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.

The High Valley
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

Copyright

CHAPTER I

THE ballroom of the Monteraverdian Embassy adjoined the buffet area, allowing the guests free passage between the two. Tonight it was a blaze of light and colour, the high-arched ceiling with its intricately painted frescoes illuminated by a hidden iridescence in a multitude of shades, from palest yellow to deepest purple. The tall, fluted columns that supported the ceiling were festooned with climbing tropical plants that here and there blossomed into perfumed beauty, while the orchestra on its dais at the far end of the ballroom was partially concealed by a bank of flowers. The dancers themselves in their vivid evening attire provided a constant panorama of visual sensation, and a delicious aroma of Havana tobacco and expensive cosmetics mingled with the more exotic scents of good food and rich wine.

Morgana Mallory glanced towards the spot where Ruth and her parents had been only a moment before, wondering how they were reacting to such an overwhelming atmosphere and found that she was momentarily alone.

Immediately, she felt almost panic-stricken, her eyes searching the crowds that thronged around her in careless haste. She was not used to receptions of this kind, indeed this was the first she had attended, and she had not been long enough in Brazil to feel any confidence when she could not speak the language. After all, her life with her father back in England had been singularly uneventful, and since arriving in Rio to stay with Ruth and her parents she had found the hectic pace of their lives rather terrifying.

Now, she turned and began to thread her way through the assembled groups of guests, avoiding a carelessly-held drink here or a rather too amorous gaze there, wondering all the while how she could have been so stupid as to get separated from her friends. Obviously, her absorbed contemplation of her surroundings had made her deaf to their instructions and now she felt hopelessly alone.

She reached one of the ornately carved arches that led through to the buffet supper room and breathed slightly more freely out of that encroaching mass of humanity. She looked about her desperately, longing to see a familiar face, but suddenly without warning she came up against an immovable force, and strong arms grasped her forearms preventing her from stumbling backwards as she most certainly would have done.

“Oh, I beg your pardon –” she began, apologetically, attempting to free herself with all speed, and looked up into a dark, arresting face, the eyes of which regarded her with faint amusement. Abruptly, the man let her go and stepped back out of her path, and Morgana hastened on, aware that her arms still tingled from that unexpected encounter.

Just as she was beginning to wonder whatever she was going to do a hand grabbed her arm, and Ruth's familiar and slightly impatient voice said: “Morgana! What are you doing? I've been looking everywhere for you!”

Morgana turned, a relieved smile spreading over her flushed face. “Oh, Ruth!” she exclaimed. “Thank goodness, it's you! I was beginning to think I'd never find you again. What happened. Where did you go?”

“Where did we go?” Ruth gave a toss of her head. “I should be asking you that question. Heavens, Mummy and Daddy had to go and be introduced to the Ambassador, and I was with them. We thought you were with us, too, but then – you weren't!”

Morgana bit her lip. “Oh, I'm sorry, Ruth. I guess I was just so excited looking about and everything. I didn't hear what you must have said.”

Ruth sighed, her rather plain features not enhanced by this display of bad humour. “Very well, then, come along. Mummy and Daddy are waiting for us over there.” She waved a careless hand in the direction of the ballroom.

Morgana gave her a slightly placatory smile and Ruth seemed to relent, for she tucked her arm into Morgana's and said: “Aren't there some simply ghastly gowns being worn? Have you seen that enormous woman in a kind of chiffon bell-tent in that awful shade of cyclamen?”

Morgana squeezed Ruth's arm. “That's rather unkind,” she said teasingly. “No doubt the dress is at least worth a dozen times the price of this.” She glanced down at her own gown, a simple affair of dark blue crěpe, with a long straight skirt below a swathed bodice, which nevertheless was the ideal foil for her pale hair.

Ruth eyed her rather enviously. “You must know the cheapest clothes look elegant on you,” she retorted, which Morgana thought was a kind of back-handed compliment, but refrained from saying so. Ruth had always said exactly what she thought and if what she said sometimes hurt her listener it was usually unintentional.

Ruth's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Dennison, were engaged in conversation with an elderly man and another woman who was apparently his wife, and Ruth said in an undertone to Morgana that he was one of the secretaries at the Embassy. “These affairs are always terribly formal,” she complained, glancing round at the guests. “Everyone seems to spend their time discussing politics or business of one kind or another, and I'm sure these receptions are used as an excuse to get all the men together.” She sighed resignedly.

“It is very exciting though, isn't it?” said Morgana, now recovered from her fright of finding herself abandoned. “I mean – do you attend a lot of functions like this?”

Ruth gave her a bored look. “Oh, lord, yes,” she exclaimed. “There's always some kind of social gathering going on in diplomatic circles. You've only been here three days, Morgana, but you'll soon get used to it.”

Morgana smiled. “I imagine by the time I get used to this I shall be leaving Brazil,” she remarked. “After all, I promised my father I'd join him in two weeks.”

Ruth lifted her shoulders. “Yes, that's a pity. Still, I'm only glad you could come at all. After all, had your father not been invited on this lecture tour of California, I doubt whether he would have allowed you to come so far alone.”

Morgana nodded. “That's true. Since my mother died he's felt rather a strong responsibility where I am concerned. That's really how I came to attend Brackenbury. I doubt very much whether, in the normal course of events, my parents would have been able to afford a boarding school for me.”

Ruth raised her eyebrows. “And then we never should have met, which would have been a pity,” she commented sardonically. “Anyway, never mind, you're here now, and you can't imagine how wonderful it is having someone to talk to. There aren't many people of my age in our diplomatic circles, and sometimes I get positively depressed thinking how long Daddy will be here on his mission. You don't know how I envy you your life in England, near London and so on. This is practically uncivilised by comparison.”

Morgana raised her dark eyebrows, and helped herself to two cocktails from a tray held by a passing waiter. Handing one to Ruth, she said: “I don't suppose the Brazilians would care to hear your description of their cultural capital, Ruth. Besides, I think Rio is a marvellous place. You'd certainly miss the sun and the beaches if you came back to England. And, you don't really want to do that. As for preferring my life – well – we don't lead a particularly exciting existence. Oh, now and then we go up to town to a concert or to the theatre, and occasionally there's a local gathering my father wants to attend. But we don't spend our time going from one social function to another as you and your parents seem to do. Nor do I find London very inspiring. I prefer Friars Warren every time.”

Ruth nodded, sipping her cocktail reminiscently. “I remember Friars Warren quite well,” she smiled. “I did enjoy my visits there, Morgana. Your father was so kind to me. I remember on speech days and prizegivings, when my parents couldn't attend, he always made me feel part of your family. I thought he was marvellous. He's so young.”

Morgana chuckled. “He would like to hear you say so,” she remarked dryly. “He's forty-two, you know.”

“It was a pity your mother died as she did,” said Ruth, sighing. “Peritonitis always seems so unnecessary somehow. I mean, if the appendix is such a useless organ, why are we given one?”

Morgana shrugged. “Who knows? Anyway, that was all a long time ago now and we were talking about you, not me. Surely you have some friends here.”

Ruth finished her cocktail. “Not many. As I said before there aren't many young people in diplomatic circles here and the older ones don't seem to have offspring of my age!”

Morgana glanced around. “But there are heaps of young people here tonight.”

Ruth raised her eyes in an expressive gesture. “Oh, yes, there are young people. But Daddy doesn't encourage me to get involved with South Americans!”

Morgana frowned. “Heavens, why?”

“He says they're a very volatile race of people, highly emotional and probably unstable, and quite frankly, darling, I can't see myself succumbing to Latin charms!”

Morgana regarded her friend with amazement. “So all your friends have to be British, is that it?”

“Not exactly. Europeans aren't so bad and North Americans are perfectly acceptable.”

Morgana shook her head. “Well, I think you're wasting a fabulous opportunity,” she exclaimed. “And quite honestly, my father wouldn't dream of trying to influence me when it came to choosing my friends.”

Ruth grimaced. “Oh, well, you know Daddy's awfully socially conscious. He can't help it, and Mother flaps so if I make a scene.”

Morgana turned away, her feet unconsciously moving in time to the rhythmic music that was issuing from the orchestra's dais. She could understand Ruth's problems, having met Mrs. Dennison, but she thought Mr. Dennison's reasoning was narrow and old-fashioned. Personally, she found the dark-skinned Brazilians a particularly attractive combination of their arrogant Portuguese ancestry and modern chivalry. But it was no business of hers and presently Ruth's parents concluded their conversation with the embassy official and rejoined their daughter and Morgana.

“Well, Morgana,” said Mr. Dennison jovially. ‘Are you enjoying yourself? We lost you as we came in, didn't we?”

Morgana smiled politely. “I'm afraid so,” she admitted. “It was all so unusual and exciting I didn't hear what you said. But I am enjoying myself. I didn't realise it would be such an impressive affair.”

Mr. Dennison nodded. “Oh, these affairs are usually well-attended. And particularly here, at the Monteraverdian Embassy. Right now there's trouble brewing in Monteraverde and quite honestly I think this reception is a deliberate attempt to show where the power lies.”

Morgana listened with real interest. The violent politics of these South American states never failed to fascinate her. “Do you mean there is likely to be a revolution?” she asked, excitement making her eyes sparkle.

Mr. Dennison chuckled. “I shouldn't think so,” he answered, dampeningly. “The presidente, Queras, is not a man to risk being overthrown.” He lowered his voice. “Even now, there are rumours of reprisals being taken against a handful of guerillas who were captured some weeks ago. At present they're in prison in Queranova, awaiting trial and sentence.”

“Queranova?” echoed Morgana, with interest. “That's a similar name to the president's, isn't it?”

Mrs. Dennison gave an impatient click of her tongue. “Of course. These revolutionaries always attempt immortalisation by naming highways and towns after themselves, and then the next government comes along and renames them all in their own image. It's juvenile!”

Morgana shrugged her slim shoulders. “I suppose it's life,” she remarked. “And such vagaries are not the sole prerogative of the South Americans. Isn't Kennedy Airport named after the late president of the United States?”

Mrs. Dennison bestowed a slightly impatient glance upon her. “That's quite different, Morgana,” she averred, and turned her attention to other matters. “Laurence, isn't that Colonel Matthews over there?”

Mr. Dennison drew his eyes away from the attractive picture Morgana made in her dark blue gown, her hair a silvery curtain about her shoulders, and looked in the direction his wife indicated. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “And that's his wife, Sheralyn. Do you want to meet her?”

Mrs. Dennison's face grew harsher. “No, thank you. Imagine a man of his age marrying a slip of a girl like her!” There was censure in her voice. “He must be almost forty.”

“You would have had me marry him, Mummy,” Ruth remarked dryly. “And I'm only twenty-two. Sheralyn is around my age, surely.”

Mrs. Dennison grimaced. “That's altogether different. You're – well – mature, for your age.”

Ruth cast a mocking glance in Morgana's direction. “You ought to be grateful you have no designing matron on your heels,” she murmured, in an undertone, and Morgana hid a smile.

Presently, two attachés and their wives joined their group, and as the men had already danced with their wives, the women did not object when their husbands invited Morgana and Ruth to dance. Morgana was glad of the opportunity to escape from Mrs. Dennison's rather boring chatter for a while and Michael Lawson, her partner, entertained her by telling her who some of the guests were. Among this glittering throng of people there were television personalities, film stars, ambassadors and consuls, and the usual accompaniment of officials, all of whom had been welcomed by a huge man who stood by the bar at the end of the room, talking to some of his guests.

“That's Juan Montoya,” said Michael, as they passed the group. “Weren't you introduced to him on your arrival?”

“I'm afraid I got lost,” explained Morgana, with a smile, momentarily remembering the man who had collided with her so briefly.

“I see.” Michael nodded. “And I imagine Mrs. Dennison made a beeline for His Excellency!”

Morgana caught the twinkle in his eye. “Probably,” she agreed.

Later in the evening, they sat in the buffet lounge watching the guests dancing and enjoying some of the delicious food that was available. Morgana had some shell fish, and tasted the em padinhas de camarao, or shrimp pasties, light pastries spiced with olives and peppers, one of the local delicacies. There was plenty of meat, cooked in a variety of ways, and fruit and cheese for those who wanted it. The wines they drank were light and palatable, but Morgana preferred the fruit cordials which were freshly squeezed and slightly bitter.

The Lawsons, and the other man, David Grover and his wife, had stayed with their party, and they had also been joined by a young American army officer called Hugh Bernard. They were all sitting together, talking companionably, in the lounge, when Morgana saw again the man that she had accidentally bumped into. But now he was not alone, two other men and a girl were with him. Curious, in spite of herself, Morgana turned to Michael Lawson who was sitting to one side of her, and said: “Who are they? Do you know?”

Ruth who was on her other side, leant forward to listen, and Michael followed her gaze with interest. “Oh, you mean the Salvador brothers, Luis and Ricardo,” he replied. “That oldish man with them is Vittorio Salvador, their uncle. I don't know the girl. Why?”

Morgana coloured and shrugged her slim shoulders. “I was curious, that's all,” she answered swiftly, taking a sip of the wine from the glass that was on the table in front of her.

Michael studied her expression. “They're certainly a striking pair,” he commented dryly. “But like many handsome animals, they are also dangerous!”

Laurence Dennison had caught the drift of their conversation, and now he leaned across the table and said: “Are you talking about the Salvador brothers?”

Morgana felt slightly impatient at his intrusion, but Michael merely nodded. “Yes, we were. Why?”

Mr. Dennison glanced round surreptitiously. “You have heard they're supposed to be behind the guerillas in Monteraverde?”

Michael shrugged. “Do you believe it? Would Montoya let them come here like this if he thought –”

“He can't prove anything,” said Mr. Dennison, authoritatively. “Much as he would like to. And without proof, what can he do? After all, their father did hold a position of power for many years, and they're well-liked in Monteraverde.”

“Yes, but …” Michael lay back in his seat thoughtfully. “I can't believe they're involved. Besides, isn't Luis entering the priesthood?”

Mr. Dennison sniffed. “I heard that, too. But nowadays anything is possible. The biggest villain living can wear a saintly smile!”

Michael shrugged, and David Grover took up the conversation. “Are you saying that the Salvador brothers are villains, Laurie?” he queried lightly.

“I don't know.” Laurence Dennison shrugged his shoulders.

Ruth made a face at Morgana. “What did I tell you?” she asked resignedly. “Politics, politics, politics! Do I not get sick of that word?”

Morgana smiled. “I suppose I'm to blame for this,” she said ruefully.

Ruth shook her head. “Oh, no. They only needed an excuse. Anything would do.”

“Well, anyway,” Michael was saying, “Queras has done some pretty doubtful things in his time. Who's to say that a revolution wouldn't be for the better?”

Mr. Dennison frowned. “Better for whom?” he questioned quietly. “And you be careful what you say, young Lawson. The eyes and ears of the world, you know …”

Michael grimaced. “What? Here?” he exclaimed. “In this cacophony of sound? I think not.”

Morgana lay back in her seat, her eyes drifting irresistibly back to that small group of three men and one woman. The man was looking her way and for a moment their eyes met and locked. Then he inclined his head politely and looked away, but not before his brother had observed that salutory recognition. Morgana saw the brother say something to him and then she looked swiftly down at her drink on the table, a hot flush staining her cheeks. She felt strangely exhilarated, and her hands trembled as she lifted her glass. It was ridiculous to feel this way, and yet there was something about the man's dark leanness that disturbed her unfathomably. But to her astonishment, a few moments later she found both of the brothers at her side which succeeded in grasping the attention of every member of their party. Morgana felt terribly embarrassed, and wondered with a sinking heart why they had come.

The brother she had not encountered seemed to appoint himself spokesman, for he said: “Excuse me, senhorita, but may I be permitted to invite you to dance with me?”

Morgana was astounded, and she looked awkwardly across at Mr. Dennison for guidance. Mrs. Dennison was looking positively horrified and even Ruth seemed surprised. Laurence Dennison rose to his feet abruptly. “Miss Mallory is with our party, senhor,” he said formally. “I do not think –”

The man looked at Dennison sardonically. “Is it not permitted that Miss – er – Mallory should speak for herself?” he queried, with a trace of insolence.

Morgana breathed jerkily. She felt terrible. She was aware of the other man with every fibre of her being as he stood slightly behind her chair, and she wondered why it was that it should be his brother who was asking her to dance. She looked at the taut disapproving faces of Mrs. Dennison, and Ruth, and rose to her feet.

Mr. Dennison was on his dignity. “Senhor, Miss Mallory is a friend of my daughter's, newly arrived in Brazil, and she is not used to the country yet. The customs are alien to her, and while I am sure she appreciates your gesture, you are not known to her, and naturally she is embarrassed. Indeed, senhor, I do not believe you have ever made the acquaintance of my wife.”

“That is true.” The man bowed slightly in Mrs. Dennison's direction. “We can remedy that oversight immediately. Allow me to introduce myself, senhores, senhoras, I am Ricardo Salvador, at your service.”

Mrs. Dennison nodded rather distantly, and Morgana glanced doubtfully at Ruth's father. Then she said: “Of course I will dance with you, Senhor Salvador.” She looked apologetically at the others. “Will you excuse me?”

Ruth's eyes flickered with amazement at her temerity, and Mr. Dennison gave an impatient movement of his shoulders. Then Morgana turned and encountered for the first time the gaze of the other man. His eyes were narrowed, but she noticed they were a peculiarly tawny shade, and right now they were as cool and distant as those of Mrs. Dennison. This then must be Luis Salvador, she thought swiftly. The man Michael Lawson had said was entering the priesthood. The palms of her hands felt suddenly damp. Was that why he was allowing his brother to invite her to dance? And why was Ricardo Salvador inviting her to dance anyway? The questions buzzed in her head, and she scarcely noticed the ardent gaze Ricardo bestowed upon her as he led her through the arched entrance to the ballroom.

But when he drew her into his arms he made certain that she was aware of him, holding her close against the broad muscularity of his body with possessive expertise.

Morgana pressed one hand against his chest in an effort to loosen his hold on her, and he smiled mockingly. “What is wrong, senhorita?’ he queried. “We dance well together, do we not? You are very simpatica with the music, I think.”

Morgana gave him a wry glance. “And is this how you hold a dancing partner in Monteraverde, senhor? Are you so unsure of your charm that you must prevent any attempt to escape?”

His smile widened into a grin. “Touché, senhorita, I see you have spirit. That, I like.” He allowed her a little more freedom. “But tell me, why did you agree to dance with the henchman of O Halcão? Particularly as the good Senhor Dennison so obviously did not wish you to do so?”

Morgana regarded him curiously. “I choose my own dancing partners, senhor.”

“You are a brave woman, senhorita. Such liberties raise eyebrows in Brazilian society.”

“But I am English, senhor.”

“Yes, I know. Besides, such fairness of skin is seldom seen in this dark continent. You are staying with the Dennisons, si?”

“Yes.” Morgana nodded, her eyes wandering swiftly round the room unconsciously searching for another pair of eyes which were undeniably watching her with brooding concentration. She could sense it like a tangible force. “Tell me, senhor, why did you ask me to dance?”

Ricardo Salvador laughed. “Such candour is refreshing. Is it inconceivable that I should wish to dance with so beautiful a female?”

Morgana shrugged. “You did not know me, senhor. And there are many more beautiful women here tonight.”

“My brother, a ciegas, drew my attention to you, senhorita.”

“Your brother,” murmured Morgana, softly.

Ricardo regarded her intently. “You know my brother, senhorita?”

Morgana shook her head rather too quickly. “No.”

“But you would like to, perhaps?” His eyes were calculating.

“No. That is – don't make ridiculous observations, senhor.”

Ricardo's expression hardened. “To observe is to live, senhorita,” he said, coolly. Then, more gently: “My brother is not for you, senhorita. He is too – how shall I put it – too solenhne, serio! Besides, what need have we for Luis? I am here, and already enchanted by your personality, senhorita.”

Morgana felt exasperated by his easy familiarity. “You presume too much, senhor,” she said sharply. “We are dancing one dance together, that is all.”

“You think so?” Ricardo was contemptuous. “I think not. From the moment I saw you I sensed that there was to be more between us than just a dance!”

Morgana glanced round. “You're very gallant, senhor, but I'm surprised at the hackneyed approach you use.”

Ricardo frowned. “Hackneyed, senhorita? What is hackneyed?”

Morgana laughed at the peculiar way he spoke the word. “It means – well-used, a cliché.”

“Ah, clise, I understand, senhorita.“ His eyes darkened. “But I was not making – how did you say it – an approach? I was serio!”

Morgana wished the orchestra would come to the end of its medley of popular tunes and allow her to escape back to the Dennisons. Her moment of independence was getting out of hand, and she had no desire to incite an argument with anyone so volatile as Ricardo Salvador.

To her relief, the music came to its finale, and everyone applauded politely and began to make their way back to their friends. When Morgana would have released herself from Ricardo, he caught her arm in a firm grip and propelled her smoothly across the floor to where his brother and his uncle were waiting together with several other people.

“You must let me go back to my friends,” Morgana was protesting as they reached the others, but Ricardo merely smiled a rather cruel smile, and said:

“Presently, senhorita, presently.”

Morgana heaved a sigh and resigned herself to the knowledge that so long as they were here, in the ballroom, nothing unforeseen was likely to happen to her. Even so, she was apprehensive, and she wondered what Ricardo Salvador's friends and relations would make of all this.

Luis Salvador looked penetratingly at his brother as they reached the group, and Morgana sensed his hostility. He was at once like and yet unlike Ricardo in appearance. They were both tall, and lean, and naturally dark-skinned, but there the resemblance ended. Ricardo's features were evenly formed and without doubt he was a handsome creature, whereas Luis's face was thinner, his eyes more deeply set, and there were harsh lines beside his nose and mouth. Both had dark hair, Ricardo's sleekly combed against his well-shaped head, while Luis's hair fell forward across his right temple and sometimes he swept it back with an impatient hand. Ricardo returned his brother's stare challengingly, and then said: “You have been watching us, Luis. Perhaps you would like to dance with the senhorita yourself?”

Luis Salvador's eyes narrowed angrily. “We will settle this later, Ricardo,” he said, in remarkably controlled tones.

Vittorio Salvador, the man Michael had said was their uncle, stepped forward. He was a much older man, and his long moustache and beard were liberally tinged with grey. But his eyes were startlingly alert, and they became gentle as they rested on Morgana.

“You must forgive Ricardo,” he said, lifting his shoulders in an eloquent gesture. “He is still a boy in some ways, and he delights in – annoying – his brother. Luis!” He turned to the other man. “Perhaps you would escort the senhorita back to her friends?”

“Por certo,” responded Luis, politely, and indicated that Morgana should lead the way.

Morgana glanced once at Ricardo and half-smiled, and he smiled in return. “We shall meet again, senhorita, be assured,” he said.

Morgana restrained any retort she might have made, and looked about her uncertainly, trying to get her bearings. In the crowds around the ballroom it was difficult to know exactly where she was. Luis Salvador saw her indecision, and placed a hand on her bare elbow to guide her. Morgana was overwhelmingly conscious of that contact, and once as they came up against a barrier of people, she turned and looked up at his face. His features were taut, and a muscle jerked in his cheek, and she frowned. He was as aware of her as she was of him, she thought disturbingly. They were close to the buffet area now, and she stopped suddenly and said: “Why didn't you ask me to dance, senhor?”

His eyes met hers. “I do not dance, senhorita,” he replied emotionlessly.

Morgana frowned. “You don't – or you don't want to?”

The muscles of his jaw tightened. “What would you have me say, senhorita?”

Morgana shook her head slowly. “The truth, perhaps. If – if I asked you to dance, would you dance with me?”

As she waited for his reply she wondered what it was that was driving her to say these things. Perhaps it was the unusual amount of wine she had consumed, she didn't know, but she was more curious about this man than about any other man she had ever met. Now, he studied her expression intently, and she moved a little restlessly under that scrutiny.

“Senhorita, join your friends. Do not involve yourself with people and things that you do not understand.”

Morgana was impatient. “You are not like your brother, are you, senhor?”

His nostrils flared slightly. “If you say not, senhorita.”

Morgana chewed her lower lip. “He, at least, is polite.”

“I, too, am polite, senhorita. If I have appeared otherwise, then I sincerely apologise.”

Morgana was annoyed. “Perhaps that was the wrong word to use, senhor. You are polite, too polite, perhaps.”

Luis Salvador lifted his shoulders. “I was under the impression that you were a – lady, senhorita.”

Morgana trembled a little. “You did want to dance with me, I know you did!” she averred, her cheeks flushed.

“You are mistaken, senhorita, but if it means so much to you …”

His fingers slid down her arm to her wrist, gripping it cruelly, and he turned and thrust his way through the throng to the edge of the dance floor pulling her after him. It was no use protesting. His strength was evident in the iron-like hold he had upon her wrist, and she thought he was hurting her deliberately. When they reached the dance floor, he did not give her time to object, but pulled her closely into his arms, so that she was intensely aware of him with every fibre of her being. The music was slower now, and the floor more closely filled, and it was unlikely that they would be observed from the side. Even so, Morgana felt a sense of outrage that he should dare to treat her in this manner. They moved slowly, and as he was taller than she was, she had to tilt back her head to look at him.

“I hope you realise you have humiliated me,” she said, hotly, trying to maintain her anger in the face of more disturbing emotions.

He drew back slightly and looked down at her, his dark lashes veiling the tawny eyes. “Why?” he queried. “This is what you wanted, was it not, senhorita?”

Morgana compressed her lips. “You are impossible!” she exclaimed, uncomfortably.

“Why? Because I accepted the challenge you so carelessly offered?” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Forgive me! There are times when my reactions appal even myself.” His face was withdrawn.

Morgana puzzled over this. Then she lifted her shoulders philosophically. “I suppose I am as much to blame,” she admitted, honestly. “But I don't understand you.”

Luis's eyes grew distant. “Do not try, senhorita. It is better that you forget this incident. My brother was – using you, that is all. And now, you will go back to your friends?”

Morgana stared at him impatiently. It was impossible to penetrate that dispassionate façade, and it was devastating to realise just how badly she wanted to do just that. Her youth, her beauty, the yielding quality of her body against his seemed to mean nothing to this man, and all she had succeeded in arousing in him was a momentary spurt of anger. With a feeling of helplessness, she pushed him away from her.

“I can find my own way back!” she announced coldly, and turning began pushing her way through the dancers to the side. Her cheeks were burning, and yet there was an awful cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. He did not follow her. She did not expect him to, and she knew the rest of the evening would just be an anti-climax. But she still had the Dennisons to face.

The group was where she had left it, and she slid into her seat almost surreptitiously, hoping her arrival would go unnoticed in the current buzz of conversation. But she might have known it was a vain hope. Mrs. Dennison was far too interested to allow her to get away with it.

“Well!” she said, accusingly. “You certainly have taken your time. Where have you been. Surely not with that man!”

Morgana sighed. “Where else do you suppose I have been.”

Ruth touched her arm. “We thought you might have made some excuse and gone to the powder room,” she said. “Do you mean you didn't?”

“Of course not. Actually – actually Mr. Salvador was – very polite.”

The Dennisons exchanged a look. “Indeed.” That was Ruth's father. “It might interest you to know that you played right into his hands by accepting. Good heavens, he could come back right now and ask Ruth or my wife to dance and what excuse could they make?”

Morgana flushed. “I'm sorry. I didn't think of that.”

“You didn't think, I agree.” Laurence Dennison lit a cigarette impatiently.

“Oh, come on, now.” That was Michael Lawson. “Where's the harm? Salvador isn't a savage. Nor are his relatives. If Morgana wanted to dance with him, why not? He's a pretty handsome beast, don't you agree?”

Morgana looked at Michael gratefully, but Mrs. Dennison was not to be placated. “Morgana is here as our guest. Surely it's obvious that she should adhere to Laurie's wishes. Heavens, it was clear enough that he didn't want her to accept.”

Morgana bit her lip. “Well, I'm sorry if I've offended you,” she said, awkwardly. “I – I guess this – isn't England.”

Ruth gave a bored yawn. “Well, let's forget it, eh, Mummy? Morgana's back now – in one piece. Where's the problem?”

Mrs. Dennison sniffed. “All right, all right. I've said all I'm going to.”

“Good.” Ruth turned to Lieutenant Bernard. “Come on,” she said, smiling. “You promised to teach me the bossa nova.”

After they had gone, and Mrs. Dennison's attention had been distracted elsewhere, Morgana turned to Michael.

“Thanks,” she murmured, softly.

Michael grinned. “Think nothing of it.” Then he glanced at his wife, saw that she was engrossed in conversation with David Grover's wife, and said: “Seriously though, you did take one hell of a chance. Like Laurie said, the Salvadors are not acceptable escorts for a girl. They are reputed to be involved with the guerillas, and their ideas of what is right and what is wrong are not ours, do you understand?”

Morgana was glad of the glass of wine in her fingers. It gave her something to do with her hands. “I think so,” she replied quietly. “But it was only a dance!”

Michael frowned. “Yes. I wonder why he chose you.”

Morgana's colour deepened. “So do I,” she said.

CHAPTER II

THE airport at Galeao was cool and air-conditioned after the heat outside the building, and Morgana sat with Ruth in the airport bar, sipping iced lager and waiting for her flight to be called, with pleasurable regret that her holiday was over. These two weeks in Rio had been quite delightful, and she was sorry she had to leave. Yet for all that, in some ways she would be glad to get away. Rio, Brazil, South America; these things were synonymous in her mind with other, more disturbing memories, and she longed to get back among familiar things and familiar people. Of course, she was flying to Los Angeles first, to join her father, but soon afterwards they would be en route for London and home.

Her faint dissatisfaction with her holiday and with herself had stemmed from that eventful night at the Monteraverdian Embassy, and she had found it difficult preventing her thoughts from turning continually to the Salvador brothers. It was ridiculous, of course, and yet she had wondered whether Ricardo might try to get in touch with her. He knew she was staying with the Dennisons, and there were such things as telephones, but no one had called, and she had been unable to dispel the disappointment this had aroused in her. Not, she told herself firmly, that she would have accepted any invitation which might have been offered, but just to satisfy herself that Ricardo had not been using her as Luis had said he was.

Now, Ruth regarded her regretfully, and said: “I shall miss you, Morgana. These two weeks have been marvellous for me. Having someone to go about with, someone to share things with.”

Morgana smiled. “They've been wonderful for me, too, Ruth,” she replied, warmly. “You must persuade your parents to allow you to come to England and stay with us. Not that I can promise you a very exciting life at Friars Warren, but at least we could go to concerts and the theatre, and there are several young men, suitably unattached, I could introduce you to.”

Ruth chuckled. “Now when would a young man notice me with you around?” she enquired, with resigned amusement.

Morgana frowned. “Don't be silly, Ruth, I'm serious. I should hazard a guess that you'd be quite a sensation in our small town with all that russet-coloured hair, and that marvellous tan!”

Ruth sighed. “We'll see.” She traced the pattern in the wood of the bar counter. “I would like to take you up on that some time, though. I'd like to see your father again.”

Morgana raised her eyebrows. “Indeed? I shall begin to think it's my father you're most interested in shortly!” she laughed.

Ruth shrugged. “Well, he is unattached, isn't he”

Morgana stared at her incredulously. “Are you serious?”

“Of course.” Ruth smiled. “No, don't worry, Morgana, I'm sure your father isn't interested in me.”

Morgana shook her head. “I never suspected,” she exclaimed.

“What? What was there to suspect? I guess it was just that he was there, and I was young enough to become enamoured of him. Don't alarm yourself. He did not give me any encouragement. He just regarded me, as he regarded you, I suppose.”

Morgana cupped her chin in her hand. “Thank you for confiding in me. Don't you think though it was just a schoolgirl crush? After all, we're twenty-two now, and you haven't seen him for three years.”

“I know.” Ruth bent her head. “Maybe you're right. In retrospect, though, those times I spent at Friars Warren seem the most happy times of my childhood.”

Morgana frowned. “I don't believe it. Why, your parents used to take you everywhere in the long summer vac. I remember you going to Switzerland and Italy, even to the States.”

“Yes, but that's not the same, is it? I mean, they didn't talk to me, not like your father talked to you. Somehow Mummy and Daddy have always seemed remote from childish contact. We went everywhere, as you say, but just as in Rio they attend these continual social functions when we were abroad they attended others. You see – wherever they go, they have friends, and they give parties …” She sighed. “I suppose now I'm supposed to appreciate it, too, and to a certain extent I do, but just now and then I wish we had an ordinary life, like you and your father.”

Morgana regarded her sympathetically. “Well, as soon as I get home we'll get something arranged,” she promised, gently. “I can't promise you my father's company though. Since he joined the university he's been kept pretty busy.”

“He must be clever,” said Ruth, with interest. “I mean – Daddy's work is so – so boring.”

Morgana smiled. “Economics are not exactly exciting,” she commented dryly.

Ruth squeezed her arm. “Oh, any minute now they're going to call your flight. Couldn't you ring your father and tell him you've been delayed, or something, and stay another couple of days?”

Morgana shook her head regretfully. “No, I've got to go. But I'll write, just as soon as I get home.”

Ruth nodded. “See you do.” She looked round the bar speculatively. “I wonder if all these people are waiting for your flight?”

Morgana looked about her. “Maybe,” she was saying casually, when her palms suddenly moistened, and the colour drained from her cheeks. A man was standing across from them with his back to them. His height and the set of his shoulders were remarkably like those of the Salvador brothers, but then he turned and Morgana saw that he was a stranger.

Ruth had noticed Morgana's sudden tension, and glanced round quickly. “Who is it? What's wrong, Morgana?” she exclaimed.

Morgana let out a deep breath, unaware until that moment that she had been holding it. “Why – nothing,” she denied, awkwardly.

Ruth frowned and looked round again. “It was that man, wasn't it? That dark man. You thought it was Ricardo Salvador.”

Morgana lifted her shoulders indifferently, the colour returning to her cheeks. Sipping her lager, she said: “So what if I did?”

“Well, he had some effect on you, didn't he? What did he say to you that should cause you such a degree of tension? You never did say much about that affair.”

“There was nothing to say,” replied Morgana, wishing she had not caused this topic to be raised.

“No?” Ruth looked sceptical. “And you turn pale at the suggestion of sight of him? Honestly, Morgana, what do you take me for?”

Morgana bent her head. Ruth had been honest with her about Morgana's father. She deserved honesty in return. “It – it wasn't Ricardo Salvador I was concerned about,” she said, slowly. “It was Luis.”

“Luis!” Ruth stared at her in astonishment. “But you don't know Luis, do you?”

Morgana sighed. “Only slightly. I danced with him, too.”

“I see. So that's why you were so long.” Ruth nodded. “And – and was he – well – fresh with you?”

Morgana could have laughed, but there was no mirth in this situation. “Oh, no,” she said. “No, not at all.”

Ruth was intrigued. “Then I simply don't understand,” she said, frowning.

Morgana looked at her through her long lashes. “Well, nor do I, actually,” she confessed wryly.

As Ruth would have said more, the tannoy system came into operation and Morgana's flight was called. Morgana finished her drink and slid off her stool. But when Ruth would have accompanied her, she shook her head. “No, please,” she said. “Don't come with me. I hate goodbyes. Let's just say cheerio here, and I'll see you in London – soon.”

Ruth compressed her lips. “If that's what you want, Morgana,” she agreed. “Until – until London then!”

“That's right. Goodbye, Ruth.” Morgana squeezed her hand gently, and then turned and walked blindly through the tables to the exit.

The aircraft was barely half full when it took off from Galeao. It was a smaller plane than the one which had brought Morgana from New York after she had left her father to fly on to California and she was lucky enough to have a window seat. Looking down on the sweep of shore line that bordered the thickly populated environs of Rio de Janeiro, she felt a pang of regret at leaving so much beauty behind. There was poverty, too, of course, but the rugged coves that could be found only a few miles’ drive out from the city centre with their white beaches and foaming surf more than compensated for the ugliness of the favellas. And yet the remarkable thing was that despite deplorable housing conditions and lack of amenities the people maintained a wholly vital spirit that no amount of misery could destroy. The massive statue of Christ passed away below them and the plane turned inland to cross the jagged peaks of the sierras. Faint patches of cloud dispersed slowly below them as the shadows lengthened and Morgana could distinguish the arid slopes,’ sun-burned above the lush foliage below. It was a panorama of grey and brown and blue, the valleys shadowed by the high slopes of the ranges that towered one above the other. It seemed impossible that the sun should ever penetrate those tropical forests that bordered swiftly running rivers and she felt a quiver of excitement pass through her.

The sun went down in a blaze of glory, and darkness hid the majesty of the primitive land below their fragile craft. Morgana gave her attention to the magazines she had bought at the airport, and tried to relax. Across the aisle she saw the man from the airport bar, the dark-skinned man who had reminded her so vividly of the Salvadors. He looked her way and she encountered his gaze and looked swiftly away again, not wanting to appear inquisitive, and thereafter she concentrated on her books.

Dinner was served soon after, and she ate sparingly, enjoying the coffee that followed the meal. She was in the process of closing her eyes to try and sleep for a while when several things happened all at once which afterwards became inextricably tangled in her confused mind.

She remembered there was a cry from the rear of the plane. Some old man had had a heart seizure, or at least that was what everybody thought. The two stewardesses hastened back to attend to him and while Morgana, like everyone else, was curiously looking back in an attempt to see what was going on the dark-skinned man from across the aisle got to his feet and his companion went forward and entered the pilot's compartment. Morgana knew at once that something was wrong. For one thing, passengers simply did not enter the pilot's sanctum during the night, and she looked up to find the man beside her was holding a small, but very lethal-looking, revolver. She stifled the cry that rose in her throat as the man began to speak, first in Portuguese, and then in English. As the passengers turned to listen, and saw the weapon in his hands there were horrified gasps and one of the women screamed.

The man waited until there was a constrained silence and then went on: “Please do not panic! There is no need for anyone to get hurt.”

Morgana quelled her own fear and looking up at him said: “What do you intend to do? Have you taken over the plane?”

The man gave her a brief stare. “Indeed, senhorita, my comrade is now in command. I am assured the pilot will do as he is told or my companion will fire his gun, puncturing the body of the plane and possibly sending us all plunging down in a death spiral to the jagged slopes below!”

There were murmurs of protest from the passengers and Morgana thought with dismay how easy it was for a man with a gun to commandeer an aircraft. It was such a vulnerable means of transport relying so much on the infallibility of its pilot and the instruments he controlled.

Now the man stepped to one side as another man came forward from the back of the plane. Obviously, Morgana thought, the assumed illness of the old man had been a deliberate ruse to distract the stewardesses’ attention. Now the two girls were seated in rear seats and as helpless as any of the passengers.

Morgana tried to maintain a sense of calm. As the man had said, there was no point in panicking, and they still didn't know what was behind this show of force. The two men beside her spoke together, but they spoke too quickly for her to understand and their patios was indistinguishable. There was a nervous buzz of conversation from the rest of the passengers, and Morgana, sitting alone, felt isolated from their group. She refused to consider what might become of them, and instead looked up at the men beside her and said:

“Where are you taking us? Surely we have a right to know.”

The man who had spoken to the passengers looked down at her with narrowed eyes. “You are inquisitive, senhorita, and I do not have to tell you anything.”

Morgana lay back in her seat and looked out of the port despairingly. There was nothing to be seen in the blackness, only the faint flaring at the tail of the engines and the diamond glitter of a star. She wondered where the men were from. They were not Brazilians, or at least they did not speak like Brazilians. And besides, they most closely resembled the Salvadors who came from the middle regions of South America, near Bolivia and Paraguay. They could be Monteraverdians, themselves, part of the guerilla movement Mr. Dennison had talked about.

A few minutes later the pilot emerged from his cabin looking taut and weary. He was accompanied by the man who had entered the cabin earlier. The pilot stood at the head of the aisle and spoke to his passengers.

“We are bound for an airstrip somewhere in these cordilleras,” he said. “We will land there and allow these men to disembark, then we will fly on to Los Angeles.”

Morgana knew that the cordilleras were the high ranges and so apparently did many others of the passengers. A drawling American voice asked: “Aren't these the foothills of the Andes, man?”

His words caused consternation among some of the others. To contemplate landing a plane of this size on some plateau among these peaks was a terrifying prospect.

The pilot's face was drawn. “Sim,” he said heavily. He was a Brazilian himself and he knew the position they were in better than any of them.

Morgana twisted her fingers together. Unwillingly, she was feeling the first twinges of real fear.

The American spoke again. “You don't honestly expect to put a crate of this size down among these hills!” he said dryly.

The man beside the pilot spoke now. “There is no danger,” he insisted calmly. “The plateau has been used before. I repeat, there is no danger.”

Morgana didn't believe him and nor did anyone else, but what could they do?

The pilot spread his hands. “What would you have me do?” he asked helplessly. “Refuse? And have them crash the plane?”

The American sounded reluctantly agreeable and one or two of the other men asked questions, their voices revealing their doubts and anxieties.

When everyone had found out what they wanted to know the pilot returned to his cabin, still accompanied by the other man. As he was leaving, one of the older women said tremulously: “What about radio contact? Can we contact our families and tell them we are all right?”

The pilot shook his head, and the man with the gun said: “All radio contact has been cut. There will be no messages.”

Morgana looked up at him quickly. “But – but everyone will think the plane has crashed – that we are dead!” she protested.

“For a few hours, that is all,” returned the man calmly.

“But our families will be sick with worry!” exclaimed another woman. “It's inhuman to let people think we are dead!”

“Enough. I will answer no more questions!”

The man was curt and for a few taut moments there was absolute silence. Then, gradually, they began whispering together and Morgana wished she could feel less distrustful. She couldn't believe they would just touch down wherever their destination might lie and allow the pilot and crew to carry on knowing full well that they would be immediately reported. And anyway, why had they chosen this way to get to their destination? Why couldn't they have used the normal flights to Monteraverde, if that indeed was where they were taking them?

She thought of her father waiting patiently at the airport in Los Angeles, and imagined his painful anxiety. What would the authorities do when they lost radio contact? Ruth and her parents might hear about it, too. They would imagine some terrible disaster.

She chewed her lower lip unhappily. She was more scared than she had ever been in her life before and a panicky feeling was invading her stomach. It was all right trying to be brave, but she of all of them seemed completely alone …

Presently the sign was illuminated that everyone should fasten their safety belts and they began to lose altitude. Morgana fumbled with her belt nervously, unable to co-ordinate her movements. She felt rather sick and slightly dizzy and her knees had begun to tremble.

Suddenly the belt was taken firmly out of her hands and secured in place by a man's hands, and she looked up incredulously into the face of Vittorio Salvador. “You – you were the old man –” she was beginning when he shook his head slightly and slid into the seat beside her, securing his own safety belt before speaking.

“I'm sorry, senhorita,” he said, lifting his shoulders expressively.

Morgana swallowed hard, some of her fears leaving her. Looking at him, she said, softly: “You – you are one of – of them?”

Vittorio nodded. “Yes, senhorita. Manoel, José, Felipe, they are my friends.”

Morgana shook her head in amazement. “But where are you taking us?”

The old man frowned. “We are going to La Nava, senhorita, the high valley of the Rio Quimera.”

Morgana stared at him. “The high valley,” she repeated, slowly. “In Monteraverde, I suppose.”

“Of a surety, senhorita.”

Morgana bent her head. She had suspected of course, and now her suspicions were verified. But why was he telling her where they were going? Didn't he care that she knew? Could she not just as easily betray their whereabouts when she got out of this?

A disturbing doubt invaded her mind. Surely these men or their leaders did not intend to keep them prisoners. Did this old man know their plans? Or was he merely betraying a confidence himself?

The latter seemed unlikely. Vittorio might be old but he had all the alertness and cunning of a younger man, she was sure, and he was not the kind of man to say anything carelessly. But before more doubts formed in her troubled mind, the plane banked sharply and the woman at the back who had screamed before uttered a shrill cry.

“We'll crash, we'll crash!” she shouted, hysterically. “We're all doomed!” Her voice collapsed into sobbing, and Morgana glanced at her companion. Vittorio's gnarled fingers closed over the hand that rested on the arm of her seat, and he said: “Do not worry, little one. The will of God will guide us to our destination.”

Morgana's fingers gripped the arms of her seat very tightly. She was not wholly convinced that any will could secure their certain safety, and when she saw flares below them her heart leapt nauseously into her mouth. Such a narrow plateau confronted them, brilliantly lit by torches whose flames leapt high into the air, and beyond rose the ragged peaks into whose jaws plunged sudden death. She closed her eyes, feeling the sweat standing out on her forehead, and the dampness of the palms of her hands.

“Courage, little one,” said Vittorio, again, and a moment later the wheels of the aircraft hit the solid surface of the plateau.

They were rushing madly towards a wall of rock that loomed in front of them. Surely the air brakes would never stop them in time. Morgana stared blindly in front of her, dreading the moment when the grinding of metal would tell them that they were doomed.

But the grinding never came, only a sudden violent tilting of the aeroplane, and a grim striking sound as the fuselage scraped along a gravelled surface and finally brought them to an abrupt halt. There had been a strange silence in the plane during that terrifying landing, and now the passengers seemed to come to life with relieved speed.

Vittorio Salvador unfastened his safety belt and got to his feet. He could see some of the passengers beginning to stretch and move about and he said, commandingly: “No one must move yet, please. Stay in your seats. Your instructions will be given you immediately.”

There were several indignant exclamations, but in the main the passengers were acquiescent. They had all sensed that ominous tilting of the plane and it seemed apparent that the undercarriage had been damaged as they landed.

The door of the pilot's cabin opened and the pilot and his co-pilot, and the navigator, came through accompanied by another of the men with a gun. The crew looked taut and nervous and Morgana sensed the ordeal this had been for them, responsible as they were for the lives of all these people. The man Morgana had seen first across the aisle at the beginning of the flight took command. She wondered who he was. She even wondered weakly whether the Salvador brothers were involved in all this. If their uncle was involved it seemed likely. And where were they now?

“Senhores! Senhoras! Your attention, please,” the man said politely. “You will stay where you are for the present. Tonight you must sleep in the plane which should be no great hardship for you and tomorrow our leader will come to speak to you.”

The passengers grumbled amongst themselves but no one made any official demur. They all seemed relieved that they were not to be taken elsewhere and made prisoners.

The man continued: “Tomorrow it will be decided what is to be done.”

Morgana's eyes were dark with anxiety. “What do you mean?” she exclaimed. “You said you would let us go!”

Vittorio frowned warningly and she bent her head inwardly seething. The man looked down at her for a moment, and then said: “I will not warn you again, senhorita. Keep your mouth shut, is that understood?”

Morgana chewed her lip and refused to answer him and the man gave her a hard stare before continuing with his orders. There were a young couple at the back of the plane with a baby and he agreed that milk should be brought to the plane for the stewardess to heat up for them. The baby had begun to cry a little and Morgana thought its plaintive cries were eloquent of all their feelings. No one felt like being brave or trying to tackle these men. What good would it do? There were guns involved and someone was bound to get hurt. Besides, most of the passengers were middle-aged to elderly and those few who were younger had their wives with them and obviously did not wish to bring any retribution down upon them. So everyone remained in their seats, and the doors of the plane were opened to admit the sounds of the airstrip outside. Two men were left in charge and the crew were allowed to take seats in the passenger's cabin while the other men, including Vittorio Salvador, left the plane.

The pilot came and sat beside Morgana in the place Vittorio had vacated. He was a man of average height and build, greying slightly at the temples, and there was a strained worn expression on his face.

“Por deus!” he murmured, speaking Portuguese. “This is too much!”

Morgana compressed her lips. “Relax,” she said, quietly. “There's nothing you can do. There's nothing any of us can do.”

The pilot sighed and fumbled in his pocket for cigarettes. He offered one to Morgana and although she seldom smoked she took one gratefully, glad of the diversion. They smoked in silence for a while and then the pilot said: “Do you know where we are?”

Morgana bent her head. “Actually, yes. One of – of the men told me.”

The pilot stared at her. “Go on!” he said.

“We're at a place called La Nava, the high valley,” she said. “In Monteraverde.”

The pilot looked perturbed. “La Nava!” he echoed softly. “Yes, I have heard of it, senhorita, but its actual whereabouts are unknown. It is reputed to be the headquarters of O Halcão, the Hawk, leader of the guerilla forces in Monteraverde.”

Morgana frowned. Where had she heard that name before? But her brain wouldn't function properly and she shook her head impatiently. “You look worried,” she said. “Don't you think they will let us go?”

“Do you?” asked the pilot, crediting her intelligence.

She shivered. “I don't know. I don't know what to think. Why have they brought us here? What possible reason could they have?”

“I can think of several. Either there are arms hidden on the plane, or they need us as hostages, or possibly they need the plane itself.”

Morgana stubbed out her cigarette. “And we have no radio contact?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“The authorities will think we've crashed. Is there no way we can make contact?”

The pilot heaved a sigh. “How? With guns at every angle. No, Senhorita?”

“Mallory,” she supplied. “How many of us are there?”

The pilot frowned. “Well, Senhorita Mallory, we will have to wait and see what they intend to do with fifty-seven of us!”

“So many?” Morgana bit her lip. “They – they wouldn't kill us all?” She looked at him intently. “Would they?”

The pilot shook his head. “Your guess is as good as mine. But I shouldn't think it would serve much purpose if they did.”

“But can they let us go?”

The pilot frowned. “That's what troubles me. If they were going to let us go why did they tell you where we were? It seems out of character.”

“That's what I thought,” murmured Morgana uneasily. “Is – is the undercarriage badly damaged?”

“Any damage to the undercarriage is serious,” said the pilot. “After all, it is the mainstay of landing and takeoff.”

“Yes.” Morgana tried to calm herself. “So – in your opinion we're here for some time.”

Her companion lifted his shoulders. “It seems the most likely suggestion,” he agreed. “Deus, I am tired!”

Morgana saw him close his eyes and tried to relax herself. The lights in the cabin had been lowered and the darkness was comforting. The men, in the gloom, looked less menacing, their guns almost hidden from view in the darkness. But they were there, and everyone was aware of it.

About half an hour later, when everyone except the baby seemed to be drowsing, the door of the plane opened and one of the men came forward to the front of the plane. He spoke in an undertone to one of the men who had been put on guard and then came across to where Morgana and the pilot were sitting. The pilot opened his eyes swiftly at the sudden altercation, and Morgana thought for a moment they had come for him. But to her surprise and horror the man caught her arm and pulled her up out of her seat.

“Get your coat!” he commanded briefly, and Morgana was too astounded to protest.

There were one or two anxious murmurs as she was escorted from the plane and she was conscious that the pilot had protested volubly to the guard as she was hustled out. Then she was at the head of a flight of steps and the chill night air hit her hot cheeks and she swayed for a moment before her escort thrust past her and indicated that she should follow him. She thought of pushing him hard from behind and causing him to fall the length of the steps, but such an action was without use when there were so many of them.

The lights that had distinguished their landing had now been extinguished and only a faint glow was left. There was no moon and clouds scudded across a lowering sky. They crossed the gravelled surface of the strip to where a Land Rover was parked, another man behind the wheel.

Morgana was allowed to climb into the front beside him and her companion climbed into the back. Then they were off, driving across rough terrain that rocked and buffeted the vehicle violently and caused Morgana to cling to her seat for grim life. There was little to be seen in the glare of the vehicle's headlights, just a narrow track hedged about with thick foliage. They were descending into a valley, that much she could tell from the slant of the Land Rover, and she concentrated her eyes on the distant lights which could faintly be discerned below them. The men did not speak, and she had lost what little spirit she had possessed earlier. She admitted to herself honestly that she was afraid and she had no idea why she should have been singled out and brought here.

It was impossible to tell the size of the valley in the darkness, but from the lights below and the mountains all around, silhouetted against the skyline, it seemed quite impressive. As the road flattened out she could hear the sounds of animals on the still night air, and occasionally smell the scent of pine trees. Flying out to Rio from London she had worn a jersey suit and carried a sheepskin coat, but leaving Rio to fly to Los Angeles she had just worn a thin Crimplene dress. However, she had carried her sheepskin coat and now she was glad of its enveloping warmth. Here in the mountains the wind was cold and chilling, and the air after the temperate warmth of the coast was particularly clear and bracing. But she knew too that part of the shivering cold that enveloped her system was fear at what might lie ahead of her.

They were deep in the valley now and Morgana could hear the tumbling clarity of water over rocks, and presently they ran between adobe houses, dimly lit, where on verandahs men and women could be seen staring curiously at their progress. Morgana clasped her hands tightly together. They were nearing their destination, and her knees had begun to tremble again. Then she remembered Vittorio Salvador and a little of her terror left her. He was part of this and somehow she sensed he was an honourable man.

The Land Rover swung to a halt before a larger dwelling. Morgana supposed it was a hacienda with its hanging eaves and white painted exterior. The windows had shutters which were presently closed, but a mesh door stood wide before a narrow paved passageway that ran from front to back.

“Come!” The man indicated that Morgana should get out and she climbed down nervously, wrapping her coat closer about her.

They crossed the verandah and entered the passageway, the man indicating that Morgana should follow him. The hall was dimly lit and not much warmer than outside, and Morgana wished she had been wearing trousers instead of such a short skirt.

The man halted outside a door about halfway along this passage and knocked before gaining admittance, so it seemed apparent that he was not in command here. He pushed Morgana before him into a large room, brightly lit by hanging lamps and the blaze from a log fire burning in the hearth. It was a comfortable room, full of furniture all of which served some specific purpose. Easy chairs were drawn near the fire while across the room a table still held the remains of a meal that had been taken there. As well as the shutters outside, heavy drapes covered the windows, and a desk, liberally strewn with papers, stood in an embrasure. On one side of the desk stood a cabinet, and on top of this was a tray of bottles and glasses. One wall was almost completely filled with book-shelves, and as well as the books there were maps and mapping equipment. Morgana's first impression was one of warmth and intimacy, but even while her gaze took in these superficial impressions, she saw a man rise from his seat in front of the fire and turn to regard her gravely; a tall, dark man, with a thin face, dressed in close-fitting black suede pants which were thrust into knee-length leather boots, and a roll-collared black sweater. The dark clothes accentuated the dark tan of his features giving his face a brooding solemnity.

Morgana stared at him disbelievingly. “Luis!” she said, weakly. “Then – then – you must be –”

“O Halcão, senhorita,” he confirmed grimly, dismissing the other man with a commanding gesture. “And now you are going to tell me exactly what that means to you!”

CHAPTER III

MORGANA'S escort left them with a polite salute in Luis's direction, and Morgana heard the door close with uneasy anticipation. The astonishment she had felt when she first saw her captor had given way to that awful feeling of apprehension she had experienced on the way here, and she had the feeling that her previous brief association with the brothers counted for little with this hard, unyielding man. He stood on the skin rug before the hearth, his arms folded, regarding her intently, and she shivered nervously.