Free Tapestry of Fear by Margaret Pemberton Page A

of the plants that clung around the fountain, the spray falling over my face and shoulders in a cooling mist.
    Roque’s shadow fell across the white stone and I looked up, noticing with something of a shock that he was not as young as I had at first thought. Tall and aesthetically thin, still dressed in riding clothes, he said almost shyly, “Romero would like me to introduce you to the horse you are to ride tonight.”
    I followed him beneath the brief dimness of the archway and into the noise and bustle and smell of the stables. The horses leaned sleek heads over their stalls, pale manes against chestnut and copper. A young boy with rosy cheeks led a glistening chestnut horse towards us.
    â€œSolitaire,” Roque said, slipping the saddle into place. The horse raised its head to mine and it was love at first sight. He was heaven to ride, and out on the gentle slopes of the mountain, the air blowing fresh from the summit, I forgot my worries and for a short time was joyously happy. Roque broke in on my happiness.
    â€œYou are a good horsewoman. You will manage.”
    He helped me down from the saddle, slipping Solitaire’s bridle off and leading him to a box of hay. With a last look at Solitaire, nose deep, foraging for the food, I made my way back into the house.
    Jose was waiting for me. Dressed and hands on hips he stood in the marbled hallway. I stopped only yards away from him, our eyes locking.
    â€œWell, well,” he said appraisingly. “Quite the accomplished horsewoman.”
    â€œI never said I couldn’t ride.”
    His eyebrows raised expressively above gleaming eyes. “They say some people are born to it.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œYou are,” he said, with a slight nod of the head, the tight black curls rippling. “I can tell.”
    We stared at each other, still not moving, eyes never wavering. Then the laughter in the amber eyes died, the flecks of gold like motes in a sunbeam, intensified, desired. With one swift stride he was against me, by body pinned firmly to his, his heart hammering wildly against mine, as the dark head bent and demanding lips met my own.
    From a far distance came the singing of a lark, and my arms were still round him, pulling him to me with the same fierce intensity in which he was holding me. It was a long, long kiss, and when at last he raised his head he still held me imprisoned in the circle of his arms, and I still stayed, a willing prisoner, seeking no release.
    â€œWell,” he said, the blaze of desire hot in his eyes, still holding me transfixed. “ Who would have thought it?”
    I could feel his heart thudding against my own, my own desire flaring like the sudden upsurge of joy that had been mine with Solitaire out on the wild mountainside.
    â€œNot me,” I said, my breath hurting like that of someone who has run a long, long way. Someone who, in only seconds has travelled inumerable light years. “Not me,” and I lifted my mouth to his again, my lips bruised and crushed beneath the pressure of his.
    It was Romero who disturbed us. How long he had been there I didn’t know. At the same moment we became aware of his presence and turned, still locked together, to face Romero’s questioning eyes. Slowly Jose released me.
    â€œYou have mapped the route?” he asked.
    â€œYes, but we need to go over it together carefully. Very, very carefully. Even then it is only going to work if the God’s are on our side.”
    Jose’s eyes met mine. “They’re on our side,” he said, and I blushed and turned, leaving them with their maps and notes, slipping light-headedly along to my room.
    The blinding light of the sun struck hotly through the windows and I closed the shutters, standing in the dimness, my blouse clinging to my body like a second skin, wet and clammy with sweat. I peeled it off, stretching my arms high above my head, seeing my darkened reflection in the mirror