‘Yes...?'

Her voice was very soft; he had to lean over to hear.

'Lieutenant ... my cousin Pisano is also a proud man ...'

Also! he thought Too proud to risk his skin for his cousin Pitti; but no matter.

'... I think he spoke in haste last night’

'Quite. I gathered that'

"With us,' she said gently, 'our men care only for una bella figura, while the English care only for their honour. Yet you men are all equally as touchy about it, whatever name you call it by.'

Again she squeezed his hand softly, as if aware an invisible wall was building up between them.

'For my sake,' she said, 'if for no other reason, be patient with him and with me. And' - her lower lip was trembling - 'and I am sorry for the trouble and danger I have caused you and your men.'

'We have our duty to do,' he said coldly.

She let go of his hand. Although it had been his voice, a vicious stranger inside him had spilled those six words without warning and without reason, while he wanted desperately to hold her in his arms and comfort her: to say he understood about Pisano; that he'd push over mountains, swim the Atlantic, lift the world on his shoulder for her sake.

He said, almost shyly: 'I am sorry: let us forget it. May I tidy your hair?'

She looked at him, wide-eyed with surprise, then said in sudden alarm, 'Is it too untidy?'

'No; but you left your maid behind...'

She snatched at the olive branch.

'Yes, wretched girl: she was pregnant. I left her in Volterra. It was as well I did; the ruthless Lieutenant Ramage would not allow me to bring such a luxury.'

'There was no need: I can do your hair.'

‘Half a dozen times a day?' she asked mockingly. 'Anyway, there are other things a maid does for her mistress.'

Ramage felt himself blushing.

‘You'll find a comb in the pocket of my cape,' she said.

He tapped the grains of sand from the teeth of the comb, took out the pins holding her hair in place, and began combing. Yes, it was wasting time - valuable time; but in an hour he would be walking in the same streets as enemy soldiers who would shoot him as a spy if they caught him, since he would not be in uniform. Should he tell her how he was going to disguise himself? No, not now: not to spoil these few moments.

'This is the first time a man has ever combed my hair ...'

'And the first time I've ever combed a lady's hair.'

They both laughed, and he glanced towards the men, suddenly feeling sheepish at the thought of the ribald remarks they were probably making, but they were taking no notice.

'I'm not the only barber in business on this beach.'

'Oh?'

'No - some of the seamen are tying each other's queues.'

' "Queues"? What are they?'

'Pigtails. Sailors call them queues. Very proud of them, too.'

Finally her hair was combed enough: it was black as a raven's wing feathers and curly, and he wanted to run his fingers through it; ruffle it and make her laugh and then tidy it again. Instead he began putting the pins back in, fumbling as he tried to arrange it as it was before.

'Tie it in a "queue" instead, Lieutenant.'

'All right, but keep still; I'll tie it to one side. We'll start a new fashion.'

'Your hair needs combing too, Lieutenant. It's all prickly at the back!'

'Prickly?' He put a hand to the back of his scalp and found the hair still tangled with dried blood and several matted ends stood up like a cockerel's comb.

'Why does it stick up like that?'

'I cut my head: the blood has dried.'

‘How did you cut it?'

'It happened when the French attacked my ship.'

'The French did it? You were wounded?'

'Only slightly,' he said, putting the comb back in the cape and conscious of the watch ticking away in his pocket. 'Well, Madam - once again you're the most beautiful young woman at the ball. Now you must excuse me - I have a disagreeable task before I go off to the village.'

'Disagreeable?'

'Yes, but it won't take long. I'll soon be back with a doctor.'

He wanted to kiss her mouth; but instead he kissed her hand with an exaggerated flourish. 'A presto...'

He walked over to Pisano, who was sitting against a rock a few yards from the men.

'Come with me,' he said curtly.

Pisano followed Ramage beyond a group of large boulders. When they were out of sight of the seamen, Ramage said:

'I am now going to the village. In view of your remarks earlier today, you may prefer to stay on the mainland, instead of continuing the voyage.'

‘Why do you think that?' Pisano asked warily.

'Do you or don't you?'

'I want to know—'

'Answer my question,' Ramage insisted.

'I wish to come in the boat, of course; it would be suicide to stay!'

'Very well. We are the same build, and your clothes are more suitable than mine for strolling through the village. I should be grateful for the loan of them.'

Pisano spluttered and began to argue, but Ramage cut him short.

'We are dealing with human lives, not vanity: the lives of seven of my men and the Marchesa, apart from you. So I don't intend taking unnecessary risks. Walking around in the uniform of a British naval officer is an unnecessary risk.'

'This ...this ... this is an outrage!' gasped Pisano. 'I shall protest to your Admiral!'

‘You can add it to your list of protests,' Ramage said sourly.

With that, Pisano lost control of himself: jumping up and down, hands gesticulating violently, as if he was trying to catch flies, his face working with excitement, he began a long harangue.

Ramage began blinking rapidly and rubbing the scar on his forehead; cold perspiration was spreading over his body like dew falling in the darkness. He knew he was very near the limit of his self-control and in a moment or two he would pass it; then he could fight without mercy, or kill without compunction.

Pisano paused for breath and, as if for the first time, saw the Englishman's face: the thick eyebrows were drawn into a straight line, and looking into the brown eyes reminded Pisano of staring into a pair of pistol barrels. The long diagonal scar over the right eye and across the forehead made a sudden sharp white line across the tanned skin, the blood squeezed from the flesh by the intensity of the man's frown. The lower lip curved outwards slightly and the skin over the cheek bones and nose was drawn, as if too tight. For a moment, Pisano was very frightened.

Ramage made a great effort to keep his voice low and under control, and tried to phrase what he had to say so that he used as few words as possible containing the letter ‘r’.

'Of all the things you say, only one concerns you: Count Pitti. I assure you he was killed on the beach. For the rest, how I ca - how I obey my orders concerns only me: I am wespons -1 am answerable to my superior officers.'

The apparent calmness of Ramage's voice was such a relief to Pisano that, suddenly finding his tongue, he yelled, 'Poltroon, liar! No doubt you surrendered your ship like the coward you are!'

'I suggest you remove your top clothing and stockings,' Ramage said coldly, disgust giving way to anger. 'The loan of your clothing to help save the Marchesa's life is not an unreasonable request. Shall I call a couple of my men to assist you?'

Pisano stripped off his jacket, waistcoat and lace stock, and flung them on the sand. He stood on one leg to take off a shoe before removing a stocking, fell down, and when he sat up again asked:

'You want my breeches as well?'

'No,' said Ramage, 'that would be too much.'

From the overhanging top of the cliff above Cala Grande Ramage looked down at the bay. There was no sign of the boat, nor where it had been beached: the men had made a good job of smoothing the sand. Below him seagulls were gliding almost motionless on the wind currents, watching for fish.