It showed too in her deep blue eyes as she held her head high so that the light breeze of her own making lifted the black hair from her neck and tossed it back into a wild mane. There was an almost primitive beauty about her, and an unmistakable air of pride that came from generations of noble forebears. The neat little mare she rode would have extended a warmer welcome to the advancing newcomers, recognising a stablemate, but her rider held her too firmly in check with tightly clenched hands. Hands that clenched even more tightly when the attempt to attract her attention was repeated. 'Senorita Rodriguez!' Kirstie could hardly ignore it altogether, but she could and did refuse to offer encouragement by turning her head, for she had no doubt at all who it was riding up on her, or that Miguel Montaiies was about to join her, whether or not he was encouraged. She would rather it was anyone but him, no matter if her grandfather did accuse her of being not only unsociable but downright rude.
