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Freeing one hand, he opened the door and pushed her through it.

‘Remember,' he cautioned her.

Holding the door open, she turned to face him.

Tor your peace of mind;’ her tone was sarcastic, ‘I’d have you know I‘ve got a boy-friend back in Kent, and I’m not one to let my fancy rove.’

He need not know that Tony had ditched her.

‘Too far away,' was his comment. He looked her up and down and suddenly smiled, that sweet smile which altered his whole face, ‘Run along and get your supper, little girl. I expect you’re ready for it.'

He closed the door behind her, leaving her choking with sheer rage. He made her feel like an irresponsible teenager.

Frances’
life soon settled into a routine. Her duties turned out to be much lighter than she had expected and the big kitchen was fitted with modern labour-saving devices, a large Aga stove which also heated the water and warmed the place, an electric washing machine and dishwasher and a vacuum cleaner. Morag was reluctant to relinquish more of the work than she must, in spite of Frances’ willingness to take it over. She acted as kitchenmaid for the older woman, took Mrs Ferguson’s breakfast upstairs to her, for she always had it in bed, did her share of the cleaning and prepared the evening meal.

Ian took the motor launch into Mallaig once a week shopping, and sometimes Lesley went with him; once a month he went to Glasgow for stores to replenish the deep-freezer. Morag and Frances were given one whole day off each every week, upon which Morag went to visit relatives in a croft up the glen, but Frances found little to do upon hers. There were tracks over the hills, but she was warned about going far, because a sudden change in the weather could envelop them in mist in which she would lose herself.

She asked one night at supper if it were possible to bathe in the loch, but Ian told her the water was much too cold.

‘Are you an ardent swimmer?’

Frances shook her head. ‘I can't swim at all. I only splash in the shallows.’ She regretted that she had never learned, for she loved to feel the salt water on her limbs.

Lesley threw her a look of contempt.

‘Then keep clear of the loch, it’s deep.

Frances only saw Gray in the distance during her first two weeks, but his personality seemed to pervade the house. Lesley and Ian talked of him incessantly; they seemed obsessed by his doings.

Mrs Ferguson insisted that Frances should go out for half an hour after lunch every day, saying she needed exercise and fresh air. She took Caesar with her upon these rambles along the lakeside. Sometimes the day was clear and sunny, at other times loch and hills were obscured by wet mist. He was really Gray’s dog, and his master often took him for long walks in the early morning when he was at Craig Dhu.

‘It’s his way of keeping fit,’ Ian told her. Driving a speedboat does nothing for the leg muscles.’

She discovered he designed most of the new models which when completed were brought up to the loch for trial. Silver Arrow was an improved design which Gray was taking to America in the late summer where there were a number of regattas on the lakes and off shore. He had won many races, but was aiming for world championship. That entailed points for the first six finishers in selected offshore power boat races in different countries. He showed her Silver Arrow when Gray was out of the way. She was a jet-propelled hydroplane with planes attached to her hull, which, Ian explained, enabled her to raise her bow out of the water and skim along its surface. He regaled Frances with a mass of technical jargon to which she listened politely, but could make little of it. He also told her that speedboat racing was a very expensive sport and only the well-to-do could indulge in it. Gray was lucky in having obtained a very wealthy sponsor for his American trip. One day at the end of her first week this man paid them a visit, arriving in what Ian called a ‘gin palace’ of a motor craft which he had hired during his stay in England. His name was Stuart Lambert, but they all called him ‘Stu’. Lesley and Ian went down to the harbour to launch Silver Arrow, which Gray was demonstrating. Mrs Ferguson with Frances in attendance watched from the window. Not that there was much to see except a great plume of spray as the boat went past. Later Frances glimpsed the party standing on the jetty which included a very soignee young lady in the smartest of yachting outfits. Gray did not introduce them to his visitors. He took them up to his eyrie at the top of the tower, and his man Murdoch toiled after them carrying cases of drinks. Later Ian told Frances the young lady was Samantha Lambert, old Stu’s daughter.

‘She’s got her eye on Gray,' he said despondently. 'And I suppose it would be a good match for him,
she’s rolling, but if he gets married things will never be the same again.’

Frances did not know what she would have done without Ian. He was her mainstay and informant, always ready to help and explain. Inevitably she saw a lot of him, at mealtime and in the evenings which they both spent with his mother. Gray had an office adjoining the boat sheds, and Lesley, besides being a mechanic, could type. She handled Gray’s correspondence. She always spent her evenings there, in the hope of seeing him, but Gray flashed in and out of Craig Dhu like a meteor, usually leaving a trail of havoc behind him. This and that had not been done or had been done wrongly, some emergency had arisen that must have immediate attention, then he was gone again—Glasgow, Edinburgh, London—only to return without warning with a fresh batch of complaints.

'Is it possible to please him?' Frances asked Ian after a flaming row about some missing spares which she had inadvertently overheard.

‘Oh yes, he’s very fair, and he gives praise where it's due, but it was my fault about the spares, I forgot to order them.’

She herself had not spoken to him since that first evening.

On her second day off, Ian asked her if she would like to go with him to Mallaig for the weekly shop, and she accepted eagerly. She awoke to a beautiful early summer morning, and rose with a pleasurable sense of anticipation, because it would be a change to see some shops and people. Craig Dhu, being off the beaten track, was rarely penetrated by tourists.

Margaret Ferguson had given her some small commissions the night before as they were to make an early start. She wore a grey pleated skirt with a white knitted top, white sandals, and carried a white cardigan in case it was cold on the water. She did her hair in its usual knot, surmounted by a white woolly cap to keep it tidy. She was bare-legged, for getting in and out of boats played havoc with hose, and she hoped she might have time to paddle oh the beach, because she loved to walk on wet sand with the wavelets curling round her ankles.

She came down to breakfast to find only Morag present, the others having gone out earlier.

‘Oh dear, am I late?' she asked anxiously.

‘He’s wanting to be off,’ the old woman said dourly. 'I've cooked your victuals.’ She dumped a plate of egg and bacon down in front of Frances. ‘You be needing more than toast if you’re going on the water, and I ken you won’t touch porridge.’

Frances had steadfastly refused the oatmeal which Morag considered was the only fit breakfast dish.

Frances thanked her and attacked the meal. Ian had not said anything about starting so soon the night before. Unlike Gray he would not mind waiting while she ate something, she thought; they had all day before them, so there could not be any desperate haste.

When she had finished she rose to put the crockery in the dishwasher, but Morag said:

‘Best be off, lass, that one don't like to be kept waiting.’ She was looking at Frances oddly.

'Another five minutes won’t matter,’ Frances decl
ared, but she left the crocks and ran out into fresh morning sunshine.

The middle-aged motor launch Ian usually used was nowhere to be seen, instead a newer, smaller craft was moored to the jetty. As she stood wondering, Gray Crawford came striding towards her from the office.

'You’ve taken your time,’ he grumbled. ‘Hop in.’

She stared at him in some confusion and made no move.

‘Well, don’t you want to go to Mallaig?' he snapped.

'Yes; but . . . where’s Ian?'

'Where I sent him.’ He threw her an inimical glance. ‘Don’t stand hovering, woman!’

Without a by-your-leave, he picked her up and dumped her over the side into the boat, then he sprang in beside her and cast off. The engine started with its familiar chug-chug, and the fast little craft shot out into the loch. There were two seats for’ard like the front ones in a car and they were side by side. Frances was dismayed by this change of plan. She could not imagine Gray doing the weekly shop, and he could not be going merely to accommodate her. She sighed despondently, for she had been
looking forward to a long, leisurely day. Ian had suggested they lunch out, but this man would not want to linger. She looked at him sideways. In spite of the windscreen the speed of their going blew back the fair hair from his forehead, giving him more than ever a Viking look. He wore cord pants, a white shirt and a blue blazer, which lent a nautical touch to his appearance. He gave the impression
of a greyhound straining at the leash, as streamlined and as elegant.

As the loch opened out into the sound, he slackened speed and turned to look at her. The fresh morning air had whipped colour into her cheeks and brightened her eyes, her white outfit contrasted with the glossy darkness of her hair. Feeling self-conscious under his scrutiny, she said to break the silence: ‘This is an alteration in arrangements, isn't it;' Yes,’ he spoke curtly. ‘Were you looking forward to Ian's company?’

‘Well, he does know what's wanted and I have some extra shopping to do, but I expect you’ll have some business to attend to while I do it?’

Because why else had he come?

‘No. Like yourself I’m having a day off.'

The sea was calm as a pond, a deep blue reflecting a cloudless sky, a perfect day for the seashore.

‘Then perhaps you’ll be visiting some friends?'

‘Friends in Mallaig?’ He sounded scornful. ‘Do you object to my society?’

‘Of course not.’ She saw her unhurried browse round vanishing. ‘But it’ll be tedious for you.’

‘Does Ian find it so?’

‘I don't know, I haven’t been with him before.’

‘Really?’ He sounded disbelieving.

‘I’ve been here a fortnight and this is the first time I’ve left Craig Dhu.’

'So long? I must be slipping.’

She looked at him doubtfully. 'I don’t know what you mean, Mr Crawford.’

‘Gray, please.’

'Oh no!’ She could not be so familiar with him.

‘Why not?’

‘Well . . . you’re the boss.'

The grey eyes crinkled. ‘Does that make me unapproachable?
^;

‘Yes, but...’

‘No buts, You’ll call me Gray, that’s an order. Everyone else does except when they use less polite epithets. We’re a democratic institution at Craig Dhu.’

‘Oh, I thought it was a dictatorship.’

‘Did you now? Don’t be impertinent, Frances.’ She was surprised he knew her first name, for during the past two weeks he seemed to have forgotten her existence. 'I think it’s time we got to know each other.’

‘Is that necessary, Mr . . .’ she caught his eye ‘Gray? I mean, our paths don’t cross.’

‘They have this morning, and I’m responsible for the staff at Craig Dhu. I’m told you’re proving very satisfactory.’

‘Thank you, I’m glad to know that.’ She was pleased.

'Except in one particular,’ he added ominously.

‘I’m sorry, where have I failed?’

He looked away from her, intent upon his steering.

‘Ian. You see too much of him.’

‘But he’s always there,’ she pointed out, thinking he was absurdly protective of his assistant. 'I must talk to someone—do you expect me to sit alone in my room in the evenings?’

‘It might be as well. You’re distracting him.’

'I'm sure I’m not.’

He looked at her accusingly. ‘He forgot to order those spares, which is most unlike him. He’s showing every symptom of a boy in love.’

‘That’s ridiculous,' Frances cried indignantly. 'I’m sure you’re wrong, Mr . . . Gray. I’ve only known him two weeks.’

He threw her an oblique glance. ‘It can happen in a day. Have you told him about the boy in Kent?’

Perturbed by his remarks, she looked blank, forgetting what she had told him. Recovering quickly, she said hastily:

'No, my private life is my own concern.'

‘That depends . . . heard from him recently?'

Frances had only had two letters since she had been in Scotland, both business communications, and she wondered if Gray scrutinised the mail when it arrived, but Lesley attended to his letters, so it was unlikely.

‘The posts are very
slow up here,' she said carefully. ‘I’ve heard . . . once.'

‘You must find that very trying.'

‘I’m striving to bear up.'

‘We must try to keep you contented. Perhaps he would like to pay you a visit.'

‘Would that be possible?' she asked uncertainly; her fiction about Tony might be difficult to maintain.

‘Quite, there’s plenty of room in the house.’

‘It’s very kind of you to suggest it,’ she said brightly. ‘But he has a job, so I’m afraid he couldn’t get away until he has his holidays late in the summer.' When Gray would have gone to America.

‘But surely he could manage a weekend,’ Gray persisted.

His keen grey eyes had a mischievous sparkle and she feared he saw through her fabrications. She should have told the truth, that Tony had let her down so she was immune from masculine advances, but it was too late now, and she decided to launch a counter-offensive.

'It’s a long way for a weekend. Are you wanting him here to ... er . .. distract me from Ian? I'm not at all interested in Ian.’

‘Poor Ian, but his presence might effect a cure.’

‘I don’t think lovesickness is ever cured that way,’ she said, thinking of Lesley and her hopeless passion for the man beside her. ‘But I'm sure you’re exaggerating.’