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      All about the author…

       Fiona Hood-Stewart

      Born in Scotland and brought up internationally, Fiona went to boarding school in Switzerland, and then to several European universities. When Fiona married, she moved to South America where she ran her own design business before turning to fashion, for which she created her own label and opened several boutiques in Brazil and the U.S.

      However, like the characters in her novels, Fiona has always been mystically drawn back to Scotland. In fact her family home served as the inspiration for Dunbar in her MIRA novel The Journey Home. She is well acquainted with all the locales that are visited in all her novels, which she infuses with her own life experiences. As she speaks seven languages fluently, Fiona has a unique insight and exposure into customs and lifestyles of foreign countries.

      Fiona divides her time between Europe and her ranch in Brazil. She has two sons and travels frequently to Paris, New York and can be seen at the races in Deauville in France, or at Royal Ascot in the U.K.

      Fiona credits her mother with putting her on the path to becoming a writer. “My mother always read aloud to me as a child. She didn’t approve of television and I spent many hours with my nose in a book. As a child I read everything I could get my hands on.”

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER ONE

      AS THE four-by-four SUV raced over a bumpy road in the arid north-eastern Brazilian countryside, HRH Prince Ricardo of Maldoravia asked himself—not for the first time—what had induced him to accept an invitation that could only lead to trouble.

      He glanced at the SUV’s driver—a small, wiry individual in designer sunglasses, brown as a nut, with a wide smile and an attitude when it came to dealing with the local police. They seemed to enjoy stopping a car on the road for no apparent purpose other than to check papers, then hum and ha for a while, before sending its occupants on their way. Ricardo then glanced at his watch: three-thirty-five. The intense heat outside had penetrated the interior of the SUV, despite its tinted windows and the air-conditioning, which was on full blast. From his limited Portuguese, he understood the journey would take at least another hour. And that, he realised, could signify anything: time here had a different meaning.

      He leaned back and stretched his legs as far as they would go. He must, he concluded wryly, be crazy to have accepted his late father’s old friend’s invitation. Gonzalo Guimaraes and his parent had studied together at Eton and Oxford many years ago, and although their lives had taken very different routes—Ricardo’s father becoming ruler of the small island Principality of Maldoravia in the Mediterranean, and Gonzalo heading back to his vast Brazilian fazenda—the two men had enjoyed a lifelong friendship. And in all those years Ricardo had never known Gonzalo to ask for any favours. Which was what made the request for Ricardo to visit him in his fiefdom all the more intriguing.

      They were driving along the coastline now, and the landscape had changed: rolling waves, white sand and scattered coconut trees swayed with samba-like rhythm in the summer breeze. Two skimpily dressed men sat by the roadside, seemingly oblivious to the blazing sun. Another led a packed mule at a gentle pace. Speed was apparently not a factor in this part of the world. At one point Ricardo could see a little bronzed boy of about ten holding up a snake with the hopes of selling it to one of the few passers-by heading along the dust-bitten road.

      So, although he had misgivings about the trip, Ricardo was fascinated. It was not the first time he’d visited Brazil—he’d made a brief visit to Rio a few years ago, for Carnival. But what he was seeing here and now was a very different country, one locked in a time warp where not much had changed and where the outside world meant little.

      An hour and a half later they turned left down an earth road and the driver pointed to huge gates surrounded by coconut trees. Beyond them Ricardo spied a small bridge. Thick vegetation hid whatever else lay beyond. At the gates several dark-suited guards came out and greeted them. One bowed and, through gold teeth and in broken English, bade him welcome. Then the gates opened electronically and the vehicle proceeded at a more sober pace up a driveway bordered by a vivid mass of multi-coloured hibiscus and bougainvillaea. To the right more coconut trees framed the cerulean ocean. The driveway, Ricardo noted, was in considerably better repair than the highway.

      About a mile and a half farther on a sprawling mansion came into view—a maze of whitewashed walls and low-lying red-tiled roofs emerging from a panoply of lush vegetation. It was strangely harmonious, as though the architect had felt entirely in tune with his surroundings.

      ‘We here,’ Lando, the driver, proclaimed triumphantly as he stamped on the brakes and the SUV came to a standstill. Ricardo smiled thankfully. He wondered why Gonzalo didn’t have a private airstrip, which would have made life a lot easier; he could certainly afford