Knight in Black Velvet. HELEN BROOKS

‘Quite inexcusable.’

      She swallowed hard and then smiled more naturally although his last words had caused a small pang of she knew not what. ‘I’m sorry too; I seem to have caused a great deal of trouble. You’ve missed your appointments...’ Her voice trailed away. ‘I’m not usually so stupid.’

      ‘I am sure you are not but we are not discussing your actions,’ he said softly as he took one of her hands in his, looking down at its tininess in his large hands before setting it back abruptly in her lap. ‘Do you forgive me, Lorne, for behaving little better than your pursuers?’

      ‘Yes, it’s all right, you didn’t...’ Why did she blush so easily? she thought wretchedly. She must resemble a boiled lobster at the moment whereas he was devastatingly cool and controlled, his dark eyes searching her face with something in their depths she couldn’t read.

      Dinner was served ten minutes later and when she was seated at the shiny dark wood dining-table in which the place settings of silver and exquisite arrangements of flowers that festooned the table were reflected in perfect detail the unreal feeling came back, stronger than before. This time yesterday she had been curled up under a somewhat prickly bush on soft sand looking up into a sky that was a dark blanket alive with a pulsing tapestry of stars, and trying to convince herself that the rustlings and movements in the undergrowth near by were her imagination and that the rumbling hunger pains in her stomach were good for her soul.

      There were certainly no hunger pains tonight, she thought wryly as she finished the first course of gazpacho, a refreshing cold soup, made from tomato, cucumber, olive oil, bread, garlic and other seasonings and chilled with ice. It was delicious, the best she had tasted since coming to Spain, but she felt so tense and awkward seated opposite Francisco at the vast dining-table being waited on by the attentive Benita and Teresa that she had a job to force the food down.

      Francisco sat in enigmatic silence, lounging comfortably in his seat, his dark eyes lazy as they wandered over her face now and again and his big body relaxed. Looking at him now she couldn’t believe the scene in the bedroom when the cold mask had been ripped aside and blazing passion had taken its place but neither was he the cold, austere stranger who had rescued her on the road. Who was he? What was he? He seemed to have a mask for every eventuality and she had the feeling she hadn’t even begun to see the real Francisco de Vega.

      ‘Have you lived here long?’ They had started on the second course of fresh lobster with aubergine salad and patatas bravas—spicy potatoes—and she felt she just had to break the silence that was grinding at her overwrought nerves.

      ‘The estate has been in my family for generations,’ Francisco said quietly. ‘I inherited it on my father’s death ten years ago.’

      ‘Oh.’ She smiled uncertainly. ‘Well, it’s very beautiful, very Moorish somehow.’

      He nodded, his black eyes closed and hooded against her as their glittering light moved over her face again. ‘The Arabs ruled my country for hundreds of years and the Phoenicians, Greeks and Romans all claimed it for their own. Even now the separate kingdoms which made up the original Spanish nation remain very much in evidence in a diversity of language, culture and artistic traditions. You may have appreciated that in your travels?’ She nodded slowly as his deep rich voice continued. ‘Our history encompasses the Romans, Moors and the “Golden Age” of Renaissance imperialism and in certain parts villages have changed little since Columbus set sail. Most true Spaniards can trace their origins for centuries.’