fact, rather disappointing to look at.
There was only a small amount of water flowing from the dark rock, but, when they tasted it, the Marquis knew that the Captain had been right in saying it was both pure and clear.
“If we were enterprising,” Ola suggested, “we would start a spa here and sell the water to people with ailments, most of which I am convinced are imaginary.”
“I think the Spanish might object to that,” the Marquis replied with a smile.
They moved away from the spring over the soft golden sand and Ola, looking up at the cliffs rising about it, said,
“Think what a wonderful view there must be from the top, not only over the sea but over the land behind it. I have always wanted to see Spain.”
“Are you suggesting we should climb it?” the Marquis asked.
“Why not?” Ola enquired. “It would be very good for us to take some exercise after being cooped up in the yacht for so long.”
“I admit to missing my riding,” the Marquis agreed, “but I think that you would find it a hard climb.”
Ola did not answer for a moment. She was looking at the small tracks up the side of the cliff she thought must have been made by wild goats.
Then with a smile she exclaimed,
“That is a challenge! And because I always accept one, I am quite prepared to race you to the top and beyond!”
“Nonsense!” the Marquis replied. “It would be far too much for you. If you would like to sit on the sand, you can watch me climb some of the way up, then I can inform you what the view is like.”
“I am not going to tell you what I think of that suggestion,” Ola replied, “because it would be rude, but I am certainly not sitting here watching you have all the fun. I have every intention of climbing the cliff. I am wearing sensible slippers and I think you will find it far more difficult in your Hessian boots!”
“They may certainly prove a handicap,” the Marquis answered, looking down at his feet, “but let me assure you that I am extremely surefooted and if you faint by the wayside or rather on the cliff side, I shall be quite prepared to carry you down.”
“You insult me!” Ola cried.
She put down her sunshade as she spoke and looked at the cliff to find where the best place was to start climbing.
She had not worn a bonnet for the entire journey for the simple reason that she only had with her the one she had travelled in. When she sat on deck, she either wore a chiffon scarf over her hair or held up a small sunshade.
Luckily, despite her exceptional red hair, she did not have to take much trouble over her skin, which the Marquis had already noted had a magnolia quality to it. It did not brown in the sun and, although she had been out on deck in the wind, rain and sunshine, it retained a dazzling whiteness, which was in such direct contrast to the fiery hue of her hair.
The Marquis could understand only too well why some women would not only envy but also dislike her, as it seemed impossible that she would not draw the eye of every man present, wherever she might be.
It would be simple to dismiss her dramatic colouring as looking theatrical, but that was a very superficial view of her looks, which were far more subtle than that.
She had, the Marquis thought, the same colouring and the same almost spiritual beauty he had seen in a picture, but he could not remember where.
Suddenly he knew where he had seen the colour of her hair before and it was in a picture he owned.
By Rubens, it was a portrait of Marchesa Brigida Spinola-Doria. He had always thought not only that it was lovely but also that the gleaming red curls of her hair would be soft and silky to touch and at the same time would have a springing vitality.
He was sure that would be what Ola’s hair would feel like.
Then he told himself severely that he had never admired women who were not fair with blue eyes like Sarah.
Strangely enough, now when he thought of her there was no longer that stabbing pain in his heart, nor
There was only a small amount of water flowing from the dark rock, but, when they tasted it, the Marquis knew that the Captain had been right in saying it was both pure and clear.
“If we were enterprising,” Ola suggested, “we would start a spa here and sell the water to people with ailments, most of which I am convinced are imaginary.”
“I think the Spanish might object to that,” the Marquis replied with a smile.
They moved away from the spring over the soft golden sand and Ola, looking up at the cliffs rising about it, said,
“Think what a wonderful view there must be from the top, not only over the sea but over the land behind it. I have always wanted to see Spain.”
“Are you suggesting we should climb it?” the Marquis asked.
“Why not?” Ola enquired. “It would be very good for us to take some exercise after being cooped up in the yacht for so long.”
“I admit to missing my riding,” the Marquis agreed, “but I think that you would find it a hard climb.”
Ola did not answer for a moment. She was looking at the small tracks up the side of the cliff she thought must have been made by wild goats.
Then with a smile she exclaimed,
“That is a challenge! And because I always accept one, I am quite prepared to race you to the top and beyond!”
“Nonsense!” the Marquis replied. “It would be far too much for you. If you would like to sit on the sand, you can watch me climb some of the way up, then I can inform you what the view is like.”
“I am not going to tell you what I think of that suggestion,” Ola replied, “because it would be rude, but I am certainly not sitting here watching you have all the fun. I have every intention of climbing the cliff. I am wearing sensible slippers and I think you will find it far more difficult in your Hessian boots!”
“They may certainly prove a handicap,” the Marquis answered, looking down at his feet, “but let me assure you that I am extremely surefooted and if you faint by the wayside or rather on the cliff side, I shall be quite prepared to carry you down.”
“You insult me!” Ola cried.
She put down her sunshade as she spoke and looked at the cliff to find where the best place was to start climbing.
She had not worn a bonnet for the entire journey for the simple reason that she only had with her the one she had travelled in. When she sat on deck, she either wore a chiffon scarf over her hair or held up a small sunshade.
Luckily, despite her exceptional red hair, she did not have to take much trouble over her skin, which the Marquis had already noted had a magnolia quality to it. It did not brown in the sun and, although she had been out on deck in the wind, rain and sunshine, it retained a dazzling whiteness, which was in such direct contrast to the fiery hue of her hair.
The Marquis could understand only too well why some women would not only envy but also dislike her, as it seemed impossible that she would not draw the eye of every man present, wherever she might be.
It would be simple to dismiss her dramatic colouring as looking theatrical, but that was a very superficial view of her looks, which were far more subtle than that.
She had, the Marquis thought, the same colouring and the same almost spiritual beauty he had seen in a picture, but he could not remember where.
Suddenly he knew where he had seen the colour of her hair before and it was in a picture he owned.
By Rubens, it was a portrait of Marchesa Brigida Spinola-Doria. He had always thought not only that it was lovely but also that the gleaming red curls of her hair would be soft and silky to touch and at the same time would have a springing vitality.
He was sure that would be what Ola’s hair would feel like.
Then he told himself severely that he had never admired women who were not fair with blue eyes like Sarah.
Strangely enough, now when he thought of her there was no longer that stabbing pain in his heart, nor
Similar Books
