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‘Miss Desmond,’ Lesley said succinctly.

‘Welcome to Craig Dhu,’ Margaret greeted Frances in a low die-away voice. ‘I hope you’ll be happy here, but it's a bit of a mausoleum.’ She looked at her daughter. ‘Ask Morag to bring some tea, will you, dear? It's still some time until supper, and I’m sure Miss Desmond would like some. Sit by me, Miss Desmond, and I’ll explain your duties to you.’ She indicated the end of the sofa by her feet, and her gaze returned to her daughter, frowning as she noticed her appearance. ‘Couldn’t you have washed before our visitor arrived?’

‘She’s not a visitor,’ Lesley pointed out. ‘She’s a help, and I'm working in the sheds. I can’t keep spick and span when I’m busy. I'll tell Morag about the tea and then Miss Desmond had better see her room, and perhaps she’ll lend a hand with supper.’

She stalked out of the room and her mother watched her go with a troubled expression.

‘I can’t get used to girls doing men’s work,’ she sighed. ‘Les' is always covered in oil and looks so unglamorous. How she can expect to attract Gray looking like that, I can’t imagine.’ She brightened. ‘Though they do have a kindred interest in Silver Arrow.’

Thus unconsciously she betrayed her daughter’s secret, and Frances guessed the reason for Lesley’s antagonism. She had been dismayed to find the new help was young and not ill-favoured., fearing she might be a rival for the speed merchant’s favours. Possibly Gray Crawford was not only fast with boats. She need have no qualms, Frances thought bitterly; she was immune to masculine charms, after the defection of Tony Archer. She had believed he was her friend and their association dating from teenage years would ripen into a closer relationship, but as her mother’s health declined and her expectations faded, so had his affection shrunk. When she was left almost destitute, Tony lost interest, and at a time when she needed his support most. It was another reason for accepting this far-distant post. Her Kentish friends and neighbours had expected him to marry her and she had wilted under their pitying looks, Her vanity more than her heart was hurt— the latter, although she did not realise it, had been hardly touched—but she mourned the loss of her friend. Tony’s engagement to a well-endowed farmer’s daughter had completed her chagrin. She wanted no more to do with men.

Morag brought in a tray of tea and biscuits and was introduced. She was gnarled and brown with bright dark eyes, a remnant of the old family retainer type, now rapidly becoming obsolete. To Frances’ offer of help she shook her grey head,

‘Nay, lass, take the neet to settle in. You can start in the morn.'

‘She’s getting past it,' Margaret explained, when the old woman had gone. ‘My health won’t permit me to do much and Lesley refuses to have anything to do with the house, so you see how much we need your services.' She looked at Frances anxiously. ‘You don’t look very robust, and when the twins come up for the summer holidays there’ll be a lot to do. They’re dear girls, but they’re out of doors all the time and no help.'

The twins had not been mentioned when Frances was offered the job and she felt a twinge of resentment. How many more individuals were going to be foisted upon her?

‘I’m quite strong and I’m sure I can cope,' she returned, ‘but I didn’t know' there would be so many of you.’

‘It’s only during the holidays,’ Margaret assured her. ‘And they do liven the place up.’

‘I see. So there’s yourself, son and daughter, and Mr Crawford . . .’

‘Oh no, you don't have to do anything for Gray,' Mrs Ferguson interrupted.
^:
He has his own rooms at the top of the tower and a manservant to care for them when he’s here. In the winter we all move to our house Glasgow, and if you suit ... I mean if we get on ... I hope you’ll accompany us.’

‘I should like that.’

Already Frances found this mountain retreat a little oppressive. In winter it would be bleak and probably completely cut off by snow.

'I'll do my best to give satisfaction,’ she added primly.

Margaret smiled; she had a sweet smile,

‘I’m sure you will, I only hope you’ll be able to bear with us. We’re a rather—how shall I put it?— eccentric family. Ian’s a dear, and will do anything to help you feel at home, but Lesley ...’ she paused. ‘My daughter is quite unpredictable,’ she finished.

That Frances could well believe.

Later Morag was summoned to take her up to her room. This was over the sitting room with the same view of the loch. The furniture was heavy and old-fashioned, the bedstead a tall brass one. Frances
could fancy herself back in Edwardian times except for the electric stove, which Morag switched on, saying the nights were still cold. The bathroom was next door. The old woman was a little dour, and she eyed Frances critically.

‘You’re a bit lassie to be on your ain,’ she observed. ‘Have you no folks to care for you?'

'My parents are dead.’

'Eh, I’m sorry for that, lass, but dinna greet.' The dark eyes clouded. ‘You'll have a bairn of your own ere long, I see it in your arms.’

Frances shivered, then laughed. She knew Highland women were reputed to have second sight, but this was going a bit far, to foretell a baby when she had not been more than a few hours in the place!

‘I haven’t come here to get married,’ she said lightly, ‘but to work Now tell me what time you have meals.’

Morag’s eyes were bright again, as she complied. Left alone
_;
Frances sampled the bathroom, which contained a huge bath and other fitments, all equally antiquated, but there was a shower. Returning to her room, she unpacked, and discarding the light tweed suit she had worn for travelling, put on a wrapper and went to shower. Rather to her surprise, the water was hot. Then she dressed in a pale lavender dress with a sleeveless cardigan in a deeper shade. She had abandoned conventional black, not wishing to emphasise her orphaned state, but her etceteras, shoes, hose and bag, were sable. She wore her hair parted in the middle and rolled up in a knot at her nape. It was dense black, and with her big eyes and oval face she looked like a young madonna.

Before she left the room, she peered out of the window at the gathering dusk. The reflection of the sky still lightened the water, but the opposite hills were dark humps against the oncoming night. Not exactly a cosy place, she decided, recalling the blossoming orchards of Kent with nostalgia, but she had chosen to come here and she must make the best of it.

Frances lost her way in the maze of passages outside her room. Owing to various alterations from time to time, the connections with the main staircase were winding. She came to what she supposed was the back stairs and went down them, hoping they would lead to the kitchen. At the foot of them, she halted. A carpeted corridor ran left and right with a door at either end, but which went where? While she hesitated the one on her right opened and a man came through, moving with swift impetuous strides. He stopped when he saw Frances, and stared. She stared back. He was the shape and size of the demonic figure on the quayside, but he had changed his wet suit for corded pants and jacket over a navy pullover. His garments were beautifully cut and displayed his lean elegance to full advantage. The face above the polo neck collar was arresting. Bronzed by exposure to weather, the features clear-cut and keen, it was a hawk’s face, with an aquiline nose, low brows and jutting chin, The deep-set eyes were grey and piercing, and his hair, neither long nor short with a definite wave, was blond. Frances was put in mind of the Vikings, the sea-rovers, brave, ruthless men, whose restless desire for conquest and loot had taken them all over Europe and as far as the coasts
of Canada and Greenland.

She realised she must have strayed into the wrong part of the house.

‘I’m afraid I’m trespassing,' she apologised. ‘I lost my way.'

His face broke into an unexpectedly sweet smile.

‘Never say that,' he said gallantly, his voice was quick and light. ‘Such a charming visitor could never be a trespasser,’

His eyes travelled appraisingly over her slender figure, with its high small breasts and narrow waist, noting the fineness of bone structure, her delicate wrists and ankles, and the slender column of her white throat rising from the V of her dress. Frances stiffened; she was not so innocent that she could not read the meaning of that scrutiny, he was assessing her good points. Graham Crawford was susceptible to women and with the glamour of his calling, as she had already surmised, a heartbreaker. She felt a passing pity for Lesley Ferguson in her wet-suit with oil-smeared face. This man would be attracted by sophisticated, smart women and could have his pick of them.

'I'm no visitor,’ she said coldly, 'I'm the home help.'

His smile became a grin, disclosing white, even teeth.

‘Ah yes, Ian went to fetch you from Mallaig. I bet he was surprised.’

‘I don't know, I’ve no idea what he was expecting.'

‘Nothing like you.' His eyes were on her face now, dwelling upon her shadowed eyes, the passionate
curve of her lovely mouth.

‘You saw me arrive, didn’t you?'

‘I saw someone arriving, but I didn’t stop to look at you. If I had I’d have sent you straight back again.’

Frances’ eyes widened in dismay, but she returned with spirit:

‘But why, Mr Crawford? I'm nothing to do with you. I’m told you have your own quarters and we needn’t even meet. I’m sorry that I’ve accidentally intruded upon you.'

‘I’m not surrounded by barbed wire,’ he retorted. ‘We all muck in together at rimes, but you’re a most unlikely-looking domestic worker.’

He had known she had been engaged, but like Ian he had expected someone much more ordinary.

‘I can’t help my looks,’ Frances pointed out. ‘Does one have to have a special appearance to proclaim one’s occupation?

‘Certain types seem to gravitate towards different jobs. “Home help” conjures up a homely, comfortable personality. You’re much too decorative.’

‘You think I’d do better as a model or an actress? Unfortunately I’ve no bent towards either, and both professions are overcrowded.’

‘The intimacy of the home offers equal scope for your talents, as no doubt you’ve considered. I gather you have to depend upon them for your livelihood?’

‘Yes, but...’ She paused, wondering what he was implying. He stood beside her, hands in trousers pockets, one shoulder against the wall, and he seemed unable to take his eyes from her face. That direct probing gaze was making her feel uncomfort
able.

Suddenly he straightened himself, and his face altered, the eyes narrowing, the mouth becoming stern, all trace of his former gallantry obliterated like flowers before a frost.

‘This is an isolated place, Miss what’s-your-name, with few distractions. Young Ian is an impressionable youth, and being older than he is I feel it’s my duty to protect him from designing females. If you want to stay here, you must keep your distance. I can’t Have him neglecting his work on your account.’

This wholly unjustifiable attack took her breath away. She understood then what he had meant by using her talents. He thought she was on the lookout for a husband to keep her. An indignant flush rose to her pale cheeks and her eyes sparkled dangerously.

‘How dare you!’ she said in a tense, low voice. ‘You’re insulting! You must mix with a very low type of woman, cocottes and adventuresses.' (Wasn’t that what they called them in novels?) ‘I assure you your precious Ian is perfectly safe from me. You might as well accuse me of having designs upon yourself.’

A gleam of appreciation had come into the hard grey eyes. When Frances was angry she looked beautiful.

‘Perhaps you have,’ he said softly, ‘but I warn you I’m a tough nut to crack.’

‘I didn’t know you existed until this afternoon.’ She clenched her hands, restraining a desire to smack his face—hard. ‘I’m not one of your fans.
Belting up the loch like a bat out of hell, nearly overturning us, in a thing that must have cost the earth and serves no useful purpose . . .’

His hand closed over her wrist like a steel band.

‘You ignorant woman, Silver Arrow is superb. Say what you like about me, but keep your tongue off her!’

She knew then what was his ruling passion—a machine that would take precedence over any woman in his life. God pity any woman who was fool enough to love him. With an effort she controlled her temper.

‘Let me go, Mr Crawford! I’m sorry, I forgot my place'

‘You did.’ He dropped her wrist, and she rubbed it against her skirt, feeling sure it was bruised.

‘I won’t again.' She smiled wanly. ‘For the record, my name is Desmond and I came here to work, not to flirt with your employees. But you’ve no right to make such insinuations. I would ask you to take that back.’

He shook his head, but his eyes were no longer cold, they had a sensual look, and she suddenly wondered if his apprehensions were altogether upon Ian’s account.

‘No, I’ll not take anything back. I was warning you. Any hanky-panky on your part, and out you go.'

‘You’re not my employer, Mr Crawford.’

‘No. I wouldn’t be such a fool as to engage you. All the same, I'm the boss here, and what I say goes.'

Frances’ colour had receded and she veiled her
eyes meekly with her lashes, but with no idea of how alluring she looked. There was no meekness in her heart. He was, she thought, the most objectionable, arrogant man she had ever encountered—though she had to admit her experience was limited.

‘Well, you’ve certainly clarified my position,’ she said demurely, ‘but I assure you, you’ll have no cause to complain of my conduct.'

An old-fashioned gong boomed through the house, reverberating down the stairs—the summons to. supper. Frances turned to go back the way she had come, but she had only gained the first step when she felt his hands on her shoulders.

^;
Not that way, Miss Desmond, you’ll get lost again,’ He propelled her towards the opposite door. ‘This leads into the hall, the dining room is opposite the drawing room.’

His fingers seemed to bum through the thin stuff of her dress, and Frances became aware that he possessed a powerful sexual magnetism. A tremor ran down her spine that was not all anger. Nor was his hold gentle. He resents me, she thought, as much as Lesley does, but for such a stupid reason. Are there so few girls in this part of the world that he imagines Ian will fall for me?