Flame of Diablo (11 page)

encircling undergrowth to see where the

noise was coming from. Carlos had

turned and he shouted something back to

her over his shoulder—the first words

he had uttered in several hours, she

thought. She couldn't catch the exact drift

of what he had said, but she lifted a hand

in response and saw him urge his horse

forward, apparently satisfied. Perhaps

he was telling her there was shelter just

ahead, she thought longingly. A drink

and a wash, above all, and then she

might even feel able to face another

helping of tinned stew and rice pudding.

Or perhaps they might be offered

something a little more appetising by the

people at the
finca,
she told herself

hopefully, digging her heels into her

horse's side.

The trees thinned, and her spirits rose

mercurially. Her horse's rather ambling

gait quickened too as if he was also

aware that it was nearing the end of the

day and rest awaited them.

It all made the disappointment so much

more acute when she emerged from the

trees and found that they were on the

bank of a river, its waters a dingy brown

and moving sluggishly but in little eddies

which suggested deep and hidden

currents. And that was all—no shelter,

no

cabana,
not so much as a

tumbledown shack. Rachel looked

around her and saw that Carlos had

already dismounted, and was taking the

saddle from his horse.

She rode slowly towards him. 'What is

this place?' she demanded.

Carlos shrugged rather evasively. 'Is just

a

place,

senorita,'

he

returned,

obviously trying to sound reassuring. 'It

get dark soon, so we stay here.'

'Here?' Rachel was frankly horrified and

made no attempt to disguise her feelings.

'But you said there would be forestry

service places—and
fincas.
There's

nothing here at all!'

Carlos' round face was suddenly less

good-humoured. 'There are such places,

but it will take too long to reach them.

We need to build a fire—it will be dark

soon. Tonight we stay in the tent I have

brought.'

'A tent?' Rachel echoed helplessly.

Nothing had been said by either of them

about a tent. And it certainly couldn't be

a large one if Carlos had brought it on

the packs his own horse was carrying.

An odd feeling of distaste swept over

her as she visualised the prospect of

having to share any kind of tent, large or

small, with Carlos in the middle of this

wilderness.

She moistened her lips. 'Nevertheless, I

think I'd prefer to press on,' she said

levelly. 'I find this sort of country a little

wild for camping out in.'

Carlos gave her a sullen look. 'That is

too bad,
senorita.
It is far to the nearest

finca.
We should not reach it before

morning.'

Rachel felt her heart sink, but her

training came to her rescue and she

managed to maintain her cool facade. It

suddenly seemed important not to let

Carlos know her inward alarm. Besides,

her imagination was playing tricks with

her again, she assured herself. It was this

place—the approach of night and the

darkness of the encircling forest. The

sinister swirl of the brown water. It was

—getting to her. Carlos was just an

inoffensive

little

man

who

had-

miscalculated, that was all. Probably she

should have made it clear to him back in

Asuncion that any form of camping was

out as far as she was concerned. If their

departure hadn't been so hurried at her

insistence, she could have paid more

attention to their actual means of travel,

got it all sorted out to her satisfaction

before they ever set out, but she had

allowed her impatience to find Mark to

get the better of her.

As if he sensed her inner hesitation,

Carlos said eagerly, 'This is a good

place,
senorita.
Better we stay here. I

make a fire.' His smile was ingratiating.

'You may have the tent,
senorita.'

Rachel bit her lip. He seemed to have

assessed with fair accuracy the root of

her uncertainty, and succeeded in making

her feel foolish. She gave a slight shrug

and slid out of the saddle.

Carlos was as good as his word. It was

only a tiny tent and soon erected, and

before long he had a fire going too, and a

can of water coming to the boil on it.

The sun had almost vanished by now,

leaving a resplendent sky to mark its

passing, and a definite chill in the air.

Rachel was glad of the blanket Carlos

passed her, and she held it round her

shoulders as she sipped at her mug of

black coffee. The sticks crackling on the

fire and the little darting flames had an

oddly soporific effect, she discovered as

her eyelids began to droop. She had to

make herself wake up, remind herself

that the least she could do was lend a

hand with the preparation of the supper,

such as it was. That she needed too to

find out from Carlos exactly where they

were and how much this direct but

lonely route could be expected to cut off

their journey to Diablo. If only she

wasn't so desperately tired! She just

wasn't used to spending so long in the

open

air.

Hot-house

flower,

she

ridiculed herself.

She wished there was someone with

whom she could share her day's

experiences—her sense of awe. as she'd

looked up at the high peaks of the

cordillera,
capped with snow and

wreathed in cloud, the glory of this

spectacular sunset, even her fears and

apprehensions along the forest trail. She

could build those into quite an amusing

story in the re-telling, she decided, but it

would all be wasted on Carlos. She

grinned to herself imagining his blank,

uncomprehending smile as she poured

out her heart to him.

She was so lost in her own thoughts she

was hardly aware of him getting up and

coming round the fire, and when at last

she registered his short bulky presence

standing over her, she assumed vaguely

that he had come to offer her some more

coffee and held out her mug to be

refilled.

It went flying, knocked out of her hand,

the dregs splashing on to the blanket.

Dazed, she looked up and saw for the

first time the real reason for that nagging

feeling of unease which had plagued her

all day—Carlos staring down at her with

the eyes of a satyr. She tried to get to her

feet, but the folds of the blanket

hampered her, and besides, he was

pushing her back again with all the force

of his sturdy body.

His podgy hands were tearing the

blanket away, and he was kneeling

across her legs, so that she couldn't

move. His eyes were glazed and his

moist full mouth was coming closer.

Rachel screamed. She'd been taught to

scream in drama school, so why, at this

moment when she most needed it, was

the most she could manage a strangled

choking cry? She ought to reason with

him, something in her brain kept

repeating numbly. Tell him that if he

stopped this madness now, she wouldn't

report him to the authorities. That if he

let her go now, they needn't even

mention it again. But at the same time

she knew horrifyingly that it was too late

for reasoning, that no threat or promise

she could make would have any weight

with Carlos. He was panting savagely

and muttering things in his own language

that she guessed somehow were

obscenities as his hands tore at her shirt,

ripping the buttons off it, and she heard

him growl his satisfaction in his throat

as he uncovered her breasts. His mouth

was wet and greedy as he leaned over

her.

She screamed again, and this time the

sound came full-bodied and piercing

from her throat, although it was stupid to

scream when there was no one to hear

and perhaps she should have saved her

strength for this last desperate struggle.

In the meantime she had nearly deafened

her attacker. She saw Carlos draw back,

his face mottled suddenly with rage, saw

his fist clench and his arm swing back,

and found herself praying that the blow

when it came would render her

unconscious.

The explosion seemed to fill the world.

She had closed her eyes to escape from

the look on Carlos' face and the sight of

that menacing fist, but now she jerked

them open again, feeling incredibly the

weight of Carlos' body shift from hers.

She could sit up, shaking back the mass

of tangled hair which her wild

ineffectual struggles had loosened.

Carlos had rolled off her and was lying

very still, staring back over his shoulder.

His breathing was hoarse and laboured.

She followed the direction of his gaze

and caught her breath in disbelief. In the

semi-darkness, horse and rider were so

motionless that they seemed to be some

fabulous beast from a forgotten world

carved out in ebony. She saw the barrel

of the rifle the newcomer held glint as it

was lowered, and the swift supple

movement as he swung himself out of the

saddle and walked forward. But Rachel

had known at once who it was. It was

Vitas de Mendoza.

CHAPTER FOUR

'Buenas tardes,
Carlos
amigo
.' With one

booted foot, he kicked the sullen fire into

a blaze. 'Up to your old tricks yet again?'

Carlos began to speak. The words came

rushing out, harsh and strident in a long

monotonous torrent, and although Rachel

could not understand what he was

saying, some instinct told her the sense

of them, and she wanted to press her

hands over her ears and reject the

outpouring ugliness. But she couldn't

move. She couldn't speak. She felt as if

she had been literally turned into stone,

and in spite of the heat coming from the

leaping flames, she felt as cold as stone.

The hoarse words came to a stumbling

halt as Carlos paused for breath, and she

realised with an inward start that Vitas

de Mendoza was addressing her.

'My

friend

tells

me

that

you

accompanied him here with perfect

willingness,
senorita.
Is this true?'

The dancing firelight highlighted the

bronze arrogance of his face, making him

look like some stern carved image from

a time long before the
conquistadores

had set their conquering hand on

Colombia and its wealth. Only the

starkness of the black eye-patch and the

deep sensual curve of his mouth

reminded her that he was all too human.

'You are silent,
senorita,
' he remarked

after a pause. 'Don't they say in your

country that silence means consent? If I

have intruded I apologise.'

He lifted a hand to the broad-brimmed

hat he was wearing and turned as if to

go.

'No, wait!' The words seemed to burst

from the tightness of her throat. 'Don't go

—please! It—it's quite true, I did come

here with this man, but it's not what you

think— what he's told you. I've paid him

to take me to Diablo, that's all ...' Her

voice was trembling as she broke off.

What if he didn't believe her? What had

Carlos been saying to him? That she had

known all along what was going to

happen when they made camp for the

night—that she had been a willing

participant? But he'd been there—he'd

been watching them. He must know the

truth. As the realisation of precisely

what he had seen came to her, her hands