Island of the Heart (15 page)

shoulder and let him take her wherever they were going.

But when he put her down, it was like being deposited on a bed of

nails, and she cried out.

'Be still,' he said. 'You're going to be all right.'

Although she was so hot, her teeth were chattering, and that was

funny. She tried to tell him so, but he was holding a glass to her lips,

ordering her to drink. The liquid was icy cold, and slightly bitter,

and she winced away from it.

'It's soluble aspirin,' he said. 'Drink it. You'll feel better.'

She would never feel better. She was going to die, and he would

have to bury her, here on his island.

'Gladly,' he said. 'Do you want a headstone, or will a simple cross be

enough?'

She wanted an angel—a six-foot one with huge marble wings.

There'd been one in a nearby cemetery when she'd been a child, and

it had always terrified her, but now she thought it would be a

comfort.

'Someone to watch over me,' she mumbled from her sore throat.

'You need that all right.' Flynn sounded rather grim. 'Now, try and

get some sleep.'

She'd no idea what time it was, but she thought it was probably the

middle of the night, or the early hours of the morning. She tried to

tell him she was sorry for disturbing him, but the words were

jumbled and indistinct, because suddenly it seemed as if she could

sleep—as if it was impossible for her to keep her eyes open even a

moment longer.

There were dreams in that sleep, heavy, confused dreams, where she

sailed across endless water in a boat with a high, carved prow. There

was a girl at the helm, and she was laughing at her. A tall girl, with a

fierce proud beauty, wearing doublet and hose, her hair tucked into a

seaman's cap, who she knew was Grace O'Malley. But when she

looked again, the girl's face was hidden, and her long blonde hair

streamed in the wind. And still she was laughing.

And then Sandie was at Killane, standing in the doorway of the

music room, watching herself sitting at the piano, trying to play

Crispin's
Elegy,
but every note was wrong, and Crispin was shouting

at her, getting angrier and angrier.

'You're no good,' he was saying. 'You'll never be any good!'

She began to whimper, and suddenly he pvas kind again, wiping her

forehead with a cool, damp cloth, and telling her that it would be all

right—that everything would work out.

I hope so, she thought, I hope so, and sank gratefully into a deep and

dreamless darkness.

Her eyes opened slowly and wearily. It seemed to be daylight, and

she was in a strange room, lying in a big bed. For a few moments

she felt completely disorientated, then memory came flooding back,

and she sat up with a little gasp. She was on Flynn's island, she

realised, and she'd been ill. And this was Flynn's room.

She didn't hurt any more, but she felt incredibly weak and lethargic,

and her head seemed so light it might float away at any moment.

She sank back again against the pillows, assimilating, as she did so,

that she was wearing a man's shirt in lieu of a nightdress.

But she'd had a nightie, she thought, frowning. The Victorian one

with the little flowers all over it. She wasn't so far gone that she

couldn't remember that. Nor could she ignore the fact that the pillow

next to her had clearly been used, and that the covers on that side of

the bed were rumpled and thrown back.

As she was assimilating this with mounting uneasiness, the curtain

over the doorway was flung back, and Flynn came in. He was

dressed in jeans and a thin dark blue sweater, and he was carrying a

tray.

'So you're back in the land of the living,' he remarked.

'Yes.' Sandie had to repress an instinct to drag the covers up to her

chin.

'How do you feel?'

'Rather odd,' she said truthfully. She paused. 'I— I'm sorry to have

put you to so much trouble.'

'No need for apologies. You were sick, and you needed help.' Flynn

sounded very matter-of-fact. He put the tray down across her lap,

indicating the bowl of steaming soup which it held. 'Try and eat

that.'

'Did you make it?' she asked doubtfully.

He grinned. 'I won't lie to you. It's some of Bridie's, out of the

freezer at Killane. Does that make it more acceptable?'

'I don't know. I don't think I'm very hungry.'

'Then you should be. You've gone over twenty-four hours with little

more than water.' He paused. 'When you have a cold, Alexandra,

you don't take many prisoners.'

'It wasn't a cold,' she said ruefully, picking up the spoon. 'Before I

left England, there was a virus going round locally—some kind of

summer 'flu. We—the family, that is—thought we'd missed it.

Obviously I didn't.' She hesitated. 'I hope I haven't given it to—

anyone at Killane.'

'To hell with them,' Flynn said cheerfully. 'I hope you haven't given

it to me. I can't rely on you nursing me round the clock with the

same devotion.'

She gave him a pallid smile, and drank some of the soup. It was

meaty, and thick with vegetables, and it tasted wonderful, rather to

her surprise. She finished every drop, and almost licked out the

bowl.

'Is it evening?' she asked, squinting at the grey light coming in

through the window. Flynn shook his head. 'It's supposed to be mid-

morning, but there's been rain and thick mist since dawn. It may lift

this afternoon, but I doubt it.' He slanted a smile at her as he picked

up the tray. 'You're in the best place, Alexandra.'

'Mm.' She wasn't so sure about that. She moistened her lips with the

tip of her tongue. 'Is this your shirt, please, and if so, why am I

wearing it?'

'You were running a fever,' he explained. 'When it broke, your

nightdress was drenched, so I sponged you off, and changed you.'

'Oh.' Sandie didn't look at him. He made it all sound very reasonable

and even prosaic, but that didn't stop her blushing all over. And

there could be worse to come too. She strove to keep her voice

steady. 'I have a lot to thank you for, don't I? Especially giving up

your bed for me.'

'As it happens, I didn't,' he said calmly. 'Even ministering angels

need some sleep, and there was room enough for us both. But you

already knew that.'

'Yes.' She stared down at the pattern on the bedcover as if it

fascinated—mesmerised her.

'Don't look so stricken,' he advised, amused. 'You were ill. You

needed someone near you, and there was no one but myself.'

She said in a stifled voice, 'I—suppose so.'

'But you're wondering all the same if I took advantage of the

situation.' Flynn shook his head. 'Never in a million years,

Alexandra. When I make love with a woman, I like her fully

conscious, and totally co- operatic. You failed on both counts.' He

gave her a brief, cool smile. 'Now, I'd stay where you are for the rest

of the day.' He pointed at the wardrobe.

'You'll find more clean shirts in there, if you feel like a bath later.

And there are books on those shelves under the window that might

interest you. But rest as much as possible. Get well.'

'Thank you.' She still couldn't look him in the face, but there was

something else she needed to know. 'You said I'd slept the clock

round. That means there's a day missing for me. Did—has there

been any— message for me? From Killane, that is.'

'None at all.' There was a grim note in his voice, 'Stop hoping,

Alexandra. Crispin has other preoccupations.'

'You're so sure everything's going to work out just as you think! You

can't manipulate people—people's lives—as you can money. Crispin

told me that his marriage was over.'

'Crispin would tell you the moon was green cheese if he thought it

would get you into bed with him.' His voice was cold. 'Look how he

talked you into coming here by promising to turn you into some

kind of prodigy.'

'Crispin believes in me—believes that I have ability.' She had to

cling to that last remaining hope.

'And I believe it will snow tomorrow,' retorted Flynn. 'It's not your

prowess at the keyboard that attracts him, you little fool, but that

long fair hair, and the delectable way your body fills your clothes.'

'Stop it!' Sandie was blushing again. 'I—I don't want to hear...'

'I'm well aware of that,' he said curtly. 'But there are a few things

you ought to know, Alexandra. You're not the first prize pupil

Crispin's had. Francesca trod that path before you. He filled her head

with talk of concert platforms and recording contracts, and for a

while she went along with this because she was in love with him.

But Francesca's got her feet on the ground, and she soon realised

that though Crispin might fancy his chances as some kind of

Svengali, she could never play the Trilby role. She was an averagely

talented pianist, and she would never be anything more, and she

knew it. That's why they fell out.'

'I don't believe you. Crispin told me about her— how she tried to

use him.' Her denial sounded weak, even to her own ears. 'Anyway,

why should he bother—with either of us, for that matter?'

'You really want to know?' Flynn's eyes were fixed mercilessly on

her face. 'It's because he needs something to do with his life,

Alexandra—since he lost his bottle, and vowed he'd never play in

public again.'

Her lips parted in sheer incredulity. 'That's a lousy thing to say!'

'Like a lot of lousy things, it happens also to be the truth. The story

for public consumption is that he retired to concentrate on

composing and other interests. But the fact is he wrote that bloody

Elegy
of his, knowing fine that he was the only one with the

capability of playing it, and then chickened out. It was as if he'd

suffered some kind of block. He won't talk about it, and he won't

have therapy. Instead he takes ugly ducklings of pianists and tries to

transform them into beautiful swans.'

'I don't believe you.' Sandie shook her head violently. won't believe

you!'

'That's your privilege,' he retorted. 'But I'm telling you that he failed

totally with Francesca and ruined their marriage. When he saw

you—young, malleable, and the image of her—he must have felt

fate was offering him a second chance.'

'And what about what I felt?'

Flynn said very wearily, 'Do you really think he gives a damn for

anyone or anything but himself?'

He was silent for a moment. 'Believe what you want, Alexandra.

Dream of being the second Mrs Sinclair, if that's what you've set

your heart on. There've been greater miracles, after all. But don't

depend on your ardent admirer setting sail to rescue you, even if

Francesca goes back to Croaig Mhor. He's no hand in a boat at all,

and O'Flaherty takes his orders from me.'

'Oh, yes,' she said bitterly. 'You're the lord and master of Killane, of

course, and no one's allowed to forget it.'

'You're learning,' he said, and left her alone.

She lay for a while staring into space. She felt weak and weepy, and

only the threat that Flynn might come back to check on her stopped

her from bawling her eyes out. But she wouldn't give way, she

vowed silently. She wouldn't let him see how much his cynical

appraisal of the situation had upset her.

He's a complete paradox, she thought. Kind, almost caring one

minute, and a total rat the next.

She didn't want to believe him, but she couldn't deny there was a

certain horrible rationality about his revelations. After all, she'd seen

Francesca, and been shocked by the resemblance they shared. If

Crispin could fool her over something like that, what other

deceptions was he capable of? She gave her pillow a fretful punch.

But she could prove nothing until she got off this island—and, more

importantly, away from Flynn.

It made her squirm to realise how completely and humiliatingly

dependent she'd been on him for the past twenty-four hours. Nor

could she escape the fact that she'd shared a bed with him, however

unwittingly.

And there was another night ahead of them, at least, before her

ordeal could be over, she thought broodingly.

She gave herself an impatient mental shake and pushed the covers

back, swinging her legs gingerly to the floor. She still felt horribly