There was a soft olive green carpet on the floor and this colour was echoed in the olive and cream bedspread and the long wild silk curtains drawn across the windows. The furniture, the bed, the triple-mirrored dressing table, the wide wardrobe, were made of a dark mahogany, slightly larger than life but not out of place in this high-ceilinged apartment. A radiator ran beneath the window and the room was beautifully warm.

Bolt stood down her suitcases and indicated a door near the wardrobe at the far side of the room. “The bathroom, miss,” he explained, looking round to assure himself that everything was in order. “I’ve put hot water bottles in the bed and they can be refilled later if you need them.”

Helen bit her lip. “Thank you, Bolt,” she said, amazed at her calm acceptance of the situation. Then, as he moved to the door: “By the way …”

“Yes, miss?” He surveyed her politely even while she sensed his impatience to go his master.

“Are you – do you intend to – lock me in?”

Bolt half-smiled, and swung the door closed behind him, and only then did she see the key on her side of the door.

Now that the manservant was gone, Helen moved to the windows, drawing aside the curtains to peer out. Her room appeared to be at the back of the house, but apart from a few snow-clad trees there was little to be seen. She allowed the curtains to swing closed and turned to survey her domain.

She thought a trifle hysterically that no hotel bedroom could be more luxurious and no proprietor more concerned for the comfort of his guest than Bolt. It was ludicrous! The more she thought about it, the more fantastic it seemed. She smoothed her moist palms down the seams at the sides of her trousers. How long was she expected to stay here? How long would it take Dominic Lyall to settle his affairs to his satisfaction and leave the country?

She paced restlessly about the floor, trying to quell the panic that was rising again inside her now that she was alone. Did he really mean what he had said? Or had it been a deliberate ruse to frighten her for his own amusement? She doubted the latter somehow, and yet he was a cultured, civilised man! How could he so cold-bloodedly decide to detain her here against her will until it suited him to let her go? What kind of life had he led these past few years to destroy the pangs of his conscience?

She looked at her watch. It was after six o’clock. Dominic Lyall had said that he had a meal at eight. But right now she doubted her ability to eat anything. And where was he? What sort of treatment did Bolt mete out?

She stopped before her mirror and surveyed her dishevelled appearance without pleasure. Her trouser legs were creased from when she had rolled them up, her hair was wind-blown, and her cheeks bore the scratches she had received when she had plunged headlong through the hedge. She raised a trembling hand to touch a strand of silky black hair. What was she going to do?

An inspection of the bathroom assured her that there was no other means of access than from the bedroom and turning the key in her bedroom door she decided to take a bath. The bath itself was huge, white porcelain and standing on black iron legs. There was plenty of hot water from a gurgling tank and it was amazing how relaxed the scented water made her feel. She had found several jars of bath-salts on a glass shelf above the wash basin, and she had sprinkled them liberally before climbing in.

Eventually, of course, she had to get out again and after letting the water run away she wrapped herself in an enormous white bath towel and went into the bedroom to get some clean underclothes from her case.

But the case was locked and she remembered with irritation that all her keys were on the ring that was presently in Dominic Lyall’s possession.

She stood hesitantly in the middle of the floor, wondering what she should do. She was tempted to go out on to the landing and shout for Bolt, but the vulnerability of her position made her think again. With ill grace she put on the clothes she had taken off and had to satisfy herself by doing her hair and applying a light make-up to her face. Her comb and cosmetics were, thankfully, in her handbag, and at least she did not look so dishevelled when she was finished. The white sweater she had worn with her slacks was reasonably smart and she doubted whether Dominic Lyall would notice anyway. All the same, she determined to have her keys before going to bed. She had no intention of sleeping without a nightgown.

A ripple of awareness ran through her at this thought. But there was no fear that anyone might disturb her in the night, she thought impatiently. Her door locked securely, and was heavy enough to thwart the most determined intruder. Besides, Bolt did not strike her as the sort of man to force his attentions on anyone, and Dominic Lyall …

She licked suddenly dry lips. She didn’t want to think about Dominic Lyall, but it was impossible not to do so. She didn’t want to remember the disruption of her senses when he had touched her earlier, or the fearful fascination he had inspired in her. It was repulsion, she told herself fiercely. She loathed and despised him. She couldn’t be attracted to a man like him, a cripple; a man moreover who had no compunction about twisting her plans to suit his own ends.

And yet she remembered every small detail about him – the curious lightness of his hair, the tawny eyes, and his dark skin, the lean strength of his body, the way the muscles of his thighs had been visible through the taut material of his black trousers, the knee-length boots, and the revealing anguish when he had been in pain. She caught her breath. She couldn’t feel pity for him, she couldn’t! But she did.

Shaking her head so that the heavy swathe of black hair swung confidingly beneath her chin, she unlocked the bedroom door and pulled it open. The landing stretched away before her, dimly lit and deserted. With a muffled exclamation, she switched off her bedroom lights and walked determinedly towards the balustrade at the head of the stairs.