things had become suddenly and brutally clear to her. She knew
now why her appearance had been such a shock to everyone. It
explained Flynn's first angry reaction that night in the music room.
We're the image of each other, she thought with horror. And
everyone knew it but me.
It was agony waiting there in the dining room for Francesca to be
ushered into the drawing-room with due ceremony, and for Bridie to
take herself off back to the kitchen, dabbing her eyes on her apron.
As soon as the hall was clear, Sandie put her head down and dived
for the door. She had no very clear idea where she was going, or
what she was going to do. She only knew she had to get away from
the house.
Instinct told her to avoid the side of the house where the drawing-
room was situated. Arms wrapped round her body, throat constricted
and eyes smarting, she flew across the side lawn, bypassed Magda's
formal rose garden, and found herself on a path she'd never taken
before.
The path sloped downwards, and ahead of her she saw the gleam of
water, and realised this was the way to the lake. For a moment she
hesitated, then, with a mental shrug, she plunged down towards the
landing stage.
She was shivering violently when she got there, but told herself this
could be explained by her fraught emotional state. The breeze off
the water had an edge to it too, belied by the brightness of the sun.
But then everything at Killane was a lie.
She walked over to the edge of the landing stage and stared down at
the glittering water, its sparkle intensified by the unshed tears
pricking at her eyelids. How 'Could she have been such a blind,
gullible fool? Why hadn't she made proper enquiries—insisted on an
explanation? Her hands clenched into painful fists.
They must all have been, laughing at her—or pitying her, and she
wasn't sure which was worse.
She thrust her hands into her pockets and trod restlessly along the
planking to the boat she had noticed from the music room, and
looked down at it listlessly. There was a small, neat cabin, she saw,
and an auxiliary engine, yet the boat was compact enough to be
handled by a single occupant. She had to admire its trim lines, and
the spotless gleam of its brass and paintwork, the name
Graunuailie
being picked out on the bow in gold.
Flynn had his own means of escape, she thought enviously. Whereas
she would have to undergo the humiliation of making her presence
known to Francesca Sinclair, and hope that someone would take her
to the airport, so that she could go back to England and lick her
wounds in peace.
'Going for a sail, or planning to drown yourself?'
Sandie turned, her heart thumping, to find Flynn had emerged
unnoticed from the boathouse and was standing watching her, his
face enigmatic, his hands resting lightly on his lean hips.
She said huskily, 'You know, don't you? You know what's—
happened?'
'I can guess,' he said. 'Francesca has come to visit, and you've seen
her, and drawn certain conclusions.' He shrugged. 'It was inevitable.'
'Is that all you have to say?'
'I tried to warn you—to tell you to go home, Alexandra, but you
wouldn't listen.' He paused. 'How did she react when she saw you?'
'She didn't see me. I was in the dining-room, and she walked straight
past.' Sandie's teeth had begun to chatter. 'I can't go back to the
house yet. I can't!'
'You haven't much choice,' he said after a pause. 'Unless you come
sailing with me. And you're hardly likely to want to do that,' he
added, his mouth twisting sardonically.
In normal circumstances, Flynn's company was the last option she'd
have chosen, but she'd have tackled Cape Horn single-handed rather
than return to Killane at that moment.
She moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. 'Please—I'd
like to go with you. But I—I don't know anything about sailing.'
'Then I'll teach you. It's a grand day for a lesson.' There was
amusement in his voice and something not so easily fathomed.
'Imagine how impressed your friends in England will be when you
return to them, not just a star pianist, but an expert sailor as well.'
Sandie bit her lip. 'You—you know that isn't going to happen.'
'Well, you never know what the fates have in store.' Flynn dumped a
couple of heavy canvas bags down into the boat. 'So, come aboard.'
She took a step forward, then hesitated, suddenly nervous. Couldn't
she be leaping out of the frying pan straight into the fire?
'Having second thoughts?' Flynn taunted. 'Scared to be alone with
me?' He laughed. 'Well, have no fear, Alexandra. A boat's no place
for a seduction. When you're sailing, there's too much else to do.
Besides, O'Flaherty,'s coming with me this afternoon, so he can
chaperone you.'
'I'm not scared,' she denied, lifting her chin. 'Do I need any special
gear? An extra sweater, perhaps.'
Flynn gestured towards some boxes and bundles already aboard. 'I
can lend you anything you need.'
He turned to O'Flaherty, who was coming down the path from the
house, with his arms full of other packages. 'We have a passenger.'
O'Flaherty's expression was forbidding. 'Is that a fact?' He fixed
Flynn with a basilisk stare. 'Do you know what you're doing, or are
you mad entirely? Haven't you set the whole house in an uproar
already with your antics?'
'Yes, I know what I'm doing,' Flynn returned calmly. 'Now, let's get
under way.'
To Sandie's relief, she was not called on to do anything to help, as
Graunuaille
set sail. The two men worked swiftly and competently
round her as she sat, trying to be unobtrusive, in the stern.
It was startling to find how fast they were moving, she thought,
trying not to feel uneasy as the landing stage, and the boathouse, and
even Killane beyond them, became smaller and smaller. Nor had she
realised quite how large the lake was.
Her only previous experience of sailing had been cross-Channel
ferries, and these were no preparation for
Graunuaille.
Suddenly the
boat seemed very small and fragile, and herself with it. She glanced
up at the taut blue sails, and listened to the slap of the water against
the planking, and realised she had never been as aware of the
elements, or as close to them either.
The wind lifted her hair, making it stream behind her, and she
shivered. 'Here,' Flynn produced a navy Guernsey from a bag at his
feet and tossed it to her, 'put this on, if you're cold. And you'll find a
life-jacket in that locker.'
She gave him an alarmed look. 'Will I need it?'
'I hope not,' he said. 'Unless I make you walk the plank.'
He was smiling, because it was a joke, of course, and she tried to
summon up a dutiful grin in return, but it wasn't a success. And how
could he make jokes anyway, when he must know how miserable
she was— how shattered.
I shouldn't have come, she thought restlessly. I should have found a
hiding place, and wept it all out of me. I can't cry in front of Flynn.
He'd only sneer.
He'd have made a good pirate, she thought, stealing a look under her
lashes—and what was she doing so far from dry land and safety
with a man she didn't even trust?
What indeed? Sandie asked herself uneasily, and shivered again.
'YOU'RE very quiet. I hope you're not going to be sick.'
Sandie started out of her uncomfortable reverie. Flynn was still
smiling, but his eyes were cool and speculative as they rested on
her.
'I don't think so,' she returned, steadying her voice. 'She—she's a
lovely boat. Have you had her long?'
'Not this one. She was built for me specially a couple of years back.
But there's always been a
Graunuaille
at Killane. The first one I got
my hands on had belonged to my father, and it was in such a bad
state that it's a wonder I wasn't drowned.'
'The devil looks after his own, right enough,' O'Flaherty put in
sourly from the tiller.
'It's an unusual name.' Sandie took a deep breath, trying to put her
personal wretchedness out of her mind for a while. 'Has it any
particular meaning?'
'Only an Englishwoman would need to ask,' O'Flaherty muttered.
'Don't they teach you any history over there?'
'Not a great deal,' Sandie admitted. 'And even less about Ireland.'
'And why should they?' asked Flynn. 'The fact is, Miss Beaumont,
Graunuaille
is one of the names for Grace O'Malley, who was a
great sea captain and pirate in these parts when your Tudors were on
the English throne.'
'A woman?' Sandie was intrigued in spite of herself.
'Very much so. She married more than once, and gave birth to a
brood of children in between terrorising the seaways hereabouts. If
you go to Cleggan one day, you can take the mail boat to Inishbofin
which she used as her stronghold.'
He knew as well as she did that she would not be here to do any
such thing, Sandie thought resentfully.
She drew a breath. 'She sounds—formidable.'
'She was that, and more,' Flynn agreed drily. 'She met Elizabeth
Tudor face to face in London, and stood up to her too. But your
Queen Bess was a bit of a pirate herself, so would make allowances.'
Sandie found herself smiling. 'I suppose so.'
'Do you want to follow in their tradition, and take a turn steering?'
Sandie sent an apprehensive look towards O'Flaherty, who glowered
back at her.
'I think I'll just watch, if you don't mind.' She lowered her voice.
'Does O'Flaherty think all women on boats are unlucky, or is it just
me?'
'A little of both, probably,' said Flynn calmly. 'Don't worry your
head about him.'
On each side of the lake the hills were rising steeply almost out of
the water itself, and to the west, the sun was already dipping behind
the tallest of them, Sandie observed. It's getting late, she thought.
Aloud she said, 'Are we going much further?'
'Just to the island.' Flynn pointed at the dark mound crowned with
trees ahead of them. 'I have some things I want to leave at the
cottage.'
'Oh.' Sandie was taken aback. 'Am I actually going to see your
private island? I thought it was sacrosanct.'
'It generally is,' he said after a pause. 'But I warn you, there's not
much to see. You could jump over the whole place, with a following
wind.' He sounded dismissive, almost terse. Perhaps he'd decided
that O'Flaherty was right, she thought, and was regretting bringing
her.
O'Flaherty muttered something under his breath that might have
been swearing.
Sandie sent him a cool look. 'I'm sorry,' she said sweetly, 'I didn't
quite catch that.'
'He said
Oilean an chroi,'
Flynn told her. 'It's what the place is
known as locally. It means Island of the Heart.'
'Oh.' She digested this. 'That's—beautiful.'
'I'm glad you approve,' he said pleasantly.
As they got close, the sails came down, and Flynn used the engine to
manoeuvre them into a small rocky cove, and beside the jetty which
jutted out from the sloping rocky beach. Sandie could see no sign of
any house through the clustering trees. She found herself wondering
how he stood the isolation.
Once
Graunuaille
was safely tied up, they began to unload the
supplies.
'Coming ashore?' Flynn asked casually as he heaved the last box on
to the jetty.
She resisted the impulse to look at her watch. 'If you're sure it's all
right,' she said rather stiltedly. 'If it's not an intrusion.'
'No, you're invited.' He handed her a couple of bulging carrier bags.
'This way I can make use of you. Just follow the track through the
trees.'
Sandie had to bite back a cry of delight when she saw the cottage,
standing alone in the middle of its clearing. It was a low,
whitewashed building, with small-paned windows, and its thatched
roof seemed almost to sweep the ground.
Flynn pushed open the door, and she stepped in, ducking her head
slightly.
Inside, the air smelled musty and unused, and she stood looking
round her as Flynn began to open windows. The door opened
straight into the main living-room. It was spacious, with a large
fireplace, and a supply of peats stacked neatly beside it. There was a
curtained doorway, leading presumably to the sleeping quarters,