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