The Englishman's Bride. Sophie Weston

      PROLOGUE

      THE Englishman was deceptive. Even after twenty-four hours, every man in the detachment agreed on that. He might look like a Hollywood heartthrob with his wild midnight hair and haughty profile. But the tall, thin body was as lithe as a cat. And he was tireless.

      When they first heard that a New York bureaucrat was joining them on their jungle expedition, they muttered resentfully. But when they learned that he was a member of the British aristocracy as well, they nearly mutinied.

      ‘Sir Philip Hardesty?’ queried Texas Joe, stunned.

      ‘I ain’t calling no snotty pen-pusher “Sir”,’ said Spanners. As an Englishman himself, he spoke with authority.

      The group decided to take their line from Spanners. And when the man arrived they were sure they were right. As well as his title, Philip Hardesty possessed beautifully kept hands, a backpack that was so new it shone and customised jungle boots.

      But he did not use his title. He got his hands dirty without noticing it. When they waded through the river his boots kept the water out better than their own. And there was that tireless determination.

      Nothing got him down. Not the evil-smelling insect repellent. Not the stifling humidity. Not the long, exhausting days pushing on through the jungle. Not even the horrible nights.

      He did not have their precision training but his endurance was phenomenal. In his quiet way, he was as strong as any of them. He took the long days without complaint. He climbed well when he had to. And when he swung that bulky new pack off his back at rest stops, you could see that his shoulders were dense with muscle.

      All right, none of them had wanted a civilian along. Captain Soames had wanted him least of all, though of course he had not said so. The trip was dangerous enough, between the hazards of the jungle and the unpredictable moods of the so-called freedom fighters that they were coming to see.

      But High Command had insisted. And for once High Command had been right.

      The man even knew how to make a fire—and how to put it out.

      ‘How did you get into this line of work?’ said Captain Soames as they all sat round the small flames.

      It was their last night before they reached the rebels’ camp. All six of the men who had volunteered for this duty knew that there was no forecasting what awaited them at the camp. Rafek, the rebel leader, said he wanted to talk. It was he who had made the first contact. But rebels had lied before.

      Philip Hardesty said quietly, ‘Family tradition.’

      ‘Very British,’ said Australian Captain Soames drily. ‘How long has the UN been going? Remind me.’

      Philip Hardesty smiled. ‘Hardestys were meddling in other people’s affairs long before the UN thought of it. We’ve been doing it for centuries.’

      It was a smile you remembered. It seemed to light a candle inside a mask. You had been talking to him, getting nothing but impassive logic back—and then he smiled!

      Suddenly you felt he had opened a window to you. You could read him! And he was friendly! You felt you had been given a present.

      ‘I bet you’re good at it,’ said the hard-bitten captain,