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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.

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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.

Leopard in the Snow
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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IN spring and high summer the lofty fells and mountain-shadowed lakes echoed with the sounds of tourists, eager to escape from the steel and concrete jungles of the cities. They came in their thousands, car after car, picnicking and camping, and towing their caravans behind them like an invasion of giant snails. Climbers, many of whom had never before put on spiked boots, trekked to Wast Water and Skafell Pike. Traffic jammed the narrow roads which skirted the more frequented lakes like Ullswater and Windermere. There were card shops and gift shops, and exhibitions of local crafts. On the lakes themselves the white sails of yachts mingled with orange-sailed dinghies and noisy outboard motors. Almost everywhere one looked there were people in parkas and sailing gear, all trying to look as though this was their natural habitat. The hotels were filled to capacity – the bars did a roaring trade.

And the locals watched and waited and longed for the city dwellers to return to their city homes and their city jobs, and leave the Lake District to those whose heritage it had always been.

It was that summer lakeland that Helen remembered. When they had had their home in Leeds her father had kept a boat at Bowness, and in the summer holidays when she was free from school, he had taught her to sail. In retrospect, it seemed an idyllic period in her life. It was in the days before her father became ambitious, before he allowed his small company to be amalgamated with Thorpe Engineering, before he married Isabel Thorpe and became such a rich and influential man with interests in more sophisticated sports than sailing …

But now the fells were clothed in snow. It had apparently been snowing for days, and even the lakes themselves had a film of white coating their surfaces. When she had stopped at the last village for directions to Bowness she had found herself well off her original route which wasn’t altogether surprising when half the signposts had been covered with snow, too, and she had been too warm and snug in the car to bother to get out and wipe it away. She had been foolish, she acknowledged it now, but her memory did not go as far as recalling the dozens of minor roads that spun off the so-called major ones, and as they all looked much the same in these ghastly conditions she had obviously taken several wrong turnings.

Still, she consoled herself, with a glance at her wrist watch. It was only two o’clock and she had plenty of time to find a hotel before nightfall. Any hotel would do, just so long as it provided food and shelter. She could continue on her way tomorrow.

Tomorrow!

She spared a thought for her father. By tomorrow he would have discovered she had gone away. What would he do? Would her note that she needed to get away on her own for a while satisfy him, or would he institute some sort of search for her? The latter seemed the most likely. Her father was not the kind of man to be thwarted, and he would, no doubt, be furious that his daughter, his only offspring, should try to defy him.

But the chances of him discovering her here were slim. In fact, Helen congratulated herself, deciding to come north had been an inspiration. In recent years her most usual haunts had been the West Indies and the South of France, and if her father looked anywhere for her it would be somewhere warm. He knew how she loved the sun, how she enjoyed swimming and sailing, all water sports. He would never expect her to remember the small hotel where he had taken her as a schoolgirl in the years following her mother’s death when they had been everything to one another. And he would certainly not expect her to drive into a raging blizzard …

The snow was thickening on her wiper blades, causing them to smear the windscreen rather than clear it. It seemed ages since she had passed another vehicle and she paused to wonder whether in fact the road she was following led anywhere. It might simply be the track to some farm or a private dwelling of some sort, and how on earth would she be able to turn in such a narrow space?

She frowned. If it was a farm track she would go and knock at the door and ask whether they could give her some firm directions as to how to reach the nearest village. She no longer expected to reach Bowness tonight.

The wipers got worse and with an impatient exclamation she stopped the car and leaving the engine running climbed out and brushed the snow away. It clung to her fingers. It was so cold, and with a shiver she clambered back inside again. Maybe she had been foolhardy in bringing the car. Perhaps she should have used the train. But she had not wanted to risk someone at the station recognising her and possibly remembering this when her father discovered she was missing and started making a fuss.

To her annoyance, the wipers stuck again, and she was forced to get out again and attend to them. She had taken off her long boots with their platform soles because they were impossible for driving and when she had attended to the wipers the first time she had balanced on the door valance. But this time she stopped to put her boots on and while she did so the engine idled to a halt.

Shaking her head, she got out and stood in the snow. It was quite deep, even on the road, and brushed the turnups of her flared scarlet pants. Drops of snow melted on her shoulders as she quickly cleared the snow from the windscreen and satisfying herself that the wipers would at least work for a short period, she got into the driving seat again.

It took several more minutes to divest herself of the boots again and then she turned the ignition. It revved, but nothing happened. Cursing silently to herself, she tried again, allowing it to go on for a long time, but still nothing happened. A pinprick of alarm feathered along her veins. What now? Surely the car wasn’t going to let her down? It never had before. And it wasn’t old. But it hadn’t actually encountered conditions like these before.

Several minutes later she gave up the attempt to try and start the car again. It was getting later all the while and pretty soon it would start to get dark. She dared not risk staying here any longer in the vain hope that someone might come along and rescue her. There were no visible signs that anyone had passed that way that day although the steadily falling snow hampered any real inspection of the road’s surface. Nevertheless, her most sensible course would be to leave the car and go in search of assistance, she decided. If she stayed where she was and no one came, the car could well be buried by morning and she had heard of motorists freezing to death in this way.

Thrusting such uncomfortable thoughts aside, she reached for her boots and began to pull them on again. It was quite an adventure, she told herself, in an attempt to lighten her spirits. Who would have thought when she left London this morning that by late afternoon she would be the victim of an abandoned car in a snowstorm? Who indeed? Her earlier self-congratulation that her father would never look for her here might rebound on her in the most unpleasant way possible.

She shook her head and got out of the car. At least her coat was warm. Made of red suede and lined with sheepskin, it showed up well against the whiteness of the snow. Maybe someone would see her, even if she didn’t see them. She drew the hood up over her head, and tucked inside the long strands of black hair which the wind had taken and blown about her face. Well, this was it! Sheepskin mittens to warm her hands, her trouser legs rolled up almost to the knee, her handbag – what more could any intrepid explorer want?

She looked up and down the deserted road. There seemed no point in retracing her tracks. She knew there was nothing back there – at least, not for miles. Forward it would have to be!

The snow stung her cheeks, and the wind whistled eerily through the skeletal branches of the trees and bushes that hedged the track. She was tempted to penetrate the hedge and climb the sloping fields beyond in an attempt to see some form of habitation in this white wasteland, but a preliminary reconnaissance landed her in snow at least two feet deep and was sufficient to deter any further forays in that direction. It wasn’t possible, she told herself, that one could walk so far without encountering either a house or another human being, but she had. This winding road which had quickly hidden the car from view might be circling a mountain for all she knew. Certainly she was going uphill, her aching legs told her that, but what alternative had she?

She stopped and looked back. It was impossible to distinguish anything beyond a radius of a hundred yards. She was totally and completely lost and the greyness in the sky was not wholly due to the appalling conditions. Evening was approaching and she was no nearer finding a place to stay than she had been an hour ago. A fluttery sense of panic rose inside her. What was she going to do? Was this how fate repaid her for challenging her father’s right to choose her a husband?

Something moved. Out of the corner of her eye she could see a movement, a trace of some colour up ahead of her. She blinked. What was it? An animal probably, foraging for food. Poor creatures. What could any animal find beneath this all-covering blanket?

Shielding her eyes, blinking again as snow settled on her lashes and melting ran down into her eyes, she tried to see what it was that had caught her attention. It was an animal, that much she could see, and no doubt her red coat had attracted its attention, too. It might be a dog, she thought hopefully, with an owner close at hand. Oh, please, she begged silently, let it be a domestic animal!

The creature was loping towards her. It looked like a dog. It was a curious tawny colour, and as it drew nearer she saw that it had splashes of black, too. A sort of tawny Dalmatian, only there weren’t such things.

Then her legs went weak. She felt sick with fear. Panic crawled to the surface. It was no dog. It was no domestic animal. It was a leopard! A leopard in the snow!

For a moment she was rooted to the spot. She was mesmerised by that silent, menacing gait. She moved her head helplessly from side to side. There were no leopards in Cumberland! This must be some terrible hallucination brought on by the blinding light of the snow. The creature made no sound. It couldn’t be real.

But as it got closer still, she could see its powerful shoulders, the muscles moving under the smooth coat, the strong teeth and pointed ears. She imagined she could even feel the heat of its breath.

With a terrified gasp she did the thing she had always been taught never to do in the face of a charging animal, she turned to run. In the days when she was a teenager, she had sometimes gone to stay with a friend from boarding school whose parents had kept a farm. They had taught her that to show any animal panic only inflamed the creature’s senses, but right now she knew only a desperate desire for self-preservation.

She stumbled through the deep snow at the side of the road and forced her way through the hedge, feeling the twigs tearing at her hair, scratching her cheeks painfully. But anything was better than the thought of the leopard’s claws on her throat and panic added its own strength to her weakened limbs. The field was a wilderness of white, the deepness of the snow hindering her progress. Any moment she expected to feel the animal’s hot breath on her neck, its paws weighing her down. Sobs rose in her throat, tears sprang to her eyes. She should never have left London, she thought bitterly. This was what came of behaving selfishly.

Beneath the snow her foot caught in a rabbit hole and she lost her balance and fell. Sobbing, she tried to crawl on, but as she did so she heard a sound which she had been beginning to think she would never hear again. That of a human voice – a human voice shouting with all the curtness of command: “Sheba! Sheba – heel!”

Helen’s shoulders sagged, and she glanced fearfully over her shoulder. The leopard had halted several feet away and was standing regarding her with disturbing intensity. A man was thrusting his way through the hedge, a tall lean man dressed all in black – black leather coat, black trousers, and knee-length black boots. His head was bare and as Helen scrambled to her feet she saw that his hair was so light as to appear silver in some lights. Yet for all that his skin was quite dark, not at all the usual skin to go with such light hair. There was something vaguely familiar about his harshly carved features, the deep-set eyes beneath heavy lids, the strongly chiselled nose, the wide mouth with its thin lips that were presently curved almost contemptuously as he approached her. And she saw as he climbed the ridge that he walked with a distinct limp which twisted his hip slightly.

The leopard turned its head at his approach and he put down a hand and fondled the proud head. “Easy, Sheba!” he murmured, his voice low and deep, and then he looked at Helen. “My apologies,” he said, without sounding in the least apologetic, “but you ought not to have run. Sheba wouldn’t have touched you.”

His contempt caught Helen on the raw. She was not used to having to run for her life, nor to feeling distressed and dishevelled in the face of any man. On the contrary, her warmth and beauty, the silky curtain of dark hair, her slender yet rounded figure, had all made her contacts with men very easy relationships, and although she wasn’t vain she was not unaware of her own attractiveness to the opposite sex. But the way this man was looking at her made her feel like a rather ridiculous child who had trespassed and found herself facing rather more than she had bargained for.

“How can you say that?” she demanded, annoyed to find that her voice had a tremor in it. “If you hadn’t called as you did just now, I might have been mauled!”

He shook his head slowly. “Sheba is trained to bring down her prey, not to maul it!”

“I wasn’t aware that I was prey!” retorted Helen, brushing the snow from her sleeves.

“You ran.”

“Oh, I see.” Helen tried to sound sarcastic. “I’ll try to remember not to do that in future.”

The man’s hard face softened slightly with mocking amusement. “We didn’t expect to find anything worth hunting today.”

Helen drew an unsteady breath. “You didn’t!”

“You underestimate yourself.” He glanced round. “Are you making a walking tour of the fells?”

Helen’s cheeks flamed. “My car has broken down back – back there.” She gestured vaguely towards the road. “I – I was trying to find help, when – when your leopard –”

“Sheba?” The man glanced down alt the big cat which stood so protectively beside him. “Sheba is a cheetah, not a leopard, although I suppose they’re members of the same family. A cheetah is sometimes calling the hunting leopard.”

“I really don’t care what she is,” said Helen tremulously. “Could – could you direct me to the nearest phone box and I’ll try and make arrangements to be picked up?”

The man smoothed the cheetah’s head. “I regret there are no phone boxes within walking distance.”

“Then – then private houses – someone who has a phone!”

He shrugged. “There are few dwellings about here.”

Helen clenched her fists. “Are you being deliberately obstructive, or is this your normal way of treating strangers?”

The man was annoyingly unperturbed by her rudeness. “I’m merely pointing out that you’re in a particularly isolated area. However, you’re welcome to my hospitality if such a thing is not abhorrent to you.”

Helen hesitated. “I – I don’t know who you are.”

“Nor I you.”

“No, but –” She chewed uneasily at her lower lip. “Are you married?”

His eyes narrowed. “No.”

“You live – alone? Apart from this – this creature?”

“No.” He moved as though standing too long in one place made his leg ache. “I have a manservant. There are just the two of us.”

Helen digested this. Oh, lord, she thought, what a situation! Faced with two impossible alternatives. Either to continue walking in these awful conditions in the hope that sooner or later she would come upon a shepherd’s croft or a hill farm, which was a decidedly risky thing to do. Or to accompany this man – this stranger – to his home, and risk spending the night with two strange men. What a dilemma!

“Please make up your mind,” the man said now, and Helen thought she could see lines of strain around his mouth. This outward sign of vulnerability decided her.

“I’ll accept your hospitality, if I may,” she murmured, with ill grace. “Ought I to go back for my suitcases?”

“Bolt will get them,” replied her companion, beginning to descend the slope to the hedged road. “Come. It will be dark soon.”

Helen licked her lips. “Ought – oughtn’t we to introduce ourselves?”

The man gave her a wry look. “I think it can wait, don’t you? Or are you enjoying getting soaked to the skin?”

Helen sighed. There was no answer to that. Instead, she followed him down the slippery slope, taking care to keep a distance from the sleek body and long tail of the cheetah. Once on to the track again, for that was all it was now with the drifts of snow at either side, the cheetah stalked disdainfully ahead and Helen was forced to walk at the man’s side. For all he limped, he moved with a certain grace, a certain litheness, which made her wonder if he had once been an athlete. Was that why his face had seemed momentarily familiar? Or was it simply that he reminded her of someone else – someone she knew?

Just beyond the bend in the road a narrower track left the main one and it was on to this narrower way that they turned. A sign, half covered with snow, indicated that it was a private road and Helen felt a twinge of nervousness. This man could be almost anyone. He could be taking her anywhere. He might even have lied about there being no callboxes or farms in the near neighbourhood.

As though reading her thoughts, he said: “If you would rather turn back, you’re at liberty to do so. I shan’t send Sheba after you, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

Helen moved her shoulders in a deprecating gesture. “I – why should I want to turn back?”

“Indeed.” The man glanced sideways at her and she noticed inconsequently that he had the longest lashes she had ever seen on a man. Dark and thick, they shaded eyes that were a peculiarly tawny colour, like the eyes of Sheba, his cheetah. And like Sheba’s, they were unpredictable.

The track wound upward steadily. They passed through a barred gateway, crossed some fields through which a track had been cleared, and climbed a stone wall, half hidden beneath the snow. Eventually, a belt of stark trees rose up ahead, and beyond them, no doubt concealed in summer when the trees were fully in leaf, Helen saw the house they were making for. It was a rambling kind of building, its stone walls shrouded with snow. Smoke was issuing from its chimneys, and there were lights in some of the downstairs windows. A grassy forecourt was just visible beneath the prints of man and beast, and this gave on to a cobbled area in front of the house.

Helen’s companion stamped his feet and advised her to do likewise to shake the snow from their boots. Then he thrust open the studded wooden door and indicated that she should precede him inside. Helen glance apprehensively at Sheba. The cheetah was watching her with an unblinking stare, but as it seemed perfectly willing to remain by its master’s side, she walked rather gingerly ahead of them into the hall of the building.

Warmth engulfed her and it was only then that she realised exactly how cold she was. The desolation, her terrifying encounter with the cheetah, her subsequent confrontation with its master – all had served to provide her with other matters to concern herself, but now in the warmth of that panelled hall she began to shiver violently and her teeth started to chatter.

Their entrance brought a man through a door at the back of the hall. Even in her shivering, shaking state, Helen could not help but stare at the newcomer. As tall as the man who had brought her here, and twice as broad, he was built on the lines of a wrestler, with massive shoulders and a completely bald head. The look he gave Helen was cursory before his gaze travelled to the man with her.

“You’re late, sir,” he announced, pulling down his shirt sleeves which had been rolled above his elbows. “I was beginning to get worried about you.”

The man with Helen began to unbutton his coat, his eyes flickering thoughtfully over the shivering girl in front of him. “As you can see, we have a visitor, Bolt,” he remarked, in his low attractive voice. “The young lady’s car is out of action some distance down the lane. After you’ve prepared us some tea, perhaps you’d go and retrieve her suitcases.”

Bolt’s expression as he listened to his master was rather like Sheba’s, Helen thought uncharitably. They both behaved as though the safety and well being of the man they served were the most important things in the world.

“Of course, sir.” Bolt’s mouth moved in the semblance of a smile. “I gather the young lady will be staying the night. I’ll prepare a room for her, shall I?”

“Thank you, Bolt.” The other man threw off his leather coat to reveal a black silk shirt and waistcoat beneath. The manservant took his coat, and then his employer turned to Helen. “You may give your coat to Bolt, too. I assure you he knows how to handle wet garments without causing them any ill effects.”

Helen was shivering so much she couldn’t undo the leather buttons, and to her astonishment the man limped forward and brushing her cold hands aside unfastened the coat himself. Then he lifted his hands and slid it off her shoulders and the man Bolt caught it as it fell.

Helen shivered all the more. She resented the way he had taken control without her permission. She didn’t know this man with his harsh face and mocking tongue, and nor did she want to. Something about him disturbed her, frightened her even. She told herself it was his limp, the way his hip twisted when he moved, the arrogance of the man. And yet the fleeting touch when his fingers had deposed hers had caused a shaft of fire to shoot up her arm almost as though his touch had burned her, and she was at once fascinated and repelled.

Bolt moved to open a door to their right. Realising that both men were waiting for her to make the first move, she walked jerkily into the room beyond, hugging herself tightly in an effort to stop the enervating shivering. She found herself in an enormous living room lit by two standard lamps and by the glow from a roaring fire in the huge grate. Logs had been piled on to the blaze and the room was redolent with the scent of pine. The floor was partially covered with rugs and as well as several dining chairs and a bureau there was a dark brown, tapestry-covered three-piece suite which, although it had seen better days, looked superbly comfortable. Some shelves to one side of the fireplace were well filled with books and paperbacks and magazines, and a tray on which reposed a bottle of Scotch, a decanter of what looked like brandy, and two glasses were set conveniently beside the armchair at the farther side of the fire.

The door closed as Helen was pondering those two glasses, and she flinched as the cheetah brushed past her to stretch its length on the hearth. She glanced round apprehensively, half afraid she was alone with the beast, to find the man limping towards her. The servant Bolt had apparently gone about his business.

“Won’t you sit down?” he asked, indicating the couch in front of the fire, and after a moment Helen moved to perch uneasily on the edge of an armchair.

The man gave her a wry look, and then took the armchair opposite, stretching his long legs out in front of him with evident relief. After a moment, he turned sideways and took the stopper out of the decanter. “Some brandy, I think,” he remarked quietly, with an encompassing glance in her direction. “You seem in need of – sustenance.”

He did not get up to give her the drink but stretched across the hearth and Helen had, perforce, to take it. Brandy was not her favourite spirit, but she was glad of its warmth to take away the chill inside her. She sipped it slowly, and gradually she stopped shaking.

Her companion did not have anything to drink, but lay back in his armchair, his eyes half closed, surveying her with penetrating intensity. Before she had finished the brandy, Bolt returned with a tray of tea. He ousted the cheetah from its comfortable position on the hearth and set an occasional table in its place, putting the tray within easy reach of his master. Then he straightened, and said: “I’ll go for the suitcases now, sir. If the young lady will give me her keys.”

“Oh! Oh, yes, of course.” Helen gave him a rueful smile and rummaged in her handbag. She produced the leather ring which held all her keys and handed it over. “I’m very – grateful, Bolt. It’s about a mile down the road – the car, I mean.”

Bolt nodded. “I’ll find it, miss.”

“Thank you.” Helen wriggled a little further on to her chair. The brandy had done its work and she was beginning to feel almost normal again. This time tomorrow she might have reached Bowness and this whole episode would be simply a memory, something amusing to tell her friends when she got back to London.

After the door had closed behind Bolt, the man opposite sat up and regarded the tray. As well as the teapot and its accoutrements there was a plate of sandwiches and a rather delicious looking fruit pie.

“Milk and sugar, or lemon?” he enquired, the tawny eyes annoyingly disconcerting. But with her newly restored self-confidence, Helen refused to be intimidated.

“Milk, but no sugar, thank you,” she replied, and as he poured the tea she went on: “Don’t you think it’s time we exchanged names?”

The man finished pouring the tea, added milk, and handed the cup to her. “If it’s important to you,” he conceded dryly.

Helen gasped. “You mean you would ask a complete stranger to share your house without caring what that person’s name was?”

“Perhaps I consider the kind of person one is rather more important than one’s name,” he suggested, continuing to look at her, his eyes unblinking. “For example, I don’t need to know your name to know that you’re a rather headstrong young woman who doesn’t always take the advice that’s offered to her.”

Helen flushed. “How can you know that?” she exclaimed scornfully.

He shrugged. “It’s unusual, is it not, to find a young woman like yourself driving alone in conditions like these and apparently, as you’ve admitted you have suitcases with you, prepared to stay somewhere.” He frowned. “You may have arranged to meet someone, of course, and yet you seem unconcerned at being delayed overnight.”

Helen sipped her tea. “Women have been known to make journeys alone, you know,” she retorted.

“In conditions like these? It’s not usual.”

“I – I may be a working girl – a representative of some sort.”

“Who’s lost her way?”

“Yes.”

“Possible. But not probable.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think you are a working girl.”

Helen uttered an impatient exclamation. “Why not?”

“The way you spoke to Bolt. As though you were used to having people run about after you.”

Helen sighed. She had the feeling that in any argument with him she would come out the loser. And he was offering her his hospitality, after all. Perhaps she could be a little more gracious in accepting it. It wasn’t like her to behave so cattily. But something about him brought out the worst in her.

“All right,” she conceded at last. “So I’m not a working girl. As a matter of fact, you’re right. My name is Helen James. I’m Philip James’ daughter.”

“Should that name mean something to me?” he enquired, somewhat sardonically. She noticed he did not take tea but helped himself to a sandwich after she had refused. “I’m afraid I’m rather – out of touch.”

He smiled and for a moment he looked years younger. Helen’s lips parted. His face! Something about his face was familiar. She had seen it before – she was sure of it. But where? And when? And in what connection?

Forcing herself to answer his question even while her brain turned over the enigma endlessly, she said: “My father is Sir Philip James. His company won an award for industry last year. Thorpe Engineering.”

The man shook his head. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Helen felt impatient. “And you? You haven’t told me your name?”

“Tell me first what you’re doing here – miles from the kind of civilization I’m sure you’re used to.”

Helen bit her lip. “As a matter of fact I – needed to get away on my own for a while. I needed time to think and my father will never dream of looking for me here.”

The man frowned. “You mean – you’ve run away?”

“Hardly that. I left my father a note. He doesn’t have to worry about me.”

“But he will.”

“Perhaps.” Helen moved uncomfortably. “In any event, none of this need concern you. I’m only grateful that you came along as you did. I could have been in real difficulties if you hadn’t.”

“You could. You could have died out there – in the snow.” His voice was low-pitched and for a moment Helen felt a tingle of remembered apprehension. “It was very foolish of you to let no one know where you were going. Don’t you realise that your car could have been buried for days before anyone found it – or you? Tell me, why was it so important that you should get away?”

Helen felt indignant. “I don’t think that’s any business of yours.”

“Nonetheless, I am curious. Satisfy the curiosity of one who no longer inhabits the world you come from.”

Helen stared at him. What a strange thing to say! Surely even the remoteness of this district in winter did not cut one off completely from the outside world. Unless one chose it to be so … She shook her head.

“My father wants to run my life for me,” she said slowly. “But I’m twenty-two – and possibly too independent, as you implied. We – disagreed over a small matter.”

“I don’t think it can have been such a small matter to bring you more than two hundred miles in the depths of winter, Miss James, but never mind. I respect your desire to keep your personal affairs private.”

Helen’s mouth turned down at the corners. It was hardly a concession. Leaning forward to replace her empty cup on the tray, she said: “And you? Don’t you find it lonely living here, miles from anywhere, with only Bolt for company?”

The man’s thick lashes veiled his eyes. “I’m a most uninteresting individual, Miss James. Can I offer you more tea?”

Helen declined, pressing her lips together impatiently. “Why are you avoiding answering me?” she demanded.

“Was I doing that?” His tone was mild, but his tawny eyes were watchful.

“You know you were.” Helen sighed, a frown drawing her dark brows together. “I know your face from somewhere. I’m almost sure I’ve seen you before – either in the flesh or on film!”

“You’re very flattering,” he mocked. “Isn’t that usually the male’s prerogative?”

Helen was annoyed to find that he could embarrass her. It was a new experience for her. “You know what I mean. I have seen your face before, haven’t I?”

The man seemed bored by her assumption. He rose abruptly to his feet, pausing a moment to rub his thigh as though it pained him. Then he walked with his uneven gait across to the long windows and drew heavy wine-coloured velvet curtains over the frosted panes. Helen saw, in those moments before the world outside was hidden from view, that it was already dark and the driving flakes of snow filled her with a disturbing sense of remoteness. She should have asked for help in starting her car again instead of accepting the man’s hospitality, whoever he was, she thought uneasily. With his directions, surely she could have driven to some small hotel or guest house. But she soon dismissed these thoughts from her mind. She was being ridiculously fanciful in imagining that there was anything sinister in the assistance being offered to her, and besides, she ought to be grateful – he had virtually saved her life!

He turned back to her. “Bolt shouldn’t be long with your cases, then he’ll show you where you’re to sleep, Miss James. I have an evening meal at about eight o’clock. I trust you’ll join me.”

Helen shifted in her seat, a feeling of irritation replacing apprehension. He was clearly determined not to answer her questions. Her sudden movements caused the cheetah to raise its head and stare at her. The eyes turned in her direction were curiously like its master’s, and tales of witches and warlocks and their familiars flashed through her brain. Who was this man who lived in such splendid isolation – who walked with a limp – who kept a wild beast for company? She had an absurd notion that she must have succumbed to the cold and collapsed out there in the snow and this was some fantastic nightmare preluding death …

She started violently at the horrific twist of her thoughts and the cheetah allowed a low growl to escape from its powerful throat. The man came towards them then, murmuring reassuringly to the animal, his eyes on Helen’s troubled countenance.

“Is something wrong, Miss James?” he enquired, his voice as soft as velvet with an underlying thread of steel.

Helen shook her head, looking almost desperately about the lamplit room. It was a most attractive room, she had to admit, and not at all the sort of surroundings to inspire unease. It had a masculine austerity, an absence of anything frivolous, but that was only to be expected. There were hunting trophies on the panelled walls, swords in their scabbards and antique guns, and several pieces of ornamental design which Helen recognised as being valuable. The room gave an impression of quiet quality and distinction, and although some of the appointments bore the marks of well-use, they did not detract from its air of comfortable elegance. Whoever he was, he was not a poor man, but why he should choose to live as he did was beyond her comprehension. Was he a painter, a sculptor, an artist of some sort? Who else desired such a solitary existence?

And then a framed photograph on the wall behind the bureau caught her eye. She couldn’t distinguish every detail from where she was sitting, particularly in this shadowy light, but what she could see was enough to realise that it was the blown-up picture of a car smash, a violent pile-up of men and machinery that churned up the road and threw fragments of metal into the dust-choked air. It was not a coloured photograph, but its perception was such that the ugliness and savagery of the crash were brutally unmistakable.

Her shocked gaze shifted to the man who was now standing so stiffly beside the couch. The tawny eyes were hard and narrowed and she knew he had intercepted her revealing concentration on the photograph. She also knew why he was suddenly so aloof. He had guessed that her earlier suspicions regarding his identity were suspicions no longer. He had been one of the drivers involved in that ghastly crash. But it had been no ordinary pile-up. It had taken place about six years ago, on the Nurburgring in Germany …

“I know who you are,” she said, slowly, wonderingly. She got to her feet. “You’re – Dominic Lyall, the racing driver!”

The stiffness went out of his lean body and he leant against the back of the couch, supporting himself with his palms on the braided tapestry cushions. “I am Dominic Lyall, yes,” he conceded wryly. “But I’m no longer a racing driver.”

“But you were.” Helen stared at him. “I remember my father talking about you. He admired you tremendously before – before –”

“Before the crash?” His tone was bitter. “I know.”

“But he thought – I mean –” She broke off, her brows drawn together in perplexity. “It was generally assumed – well, you disappeared. My father said – lots of people said –” She moved her shoulders uncomfortably, leaving the words unsaid.

“It was thought that I was dead?” He was ironic. “Oh, yes, I’m quite aware of that rumour. My injuries were extensive, and it suited me to foster such a belief. There’s nothing more pathetic than a fallen idol who still tries to hog the limelight.”

“But it wasn’t like that,” Helen protested. “The crash was a terrible accident. No one was to blame. The publicity –”

“Did I say I blamed myself?” he interrupted her, his voice cool and cynical.

“No. No, but –” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “My father was such a fan of yours. He still has some pictures of you in his study. And there were thousands of others like him. Do you think it was fair to allow them to assume that you were dead?”

Dominic Lyall straightened, one long brown hand massaging his hip. “Do you think I’m not entitled to any privacy simply because for a time I lived in the public eye, Miss James?”

Helen didn’t know how to answer him. “I wouldn’t presume to make judgements, Mr. Lyall. All I’m saying is that it seems a pity that a talent such as yours should be denied to other aspiring drivers.”

His lips twisted. “So much and no more.” He ran his fingers over the light hair at the nape of his neck. “You wouldn’t begin to understand, Miss James.”

Helen held up her head. “You underestimate me, Mr. Lyall.”

His smile held a kind of self-mockery. “Perhaps I do, at that. However …” He drew a deep breath. “However, it’s unfortunate that your memory serves you so well. I should have thought a child of sixteen would have been more interested in popular music and its idols.”

“I’ve told you – my father went to racing events. Sometimes I went with him.”

“Oh, yes, your father.” His eyes narrowed broodingly. “A curious anomaly.”

“What do you mean?” His words troubled her a little.

Dominic Lyall moved his powerful shoulders in a deprecative gesture. “I should have thought it would have been obvious, Miss James.”

“What would have been obvious?”

He regarded her with that denegrating unblinking stare. “Why, your recognising me, Miss James. A most – unfortunate occurrence. I’m afraid it means that you will not be leaving here in the morning, after all.”

CHAPTER TWO

FOR several minutes there was complete silence in the room. Helen couldn’t believe she had heard him aright, but something in that lean, harsh countenance warned her that she had.

“You – you can’t be serious!” she said at last.

“I’m afraid I am, Miss James.”

“But – but why? Why?”

“Surely that’s obvious, too. I have no intention of laying myself open to the kind of publicity that the discovery of me living here would create.”

Helen refused to admit to the sense of panic that was churning inside her. “But – but I wouldn’t tell anyone,” she protested, saying the words she had heard so many times on the films and in television when the central character was confronted by some fugitive from the law. But Dominic Lyall was not a fugitive from the law – only from the world!

“I’m afraid I couldn’t take that risk.” He shook his head. “I think the temptation to tell your father that the man he thought dead was alive and well and living in the Lake District would be more than you could stand.”

“It – it wouldn’t!” Helen twisted her hands together. “In – in any case, you can’t keep me here! I – it’s illegal!”

His smile was not pleasant. “Really?”

“But – but it’s insane! I mean, my father will be looking for me!”

“You told me yourself he would never dream of looking for you here.”

“Not initially, no. But if all else fails –”

“By then you will no doubt be free to go back to him.”

She trembled. “What do you mean?”

“Simply that I intend to make arrangements to leave the country. Until I do, you will remain.”

Helen gasped. “But that could take months!”

“Weeks, anyway,” he conceded dryly.

The door opened suddenly behind her and she started nervously. It was the manservant, Bolt, who stood on the threshold, his massive shoulders coated with snow.

“Ah, Bolt, you’re back.” Dominic Lyall greeted the man with a warmth he had not shown to Helen. “Did you find the car?”

Bolt grinned. “Yes, sir. The suitcases are in the hall. If you’ll give me a moment to shed my coat, I’ll show the young lady to her room.”

Dominic Lyall nodded. “Do that, Bolt. And by the way, our house guest’s name is Miss James, Miss Helen James. She’ll be staying with us rather longer than we expected.”

Helen had no idea what message flashed between the two men, but Bolt’s only show of surprise was a faint drawing together of his brows. He tossed Helen’s keys and said: “Yes, sir.”

“I’ll take those,” went on his employer, catching the keys as Bolt tossed them to him. “I’ll explain the situation later, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

Bolt was infuriatingly complacent, and Helen, standing watching the two men, felt absurdly near to tears. This couldn’t be happening to her. It really couldn’t. Dominic Lyall wasn’t seriously intending to keep her here until he made arrangements to leave the country, was he?

“I don’t want to see my room!” she burst out tremulously. “You can’t keep me a prisoner here, you can’t!”

Dominic Lyall’s mouth had a slightly cruel twist. “And how do you propose to prevent me?” he enquired, in a soft, menacing tone.

“I – I’ll run away –”

“Again?”

“I’ll go to the nearest farm – or village. I – I’ll phone for help!”

“There are no phones here, Miss James.”

“I mean – in the village.”

“Do you know the way to the village?” Dominic Lyall asked quietly.

“It shouldn’t be too difficult to find.” Helen’s voice broke.

“In these conditions?”

A sob rose in her throat. “You’re mad! Mad!” She caught her breath. “I don’t want to stay here. I just want to go to Bowness. I promise I won’t tell a soul I’ve seen you. Just let me go!”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Miss James.” Her tormentor turned to Bolt. “We must move the car tomorrow. Before the thaw sets in.”

Bolt nodded. “I’ll see to it in the morning.”

Helen felt a devastating sense of hopelessness. There seemed no way out of this bizarre situation. Out of her own mouth she had condemned herself. If she had not told him of her flight from her father – if she had not recognised him – if, if, if …

“You can’t stop me from trying to escape,” she declared tremulously.

“I shouldn’t advise it,” Dominic Lyall commented, flexing his back muscles.

There was a definite look of weariness about him now and Helen realised with a pang that it was standing so long that tired him. She ought to have felt glad that he was not as invulnerable as he would like her to believe, but she didn’t. A traitorous sense of compassion was stirring within her, and she wondered what it was that had made him spurn the world he knew for this almost ascetic isolation.

Bolt, too, was aware of his master’s discomfort, and with the familiarity of years of service said with anxious reproof: “It’s almost time for your treatment, sir. If you’ll go down, I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve shown Miss James to her room.”

Dominic Lyall’s expression showed vague self-derision as he looked across at Helen. “You see how it is with me?” he demanded bitterly. “I’m like an old piece of machinery that needs constant oiling, aren’t I, Bolt?”

Helen’s lips parted. “You’re not old!” she exclaimed, unable to prevent herself.

“At least as many years older than you were when first you heard my name,” he stated grimly, as a spasm of pain crossed his lean face. “If – you will – excuse me …”

He left the room limping heavily, his hip twisting in a grotesque distortion of itself. Bolt watched him go, an expression of such love and devotion on his face that Helen felt almost an interloper. The cheetah, too, moved silently after its master and then Bolt turned back to her.

“One moment, miss,” he said, unbuttoning his fur-lined overcoat and taking it off. “If you’ll come with me.”

Helen wanted to protest. She ought to protest. She should say all over again that this was crazy, that they couldn’t keep her here against her will, that she would find some way to get away whatever they told her. But she didn’t. Instead, she watched Bolt pick up her suitcases and then followed his enormous frame up the wide oak staircase, her feet sinking into the pile of its leaf-brown and gold carpet.

Like the hall, the staircase was panelled, and halfway up there was a circular window overlooking the back of the house. It was difficult to see anything through the swirling flakes that were still falling, but the brilliance of the snow did give an artificial illumination to the scene.

At the top of the stairs, a long landing led in either direction. A balustrade overlooked the well of the hall below, and Helen silently admired a crystal chandelier suspended there. Bolt led the way along the landing to the right of the stairs passing several doors before halting at the room which was to be hers. He opened the door, switched on the lights and allowed Helen to precede him inside.

There was a soft olive green carpet on the floor and this colour was echoed in the olive and cream bedspread and the long wild silk curtains drawn across the windows. The furniture, the bed, the triple-mirrored dressing table, the wide wardrobe, were made of a dark mahogany, slightly larger than life but not out of place in this high-ceilinged apartment. A radiator ran beneath the window and the room was beautifully warm.

Bolt stood down her suitcases and indicated a door near the wardrobe at the far side of the room. “The bathroom, miss,” he explained, looking round to assure himself that everything was in order. “I’ve put hot water bottles in the bed and they can be refilled later if you need them.”

Helen bit her lip. “Thank you, Bolt,” she said, amazed at her calm acceptance of the situation. Then, as he moved to the door: “By the way …”

“Yes, miss?” He surveyed her politely even while she sensed his impatience to go his master.

“Are you – do you intend to – lock me in?”

Bolt half-smiled, and swung the door closed behind him, and only then did she see the key on her side of the door.

Now that the manservant was gone, Helen moved to the windows, drawing aside the curtains to peer out. Her room appeared to be at the back of the house, but apart from a few snow-clad trees there was little to be seen. She allowed the curtains to swing closed and turned to survey her domain.

She thought a trifle hysterically that no hotel bedroom could be more luxurious and no proprietor more concerned for the comfort of his guest than Bolt. It was ludicrous! The more she thought about it, the more fantastic it seemed. She smoothed her moist palms down the seams at the sides of her trousers. How long was she expected to stay here? How long would it take Dominic Lyall to settle his affairs to his satisfaction and leave the country?

She paced restlessly about the floor, trying to quell the panic that was rising again inside her now that she was alone. Did he really mean what he had said? Or had it been a deliberate ruse to frighten her for his own amusement? She doubted the latter somehow, and yet he was a cultured, civilised man! How could he so cold-bloodedly decide to detain her here against her will until it suited him to let her go? What kind of life had he led these past few years to destroy the pangs of his conscience?

She looked at her watch. It was after six o’clock. Dominic Lyall had said that he had a meal at eight. But right now she doubted her ability to eat anything. And where was he? What sort of treatment did Bolt mete out?

She stopped before her mirror and surveyed her dishevelled appearance without pleasure. Her trouser legs were creased from when she had rolled them up, her hair was wind-blown, and her cheeks bore the scratches she had received when she had plunged headlong through the hedge. She raised a trembling hand to touch a strand of silky black hair. What was she going to do?

An inspection of the bathroom assured her that there was no other means of access than from the bedroom and turning the key in her bedroom door she decided to take a bath. The bath itself was huge, white porcelain and standing on black iron legs. There was plenty of hot water from a gurgling tank and it was amazing how relaxed the scented water made her feel. She had found several jars of bath-salts on a glass shelf above the wash basin, and she had sprinkled them liberally before climbing in.

Eventually, of course, she had to get out again and after letting the water run away she wrapped herself in an enormous white bath towel and went into the bedroom to get some clean underclothes from her case.

But the case was locked and she remembered with irritation that all her keys were on the ring that was presently in Dominic Lyall’s possession.

She stood hesitantly in the middle of the floor, wondering what she should do. She was tempted to go out on to the landing and shout for Bolt, but the vulnerability of her position made her think again. With ill grace she put on the clothes she had taken off and had to satisfy herself by doing her hair and applying a light make-up to her face. Her comb and cosmetics were, thankfully, in her handbag, and at least she did not look so dishevelled when she was finished. The white sweater she had worn with her slacks was reasonably smart and she doubted whether Dominic Lyall would notice anyway. All the same, she determined to have her keys before going to bed. She had no intention of sleeping without a nightgown.

A ripple of awareness ran through her at this thought. But there was no fear that anyone might disturb her in the night, she thought impatiently. Her door locked securely, and was heavy enough to thwart the most determined intruder. Besides, Bolt did not strike her as the sort of man to force his attentions on anyone, and Dominic Lyall …

She licked suddenly dry lips. She didn’t want to think about Dominic Lyall, but it was impossible not to do so. She didn’t want to remember the disruption of her senses when he had touched her earlier, or the fearful fascination he had inspired in her. It was repulsion, she told herself fiercely. She loathed and despised him. She couldn’t be attracted to a man like him, a cripple; a man moreover who had no compunction about twisting her plans to suit his own ends.

And yet she remembered every small detail about him – the curious lightness of his hair, the tawny eyes, and his dark skin, the lean strength of his body, the way the muscles of his thighs had been visible through the taut material of his black trousers, the knee-length boots, and the revealing anguish when he had been in pain. She caught her breath. She couldn’t feel pity for him, she couldn’t! But she did.

Shaking her head so that the heavy swathe of black hair swung confidingly beneath her chin, she unlocked the bedroom door and pulled it open. The landing stretched away before her, dimly lit and deserted. With a muffled exclamation, she switched off her bedroom lights and walked determinedly towards the balustrade at the head of the stairs.

In the hall below, she looked about her distractedly. Which door led into the living room? She couldn’t remember. She approached what she thought was the living room and opened the door only to discover a downstairs cloakroom. She quickly closed it again and tried another, feeling a little like Alice must have felt down the rabbit hole. This room proved to be a small dining apartment with a blank cloth covering a circular table. Was this where she was expected to have her evening meal?

She sighed and then, hearing a sound behind her, spun round. A door across the hall had opened and Dominic Lyall was standing in the aperture, the cheetah, Sheba, at his heels.

“Won’t you join me?” he invited, in the deep attractive voice she had come to know so well in such a short space of time, and with a helpless shrug she obeyed him.

He stood aside to allow her to enter the living room and then closed the door behind them. He had changed from his black clothes into a rich purple silk shirt, cream suede pants that moulded his lean hips, and a darker beige suede waistcoat. His face showed none of the strain which had been evident earlier, and Helen reflected that Bolt must have done his work well. He had the build of a wrestler, but he could be a masseur.

She moved across to the fireplace, keeping an alert eye on the cheetah following her. The fire had been built up with logs in her absence and the occasional table where they had had their tea was now spread with a cloth.

Dominic indicated the armchair she had occupied before. “Please – sit down,” he said. “Can I offer you a drink before supper?”

He might have been addressing an expected guest, and Helen felt a rising frustration. Did he expect her to behave as though that was the case? Was she to offer no obstruction to his plans? How dared he assume that she had nothing to say in the matter?

“As a matter of fact I didn’t come down to have supper with you!” she declared, saying the first thing that came into her head. “I want my keys – the keys to my suitcases. You have no right to keep them. I couldn’t even get a change of clothes after taking a bath!”

Dominic frowned, thrusting a hand into his trousers’ pocket and bringing out the leather key-ring. He examined the assortment of keys thoughtfully, and then said: “I’m sorry. Naturally you want the keys to your suitcases. If you’ll point them out to me …”

Helen stared at him mutinously for a few moments and then without stopping to consider the consequences she rushed forward and tried to snatch the keys from his hand. She didn’t really know what she intended doing with them even if she had been successful. Wild ideas about running out into the night, starting her unstartable car and driving away, were pure fantasy. But she had to do something, anything, to show him that she was not as helpless as he imagined her to be.

Her efforts were doomed to failure. His fingers closed over the key-ring as she sprang forward, and all her frenzied attempts to prise them apart were useless. If she had supposed him weakened in some way, if she had thought that because of his disablement he no longer possessed the strength to withstand attack, she soon realised how wrong she had been. When she flew at him she had half expected him to lose his balance, but he didn’t, and there was an unyielding resistance in his hard body. She was totally unaware that the cheetah was watching them with alert, intelligent eyes, prevented from intervening by a quiet command from its master, but as she continued to pry desperately at his fingers she could not help but be aware of Dominic Lyall. She could feel the heat of his body, she could smell the faintly musky scent that emanated from him, but when she looked up and saw the cruel smile of derision that was twisting his lips, she drew back with a dismayed gasp.

“You – you brute!” she cried tremulously. “They – they’re my keys. I want them.”

“Don’t you think you’re behaving rather foolishly?” he asked, raising eyebrows several shades darker than his hair. “I had already offered to give you the keys you wanted.”

Helen moved her head from side to side in a hopeless gesture. “Why are you doing this?” she demanded, in a defeated voice. “Why can’t you let me go?”

“Tonight?” he mocked.

“No. In the morning.” She made one last appeal to him. “Please!”

“Don’t plead with me,” he exclaimed, contempt colouring his tone. “I despise weakness!”

Helen felt as though he had struck her. With a hand pressed to her throat she turned away from him, gripping the back of the couch in a desperate effort to gain control. Tears burned at the back of her eyes and she badly wanted to give in to them. She felt utterly lost and alone, incapable of any coherent thought. Not even the malevolent stare that Sheba was directing at her for daring to challenge her beloved master could arouse a spark of antagonism inside her.

“Here! Drink this!”

Dominic Lyall thrust a glass into her hand and she looked down at it blankly. “What is it?”

“Brandy,” he replied briefly. “It may help to restore your common sense.”

Helen was tempted to throw the glass to the floor and scatter its contents likewise, but she was badly in need of a restorative. Raising the glass to her trembling lips, she swallowed a mouthful jerkily and then finished it all in a sudden gulp. The spirit stung her throat and she coughed as tears came to her eyes, but she could feel its warmth tingling to the surface.

Dominic Lyall limped round the couch and without waiting for her to join him, seated himself in the armchair at the far side of the blazing fire. He poured himself some Scotch from the bottle on the tray beside his chair and then extracted a narrow cigar from a box on the bookcase nearby. He held a taper to the flames and lit his cigar with evident enjoyment, and Helen stood watching him from behind the couch wondering how he could behave so casually when he must know how she was feeling.

When his cigar was lit to his satisfaction, he put it between his teeth and felt in his pocket for her keys again. He examined them carefully, extracted two keys, and then tossed the others towards her. She was not quick enough to catch them and they fell on the floor at her feet. With a feeling of humiliation she bent to pick them up and saw that he had taken the car ignition key and the smaller key which opened the boot.

“Now,” he said, stretching his long legs out in front of him, “are you going to sit down?”

Helen pressed her lips together. “No,” she said unsteadily, “I’m going to my room. I shall just hope that by the morning you’ll have come to your senses.”

His smile held the mockery she had come to expect. “Don’t be too disappointed if I haven’t,” he commented, removing the cigar from his mouth.

“I – I think you’re despicable!”

“Your opinion of me isn’t important.” He watched her as she walked to the door. “And haven’t you ever heard that a war is fought on the stomachs of its troops? If you don’t have any supper, you’re going to be awfully hungry by the morning.”

Helen stiffened her shoulders. At least in this she could decide for herself. “I – I couldn’t touch your food!” she stated, anger strengthening her determination. “It would make me sick.”

Before she could make a dignified exit on those words of finality, the door opened and Bolt entered the room carrying a tray. She couldn’t see everything he was carrying, but the aroma of curry sauce was unmistakable and she observed a jug of cream that was intended to accompany a mouthwatering fruit pie that balanced on her side of the tray. The manservant looked at Helen in surprise, and then said:

“I thought I’d serve supper in here, sir, seeing that it’s such a wintry night.”

“A good idea,” said Dominic Lyall, smiling with rather more amusement than usual. “Will you join me, Bolt?”

Bolt glanced at Helen again. She was still hovering by the door, almost hypnotised by the smell of food. She was only beginning to realise how ravenously hungry she was, and she half regretted her impulsive rejection of his hospitality.

“But I thought – the young lady –” he began, but Dominic shook his head.

“Msis James – isn’t hungry, Bolt. She said something about feeling – sick?”

His eyes moved to Helen’s uncertain face and their hardness moved her to action.

“That’s right,” she declared, her lower lip quivering in spite of her determination that it should not. “I – I’m rather more particular who I eat with!” And she stalked out of the room, banging the door behind her.

She stood for a moment in the hall after the door had closed, half expecting him to come after her and take some retaliatory action. But all she heard was a burst of laughter which unmistakably issued from Dominic Lyall’s throat, and she realised that the second glass on the tray was used by Bolt …

CHAPTER THREE

HELEN’S bed was superbly comfortable, the hot water bottles reminding her of when she was a child and her mother used to tuck her up with a bedtime story. Only now there was no bedtime story, only the similarities between her plight and that of Beauty and the Beast …

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