Emma caught her breath. 'Please - call me Emma,' she said. 'And yes, I have ridden. Although not for several years, I'm afraid.'

'It is not something one forgets.' Carlos inclined his head. 'Very well then - Emma. Would you care to accompany me this morning? I want to ride over to the village to see my - how do you say it - mandatario ?

Manager?'

'I'm afraid I don't have any riding clothes.' Emma made a helpless movement of her shoulders. 'Much as I should like to come with you ...'.

Carlos frowned, his dark eyes, so like Miguel's, a.s.sessing her appearance. 'Surely what you are wearing now, together with some stronger shoes-' He pointed his whip towards her thonged sandals with distaste. 'You have some boots, perhaps?'

Emma glanced down at her feet. 'Yes, I have some boots.'

'Good.' He tapped his boot again with his whip. 'Come outside when you are ready.' And he turned and strode away across the hall again. '

Emma gazed after him with some misgiving. If only Miguel were here to advise her - or Juan. Someone else to consult before going with this tall, arrogant stranger.

But there was no one else about, and she dared not keep him waiting.

Besides, if she was really honest with herself, she knew she wanted to go. After all, this was Miguel's father, and there was something exciting about the prospect of spending a morning exploring the magnificent countryside beyond the formal grounds of the house.

She put on cream suede boots, allowing her trouser legs to fall over them, and then rummaged in her bag for the dark gla.s.ses she had bought to Mexico City. Huge frames accentuated the pure lines of her oval face, and the girl reflected in her dressing-table mirror was almost as much a stranger to her as Carlos Salvaje.

Collecting a chunky white cardigan, she made her way back to the hall and pa.s.sed through the arched doorway on to the terrace, which ran all round the house, with particular areas bracketed by trellis-work intertwined with the ubiquitous bougainvillea.

She saw her host some distance away round the side of the building talking to one of the Indian servants, and she tried not to walk too eagerly towards him. However, he saw her coming and dismissed the man with casual ease. Then, when Emma had joined him, he said: 'Come: the stables are through these trees. I have had Jose saddle Candida for you. She is a quiet mare, not given to violent fits of pa.s.sion.' His expression had softened slightly, but Emma sensed it was because he loved his horses and not for any other reason.

His own horse Nubarro was a vastly different proposition. Tail and dark like its master, Nubarro possessed a fiery, excitable nature, evident in its flashing eyes and stamping impatience, and Emma, unused to such spirited temper, avoided its restless hooves as she was helped on to Candida's back.

It was very hot, and she was draping her unwanted cardigan across the front of her saddle when Carlos leant across and handed her a worn cream sombrero. 'Put it on,' he directed. 'It will protect the back of your neck.'

Emma shrugged, but she slipped the hat on to her head, noticing as she did so that Carlos apparently needed nothing. But then he was used to the sun.

They cantered out of the stable area and down the gra.s.sy slope towards the lake. Emma took her first real gulp of pure mountain air and sighed in delight. In the distance, across the lake, she could see a small boat with two occupants, and Carlos allowed her mare to come alongside him and commented that the water was good for fishing.

They followed the line of the lake for some distance before branching off to trek a short way beside a gurgling stream. It cascaded down the mountainside, splashing over rocks arid fernlike growths, as clear as tap water. The air was' filled with {he sounds of the birds and other animals, and bees hummed busily from one exotic bloom to another.

Every now and then Carlos made some comment concerning their surroundings, but mostly he left Emma to simply enjoy the beauty of the day.

It was getting much hotter, and she was glad of the sombrero, although she looked rather concernedly at Carlos's bare head.

'You don't wear a hat,' she said, and he shook his head.

'Sometimes,' he conceded. Then, as though by her question she had broken the silence between them, he went on: 'Tell me: what has Miguel told you about me?'

Emma's fingers tightened on Candida's reins. 'Not a lot,' she admitted awkwardly.

Carlos studied her bent head. 'You were not curious about his family?'

'Of course I was curious.' Emma sighed and looked at him.

'Where is his mother - your wife?'

Carlos's mouth tightened. 'I have no wife,'/ he replied harshly.

Emma absorbed this with difficulty. 'You have no wife?' She shook her head. 'You mean - you are divorced?'

'My wife is dead.'

Emma stared at him in surprise. 'But - but Juan said-'

Carlos's eyes hardened. 'Yes? What did Juan say?'

She flushed. 'Oh, nothing.'

'But yes, I insist.' He cantered close to her. 'What did Juan tell you?'

Emma drew a trembling breath. 'It's not important.' But it was!

Juan had said Miguel's mother was alive; that he had , brothers and sisters!

He had said that.

Carlos looked as though he was about to argue with her further, but then he looked away, arid said: 'Miguel was born here, at Lacustre Largo, in the bed in which I myself was born.'

Emma was interested in spite of herself. 'He's very lucky.' .

'Yes.' Carlos said the word slowly. Then: 'Perhaps he does not think so.' His lips twisted. 'I do not always understand him.'

That makes two of us, thought Emma dryly, but she didn't say it.

Instead, she said: 'This village we are going to ---what is it called?'

'Largo,' said Carlos briefly, guiding Nubarro between a clump of jacarandas, their blossoms scenting the air, fluttering to make a pale carpet at their feet. 'Miguel tells me you are to have a wedding in the church here in Puebla.'

'He told you that?' Emma played for time.

'Yes. Last night, before he went to bed. I regret keeping him so late.

We talked until the early hours of this morning.'

That explained why Miguel was still dressed when he found her on, the terrace, thought Emma, looking up at the network of branches above their heads. She wondered what they had talked about for so long. What had Miguel told his father about them, about their meeting for the first time, the reasons for their marriage? Had Miguel explained the circ.u.mstances surrounding his injuries, for example?

Had he any idea of the difficulties she was likely to encounter when she didn't even know what he was thinking?

In the distance she could see some houses now, small, single-storied dwellings, curls of smoke rising from their chimneys in spite of the heat of the day. Nodding towards them, she asked: 'Is this Largo?'

Carlos nodded. 'Yes, this is the village. No doubt you will, find it all rather primitive after England. Unfortunately, people here either cannot, or will not, improve their lot.'

It was primitive. Emma tried not to let Carlos see now appalled she was by the houses which were little more than thatched roofed huts jostling together beneath the trees beside the mud-baked track. Open doorways gave glimpses of bare interiors where a charcoal stove was the only means of cooking, while half-naked children played in the dirt with a complete disregard for sanitation. There were few men to be seen and Emma guessed this was because they were all away working in the fields or wherever else they might be employed, but the women, who all seemed to wear the same type of peasant blouse and full skirt^ bobbed before Carlos and herself as if they were visiting royalty.

'You see,' said Carlos, pointing with his whip towards one of the huts.

'They live like animals, or perhaps that is an unfair a.n.a.logy.

Animals, generally speaking, take more care of their young.'

Emma felt repelled by the cold indifference in his voice, and yet at the same time she recognized what he was saying was the truth. 'But how do they sleep?' she exclaimed.

Carlos indicated the straw mats which littered the floor of the huts.

'They sleep on those,' he said. 'They are called petates. It is all they have ever known.'

Emma was amazed. She would never have believed that human beings, so close to a modern civilization, could live so primitively, changing little over the centuries.

Clearing her throat, she said: 'Where does this man live who we are going to see?'

'It is not far now,' he replied, 'Just beyond the village.'

Emma was not sorry to leave the village behind, and now she could see ahead of them some distance up the track, the white-daubed walls of an adobe house. Two-storied, with curtains at the windows, it contrasted violently with the primitive dwellings in the village, and Emma looked at Carlos in surprise, 'Alfaro Diaz is a good worker,' he commented. 'He has been in my employ for many years now.' - 'And he - looks after the estate?'..

'Part of it, yes. But I employ many people, Emma. One manager would not be enough.'

She nodded slowly, and as they neared the house some children appeared and came running down the track to greet them. There were three, the eldest perhaps ten, the youngest no, more than five or six.

Carlos dismounted, a good-natured smile softening his stern features.

'Ah, chiquillos!' he exclaimed, leading his horse as he approached them. Then he dropped the reins and gathered the youngest up into his arms, laughing and talking to him in rapid Spanish.

Hesitantly, Emma dismounted too and followed his example, aware of the speculative stares of the other children. The youngest was a boy, but the others were girls, dark-haired and dark-eyed, and yet not Indian in appearance. Obviously their parents were of Spanish extraction.

Carlos glanced round at her. 'Come!' he said imperatively, putting the boy on his feet again. 'Meet my little ones. See, this is Rosita - Cecilia, and this - Clemente.'

Emma smiled at the children. ' Buenos dias!' she said.

' Buenos dias, senorita,' they chorused politely, clearly unaware of the significance of the broad gold band on her third finger.

Carlos reverted to Spanish and asked the children where their parents were. Emma, gradually gathering the meanings of certain words and phrases, was able to understand this.

A small garden hedged about with a shrubbery surrounded the Diaz house, and Emma preceded Carlos up the garden path to the door which stood wide to the air. Stretching ahead of them was a cool, tiled pa.s.sage, and from this pa.s.sage all the ground floor rooms of the house opened. A wooden staircase at the end of the hall led to the upper storey and Emma saw how meticulously clean everything was, the polished wood gleaming, the tiles bright and shining.

The children had gone ahead of them and as Emma and Carlos reached the door a man appeared in the hall. 'Don Carlos!!, he exclaimed, in surprise, his gaze flickering towards Emma.

' Quesorpresa!'

'Buenos dias, Alfaro!' said Carlos, urging Emma before him into the house. 'Esta bien?'

'Si, si- Alfaro was clearly not prepared for this intrusion, and Emma was beginning to wish she had not agreed to come.

Then beyond the man, a woman appeared. She was tall and slender, with serene, madonna-like features. When she saw Carlos, she smiled, and in lilting Spanish bade them come in.

They entered the kitchen of the house, a large, well-lit room, which obviously served as dining-room too. A long scrubbed table was flanked by wooden forms and chairs, and - the huge fireplace was hung about with gleaming pots and pans. The woman, who Emma guessed was Senora Diaz, chased several children out of another door which apparently led to the back of the house and then bade her guests sit down. She had looked at Emma several times, quick darting glances with nothing of hostility in them, and yet Emma sensed her unease. But why this woman should feel uneasy about her she could not imagine.

Carlos drew Emma forward, his hands cool on her bare arms.

Speaking in English, he said: 'Maria - Alfaro; I'd like to introduce you to Emma - Emma Salvaje, Miguel's wife!'

The stupefaction in their faces was ludicrous and Emma, uncertain as to how to respond to that introduction, stood nervously, waiting for someone else to make the first move. The steady ticking of a clock on the shelf above the wide fireplace seemed magnified in the sudden, still air, and the sounds of the children playing in the garden seemed distant and unreal. A cat which had been curled up on the hearth arched its back and stood upright before slinking away outside as though disturbed by the uncanny silence which had fallen. It was as though they were players on a stage who had all forgotten their lines.

Maria Diaz was the first to move. Realizing that something was expected of her, she held out her hand and Emma took it. 'I am most pleased to meet you,' she said, in stilted English.

Emma .managed a smile,, although the tensions in the room were almost tangible. Then Alfaro Diaz followed his wife's lead and taking her hand repeated what Maria had said, adding that Miguel was a lucky man.

But it was all so stiff and uncomfortable, and Emma longed for Carlos to say that they could go. What was there about that announcement which could cause such unexpected strain between them? Had these people a daughter whom they had expected Miguel to marry? Did that account for the strange little smile playing about Carlos Salvage's lips?

There were a few more moments of awkward silence, and then Carlos took command. It was as though he had enjoyed their shocked incredulity long enough. Like a cat who becomes bored with the antics of its prey. 'Are you not going to offer us some of your most excellent coffee, Maria?' he asked, his eyes chiding her. 'Believe me, it was just as much a - surprise to me as it was to you.'

Emma sank down into a chair, and as she did so she intercepted a look Alfaro Diaz cast in Carlos's direction. His eyes conveyed a combination of dislike and frustration and then he flung himself towards the door.

'Excuse me, senora ,' he said, speaking to Emma, 'but I have work to do.' And without speaking to Carlos he went out, the door banging behind him.

Emma quivered. This was all too much for her to understand, and on impulse she got up and went towards the back door, stepping out into the sunlight with a sense of relief. Carlos and Maria were talking together, she could hear them, but their conversation was too swift, too staccato, for her to understand.

But she sensed that Maria was remonstrating with him in some way.

There were five children in the garden. Two older boys had joined the younger children, and they were kicking a' football about energetically, laughing together. They stopped when they saw Emma and stared at her curiously. Wishing she knew more of the language, Emma pointed to the ball, gesticulating that they should allow her to join their group.

There was a few moments' hesitation, and then one of the older boys grinned and picking up the ball tossed it to her. Emma had to duck to avoid it hitting her, but taking her cue from them she tossed it back again and soon there was quite a lively interchange going on. She had shed her sombrero in the house, but now she began to wish she had it on as the sun beat down unmercifully.

At last she had to seek the shade of the doorway, and as she backed into the kitchen, waving at the children, Carlos came behind her and said: 'Come and have some coffee. I have been telling Maria of the romantic way in which you met my son.' .

Emma turned reluctantly, but there was a look of such entreaty on Maria Diaz' face that she smiled and accepted a chair, and took a mug of the deliciously smelling beverage from her hand.

Choosing her words carefully, Emma parried Maria's gentle probing, realizing that this woman must be very fond of Miguel.

It was evident in the way she spoke of him, in the intense interest she showed in everything Emma said. Emma wondered if she disapproved of him marrying an English girl as much as Carlos did.

And yet did he? she asked herself. She didn't really understand Carlos any more than she understood his son. This morning he had seemed so human somehow, so approachable, and only since they reached the Diaz house had there been any feeling of antagonism. And she couldn't altogether blame him for that.

Studying Maria surrept.i.tiously in a moment when she was answering something Carlos had said to her, Emma wondered how old she was.

There was an agelessness about her features that could have put her age anywhere between thirty-five and fifty-five, but Emma guessed it was somewhere in between. She must have been a beautiful girl, she thought, for she was still a, beautiful woman, and while Alfaro Diaz might be of mixed blood, Maria surely could not. She had the pure, cla.s.sic skin of a Spaniard, and even dressed in homespun cotton she had a definite air of breeding. It was puzzling, and Emma had not the courage or the impertinence to question her.

At last Carlos said they could leave and Emma rose eagerly.

During the past couple of hours she had succeeded in putting all thoughts of her own marriage to the back of her mind, but now they came flooding forward and she found herself impatient to get back to Lacustre Largo.

Maria came out to wave them good-bye, her children gathered about her skirts. They shouted after them gaily, and Emma was glad she had had the opportunity of spending some time with them. Children were so uncomplicated somehow.

The ride back to the house was accomplished almost in silence.