Knight in Black Velvet

“Are you a true Spaniard?” 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

“Are you a true Spaniard?”

As she quietly asked the question, Lorne let her eyes wander over Francisco’s proud aristocratic features.

“Yes, I am a true Spaniard, my little English infanta,” he said softly. “I have the fire of this savage heritage in my veins. This is not the place for a little English girl with silver hair and eyes like bottomless pools. There are no knights in shining armor here.”

“Just knights in black velvet?”

Francisco looked puzzled for a moment and then laughed softly. “You think am a knight? A kind, good man who fights the dragons? Oh, Lorne, what an innocent you are....”

Helen Brooks lives in Northamptonshire, England, and is married with three children. As she is a committed Christian, busy housewife and mother, her spare time is at a premium but her hobbies include reading and walking her two energetic and very endearing young dogs. Her long-cherished aspiration to write became a reality when she put pen to paper on reaching the age of forty, and sent the result off to Harlequin Mills & Boon.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

‘HEY...señorita... You lika nice Spanish boy, eh? You wanna say hello maybe?’

Lorne forced her legs, which had increased their pace since the crowd of Spanish youths had started following her into practically a jogging stance, into a slower, calmer rhythm. She mustn’t panic! Mustn’t give in to this fear that was causing her flesh to prickle with horror. It was broad daylight, for goodness’ sake! Admittedly she was in the middle of nowhere on a hot dusty road that seemed to lead into infinity with not a house or building in sight, but they wouldn’t do anything, would they? The suggestive remarks and cat-calls had grown more daring with the minutes but that didn’t mean anything, not really... did it?

‘Señorita... You Inglésesa? Americana? You gotta boyfriend, eh?’

The heat was shimmering off the winding road in great waves, the sky an empty vivid blue in which the sun sat like a queen, and Lorne cast yet another desperate glance at the broken chain on her old bike as she marched resolutely forward, pushing her only means of transportation, which was worse than useless, her bulging rucksack rubbing her back and causing the perspiration to trickle between her shoulderblades.

‘You tired, eh? You wanna rest a little?’ They had closed the twenty yard or so gap since she had last turned round; she could feel it in the hairs that were prickling on the back of her neck. What was she going to do? Terror was a huge lump in the base of her throat that restricted breathing and was beginning to make her feel sick. Harsh vivid memories of old headlines flashed into her mind. ‘GIRL RAPED AT KNIFE-POINT’. ‘FOUR YOUTHS FOUND GUILTY OF THE RAPE OF—’ And now it could be her! She could become yet another nameless statistic that would cause most people to click their tongue in sympathy before their eyes ran down the rest of the page. How could she have been so stupid as to put herself in such a vulnerable position?

A burst of ribald laughter just behind her caused her stomach muscles to clench in protest and she wished with all her heart that she had learnt Spanish as the youths continued to shout and encourage each other in their native tongue. But she didn’t need to understand what they were saying to know what was on their minds. The thick excited laughter, the shrill note that had entered the young male voices was a portent of things to come.

‘Look, why don’t you just clear off?’ As she swung round she saw her sudden attack had momentarily surprised them as the four young men stopped dead in the road facing her. ‘I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than bother me and frankly you’re not funny. OK?’

The narrowing of their eyes and sudden darkening of a couple of the faces told her they understood English far better than she understood Spanish, and also that she had tried the wrong tack. One of the youths, broader and a little older than the rest, stepped forward, his good-looking face surly as he let his dark eyes travel over her body in insolent slowness from the top of her silver-blonde head down to the long, smooth brownness of her legs revealed in their entirety in the old worn denim shorts she was wearing. The only skirt she had brought with her, and which she usually wore every day in spite of the heat to deflect just such a situation as this, had met its end, mangled and torn, in the bicycle chain just a few hours before, necessitating a quick change from the rucksack. ‘You think you too good to talk to us, eh?’ There was no humour or banter in the youth’s voice now. ‘Sí?’

Lorne stared into the hard, unsmiling face as sheer undiluted fear turned her soft grey eyes almost black. The reasons that had driven her to take this long lonely holiday, Sancho’s betrayal, along with the resulting humiliation, pain and embarrassment, suddenly seemed to fade into insignificance beside this thing that was about to happen to her. And it was. She knew it.

The same movement that threw the inoffensive bicycle into the middle of the now silent, predatory group watching her so closely also turned her on her feet to run, and it was some seconds before the drum of chasing footsteps sounded on the old dirt road. She ran as she had never run before, as if her life depended on it, which maybe it did, but even as the blood pounded in her ears and she felt the cut of the sharp spiky stones littering the road through her thin black pumps she knew she wasn’t going to make it. They were young, fit and strong and they were gaining on her.

The blur of red coming towards her registered a moment before the harsh blaring of the car’s horn, but even as she raised her hand in the age-old gesture of appeal for help she twisted her foot on a small boulder and fell, sprawling in the red dirt in a tangle of limbs and long silver-blonde hair and excruciatingly fierce pain. The sandy grit was in her mouth, her eyes, and she could feel the sting of raw flesh on the palms of her hands where she had tried to cushion her fall, but the blinding pain that ripped through her right ankle took every other sensation from her body as she tried to move. For a moment she thought she was going to lose consciousness as the world swirled and flew round her in a dizzying kaleidoscope of colour, but the thought that the approaching car might not have stopped, that she might have been left to the tender mercies of her pursuers, kept her from fainting outright.

By the time she had raised herself into a sitting position at the side of the road she became aware that the car had stopped some yards away, that the four youths were mere racing dots in the distance, and that the occupant of the brilliant red Ferrari was hurrying to her side. The relief made her head swim again and the figure at her side was a blur as he knelt down and took her hands in his. ‘Are you injured? Have you hurt yourself?’

She couldn’t answer. All her will was concentrated on not making a bigger fool of herself than she had already by being sick at the feet of this Good Samaritan.

‘Habla Inglés? French? Swedish?’

‘I’m English.’ The mist was clearing and she took a few long deep breaths before raising her head to focus on the stranger’s dark face. ‘Thank you for stopping. I was afraid you might not.’

He waved away her thanks with a sharp movement of his hand and as she caught the glimpse of gleaming gold on his wrist from what was obviously a very expensive watch she became aware that he was dressed in formal dinner clothes, the black velvet jacket and dark trousers beautifully cut.

‘Como se llama usted?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish,’ she said faintly as the pain in her ankle surged into renewed life when she moved slightly. ‘I’ve been meaning to learn but—’

‘Your name?’ He was still kneeling at her side and somewhere in the back of her mind she noticed that the austere, coldly handsome face and cool, imperious voice added up to a very disturbing whole.

‘Lorne, Lorne Wilson.’ For a moment she almost held out her hand in spite of the situation. There was a stark formality, an inherent coldness about the man that was drying up the words in her throat.

‘I am Francisco de Vega, Miss Wilson.’ Two jet-black eyes pierced her white face. ‘Were you alone?’

‘Alone?’ She stared at him in confusion as she glanced round the empty barren countryside through which the road ran like a winding snake. ‘There were these men—’

‘I am aware of that.’ The voice was sharp and tight. ‘I am asking you if there was anyone else with you when this situation developed. A friend, maybe, who was not so fortunate as yourself.’

‘Fortunate?’ She stared at him as though he were mad. ‘Fortunate? I’ve been followed for miles and hassled and—’

‘They did not touch you?’ he asked stiffly.

‘No.’ Her voice was flat now. ‘But I was frightened and—’

‘Then I repeat, you were fortunate.’ The black gaze swept over her again, resting on the tousled blonde hair for a second before meeting her eyes. ‘Do you always dress so... indiscreetly when travelling alone?’

‘Indiscreetly?’ The full import of what he was insinuating caused hot colour to surge into her white face and now her eyes were sparking grey flashes as she raised her head proudly to meet his accusing gaze. ‘How I dress is my business, don’t you think? Surely I’m entitled—’

‘Freedom is a dangerous thing when put in the hands of children,’ the dark voice said smoothly, cutting into her furious tirade as though she hadn’t spoken. It was the fourth time in as many minutes that he had interrupted her and now all thoughts of gratitude fled as she took in, really took in, for the first time, the proud aristocratic face with its fine aquiline nose, well-shaped thin lips and icy cold eyes. What an overbearing, arrogant, haughty swine of a man! If he thought she needed his help he was very much mistaken!

‘Well, thank you for coming to my rescue, Mr de Vega,’ Lorne said frostily. ‘I’m sorry I seem to have inconvenienced you but I’m fine now so if you’d like to go on your way...’ She waved a dismissive hand towards the car in the distance. The effect was spoilt slightly by the fact that she was still sitting in a heap at the side of the road covered in dust and grime and blood from the copious grazes and scratches covering every inch of exposed flesh. And there was quite a bit of it. Not that she would ever admit that to him!

‘Are all English girls so difficult?’ he asked coldly as he rose in one lithe movement to his feet.

‘Difficult? I’m not difficult,’ she protested sharply, raising her face up and up until she met his eyes. Goodness, she hadn’t realised he was so tall, or so broad, or so very...male. Suddenly the Spanish youths seemed like young boys.

‘No?’ The humourless smile didn’t touch the glittering black eyes. ‘Has it escaped your notice that your right ankle has swollen to three times its normal size? How, exactly, do you intend to recommence your journey?’

‘On my knees if necessary.’ Lorne eyed him tightly. ‘I didn’t ask to be attacked, you know. There’s no need to be so downright aggressive.’

‘Can you stand?’ He ignored her defiance with regal indifference.

‘Of course I can.’ Her ankle was throbbing so badly that she could feel it in her head and there was no way she was going to try to struggle to her feet in front of his superior gaze. She’d try when he’d gone. And she hoped it would be soon! ‘You are obviously on your way out somewhere. Thank you again for your assistance and—’

‘This is not England, you know.’ He eyed her sourly. ‘There won’t be a nice safe bus along in a few minutes to take you where you want to go. How did you get this far? By taxi?’

‘No, I’ve got...’ she paused as her gaze flickered back down the road ‘...well... I did have a bike but the chain had broken and then it probably got more damaged when I threw it at those louts.’

‘You threw your bike at them?’ The momentary satisfaction at seeing him lost for words was sweet. He said something under his breath in his native tongue that sounded extremely caustic but the flash of admiration that lit the black eyes for a brief moment was not lost on her and it brought her chin up a fraction higher. She wasn’t some pathetic helpless female in spite of all the evidence to the contrary! And it was about time he knew it. ‘I won’t say I understand, Miss Wilson, because I do not.’ He bent down and lifted her up so swiftly that for a moment she couldn’t believe she was in his arms. ‘But one thing I do know is that that ankle needs attention and you need a stiff drink after such an unpleasant experience.’ In spite of the content of the words his cold stance hadn’t mellowed one iota but she was past caring. The pain in her ankle was blazingly fiercely again and she bit her lip until it drew blood in an effort not to cry out.

He glanced once at her white lips as he carried her quickly to the car, placing her in the front seat with a gentleness that belied the grim face. ‘What on earth are your parents thinking of to allow such a child to wander about in a strange country like this?’

‘Me? Do you mean me?’ Now her leg was still again she could just about cope with the pain and her eyes spat fury at his dark face. ‘To start with I am not a child, I’m twenty-two and—’

‘I do not believe it.’ The cool words were not spoken in politeness or as a social comment but stating fact. ‘You cannot be a day over seventeen.’

‘Look, Mr de Vega...’ He slid into the car beside her as she spoke and suddenly the words dried up in her throat. He was so close, so overwhelmingly Latin, so different...

‘Francisco.’

‘What?’ She stared at him, her eyes huge in the paleness of her face from which pain had taken all colour.

‘My name is Francisco, Miss Wilson, and let us stop the playing of the game.’ It was the first time his excellent English had let him down and she had to stifle the smile that sprang to her lips. So he was human after all. ‘How old are you and how is it that you are all alone in my country?’

‘Hang on a minute.’ She grabbed at his arm in panic as he started the engine. This could definitely be a case of the frying-pan being much hotter than the fire! ‘Where are you taking me?’

Her thoughts were patently visible in both her face and her voice, and the dark, cruel face hardened still further as he glanced down at her. She wished she hadn’t touched him. The hard, bunched muscles in his arm spoke of power and authority and just at the moment neither was attractive.

‘I am taking you to my home, Miss Wilson, so that your injuries may be attended to and just for the record I am not in the habit of attacking young girls who find themselves at a disadvantage. Do I make myself clear?’ His voice was icy and his eyes glittering chips of coal full of righteous contempt as he cast one more withering glance at her frightened face before he carefully removed her hand from his arm and negotiated the car in a semi-circle that brought a cloud of dust wafting into the still hot air.

‘You have not answered my question.’ They were travelling at a breakneck speed along the empty road and the suddenness of the change in her circumstances coupled with the sickening pain in her ankle was causing Lorne to feel more than a little light-headed.

‘I’m sorry?’ She cast a questioning glance at the harsh profile.

‘I doubt it. I doubt if that emotion has ever been a particular weakness of yours. Don’t you realise how stupid—?’ He stopped abruptly. ‘How old are you, really, and how is it that you are travelling alone?’

‘I told you.’ She cast an exasperated glance at the dark profile but as she let her eyes rest on the handsome, cold face something jerked deep inside her and she snapped her eyes away quickly. ‘I am twenty-two, whether you believe it or not. I’ve got my passport in my rucksack; I’ll prove it.’

‘That is not necessary.’ He raised a bronzed hand for a second from the leather-clad steering-wheel. ‘I am going to take you to my house in order for your ankle to receive attention and then I will arrange for you to be driven to your place of accommodation. Sí?’

‘Look, please don’t bother, Mr de Vega.’ Lorne was feeling more uncomfortable by the second. Where on earth was his house anyway and how could she tell him she had run out of money a couple of days ago and was making the small amount she had left make do for the next few days by sleeping under the stars? ‘If you could just drop me somewhere where I can get my bike mended... My bike!’ Her voice was so shrill that he jumped visibly. ‘We must go back; I’ve left my bike—’

‘An old bicycle, and damaged, you said?’ The car didn’t slow down. ‘It has let you down this time, which could have resulted in a tragedy. I suggest you get yourself a new bicycle, Miss Wilson, or travel about on your excursions in a taxi like everyone else. Sí?’

‘No!’ she all but shouted at him and the hard square jaw stiffened into concrete. ‘You must go back; I can’t get another bike; please...’

‘I have no intention of returning from whence I have come,’ he said tightly. ‘I am already very late for an important business appointment and do not wish to miss my dinner engagement in addition.’

‘But you don’t understand...’ Her voice trailed away as he raised one black sardonic eyebrow in caustic agreement.

‘On that point you are right, Miss Wilson,’ he said silkily, ‘but whether I understand or not for once in your life you are going to do as you are told. You have already proved you aren’t safe to be let out alone. You can telephone your hotel and speak to whoever is waiting there for you and explain the situation. And then my chauffeur will drive you to wherever you want to go.’

‘Your chauffeur?’ she asked weakly. He didn’t reply and she sank back into the soft leather seat helplessly. If she told him she had no hotel, no transport, no money and only the clothes she stood up in with a change of underclothes and a clean T-shirt in the rucksack it would confirm every low opinion he had of her. She would have to brazen it out somehow, she had no choice, but where was she going to sleep tonight and how soon could she get back to rescue the remains of her bike?

She had been so immersed in her thoughts that she had barely taken note of her surroundings, but now she saw that the unfenced rocky land stretching away on both sides of the dusty road was growing greener. Where exactly were they? She wrinkled her brow. She had left the town of Extremadura several days ago after pottering around there for a week soaking up the history of the place. She had heard that the harsh environment of south-west Spain had been the cradle of the conquistadors, the home of the men who had opened up new worlds for the Spanish empire in the golden age when the heroes had returned with their spoils of gold and fabulous wealth to live in ornate splendour and fabulous luxury, and it hadn’t disappointed her. But after several weeks of exploring historically rich towns and feeding her mind and eyes on imperial palaces, crumbling fortresses and churches and impressive monuments she had felt the need to recharge her batteries in peace and quiet. An English tourist had mentioned the Coto Doñana National Park and she had decided to travel in that direction. An unwise decision, with hindsight!

As the car slowed and turned into a narrow man-made road leading through a sweet-smelling pine forest she darted another glance at the man sitting next to her so silently. ‘We are nearly there,’ he said quietly. ‘I have medication that will ease the worst of the pain.’

‘It’s all right,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m fine really.’ He didn’t even bother to reply to such an inane remark and she couldn’t really blame him. She glanced down at her swollen ankle in frustration. What if it was broken? What would she do? She would have to find a British consul somehow, contact Tom in England...oh, hell, what a mess! And things had just begun to work out. She had just been able to sleep again the last few nights without thoughts of Sancho and Janie taunting her like tiny needles...

As they passed through massive open gates set in a high stone wall the feeling of apprehension intensified. The car scrunched along a pristinely clean drive between immaculate opulent gardens festooned with flowers and shrubs and bordered in the distance with orange, lemon and fig trees. As she saw the palatial mansion in the distance the heat in her cheeks spread all over her body. This wasn’t his home, was it? It was like every stately home she had seen in England rolled into one, and even then some.

‘Is this...?’ She paused and licked dry lips. ‘Is this your home?’

‘Sí.’ They were approaching the house now and the evening sunshine, still hot and fierce, sent countless shadows over the mellowed stone from the massive oak and cedar trees shading the high walls. The house was huge, stretching endlessly in Moorish beauty rich with turrets, decorative iron fretwork and tiny, exquisitely wrought towers that had been used to maximum aesthetic affect. The geometrical design formed by the mockbattlements and different shades of stone was offset by the blaze of colour from the climbing vines that had found their way over most of the house’s exterior forming vivid splashes of crimson, mauve and pink against dark green foliage. It was beautiful, it was unreal and it fitted this man perfectly.

‘Sit still, Miss Wilson.’ His voice was terse and he had uncoiled himself from the car and appeared at her side almost in one movement, lifting her from the interior in spite of her protestations that she could walk. ‘Please do not be ridiculous.’ He glanced down at her as he carried her up the deep stone steps that led up to a beautifully carved front door that was a work of art in itself, complete with an impressive coat of arms, and she saw his eyes weren’t really black but of such a deep dark brown that they appeared so. She had always thought brown eyes were soft and appealing in the past but these eyes were of a different hue. Hard, brilliantly alert, they had all the softness of glittering steel.

The door opened as they reached the top step and two uniformed maids appeared in the entrance, fluttering agitatedly before being called abruptly into order by a rapier-sharp voice behind them. ‘Señor de Vega.’ A tall, stately looking man pushed the women aside as he hurried to take Lorne from Francisco’s arms but Francisco merely barked a few words in rapid Spanish as he walked with her into a room leading off the huge marble hall. She had never seen so much marble in her life—the floors, the walls, the magnificent winding staircase, all in dusky-pink-veined marble. But she had no time to reflect on what she was seeing. As Francisco deposited her gently on a long low couch the manservant was back again carrying a small black bag.

‘Gracias, Alfonso.’

‘That looks like a doctor’s bag.’ She tried to smile but the whole situation had robbed her of her normal intrinsic vivacity; in fact she had never felt so frightened or overwhelmed in all her life. Something of what she was feeling must have communicated itself to the tall man in front of her because Francisco’s voice was more mellow as he spoke.

‘It is a doctor’s bag. I qualified ten years ago.’

‘You’re a doctor?’ She raised startled grey eyes to meet the piercing blackness of his.

‘I said I qualified, that is all. Events happened which determined I was not able to follow my chosen profession. However, I think I still remember enough for this circumstance.’ He gave a small smile, but it was a real smile this time, and for a second his face was illuminated as though someone had turned on a light, and then he was kneeling at her feet as he lifted her foot into his hand, the black velvet dinner-jacket making the situation seem even more unreal. A doctor who wasn’t a doctor living in a house that was beyond most people’s wildest dreams—She gasped as a shaft of pain cut into her thoughts.