Island of the Heart (16 page)

shaky, but she wasn't ill any more, and there was nothing to prevent

her from returning to the sleeping bag tonight.

But not yet, she thought, swaying slightly as she stood upright. She

would enjoy the undoubted comfort of Flynn's bed while she could.

She visited the bathroom, then made her way over to the

bookshelves, scanning them critically. They contained a motley

collection, spanning a number of years. She spotted some well-loved

children's classics, a couple of her own favourites among them,

alongside John Updike and Saul Bellow. There was poetry, some

history, including Cecil Woodham Smith's account of the Famine,

The Great Hunger,
as well as a selection of tough modern thrillers,

and a number of collections of short stories by Irish writers whom

she wasn't familiar with.

Sandie hesitated over several of these, but finally settled for
Some

Experiences of an Irish R.M.
by Somerville and Ross.

She climbed back into bed, almost thankfully, her legs trembling

under her, and, rather to her own surprise, was soon thoroughly

absorbed in the adventures of Major Yeates and his eccentric

household and neighbours, and was giggling over Philippa's first

experience of fox-hunting when she glanced up, and saw Flynn

leaning in the doorway watching her.

'Oh, hello,' she said defensively, wondering how long he'd been

there.

'It's good to hear you laugh,' he said. 'You don't do it often enough.'

Sandie bit her lip. 'Perhaps I haven't had a great deal to laugh about.'

'Maybe not, at that,' he said. 'What I came to say is that it's lunch'

time, and can you manage an omelette?'

'I think I could,' she confessed in amazement.

'That's grand,' Flynn said laconically, and vanished again.

The omelette, when it came, contained tiny mushrooms, and was

accompanied by a thick, fresh slice of soda bread. Flynn brought his

own food in, and ate it in a chair by the window, but Sandie didn't

allow this to inhibit her. She finished every scrap.

'You're still very pale. How are you feeling?' Flynn asked critically.

'Much better.' She tried to sound casual. 'You'll be able to have your

bed back tonight.'

His grin was sardonic. 'Will I indeed? Well, that's the news I've been

waiting to hear!'

Sandie lifted her chin. 'And I'd like to know when I can go back to

Killane.'

'You're not a very grateful guest. You have every modern

convenience, including room service, and you're still desperate to

leave.' Flynn shook his head in mock sorrow.

'Please don't tease me. When is O'Flaherty coming back?'

'Your guess is as good as mine,' said Flynn, shrugging. 'So relax,

and make the most of the peace here. You can't pretend you found it

restful at Killane, even when ignorance was bliss.'

'I didn't go there for a rest cure. I went genuinely to work.' Sandie

encountered an ironic look and flushed. 'Oh, what's the use? You're

never going to believe me!'

'Then let's talk about something else. Tell me about yourself,

Alexandra Beaumont.'

'What sort of thing do you want to know?'

'Let's start with your family. How many brothers and sisters have

you?'

'None, I'm an only child.'

'Well, that explains the singleness of purpose,' he said. 'Are your

parents musicians?'

Sandie shook her head. 'No, but my grandmother was.' She was half-

way through the history of that other Alexandra when she realised

with dismay the implications Flynn would draw from it, and

stumbled to a halt.

'Go on,' he said.

'If you insist.' She drew a deep breath. 'She was a failure, Mr

Killane, just as you think I'm going to be. Isn't that what you want to

hear?'

He said coolly, 'I'd prefer you to stop calling me Mr Killane in that

idiotic way. Considering we've slept together for one and a half

nights, I think you could use my given name.'

She gasped in indignation. 'But we didn't... At least not in that way.'

'More's the pity,' he mocked her. 'Isn't that what you expect me to

say? Or shall we agree to make no more assumptions about each

other's reactions to any subject whatever?'

Sandie bit her lip.

'Well?' he prompted relentlessly.

'Yes,' she said with a little sigh. 'I—I'm sorry. But it's what my

mother and father think. It's why they never wanted me to take up

the piano.'

'They'd have done better to have chained you to the thing—sickened

you of it.'

'But they wouldn't have,' she protested. 'Music is my life.'

Flynn's brows lifted. 'But you haven't lived that long,' he pointed out

matter-of-factly. 'And people change, Alexandra. They may sigh for

the moon, but when they find they can't have it, they settle for

something more tangible here on earth instead.'

'As you did?' She looked at him uncertainly.

'To an extent,' he said. 'But don't let me give the wrong impression.

I've enjoyed my life. And each bend in the road is an adventure.' He

was silent for a moment. 'So, what's the alternative to the concert

platform?'

'Teaching.' Sandie sighed again. 'They'd be willing for me to study

for some kind of diploma.'

'Wouldn't that be a reasonable compromise?'

'But I didn't want to compromise,' she said in a stifled voice. 'I

wanted to go for gold—the glittering prize, the star at the top of the

tree. Teaching's such- such a comedown.'

'It doesn't have to be. Not if you do it well—communicate your own

love of music to your pupils.' Flynn paused. 'The man who taught

me literature illumined my life. I'll always be grateful to him.'

'Please don't write me off yet,' Sandie said with spirit. 'Before I

make any decision, I'll have to talk to Crispin—discuss it with him.'

'Naturally,' said Flynn pleasantly, and got to his feet. 'I'll relieve you

of that tray.'

As she handed it to him, she said, 'I'm sure I'll be well enough to get

up for supper.'

'Don't rush your fences.' His tone was laconic. 'It's no real hardship

to wait on you.'

She was the one who was finding difficulties in the situation*

Sandie thought, troubled, as she watched his tall figure disappear

into the living-room.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. As she alternately read and

dozed, she could hear Flynn moving about in the other room, but he

rarely intruded on her, and she told herself she was grateful for his

consideration.

As supper time approached, Sandie got up, had her bath, and put on

her own clothes. Her hair looked dull, and her face still lacked

colour, but she felt as if she belonged to herself again, she thought,

draping Flynn's shirt across the end of the bed.

The meal was Irish stew, cooked with neck of lamb and vegetables

in a cast-iron pot on top of the stove. It was so hot it made Sandie

yelp in protest, but Flynn told her that a burnt mouth was part of its

tradition.

After supper he produced an old pack of cards, and they played

Knock-out Whist, and Beggar my Neighbour, and he taught her the

rudiments of poker.

And they talked.

Flynn told her about his boyhood, making her laugh at stories about

the various boarding schools he'd attended as he trailed in the wake

of Magda's career. But although he made it sound amusing, it must

have been a lonely life for a small boy, she realised, recalling how

the twins had talked wistfully about having a permanent home at

Killane.

In turn, she talked about her abortive career in a solicitors' office,

making light of the dull routine of conveyancing and probate,

concentrating instead on the receptionist's mistaken belief that she

was going to be the second Marilyn Monroe, and the senior partner's

predilection for race meetings over appointments with important

clients.

And she spoke about her music, and how much it had meant—about

the hours she'd spent in practice, forgoing the outings to cinemas

and discos and the dates with boys which other girls of her age took

for granted. She told him about the competition, and her parents'

ultimatum, and how Crispin's offer had come as a kind of salvation.

She was almost shocked to realise how late it was getting, and to

discover how much she'd been enjoying herself—and how much

about herself she'd inadvertently given away to the sardonic young

man on the other side of the table. She'd more or less admitted that

she'd seized on Crispin's offer too hastily without considering any of

its wider implications, she realised with dismay. She stifled a small

groan, turning it into a yawn.

'Tired?' Flynn gathered the cards together and stood up. 'Do you

want something to drink—tea, or some warm milk?'

Sandie shook her head, looking down at the table, bewildered by

this sudden awareness of him, and the intimacy they'd been sharing.

'No, thanks,' she said in a subdued voice. 'I—I'll just go to bed.'

'In here?' he said. 'Or with me?'

Her heart leapt uncontrollably in a mature of excitement and panic.

He was standing on the other side of the table, watching her, his face

expressionless. He was making no attempt to touch her, or even

come near her. Telling her, without words, she realised, that the

decision was hers, and hers alone.

But she wasn't ready, she thought, shaken. She lacked the

sophistication needed for such a deliberate choice, as she'd

discovered when she backed away from Crispin.

She tried to force a smile. 'I—don't need a nurse any more.'

Flynn said, quite gently, 'That isn't what I was offering, Alexandra,

and you know it. But no matter. If you need anything at all in the

night, you have only to call me.' He smiled at her. 'Even if it's only

for a drink of water!'

The pressure, if she could call it that, was off, it seemed and she

drew a deep, grateful breath, aware that her heart was pounding

unevenly against her ribcage.

At the doorway to the inner room, Flynn paused. 'Do you need to

borrow another shirt? I rinsed out your nightdress, but it's not dry

yet.'

The alternative, she supposed, was to sleep in the nude, which she'd

never done. And now seemed totally the wrong time for such an

innovation, she thought, feeling a betraying warmth steal into her

face. Flynn's faintly quizzical expression as he waited for her answer

seemed to convey that he was following her train of thought with

fair precision, and her blush deepened.

'Thank you,' she said awkwardly.

He nodded, and pushed the curtain aside, vanishing into the

bedroom. He was back within a minute with a clean shirt, which he

held out to her. 'Here.'

She wanted to say something casual and amusing about her raids on

his wardrobe, but she couldn't think of a thing. All she was

conscious of was the quivering mass of emotional uncertainty within

her.

She walked round the table and took the shirt. Her hand brushed his,

as she did so, and her whole body tingled in response to the fleeting

contact. She drew a small, harsh, incredulous breath as it occurred to

her how little she wanted to spend the night alone. And how much

she needed to be with this man.

She said, 'Flynn—I...' and he laid a swift finger on her parted lips,

silencing her.

He said, 'Go to bed, Alexandra. Go to sleep.'

He turned away, and she managed to return the pleasant 'Goodnight'

he wished her over his shoulder as he went into the inner room, and

the curtain fell into place behind him, closing him off as surely as if

it had been a brick wall. She supposed she should open her bed and

unroll the sleeping bag, but she was shaking too much inside for any

practical purpose, and she sank back on to her chair, staring

sightlessly in front of her.

He'd taken her rejection very calmly, she thought confusedly, and

he'd allowed her to have no second thoughts, although he must have

known what was going through her mind. So he couldn't have

wanted her very fiercely, or he'd have insisted—dismissed her last

lingering doubts and fears—taken her in his arms—kissed her in

that way that made her feel as if she was dissolving inside.

Even thinking about it...

She made a determined effort not to think about it. What she had to

concentrate on, she told herself, was the undoubted fact that Flynn

Killane was a worldly and experienced man. And although he might

have found it entertaining to seduce her, it wouldn't have mattered