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He sat down on the bed beside her, pulling back the cover which she had drawn over herself so that he could look at her recumbent figure. With a quick movement she swept it back again, throwing him a provocative look. He laughed.

‘Still pretending to be shy? Mayn’t I inspect my own property?’

Blue eyes challenged grey. ‘You can rid yourself of that notion,’ Frances told him. ‘Women aren’t possessions.’

‘I might take you up on that, but there isn’t time if we aren’t to be late for dinner. Get up and dress, the water’s hot if you’d like a bath.’

Baths . . . dinner . . . such mundane things when she was craving for some word of reassurance, a tender aftermath to his lovemaking. But Gray evidently had no such intention. He looked like a well-fed cat, as sleek and satisfied. One appetite appeased, he was thinking of his dinner. He stood up and stretched himself.

‘I don’t want any dinner,’ Frances said, feeling peeved.

‘Not mine host’s fresh salmon?’ His voice became plaintive. ’ Am I to dine alone on my wedding night?'

‘Oh, I’ll come,’ Frances cried contritely. She looked at him appealingly, wondering if she dared question him about his feelings for her. Now was the time he should say he loved her, even if he didn’t. But he had turned away and was fiddling with the brushes on the dressing table, and looked as remote as Mars.

'Remind me to ring Stu tomorrow to check on Silver Arrow.'

So that was where his thoughts were straying; he could not forget the boat for a single day. Frances felt as though she had been plunged into cold water.

‘Do you ever think of anything else?’ she demanded tartly.

He smiled lazily. ‘Sometimes.’

‘Not often.’ She sighed.

He said nothing to that, and coming back to her began to play with her long hair, drawing it through his fingers.

'I've always loved your hair, Fran, so fine and silky, it makes you . . . unique.’

Was that all that distinguished her from his other loves? She enquired timidly:

‘You ... you’ve had a lot of girls, Gray?’

He blinked. 'Be your age! What do you think I am? A monk?’

She said nothing, but her big eyes were sad.

Gray smiled quizzically. ‘Believe me, Fran, you’d have had a rough time if I hadn’t known my job.’ No, he was no ascetic and the technique he had used on her had been learned from other women, women who, poor fools, had probably loved him too, and where were they now? Her body excited him, but he took no interest in her mind or heart, any woman who caught his fancy could have served him equally well. But she was the one he had married, and that should comfort her.

They came down to dinner, for which Frances had put on a black lace dress she had bought for the occasion. Gray looked sleek and debonair in a velvet Jacket and light-coloured trousers. She had never looked more lovely, she seemed to glow, and Gray watched her triumphantly, for he had brought that bloom to her beauty.

‘At last you’re alive, ice maiden,’ he told her.

‘Did you think I was a walking corpse?’ she asked. ‘Or a ghost haunting Craig Dhu?’

‘No, only asleep, I knew I could wake you, though that clot Ian was trying to do so. But he didn’t know how to go about it, I did.'

Frances did not want to think of Ian. He, she feared, did love her, and if she could have returned his love, they would have found the ideal for which she longed.
He
would not have been thinking of Silver Arrow directly after having made love to her.

He was a reliable, steady young man, without a yen for other girls, unlike this . . . this faun, whom she had been crazy enough to marry. To her relief Gray changed the subject. His father’s health was deteriorating, he told her. As soon as he came back, he must relieve him of his chairmanship of the company. This was much more congenial to Frances; though she was sorry about Mr Crawford, whom she had not yet met, Gray's statement gave a sense of permanency to their relationship. He would not be gone long, then they would find a house and settle down to a normal existence. After all, many couples married without love on both sides, and it worked out all right.

‘Tell me, Gray,’ she asked shyly, ‘do you want children?'

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not particularly, but I suppose Crawfords should have an heir.' Then his face lit up. ‘If we had a son, he might be another speed ace.'

Oh God, Frances thought, not that!

After dinner they took a stroll outside, watching the last light lingering on the mountains. Frances was feeling sleepy, and when she yawned, Gray told her to go to bed and he would see her later. He joined a group of fishermen in the bar, who had dropped in for refreshment, and she went upstairs to the sound of their raucous laughter feeling excluded. She had hoped to beguile him into a really intimate talk during which she might get to know him better, but he preferred the company of other men, and from the sound, their coarse jokes.

It was very late when he came to join her, and she was asleep, but when he slid in beside her, she awoke and wrapped her arms about him with passionate intensity. She had been dreaming and she had dreamed that she had lost him.

‘Oh, Gray, I dreamed you'd gone . . .’ she whispered.

‘Well, I am going,' he returned prosaically, ‘but I’ll soon be back. Don't for God’s sake start being hysterical, Fran.'

But he was gentler with her, less rapacious than he had been in the afternoon, and she was as hungry for him as he was for her. Finally they both slept, and she did not dream again.

Next morning Gray drove her down Glencoe, the scene of the hideous massacre of 1692, when the MacDonalds, men, women and children, were slain, a crime more reprehensible than others of the same sort, because it was a breach of hospitality, the men who committed it being the guests of the clan. The mountains enclosing it were too grim for beauty, particularly the stark humps of the Three Sisters, but it possessed a wild grandeur. Beyond the Glen, Loch Leven presented a kindlier appearance, reflecting the Pap of Glencoe which marked the entrance to it. Rhododendrons in full bloom coloured the landscape.

Gray drove down to Oban, the powerful. car eating up the miles beside lochs and over hills. Arrived there, they had lunch, and then he insisted upon hiring a rowboat and taking Frances out into the bay, which was almost landlocked by the Island of Kerrera, He seemed consumed by nervous energy which would not let him rest. A suggestion from Frances that he should take things easy in view of the ordeal ahead of him was treated with scorn.

They left Oban after dinner, which Gray, made hungry by his exercise, ate hungrily, though Frances had little appetite. He seemed to be strung to a high pitch of tension, snatching at every satisfaction, as if . . . No, she must not think of that.

The sun was painting the sky over the Isles with gold, scarlet and purple as they left Oban; the sunsets there were famed. The colours were reflected in Loch Awe as the car swept by it, but over the Pass of Brandon, scene of many bitter conflicts, the shades of night were gathering. At Ballachulish a Scottish dance was in progress, and as the strains of the pipes reached them Gray stopped outside the hall and made Frances accompany him inside. A Highland fling was being performed, and after a poor attempt at it, Frances said she would prefer to watch. She had never done any Scottish dancing, and she was tired with her long day out. Gray sought another partner, after finding her a seat. She often forgot Gray was Scottish, but now, among his own kind, he became all Gael. Somebody lent him a kilt, to replace his trousers, and he flung himself wholeheartedly into the traditional dances with verve and skill. The fair-haired girl who partnered him when a partner was needed gazed at him with bedroom eyes, which did not seem to displease him. She whispered something to him, and he nodded. A space was cleared and crossed swords laid on it. Gray proceeded to execute the intricate steps of the sword dance amid loud applause. At its conclusion the floor filled again with upraised arms and whirling figures, who, as they became excited, uttered whoops and cries. To Frances, Gray had never appeared more alien; she had not seen this side of him, and she felt she had strayed into a foreign country and Gray was a stranger. He appeared to have forgotten her existence, and was returning the fair-haired girl’s amorous glances with interest.

It was very
late when they left and the stars gleamed brightly above Glencoe’s sinister crags. Frances was weary and disgruntled, longing for the sanctuary of Gray’s arms, but when they reached the bedroom he exclaimed:

‘Damn it, I forgot all about calling Stu. Why didn’t you remind me
^:
’

‘I forgot too,’ she admitted. ‘Was it important?’

'Yes, it was. I’ve had no news for two days.’ He frowned at her. ‘You’re neglecting your wifely duties, Fran.’

Stung by his tone, she retorted:

‘I didn’t know they included acting as a memo pad. You were too occupied with that yellow-haired girl to welcome a reminder.’

His grey eyes narrowed to slits.

‘I can’t abide jealous women, Fran,’ he warned her.

‘I wasn’t jealous, only neglected.’

‘But you didn’t know the dances . . .’

‘I’m English, reels and flings were not included in my education.’

‘Then you’d better accustom yourself to being a Scottish wife.’

He looked menacing, and Frances knew they were perilously near a row, and over such a trivial matter. With an effort she conquered her resentment.

'It's not too late to make your call now, there’s a time lag . . .'

'Fancy knowing that!' he gibed.

‘It’s a well-known fact . .

‘But I thought you resented anything to do with the States and Silver Arrow.’

So he had sensed her antagonism to his speedboat, though she had tried to conceal it. Ignoring his remark, she suggested he had better ask for his call before it got any later.

‘Probably take half the night getting a connection,’ he grumbled. ‘I’ll say goodnight, Fran, you’ll be asleep by the time I’m through.’

The implication was obvious; he did not intend to make love to her tonight. Stuart Lambert, or more correctly Silver Arrow, had impinged upon her honeymoon. Wearily she undressed and got into bed. She should not have mentioned the fair-haired girl, but after all, she was only to have three nights with Gray and already Silver Arrow and a stranger had encroached upon them. With difficulty she restrained her tears; it would never do for Gray to discover a wet pillow. What time he came up she had no idea, for, exhausted, she fell into a deep sleep, and when she awoke in the morning, only the impress of his head beside her and the general untidiness of the room indicated that he had been up at all. She went to bathe in some distress; already Gray seemed to have tired of her. He might be more attentive when Silver Arrow had won her race, but she doubted it. There seemed to be no prospect of ever winning his love.

He came in to eat an enormous breakfast, telling
her he had tramped all over the moor, and how much he had missed Caesar. His dog, Frances noted, not his wife. She asked:

‘Why didn’t you wake me? I’d have come too.'

‘You were so sound asleep. I didn’t want to disturb you.’

He went on to say he must go to Glasgow to say goodbye to his parents.

'But I thought you’d done that!’ Frances was dismayed.

‘I was too busy making the arrangements for our wedding and whatnot.’ He noticed her expression. ‘You can come with me if you like. You’ll, have to meet them some time.’

But not now, on the eve of his departure, and he did not sound as if he wanted her company.

'I think I’d better wait until your return,’ she told him. ‘Bit trying for them to have me foisted on them when they'll want to give all their attention to you.'

He shot her a keen glance, seemed about to protest, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘As you please,’ he said indifferently. ‘I’ll be back in time for dinner.’

It was a grey day, wreaths of mist encircling the hills. The skies seemed to be weeping. Frances decided it was the weather that made her feel so despondent as she walked beside the stream. Naturally Gray wanted to see his parents, especially as his father’s health was precarious and she had been mistaken when she thought he had already taken his leave. She must not expect too much from him, he had never pretended that he loved her. He would only be gone a couple of weeks, Stuart had wanted him to stay a while after the race, and she must concentrate upon making their hie together a success upon his return. They would create their home in a calmer atmosphere than during these hectic honeymoon days, and she must ensure it really was a home. He appreciated her serenity and she must stay unruffled whatever the provocation, and in time she might win his love, make him realise Frances nee Desmond was a person not merely an instrument to slake desire. The physical reciprocity between them was not to be despised, but passion was too ephemeral to make a solid basis to their life together, they needed more than that.

She did not think Gray would find it easy to settle down to a conventional life, and it would be her task to help him with her love and understanding. She knew now that she loved him devotedly; he had mastered not only her body but her entire being. Surely love as strong and deep as hers must reach him eventually?

Gray was late for dinner and Frances met him with no word of reproach for his day-long desertion but listened patiently to his enthusiasm about the publicity that he had found had been built up around Silver Arrow. She was the favourite to win. His boat was in the ascendant now, he could talk o; nothing else, and he did not seem to see her when he looked at her. Stu was already at Miami and was looking forward to his coming. She could not help asking:

‘Will Miss Lambert also be there?'

‘Sam? Oh, she'll be somewhere around.

His complete indifference reassured her. But that night her fears and uncertainties returned in force, all the more potent because they were intangible. She clung to him with such desperate intensity that he was surprised.