Flame Of Diablo

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

COVER

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

ENDPAGE

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

A FEW flakes of snow were drifting down from a leaden sky as Rachel Crichton paid off the taxi, and ran up the shallow flight of steps to the front door. Her urgent ring at the bell was answered almost immediately by a tall thin woman in a neat dark dress, a smile of thankfulness relieving the anxiety in her face.

‘Oh, Miss Rachel, you’ve come at last! He’s been asking and asking for you. Dr Kingston wants to move him to the Mordaunt Clinic, and he won’t go. Said he had to see you first. He’s been getting himself in a real state—and Miss Rachel, he mustn’t!’

‘I know.’ Rachel gave the housekeeper’s hand a comforting squeeze. Even after twenty years, Mrs Thurston still had not been able to come to terms with Sir Giles Crichton’s arrogant refusal to allow any denial of his wishes. ‘I came as soon as I got your message. How—how is he?’ She made a little helpless gesture. ‘This is the last thing I was expecting. He seemed to have got over the last attack …’

She paused, and saw Mrs Thurston give a little shake of her head.

‘It’s bad this time, Miss Rachel, the worst yet. That’s why Doctor Kingston wants to move him. He told him to his face that he couldn’t be trusted to rest properly here.’ She swallowed. ‘I was with him when it happened, and I thought we were going to lose him, that I did.’

‘Oh, Thursty!’ Rachel stared at her in dismay. ‘It must have been awful for you. I should have been here—the play closed over a week ago.’

‘It wouldn’t have made much difference.’ Mrs Thurston seemed to rouse herself from her anxiety, and moved to help Rachel off with her coat. ‘Sir Giles has hardly been here himself for the past fortnight. He’s been backwards and forwards to London nearly every day. He even spent the night there one day last week. And when I tried to remind him of what the doctor had said, he nearly bit my head off. I said no more, naturally, but I’m wondering now whether, if I hadn’t given up so easily, this might have been avoided.’

‘I don’t think so, Thursty darling. And you’re not to blame yourself.’ Rachel gave a soft sigh. ‘We both know what Grandfather’s like when he’s got the bit between his teeth. But what can he have been doing in London? Did he give no hint?’

‘None at all, Miss Rachel.’ The older woman hesitated. ‘But he seemed—different. More like his old self. I wondered if it might have something to do with Mr Mark.’

‘I don’t think so, Thursty,’ Rachel said gently. ‘But we can always hope. Now, I’d better go up.’

She ran up the broad, shallow flight of stairs which led to the first floor bedrooms, and turned along the landing to the big double doors of the room situated at the far end. As she approached they opened, and a slight grey-haired man emerged. He looked tired and anxious, but his eyes lit up when he saw her, and he laid a finger conspiratorially over his lips, glancing back towards the room he had left.

‘Uncle Andrew?’ she whispered. ‘How is he?’

‘No worse, but certainly no better either,’ he said quietly. ‘Your arrival should help. He’s under sedation, and I rely on you, Rachel, not to allow him to get excited in any way. Now that you’re here I’ll go and arrange about that ambulance.’ He patted her cheek and went on past her towards the stairs.

It was very warm in the bedroom. A fire had been kindled in the old-fashioned grate, and its leaping flames together with a shaded bedside lamp provided all the light in the room.

Her grandfather lay back against the pillows, his eyes closed. He was very pale, and there was a bluish tinge around his mouth which frightened her, but she was careful not to let the fright show as she trod across the carpet, her slender feet noiseless in their low-heeled shoes. There was a chair close beside the bed, and she sat down on it, waiting for him to open his eyes and notice her there, unwilling to disturb him purposely.

At last his eyes did open, still fiercely blue, but with some of their former fire dimmed. For a moment Sir Giles gazed at her almost without recognition, then his glance sharpened and focussed, and he said, ‘So you’re here at last.’

Rachel tried to ignore the implied reproach in his words of greeting, to forget that if he’d been backwards and forwards to London as Mrs Thurston had said, there had been plenty of opportunities for him to contact her if he’d wanted—opportunities that had remained neglected. She tried to forget too that the reproach had always been there, ever since, in fact, the longed-for first grandchild had been born a girl instead of the boy he had set his heart on, and had not been alleviated even with Mark’s birth some two and a half years later.

She bent over the bed and put her lips to his cheek. ‘I’m here, Grandfather. Can I get you a drink or anything?’

‘No, child.’ The effort of speaking seemed to be using up his breath at an alarming rate, she thought. ‘Just—listen.’

He closed his eyes again and lay still, absorbed with some interior struggle for strength. She was just beginning to grow uneasy, when he said, ‘Have you heard from Mark?’

‘No, darling,’ she said gently. ‘Not a word.’

He gave a slight nod. ‘Not important. I—know where he is.’

‘You know?’ Rachel felt a stab of anger. ‘And you never told me? You never …’

‘I’m telling you now, child,’ he interrupted testily, and she subsided, remembering what the doctor had said about not letting him become excited. ‘It was by chance I found out. I had to go up to Town to see old Grainger. I was having lunch at the club afterwards when Larry Forsyth walked in. Do you remember him?’

‘I think so,’ Rachel returned almost mechanically, her brain still whirling from the news she had just received. ‘Wasn’t he in the diplomatic service?’

Her grandfather gave a grunt. ‘Still is. He’s been out in Colombia for a couple of years. And that’s where he saw Mark, less than three weeks ago.’

‘In Colombia?’ Rachel shook her head. ‘It sounds most unlikely. Was he sure it was Mark?’

‘Of course he was sure!’ Sir Giles sounded irritable. ‘Knew him at once, and Mark recognised him too. He was dining with some people—name of Arviles. Señor Arviles is one of the top lawyers in Bogota, according to Larry.’

‘Mark was at university with someone called Arviles—Miguel Arviles,’ Rachel said slowly. ‘But I didn’t know he was a Colombian. And I didn’t realise that Mark was on particularly close terms with him either.’

But then, she thought, why should she had known? Mark had never been forthcoming about his friendships, and Rachel had had to learn to curb her curiosity, knowing that any suspicion of over-protectiveness would be resented.

She frowned a little. ‘Did Mr Forsyth know what Mark was actually doing there?’

‘Of course not. He assumed I would know all about it and I allowed him to think so, or did you imagine I was prepared to make him cognisant of our private affairs?’ Sir Giles’ eyes glared a little under the bushy white brows and Rachel said hurriedly,

‘No, no. It was silly of me. Did—did Mark send any kind of message?’

‘Apparently he had very little to say for himself,’ her grandfather said shortly. ‘That’s why I asked whether you’d heard from him. It occurred to me that as he must realise his whereabouts are now known, he might have been in touch.’ He was silent for a moment, his breathing ragged.

Rachel was silent too, remembering. There had been family rows before, some of them quite spectacular, as when she had announced her intention of going to drama school, but somehow she had known they had not really been important. Grandfather had been irritated by the idea of her wishing to become an actress and had expressed his views forcibly, but she had always suspected he was merely going through the motions. It didn’t really matter to him what Rachel did with her working life, because she would merely be filling in time before she made a suitable marriage.

But Mark was different. Grandfather had plans for Mark, and had never made any secret of the fact, and none of these plans took into account Mark’s openly acknowledged passion for geology, and his desire to study it at university. Harsh words had been uttered on both sides, but Mark had got his way in the end—as he usually did, Rachel thought resignedly. Perhaps Grandfather had thought it was just a boyish quirk from which Mark would recover in his own good time if left unopposed. Only it hadn’t been like that. When he had left university, it was to seek work as a geologist, not to succumb to the none too subtle pressure being exerted to make him join the family firm.

And that was when the real row had started. Rachel had been staying at Abbots Field during that weekend, and she had been powerless to intercede while her grandfather and her brother prepared to tear each other to pieces.

The trouble was they were too alike in many ways, she thought. Neither of them could easily see any point of view other than his own, or even believe that such a thing existed. The weekend had been full of tensions—rather like duellists, she had thought afterwards, selecting their weapons and taking the prescribed paces, but the first shots had not been exchanged until Sunday evening at dinner, just when she’d begun to hope that an open confrontation might be avoided. They’d quickly passed from veiled remarks to open recriminations, both of them becoming angrier and less accessible to reason with every moment that passed, with Rachel sitting in between them, a helpless spectator, trying to resist the urge to press her hands over her ears and shut out the cruel hurtful things they were hurling at each other.

‘You’ll be a pauper, boy, d’you hear me? A pauper!’ Sir Giles had crashed his fist down on the table making the silver and glasses jump. ‘What can you expect but some minor post in a beggarly university department—spending your vacations taking elderly maiden ladies on fossil-hunting expeditions. What kind of life is that for a Crichton?’

‘My God, you make me sick!’ Mark had jumped to his feet, his face crimson with temper. ‘You and your preconceived ideas of everyone outside your narrow bigoted experience! Why, you don’t even know the kind of salary a top class geologist can command from an oil industry these days.’

‘Top class—you?’ Sir Giles had laughed sneeringly. ‘It takes years, boy, to get to the top in any profession, and you didn’t even get an Honours degree. You’ll be back here in a year, moaning that you can’t manage on your salary, begging me for a hand-out. Well, wait and see what answer you get!’

Mark was white where he had been red before. He leaned across the table, staring his grandfather in the face. His voice was very even and distinct as he said, ‘If and when I ever do come back, I’ll be rich. I’ll have so much bloody money that I’ll make you eat every word you’ve said. And I shan’t come back until I’ve got it.’

He’d walked out of the room, and Rachel had gone after him, but it had been no use. He’d looked at her almost as if he didn’t see her, and her pleadings had been to no avail.

In the end she’d said, ‘Mark, he’s an old man. You can’t do this to him. You can’t—just walk out like this.’

His remote look deepened. ‘Does age give you the right to ride roughshod over everyone? We’ve had it all our lives, Rachie, ever since Mother and Father died, and I’ve had enough of it. He’s had pre-ordained slots for both of us, and I’m not going to humour him any longer. He seems to think the only wealth in the world is to be found in the City of London. Well, I’m going to teach him that he’s wrong.’ His hand came up and touched her cheek. ‘I’ll be back one day, Rachie. Don’t worry about me.’

It had been a week later that Grandfather had suffered his first minor attack, and Rachel, panicking and sending for Mark, had discovered that he was nowhere to be found. He had given up his flat and apparently vanished into thin air. She did the rounds of his closest friends, but none of them knew, or professed not to know, where he had gone. And she’d waited, endlessly, for the phone call, the letter, the message of reassurance which did not come.

And now, six months later, Sir Giles had suffered yet another attack, and this time he was really ill. Every bone in the proud old face seemed suddenly prominent beneath the transparency of his skin, and Rachel felt a sudden dryness invade her mouth as she looked at him. Was he—could he be dying? Uncle Andrew had never suggested a nursing home before, especially a high-powered one like the Mordaunt Clinic. She sank her teeth into the softness of her lower lip and waited for the sick man to speak again.

He moved restlessly at last and opened his eyes again, blinking a little as if even the muted light in the room hurt them.

He said hoarsely, ‘I was going to fetch him, Rachel. It’s all in the desk downstairs—my air ticket, hotel reservation in Bogota—everything. I’d planned to leave next week as soon as the inoculations took effect. You’ll have to go instead.’

For a dazed moment she thought her ears had deceived her—or that she was going mad.

Then she saw his eyes fixed on her with almost painful intensity, and heard him repeat, ‘You’ll have to go, Rachel. It’s the only way. Bring the boy home to me—before it’s too late.’

Andrew Kingston said angrily, ‘It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard of. You can’t seriously mean that you’re going?’

Rachel said wearily, ‘What choice do I have? You’ve told me yourself how ill he is—that another attack could occur at any time and be fatal. He wants to see Mark before he dies. It’s understandable. He’s his heir, after all.’

Dr Kingston moved his shoulders sceptically. They were in his private office at the Mordaunt Clinic, a tray of freshly made coffee on the desk between them. Sir Giles had been brought there by ambulance only half an hour before and was now in an intensive care unit. Rachel had been in to wish him goodnight, but he had been under heavy sedation and had not recognised her.

He said, ‘My dear child—–’ and paused, apparently lost for words.

She smiled rather wearily. ‘He has it all arranged. He even has an appointment tomorrow for all the various jabs—yellow fever, cholera—you name it. I’m supposed to keep the appointment in his place. The bookings are made, and my passport is in order. I don’t need a visa as I don’t expect to stay more than ninety days. It—couldn’t be better.’

Dr Kingston’s frown intensified. ‘My dear, it couldn’t be worse. What can Giles be thinking of? A beautiful young woman like you—alone in South America of all places!’

She said quietly, ‘He’s thinking of Mark.’

There was a brief unhappy silence while Andrew Kingston looked at her across the desk. There had been a feature article about her recently in one of the Sunday papers. It had described her jibingly as the ‘Ice Maiden’ of the English stage, and perhaps that was the impression she gave, with her cool blonde beauty and air of rather aloof composure. But a more discerning writer, he thought, might have detected the vulnerability beneath the poise which betrayed itself in the soft curves of her mouth, and the faint shadow which so often lurked in her green eyes.

He said abruptly, ‘But what about your career? The play you’re in—and that panel game on television?’

She smiled. ‘The play closed—and I’ve finished my stint on that particular game. My agent has other offers which I’ve been considering, but there’s nothing as yet that I feel I would die rather than miss. For all practical purposes I could go to Colombia. I’ve been promising myself a holiday, and it would get me away from the English winter.’

‘Oh, it would do that all right,’ said Doctor Kingston grimly.

Rachel leaned forward, setting down her empty cup. ‘I told him I’d go,’ she said quietly.

‘What?’

‘You told me not to let him get excited. He saw that I was hesitating and he started to get—very excited, so I had to agree. He wants Mark home. It means everything to him—the sorting out of this stupid quarrel. Mark won’t refuse to come back with me when he knows what the situation is.’

‘But do you have to be the one to tell him?’ he demanded. ‘This fellow—Forsyth—who saw Mark in Bogota. Couldn’t he arrange something—have the boy traced?’

Rachel sighed. ‘But don’t you see that would mean including other people—strangers—in a family upset? Grandfather wouldn’t be able to bear that. You’re really the only person outside the family who knows what happened, and you’re my godfather, so that makes it—legal, I suppose. And it isn’t really so onerous, you know. The arrangements have all been made for me. All I have to do is fly out to Bogota next week, trace this Arviles family and persuade Mark to come home—that is if he wants to see Grandfather alive.’ She swallowed painfully. ‘I doubt if I’ll be in the country more than forty-eight hours.’

Doctor Kingston nodded almost absently, his fingers playing with the cap of his fountain pen. Then he said gently, ‘My dear child, what are you trying to prove?’

He saw the colour rise in her face. ‘That isn’t fair!’

‘It’s the truth, Rachel, so what about it?’

She got up from her chair and went over to the window, pulling back the curtain and looking out into the darkness. She said, ‘Do you know, it’s snowing quite hard now.’ And then with barely a change of tone, ‘Don’t you see, Uncle Andrew, he’s asked me to do this for him. It’s the first time in my life that he’s ever asked me for something. He’s always been the one to give—you know that, ever since Mother and Father died. And he always made it clear that no return was ever expected or wanted, because I was a girl.’

‘But he’s always been proud of you. And you’re making a name for yourself in the theatre now. That must please him.’

She smiled wryly and let the curtain fall back into place.

‘Grandfather has always secretly believed that women belong in two places—and the theatre is neither of them. He has always looked on my career as a curious aberration which will be cured when I do the right thing and marry, and produce a family—boys, naturally.’

‘Rachel!’

‘Oh, it’s true, Uncle Andrew, and we both know it. He forgave me for my sex a long time ago, but he’s never let me forget it either—until now—and I’m not going to let slide an opportunity for Grandfather to see me as a person. I want him—I need him to be grateful to me, and if that sounds an unworthy motive for going to find Mark, then I’m sorry, but it’s the only one I’ve got.’

She swung back towards him, her lips smiling and her eyes luminous with unshed tears.

She said lightly, ‘I’m relying on you to give me the necessary shots, Uncle Andrew. I’d rather it was you than this strange doctor that Grandfather has found. You know what a coward I am.’

Andrew Kingston said soberly, ‘That isn’t quite the word I’d have used, my dear. But if your mind is made up, then I’ll say no more.’

Rachel leaned her aching head against the cool glass of the cab window and stared out at the rain-washed streets that they were so rapidly traversing. It had been a long and tiring journey and she was beginning to wish that she had obeyed her first impulse and stretched out on the comfortable bed in her hotel room. As it was, she had stayed only long enough to register and leave her luggage before enquiring at the desk if they could provide her with Señor Arviles’ address.

The Señor seemed to be quite as well known as Larry Forsyth had said, for within a matter of minutes a taxi had been summoned by the helpful clerk, and Rachel was on her way to the expensive suburbs which lay to the north of Bogota beneath the towering and slightly oppressive peaks of the Andes.

It was much cooler than she had anticipated, and Rachel found she was glad of the cream-coloured suit in fine wool she was wearing. What little she knew about the prevailing climate in Latin America did not seem to apply to Bogota, and she supposed vaguely that this was due at least in part to the fact that the city lay at over eight thousand feet above sea level.

She’d intended to do some background reading before setting out, but the days had slipped past with increasing acceleration, and the day of her departure was upon her almost before she knew it. Apart from packing, and spending an uncomfortable day reacting from her injections, she’d visited her grandfather daily.

On her last visit, she’d received the cheering news that he seemed to be out of immediate danger, and wasn’t altogether surprised as she entered his room to hear that he’d undergone a change of heart about her trip.

Sir Giles was all set to make plans to visit Colombia himself as soon as he was back on his feet again, and it required a stern visit from Andrew Kingston, spelling out to him precisely how long that might take, to reconcile him to the fact that Rachel was going in his place.

Instead he contented himself with uttering dire warnings about the kinds of attitude that Rachel might encounter on her trip.

‘They’re an old-fashioned society out there still.’ He fixed Rachel with a glare. ‘None of your Women’s Lib nonsense. Women have their place and they keep to it.’

‘Haven’t I always?’ Rachel asked with a trace of bitter humour in her voice.

Sir Giles’ glance was still fierce, but there was a tinge of discomfort in it. ‘You’re a good child,’ he admitted almost unwillingly. ‘But you’re a good-looking one too, and you’ll be mixing with men with the blood of the conquistadores in their veins. Have you thought about that?’

Rachel lifted an arched eyebrow. ‘I always thought they were more interested in gold than in personal conquests,’ she said. ‘And I’m perfectly able to take care of myself, you know. I’ve been working in the theatre—remember?—and they call me the Ice Maiden.’

‘Lot of damned nonsense,’ Sir Giles rumbled. ‘And written by that fellow who was supposed to be keen on you. What happened? Did you quarrel?’

Rachel was silent for a moment. One could not tell one’s devoted and old-fashioned grandfather the truth—that Leigh’s article had been prompted by nothing more than sexual pique, because he’d suddenly discovered he was not as irresistible as he’d always thought.

She’d liked Leigh, and frankly enjoyed the kudos of being seen with one of Fleet Street’s youngest and most attractive show business columnists. And eventually, inevitably there had started to be more to it than that. He’d become more than attractive. He’d begun to be necessary to her. Afterwards when she could think about it clearly and rationally, she could see what he had done—how clever he had been. He’d always known she wouldn’t be a pushover like most of his girl-friends, so he’d played the game her way, making his approach a gentle, almost insidious one, even making her believe, God help her, that he was falling in love with her.