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‘You’re much too good-looking,’ Gray said slowly. ‘If I were your fiancé, I’d never let you out of my sight.’

‘Please don’t flatter me,’ she requested quickly, aware of a sudden quickening of her pulse. ‘I’m afraid you have a jealous disposition, Gray.’

‘I resent others’ claims to my possessions,’ he said shortly, ‘and I know how to take care of them. But have you no family?’

Glad to change the subject, Frances told him of her orphaned state, her need to earn her living in any post she could obtain.

‘I only have one living relative,’ she concluded, ‘a grandfather who refuses to acknowledge me. He disapproved of my mother’s marriage and dropped her. But none of this can be very interesting to you.’

‘I like to know my employees' background,’ he returned coolly. ‘You know the Fergusons, I suppose?'

‘Aren't they relations?'

'They're not, but Crawfords are responsible for them. Margaret's husband was killed testing one of our boats, so the firm felt we had a moral obligation to take care of the widow and her children, though James had only himself to blame. The accident occurred as a direct contravention of orders.'

That started a new train of thought. ‘Is speedboat racing very dangerous?' she asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Men have been killed, but so they have at other sports, to use a cliché, no more risky than crossing the road—but we’ll never get there if we continue to dawdle like this.'

He turned his attention to his driving and the boat gathered speed.

Mallaig is not a pretty place, but it has character; conspicuous is a long row of whitewashed fishermen's cottages facing the harbour with a bleak hill behind them. Fish is its main occupation, and now the tourist trade. Sheep wander in its streets and it has an enormous population of seagulls, which follow the ferries all the way to Skye. That island and the nearer Eigg and Rhum are features of the landscape.

When they had landed, Gray handed Frances Ian's grocery list and told her to leave it at the shop he named to be made up and they would take it down to the boat, and then do her own shopping.

‘I’ve booked lunch at the West Highland Hotel,' he told her. 'I'll meet you there at twelve-thirty. Okay?
^?

‘Oh, but I didn’t expect ...' Frances began, considerably taken aback.

‘A treat for your day out,’ he explained, ‘to compensate for depriving you of Ian’s company. You'd better get on with your shopping or you’ll be late.’

He strode away and Frances proceeded to sample what shops there were and execute Mrs Ferguson’s commissions. She was perturbed by Gray’s insistence that there was something between Ian and herself. She liked the lad, but that was all he was to her, though he was about her own age, and she did not believe he had any sentimental feelings towards her; he was much too absorbed in his boats. But there was danger in propinquity and they were thrown very much together. Perhaps she had better introduce him to the Tony myth to warn him off, but she hated dissembling, and she was already in difficulties over that—moreover, it seemed vain to suppose the young man had fallen for her. She would never have thought of it if Gray had not kept harping upon that theme.

She had learned that the family at Craig Dhu were deeply indebted to Gray and his firm financially and for their employment. Being of a despotic turn of mind he probably felt he owned them, but he did not own her. Possibly that was what was needling him; he did not like a foreign element threatening his sovereignty, he wanted to come first with all of them. But Ian being a normal young man would sooner or later find a girl he wanted to marry, unlike Lesley, who worshipped Gray, to the exclusion of anyone else, though not necessarily herself. His motive in accompanying her today might be a wish to subjugate her also. He could not bear to be other than the sun around which his satellites revolved, but if that were so, he had another think coming! She was no susceptible teenager to succumb to a handsome hydrofoil racer. She had been in love and had her love rejected, and she was not going to become involved again with either Gray or Ian.

Yet when she turned her footsteps towards the West Highland, conspicuous in its commanding position above the harbour, she was conscious of pleasurable excitement. Gray's society was stimulating and a meal out would be a change. She wished she was dressed more smartly and had put on hose, but with so many casually clad young people about it did not greatly matter.

As she came up the steps to the entrance, between steep grassy banks upon which she was amused to see a ewe and two lambs were grazing—a cheap way to mow them—she discerned her host seated outside the hotel on a narrow verandah which flanked the front of it, on which were set out tables and chairs. He stood up as she approached with an ironic glance at her shopping basket filled with Margaret Ferguson's small parcels.

‘Been busy?'

‘Yes, I think I've got everything.’

Unaccountably she was breathless, and her heart had jumped at the sight of him; he looked so lithe and debonair against the background of the dining room windows, his grey eyes slightly mocking, though his smile was welcoming. Undoubtedly Gray Crawford had something which could stir a woman’s heart.

A waiter appeared and he beckoned to him.

‘What will you drink?’

‘Medium sherry, please.'

Frances sat down. A view over the sea was spread before them, the tips of the mountains on Skye just visible on the horizon.

‘The road to the Isles,’ she murmured.

‘Yes, and this is the end of it—and then over the sea to Skye.’

The waiter brought her drink, and a beer for Gray, and he talked about the '45, the raising of Prince Charlie’s flag at Loch Shiel, and his departure from Scotland a year later never to return.

‘Would you have been a Jacobite?’ Frances asked.

Gray laughed and shook his head. ‘Lost causes don’t appeal to me, I’m no romantic. One has only one life and it’s up to one to get the most out of it.’

This hedonist view rather shocked her, but confirmed her opinion that Graham Crawford was an egoist intent only upon making his mark upon the world through the success of Silver Arrow.

They went inside for lunch and though it was summer a log fire burned in the entrance hall, and its warmth was not unwelcome. In the powder room, Frances repaired her make-up, and wondered how many girls, Gray had brought here for entertainment. She was sure he was by no means an ascetic.

They had a table in the window with the same fine view. Gray was a charming host, treating her as though she was a special guest and not his employees' home help. He was no snob, nor did he enlarge upon his exploits or his boats, though she asked several leading questions, which he evaded skilfully. So he was no boaster either. She did learn that his parents were still alive, though his father was about to retire from the business, and he had a married sister whose husband was managing director, being responsible for it during Gray’s frequent absences.

‘I can’t bear being cooped up indoors,’ he confessed, ‘but Sandy doesn’t like speedboats, except to sell them, so we work well together, except when he grumbles at me for overspending.’

Frances recalled that Ian had told her speedboat racing was a rich man’s sport and wondered if Gray were too extravagant for his firm’s resources, but that was no concern of hers, as he would be the first to tell her.

She was conscious that he looked at her a great deal and hoped that he liked what he saw, but it might be he was trying to discover what Ian saw in her, since he persisted in thinking the boy fancied her.

'What do you want to do now?' he asked, when they reached the coffee stage.

‘I suppose I ought to go back.’ She looked wistfully at the sea. If she had been alone she would have wandered round the little town, but she could not expect him to wait about for her.

‘But it’s your day off and it’s not nearly over yet. We might go and look at the white sands of Morar. I keep a car here, it's useful for getting about.’

‘I’d love that,’ she said eagerly.

Gray’s car was what she expected, a low-slung powerful sports model. He drove her up the hill out of Mallaig, and over the river between Loch Morar and the sea, that cascades in falls on either side of the road. The rhododendrons, which arc prolific in that country, were beginning to come into bloom, and there were little fresh water pools full of yellow waterlilies. He took the road towards Arisaig with the estuary to their right, and the sands actually were white. They left the car and walked down to the water’s edge.

‘It’s lovely,’ she exclaimed. ‘I wish . . .’ she stopped.

She could not express a desire to paddle in his august company, but he seemed to divine her thought.

‘Take off your sandals, if you want to walk on the sand, then you won’t get them wet, but don’t go too far.’

She slipped her feet out of them, and he picked them up. ‘I’m going back to the car, I’ve some papers I want to look at.

He went off carrying her sandals, and Frances ran barefooted through the clear shallow water and over the white sand. The clear, pure air went to her head like wine, the wide expanse of sea and sky gave a delicious sense of complete freedom. She took off her cap and her hair fell about her shoulders, stirred by the breeze. Intriguing shells caught her attention, and she began to collect them, filling her discarded cap, forgetting completely whom she was with, ‘Speed, bonny boat, like a bird on the wing,' she sang softly. ‘Over the sea to Skye’, and waved her hand to the islands, of which there was a glorious view.

Gray’s voice recalled her from her enchanted world, with the realisation that she was not behaving like a home help.

‘Come back—the tide comes in like a racehorse and it’s on the turn!’

He had left the car and had followed her some distance along the water’s edge. She came back towards him wondering for how long he had been watching her, still clutching her cap full of trophies, her exhilaration fading.

‘Whatever must you think of me?’ she cried as she came within earshot.

‘That there's been a mistake in your birth certificate. You must be thirteen, not—what is it?— twenty-three.’

He was smiling with obvious amusement as he surveyed her, and she became painfully conscious of her splashed skirt and flowing hair.

'I'm sorry, Gray,’ she said humbly. ‘This is an enchanted place and something, I don’t know what, got into me. I ... I must look a mess.’

’You look like a sea nymph, only you’ve too many clothes on.’ He reached out and took hold of a tress of her hair, drawing her towards him. ‘Not many girls have hair like this nowadays.’ His eyes glinted. ‘So the aloof Miss Desmond is human after all? I wonder just how human.’

Something in his expression caused her to blush. She jerked her hair out of his hold, and asked for her sandals which she saw he was carrying. He dropped them at her feet, and as she stooped for them, said
blandly, ‘Let me assist you.’

He bent down and held one ready for her to put her foot in it, and as she did so, his fingers lingered on her instep as he fastened it. He had sunk down upon one knee, oblivious of the wet sand, and his touch lingered still longer on the second one. Frances had narrow feet with a high instep of which she was rather vain, and as Gray’s fingers caressed them, for that was what he was doing, tremors shot up her legs to her spine. She wanted to pull away, but feared to lose her balance; as it was, she had to clutch at his shoulder for support. He had discarded his jacket, and the feel of his firm muscles through his thin shirt caused her another thrill. She feared he knew how he was affecting her, and felt a stab of anger, but she could not expect him to show her respect after her hoyden exhibition of herself.

‘Thank you,’ she said with heightened colour when both sandals were in place. ‘I must apologise . . .’

‘Whatever for?' He stood up, dusting the sand from his knee. ‘It was a pleasure to watch you being young and natural instead of in the rather severe pose you normally assume.’ He reached for her cap. ‘We’ll find a bag for these trophies of yours, so you can put your cap on again. Charming though you look, the good people of Mallaig might misinterpret what we’ve been doing if they see you in disarray.’

‘I must have been crazy.’ Frances tried to twist up her hair.

‘You’ll find that easier to do in the car out of the wind.’ The breeze had blown a strand of it across his face, and he removed it almost reverently. Why don’t you wear it loose?’

‘Not very suitable for a home help.'

‘But you’re not on duty now, neither am I. So we can indulge ourselves.’

She shot him a wary glance; there was a wicked gleam in the grey eyes.

‘You started it by telling me to take my sandals off.’

‘Ah, I shall know what to do when I want you to unbend.’

‘I shan’t forget myself again,’ she said frigidly as they reached the car.

‘Oh, what a pity!’ Gray laughed, then he became serious. ‘Don’t worry, Fran, I haven’t time to pursue you, amusing though that might be. I took time off today because I was becoming edgy, and I did have an errand to do in Mallaig.’

His abbreviation of her name suggested an intimacy which she did not want, and she said icily as she climbed into the car:

‘I’ve no intention of providing you with amusement.’

He laughed again. ‘Pax, Fran, don’t spoil a pleasant day by mounting your high horse, we mayn’t ever have another.’

She found his last statement depressing, but assured herself that the less she saw of him the better; he was a disturbing person.

‘Yes, it has been pleasant,’ she agreed formally, ‘and I must thank you very, very much.'

He stood beside the open door wearing an inscrutable expression and she had a moment’s panic that he was going to demand a more tangible form of gratitude. Her eyes were on ms firm, well-shaped mouth, and a quiver of excitement ran through her at the thought of its pressure on her lips. Instantly she suppressed the wanton urge, and the tense moment passed. Gray rummaged in the trunk and presented her with a polythene bag for her shells, and she plaited her hair, fixing it firmly under her cap.