Blackstone placed a finger on her lips. She took it into her mouth and tasted his sweat, sucking on it like a child desperate for the teat. The desire to draw him into her, to consume him, eased when he blew gently onto her cheek. She took his hand and placed it on her breast.

‘You possess me,’ she whispered hoarsely.

‘We find comfort together,’ he said with a caress.

She sighed. ‘I knew you would come into my life long before you arrived. I knew we would share moments like this. I was impatient for you.’

They lay face to face, the sweet scent of wine-perfumed breath brushing each other’s lips. ‘You know so much,’ said Blackstone. ‘And yet you reveal so little.’

‘I have nothing to tell other than what I have already told you.’

Blackstone yawned lazily and pulled her to him so that she snuggled closer and half straddled him. He tugged the blanket across her lower back. He showed scant interest in his gently probing question or for her innocent reply. Her head nestled in his chest; his hand stroked her hair. ‘But you know everything there is to know about the King and his court. So who do you think met Ranulph de Hayle the night before we left Burgos?’

There was an imperceptible moment as she held her breath. But she could not disguise it. Blackstone knew that to ask her straight out would yield no reaction. Her eyes would not flicker, her brow would not crease in feigned ignorance. She would lie cold and unemotional, giving nothing away. But now, pressed against his chest, he felt the brief hesitation and the brush of her eyelashes on his skin. Seduced, her guard was down for a heartbeat.

‘Who?’

‘An English routier who wishes me dead,’ he said, keeping nothing but idle curiosity in his voice.

‘I don’t know him.’

‘No, of course you don’t,’ he said as if believing her, ‘but if anyone would know who it might have been then it would be you.’

‘I don’t,’ she said without moving. An easy lie.

Blackstone kissed her forehead. A tenderness that said it didn’t matter. That his idle thoughts were unimportant after their passion. She had expressed no surprise that a routier had been at Burgos, didn’t ask why he wished Blackstone dead. Natural questions. Blackstone sighed. A deep sigh that signalled contentment, to ease any suspicion she might have about his gentle questioning.

His breathing settled as he drifted into sleep. There was no doubt in his mind. She was the enemy.

CHAPTER SIXTY

Blackstone had gathered his captains before they struck out for the ride to Seville. He shared his conviction that Velasquita was a danger to Lázaro. Blackstone believed she had had contact with Ranulph de Hayle. There was no direct proof, but he knew she had lied when asked.