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.

Rachel Trevellyan
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

HE was tired, very tired. The road through Cornwall had not been at all what he had expected after the long, fast-moving roads of his own country, and it had slowed his progress considerably. It was now after eight o’clock, darkness had fallen, and to add to his difficulties a sea fret was making the road ahead very hard to distinguish even with powerful headlights.

From Launceston the road had twisted and turned narrowly, an annoyance to the most patient of drivers, which he would be the first to admit he was not, and since leaving Penzance it had deteriorated into little more than a country lane. A series of sharp bends and precipitous summits had kept him continually in a low gear, and demanded all his concentration.

Occasionally, it had occurred to him that he was a fool, that he should not have agreed to undertake this journey at this time of the year. Although it was spring back home, it was still winter here even in this southern corner of England. But his mother had been so persuasive that he had not had the heart to refuse her. Apparently, Malcolm Trevellyan’s family had been kind to her in the past, and now that Malcolm was ill it was only natural that she should want to try and repay that kindness in some way. It was a long time since he had seen his mother so agitated about anything, and he had submitted to her demands for urgency.

He realised, too, that in spite of his mother’s almost total adaptation to the Portuguese way of life, since his father’s death two years ago she sometimes felt lonely and perhaps longed for someone from her native country to talk to.

He consulted the broad gold watch on its plain leather strap which encircled his wrist under the cuff of his plain grey suede jacket. Surely it could not be much further to Mawvry. His mother had said it was about ten miles from Penzance, which in the measurements he was used to meant something over sixteen kilometres. But on these roads and in these conditions it had seemed much further.

He began considering the arrangements he had made to transfer Malcolm Trevellyan to Mendao. Trevellyan was not a young man, and disabled into the bargain. He had had a severe attack of thrombosis two months ago which had left him partially paralysed and therefore unable to walk. But he was capable of riding in the back of a car, and that was why he had had this luxurious limousine made available to him at London Airport. Tomorrow they would make the return journey to London, board the plane for Lisbon, and be in Mendao by late afternoon. It was as simple as that. He did not want to stay longer. He had his own reasons for wishing to return to his estate as soon as possible. And once at the Quinta Martinez, Malcolm Trevellyan would want for nothing—his mother would see to that.

A signpost loomed out of the mist and the word Mawvry could clearly be seen. He sighed with relief. He was here at last. Now all he had to do was find the house of Malcolm Trevellyan.

The village was small, and when he parked the car in the square and slid stiffly from behind the driving wheel, the tang of salt filled his nostrils. Obviously he must be very near the sea, but at the moment the mist shrouded everything but his immediate surroundings.

Across the square a swinging sign indicated a tavern which appeared to be doing good business judging from the noise from within, and deciding it would be simpler to enquire the whereabouts of Malcolm Trevellyan’s house rather than attempting to find it he pulled a fur-lined jacket from the back of his car. Sliding his arms into the sleeves, he crossed the square, his collar turned up against the weather. He shivered. Even in the coldest months Mendao was not like this, and he thought with longing of the baroque beauty of the quinta, the lush valley in which it was situated, and the vivid blueness of the ocean that lapped not too many miles away. It would have been so much easier, he thought, not to have come himself; to have sent Alonzo Diaz or Juan d’Almera. But his mother had been curiously determined that he should be the one, and he imagined she wanted Malcolm Trevellyan to know that her invitation was a personal one.

The noise in the thick, smoky atmosphere of the bar decreased almost immediately when he pushed open the door. He felt the wave of curiosity that swept over the room, a sense of almost alien hostility.

He made his way to the bar and stood there, tall and dark, taller and darker than most of these dark Cornishmen. Speaking in slightly accented English, he said: ‘Pardon me, but could you direct me to the house of a Senhor Malcolm Trevellyan?’

The bartender stopped polishing the glass in his hand and he could have sworn the hostility around him strengthened.

‘And who might be asking?’ queried the bartender.

He sighed. ‘My name is unimportant. It would mean nothing to you. But I do wish to see Senhor Trevellyan, and as it is such an unpleasant evening, I thought perhaps——’

‘Folks round here don’t care to pass information to—foreigners,’ remarked a leathery-faced man on his right.

He controlled his annoyance with difficulty. ‘I assure you, my business with Senhor Trevellyan is perfectly respectable. He is expecting me. But the mist obliterates almost everything——’

The bartender glanced round at the avid faces about them and seemed to come to a decision. ‘You come in on the Penzance road?’

‘I suppose I did.’

‘Then you passed the Trevellyan place. ’Bout a mile back. Set off the road, it is, overlooking the sea.’

‘I’m very grateful. Thank you.’

He bowed his head politely and turned to go, but his way was barred by a husky young fisherman.

‘What business you got with old Trevellyan?’ he demanded belligerently. ‘Are you sure it’s not Rachel you come to see?’

‘Rachel?’ He frowned. ‘I’m afraid I know no one of that name.’

‘And you say you know Malcolm Trevellyan?’ The young man’s lip curled. ‘How can you know him and not Rachel?’

He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. ‘Who is Rachel, might I ask?’ He felt a stirring of unease.

The young man glanced round at his comrades. ‘Shall I tell him?’

An older man tugged at his sleeve. ‘Let him go, Bart. Maybe this is some business deal. Maybe he doesn’t know Rachel.’

His jaw felt taut. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Enlighten me. Who is Rachel?’

‘Rachel’s his wife, of course,’ snapped the young fisherman grimly. ‘Didn’t you know?’

‘I’m afraid I did not.’

‘Bart!’ The older man dragged the younger one aside. ‘Leave it, boy. It’s no business of ours.’

‘Isn’t it? Isn’t it? Don’t you care what happens to Rachel?’

‘Of course I care——’ The older man was answering, but he waited to hear no more. Pressing his way through the throng of hostile faces, he reached the door and thrusting it open stepped out into the freezing air. In this instance the cold was a relief, infinitely preferable to the heat of the bar.

But as he walked back to the car his brain buzzed with the information he had just been presented. Malcolm Trevellyan was married! He had never mentioned it. In all Trevellyan’s correspondence with his mother, there had been no reference made to a wife. On the contrary, he recalled his mother’s comments that Malcolm had become a confirmed bachelor, and certainly four years ago when she and his father had visited England he had had no wife then.

The sense of unease increased. What did it mean? Had Trevellyan married some widow for companionship in his latter years? And if so, why hadn’t he told them? Or did he expect they knew? Did he presume the invitation he had received included his wife, too?

He shook his head and opening the car door slid back behind the wheel. How would his mother react if that were so? Would she want another woman at the quinta? The invitation extended to Trevellyan had been an open one, but if he had a wife ...

And what was the young fisherman’s interest in all this? Why were they so hostile to the name Trevellyan? Was it possible that the man Bart might be this unknown Rachel’s son?

He felt angry suddenly. He was cold and tired, a stranger in a strange country, and right now he wished he had booked in at a hotel in Penzance and left the return journey until two days hence.

Leaving the village square, he turned back on to the Penzance road. The mist had cleared slightly and he drove slowly, looking for the signs of a gatepost, some indication that a house lay back from the road.

He found it almost easily. There were no other houses in the area, and he turned between stone gateposts and ran up a narrow drive to where lights glinted from behind curtained windows. He stopped the car and slid out, looking up at the stone façade of the building. It was not a large house, but in the gloom there was something faintly menacing about it. Shrugging off such fanciful feelings, he walked up the steps to the door and knocked.

There was silence for so long that he knocked again, but then there was the sound of bolts being drawn and he waited irritably for the door to be opened. Deus, he thought with impatience. Surely he had been expected even at this hour? In his mother’s letter she had clearly stated the date and expected time of his arrival. Just because he was a little later than expected it should not mean that they had given him up, that they had bolted the door against him. They?

The door swung inward suddenly and in the light that was shed from the hall behind her he saw a girl. His first impression was of a glory of red-gold hair that tumbled in abundant confusion about an oval face. She was of medium height, but very slender which made her seem smaller. She was dressed in an old pair of denim trousers that clung to her like a second skin, and which, needless to say, would have horrified his mother and her friends, while the paint-daubed smock she wore with them revealed the slight swell of her breasts and the thinness of her arms. Who was this? He thought she looked about eighteen, but he could not be absolutely certain in this light. Long silky lashes brushed her cheeks and swept upward in surprise when she encountered his dark gaze. Had Malcolm Trevellyan a daughter as well as a wife?

‘Yes?’ She was abrupt.

He gave a slight bow and then wished he had not. But the Portuguese blood in his veins ran so much stronger than his English ancestry, and it was second nature to him to behave courteously.

‘I wish to see Senhor Malcolm Trevellyan, senhorita,’ he stated politely. ‘I am Luis Martinez, Marquês de Mendao!’

The girl stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment. It was obvious she hadn’t the faintest idea who he was or that he was expected, and he felt reassured. Clearly she could not be a member of this household or she would have known. He had been beginning to think that Malcolm Trevellyan had concealed a great deal from his mother.

‘Won’t you come in?’

The girl stood aside with obvious reluctance and Luis entered the narrow hall. There was a carpet on the floor, but it was threadbare in places, and while everything was clean there was little in the way of comfort. Certainly Malcolm Trevellyan deserved more salubrious surroundings than these to recuperate in.

The door was closed behind them and the girl indicated that he should enter a room on his right.

‘If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll tell Malcolm you’re here,’ she said, rather stiffly.

Luis inclined his head. ‘Thank you.’ He allowed himself to be shown into a room which appeared to be a parlour. The door closed behind him and he looked about with interest.

In the poor light shed from a standard lamp which the girl had switched on at his entrance he saw that this room was rarely used. It had an unlived-in air, a mustiness about it, and the stiff-backed chairs and horsehair sofa were reminiscent of the kind of places described in English literature of the nineteenth century. He had read a great deal of English literature when he was at the university.

Bric-à-brac lined the mantelshelf, and as a collector of antiques he ran a practised eye over them. But there was nothing there to interest the expert and he folded his hands behind his back and paced rather restlessly about the room.

A clock chimed somewhere in the house and he glanced again at his watch. It was half past nine. He had been travelling since very early that morning. No wonder he was beginning to feel weary and lacking in patience.

The door behind him opened suddenly and he swung round to confront the girl who stood in the aperture. There was a certain wary speculation in her eyes now and he wondered why. He wondered, too, what she was doing here at this time of night, and recalled belatedly that the doors had been bolted on his arrival. Why should she be staying here when she apparently knew so little of her host’s affairs?

Seen in this light she was perhaps a little older than he had at first imagined. Twenty-one, maybe, or twenty-two; surely no more. In her casual clothes she was, he thought, a typical example of emancipated youth, and he pondered what his mother’s reactions to her might be. Portuguese girls were not allowed to wear such attire; they were not allowed such freedom. They dressed conservatively. They retained, or so Luis had been brought up to believe, a certain detachment, an aura of mystery, that was only lifted to admit their betrothed, their chosen husband. He supposed there was a kind of Moorish influence still evident in his country that favoured the customs of the seraglio, the segregation of women both before and after marriage.

‘If you’ll come this way,’ the girl said now, and Luis unbuttoned his overcoat and nodded.

The girl led the way along the hall to a room at the back of the house which Luis suspected in daylight probably gave a view of the coastline. But tonight the curtains were drawn across the windows and the only light came from a lamp beside the huge double bed which dominated the room. There was an enormous fire burning in the wide grate which gave out an uncomfortable amount of heat, and propped on pillows in the middle of the tumbled bed was a figure in thick pyjamas who stared at him with piercing blue eyes.

Malcolm Trevellyan must have been about fifty, but he looked older. Thinning hair topped a face that was prematurely lined, and although he must once have been quite a big man now the fleshless skin hung on him.

Luis glanced round at the girl, who had remained by the door when he entered the room, and seeing that she was making no move to leave, he said: ‘How do you do, Senhor Trevellyan. I am Luis Martinez, at your service. You were expecting me?’

‘Of course. Of course. Come in.’ Malcolm Trevellyan spoke welcomingly, his voice strong and imperative. ‘Have you had a good journey? You’re later than I expected, but I suppose the weather hasn’t helped. Cold, isn’t it? Not what you’re used to, I suppose.’

‘No.’ Luis managed a faint smile. ‘How are you, senhor?’

‘Oh, I’ll be all right. Got to take it easy, that’s all.’ He indicated his legs outlined beneath the bedcovers. ‘Can’t do much else at the moment.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Luis glanced back at the girl again. ‘However, I am sure you will find Mendao a much less demanding climate.’

He heard the girl behind him catch her breath on a gasp, and suddenly the man seemed to remember she was there. Waving his arms about with obvious annoyance, he snapped: ‘Don’t just stand there, Rachel! Go and make our guest some tea and sandwiches. I’m sure he could do with something after his journey!’

Luis felt a creeping sense of disbelief invading his senses. Trevellyan had called the girl Rachel. Rachel! And down at the tavern in the village, the young fisherman had angrily thrown the name of Trevellyan’s wife at him and that had been Rachel, too. Deus, this girl could not be Trevellyan’s wife, could she? He felt almost sickened at the thought.

He looked round, but she had gone, and suddenly he wished he had let Juan or Alonzo come here in his place. He wanted no part of this.

But he was here, he was committed, and he had to ask the inevitable question:

‘That young woman, senhor? She is some relation of yours?’

Malcolm Trevellyan sniffed and gathered the rugs closer about him. ‘I suppose you would say that. I have to talk to you about her, senhor.’

Luis folded his hands behind his back again. It was a favourite position of his and right now he had no desire to sit in this man’s presence.

Malcolm Trevellyan seemed to realise that Luis was waiting for an explanation, and with a sigh, he began: ‘Rachel is my wife, senhor.’

Luis felt the muscles of his face hardening. ‘Indeed?’

‘Yes, but please, let me explain.’

‘You did not explain the situation to my mother, senhor.’

‘I know, I know. And I’m sorry. But there was no way I could, you see. It’s something I needed to talk to you about, to discuss with you, to explain the circumstances——’

‘What circumstances, senhor?’

Trevellyan tugged at the lobe of his ear. ‘Rachel and I have been married three years, senhor. She was only eighteen at that time, and her father had just died.’ He shook his head. ‘I am not one to judge people, but Rachel was a trial to her father. Poor man, he did not know how to deal with her. She’s an artist, senhor, and perhaps even in your country you know what artists are. They like to call themselves free-living individuals. For free-living, substitute free-loving, and there you have their way of life in a nutshell.’

Luis’s ring with its large inset emerald dug into his fingers. ‘What are you trying to say, senhor?’

Trevellyan sighed. ‘It’s not easy, senhor. Rachel is my wife, and I love her. But I don’t always understand her.’

‘Go on!’ Luis was impatient.

‘Very well. At the time her father died, Rachel was pregnant. The man, whoever he was, had deserted her, and she was alone. Her father and I had always been friends and I couldn’t see her destitute. I offered marriage on the understanding that she could continue with her painting, and she accepted. Unfortunately she miscarried, and the child was never born.’

‘I see.’ Luis felt a sense of distaste. ‘And you could not tell my mother of this?’

‘How could I? Is it something you could baldly write in a letter?’

‘Perhaps not.’ Luis shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘So what do you expect her to do now?’

Trevellyan lay back weakly on his pillows. ‘Rachel knows me, senhor. She knows my likes and dislikes, and she has cared for me, after her fashion. I wouldn’t like to leave her here alone, at the mercy of her own weaknesses.’

‘You are suggesting that—that your wife accompanies us to Mendao?’

The other man’s eyes sought his appealingly. ‘Would it be such a trial to you—to your mother? I promise you, she would cause no trouble.’

Luis could have almost laughed at the farcical aspects of this situation had it not been so serious. How could Trevellyan expect to control his wife from his bed—or even a wheelchair for that matter? Unless years of marriage with him had tempered her rebellious nature, destroyed the streak of wildness which had previously caused such unhappiness. He took a deep breath. Even after everything he had heard, the idea of that girl being married to Malcolm Trevellyan could make him feel physically sick. And he couldn’t imagine why. It was nothing to do with him.

Now Luis ran a hand round the back of his neck, over the smooth black hair that brushed his collar. ‘But it seemed obvious when I arrived that—that Senhora Trevellyan knew nothing of my reasons for being here.’

Trevellyan plucked at the bedcovers. ‘I know, I know. I haven’t mentioned my plans to her yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘How could I? I didn’t even know whether you—or your mother—would permit her to accompany me.’

‘I see.’ Luis’s hand fell to his side.

There were footsteps outside in the hall and presently the girl entered the room again carrying a tray. Luis’s immediate instinct was to take the tray from her, but then he stood politely aside and allowed her to place it on the table beside the bed.

Malcolm Trevellyan seemed to come to a decision. ‘Allow me to introduce you, senhor,’ he said. ‘This is my wife Rachel. Rachel, this is the son of a good friend of mine, Senhor Martinez.’

Rachel looked up at the tall dark Portuguese. ‘Senhor Martinez introduced himself at the door,’ she said, without expression in her voice.

Her husband sniffed. ‘Is that all you have to say?’ he demanded in a low tone, and Luis intercepted the look that passed between them and there was no friendliness in it. He felt repulsed. Repulsed by them, by this whole situation.

However, the girl seemed stung by her husband’s contemptuous tone. Her voice when she spoke was low and attractive with little of the Cornish drawl evident in that of Malcolm Trevellyan. ‘Why is he here, Malcolm?’ she asked, rather heatedly. ‘What did he mean earlier about you finding some foreign place less demanding than here? What’s going on?’

Trevellyan looked to Luis for guidance and with a sigh Luis said: ‘You may or may not be aware, senhora, that your husband’s family cared for my mother many years ago when she was orphaned. Afterwards, she married a Portuguese, my father, but she and Senhor Trevellyan’s family maintained a correspondence and in latter years she visited England with my father and met your husband again.’

The girl looked puzzled. ‘I didn’t know that, but what of it?’

Luis’s lips thinned. He was not accustomed to being spoken to in that cursory manner, particularly not by such a slip of a girl.

‘Naturally when—when your husband became ill, my mother was concerned about him. I must confess she did not know he had taken a wife, but nevertheless she suggested to Senhor Trevellyan that he might come to Portugal, to our estates at Mendao, to recuperate for a few weeks.’

‘I see.’ The girl’s eyes were wide as she turned back to the man in the bed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

Malcolm Trevellyan sniffed. ‘I wasn’t sure about the arrangements. I didn’t want to—raise your hopes unnecessarily.’

‘Raise my hopes?’ She stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘You mean I can stay here?’

‘No, that’s not what I mean!’ Trevellyan looked momentarily incensed. Then he calmed himself. ‘I simply meant that I didn’t want to raise your hopes about this holiday in Portugal until I was sure you would be welcome there.’

‘A holiday in Portugal!’ echoed the girl. ‘I—I don’t want to go to Portugal.’

Luis clenched his fists. ‘Surely you would not allow your husband, a sick man, to travel there without your ministrations, senhora?’

The girl Rachel turned stormy green eyes in his direction. ‘I’m sorry, senhor, if I sound ungrateful. But I can assure you my husband doesn’t require my ministrations.’

‘Rachel!’ Trevellyan’s face was grim. ‘Stop this at once! If Senhor Martinez will overlook this unpleasantness, naturally you will accompany me to Portugal.’

Rachel Trevellyan’s breast rose and fell with the tumult of her emotions. Animated like this, she was quite startlingly attractive and unwillingly Luis felt a sense of compassion for her. Whatever she had done in the past she had forfeited a great deal in becoming the wife of a man as old as Malcolm Trevellyan.

Then he inwardly chided himself. She had not been forced to marry him. A girl with more strength of mind, with more courage in her convictions, would have managed somehow, would have found a way to support herself and the unborn child. No, Rachel Trevellyan had taken the easy way out of a difficult situation and now resented the very person who had helped her most. Luis allowed contempt to replace his earlier compassion. Rachel Trevellyan deserved nothing else.

Malcolm Trevellyan shuffled across the bed. ‘Come along, Rachel,’ he said. ‘Pour Senhor Martinez some tea, and stop behaving like a spoilt child.’

For a moment Luis thought she was about to refuse, but then, obediently it seemed, she lifted the teapot and poured the hot liquid into two cups. Turning to him, she said: ‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Thank you, sugar only,’ he replied quietly, and she added two lumps before passing the cup to him.

‘Do sit down, senhor.’ Malcolm Trevellyan indicated a chair now, and although it was not his nature to sit in the presence of an adult female who happened to be standing Luis subsided into the cane chair by the bed.

Rachel poured her husband’s tea, added milk and sugar, stirred it and then handed it to him. There were sandwiches on the tray too, and she proffered these, but Luis declined. He had had a late lunch on the way down, and although in his own country he could have enjoyed a late dinner, the idea of sandwiches did not appeal to him. In truth he wished he had made some arrangements to stay at a hotel, even though in the correspondence Malcolm Trevellyan had had with his mother he had suggested that Luis might stay here overnight; and now, late as it was with the mist outside and the evident lack of accommodation facilities nearby, he had no choice.

Rachel seemed to be on the point of leaving them, when her husband said: ‘Well, senhor? What arrangements have you made? And what conclusion have you reached regarding—Rachel?’

That was difficult. What conclusion had he reached? Luis replaced his half empty cup on the tray. It was a decision he had never expected to have to make and he realised that had either Juan or Alonzo come here in his place they would have had to have deferred a decision until either his mother or himself had been informed.

As he was here things were different. If he were to contact his mother and discuss it with her, it would only worry her unnecessarily. After all, she could hardly withdraw her invitation at this late date, even taking the changed circumstances into account, and although he was well aware what her reactions to a young woman like Rachel Trevellyan would be, there was little he could do without disappointing Malcolm Trevellyan.

And there was not just his mother to consider at Mendao ...

Rachel Trevellyan stood by the door. ‘It’s obvious that Senhor Martinez does not wish me to accompany you to Portugal, Malcolm, whatever he says,’ she declared. ‘Why can’t I stay here? What harm would it do?’

Luis rose to his feet. Her attitude of dissension was reacting on him as an eagerness to accompany them would never have done. In his country women did not argue with their menfolk. They were mild and agreeable, totally feminine in every way. Rachel Trevellyan spoke without respect, assumed a responsibility for her own affairs which was not seemly in a young woman, let alone a wife.

‘I have thought the matter over, senhor,’ he said, addressing himself to Malcolm Trevellyan, ‘and naturally my mother would wish me to extend our invitation to include your wife.’

There was a gulp from Rachel Trevellyan at this point, but Luis ignored her, keeping his eyes on the man in the bed. A look of gratification was spreading over Malcolm Trevellyan’s features and he nodded in a satisfied way.

‘Thank you, senhor, that’s very civil of you. Very civil indeed. And when Rachel gets used to the idea, she’ll thank you, too, won’t you, Rachel?’

Again a strange look passed between them, and Luis saw the girl visibly shrink. ‘When do you expect me to be ready to leave?’ she exclaimed helplessly. ‘I’ve made no arrangements. What about a passport?’

Trevellyan fixed her with a stare. ‘You forget, Rachel. You went abroad with your father only a year before he died. I happen to know your passport is still valid.’

‘But—but I need time——’

‘Why?’

‘There are arrangements to be made——’

‘What arrangements?’

She shook her head. ‘Lots of things.’

‘Rachel, all you need to do is pack a suitcase. We leave in the morning.’

‘No!’

‘Yes. Naturally, Senhor Martinez will stay here tonight——’

Now Luis felt uncomfortable. ‘That’s quite unnecessary,’ he began automatically. ‘I can stay at a hotel.’

‘Nonsense,’ exclaimed Trevellyan. ‘Of course you’ll stay here. It’s the least we can do, isn’t it, Rachel?’

‘If you say so.’ There was a lacklustre quality about her now.

Luis controlled a sigh. He wished it were morning already. He had no desire to spend a night here, conscious as he was of Rachel Trevellyan’s resentment. But he could hardly refuse without throwing Malcolm Trevellyan’s hospitality back in his face.

‘I’ll go and see about making up a bed,’ said Rachel now, and her husband nodded.

‘That’s right. You can let us know when it’s ready. I’m sure Senhor Martinez is tired after his journey.’

While Rachel was away, Malcolm asked about Luis’s mother, the Marquesa de Mendao. For a few moments at least, Luis relaxed. It was reassuring to speak about his mother. At least there were no undercurrents there. He removed his overcoat and sat comfortably in his chair, lighting a cheroot which he favoured when Malcolm produced cigarettes.

By the time Rachel returned Luis was feeling infinitely less tense, although the atmosphere changed again as soon as she entered the room.

‘The room’s ready,’ she announced, and Luis stood up.

‘I’ll bid you goodnight, then,’ said Malcolm, apparently indifferent to his wife’s attitude. ‘What time do you want us to leave in the morning?’

‘I suggest we say as early as possible and leave it at that,’ remarked Luis. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’ Malcolm smiled, rather smugly, Luis thought, but then he accompanied Rachel from the room without another word.

They went upstairs and into a room at the front of the house. The rest of the building struck chill after the unpleasant heat of Malcolm Trevellyan’s bedroom, but Luis saw that Rachel had turned on an electric fire in the room he was to occupy.

It was a large bedroom, sparsely furnished, with only a bed, a wardrobe, and a kind of washstand. The only floor covering was a rag rug beside the bed, but as with the rest of the house everything was spotlessly clean.

‘I’ve put a hot water bottle in the bed,’ said Rachel, remaining by the door when he advanced into the room. ‘Is there anything else you need?’

Luis thought of his suitcase locked in the boot of his car, but shook his head. His eyes encountered hers. He had never seen such green eyes before and fringed as they were by long black lashes they seemed to overshadow her other features. The feeling of unease he had felt earlier stirred again and he didn’t know why. Something told him he ought to call this off here and now and refuse to take either Malcolm Trevellyan or his wife back to his home in Mendao. But that was ridiculous, he told himself angrily. He was allowing weariness to make him fanciful. What possible harm could come from offering the Trevellyans their hospitality for a couple of weeks? His mother might not welcome Rachel’s presence, she might take exception to her mode of dress, but surely that could be modified. For all her English upbringing, his mother’s forty years in Portugal had made her typically Portuguese in outlook.

And if Amalia considered it unseemly to have a young woman, albeit a married one, staying in his house in these weeks before their wedding, then perhaps some other arrangements could be made within the confines of the estate.

He realised suddenly that he had been staring at Rachel for an unconscionably long period and that her cheeks had suffused with colour under his gaze.

Forcing his attention to other things, he said: ‘Thank you, senhora. I have everything I need. I’m sure I shall be very comfortable.’

His voice was cool, but he couldn’t help it. There was something about this girl that disturbed him, and it was a new experience for him. Normally he was in complete control of his reactions.

‘Very well.’ She made to close the door. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, senhora.’

He gave a stiff little movement of his head and the door closed. But after she had gone, he was conscious that he would be unable to banish her so easily from his mind as from his sight.

CHAPTER TWO

SINCE leaving the coast, the road had wound through a series of lushly cultivated valleys, bright with blossoming trees and shrubs, scented with pine and citrus. Rachel saw vine-clad terraces, orchards of fig and almond trees, pergolas draped with the lemon-vine while the varied colours of bougainvillea rioted in every available space. She had never seen jacarandas growing wild before, or longed to touch the satin-soft petals of the oleander. It was all new and stimulating, and she could not entirely deny the rising sense of excitement that was stirring inside her. Her fingers itched to take her paintbrush and try, probably without success, she thought, to transfer some of this beauty and colour on to canvas. This was Portugal, the country of the lean, dark man seated beside her at the wheel of his luxurious silver limousine, the natural background of this aristocratic nobleman, this unexpected friend of Malcolm’s, who regarded her with obvious contempt.

Her lips twisted and she shivered in spite of the heat of the day which had already forced her to shed the jacket of the slim-fitting cream slack suit she had worn to travel in. Her husband, overcome by the temperature, was asleep in the back of the limousine, but Luis Martinez, Marquês de Mendao, seemed totally unaffected by the climate.

She glanced surreptitiously towards him. His concentration was all on the road ahead and for a moment she was able to look at him unobserved. Who would have thought that in less than twenty-four hours her life could change so completely? Yesterday afternoon she had spent at her easel, trying to finish the portrait of one of the village children while Malcolm slept, aware of a certain excitement about him which she had not been able to explain. That the explanation had come in such a startling way was scarcely believable. And yet, last night, when she had opened the door and found the tall dark alien on the step, she had known that he was in some way responsible for that latent excitement. But even then she 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 you are regarded with—a certain deference. Surely you’re not saying that you compare yourself with these peasants!’

The hands on the wheel tightened perceptibly. ‘In my country, respect is given to the man, not to the property he calls himself master of.’

Rachel raised her eyebrows. ‘Surely that’s rather a radical viewpoint for someone with such conservative ideas.’

He frowned. ‘We are talking at cross purposes, senhora. You think because my ideas of correctness and dignity seem old-fashioned to you that I must be backward-looking.’ He shook his head. ‘I assure you I am not. The system we have here will bear comparison with any system anywhere in the world and my people are given every opportunity to succeed.’

Rachel was looking at the village. It was quaint and somewhat unworldly to her eyes, but charming nonetheless. As well as a small store and a café, there was a school and a church, and the narrow footbridges over the river which divided the two halves of the village were arched and attractive. The road ran along beside the river for some way, shadowed by evergreen oaks and more of the spreading elm trees.

Beyond the village they branched on to a narrower track and presently came to a gate across the road with the word ‘Privado’ printed upon it. Rachel cast a questioning glance in Luis’s direction, but for the moment he ignored it, sliding out of the car to open the gate before getting in again and driving through. When the gate was closed behind them, he said:

‘I know what you are thinking, but that notice is not for the people who live here. They know they will never be turned away from the quinta. But we have turistas who can be quite a nuisance.’

Rachel had to smile at this. ‘Am I so transparent?’ she murmured lightly, and he looked at her.

‘To me—in this instance, yes,’ he said, and then as though realising the sudden intimacy between them he pressed hard on the accelerator and sent the sleek limousine cruising swiftly up the curving sweep of the drive.

Rachel’s first glimpse of the Quinta Martinez was through a belt of trees. Thickly foliaged trees and bushes encroached on the drive from both sides, successfully providing a natural screen between the quinta and the rest of the valley. It reminded Rachel of the thorn hedge which had grown up around the castle of the Sleeping Beauty in legend, and in fact, the Quinta Martinez did resemble a small castle at that first appraisal.

Nestling among trees, with dozens of small turrets outlined against a backcloth of deep green, it had an unreal quality, a fairy-tale appearance. Mellow stone was warmed by the rays of the sinking sun which winked on the small Gothic windows and gilded the sculptured façade.

Rachel leant forward in her seat, totally absorbed, for the moment oblivious of her surroundings, of her reasons for being there.

Then Luis said: ‘You like my home, senhora?’ and reality asserted itself.

She sank back in her seat. ‘Oh, yes, yes. It’s—unbelievably beautiful!’

‘My father’s family have lived here for many generations,’ he said. ‘Naturally in recent years the quinta has been extensively modernised inside, but not sufficiently to dispel its character, I feel.’

The car emerged from the trees and circled a central courtyard to come to rest at the foot of stone steps leading up to the arched entrance to the building. The steps were shallow, leading into the shade of a terrace which seemed to circle the quinta. There was a fountain in the courtyard which gave the sound of constant running water and this was the first thing Rachel noticed as she stepped unaided out of the car.

Luis had walked round to assist her with his innate sense of politeness and she looked up at him helplessly as she scrambled out. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m not used to anyone opening doors for me—senhor!’

Luis’s lips tightened and then he looked up expectantly as an elderly man appeared at the head of the flight of steps.

‘Senhor Marquês!’ the old man exclaimed warmly. ‘Estimo muito ve-lo de novo.’

‘Boa tarde, Mario.’ Luis smiled, and Rachel looked away from the warmth of that greeting and leant into the car to say:

‘Malcolm! Malcolm, we’re here. At the quinta.’

Her husband opened his eyes reluctantly. ‘What’s that? What did you say?’

‘We’ve arrived, Malcolm. In Mendao. How do you feel?’

‘If you will permit me ...’

Luis was behind her with the folding wheelchair which he had taken from the boot of the car. Rachel drew back abruptly, almost cracking her head on the roof of the car as she did so. She was hot and nervous now that they were actually here, and the idea of meeting the old Marquesa was an intimidating one after what Luis Martinez had said.

She contemplated asking whether she might bathe and change before meeting anyone and thoughtfully went over the few clothes she had brought with her in an effort to think of something suitable to wear. But then she gave herself a mental shake. What was she thinking of allowing these people to influence her to such an extent that she was actually considering dressing to suit them? Good lord, she was not an impressionable schoolgirl, was she? She was twenty-two, and a married woman, completely indifferent to any reaction she might have on Luis Martinez’s mother.

At Luis’s instigation, the man Mario had drawn the wheelchair up the shallow steps and now Luis was lifting Malcolm out of the back of the silver limousine and carrying him up the steps to install him in the canvas seat of the chair. For the journey Malcolm had worn a dark blue tweed suit, and Rachel thought he must be feeling the heat as she was. Draping the jacket of her slack suit over one shoulder and the strap of her suede bag over the other, she mounted the steps after them, trying not to feel like the intruder she was sure she was.

Mario took charge of the wheelchair. Rachel sensed that Malcolm would have preferred her to guide him, but there was little he could say in front of Luis Martinez which would not sound ungrateful and he said nothing as Luis urged them across the terrace and into the coolness of the mosaic-tiled hall.

Rachel looked about her with sharpened interest. Every artistic nerve within her was throbbing with awareness of the magnificence of her surroundings. Carved pillars, a sweeping baroque staircase, a shadowed gallery above. There were long silk curtains at the windows the colour of wild roses, while on a marble plinth an enormous bowl of those delicately perfumed flowers provided a splash of scarlet. There were small statuettes of saints in the window recesses, reminding one if any reminder was necessary that this was a truly Catholic household, while to the right and left archways gave glimpses of other exquisitely furnished apartments.

If Rachel had imagined that the Marquesa de Mendao would meet them in the hall she was mistaken. On the contrary, at this late hour of the afternoon when the shadows were deepening and a certain coolness was entering the air the quinta was as silent as a cloister and only a small dark woman appeared with long black skirts and a white apron who was obviously another of the servants.

She greeted Luis warmly and then looked enquiringly at Rachel and Malcolm. Clearly she had not been expecting two visitors, but her expression was not reproving, merely expectant.

Luis spoke swiftly in his own language, apparently explaining that Senhor Trevellyan had brought his wife with him. Rachel recognised such words as espôsa and marido, but most of what he said was incomprehensible to her.

The woman, whose name was Luisa, eventually nodded and said something in reply which seemed to please her employer, for he nodded, too, and speaking in English, he turned to Rachel and her husband:

‘Luisa tells me that she has had a suite prepared for you on the ground floor, senhor. In the circumstances we thought it best that you did not have stairs to contend with. It will be a simple matter to prepare one of the adjoining rooms for your wife.’

Malcolm’s hands gripped the arms of the wheelchair tightly, revealing his tension, although his expression was complacent as he said: ‘I’m sure there’s no need to prepare a special room for Rachel. Naturally she will share mine.’

Rachel saw a spasm of something like distaste flicker across Luis’s face, and her own cheeks burned suddenly. It was as though Malcolm was speaking deliberately, as if he wanted to shock the other man, but why? What possible reason could he have? Back in England he had been only too eager to agree with everything Luis had said. She could only assume that since arriving in Portugal her husband had known himself home and dry and therefore he had no further need to behave subserviently. This was much more the man she was accustomed to.

‘Nevertheless, senhor, another room will be prepared,’ stated Luis quietly. ‘It is possible that your wife might prefer somewhere that she can undeniably call her own as well as sharing your rooms.’

Malcolm made an indifferent gesture. ‘Very well.’ He looked round. ‘Where’s Joanna?’

Luis stiffened at the familiarity. ‘My mother is no doubt resting, senhor. I suggest you allow Luisa to show you to your suite. We can all meet later in the library before dinner.’

‘All right.’ Malcolm inclined his head and looked round straight into Rachel’s face. ‘You wheel my chair, Rachel. I prefer you to do so.’

Rachel moved to do as he asked and Luis was forced to stand stiffly aside. But she sensed his silent impatience, his annoyance that in his house a woman should be made to do a man’s work when there was a man there capable of doing it. But he made no comment and with a brief bow left them, striding across the hall to take the stairs two at a time.

Luisa led the way down a hall to their left while Mario disappeared outside again to collect their cases. The hall was panelled, inset with narrow windows which overlooked the front courtyard where the fountain played. There were portraits on the opposite wall, grim-looking images of past members of the Martinez family, and Rachel thought how much more attractive the present Marquês was than his predecessors.

Presently Luisa halted before double white doors and throwing them open with a flourish, announced; ‘A sala, senhor, senhora. Is satisfactory?’

Rachel propelled Malcolm’s chair into the room looking about her with enjoyment. It was a large drawing room that they had entered, the polished floor strewn with skin rugs, the furniture all pale hide and coolly comfortable. Crossing the room she was able to see an inner courtyard which could be reached by opening long french doors, and she stared with wonder at the tiled patio outside, with its hanging baskets of hydrangeas and geraniums, and attractive striped garden furniture.

Malcolm had said nothing, looking about him without interest, but Rachel could not contain her enthusiasm.

‘It’s very satisfactory, thank you, Luisa,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m sure we shall be very comfortable here.’

Luisa smiled, her teeth very white against the darkness of her skin. ‘Is good. See!’ She opened another door. ‘The bedroom!’

Rachel looked into the next room and saw it was almost as large as the sala. A soft cream carpet covered the floor, there were lilac hangings at the windows, while the bedspread was of shades of African violet. Adjoining the bedroom was a bathroom also decorated in lilac and pink. Rachel was quite intoxicated by the beauty of it all.

Malcolm was waiting impatiently in his wheelchair, his fingers drumming on the wooden arms. Mario had arrived with their suitcases, but when Luisa offered to unpack for them, Malcolm was rude.

‘There’s no need for that,’ he snapped ungraciously. ‘My wife’s quite capable. Besides, I don’t want anyone poking around in my things. You can go.’

He dismissed them without a word of thanks and Rachel felt terribly embarrassed. She supposed she ought to be used to her husband’s attitude by now, but she was not, and here she had thought he would behave if only to present a façade of geniality.

Luisa and Mario closed the doors behind them and then Malcolm turned on Rachel. ‘What the hell do you mean by making eyes at that Portuguese all the way from the airport?’ he demanded.

Rachel’s lips parted in dismay. ‘What?’ she murmured faintly.

‘Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. Did you honestly imagine I slept all the way here?’

‘I—I—naturally I assumed you were tired.’ Rachel was too shocked to be retaliatory.

‘Well, I wasn’t. Not that tired, anyway.’

Rachel tried desperately to remember what she and Luis Martinez had spoken about on the journey. Her clothes, of course, but mostly they had argued. There had been no occasion when Malcolm could have imagined that the Marquês de Mendao was aware of her in any other way than that of the wife of a friend of his mother’s. Except for that moment at the foot of the drive ...

‘I think you’re the one who’s imagining things, Malcolm,’ she said carefully, dropping her shoulder bag on to a damask-covered ottoman. ‘Senhor Martinez and I spoke very little on the journey from the airport, and as you’ve seen to it that he regards me with scarcely veiled contempt, I fail to see how you can accuse me of making eyes at him!’

Malcolm stared at her for a long moment. ‘But you are attracted to him, aren’t you?’

Rachel gasped. ‘Of course not.’ Her expression hardened. ‘I’m not attracted by any man!’

Malcolm’s face grew ugly. ‘Well, see it stays that way. Or by God, I’ll find some way to make you pay——’

‘Please, Malcolm!’ Rachel pressed her arms about her thin body. ‘I’ve told you, you have no need to concern yourself about me.’

A little of the tension left him. ‘No. No, I suppose you’re right. In any case, a man like Martinez wouldn’t look at somebody like you, even without——’

He broke off abruptly and Rachel’s eyes narrowed. ‘Even without what, Malcolm? Exactly what have you been telling him?’

Malcolm shrugged. ‘This and that.’

‘How did you explain—our marriage? Surely being married to someone so much younger than yourself hardly enhances your image.

Malcolm’s thin lips quirked. ‘There are ways of making the most of every situation,’ he replied.

Rachel sighed. It Was obvious he had no intention of telling her anything. And in any case, did she want to know? Wasn’t it better to remain in ignorance than to hear something which might make her feel even more embarrassed in Luis Martinez’s presence?

‘Now, get me out of these clothes,’ commanded Malcolm, unfastening his tie and the top two buttons of his collar. ‘I’m almost roasting alive.’

‘What are you going to wear this evening for dinner?’ Rachel asked, as she went forward to help him slide his arms out of his jacket.

Malcolm tugged his braces off his shoulders and made an indifferent movement of his head. ‘I don’t know. I may not join them for dinner. I can always feign tiredness after the journey.’

Rachel took charge of the chair to wheel it into the bedroom. ‘You surely don’t expect me to join them alone,’ she exclaimed.

‘No!’ He was adamant on that score. ‘No, indeed. You’ll stay here with me like the dutiful wife you are. I didn’t bring you here to Mendao for your amusement, Rachel.’

Rachel stopped the chair beside the bed and came round to face him. ‘Exactly why did you bring me, Malcolm?’

Her husband began levering himself forward in the chair and she helped him on to the bed. ‘You’re my wife, Rachel. I own you, don’t forget that. I wasn’t going to leave you behind in Mawvry!’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m not blind, Rachel. I’ve seen the way men look at you. That Bart Thomas, for example.’

‘I’m not interested in the way any man looks at me!’ she declared. ‘You should know that.’

‘Huh!’ Malcolm stared at her impatiently. ‘That’s what you tell me. But how should I know what goes on inside that head of yours?’

Rachel heaved a sigh and began to help him off with his clothes. ‘I shan’t leave you, Malcolm. Much as I’ve been tempted to do. I made a promise, and I’ll keep it——’

‘Promises! Promises!’ Malcolm dragged himself up the bed to relax on the soft pillows. ‘I’ve heard that before. But you’re my wife, Rachel, and no one else is going to touch you, do you understand?’

Rachel straightened, hiding the pain in her face. ‘No one else would want to,’ she said quietly.

‘What the hell do you mean?’

Rachel turned away. ‘Nothing.’

‘Well, you listen to me: where I go, you go, do you hear?’

‘Then why didn’t you warn me—about coming here?’ she cried, turning back to him. ‘Why keep it all such a secret?’

Malcolm sniffed, running a hand across the hollow caverns in his throat. ‘I didn’t want anything to go wrong. I wanted to come here. Joanna owes me that much. If I’d had to tell her about you ...’ He shook his head. ‘It would have been difficult, very difficult. Portuguese women aren’t like English women. They have a very strict code of ethics. A man of my age marrying an eighteen-year-old girl!’ He pointed a finger at Rachel. ‘She’d have seen no possible reason for that.’

‘But this woman is English! And in any case, how can you now satisfactorily explain it? By telling the truth?’ She looked sceptical.

‘Joanna has lived so long in Portugal, she’s become like them,’ said Malcolm, ignoring her questions. ‘I saw that four years ago when she came to England. She came for my mother’s funeral, both she and Raul. That was her husband, the old Marquês, this man Luis’s father. Just like his son, he was. Cold and arrogant, conscious of his own importance!’

Rachel shook her head. ‘That still doesn’t explain——’

‘Leave it, Rachel.’

‘But why couldn’t you tell me?’ she sighed frustratedly.

Malcolm considered her thoughtfully. ‘If I’d told you what I’d arranged, how would you have reacted? Would you have been prepared to wait for this man to come and discover who you were?’

Rachel saw the logic of this. If she had known in advance she would have had to have written and told them the truth. She wasn’t like Malcolm. She couldn’t have waited, depending on their indulgence as he had done. And besides, Malcolm might have been afraid she’d run away at a crucial moment. She had wanted to do so many times in the past and he knew it.

She turned away. ‘I need a wash,’ she said vaguely. ‘I think I’ll take a shower. You’ll be all right, won’t you?’

Malcolm closed his eyes. ‘I suppose so.’ He opened them again. ‘And no disappearing if I fall asleep.’

‘Where would I disappear to?’ she exclaimed defensively.

‘I don’t know. But don’t, anyway.’

Rachel picked up one of the suitcases and flicked it open. Inside she found some clean underclothing and a towel. Leaving the bedroom, she entered the luxurious surroundings of the bathroom and although there was no need to do so, she locked the door. Then she turned on the shower and began stripping off her clothes. Her brain felt thick and fuzzy, and she was finding it hard to assimilate all this. It was too much in twenty-four hours, and she gave up the will to think ...

CHAPTER THREE

WHEN she returned to the bedroom some twenty minutes later and spoke to her husband there was no answer. From the heaviness of his breathing he was obviously asleep, and she tiptoed through to the sala and closed the door behind her.

She felt somewhat brighter now and infinitely fresher. She had cooled the water of the shower as she had stood under it, so that her flesh still tingled from that contact and her blood had cooled.

It was almost dark and someone had lit lamps on the patio outside. In the fading light all manner of moths and flying insects came to dance with death around the flames to fall with singed wings upon the mosaic tiling below.

Rachel put on a tall standard lamp with an exquisitely embroidered shade that shed mellow light over the room, and then stretched her length on one of the soft hide couches. It was early yet and she knew that dinner here was served much later. Besides, no doubt she and Malcolm would eat here in the suite.

But with the relaxation came time to think and she wondered with a sense of despair exactly what Malcolm had said to Luis Martinez to explain his marriage to her. She believed what Malcolm had said earlier. To these people such a marriage would need some explaining. He could not possibly have, told the truth.

She sighed. What was the truth? Did she know any more? Or had her mind rejected everything connected with this unholy alliance? If this state of affairs here, this unexpected removal to Mendao had changed her life overnight, how much greater had the change been three years ago when she married Malcolm Trevellyan?

She had lived in Mawvry for most of her life. She had moved there with her father when her mother had died and Rachel herself had been only seven years old.

Her father had been an artist, too. Until her mother’s death he had made a pretence at earning a living for her sake, but after she was dead he had seen the opportunity to remove himself and his daughter from the tiny house in Bloomsbury which he had owned, to an even tinier cottage in the Cornish fishing village of Mawvry.

Rachel had loved it. She had her father’s appreciation of beautiful things, and Mawvry was beautiful. Her father had indulged his passion for painting and sculpture, buying a small fishing boat to supplement his income during the summer months by taking tourists out for pleasure trips around the bay. They had lived simply and Rachel had never considered to wonder how her father managed to support them.

Occasionally in the summer, he would sell a painting and then he would buy steaks and wine and he and Rachel would have a feast. But mostly they lived more modestly, with Rachel learning to cook and sew and care for them both.

Malcolm Trevellyan had always lived in Mawvry. His house was visible on the cliffs above the bay, and Rachel had soon learned that he was not liked among the villagers. He owned property in Mawvry, cottages which he rented to the fishermen and their families, but he was not a good landlord. He loathed spending money, and the roofs of his cottages leaked during the winter months, making them damp and unhealthy.

Fortunately, or so Rachel had always thought, her father had been able to buy their cottage so in that respect they had no dealings with Malcolm Trevellyan. She had never cared for the man. Ever since she was about fourteen, he had gone out of his way to speak to her, but she had not liked the predatory look in his eyes. Of course, she had not understood then why he should look at her in such a way.

Now she shivered and pressed the palms of her hands against the soft leather. If only her father had confided his difficulties to her, allowed her to get a job in one of the towns close by, instead of permitting her to spend her days painting, assuring her that they had no money worries.

When the crisis had come, inevitably Malcolm Trevellyan had been at the core of it. Unknown to her, he had bought their cottage several years earlier when her father needed money. Then, later, he had loaned her father more money, making no demands for payment, pretending to be his friend.

When Rachel was eighteen, his motives had become clear. He had asked her to marry him, and when she had almost laughingly refused, half imagining he could not be serious, he had given her father an ultimatum: persuade Rachel to do as he asked or he would ruin him.

Her father had been desperate. He could not believe that a man he had supposed to be his friend should turn on him in this way. Rachel herself had been distrait. She could see her father failing daily, unable to do anything to help himself. None of the villagers could help them. No one was wealthy enough to pay her father’s debts.

Rachel had inevitably come to a decision. She had no other alternative. She went to Malcolm Trevellyan and agreed his terms.

Her father had begged her not to do it He had assured her he would get the money somehow. He would take the boat out. He would start fishing for himself. These were good fishing waters. He would succeed.

But Rachel knew he would not, and she and Malcolm Trevellyan were married a few days later.

There began for Rachel the most terrible few months of her life. Adding to her anxiety for her father was her own revulsion for the man who had made himself her husband, and she submitted to his demands on her with a despairing humility.

To her father she pretended that everything was turning out all right, but he was not deceived. He saw her change from a glowing creature of warmth and vitality into a slender wraith of pale cheeks and hollow eyes.

He blamed himself, and he could not stand it for very long. Six months later he took out the fishing boat and never returned. A verdict of accidental death was reached, but Rachel knew her father’s death had been no accident.

It was as though the whole bottom had dropped out of her world and she had had a nervous breakdown.

It took many months for her to recover. To give him his due, Malcolm secured the very best attention for her, but his motives were not wholly altruistic. He wanted his wife again in every sense of the word, but nevertheless, during that period, she grew to rely on him to a certain extent.

By the time she was fully recovered, any thoughts she might have had of leaving him, of trying to get a divorce, had become distant and unreal, and she hardly needed his reminder that he still possessed her father’s promissory notes and would use them if she tried to thwart him.

Instead, she started to paint again, drowning the inadequacies of her life in her art, creating pictures which occasionally brought her money. What small amounts she did earn this way proved sufficient to buy the personal necessities she needed without having to ask Malcolm for every penny, for he seemed to grow meaner as time went by.

And then, just before Christmas last year, he had had a thrombosis. It had been a comparatively mild affair which had left him weakened but active. Although she urged him to take care, he seemed to imagine he was immune after recovering from the first attack so easily, but eventually, two months ago, he had had the second stroke, and it had paralysed him initially all down one side and made the movement of his legs impossible. With therapy, he had regained much of the use of his left hand and arm, but his legs remained helpless.

In consequence, he had become totally unreasonable, demanding Rachel’s company at all hours of the day and night. Her occasional visits to the village for shopping or to see her friends were curtailed by the use of the telephone, and he became insanely jealous of anyone, male or female, who spent any time alone with her.

Yet in spite of that, she had never even suspected that he might be planning to leave for Portugal.

She knew of his correspondence with someone in Portugal, of course. From time to time he would give her a letter to post, and now and then there was a reply for him with a foreign postmark. But that was all. He had not troubled to explain to her his association with the Marquesa de Mendao, and certainly Rachel had known nothing of the fact that once Malcolm’s family had cared for the young girl who had grown up to marry the wealthy Portuguese nobleman.

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