Nothing on earth could have made her betray her fears to the servants, whom she saw as nothing more than tools, so she sat with apparent calm, concealing the raging anxiety in her heart, watching the preparations for this new departure as if it did not concern her. She watched the man who held the horses hand them over to the coachman, before setting off at a tranquil pace with the brougham, back in the direction of Florence. Then the berlin itself moved off slowly, driving back up the track between the ruins to the road. It was this road which had dragged Marianne out of her state of apathy.

Instead of heading straight for the red disc of the setting sun, now about to sink behind the city's campaniles, so as to skirt the town and come out on the Lucca road, the heavy coach was continuing eastward in the same direction as that taken by the brougham a little earlier. They were making for the Adriatic, in quite the opposite direction from Lucca. It might, of course, be a ruse intended to throw pursuers off the scent, but Marianne could not help risking an oblique question.

'If you are my husband's people,' she observed coldly, 'you must be taking me to him. Yet you are taking the wrong road.'

Without deviating from a politeness which, however necessary, Marianne was beginning to find overdone, the black man answered in the same oily voice:

'Many roads lead to the master, Excellent. One has only to know which way to choose. His highness does not always reside at the Villa dei Cavalli. We are going to another of his estates, so please your ladyship.'

Marianne was chilled by the irony in the last words. It did not please her in the slightest, but what choice had she? A cold sweat prickled unpleasantly at the roots of her hair and she felt the colour drain from her face. Her slender hope that Jolival and Arrighi would find her evaporated. She had known, of course, from Donna Lavinia, that her husband did not live at Lucca all the time but was sometimes found at his other properties. To which was she now being taken? And how could her friends discover her there when she herself did not know the first thing about these places?

By not listening to the reading of the marriage contract on her wedding night, she had lost a good opportunity of learning… but that was only one of so many opportunities already lost in the course of her short life. The best and greatest of all had been at Selton Hall when Jason had asked her to fly with him; the second in Paris when she had refused once more to go with him.

At the thought of Jason, grief threatened to overwhelm her and she became a prey to bitter depression. This time fate was against her, and nothing and nobody was going to come and put a spoke in its wheel on her behalf.

Her husband's was to be the last word. The little hope that remained to her now was all in her own charm and intelligence, in the kindness of Donna Lavinia who was always near the Prince and who at least would plead for her, and perhaps in the occurrence of some chance to escape. If such a chance did present itself, Marianne was, of course, fully determined to grasp it and to use it, to the best of her ability. It would not be the first escape she had contrived!

She recalled with some pleasure and no little pride her escape from Morvan the Wrecker, and, more recently, from the barn at Mortefontaine. Luck had been with her both times, but even so she had not managed so badly!

Her need to find Jason, a deep, visceral longing which came from the inmost parts of her being to fill her heart and brain, would act as a stimulant, supposing any were needed beyond her own passionate desire for freedom.

Besides… she might be wrong: there might be no need to torment herself about Sant'Anna's plans for her. All her fears stemmed from Eleonora Sullivan's hair-raising confidences and from the drama surrounding this abduction, but she had to admit that she had left her invisible husband little alternative. Perhaps, after all, he would be merciful, understanding…

To boost her courage, Marianne went over in her mind the moment when Corrado Sant'Anna had rescued her from Matteo Damiani, on that dreadful night in the little temple. She had almost died of fright when she saw him burst from the shadows, a dark, ghostly figure masked in pale leather and mounted on the plunging white shape of his horse, Ilderim. And yet this terrifying apparition had brought rescue and life.

Afterwards, too, he had tended her with a solicitude that might easily have suggested love. Suppose he did love her… No, better not to think of that, but make her mind a blank and so try to recover a little calm, a little peace.

Yet, in spite of herself, her thoughts would keep turning to the enigmatic figure of her unknown husband, caught between fear and a queer uncontrollable curiosity. Perhaps this time she would penetrate the secret of the white mask…

The coach was still travelling into the oncoming dark. Soon enveloping darkness lay all around, and the coach pressed on through the mountains, from stage to stage, on its journey to the end of the night.

Marianne slept at last, exhausted, after refusing the food offered her by Giuseppe – for this she learned was her kidnapper's name. She was in too much anguish of mind to swallow a bite.

Daylight woke her, and the sudden jolt as the berlin pulled up for fresh horses outside a small hostelry smothered in vines and climbing plants. They were on a hillside at the top of which a little red-walled town clustered round a squat castle, its towers almost hidden behind the red roofs. The sun revealed a landscape of neat rectangular fields, intersected by irrigation ditches on the banks of which a variety of fruit trees served to support great swags of vines, while far in the distance, beyond a broad band of darker green, a sheet of silvery blue spread to the horizon. The sea.

Giuseppe, who had got out when the coach stopped, now poked his head in the door.

'If your ladyship cares to descend for refreshment, I should be happy to be your escort.'

'Escort me? It does not occur to you, I suppose, that I might prefer to be alone? I wish, yes, I wish to restore my appearance a little. Surely you must see that I am covered with dust?'

'There is a room in the house where your ladyship may retire for that purpose. I shall be satisfied to remain outside. The window is very small.'

'In other words, I am a prisoner! Hadn't you better admit it openly?'

Giuseppe bowed with exaggerated courtesy.

'A prisoner? There's a nice word for a lady in the care of a devoted servant! My duty is merely to see that you reach your destination safely, and it's for that reason only that I have orders not to leave you for any cause whatsoever.'

'Suppose I shout and scream?' Marianne exclaimed with exasperation. 'What will you do then, master gaoler?'

'I should not advise it, Excellenza. In the event of any shouts and screams my orders are clear… and far from pleasant.'

Marianne was outraged to see the black muzzle of a pistol gleaming in her so-called servant's plump hand.

Giuseppe gave her a moment to ponder this before tucking the weapon back unconcernedly in his waistband.

'In any case,' he went on, 'screaming will do no good. This place belongs to his highness. The people would not understand why the Princess should be calling for help against the Prince.'

Giuseppe's face was as bland as ever but Marianne knew from the cruel glint in his eye that he would not hesitate to kill her in cold blood in the event of a struggle.

Beaten, if not resigned, she decided that for the present her best course was to submit. For all the undoubted comfort of the coach, her body ached from the bad roads and she was longing to stretch her legs.

With Giuseppe, in his role of faithful family servant, close behind her, Marianne went inside the house. A peasant girl in a red petticoat and bright blue kerchief made her best curtsy, and later, when Marianne had withdrawn for a moment to the room he had mentioned, to wash and comb her hair, the girl brought her brown bread, cheese, olives and onions, and sheep's milk, on all of which the traveller fell hungrily. Her refusal of food the night before had been largely a gesture of bravado, mixed with sheer temper, but had been foolish because she needed all her strength. Now, in the fresh morning air, she discovered that she was famished.

Meanwhile fresh horses had been harnessed, and as soon as the Princess declared herself ready the coach resumed its way down to a low, level plain which seemed to go on for ever.

Strengthened and refreshed, Marianne elected to wrap herself once more in lofty silence, despite the questions which burned on her lips. In any case, she had no doubt that she would soon arrive at her destination, when her questions would be answered. They were heading straight towards the sea, without turning aside to right or left, so that the place they were making for must be on the coast.

At about midday they came to a large fishing village, its low houses clustered along the banks of a sandy watercourse. After the cool shade of the thick belt of pines through which they had just passed, with its tall dark wide-spreading trees, the heat seemed much greater than it really was and the village more forsaken.

Here was a realm of sand. As far as the eye could see, the shore was a vast sandy beach, patched here and there with clumps of marram grass, while the village itself, with its crumbling watch-tower and occasional fragments of Roman wall, might have emerged directly from the encroaching sands.

Alongside the houses, great nets hung drying on poles in the still air, like giant dragonflies, and a handful of boats lay at anchor in the canal which served as a harbour. The largest and smartest of these was a slender tartane. A sailor in a stocking cap was busy setting the red and black sails.