down her spine as for a brief moment her gaze locked with his and then she looked away, aware of a strange sense of disturbance. She had never before exchanged such a glance with a man of his age—he could be anything from thirty-five to forty-five—and she felt shaken for a moment. Not that he interested her, she told herself sharply. He was too big, too broad, too muscular, too masculine in every way, with dark skin and dark hair and sideburns that reached his jawline. He was not a handsome man by any standards, although she thought that some women might find his harshly carved features and deeply set eyes attractive; if one found such primitive strength appealing, of course.
She ventured another look at him and found to her embarrassment that he was still watching her, his expression vaguely speculative. Tamsyn turned her back on him, but she was intensely aware of his eyes boring into her shoulder blades and she wished desperately that her father would appear and rescue her from this awful situation.
When a low, deep, faintly musical voice spoke just behind her she almost jumped out of her skin. ‘As everyone else appears to have departed, you must be Tamsyn Stanford—are you?’
Tamsyn spun round and to her astonishment she found herself confronted by the man who had been staring at her for the last few minutes. ‘I—I—yes,’ she stammered. ‘I’m Tamsyn Stanford. But—but who are you?’
The man’s dark eyes were enigmatic. ‘My name is Hywel Benedict. I’m a friend of your father’s. As he couldn’t come to meet you himself, he asked me to do so.’
‘Oh!’ Tamsyn was at a loss. ‘I—I see.’
The man looked down at her two cases. ‘Is this all your luggage?’ He bent to lift them easily.
‘I—yes—but how do I know you are who you say you are?’ She flushed in embarrassment as his eyes narrowed. ‘I mean—I’ve never heard your name before.’
Hywel Benedict considered her pink face for a moment and then he frowned. ‘I suppose it never occurred to your father to imagine that a girl from your background should consider there was anything sinister about my meeting you instead of him.’
‘What do you mean—my background?’ Tamsyn was stung by his tone.
‘Why, nothing,’ he responded expressionlessly. He stood down her cases again and put his hand inside the jacket of his casual sports suit and brought out a wallet. He extracted a photograph and handed it to her silently and Tamsyn tried to concentrate on the images imprinted upon it with some degree of composure. She recognised her father at once, and the small dark woman who she guessed was Joanna, although it wasn’t a very good likeness. And standing slightly behind them two other people; a woman, and the definite likeness of the man at her side.
‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly, handing him back the photograph and feeling rather foolish. ‘Yes, this is all my luggage. Do we go?’
‘We go,’ he agreed, and strode away across the hall without waiting to see whether she was following him.
Outside it was a perfect summer evening, only a faint breeze to cool the warm atmosphere. Hywel Benedict slung her cases into the back of a rather shabby-looking station wagon and then opening the passenger side door indicated that Tamsyn should get in.
Tamsyn did so not without some reluctance. This was not the welcome she had expected to get and she was feeling decidedly tearful. Why hadn’t her father come to meet her, or even Joanna if he wasn’t able? Instead of this abrupt stranger who seemed prepared to think the worst of her without even waiting until he knew her.
The man climbed in beside her, his thigh brushing hers as he did so. He was such a big man, he succeeded in making Tamsyn, who had always found herself on eye-level terms with the young men of her acquaintance, feel quite small. He smelt of tweeds and tobacco, shaving soap and a clean male smell that made Tamsyn’s nostrils twitch a little. She wondered who he was, and what he did, and where he lived, and then chided herself for being curious about a man who was so obviously far out of her sphere of experience. He was her father’s contemporary, after all, not hers.
The station wagon responded smoothly beneath his strong-fingered hands, and he negotiated the airport traffic with only slight impatience. For a moment, Tamsyn was diverted by driving on the left-hand side of the road, and then she ventured another look at her companion.
Where his wrists left the white cuffs of his shirt she could see a thick covering of dark hair, while a gold watch glinted against his dark skin. He wore only one ring and that was on the third finger of his left hand, a gold signet ring engraved with his initials.
As though becoming aware of her scrutiny he glanced her way at that moment and encountered her startled green eyes. ‘Did you have a good trip?’
Tamsyn took an uneven breath. ‘It was all right, I suppose. I’ve not travelled a lot, so I wouldn’t really know.’ She sighed. ‘Where is my father? Why couldn’t he meet me?’
‘He’s at home—in the valley.’
‘At home?’ Tamsyn sounded indignant.
‘That’s right. Your father’s a doctor, Tamsyn Stanford. Doctors here cannot simply leave their work without good reason.’
‘And meeting me wasn’t a good reason,’ observed Tamsyn shortly.
‘It wasn’t absolutely necessary in the circumstances,’ conceded Hywel Benedict. ‘I had to come to London anyway, so I offered to meet you.’
‘I see.’ Tamsyn swallowed the retort that sprang to her lips. ‘How is he?’
‘Lance? Oh, he’s all right.’ He spoke with a faint accent which she couldn’t identify but reluctantly found attractive. His whole speaking voice was attractive and she had to force herself to think of other things. But he was the most disturbing man she had ever met.
‘Are you a doctor, too, Mr. Benedict?’
Hywel Benedict shook his head. ‘No. Healing men’s bodies is not for me.’
Tamsyn frowned. It was a strange reply to make and she was curious to know exactly what he did do, but she didn’t like to ask. Looking out on to countryside that was amazingly like the New England countryside back home, she asked: ‘Where are we?’
‘Approaching Maidenhead. Our destination, as you know, is Trefallath, but we have some distance to travel before we cross the border.’
‘The border.’ Tamsyn was intrigued. ‘The border between England and Wales, of course.’
‘Of course. Though it’s no border as you know it. Merely a continuation of the road.’ His tone was dry, and she detected it.
‘Are you a nationalist, Mr. Benedict?’
‘A nationalist?’ A slight smile lightened his dark features. ‘And what would you know of such things, Tamsyn Stanford?’
‘I read books,’ retorted Tamsyn shortly. ‘I’ve read about the Welsh people. I know of their language, and the way they’re trying to retain their individuality.’
‘Do you now?’ His mocking voice disturbed her. ‘And why would an American girl like yourself be interested in us poor barbarians?’
Tamsyn flushed. ‘You forget, Mr. Benedict. I’m half Welsh myself.’
‘Ah, yes, I had forgotten. But perhaps I can be for-given for so doing. A hybrid like yourself, reared in the artificial atmosphere of the hothouse, is hardly likely to display the characteristics of its less cultivated ancestry, is she?’
‘I think you’re being offensive, Mr. Benedict,’ said Tamsyn, unreasonably hurt by his words.
‘Offensive, is it?’ His low attractive voice mocked her. ‘And why would you think that?’
‘I get the feeling that you consider me lacking in some way,’ replied Tamsyn evenly. ‘Is it because this is the first time I’ve come to stay with my father?’
Hywel