‘Don’t you mention my father!’ she cried, her hand automatically rising to strike him, but he caught it – this time – holding her tightly by the wrist.

‘Still off-limits, is he?’ he asked, seeing how the tears immediately budded in her eyes. ‘You know, you can get married as many times as you like, but it doesn’t matter how often you change your name, you’ll still be his daughter.’

The truth of his cruel words hit like a whip, making her sting and flinch. ‘I hate you,’ she whispered, feeling the tears fall.

His eyes scoured her face, emotions he would never put voice to darkening his features and taking him far away from her. ‘Good. That’s for the best.’ And he dropped her wrist and walked out of the room.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Guadalajara, outside Madrid, March 1937

It was a starless night, the moon a fragile silver curlicue in the unremitting black sky. She lay on her stomach, waiting as she’d been told, her eyes on the road as she recorded the number of vehicles coming up the pass. So far, she had counted nine armoured trucks, six panzers, and two armoured cars. And more were coming.

She shifted position, the cold ground chilling her through the thick blanket; it had been one of the coldest winters of the century and her arms ached from their splayed position as she looked through the binoculars. She watched the lights coming up the narrow road, saw the soldiers in their round helmets, heads dipped tiredly, rifles between their knees: all of them someone’s son, someone’s brother, someone’s husband. A year ago it would have been her they were fighting for; now she was their quarry, hidden on a hillside under cover of darkness and counting them off as they headed straight into the ambush Miguel and the others had set for them, two miles from here.

It was the first mission on which she had been allowed to accompany them. Miguel, for all his cruelties in private, was surprisingly protective. He didn’t want anything to happen to her – not by anyone else. She was his pet and he liked keeping her on a tight leash. But they needed more manpower; they had been badly hit by ferocious fighting in the Jarama valley, and even he couldn’t reasonably argue against using her in the offensive – she was young and fit and strong. The fascists’ hold was strengthening and they needed everyone they could get: man, woman or child.

Another convoy was coming, she could hear the rumble of the trucks before she saw them, and she dipped a little lower for good measure, wondering where the others were stationed. They were spread out all over this hillside, tired eyes watching from the darkness, plotting, waiting . . .

She knew Ivan was working up at the front with the American – a crack shot, he could keep his nerves cool and arm steady even when mortars were being shelled at him. Marina wasn’t sure she would ever get used to the sounds of war, the sweet smell of cordite . . .