this woman—this aunt—give the girl? She is not even married! She does not have the support of a husband. She is a secretary or something with some firm in London. She has no money—no influence—no position in society!”

“These things are not so important to some people,” pointed out Rafael quickly. “And I do not speak only for myself. If this woman lives alone, she may be glad of the child’s companionship.”

“But how can she care for her? If she is at work all day, how will she manage? Always supposing she can afford to support her.”

“If you really want to help the child then perhaps you ought to offer to support her in the manner in which you would like to see her.”

Juan stared at Rafael in astonishment. “No! No, I could not do that.”

Rafael shrugged. “It was a suggestion, nothing more.”

Juan looked thoughtful. “Will you not do as I ask and meet this woman at least,?” he appealed. He paused. “It may just be—possible to persuade her to change her mind…”

Rafael’s face darkened. “Juan! You would not—offer her money?”

Juan moved uncomfortably. “Did I say I might?”

“It was implicit in your words.” Rafael’s jaw hardened and he thrust back his chair and got abruptly to his feet. “Very well, I will meet your Miss Lord. But only because I am afraid that if I refuse you will think of some other way to keep the child.” He shook his head. “I have never known you to be so obsessed with another human being.”

Juan could smile now that he had got what he wanted. “I would not call it an obsession, Rafael. I am fond of the child, I admit it. It pleasures me that she treats me like the father she has lost. It is a—satisfying sensation to feel oneself the centre of a child’s world.”

“And when she recovers her memory? What then? The realisation of the loss of her parents must eventually be faced.”

“I know it. But I am hoping that by then the life I have given her here will compensate—”

“And if it does not?”

Juan’s lips tightened. “We will face that contingency if and when it occurs.” Then: “Now, you will go and see our mother, will you not? You know she would be heartbroken if she learned you had visited the hacienda without spending some time with her.”

Rafael nodded, thrusting his hands deeply into his trousers pockets. He would have preferred to leave the hacienda forthwith, to go back to his own house and ponder the disquieting aspects of the situation while he bathed and changed his clothes. But it was not to be. He sighed. He had not realised when he left Mexico City how much more difficult it was to remain detached from the intimacies of one’s own family. The seminary had been a refuge from the everyday problems of living, and he admitted he had enjoyed its isolation. But here, involved as he was, he could feel emotions stirring inside him that had been long suppressed. He must not make judgments, he told himself impatiently. He was the outsider here, it was not really his affair. But his intelligence told him that this was just a whim on Juan’s part which could easily be replaced by another.

His mother was still in bed when he entered her room at the head of the stairs. It was a beautiful room, the floor coolly mosaiced, and strewn with rugs in cinnamon and gold. Wide windows opened on to a balcony, edged with wrought iron, which overhung the patio, and a cool breeze stirred the lemon chiffon draperies. The bed, a magnificent fourposter which was said to date back to the eighteenth century, was wide and comfortable, and Rafael’s mother was ensconced among the soft pillows. A used breakfast tray was pushed to one side and she was reading a newspaper until, at the advent of her son, she thrust it swiftly aside and held out both hands to him.

Rafael greeted her warmly, taking her hands in his and bending to kiss her perfumed cheek. Then he released himself and took up a stance before the open balcony doors.

“So you are going to Mexico City to meet this woman, Rafael,” remarked Doña Isabella softly.

Rafael glanced significantly behind him. “You heard?”

“It would have been impossible to do otherwise. Juan is so vehement.” His mother sighed, plucking at the silk coverlet. “You do not think he should do this.”

Rafael shrugged. “I am only afraid…” He shook his head. “Juan is old enough to make his own decisions.”

Doña Isabella shook her head. “Is he? I wonder?” She stared penetratingly at her eldest son, a troubled expression marring her smooth olive features. “Rafael—Rafael, if you do go to Mexico City, you will come back, won’t you?”

Rafael’s face relaxed. “Of course. How else is this woman to find her way here? But soon—soon I must return to the seminary.”

His mother pressed her lips together. “Not too soon, Rafael, not too soon.”

“I’ve been here two months already,” he protested.

“I know, I know. But we see so little of you, my darling. You so rarely come to the hacienda…”

Rafael made an apologetic gesture. “There is so much for me to do—” he was beginning, when his mother interrupted him bitterly.

“I know. Everyone demands your time, your advice, your medical knowledge, while I—your mother—am spared only a few minutes every week!”

Rafael approached the bed helplessly, sitting down beside her and taking her hands in his again. “Madre mia, I am sorry,” he muttered huskily, guilt at his neglect of her overwhelming him. He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them gently. “But you must understand that I cannot deny Rodrigues my help.”

Doña Isabella laid a hand on his dark head, smoothing the unruly vitality of his hair. Then she sighed. “I am sorry, too, Rafael. I am a selfish old woman. But knowing you are in the valley and not living here at the hacienda… Could you not come and stay with us?”

Rafael released her hands and spread his own expressively. “You know that the hacienda is too far from the village. The house I have is easily accessible, and besides, I can be alone there.”

“And this is important to you, isn’t it?” His mother’s voice had a note of acceptance in it now. “Very well, Rafael, I won’t insist that you come and stay here. But surely—after this trip to Mexico City—you could spend a little more time with us? After all, when you leave the valley, Rodrigues will have to manage, will he not?”

Rafael got to his feet. “Very well, Madrecita. I will come as often as I can. But now—” He glanced at the plain gold watch on his wrist, “now I must go. I am hot and dirty and I need a shower. Besides, I must tell Father Domenico that I shall be leaving for Mexico City first thing in the morning.”

“You will take the helicopter to Puebla?”

Rafael nodded. “Yes. I presume there is a car there I can use.”

“A Mustang.” His mother inclined her head. “As I recall it, Juan bought two.” She bit her lip. “But you will drive carefully, won’t you, Rafael? The roads can be so dangerous.”

Rafael smiled, revealing his even white teeth. “You worry too much, Madrecita.“ He kissed her once more and then moved towards the door. “I will see you tomorrow evening. When I deliver Miss Lord.”

“Very well, Rafael. Take care!”

Rafael bade her goodbye and went down the stairs slowly. Now that he was free to go he was curiously loath to do so. This house had been his home for so many years and he knew a fleeting temptation to go to his old room and use the bathroom there. He knew his room remained as it was when he had left it. His mother insisted on it always being ready and available to him. But such temptations were never overwhelming and he walked across the wide hall and out onto the steps above the forecourt.

Two girls were dismounting from their horses in the shadow of the Landrover, assisted by a dark-skinned Mexican stableboy, and Rafael recognised his two younger sisters, Carla and Constancia. They were eighteen-year-old twins, the last children his father had sired before his fatal illness. When they saw Rafael they came exuberantly towards him, hugging him enthusiastically and protesting that he could not leave yet.

“I must,” insisted Rafael, disentangling himself from their clinging hands. “I have things to do.”

“I expect Juan has been asking you to go and meet this woman—this aunt of the little one’s—for him, hasn’t he?” suggested Carla perceptively. “Are you going?”

Rafael’s expression was wry. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

“I don’t think you should.” That was Constancia, the quieter, more introspective of the two. “Let Juan meet her himself!”

“I agree,” chimed in Carla. “Why should you have to waste your time going to meet some stuffy old maid?”

“That will do, Carla.” Rafael’s mouth turned down at the corners. “You know absolutely nothing about Miss Lord, and I do not think we should make wild statements about someone who is totally anonymous to us.”

Carla pouted. “Can I come with you?”

Rafael shook his head. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

“Why not? At least you wouldn’t be bored—”

“I am never bored, Carla,” returned Rafael grimly, and climbed determinedly into the Landrover. “I’ll see you both tomorrow evening. When I get back.”

Constancia came to the door of the vehicle and touched his arm. “I wish I could come with you, Rafael,” she murmured wistfully, and for a moment he was tempted. But then he caught sight of Carla’s indignant face and realised he could not possibly take one without the other.

“There wouldn’t be room in the helicopter,” he replied, touching her cheek with a lean finger. “I’ll see you tomorrow, hmm?”

Constancia stepped back reluctantly and Rafael put the Landrover into gear. Then he drove swiftly down the drive and out on to the track to the village.

CHAPTER TWO

THE international airport at Mexico City was a seething mass of humanity in the heat of the late afternoon. More and more people were discovering the fascination for the past which gave the Aztec civilisation such an irresistible appeal. Where once only scientists and historians came to investigate the relics of that ancient culture there now thronged safari-shirted tourists, slung about with cameras and binoculars, and all the other paraphernalia of the cult fanatic.

Rafael disliked the crowds. He avoided them whenever possible. And the reasons for his being here at all were gradually arousing an unmistakable feeling of irritation inside him. The aircraft bringing this woman who might or might not be the child’s aunt out from England had developed an engine fault and had been delayed twenty-four hours in Kingston, which had meant that Rafael had had to book in at the airport hotel and spend a whole day kicking his heels. But finally the flight’s arrival had been announced, and he walked reluctantly towards the reception area. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his close-fitting corduroy pants and as he wore no jacket because it was so hot, his thin cream knitted shirt clung to his skin. He was hardly aware that several pairs of female eyes turned speculatively in his direction. He was simply not interested. He was totally absorbed with the disruptive quality of his own thoughts.

The plane had landed by the time he reached reception, and because of the delay in Jamaica and certain formalities which had been conducted there the passengers were quickly dealt with. Luggage was unloaded and gradually the passengers trickled through to collect their belongings and be greeted by welcoming relatives and friends.

Rafael stood to one side, his feet slightly apart, assessing all the women who emerged with equal penetration. There were several middle-aged women and his stomach muscles tautened when he contemplated approaching one of them with his brother’s proposition. But fortunately they were all quickly encompassed into welcoming groups and Rafael viewed the men that followed without interest. Most of the passengers looked relieved that the journey was over and he conceded that knowing one’s aircraft had developed an engine fault on the first leg of the journey could not make for a comfortable completion.

A woman in a wheelchair came next, propelled by a tall girl who looked round the reception area with curious eyes. Rafael frowned. Could this perhaps be Miss Lord? This woman in the wheelchair who looked rather pale and drawn.

But no! He stifled his increasing impatience as a man and a woman approached them and bent to speak consolingly to the woman in the chair. Then they spoke to the girl and she smiled, and said something which from her manner appeared to be deprecating their obvious gratitude.

Rafael looked away. Where was the woman? he silently demanded, feeling his reserves of tolerance running desperately low. Surely she would have the sense to realise that someone would be sent to meet her! Surely she wouldn’t leave the confines of the airport and seek accommodation at some hotel?

“Excuse me, señor!”

The feminine voice to one side of him broke into his absorption and his brows drew together in a scowl as he turned to look at the girl who had spoken. She was the girl who had been propelling the wheelchair and at once his spirits rose a little. Could it be that the woman in the wheelchair was Miss Lord, after all?

“Si?” He was abrupt, but he couldn’t help it.

The girl smiled, seemingly unconcerned by his uncompromising attitude. Objectively, he had to concede that she was an unusually attractive young woman. She was tall, perhaps five feet six or seven, and without the angular thinness sometimes associated with girls of her height. She was slim, but not excessively so, and firm breasts were moulded beneath the thin cotton of her shirt. A mass of straight red-gold hair fell in a heavy curtain about her shoulders, her features were even, her eyes an amazing shade of green and fringed by dark, gold-tipped lashes, her mouth full and mobile. She was dressed in the kind of casual attire affected by the youth of the day—cotton denim jeans that clung to her hips and tapered at the ankle, thonged sandals on her bare feet. A canvas holdall was draped over her shoulder drawing attention to the open neck of her shirt where the smooth column of her throat was clearly visible. Without a doubt, he decided, she was not unaccustomed to the ready admiration of the opposite sex. It was there in the slightly slanting eyes, in her awareness, in the confidence she exuded—and Rafael withdrew behind a façade of coldness that was totally alien to him.

“Excuse me,” she said again, and her voice was warm and husky and unmistakably English. “But you’re not by any chance—Señor Cueras?”

Rafael stiffened. “I am Rafael Cueras,” he agreed politely.

“Oh, I see. Rafael!“ The girl looked disappointed. “I’m sorry. It was a Señor Juan Cueras I was looking for.”

Rafael drew himself up to his full height and looked down at her. “Juan Cueras is my brother, señorita. Do you speak to me on behalf of Miss Lord?”

“On behalf of—” The girl broke off. “Oh, no, señor. I don’t speak on behalf of anybody. I am Miranda Lord!”

To say Rafael was surprised would be a masterpiece of understatement. He was astounded, flabbergasted! He stared at the girl as though she had just announced her intention to stick a knife in his ribs. He couldn’t believe it, he couldn’t. That this female—this girl—was the expected aunt from England! It wasn’t possible. Aunts in his country were middle-aged to elderly women attired in black, not slips of creatures little more than children themselves.

Miranda Lord was smiling at his amazement. “Is something wrong?” she enquired in an amused voice. “Am I not what you were expecting?”

That she should so precisely put her finger on what was wrong irritated him. He disliked the way she was looking at him, the way her eyes mocked his confusion. “I—no, señorita,” he retorted curtly. “You are perhaps—younger, that is all.”

She nodded. “Well, my sister was twelve years older,” she conceded, a cloud of remembered grief darkening her eyes for a moment. Then she shook her head impatiently. “I’m sorry if I’m a disappointment to you.”

The amusement was back again and Rafael cast a swift look around them. He realised they could not go on standing here when at any moment another aircraft would be landing and other passengers would be crowding this lounge, but he was curiously loath to take responsibility for her. Still, it had to be done.

“You will please to come with me, señorita,” he directed, his English worsening as his irritation irrationally increased. “You have suitcases?”

Miranda looked across the room. “Only one. That’s it over there. I’ll get it.”

“I will get it, señorita.”

Rafael strode away and picked up the square black case, noting its battered edges with a tightening of his lips. It was obvious that the situation was as Juan had suggested. This girl had no money, and was certainly not the kind of guardian he would have chosen for a child of eight years. For the first time he felt a small sympathy towards his brother’s cause. Perhaps Juan was right after all.

He came back to the girl, and she said: “You don’t have to keep calling me señorita. My name is Miranda. I’m used to that.”

Rafael made no reply to this but merely indicated that she should accompany him across the well-lit entrance hall and out into the cooling warmth of the late afternoon.

“I expect you’ve been waiting since yesterday, haven’t you?” Miranda suggested, as they walked to where Rafael had left the car. “I’m sorry. The plane developed a fault. It was quite nerve-racking really.”

But she didn’t appear to be suffering any ill-effects, thought Rafael with unusual cynicism, and despised himself for feeling that way.

“Aren’t those flowers beautiful!” she was exclaiming now, spreading her hands and giving a little shake of her shoulders. “I can hardly believe it, you know. That I’m here—in Mexico. I’ve done very little travelling, I’m afraid.”

Rafael’s nostrils flared. “I should have thought that the reasons behind this journey were less than stimulating, señorita.”

She glanced sideways at him, and her eyes were coolly appraising. Tall as he was, she did not have to look up far into his face and it was rather disconcerting to him. Most of the people he associated with, men as well as his mother and sisters, were much smaller than he was.

Now she said quietly: “My sister and her husband went missing more than four months ago. I’ve had to adjust myself to the fact that they’re never coming back.”

Rafael felt reproved and didn’t care for the experience. He was guiltily aware that he was making a very poor impression, but he said nothing and she looked away again, making some further comment about the banks of blossom that fronted the airport buildings.

The grey Mustang gleamed metal-like on the stark concrete apron of the parking area. Miranda silently admired its sleek elegance and then asked: “Yours?”

Rafael shook his head. “My brother’s, señorita.“ He swung open the passenger door. “Won’t you please get in?”

With a shrug she curved herself into the seat and he stowed her case in the boot before joining her. It was some time since he had driven any woman other than a member of his own family, and he could smell the faint aroma of some perfume she was wearing and feel the warmth from her skin close beside his.

They swung out of the parking area and he was relieved to have the traffic to rivet his attention. He was conscious of her looking about her with interest and in an effort to behave naturally he pointed out the twin mountain peaks which have become world-famous since the Spanish conqueror Cortes viewed the Aztec city from the tableland between them. They did not drive into Mexico City, however, but swung away south towards Puebla. If she was disappointed that she was not to have some time in the capital Rafael couldn’t help it. If she wished to go sightseeing when the business which had brought her to Mexico was over, that was her affair.

All the same, he realised belatedly he had not offered her a meal before embarking on this journey, and sooner or later he would have to bring up the question of the child. He was not looking forward to that.

“How far is it to Guadalima?” she asked suddenly, as clouds began to obscure the slanting rays of the setting sun.

“Some distance yet, señorita.“ Rafael paused. “I did not think of it at the airport, but perhaps you are hungry?”

Miranda shook her head. “Not particularly. We had a meal on the plane.” She looked down at her nails. “Tell me—I understood your brother was to meet me—is—is he ill or something?”

Rafael’s fingers tightened on the wheel. “No. No, not ill, señorita.”

“But there must have been some reason, mustn’t there?” she insisted, her eyes challenging his. “After all, you didn’t want to come, did you?”

Rafael was taken aback. “Why do you say that.”

“It’s obvious.” She slid lower into her seat, drawing up her foot and draping her arms round her knee. “I get the feeling I’m something more than a nuisance.”

Rafael was contrite. “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly.

She wrinkled her nose. “No, you’re not. I’m just trying to work out why you should come to meet me if you feel this way.”

Rafael sighed and a little of the tension went out of him. “You must forgive me, señorita. I am a little—tired.”

She shook her head. “Tell me about Lucy.”

Rafael hesitated. “You’re sure the child is Lucy, then?”

“Well, I’ve seen a photograph of her, sent by this priest, Father—Estoban?” He nodded and she went on: “It’s not the best photograph I’ve seen of her, but it certainly looks like her. And I don’t suppose there are too many children wandering about Mexico answering her description.”

“No.” Rafael had to admit that.

“I understand your—brother—has been very good to her.”

This was his opportunity, but Rafael did not immediately take it. He had the feeling that this girl was different from any contingency Juan had considered. And he wasn’t altogether sure that she would be prepared to abandon her niece however tempting the offer.

Now he said: “My brother has grown very attached to—to the child.”

She nodded. “So I understand from the priest. I must thank him for taking such an interest in her. Does your brother have no children of his own?”

“My brother is not yet married, señorita,” replied Rafael dryly, but she merely smiled.

“I see.” Her eyes danced. “Then of course he couldn’t have, could he?” But he sensed she was laughing at him again.

Rafael’s lips thinned. “As a matter of fact Juan is—betrothed, señorita.”

“Oh!” She drew her lower lip between her teeth. “And you, señor? Are you married? Do you have children?”

“No!” Rafael shook his head.

She raised dark eyebrows. “You sound very definite about that.” She shrugged. “Nor am I. But I always imagined people married younger in Latin countries.”

“Not everyone wishes to get married, señorita,” he was stung to retort.

“No. No, I realise that. It’s going out of fashion, isn’t it?”

“That was not what I meant, señorita.”

“Wasn’t it?” Her eyes flickered over the open neck of his shirt, lingering for a while on the hair-roughened skin of his chest before continuing down to his bare forearms where he had rolled back his sleeves. She contemplated the plain gold watch on his wrist and then dropped her eyes to her hands.

No woman of his own race that Rafael had ever known had looked at him in quite that way before, and he felt annoyed. Had she no respect, this girl from England? Did women there consider themselves the equals of men in every sense of the word? He had heard that this was so, but he had found it hard to believe.

With a heavy sigh, he said: “Do you have any intentions of getting married in the near future, señorita?”

Her eyes widened and she turned to look at him. “Not in the near future, no. Why?”

Rafael moved awkwardly. Such personal questions were alien to him. “I—wondered, that is all, señorita.“ It was growing dark and he was impatient to reach the airport at Puebla. “If—if the child is your niece, what are your intentions?”

Miranda frowned. “My intentions, señor?” She shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I phrase myself badly.” Rafael braked and changed gear as a handcart suddenly appeared on the road in front of them. “What I mean is—will you take her back to England?”

“Of course,” She sounded surprised. “Where else would I take her? I’m her only relative now. Susan—that is, my sister and I have no parents. They’ve been dead for more than eight years. When Bob—Susan’s husband—got a job in Brazil, I was still at college. I hadn’t seen either of them for over a year when—when I had news that they were missing.”

“I see.” Rafael paused. “So you may find it—difficult to cope with a child?”

Miranda half turned in her seat towards him. “Do you really care, señor…?”

Rafael stiffened. That she should ask him that! He made a dismissing movement of his shoulders. “Of course it is the duty of anyone to care, señorita. The child is young—impressionable. She needs a firm hand as well as a secure background. She needs good food and clothing, someone to whom she may turn in times of trouble someone who is always there in the background, always ready to offer assistance and advice.”

Miranda traced the grain in the leather at the back of his seat with a careless finger. “And don’t you think I can provide these things? Is that what you’re getting at?”

“I did not say that, señorita. But you are young, you have your own life to lead. What place in it would there be for an orphaned eight-year-old girl?”

She swung round in her seat. “I get the feeling you’re trying to tell me something, señor,” she remarked coldly.

Rafael sighed, wishing for the umpteenth time that he had not agreed to become a part of this impossible situation. “It is simply that my brother is concerned for the child’s welfare, señorita,” he stated flatly. “Is it not natural that this should be so. These past weeks she has been—how shall I say?—the centre of attention.”

“But she doesn’t remember who she is, does she?” Miranda retorted. “How do you think she’ll feel when she discovers that her—her parents are dead?”

“That is impossible to answer, of course.”

“Of course.” She hunched her shoulders. “But don’t you think that for a child of Lucy’s age, having someone she knows, someone she really knows, to care for her, is more important in the immediate term than anything else?”

“Perhaps so, señorita.”

“But you’re not sure, are you?” She tossed her head impatiently. “I’m beginning to think I know why your brother did not come to meet me himself. He wanted you to plead his case—didn’t he? Be his advocate! But why? What does Lucy mean to him?”

Rafael saw the lights of Puebla looming ahead of them with some relief. “We will complete our journey by helicopter, señorita,” he stated stiffly. “Then you will meet my brother and judge for yourself what his motives may be.”

At the airport, formalities were soon dealt with, and he led the way to that quieter corner of the airfield where a silver and blue helicopter glinted in the dull lights. Miranda had said nothing since leaving the car, and if she was surprised to find herself expected to complete the journey in a helicopter she made no demur. It was Rafael who found himself growing increasingly disturbed and after securing her in the seat beside him he fastened his own straps with impatient fingers. He should never have come on this mission. If anything he had prejudiced the girl against Juan by his own carelessness.

In the air he felt a little more relaxed. Flying, whether in the helicopter or in the monoplane also owned by the estate, always relaxed him. His father had been a keen pilot and some of Rafael’s earliest memories were of being taken up in an aeroplane and subjected to the kind of aerobatics calculated to shake the hardest nerves. But Rafael had loved it, and by the time he was fourteen he could handle a plane almost as well as his father. Of course, his mother had not known, not then, but as soon as he was old enough to hold a licence it had become one of his greatest pleasures. A pleasure he had denied himself of late.

Now as he turned the helicopter towards the valley of the Lima, he reflected that he could afford to be pleasant to the girl when in a little over an hour she would no longer be his responsibility. He knew the terrain like the back of his hand, and felt he could have flown the chopper in blindfold. He glanced towards his passenger and saw her taut features revealed in the diffused lighting from the instrument panel. He felt a sense of remorse. He had been cold and unyielding, totally unlike his normal self. It was not her fault that he instinctively recoiled from her easy familiarity. What must she be thinking of him?

He shook his head. Juan should not be too disappointed. After all, he, too, had been expecting an older woman. What he would say when he confronted this emancipated specimen of womanhood might be interesting to hear. But something had to be said now and Rafael sought for suitable words.

“No one has any intention of trying to—take your niece—if indeed the child is your niece—away from you, señorita,” he averred at last.

She looked sideways at him. “No one could.”

Her determination was irritating. She was obviously unaware of the power of the Cueras family if she imagined her words would carry much weight here.

“I—should not take that attitude, señorita,” he replied quietly. “You are not in England now.”

“Are you threatening me, señor?” she demanded incredulously, and his knuckles showed white through the skin of his hands.

“No, señorita, I am not threatening you. I am merely offering sound advice.”

She directed her attention towards him. “And what do you do, señor? Do you work for your brother on this estate Father Esteban mentioned in his letters? Are you working for him now?”

Rafael could not remember feeling so angry for a very long time. “No,” he managed, through clenched teeth. “I do not work for my brother, señorita. I have no connection with the estate.”

“I see.”

But she was puzzled. He sensed that. However he had no intention of enlightening her further. She would learn soon enough no doubt. But not from him. He did not altogether understand his antipathy towards the girl, but he wanted nothing more to do with her.

Thereafter there was silence between them. They flew in over the mountain ranges, dropping low into the valley where lights pricked the gloom below them. A fugitive moon slid from behind clouds long enough to illuminate the grey walls of the Hacienda Cueras, but then they fell behind them as the helicopter dropped down to the valley floor where a narrow airstrip flanked by adobe buildings provided a necessary landing area. As they landed Miranda looked curiously about her., probably noticing the lack of formal buildings.

“Is this it?” she asked, and he nodded.

“This is it, seˉnTorita,” he agreed coolly, thrusting back the sliding perspex door as the propellers slowed to a stop. “Only a short journey in a Landrover and you will be at the Hacienda Cueras.”

“Oh, but—” Miranda broke off. “I thought Lucy was staying at the mission with Father Esteban.”

“She is, señorita. But the mission is small, accommodation is limited. My brother insists you accept his hospitality. Besides, it would not be advisable to upset the child at this time of night.”

He thought she was about to refuse, but although her mobile mouth tightened she tossed back her hair with a careless hand and bent to unfasten her safety harness. He offered her his hand to climb out, and after a moment’s hesitation she took it, her fingers slim and cool in his. It was the first time he had touched her, and he could tell from the way her eyes darted to his face that she was not unaware of him. But he withdrew his hand as soon as he could and turned away with relief to speak to Gerardo Sanchez, the mechanic, who lived in one of the adobe buildings. They spoke in a swift patois, a mixture of Mexican and the native Nahuatlan, which successfully excluded Miranda. All the same, Rafael was conscious of her standing there, behind him, slim and elegant, in spite of her casual attire, looking about her with interested eyes.

It was quite cold now, and after a moment he dismissed Gerardo and turned back to her.

“Come,” he said. “The Landrover is waiting, and so, too, is my brother. Gerardo tells me that he did not get my message last evening informing him that your plane had been delayed.”

He set off across the tarmac and she fell into step beside him. “What do you mean?” she asked in surprise. “Didn’t you telephone.”

Rafael cast her an impatient look. “There are no telephones in the high valleys of the Chiapas, señorita.“ He shrugged. “No doubt both he and my mother have convinced themselves by now that I have either run the Mustang off the highway, or crashed the helicopter!”

Miranda bit her lip, looking at him anxiously, and in the fleeting light of the moon she saw the amusement touching his mouth. She smiled suddenly, and a gulp of laughter escaped her.

“It is not funny,” he asserted, straightening his lips, but her smile was infectious and in spite of himself he grinned back.

“You look so much nicer when you smile,” she exclaimed impulsively, and he was glad 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 of all of them he perhaps had the most reason.

Doña Isabella was less enthusiastic. “I was just suggesting that Miss Lord might prefer to go at once to her room, Juan,” she remarked insistently. “I have no doubt that she is tired, and all discussions concerning her reasons for being in the valley can be conducted so much less emotionally in the light of morning.”

Juan looked speculatively at Miranda. “And is this your wish, too, Miss Lord?”

“I—” Miranda had been at a loss to know what to reply. “I am tired. I did not sleep well in the hotel in Kingston.”

Doña Isabella looked relieved. “It is so, then. I will have Jezebel show you to your room. Everything is prepared. Jezebel is the housekeeper here, señorita. She will ensure that you have everything you need.”

“You’re very kind.” Miranda managed a smile of thanks, but when his mother went to summon the housekeeper, Juan Cueras lingered.

“Tell me, Miss Lord,” he intoned quietly, “did my brother tell you how—me gusta—er—I—I care for the niña? Lucy, is it not?”

Miranda relaxed, “Of course. And I should thank you for what you’ve done for her. Father Esteban has written and told me how often you’ve visited her—how often she had visited you here.”

Juan’s swarthy features expanded. “No tanto. Soy su amigo—we are friends, si?”

“I’m sure your attention has made everything so much easier for her,” insisted Miranda, looking about her with interest. “And this beautiful old house—she must love coming here”

Juan was making some deprecatory comment when his mother returned accompanied by an elderly Indian woman whom Miranda assumed must be the housekeeper, Jezebel. It was an unlikely name for such a wizened old creature, but her eyes were sharp and appraising and Miranda guessed they missed nothing.

“You will show Señorita Lord to her room and provide her with a light meal, Jezebel,” Doña Isabella was saying as they neared the others, and Jezebel was nodding.

“Si, señora.” Continuing to stare at the newcomer, she said: “You come—por favor?”

“Yes, go with Jezebel,” directed Doña Isabella, linking hands on which glinted a veritable fortune in diamonds. “She will take good care of you. We will meet again in the morning.”

“Yes. Yes, thank you.” Miranda glanced awkwardly at Juan. “Goodnight then—Doña Isabella; señor.”

She could not bring herself to say Don Juan, although she supposed that this was his usual appellation. However, he seemed to notice nothing amiss and presently she was walking behind Jezebel up a baroque staircase followed at some distance by one of the menservants carrying her case and haversack.

She sighed now. If she didn’t go to sleep soon she would be too tired to drag herself out of bed in the morning. But everything was so strange, so uncannily quiet after the sounds of traffic that constantly created noise beneath the windows of her small flat in Chelsea. It was strange to think that life was still going on as usual beneath those windows half across the world, and that one of the typists from the pool would be taking shorthand from David Hallam possibly at this very moment.

David had not wanted her to come to Guadalima to identify her niece. He valued her services too highly as his secretary to appreciate the disruption her departure had caused. He had said it would have been much more sensible to have the child flown to England for identification as that was where she was going to live. But then David was a cold fish, and had never fully recovered from her rejection of his marriage proposal four months ago.

It had been at the time when her sister and brother-in-law had first gone missing, and no doubt he had imagined she would welcome his offer with open arms. But he had been mistaken. Much as she liked David, much as she was aware of his fair good looks, much as she knew that the other girls in the office envied her position as his private secretary, she had no illusions about her own feelings. She couldn’t picture herself married to David Hallam. She couldn’t see herself hostessing his little dinner parties, taking care of his service flat, bringing up a clutch of children exactly like him in every way. He was too correct, too—sedate. His shirts were always pristine white, his ties were never crooked, his hair was never overly long. In short he was the glossy magazine’s idea of the successful young businessman, and he never forgot it. Miranda felt sure that had she accepted him he would have attempted to mould her into the successful young businessman’s wife, and she simply wasn’t interested. It wasn’t that she was careless with her own appearance. She liked wearing casual clothes, but she equally enjoyed putting on pretty dresses and being absurdly feminine. However, a mortgaged detached on a suburban estate was not her idea of what life was all about, although she had to admit that she liked the company of men and some day would want a home and children of her own.

Thinking of marriage brought her thoughts back to the conversation she had had with Rafael Cueras on their way to the airport at Puebla. He had been most determined in his negation of her question about his own marriage. She wondered why. Had some woman jilted him in the past—or was he merely a woman-hater? The former seemed unlikely, the latter equally so. He was so arrogantly masculine himself, he could not possibly dislike the opposite sex. And yet he had seemed totally unmoved by her personality, and she moved restlessly when she recalled how coolly he had treated her.

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