“Descendants of the Arab stock brought here by the Spaniards at the time of the Conquest. It has been proved that no horses existed in the South American Continent before then.”

“Arab stock! That accounts for so much!”

Skye patted her horse’s head again.

“You ride well,” El Diablo said, watching her.

Skye stiffened at the compliment. She had forgotten her hatred of him while they talked of horses. Now, like an animal, she shied away from the admiration in his eyes.

He laughed softly.

“No Englishwoman knows how to receive a compliment gracefully.”

“We are particular as to who pays them to us.”

“And mine are not acceptable?”

“No! That should be obvious.”

She stared at him with a disdain that would have made an Englishman or an American shrivel into silence, but El Diablo only laughed again.

“Aren’t you tired of fighting me?”

“No. I will fight you to the last breath I draw!”

“Inevitably a losing battle!”

“Perhaps an opportunity will come or fate will be kind. And in victory I shall be merciless.”

Skye spoke passionately and El Diablo swept his broad-brimmed hat from his head.

“A challenge from my most beautiful wife!” he smiled. “And I accept it.”

He was mocking her and Skye could have killed him at that moment had she carried a gun.

She turned her face away and with her chin held high she rode on quickly. Every nerve in her body was vibrant with her loathing of this man, who held her in his power and played with her as a cat plays cruelly with the mouse it has captured.

One more hacienda and then they rode West towards the camp.

Skye had been observant all the afternoon of where they were going, watching for any opportunity that might present itself for her to escape, but never for one moment had she been left unguarded.

Six men and El Diablo himself were a formidable escort. She felt her spirits sink. She was haunted with the thought of what night could bring in its train.

And now, with a sickening sense of desperation, she found herself praying that something might happen to save her.

Wildly she thought of dragging the revolver from the holster of one of the men riding beside her and holding them up before they could draw against her. But she knew that such ideas exist only in storybooks. The gun would scarcely be in her hand before someone might shoot it from her fingers or, worse still, overpower her from behind.

She had no illusions about her cleverness in being able to outshoot men who used revolvers with the habitual ease with which she used a knife and fork.

No, she had to think of something better than that – but what?