Island of the Heart (11 page)

kind of settlement? Passion and hate are close kin to each other,

after all.'

'But I don't hate you,' Sandie said coldly. 'I merely dislike you. And

I'd be glad if we could change the subject. This one is distasteful. In

the meantime, while I'm at Killane, I shall continue to keep my door

locked.'

'A very virtuous resolution,' he said mockingly. 'But there are three

things you haven't taken into account.'

Her fingers tightened round each other. 'I'm sure you're going to tell

me what they are.'

'Firstly, as owner of Killane, I could have a master key to all the

rooms. Secondly, if I wanted a woman, no old rusty lock would

keep me out anyway. And thirdly -' he paused.

'Well?' Sandie prompted icily, despising herself, as the silence

lengthened.

'Thirdly,' said Flynn, 'I could stop this vehicle here and now, and

persuade you to change your mind. And we both know it.'

Her breathing was ragged. 'That is—not true.'

'Oh?' Flynn began to brake quite gently. 'Shall we put it to the test?'

'No!' Sandie's voice cracked in something like panic. 'Oh, no—

please!'

A smile twisted the corner of his firm mouth. 'I thought not.'

Sandie shrank into the corner of her seat, acutely aware that her skin

seemed suddenly burning under her damp clothes.

Flynn sent her another sideways glance, then, to her thankfulness,

remained silent until the car drew up at Killane's front door.

'In with you,' he directed briefly. 'I recommend a hot bath, and some

whiskey, if Crispin's left any.'

She said in a stifled voice, 'Stop telling me what to do,' and fled

precipitately into the house, and up to the room which now seemed,

at best, only a fragile refuge.

* * *

soaked herself in a hot tub before vigorously towelling her skin and

hair until her body glowed and her scalp tingled.

But nothing could dispel the small dark shiver, deep within her,

which Flynn's words had engendered.

The fact remained that, although it shamed her to her soul to admit

it, she could not risk being in his arms again, and that he was aware

of this. In spite of his remarks, she did not believe he would ever

take advantage of the situation. It was enough that he could torment

her with it.

And she knew, as well, that if Crispin's caresses had aroused

anything like the same response in her, she would not have locked

her door.

Yet it's Crispin that I really want, she thought achingly. Dear God,

it's all such a mess!

When she got back to her room, she saw with disfavour that the

treacherous sun was shining even more brightly than it had earlier.

She heard the gong sound for lunch, but decided to ignore it. She

was hungry, but there was every chance that Flynn would be present

at the meal, and she didn't want to face him again just yet.

She waited until the coast was clear, then made her way to the

music-room. This time she wasn't going to let any tangle of emotion

get between her and some serious work, she told herself firmly. She

and Crispin might never be lovers, but she could still be his star

pupil. She could still make music her life.

She began with the usual scales, repeating them until her fingers

moved with the desired smoothness and rhythm over the keys. Then

she turned to the sonata Crispin had prescribed, arid plunged into

the scherzo. It was a tricky piece, and her first attempt at it had been

unimpressive, but today she played it without stumbling. It still

wasn't good, but it was an improvement. She picked up a Chopin

nocturne next, indulging herself because it was one of her

favourites, feeling, with relief, the tension inside her relaxing at last.

And then, almost before she realised it, her fingers strayed into
Clair

de Lune.

There'd been no sunlight sparkling and dancing on the water the last

time she'd played it, she thought, and no boat with a furled blue sail,

tied up at the small landing stage just below the window.

She'd been on edge that night too, she remembered, but with happy

excitement. She'd had no idea what was awaiting her. The sharp

disruption which was about to enter her life.

She sighed, bringing her hands down on the keys in harsh discord. I

won't think about him, she told herself vehemently. I won't! It's

Crispin I should be considering.

She took down the
Elegy
and tentatively tried the opening chords.

She had the oddest conviction that if she could overcome her crisis

of confidence about the work, everything else in her life would fall

into place as well.

The trouble is I want it to happen here and now, she told herself

wryly. And it's not going to be like that.

The drawing room was deserted, when Sandie arrived there for tea,

except for Kelly, who wagged a placatory tail when he saw her,

from his position on the hearthrug.

'You wimp!' Sandie bent to fondle his ear. 'I thought spaniels liked

water.'

He gave her a derisive look, and relapsed into a deep sleep.

Sandie helped herself to soda bread and thick homemade strawberry

jam, and carried them to the window seat. The sun was pouring in

through the panes, and she flexed her shoulders gratefully in its

warmth. She couldn't deny that in spite of her bath, she felt a little

shivery.

Perhaps water didn't suit her either, she thought, and gave a

deafening sneeze.

'Good God!' Magda said sharply from the doorway. 'Are you getting

a cold?'

Sandie looked up with a start. 'Oh, hello, Mrs Sinclair.' She tried a

smile which was not returned. 'Did you have a good trip to Galway?'

'Shopping for children is always a bore,' Magda said dismissively.

'And I asked you a question, Alexandra.' Her hands went up to

rearrange the inevitable scarf round her throat. 'Because if you are

catching a cold, I must insist you stay in your room until it's over,

my dear. I cannot risk infection of that kind.'

Sandie gaped at her. She was about to say, 'You can't be serious,'

when she remembered what Jessica had said earlier, and it was

borne in upon her that Magda meant every word.

She said, 'I did get caught in the rain this morning, but I'm sure it's

nothing serious.'

'Well, we can't take any chances,' Magda said with determination.

'My throat is so vulnerable. You'd better go and lie down, and if

your chill develops, I'll send for Dr Grogan tomorrow.'

'But I'm not ill.' Sandie didn't know suddenly whether to laugh or

cry. 'And I really don't need a doctor.'

Magda gave her a minatory look. 'Not for you, dear child. For me—

preventive medicine. Run along now. I'll tell Bridie to serve your

dinner in your room.'

'But my work -' Sandie put down her empty plate, aware that her

hands were shaking. 'I can't abandon my music for—a hypothetical

infection that might never develop!'

'A rather self-centred attitude, my dear. You have to understand that

there are other priorities.'

'Mrs Sinclair,' Sandie said desperately, 'please be reasonable...'

'Reasonable?' Magda interrupted, her brows rising iri hauteur. 'I

think you forget yourself, young woman. Now please don't argue

any more.'

'What's going on?' Crispin asked peevishly as he walked in. Sandie's

heart lifted, then sank again. He was very pale, and there were taut,

ill-tempered lines around his eyes and mouth.

'Alexandra has a virus,' said his mother. 'I have been trying to

impress upon her the importance of adopting some kind of

quarantine until the danger of it spreading has passed. But I'm afraid

she's not being very co-operative.'

'One sneeze,' Sandie protested defensively, horribly aware that

another one was welling up at that very moment. She braced herself

against the expected explosion, but it faded, leaving her with

watering eyes.

'Oh, for God's sake!' Crispin poured some tea, and stared at it with

loathing. 'If it's not one damned thing, it's another. What with

Flynn's bloody meddling, life is sheer hell at the moment!'

Sandie bit her lips. 'I'm really sorry about that. Perhaps we—we

should talk...'

'Well, not now, there's a good girl,' he said dismissively. 'I've got

other things on my mind.' He turned to his mother. 'Do you know

what he's done?'

'He mentioned it.' Magda put a hand on his arm. 'Darling, perhaps he

meant it for the best. After all, it's a difficult situation. You must see

that.'

Sandie felt herself going hot and cold all over. They were talking

about her, about last night, she thought with horror. It must be

common knowledge.

'I think you need a breathing space—time to reflect,' Magda went

on, her voice throbbing with emotion. She paused. 'That's why

Alexandra's cold seems so—opportune. It would avoid—

complications at the moment.'

'You could be right.' Crispin swung to Sandie, giving her a smile

that did not reach his eyes. 'Darling, if you are getting a cold, then

bed's the best place for you—you must see that. You can't simply

pass it to the rest of us. It would be disaster.'

Sandie stared at him in disbelief. She'd counted on his support in

making Magda see sense.

'But I may not even have a cold,' she began, only to be interrupted

sharply by Crispin.

'Well, let's not take unnecessary risks, my sweet. You're looking like

a ghost as it is. A few days' cossetting won't do you any harm at all.

Now let's have no more argument,' he went on decisively, as

Sandie's lips parted in futile protest. 'You go upstairs, and I'll get

Bridie to concoct one of her famous toddies for you.'

'There's no need to bribe me!' Sandie knew an overwhelming urge to

burst into tears. 'I can see I'm fated to stay in my room, whatever I

say. I wonder what you'd do if I had—German measles. Put me on

the first plane back to England, I suppose.'

'Now don't be difficult, sweetheart.' There was annoyance

underlying the coaxing note in his voice. 'It's a house rule, I'm

afraid. People with colds don't spread them around.'

But it isn't just that, Sandie thought as she made her way to the door.

All that talk about a breathing space means Magda doesn't want us

to get involved, and that's really why I'm being banished.

Crispin's attitude seemed to convey that he was having second

thoughts too, and this was vaguely hurtful, although it shouldn't

have been, Sandie admitted to herself as she stood, irresolute, in the

hall. Logically, she should have been relieved, but it was

aggravating that she hadn't been given the chance to express her

own views. And, even worse, she'd been left with the impression

that Magda felt she was trying to trap Crispin in some way.

And I'm not, she thought angrily. He was pressuring me.

She took one step towards the stairs, then stopped, stamped her foot,

and swung round, making instead for the open front door, and the

garden beyond. I won't be sent to my room as if I was a naughty

child, she thought rebelliously. it's quite ridiculous. This is a total

madhouse!

She heard the sound of footsteps on the gravel outside, and dodged

swiftly into the open dining-room doorway. The last thing she

wanted was someone else telling her to go to her room. She heard

the sound of the doorbell echoing through the hall, and then a girl's

voice, low and attractive, calling, 'Is anyone there?'

Surprised, Sandie permitted herself a cautious peep round the door.

The girl stood in the doorway. She was tall and slim, wearing cream

pants and a matching shirt, and her long blonde hair, gleaming in the

sunlight, spilled over her shoulders and down her back.

For one crazy moment Sandie thought she was looking in a mirror.

It wasn't just the hair—it was the violet eyes, the shape of the face

too. She felt as if she'd frozen, turned to stone.

She didn't need Bridie's glad cry of, 'Miss Francesca, is it yourself at

last? Welcome, darling! Welcome back where you belong,' to tell

her the newcomer's identity.

The girl's smile was rather sad. 'Is it, Bridie? I'm not so sure about

that.'

As the two of them walked down the hall towards the drawing-

room, Sandie wanted to shrink further into her self-imposed

sanctuary, but she was incapable of movement. A whole lot of