The Saint’s spine tingled. It was a little like the helplessness of his trip around the house the night before — looking up at that raw muddle of shrubs and rocks, knowing that a dozen sharpshooters could lie hidden there, with no risk of being discovered before they had fired the one shot that might be all that was necessary... “Maybe we should go home, Freddie,” he said.
“Now wait.” Freddie was going to be obstinate and valiant after he had found company. “If there’s someone up there—”
“He could drop you before we were six steps closer to him,” said the Saint tersely. “You hired me as a bodyguard, not a pall-bearer. Let’s move.”
Something else moved, upwards and a little to his left. His reflexes had tautened instinctively before he recognised the flash of movement as only a shifting of bare brown flesh.
From a precarious flat ledge of rock five or six yards up the slope, Esther called down: “What goes on?”
“We’re going home,” Simon called back.
“Wait for me.”
She started to scramble down off the ledge. Suddenly she seemed much more undressed than she had before. He turned abruptly.
“Come along, then.”
He went back, around the bend, past the pool, past Ginny, to where they had left the horses, hearing Freddie’s footsteps behind him but not looking back. There were no more shots, but he worked quickly checking the saddles and tightening the cinches. The place was still just as picturesque and enchanting, but as an ambush it had the kind of topography where he felt that the defending team was at a great disadvantage.