ISBN: 9780373305230

Thunder clapped over the straw roof of the palloza at El Cebrero, making Kate Fletcher flinch and draw further into the folds of her tunic. Dirty and exhausted, she was partaking of the… More...

Thunder clapped over the straw roof of the palloza at El Cebrero, making Kate Fletcher flinch and draw further into the folds of her tunic. Dirty and exhausted, she was partaking of the meagre rations served to the pilgrims, but the soup and bread was doing little to comfort her. For weeks she had been living in this youth's disguise, determined to carry out her duty to her Lady, but terrified that her true identity would be revealed. Each new face posed a potential threat, and the man who had arrived shortly after her that evening was no different. Now sitting just a few feet away, she had been aware of the stranger's gaze upon her ever since he'd entered the palloza . At first she had taken him for a Spaniard, with his olive skin and curling jetblack hair, but then their eyes had met and she experienced a vague sense of recognition. Those orbs were the deep dark blue of the Irish Sea on a sunny day and, when he stood to speak to a monk, she realised he was head and shoulders above many of the local men, giving her cause to revise her opinion. For a moment, she watched the two men conversing in Spanish and then dragged her gaze away, unwilling to draw more attention to herself than was necessary. Lowering her eyes to her bowl, she focused on her soup, trying to draw nourishment from the watery fluid, willing herself to be invisible. Suddenly she was aware of a figure at her shoulder. She glanced round, her heart missing a beat as she saw the stranger beside her. He spoke to her in Spanish, but she remained silent. He tried questioning her in French, his tone urgent, his eyes searching her face intently, but still she gave no reply. He repeated his question, this time in English, and her blood ran cold. With no immediate means of escape, Kate raised a finger and pointed to her open mouth. He stared at her, frowning for a moment, before understanding that she was mute. With a defeated air he passed on to interrogate other pilgrims, but his gaze returned to her every so often, curiosity burning in his eyes. Who was he? He had the appearance of a pilgrim, wearing the familiar homespun brown tunic and displaying the scallop badge of one having accomplished the journey to St James's shrine at Compostela in the northwest of Spain.Yet there was nothing humble about him. Pride was written in the manner in which he had walked into the hostel. His tread had been firm, his head held high and over one broad shoulder he had carried a pair of saddlebags. Instantly she had found it difficult to believe his aim was to gain indulgences. The saddlebags declared that he had made the journey on horseback. As a true pilgrim, he would have hobbled through the doorway, his feet blistered and bleeding, his face scorched by the Castilian sun. As soon as he'd eaten his frugal meal, he would have sought his pallet and fallen asleep from exhaustion. Instead, he continued to navigate the room, addressing others with the same urgency he had questioned Fiction Fiction eBook, Harlequin<