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‘There,' she said, ‘Miss Desmond is herself again.'

‘Quite so,' he drawled as he took his place beside her. ‘And Mr Crawford has remembered his objective.'

She glanced at him curiously as the car shot back on to the road. His profile was set and stern. Had he also felt the urge that had risen in her when he stood by the car door, as if there were some physical affinity between them? If he had he had firmly repressed it, but she decided it was unlikely. He probably kissed girls casually and carelessly when the opportunity presented itself, and only her lack of response had checked him. His only real love was Silver Arrow, and that was what he meant by his objective.

The voyage back was without incident, and Gray was taciturn. He seemed to have withdrawn from her entirely. Frances watched the sky flame over the sea as the sun began to sink, aware of a pleasant melancholy.

'I always feel a little sad when the sun goes down,' she said.

‘The death of each day's life,' he quoted, and she was surprised, for she had not thought Gray would read the classics, ‘but that referred to sleep that knits
up the ravelled sleave of care, and after all that fresh air you should be ready for your bed, or do you lie awake yearning for the boy in Kent?’

‘Of course not,’ she said crossly, needled by his tone. ‘I’m a practical girl.’

Whereat he laughed and she wondered why he was amused.

Lesley was waiting for them on the jetty wearing a light sweater and jeans.

‘You’re very late,’ she greeted them, as she caught the painter. ‘We began to fear you'd had an accident.’

‘In this old tub?’ Gray asked scornfully, leaping out of the boat, and holding out his hand to assist Frances. ‘I’ve been showing Fran some of the beauties of Scotland.’

‘How nice for her!’ Lesley’s deep voice grated. ‘Ian will come down to collect the stores, and I hope you’ve remembered Mrs Ferguson’s commissions, Miss Desmond.’

‘Yes, I think I’ve got everything,’ Frances told her, feeling guilty. A day off did not include the evening, and she was too late to help with supper. Gray reached out and took her shopping bag from her.

‘I’ll bring this up to the house for you.’

‘Surely Miss Desmond is capable of carrying it herself,’ Lesley said sharply.

‘I don’t doubt it, but I prefer to carry it for her.’

Frances was on the edge of the quay as they moved away, with Lesley between her and Gray. She was never able to recall exactly what happened. It seemed Lesley tripped and stumbled against her.

She knew she was falling, clutched at nothingness, and then the waters of the loch closed over her head.

‘She’s
breathing regularly now.’

Frances heard the words as she drifted back to consciousness. She found she was lying on her back on the floor in front of an electric stove in Gray’s office, wrapped in a travelling rug. There were pools of water all around her which Lesley was swabbing up. Someone—Gray, she saw with surprise—was kneeling beside her. When she opened her eyes, he turned her on to her side, facing the fire, and in answer to a query from Lesley said solemnly:

‘The textbooks say the subject should assume a coma position after administering artificial respiration. She’s not warm enough, get that coat of mine that’s hanging up on the door.’ He turned back the rug and began to rub her feet.

A sheepskin coat was thrown over her, and Frances caught a glimpse of Lesley’s face as she bent above her. It was white and strained, and she wondered vaguely why she was looking so upset. She went away and returned with a glass which she held to Frances' lips, raising her head with her other hand. It was whisky mixed with hot water, and Frances spluttered as she swallowed some of it. It ran like fire through her veins, warming, reviving. Gray covered her feet and stood up.

‘Nip up to the house,’ he ordered tersely. ‘Bring her some dry clothes. Find Murdoch and tell him to bring me some too. Tell Morag to warm Frances' bed—hurry!’

Lesley hesitated. ‘You go, you need a hot bath. I can look after Frances.’

‘I think not.’

There was such emphasis on the three words that Lesley wilted. Then she was gone.

Gray crouched beside her, drawing the wet mass of her hair away from her neck and shoulders and spreading it fanwise over the rug. He picked up the glass which Lesley had put down, and raising her so that she was supported against his shoulder, held it to her mouth.

‘Drink some more.’

Obediently she took a sip. ‘Ugh, it’s nasty!'

‘Nasty? It’s the best Glenlivet!’

He had torn off his soaking shirt and his bronzed torso was bare except for a faint golden down on his chest. One naked arm held her closely against him, while he offered the glass. Disturbed by the close contact, she said faintly:

‘I fell in the loch, didn't I?’

‘You did.’ His face was grim.

‘You jumped in after me?’

His arm tightened about her. ‘Did you think I could let you drown?’

‘I ... I was careless . . .’

Gray said nothing to that, but his face became even grimmer. Frances made a movement of withdrawal.

‘I . . . I’m better now. I’d like to sit up.’

There was an ancient armchair near the fire, in which Gray very occasionally relaxed, when he was working there. He lifted her to put her into it, and as he did so, the rug slipped from her shoulder; beneath it she was naked, and she wondered anxiously who had stripped her. Her soaked clothing was in a pile on the floor. Her uncovered white flesh made contact with Gray’s and he suddenly bent his head and pressed his lips to it. An electric shock shot through her, leaving every nerve tingling. Never had she imagined a man’s proximity could so violently affect her.

‘Please, Gray,' she murmured, and there was appeal in voice and eyes. She was begging him not to exploit the powerful force that was igniting between them.

‘Woman, you’re a menace,’ he said hoarsely.

She could have retorted that he was even more so to her, but she was too spent for banter. She was seeing again the dim quay, Lesley’s taut figure beside her as she slipped, the hand extended but not to succour her ... no, surely Lesley could not have deliberately pushed her in? Mad jealous she might have been because Gray had spent the day with her, but she wouldn’t go that far . . . or would she? She shivered, and Gray sat down in the chair with her upon his knees, crushing her close to him so that the heat from his body could penetrate hers.

‘What the devil’s keeping that girl?’ he muttered.

Frances could feel the strong beat of his heart next to hers.

Then they heard voices and running feet and the room was full of people. Frances was wrapped in more blankets, while Murdoch assisted Gray into dry clothes. Feebly she protested:

‘I can’t walk in all these swathings!'

‘You’re not going to walk,’ Gray told her, and it was he who carried her up to the house, while Murdoch and Lesley brought their wet garments. The last glimmering of twilight lay over the loch, turning the water to pewter; the first stars gleamed above the mountains. Light streaming from the house lit their path. Frances murmured against Gray’s shoulder:

‘It’s a beautiful world, I'm glad I’m still in it.’

‘If you're staying here, you must learn to swim,’ was his prosaic rejoinder.

He had not known she could not swim, but Lesley did, and again she shivered, feeling she was wading into tides of emotion which were too strong for her. Could one hate a rival enough to want to see her dead? But she was not Lesley’s rival in any real sense. She had merely caught Gray’s passing fancy, and if she judged him correctly it would be only a fleeting one.

Frances suffered no ill effects from her ducking, though Morag fussed over her and insisted that she have her breakfast in bed next morning. She got up in the afternoon and found to her dismay that Gray was coming to supper. When he honoured them with his presence, the meal was formalised into dinner; everyone changed, and efforts were made to provide him with a succulent meal. Frances did her share of the preparations feeling slightly contemptuous. Was it really necessary to make such a god of him, pandering to his already inflated ego? True, they were all dependent upon his goodwill, but did he appreciate sycophancy? She owed him her life and she would have to find an opportunity to thank him properly. She hoped he would not try to make capital out of that, for any advances from him would worsen the situation between herself and Lesley, and she did not want to encourage him, but she could not ignore the debt she owed him.

She changed into a plain black dress for dinner with a modest V-neckline and short sleeves. With her white skin and dense black hair she was a symphony in ebony and ivory. By contrast, Lesley appeared in a full-skirted flame-coloured creation, but in spite of her flamboyant dress she seemed subdued and kept throwing nervous glances towards Gray. Ian, who was perceptive, marked her demeanour.

‘Has Lesley done something wrong, Gray? She seems scared of you.’

‘Lesley knows what she did, but I don’t tell tales,’ was the blunt rejoinder, ‘Since it appears that our lady help cannot swim that must be rectified immediately. I’ll have no one living at Craig Dhu who can’t.’

Frances glanced at his stern face uncertainly. Did he mean she was going to be dismissed?

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise that was a necessary qualification when I took the job,’ she said awkwardly.

‘It didn't occur to me to ask,' Margaret admitted, ‘but of course, with having to travel by boat and the loch being so deep, I suppose it is important.’ She looked at Frances kindly. ‘A shame if you have to leave when you were settling in so well, and I’m sure we'll never get anyone else to replace you.'

Frances was dismayed. She was settling in, as Mrs Ferguson said, and she was finding the life and the company there fascinating. She looked reproachfully at Gray’s implacable face. Yesterday he had seemed so friendly and now he was using this paltry excuse to be rid of her, but perhaps it was not really so paltry; but for him she would have drowned, and it could not have been much fun for him having to pull her out. He had called her a menace, but what he really meant was that she might become a distraction, diverting his concentration on his boat. The remedy for that was simple; he only had to avoid her as she would avoid him in future. Or was he thinking of Ian? That young man had been terribly distressed by the accident and his solicitude gave point to Gray’s suspicions. It was all so absurd that her job was threatened by emotions which she had had no wish to arouse.

Ian said: ‘Couldn’t Fran learn to swim?’

'Where can she learn?’ his mother asked. ‘The loch isn’t suitable, and I don’t know where there's a swimming pool, and who could teach her?'

'It shouldn’t take long,’ Lesley observed. ‘She’s got the right build for a swimmer. There s that little lochan in a hollow in the hill that the twins use. They bullied Murdoch into clearing it of weed. It’s quite shallow and wouldn’t be too cold.’

Her eyes met Frances’ with apology in them, and Frances realised she was trying to make amends. Lesley Ferguson had reckless impulses and a passionate nature, but she was not wicked. She was ashamed of what her jealousy had led her into trying to do.

‘Yes, I remember the place,’ Gray nodded, ‘It might serve.’

‘And I can teach her,’ Ian said eagerly.

‘You will not.' The grey eyes flashed. ‘Neither will Lesley.’ He smiled at Frances. ‘I claim that privilege myself.'

They all looked astonished.

‘But. . . but will you have time?’ Lesley protested, not liking the proposal at all.

Frances, disconcerted, added quickly: T wouldn’t dream of putting you to so much trouble.’

‘You’d rather leave us?’

So it was an ultimatum. Looking down at her plate, she said quietly: ‘I’d hate to have to do that.’

‘I’m not going to risk having you near drowned again,' Gray told her firmly. 'I can spare half an hour each day after lunch. I believe you take a walk at that time and if there’s any sun the water will be warmer in the afternoon.’

Frances was surprised that he knew her daily routine; she had yet to learn that there was little that went on at Craig Dhu that he did not know.

‘I expect Les can lend you a swimsuit,’ he went on, glancing meaningly at the other girl.

‘I haven’t any fancy bikinis,’ Lesley told him with a touch of malice, ‘only plain regulation black.

'I'm sure that would do beautifully,’ Frances accepted gratefully. She did not want to display herself in the couple of bands most girls wore for swimming. Again she wondered who had stripped her of her clothes, and as if she read her thought, Lesley said:

‘You hadn’t much on when Gray revived you with the kiss of life.'

Mrs Ferguson looked astonished and Frances blushed.

‘The what, dear?’

‘Artificial respiration mouth-to-mouth,’ Lesley told her.

Oh, really? I thought it was done by pressing the ribs.’

‘It’s a more modern method and more effective,'

Gray informed her. He was watching Frances with a wicked gleam in his eyes—it amused him to embarrass her, she suspected. She glanced at his strong, handsome mouth, and looked hastily away.

‘You seemed to have had fun bringing me round,’ she said coldly.

‘It wasn’t funny at all, we were too anxious.'

She noticed he said ‘we'; so Lesley had repented of her violent action when faced with its consequence.

‘I’m sure I'm very, very grateful to you
both,'
she said earnestly. ‘I owe you my life.'

‘Thank you,’ Lesley murmured. ‘You’re generous, Fran.’

It was the first time she had called her other than Miss Desmond.

‘All in the day’s work,’ Gray declared cheerfully. ‘She isn’t the first I've pulled out of the loch, and I don’t suppose she’ll be the last, but if she falls in again she won't sink, when I’ve done my stuff. I’ll get Murdoch to look at that pool in the morning, put a bit of duckboard along the edge where it'll be muddy—and I'll expect you there, Fran, at two-
thirty sharp, even if it’s raining.'