The Cruel Count (Bantam Series No. 28) by Barbara Cartland Page A

considerably out of our way and we have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow.”
    “I am very tired,” Vesta said. “I am sure I will sleep.”
    As she spoke she thought of how except, as the Count had said, by a miracle, they might both have been dead at this moment. Where would the Brigands have buried them? Even the thought of their touching her dead body made her shiver.
    “Are you cold?” the Count asked.
    “Not really,” she answered, “I was shivering at the thought that we might be ... dead.”
    “Forget it!” the Count said sharply.
    As he spoke the torch flickered and went out leaving only the fragrance of birch-wood.
    It was now very dark in the cave except, as Vesta’s eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she could see beneath the bear-skin a light from the outer cavern.
    ‘I will try not to think of-what has happened,’ she told herself, ‘but of the flowers, and the sunshine coming through the trees.’
    She shut her eyes and tried to forget the Count was lying beside her. Then suddenly there was a faint noise. “What is ... that?” she asked nervously.
    “Rats, I expect,” the Count answered.
    He spoke casually, but Vesta gave a little scream and turning wildly towards him, clutched hold of his coat and hid her face against his shoulder.
    “Do not let ... them come ... near me! Keep them ... away!” she cried frantically.
    After a second’s astonishment, the Count put his arms round her.
    “It is all right,” he said soothingly, “I will not let them hurt you.”
    “They might ... run over ... me,” Vesta whispered, “I cannot ... bear it.”
    She was rigid with fear, holding onto his lapel, hiding her face, but was listening intently. Then suddenly she raised her head a little and said accusingly:
    “You are ... laughing!”
    “Today I thought you were the bravest, most gallant woman I have ever met in my whole life,” the Count said in a deep voice. “You faced death without crying, without a murmur; you stood still when you expected a reptile to attack you; and yet now—you are afraid of a rat!”
    “I cannot ... help it,” Vesta murmured, “I am ... humiliated at letting you see what a ... coward I am ... but they ... terrify me.”
    “I would never think you a coward, whatever frightened you,” the Count said. “As I have said, I do not believe that any woman could have been more magnificent when you were ready to die at my hand.”
    Vesta did not answer and after a moment he realised she was crying.
    “What have I said? How have I upset you?” he asked, and now there was a deep concern in his voice.
    “It is ... because you are so ... kind,” Vesta sobbed. “It is easier to be ... brave when I am ... hating you.”
    The Count tightened his arms round her.
    “You have been through so much!” he said gently, “but it is over now. Thanks to you we are alive.”
    He knew she was fighting for self-control and after a few moments she released her hold on his lapel. Drawing a handkerchief from her jacket, she wiped her eyes.
    “I am ... ashamed of ... myself.”
    “There is no need to be,” the Count answered.
    “You have ... said that you think I am ... brave,” Vesta said in a very low voice, “but I am not ... really. I lied to you ... yesterday when I told you I felt ... sick from being on ... land.”
    She gave a little gulp as if it was hard to be honest.
    “It was ... really that I felt ... faint because I was so ... frightened when we rode over the ... barren rocks. I have always been ... afraid of ... heights.” The words sounded piteous and now Vesta hid her face once again.
    “It is extremely brave of you to tell me the truth,” the Count said, “but I must admit I suspected it was that which had upset you.”
    He stared into the darkness and said quietly:
    “We all have an Achilles heel. Perhaps one day you will discover mine.”
    “There is something of which you are afraid?” Vesta asked curiously.
    “Of course,” he answered, “but I have