would rather have had an escort, someone to keep her company and help her overcome the difficulties whatever they might be, but she had learned in the past two years to be resilient and self-sufficient, and when there was nothing else for it, what was the good of wishing otherwise? The guerrilleros would not help her and perhaps that was just as well; friend or foe, they were terrifying.
And as for the Englishman, he was too wrapped up in his own problems to concern himself with hers. But she could not stop herself thinking about him, wondering about him. Why was he in the mountains alone? Why had he been cashiered, if, indeed, he had? She shrugged her thoughts from her as she put on a cotton dress she had found in a cupboard; it had a brown background and was decorated with poppy heads in large red splashes of colour, a servant’s dress, she decided. The old boots and the straw hat completed her ensemble. Her preparations complete, she picked up the bundle she had gathered together and left by the door she had entered, carefully shutting it behind her. It was none of her business what he was up to.
She stopped when she saw him riding back up the drive, leading a mule. He was smiling.
‘If you think that bringing that will make me change my mind,’ she said, without bothering to give him good morning, ‘you are mistaken. I will have nothing to do with your hare-brained schemes. You are mad.’
‘But it is the mad ideas which have the best chance of success, don’t you agree?’ he queried amiably. ‘And I thrive on a challenge.’
‘You will not thrive on this one.’
‘With you at my side, I could succeed.’
‘Succeed in doing what?’ she demanded.
He laughed. ‘Do you know, I am not at all sure? I will put my mind to it as we ride.’
‘I will not ride with you.’
‘No? Would you rather the guerrilleros finished off what they started?’
She looked up at him defiantly but the tone of his voice suggested that she had not left the partisans as far behind as she thought. ‘They are not interested in me.’
‘On the contrary, Madame Santerre, they are very interested in you.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I know.’
‘Where are they?’
‘I saw them riding down the mountainside, about twenty of them, armed to the teeth.’
‘They are coming here?’
He shrugged.
‘I do not believe you.’ But even as she spoke she realised he was telling the truth. ‘Why would they send twenty armed men after one woman?’ She paused. ‘Unless they are after you too.’
‘Whichever it is, madame, you and I are destined to spend some time together, so why not accept the inevitable? I will make a bargain with you. When we reach the main road from Ciudad Rodrigo into Portugal, you can go your way and I will go mine.’
‘Is that a promise?’
‘If that is what you want. Come now, we are wasting time. Mount up and let us be on our way; the sooner we start, the sooner you will be rid of me.’
She would have liked to defy him, to refuse to do anything he asked, but the thought of riding instead of walking, and having some protection against the bloodthirsty Spanish partisans, was a powerful persuader. Olivia tied her bundle behind the saddle of the mule and, using the doorstep as a mounting block, hitched up her skirt and threw her leg over the animal’s back, aware as she did so that he was smiling. ‘Do you think I have not ridden astride before?’ she demanded.
‘No, it is evident that you are quite accustomed to it.’ He turned his horse and led the way, not back up the drive to the gates, but along a rough path that led from the side of the house, round an empty stable block and through an olive grove which went steeply downhill towards the distant river. ‘Better than taking the road,’ he said over his shoulder.
She did not answer but concentrated on watching where the mule was going, thankful for its sure-footedness as it picked its way over loose stones and the roots of ancient olives which clung to any tiny crevice where there was soil. When the path broadened out, he reined in for her to come abreast of him.
‘Tell me about Ciudad Rodrigo,’ he commanded. ‘All you know.’
‘I know very little. We had only been there one day, just long enough to find lodgings.’
‘Describe the place, the streets, the buildings, the defences, anything you can think of. How are the inhabitants behaving towards the occupying forces? Do the French have trouble with them? Is there any resistance?’
‘I would not think so. The town surrendered, after all. The resistance is in the hills.’
‘To be sure.’
‘And if I knew anything, would I be so foolish as to tell you, sir? I do not know you or why you are here, do I? You may be a spy. In fact, I think that is just what you are.’
‘Touché, madame.’ He smiled as if at some secret joke. ‘Did you learn anything of the intentions of the guerrilleros while you were with them?’
‘I do not trust them either; they are a bloodthirsty lot.’
‘So they are, but not without reason. If someone had invaded England and pillaged your home town, raped the women and killed the men for nothing except keeping back food to feed their children, you would be bloodthirsty.’ He turned to look at her. He seemed far less formidable than he had in the poor light of the evening before and yet, behind the hazel eyes, there was an alertness which was not immediately evident from his languid pose. ‘The Spanish are hopeless when it comes to fighting in the disciplined way of the British army, but in small bands, in the hills where they can remain hidden until the time comes to strike, there are none better. The Peer knows that and he encourages them.’
‘I think they are barbaric. They did not have to kill Philippe; he could not have harmed them.’
‘He could have given away their position.’
‘We were blindfolded when we were taken to their camp.’
‘And yet you found your way out.’
‘That was simple good luck.’
‘They would not view it so. You could lead a French patrol back there.’
She looked startled. ‘Why should I do that? I told them I was English.’
‘And did they believe you? Did they even understand you?’
‘Their leader did. He looked as uncouth as the rest of his band, but he spoke excellent French and very good English. He was — is — an educated man.’
‘Don Miguel Santandos,’ he murmured, almost to himself.
‘You know him?’
‘I know of him. He is one of the fiercest and bravest
