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
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
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