the air he felt a little more relaxed. Flying, whether in the helicopter or in the monoplane also owned by the estate, always relaxed him. His father had been a keen pilot and some of Rafael’s earliest memories were of being taken up in an aeroplane and subjected to the kind of aerobatics calculated to shake the hardest nerves. But Rafael had loved it, and by the time he was fourteen he could handle a plane almost as well as his father. Of course, his mother had not known, not then, but as soon as he was old enough to hold a licence it had become one of his greatest pleasures. A pleasure he had denied himself of late.
Now as he turned the helicopter towards the valley of the Lima, he reflected that he could afford to be pleasant to the girl when in a little over an hour she would no longer be his responsibility. He knew the terrain like the back of his hand, and felt he could have flown the chopper in blindfold. He glanced towards his passenger and saw her taut features revealed in the diffused lighting from the instrument panel. He felt a sense of remorse. He had been cold and unyielding, totally unlike his normal self. It was not her fault that he instinctively recoiled from her easy familiarity. What must she be thinking of him?
He shook his head. Juan should not be too disappointed. After all, he, too, had been expecting an older woman. What he would say when he confronted this emancipated specimen of womanhood might be interesting to hear. But something had to be said now and Rafael sought for suitable words.
“No one has any intention of trying to—take your niece—if indeed the child is your niece—away from you, señorita,” he averred at last.
She looked sideways at him. “No one could.”
Her determination was irritating. She was obviously unaware of the power of the Cueras family if she imagined her words would carry much weight here.
“I—should not take that attitude, señorita,” he replied quietly. “You are not in England now.”
“Are you threatening me, señor?” she demanded incredulously, and his knuckles showed white through the skin of his hands.
“No, señorita, I am not threatening you. I am merely offering sound advice.”
She directed her attention towards him. “And what do you do, señor? Do you work for your brother on this estate Father Esteban mentioned in his letters? Are you working for him now?”
Rafael could not remember feeling so angry for a very long time. “No,” he managed, through clenched teeth. “I do not work for my brother, señorita. I have no connection with the estate.”
“I see.”
But she was puzzled. He sensed that. However he had no intention of enlightening her further. She would learn soon enough no doubt. But not from him. He did not altogether understand his antipathy towards the girl, but he wanted nothing more to do with her.
Thereafter there was silence between them. They flew in over the mountain ranges, dropping low into the valley where lights pricked the gloom below them. A fugitive moon slid from behind clouds long enough to illuminate the grey walls of the Hacienda Cueras, but then they fell behind them as the helicopter dropped down to the valley floor where a narrow airstrip flanked by adobe buildings provided a necessary landing area. As they landed Miranda looked curiously about her., probably noticing the lack of formal buildings.
“Is this it?” she asked, and he nodded.
“This is it, seˉnTorita,” he agreed coolly, thrusting back the sliding perspex door as the propellers slowed to a stop. “Only a short journey in a Landrover and you will be at the Hacienda Cueras.”
“Oh, but—” Miranda broke off. “I thought Lucy was staying at the mission with Father Esteban.”
“She is, señorita. But the mission is small, accommodation is limited. My brother insists you accept his hospitality. Besides, it would not be advisable to upset the child at this time of night.”
He thought she was about to refuse, but although her mobile mouth tightened she tossed back her hair with a careless hand and bent to unfasten her safety harness. He offered her his hand to climb out, and after a moment’s hesitation she took it, her fingers slim and cool in his. It was the first time he had touched her, and he could tell from the way her eyes darted to his face that she was not unaware of him. But he withdrew his hand as soon as he could and turned away with relief to speak to Gerardo Sanchez, the mechanic, who lived in one of the adobe buildings. They spoke in a swift patois, a mixture of Mexican and the native Nahuatlan, which successfully excluded Miranda. All the same, Rafael was conscious of her standing there, behind him, slim and elegant, in spite of her casual attire, looking about her with interested eyes.
It was quite cold now, and after a moment he dismissed Gerardo and turned back to her.
“Come,” he said. “The Landrover is waiting, and so, too, is my brother. Gerardo tells me that he did not get my message last evening informing him that your plane had been delayed.”
He set off across the tarmac and she fell into step beside him. “What do you mean?” she asked in surprise. “Didn’t you telephone.”
Rafael cast her an impatient look. “There are no telephones in the high valleys of the Chiapas, señorita.“ He shrugged. “No doubt both he and my mother have convinced themselves by now that I have either run the Mustang off the highway, or crashed the helicopter!”
Miranda bit her lip, looking at him anxiously, and in the fleeting light of the moon she saw the amusement touching his mouth. She smiled suddenly, and a gulp of laughter escaped her.
“It is not funny,” he asserted, straightening his lips, but her smile was infectious and in spite of himself he grinned back.
“You look so much nicer when you smile,” she exclaimed impulsively, and he was glad that they had reached the Landrover and thus was not obliged to make any response.
Gerardo slung the luggage into the back and raised his hand in farewell, and then they bumped off across the grassy sward that led to the track. The scent of pine and underbrush filled the air, mingling with the baser scents of earth and humanity. Rafael handled the Landrover expertly, accelerating as they left the airstrip behind and began the ascent into the foothills.
The Hacienda Cueras looked particularly beautiful in the light cast from its many windows, and Miranda exclaimed at the mosaic tiling on the stone fountain in the forecourt which he usually took for granted. He found the sound of its falling waters cooling on a hot afternoon, but that was all.
He had hardly stopped the vehicle before the shallow steps which led up to the shadowed portico when the mesh door was opened and his mother stood silhouetted against the light beyond. She spread her hands welcomingly and came hurrying down the steps towards him as he stepped from the Landrover.
“Rafael! Oh, Rafael!” she exclaimed weakly. “Dios gracias, estas aqui! De donde—”
“No ahora, Madrecita,” said Rafael soothingly. “Estoy seguro.” He took her clinging arms from around his neck, glancing back to where Miranda Lord was just getting out of the Landrover. “Esta Miss Lord, Madrecita. Miss Miranda Lord.”
Doña Isabella’s eyes widened in surprise as she took in the informally clad girl behind him. “This is—the child’s aunt from England?” she asked in that language.
Rafael
