Wildcat Tamed

WILDCAT TAMED Mary Wibberley

Gemma had always loved visiting her grandmother at Correy House. Now, with Gar Anders there, everything had changed. I can't stand him, Gemma thought. His words of the previous night returned to taunt her. "Someone should have taught you a lesson in good manners," he'd declared, then added quietly, "Perhaps it will be me." He had spoken in the heat of an argument, but Gemma was suddenly sure that he remembered everything , he'd said. And meant every word!

CHAPTER ONE 'WHAT the hell,' said Gemma, 'do you think you're doing?' She slammed shut the door of her red Capri and strode across the drive to where the man stood by the trees. He straightened up and looked at her, and for a brief moment she wondered if perhaps he wasn't going to answer. He just stared—so she stared back. He was big, and tough-looking, and he could have been a gypsy with that red neckerchief, and the blue check shirt, and tight blue jeans—she didn't care what he was. All she knew was that he looked as if he was about to chop down a tree, that she had never seen him before in her life, and that he was clearly trespassing on her greatgrandmother's land. It was enough. 'I just asked you what you're doing,' she said again. The man nodded. 'I heard you,' he answered, in a deep slow voice. 'What business is it of yours?' He said it without insolence, in a quite matter-of-fact tone, as if he was used to being challenged by tall angry girls, and as if he didn't really give , a damn. He also spoke in a foreign accent, tantalisingly unfamiliar. Gemma took a deep breath. 'It's plenty of my business,' she snapped, 'because for one thing you're trespassing, and for two, nobody chops down trees here—' 'I am trespassing?' he cut in, effectively silencing her, and for a brief second she seemed to see amusement in those very dark eyes. 'How do you know?' It wasn't going according to plan. Gemma wasn't used to men interrupting her—she usually reduced them to tongue-tied gibbering incoherence simply by looking at them, because she was devastatingly attractive, and knew it. She was also very tall and

long- legged—only this man was even taller, and that was a shade disconcerting. She wished she had her high, heels on—not that it would have made much difference, he was well over six feet. 'Because this land belongs to my great-grandmother, that's why,' she answered calmly. 'Ah!' It was a long-drawn-out 'ah', one that expressed dawning understanding—and some amusement. 'I see.' He half turned away from her and picked up a denim jacket he had flung over a tree stump. 'Then why,' he said, as he put on his jacket, 'don't you go and ask your great-grandmother what that strange man is doing chopping down her trees— maybe you'll find out whether I am a "trespasser" or not -' 'And leave you here to get on with it?' 'Okay.' He shrugged. 'I'll come in with you.' Which, she realised a moment later, he had obviously intended doing anyway by putting his coat on. He looked at the car. 'I'll walk,' he said. 'I wouldn't expect you to offer me a lift to the house.' And he turned away and strode purposefully up the drive. Gemma remained where she was, and watched him go. She felt strangely confused. For the first time in her adult life she had met a man who had acted quite unpredictably —and the effect was disconcerting. She frowned. What on earth was Grandma Logie thinking of, having someone like that working for her? It began to seem as though it was a good job she had come. When he had vanished from sight, she climbed in her car and started the engine. She didn't pass him at all, and when she reached the front door-of the house she stopped and looked around her. Perhaps he was an intruder after all, and had simply made good his escape— or perhaps she had imagined the whole thing. There was one way to find out.

The front door wasn't locked—it never was. Gemma went into the hall, and the old familiar scents enveloped her; she took a deep breath, forgetting the disturbing stranger for a moment. Tweed, and heather, and that indefinable tang that you only get in the Highlands—all there, always the same. She was home again. 'Gran? I'm here -' 'Gemma, I'm in the lounge—oh, come away in, my dear,' the voice answered, and Gemma went in and hugged the small plump woman sitting on a huge sofa by the fire. 'How lovely .to see you again—and what do you mean by giving us all a scare like that? Sending for me indeed! You look as fit as a fiddle.' Gemma stood back and looked at her great-grandmother with affection. 'Och, I'm getting older—it won't be long now -' 'Rubbish! Why don't you admit you just like company now and again? You know I love visiting you -' 'Well, all right,' Grandma Logie's eyes twinkled mischievously, 'if you prefer it. Come and sit down and tell me what you've been doing in that wicked city. Ill get Jessie to bring in tea in a wee while, but first, how are you? And how are those two feckless brothers of yours?' 'I'm fine, and so are Peter and Graham, but—er— there is a slight problem.' Gemma stopped. How did she mention what had happened tactfully, so as not to frighten her grandmother? 'Um— have you anyone new working here for you?' The old lady's eyes widened. 'Why, no, dear. What do you mean?'

The door opened, and a man's deep, now familiar voice said, quite slowly: 'I think she means me, Mrs Logie.' And Gemma turned, and looked at him standing in the doorway, and the brief hope, that perhaps he had been a figment of her imagination, crumbled and vanished in the reality of his presence. Grandma Logie looked up too, then she began to laugh. There now!' she said. 'You've met already! Isn't that nice?' It was anything but nice, thought Gemma, but for a moment she was speechless. 'Come and sit down, Gar,' her grandmother went on. Gar, thought Gemma—Gar? What sort of a name was that? He walked into the room, and he moved with a certain kind of grace, feline—but not in any way effeminately. He was, she thought, powerful—and intimidating, and she definitely didn't like him. She didn't like most men, come to that. With two charming, idle brothers who were virtually helpless without her; several inarticulate admirers, and a father who lived in Buenos Aires with his second wife, and from whom she heard only infrequently, Gemma had never met a man who could inspire her respect, let alone liking. She had fought her way in the world, had competed with men on equal terms—and won—in the only thing which mattered to her—art, and was now an artist for a large London publishing house. Her paintings were on many paperback books, the signature, G. Logie, completely sexless because for some reason men were considered better than women in that line, and it had been easier from the start to deal with the agencies as 'G. Logie's secretary. And when the deception had been discovered she was already established and it didn't matter. So now she sat back and looked at this man—this foreigner—who sat in a chair opposite them and looked back at her with a disinterest that verged on impudence. He nodded pleasantly. 'I think your granddaughter assumed I was an intruder,' he said, and he smiled at them both, and the darkly handsome gypsy features

were transformed. Gemma's lips tightened. The arrogance of the man! 'I think you would have done, under the circumstances,' she answered sweetly. 'It isn't every day you see a stranger about to chop down trees in your grandmother's garden.' Grandma Logie was sitting there quite composed, almost, thought Gemma fleetingly, as if she were enjoying the situation. And considering that she rarely stopped talking long enough for anyone else to speak, she was remarkably quiet. 'Correction—tree. Or rather, should I say—part of a tree.' And he smiled again, as if to say—'your turn now.' 'Then why didn't you say?' she demanded. 'You scarcely gave me the chance,' he answered smoothly; 'And I didn't know who you were, did I? After all, you were as much a stranger to me! He stood up. 'If you'll excuse me, Mrs Logie, I'll get back outside now, before it goes dark.' He was looking at the old lady, not at Gemma. It was as if he had already dismissed her. 'Yes, my dear, off you go. Ah—but wait. Let me introduce you properly after that unfortunate start. Gemma, this is Garret Anders, the grandson of a very old friend of mine. Gar, my greatgranddaughter, Gemma Logic.' There was a moment's electric silence, then he stepped forward, gave a slight, mocking bow, and offered Gemma his hand. She had no choice. Resisting the strong urge to slap it away, she took it, and found it in a grip of tempered steel. The brief, unavoidable contact over, he nodded. 'I will not be long,' he said, and went out as quietly as he had come in. Gemma looked at her grandmother, who began to chuckle. She took a deep breath, and Grandma Logie said: 'Ah, ah! No swearing.'

'He—he -' Gemma burst out, 'what on earth is he doing here?' 'I'll tell you when we've had a cup of tea,' the old lady calmly replied, 'because I think you might need it,' and she pressed the bell in the wall beside her. 'Now,' she went on, 'while we're waiting for Jessie, tell me all about what you've been doing. Are you busy? Have you brought any work for me to see?' 'In the car,' Gemma replied mechanically. 'I'll go and get -' 'Later. Later will do.' Her grandmother patted her knee. 'There's no flurry at all. I expect you to be here for a while.' Somehow those innocent words had an ominous ring to them and Gemma glanced sharply at the old lady—but she wasn't giving anything away. 'Dear me,' she said, 'it's getting quite dark. Go and draw the curtains and we'll have a few lights on. I do hope Gar manages to finish that tonight. I hope he breaks a leg, thought Gemma uncharitably as she went over to the windows and looked out over the dusk-filled garden. She saw her reflection in the glass, tall, slender, long-legged, her hair fashionably short, her face a ghostly blur in the panes, and she thought: My God, he's living here—and she felt again that disturbed sensation she had had before. And what on earth was her grandmother going to tell her that required a cup of tea first? She turned to face the old lady, opened her mouth to ask—but Jessie came from the hall with a great rattle of tea trolley, and the moment passed. Gemma hugged the elderly housekeeper, who was clearly delighted to see her, and they chatted for a few moments, then Jessie went out, closing the door behind her, and silence fell in the room, broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. 'You can pour, my dear,' Grandma Logie said in the manner of one conferring a great honour, and the little ritual was carried out with

due ceremony, and Gemma wondered if she was to be allowed to burst with curiosity before having any questions answered. 'There, that's better. I always say you can't beat a good cup of tea, and Jessie knows exactly how I like it. Do have one of her little scones, Gemma, they won't spoil your dinner, and I'm sure she'll be offended if none are missing—Yes, I'll have one as well, just a teeny one—yes, that one. Mmm, perfect -' 'Grandma,' said Gemma, 'what are you going to tell me about that man? Who is he?' 'But I've told you, dear,' Grandma Logie's eyes widened in surprise. 'He's the grandson of a very dear friend -' 'Yes, you said. But there's more than that. You've got that look in your eyes that I know of old. What's he doing here?' 'He's staying for a little while.' 'I gathered that,' responded Gemma dryly. 'You gave me the impression in your letter that you were feeling low, and lonely—and I arrive to find you not only bursting with your usual rude health, but with a guest who, I might add, looks very much at home -' 'Ah yes, my dear, but if I'd told you I'd got a male visitor here, I'll bet you wouldn't have come.' 'Considering you know only too well my opinion of the majority of the male gender, you're darn right, Grandma love—but good grief, he's arrogant!' she finished in a grand confused burst. Grandma Logie's grey eyebrows nearly vanished into her hair. 'My dear Gemma! Arrogant? I assure you he's the most charming, considerate house guest anyone could have—are you all right, dear?' This last anxiously at Gemma's muffled snort.

'No, I'm not. I'm not staying here with him. Can't you get rid of him?' 'You surprise me. He's come all the way from Hungary—' 'Good grief, is he Hungarian?' It was getting worse by the minute. 'Well, yes, sort of—but he's been living in France for several years -' It wasn't Gemma's imagination. Could her grandmother actually be faintly embarrassed? A little warning bell rang in the back of Gemma's mind, and she paused, then said more mildly: 'How did he get in touch with you?' She even managed to inject a note of casual interest into her voice. Something wasn't quite right here, and Gemma intended to find out what it was, but now was not the moment. 'Well, as a matter of fact we've been in touch for quite some time, letters and Christmas cards etcetera, and I—er -' Grandma's voice tailed off vaguely, and she frowned. 'Where was I, dear?' It didn't fool Gemma for a moment. She knew this ploy of old. 'You were just telling me,' she said firmly, 'that you've written to him for a while—so what then? Did you decide to invite him here?' 'Well, yes, I suppose I did. And then you see, there was also the other thing.' 'What other thing?' Gemma demanded wide-eyed. 'The fact that he's an antique dealer—and a very good one. In face he's an expert -'

'How do you know?' Gemma interrupted. She'd known something was wrong and her heart gave a sickening bump. It could be even worse than she had imagined. 'Because I do, that's all. You'll have to take my word for it,' Grandma Logie said with surprising firmness. 'And you know what I've been thinking of for years -' 'Oh, please, no, not that again. You've got plenty more, years ahead of you to enjoy your house and all that's in it—you mustn't think of selling—' 'But I am. And this time my mind's made up, Gemma. This place, much as I love it, is too big for me, far too big. There's the little house in the grounds that would be just perfect for me, with room for Jessie and her husband, and a spare room for my guests, of course,' she smiled and patted Gemma's hand, 'so Gar is here, and he's going to evaluate everything for me, and he's also splendidly clever at making things, so he's going to do up the small house—and so of course that's why you're here, and I do hope you can stay for as long as possible, arid do your painting and stuff up here, and let those two idle brothers of yours look after themselves for a while. It will do them good -' 'Grandma!' Gemma said warningly. 'What do you mean—that's why I'm here?' The innocent, faded blue eyes looked at her with mild astonishment. 'Oh! Didn't I say? You're so clever with your hands as well, and you know a lot about antiques of course because you worked at Sotheby's for a while, didn't you? So I want you to not dislike him so much, for my sake, my dear, because you see, I'd like you to work together—for me.' She gave a sweet little smile here, a smile of utmost charm and fragility, the sort of smile that knows, just knows, that everything will be all right.

Gemma jumped to her feet. 'Oh no! You can't—' But Grandma Logie could interrupt when she chose, and she did. 'Because of course I can't leave him on his own here, can I? And who else could I turn to except you?' Gemma sat down again. 'On his own,' she said dully, feeling a cold trickle down her spine. 'What do you mean?' 'Oh dear, there I go again, forgetting half the important things! Helen is quite poorly—dear Helen Mackay, the one who lives near Stirling, and I said I'd go and visit her for a few days, and cheer her up, and Jessie and her husband haven't had a holiday for ages, so they're taking me down, and—' 'But you can't leave me alone with him,' Gemma burst out in horror. 'Good heavens, apart from anything else, it wouldn't be proper!' 'But he's a perfect gentleman, I promise you, and Mrs Monroe from the village will come and clean— it'll only be for a few days—and you see, this is the only time he's got, so I could hardly send him away, he's a very busy man -' It was all too confusing for Gemma. She put her hand to her head which, not surprisingly, had begun to ache. 'I don't think -' she began. 'Sleep on it,' her grandmother soothed. 'You're so sensible and levelheaded. I've always relied on you, as you know, my dear.' She turned round at the sharp tap on the door, it opened and in walked Garret Anders, and she went on almost without pause, 'Come in, Gar, I was just telling Gemma about the arrangements and not unnaturally she feels a little perturbed.' She gave him a warm smile. 'Do come and sit down. Did you lop those branches off?''

'Yes. Everything is fine now.' If Gemma had been a cat her fur would have bristled at his presence. As it was she felt a tingle at the back of her neck. A warning tingle. He looked coolly at her as he sat down, and crossed his long legs. 'But I can manage perfectly well without help,' he said, and his eyes travelled slowly, indolently up Gemma, from feet to head. 'In fact, I work better alone -' 'But I wouldn't dream of leaving you to fend for yourself in a strange country!' Grandma Logie said with faint horror. 'Whatever would you think of our hospitality? No, it's too kind of you -' 'But I think Miss Logie has her doubts, no?' his mouth quirked faintly. 'After all, I am a stranger to her—' but his look spoke more than his words did. It said—I don't want you either. I don't like you. 'It's Gemma, not Miss Logie,' Grandma Logie said firmly. 'Forgive me, Gemma.' The deep brown eyes challenged her to speak. She thought wildly, he's enjoying this. He knows—and he doesn't give a damn either way—and he's just waiting for me to make a fool of myself. I think he frightens me a little, because I've never met a man so self-contained, so completely in control—and she took a deep breath. She had never been bettered by a man yet. 'Heavens,' she said. 'You may be a stranger, but I've worked with strangers before—as long as you know what you're doing. Do you?' 'I always know what I am doing,' he answered, smoothly. 'Or I would not be here.' 'You're very confident as well,' and she managed to smile as she said it.

'Yes, I am.' Never once had he taken his eyes from her. The conversation went deeper than mere words. He sat easily, relaxed seemingly, but she knew better. He was like a coiled spring. Like an animal waiting to pounce on its prey. How could Grandma Logie actually like him? 'If I were not, I would be no good in my job, would I?' 'I don't know how good you are, do I?' she answered silkily. 'No. But you will see.' It was a delicate fencing match, blades poised, each word a thrust between them. 'And you are a first-rate artist—or so Mrs Logie has assured me. Are you not confident in your work?' A smile accompanied the words, for the benefit of her grandmother, who once again sat quietly without speaking, just listening. 'Of course -' she realised the trap too late. 'Yes? It is no good being otherwise. And perhaps I may be privileged to see some of your paintings?' One eyebrow lifted in amusement. Damn you! she thought. 'I don't think -' she began, to be interrupted by her grandmother, helpfully. 'Of course. You have some work in your car, haven't you. Will you fetch them in?' 'They're in my luggage,' said Gemma weakly. Gar rose to his feet. 'Forgive me, I should have offered before. May I bring your cases in for you?' 'I can manage them myself,' she answered, controlling with difficulty the urge to snap at him.

'It is no trouble. Let me help you.' Gemma looked at her great-grandmother, who nodded happily. 'Off you go, dear. Then you can wash and change for dinner.' Gar opened the door and Gemma walked past him and into the hall. She ran. down the front steps, not waiting for him. Not caring. And like a dark shadow he was beside her at the car. She opened the boot, then glared at him. 'They're rather heavy,' she said, as though concerned that he might not be able to lift them. 'Be careful.' The brown eyes regarded her briefly, levelly. 'You mean I might drop them?' but he was already reaching in, lifting out the first, the biggest suitcase, and it seemed no effort at all. 'It is kind of you to be concerned.' He lifted out the second one, then her small makeup case, which he handed to her. 'Is this all?' he asked. 'Yes.' 'Do you know your room?' 'Yes. I'll lead the way,' Gemma locked the boot and he picked up the cases. She looked at him with a slight twinge of annoyance at the bland confidence he exuded. Peter had carried her cases down to the car from their flat—one at a time—puffing and panting and accusing her of putting lead weights in them, but this one held them as if they carried nothing more than air. She turned away and walked up the steps. If there's one thing I particularly detest, she told herself, it's these show-offs who love demonstrating how strong they are, and she walked more slowly than she might have, which she knew was childish, but she was beginning to dislike him even more—if that was possible.

'This way.' She turned right at the top of the stairs, down the short passage and opened the door to the blue bedroom, faintly heard him say something, and stopped in dismay. The room was clearly occupied. A pile of books rested on the bedside cupboard, and a man's dressing gown lay across the bed. 'I am sorry—I have taken your room?' Was he trying not to laugh? She whirled on him standing outside the door. He had put the cases down and she would have sworn a quick smile had been wiped off his face as she turned. 'Carry on,' she snapped. 'Laugh! You've been dying to do that ever since we met, haven't you?' She made to walk past him, but there wasn't much space with the suitcases—and he didn't move. 'I tried to tell you,' he said, 'when you came along here, but -' 'Will you let me pass?' she gritted. 'Because if you don't I shall possibly hit you! I've just about -' 'You would not dare,' he said softly, but his words cut into hers like ice. 'Don't tempt me,' she breathed. If you say please, I will let you pass. That is all. Just one word, but good manners, yes?' 'Oh, go to—' That was when he laughed. It was the last straw for Gemma. She swung up her arm—and it was caught in mid-flail, and held so firmly that she couldn't twist it free. His teeth gleamed whitely in the shadows outside the doorway—and then he moved so fast that she didn't stand a chance. He simply put his other hand behind her head, pulled her towards him, and kissed her hard.

'Now you have something to hit me about,' he mocked. 'You utter beast—oh! You -' She wrenched herself free and launched herself at him—but he had somehow moved. A case was in the way, and she would have gone sprawling over it had he not lifted her and balanced her—holding her by the arms so that it would have been impossible to strike him anyway. He was a mere breath away from her, his face and body so close that she could feel the warmth from him, and he murmured softly: 'You must not throw yourself at me like this—it is not dignified.' 'Oh!' Pulling herself free, Gemma faced him, balance restored, glared at him. Lost for words, too furious to speak anyway—and now he wasn't laughing. He was simply looking at her. And that was more unnerving than anything. She moved away, resisting the impulse to flee, left him standing there waiting with he£ cases, and went down to see her grandmother. She found that she was shaking. In fact, for a moment before going into the lounge, she had to stand still outside the door and take a few deep breaths. Then she went in to sort out the bedroom mix-up.

CHAPTER TWO IT was quite logical. Grandma Logie had given her the pink room, which had a strong north light, ideal for painting by. There was no sinister reason for Gar to be in her usual room, except that. And when some time later Gemma sat on the bed of the pink room and looked around her, she told herself that she liked this one better anyway. The clear light streamed in in the mornings, and she would be able to sit there and work in complete privacy... Then the sudden thought came to her—what am I doing here anyway? And why on earth have I agreed to stay with that awful gypsy-like creature while Grandma goes swanning off to Stirling? I think I must be mad. This last thought gave her no satisfaction at all. It had all happened so quickly— arriving, talking to Grandma over elegant china teacups—then wham! She was right in the middle of it. And she still wasn't sure why. Except that there was no backing out, for he would be delighted. Gemma remembered the kiss, and shivered. He was an absolute swine. And he had been laughing, which added insult to injury— laughing! No one had ever laughed at her before. One poetical admirer—she couldn't even remember his name now—had even been moved to put pen to paper and compare her to; a moon goddess, cool and remote—and beautiful. She still had the poem somewhere, not, of course, for sentimental reasons, she told herself, simply that it had got lodged in the back of a drawer and was too much effort to throw it away. She went to the long mirror by the window and looked critically at herself. In dark blue trouser suit and white blouse she looked crisply efficient—which was just how she wanted to look. She had absolutely no time for the pathetic women who primped and preened themselves endlessly in an effort to attract the male. Any male. She simply didn't care.

She had brought several trouser suits and pairs of trousers with matching sweaters with her, and as a concession to Grandma Logie, who in some things was quite old-fashioned, she had brought three evening skirts and blouses. She surveyed them thoughtfully now. One straight black—that went with anything, of course—and two flowered cotton ones. She frowned. She would wear the black, and with it her plainest white blouse. No make-up—well, perhaps just a smudge of lip-gloss. There was no way in which Mr Clever Anders was going to think she was dressing to impress him. Satisfied, Gemma went to wash. She was just combing her glossy dark hair when the dinner gong sounded. With a last quick look in the mirror, a final smoothing down of the black skirt, she went out and down the stairs. Grandma liked punctuality at meals. She hoped he would be late, although he probably wouldn't bother to change. He looked as though he lived in denim. She sailed into the dining room, saw her grandmother first, sipping a sherry—then turned and saw him. For a moment she faltered, recovered, and went and sat beside her grandmother at the long table. Gar looked at her from the sideboard and said: 'May I get you something?' 'A sherry, please.' She looked at the old lady sitting there and smiled. Because she didn't want to look at him. She didn't want to, but the image was burned on her mind. He had changed—oh, how he had changed! He wore a charcoal grey suit, white shirt, grey tie. And she hadn't realised how tanned he actually was. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and he stood there looking quite at home as he poured sherry out, and came over to Gemma and handed it to her. 'Thank you.' She could hardly not look at him then. The mockery was only in his eyes, but she knew it was there, and that was enough.

'You look quite charming, my dear,' said Grandma Logie, who had observed the little scene in silence. 'Quite charming. Doesn't she, Gar?' 'Indeed, yes,' he said, and smiled. Then he turned away and went back to the antique sideboard that held the drinks, and began to pour something for himself. His tone was polite. He had agreed with his hostess, he had not been rude—and yet Gemma knew, as clearly as if he had said the words, that as far as he was concerned, she could have been dressed in a flour sack. The undercurrents were there, a fine thread of tension and mutual dislike vibrating between them even as he sat down at the table across from Gemma and looked at her again. 'May I see some of your art work after dinner?' he said. She wondered what would happen if she said an abrupt no. It wouldn't surprise him, but it would shock her grandmother. 'If you really want to,' she said. 'Of course,' he nodded blandly. 'It will be most interesting. I enjoy painting, myself.' 'Really? How—interesting,' she said faintly. 'Yes. And drawing too. Charcoal sketches mainly,' he shrugged. 'It is only a hobby, you understand.' 'Oh, but you're clever,' Grandma Logie protested. Yes, he would be, thought Gemma sourly. She wondered when dinner would be served. If it wasn't soon she could lose her appetite altogether. 'I wouldn't say that, Mrs Logie,' he answered with a fine attempt at modesty.

'Oh, but you are! You must show Gemma the drawing you did of me .' 'I'd love to see it,' said Gemma, mustering some enthusiasm. It was a well-known fact that Grandma Logie was short-sighted, and wouldn't admit to it. He could tell her how good he was, and she'd believe it. 'Then you shall. Ah, allow me,' this to Jessie who came in with a tray of soup plates. He rose to take the tray from her, and dinner, not a moment too soon, commenced.

Gemma considered briefly the possibilities of sending a telegram to herself recalling her urgently to London on business, and then reluctantly dismissed the idea. She lay on her back on top of her bed and stared at the ceiling and thought: I can't stand him for much longer. He was, to put it in one word, impossible. There were other words to describe him. She mentally went over a few. Conceited, arrogant, mocking, and—sarcastic. But so cleverly that he could appear to be paying her a compliment—at least to Grandma Logie. Gemma knew better. So finely honed were some of his words that they had a delayed effect. Then she would catch her breath—and see him smile. He had brought out some of his sketches after dinner. And Gemma had waited, quietly confident— and had seen the first when he brought it in, the one of her grandmother, and for a moment her mind had gone blank—because it was superb. In a few lines he had captured the essence of the old woman, the personality, the eyes with that faint twinkle that showed her enjoyment of life, the gentle composure—all there in deft strokes of charcoal. And he too had waited, knowing.

'It's very good,' she said, because there was absolutely nothing else she could possibly say. 'Thank you. And this is one of Jessie. She was a little reluctant, but I persuaded her.' I'll bet you did, she thought. She had seen the way Jessie looked at him—the way any mother would gaze at her favourite son. Why was it only Gemma herself who could see what he was really like? She took the proffered sheet of paper and Jessie's face smiled out at her, and that was even better, though it hardly seemed possible. 'Mmm, yes,' she said, after swallowing hard. 'They're both— excellent.' 'And now yours?' he said gently, questioningly. 'Er—well, they need sorting out,' she answered. 'Perhaps tomorrow?' Because she was going to pick out only the best, and it had to be done with care ... 'But of course.' Now, because she was supposed to be tired after her journey, she had escaped to her room, leaving them talking. It was only ninethirty, and Gemma didn't feel sleepy. She felt wide awake, she felt restless—and she felt totally confused. She didn't want to stay here, not with him, and yet she didn't trust him an inch. Grandma and Jessie clearly did, enough to go off for a couple of days. If Gemma were not there, they could return to find the house empty of all the beautiful antiques—and him gone. Gemma had no illusions about that. She remembered the slight hesitation in her grandmother's description of him as a grandson of an old friend—something wasn't quite right there, but she hadn't a clue what it was. Suppose he was a con-man—and had suggested that it might be better if people thought they'd known one another for years? It had happened before,

and Gemma had few illusions about people—especially men. One thing, she was going to find out by subtle questioning of her grandmother. And the sooner the better. That decided, she felt a shade better. Once having made up her mind to do something, Gemma always did it. And that was number one priority. She went to the table by the window, where she kept her folder of art work, and opened it. Now to look out her best. But even as she sorted through them, the remembrance of those two sketches came back to her. They had been stunningly good—her own artist's eye would not let her admit otherwise. They were no fluke either. The delicacy and perception of the seemingly casual lines spoke of a powerful talent. She looked down at her own top painting and touched it. She knew she was good; she also knew she could never hope to have drawn like that. She closed the folder with a snap, and looked out of the window at the blackness outside. In the morning she would set up her easel and paint. She had the rough sketches from which to work—and she was going to put everything she had into this one. It was going to be good. It was going to be the best. It was simply no use. She would never sleep, not with her mind in this turmoil. A walk was the only answer, and even in the pitch darkness the gardens held no terrors for Gemma. She knew every inch. It would be easy enough to slip out unseen just for half an hour, and then to bed. She put on her dark jacket, slipped on her flat walking shoes, and feeling a bit like a criminal, crept quietly out of her bedroom, closing the door after her. There was silence, and then the faint sound of voices from the lounge. Good, they were still talking. And Jessie and her husband, who both rose at six, would already be fast asleep at the back of the house. Quietly Gemma went down the stairs, across the hall, and out of the front door.

The icy cold air, sparkling with frost, made her shiver, and she pulled her coat more tightly around her and stuck her hands in the pockets. Like a shadow, she flitted round the side of the house, away from that lighted window, into the darkness, which swallowed her instantly. And here, now, she could relax slightly. Completely alone, as she often preferred to be, she could think more clearly. The huge banks of rhododendrons on either side of her were in no way frightening. She knew exactly where she was, and although she had not yet considered it consciously, she knew precisely where she was going. Time to turn right, down a narrower path, thickly overgrown, with twigs tugging at her coat, and leaves brushing her hair. It would all have to be ruthlessly trimmed, of course, and a clearing made in just a few yards, so that her grandmother would have a small garden for her favourite flowers when she moved... She was there. The small house loomed up in front of her, the last few dead branches crackled underfoot, and Gemma went to the old creaking front door and pushed it slowly open. She stood for a moment inside the tiny hall, and the cold dusty air moved round her and she walked on, into the room on her left, knowing that there would be an oil lamp there—for she and her brothers had played there as children, and had many a midnight feast in that room—and no one ever came now. No one had been there for years. The lamp stood on the table. She felt her way, and her hand knocked a box by it. Matches! She picked it up, she opened it, lit one. It flared brightly and she frowned, puzzled. Surely they would be damp after all these years? She had brought her own lighter in her pocket, but it wasn't needed. She lifted the shade and lit the wick, and the lamplight flooded the room with a warm yellow that was so familiar that it brought a pang of nostalgia to her. She looked at the matchbox, and it was new. Then she studied the lamp, and it was

newly primed and trimmed, and had been recently cleaned. She knew who had done it. Was there no area as yet untouched by him? She lifted the light, and the shadows danced and moved away as she looked at the walls and fireplace. There was much to be done—but the place bad character, and a charm all of its own, and she began to see the possibilities as she stood there looking. There were three bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, another sitting room the other side of the hall, and a kitchen at the back of the house. She went towards it, carrying the lamp to light her way. Would that be as she remembered, with the large porcelain sink, ancient Calor gas cooker, huge cupboards? So many memories rushing back, so much happiness from years long since passed—and she went in, and looked around her in disbelief. The sink had gone, the cupboards had been ripped out. Only the cooker remained. The room looked so different. He didn't waste time! Then she heard a sound, and felt her scalp prickle. It the sound of very quiet footsteps in the hall. She turned, not frightened, because very little did scare her, and shaded the lamp with her hand so that it shone outwards and not on her—and she saw Gar Anders coming quietly towards her. 'You!' she said. 'I should have known it would be you.' 'It might not have been. Were you not frightened?' 'Why should I be? We don't get intruders round here -' She just stopped herself from adding 'only people like you.' But it was as though she had said it anyway. 'No? I thought you were one,' he said quietly. 'Did you? And you came in anyway? Brave of you.' She didn't try to hide the sarcasm.

And he laughed. 'Not brave—curious. Curious to see who would want to look round an empty old house.' 'And now you know, don't you? So you can go back.' He shrugged. 'I will go when you do. It is not nice for a woman to be out alone on so dark a night -' 'Sometimes it's safer to be alone,' she retorted. 'Sometimes.' She saw the crooked smile she had begun to hate— 'and sometimes people ask for what they get.' 'I didn't ask you to -' she began. 'I don't have anyone ordering me about,' he cut in. The kiss had not been mentioned. It didn't need to be. In a strange way it was as if they could converse indirectly. Perhaps, thought Gemma, with an odd sensation touching her spine, the bond of hate is as strong as the bond of love—for it is almost as if we can read each other's minds. A disturbing idea. 'And I don't have anyone laughing at me -' 'Because no one has dared before, I think -' 'I'm not standing here listening to your insults,' she breathed angrily. 'Will you please go away and leave me alone?' 'No. I will accompany you back to the—' 'You damned well won't!' She went towards him, and the light flickered across both their faces, and she saw the shadows moving on his, the hard darkness of his eyes—and he was blocking the way again. 'Please let me pass,' she said, remembering the last time.

'Of course.' He stood aside and she walked down the the hall, into the front room and returned the lamp to its place on the table. 'I suppose it is you who fixed the lamp?' 'Yes, it is! 'And you've already been at work in the kitchen?' 'Yes.' 'You don't waste time, do you?' she said bitterly. 'No. I do not have it to waste—do you?' She stared hard at him standing in the doorway. 'How long have you known my grandmother?' 'Almost all my life. Why do you ask?' 'Because I don't believe you.' She saw a muscle move in his jaw, saw his eyes narrow. 'Nor do I like being called a liar.' 'I haven't called you one—yet.' 'You don't believe me. It is the same thing.' 'Is it? Then why has she never mentioned you before? I've known her ail my life—yet I've never heard your name before -' 'And you blame me for that? If she chose not to tell you, then that, I think, is her business -' 'Why should she do that? We've always been very close -'

'Apparently not,' he cut in. 'What do you mean?' Gemma felt breathless. He didn't frighten her physically—and yet some of his words could send a frisson of fear up her spine. He shrugged carelessly. 'Because clearly she has not told you everything—and why should she? You do not run her life for her— however much you might like to. You live in London, and how often do you see her? Once a year—twice -' 'That's none of your business,' she burst out. 'You are making it so -' and now his tone was as hard as his face. And he had changed—subtly but darkly changed. Hard—ruthless, almost, he stood there facing her in the cold room with the flickering yellow light, and it was there in every inch of him, an implacability that now, suddenly frightened her. 'I see her as often as I can,' and Gemma's voice was quieter, because something that was happening was beyond her understanding. 'Three or four times a year, even if some are only short visits -' 'I see. That is good. It is not nice to neglect elderly relatives -' 'But I don't. She loves this place. I know she's getting old, but she is as active as many a woman much younger.' Gemma stopped, because she didn't know why she was speaking as she did, as if she had to make him understand. Almost as if he had put her on the defensive. 'Yes, I can see that. And she can have a life of her own—and does. That is why you have not heard of me before. But now I am here, and there is nothing you can do about it -' That jerked her back to reality. 'I don't like the way you say that.'

'No? You say a lot of things that I do not like—but when you are insulting I am expected not to defend myself. Perhaps that is the way an English gentleman behaves, but I am not an English gentleman -' 'You're not any sort of gentleman!' 'You are being insulting again,' he cut in. 'I think that someone should have taught you a lesson in manners before now -' 'I know enough, thank you -' 'But perhaps it will be me,' he went on, as if she had not spoken. 'You!' she forced a laugh. 'That's the funniest thing I've heard today!' 'I promise you won't laugh when I do,' he cut in again. 'And how will you go about it?' she challenged. 'You will see.' And he smiled slowly. 'You will see.' 'You don't scare me.' 'I don't intend to. Lessons are not learned with fear. Rather they are learned with patience. Patience is what anybody would need with you. And strength. I possess them both.' 'You are arrogant,' she snapped. 'Has anyone told you that?' His teeth gleamed whitely in the dusky light. 'Some women, perhaps.' 'I'll bet they did! Well, I'm not one of your women—nor ever will be. Men are useless creatures— you're no different from all the rest

I've met——' but even as she said it, she knew it wasn't true. She had never encountered any man like him before in her life. 'Is that why you try to act superior to us? Dress in trousers—wear your hair short?' His hand flicked up and touched it, and she knocked it away, and he laughed. 'Such a waste!' 'How dare you! I don't at all!' Gemma blazed back. 'I dress to please myself—as I'm sure you do. Do you know what you reminded me of when I saw you this afternoon? I thought you were a gypsy—a tinker.' That seemed to amuse him more. 'Ah, so that is why you challenged me! You thought I was stealing your grandmother's trees. And you strode over, ready to do battle—and I wondered for a moment who this tall Amazon was, and then I guessed.' He nodded. .'You will learn—you will learn.' 'Not from you,' she breathed. 'No? We will see. Now, are you ready to return to the house?' 'No. I'll go when I'm ready.' 'Then I had better tell you. A wildcat has been seen around here. Would you wish to encounter one of those at night?' Gemma felt a sense of surprise. 'Are you telling me the truth?' she demanded. 'Yes. There may be more than one. They have been killing hens around the village—your grandmother will tell you. The tracks were not those of a fox, they were definitely a wildcat—so she told me. I have heard about them—and I can tell you I would not want to be alone in the dark with one of those around.'

'They don't attack people unless they're frightened,' she answered. 'Perhaps not. You may know more than me—and who is to say whether one is frightened or not when you meet it? So—are you returning with me or not?' 'I suppose so. I only came to see this house.' 'And you have seen it. Are you satisfied?' 'Why have you come here?' Gemma demanded. He didn't show surprise at the abrupt change of subject. 'Because Mrs Logie asked me to.' 'You can't just leave work because an old lady asks you,' she answered. 'You did,' he pointed out. 'I'm a relative—you're not.' 'I needed a holiday—a change if you like. And I am interested in antiques.' 'So it's not really a holiday,' she said slowly, and looked around the room. 'Especially not if you're doing this house up as well.' 'You never give in, do you?' he inquired softly— and there were those undercurrents again. 'I don't think I ever will—with you,' she answered, equally quickly. She heard his indrawn breath, and it must have been her imagination, but the room seemed to darken, become more shadowed, and the tension was like a thread of steel, stretching tautly between them. It came to her then, for the first time, that she

was completely alone with him, in a dark, quiet house, away from anywhere—and nobody—save he—knew where she was. In a sudden, unreasoning panic she moved towards him and said: 'Let me get out of here -' He caught her arm and held it. 'You are frightened -' 'No! Don't—don't touch me -' her breath caught in her throat, she seemed to hear her heartbeats filling the room—'let me go!' 'You must not be frightened. Do you think I would harm you?' She put her other hand up and jerked at his fingers resting on her arm. 'You're an animal!' she breathed. 'No, I am a man.' 'Please—take your hand off my arm.' He did so, and stood away from her, and Gemma heard him breathing as if he had been running, and she knew that whatever was between them, whatever bond of utter dislike, was one he was aware of as she, and from it there was no escape. It existed—it had from that very first second of their first encounter, and would go on doing so as long as he was there. 'I'm going back,' she said, 'to my grandmother's house.' 'Then we will take the lamp to lead the way.' If you wish.' She felt drained of strength. She watched his movements as he went over to the table and picked the oil lamp up. Suddenly she felt very cold and tired. At least now she would sleep.

The eerie shadows danced about them, and they went out of the house, and he closed the door and said: 'I will go first.' 'But I know the -' 'I will go first,' he repeated. 'Come!' He moved past, her, lifting the lamp higher so that it lit the way ahead and Gemma followed. The journey to the house was made in silence, and when they reached it the lounge was in darkness. Her grandmother had gone to bed. In the hall Garret Anders blew the lamp out, and put it on the table carefully. Then he turned to Gemma. 'Are you going to bed?' he asked. 'Yes.' She walked past him and started up the stairs. 'Goodnight, Gemma.' She paused for a moment on the third stair. 'Goodnight.' Then she ran up the rest, and into her room. She didn't once look back.

The next day was Sunday, and Grandma Logie was always driven to the village church by James, Jessie's husband, at ten o'clock sharp. Gemma had simply forgotten. She had set up her easel before breakfast, intending to paint, but on being reminded by Jessie, she went up to her grandmother's room and knocked. 'Come in.' Grandma Logie sat up in bed, tray on her lap, enjoying her breakfast in bed, her one concession to age. 'Good morning, my dear, did you sleep well?' 'Yes, thank you,' Gemma answered, not completely truthfully. How could you tell an old woman that strange disturbing dreams had kept

you awake most of the night? You couldn't, and didn't. 'I came to see if you'd like me to go to church with you this morning.' 'That would be very nice,' said Grandma Logie. 'As long as you're sure -' 'Of course I'm sure. I can paint afterwards.' 'Good. Come and sit down on the bed. Is Gar down at breakfast yet?' 'I've not seen him.' 'He wants to get some more work done on the little house today. I've told him it will be all right as long as he works quietly—you know what it's like here, on Sundays.' Gemma laughed. 'I do. He's already started, hasn't he?' 'Yes. How did you know?' 'Oh, I went for a little walk last night before turning in, and saw the kitchen. Then he arrived, so we walked back together. He told me there's a wildcat been seen.' 'I'm so glad you're getting on better! Yes, I should have told you, but of course I didn't dream you'd go out alone last night -' So he was telling the truth in one respect at least, thought Gemma. It didn't give her much satisfaction. 'Well, I'll certainly be more careful now,' she answered lightly. 'Although I've always wanted to see one close to, and I like all animals.' 'Aye, but they can be fierce if they've young ones, and Constable McEarchie thinks there's a colony of them somewhere. Fortunately we've no hens, or they'd be round here. Still, my dear, don't go but

alone after dark,' she patted Gemma's hand. 'You'd be safe enough with Gar, of course. He's so capable, isn't he?' It wasn't a word she had thought of to describe him, but Gemma gave a non-committal murmur in reply, and her grandmother went on: 'Have you had breakfast yet?' 'No. When Jessie reminded me about church I came up straightaway. I'd better go down—I'm starving.' 'Off you go, then, dear.' Gemma stood up. 'I'll be ready at ten.' She walked into the dining room to see Gar eating bacon and eggs, and she realised suddenly that this was the first time she had seen him properly in daylight. 'Don't get up,' she said, as he made to rise. 'Good morning, Gemma.' 'Good morning.' She sat down and uncovered her waiting plate, and began to eat. 'Coffee?' he asked. It was all so coolly civilised, so polite. If a stranger had entered at that moment, thought Gemma, he would have sensed nothing wrong. 'Yes, please. White.' Then—she couldn't help it— she watched him as he poured it out. She saw, in a few brief seconds, much that she had not noticed the previous day. She had seen the strength of his features, thick level brows and incredibly dark, thick-lashed eyes, a strong straight nose, wide mouth—she had seen all that. But she had not seen that his high cheekbones gave him even more of a reckless gypsy look— she had not seen the squareness of his chin, nor the slight cleft in it. She had not seen that his jet black hair curled over his collar. She breathed slowly, took the cup and saucer from him.

Thank you.' No one described a man as beautiful, for that would imply effeminacy—but there was a certain beauty to his features, and he was all strength, all man. She looked up from her plate to see his eyes upon her. 'You have not shown me any of your paintings yet,' he said. 'No. Do you really want to see them?' 'I would not ask otherwise.' He smiled gently, and the wide mouth curved. It was as if he always had a secret joke no one could share— and Gemma took a deep breath. It made her feel insecure—and she wasn't used to that. Then I'll look out a few later. I'm going out with my grandmother soon to church.' 'Later will do. I shall be working at the small house until lunch time.' 'Don't forget to take the lamp back.' 'I have already done so. I was up early, and went for a walk.' Yes, you would be, she thought. He was dressed in a dark blue rollnecked sweater, presumably ready for work. She supposed most women would find him handsome, the kind who went for darkly attractive features and broad shoulders, but she didn't. She had suddenly lost her appetite—and pushing her plate away, she picked up her coffee cup and drank. Then she stood up. 'I'll see you at lunch, then.' 'Yes.' She turned and opened the door and walked out. She felt as if his eyes were upon her, but she didn't look back to check. Outside the dining room she put her hand to her mouth. Oh God, she thought, I can't stand him, and she ran up the stairs as if pursued.

Safely in her room she sat in the chair by the window table and looked out. It was' a misty cold morning with a faint watery sun barely visible. She looked round at the room. How she had always loved this house, and how she had always enjoyed her visits.. All her visits, until now. And now it had all changed, in - so many ways, for soon the house would be sold, stripped of all its beautiful possessions, and nothing would be the same—and now he was here, and that fact too spoiled everything. Gemma closed her eyes and saw his face, mocking, laughing, and the memory of something he had said the previous night came back to taunt her. 'Someone should have taught you a lesson in manners,' he had said, and then had added softly: 'But perhaps it will be me.' The words even now, in retrospect, sent a chill up her spine. The sheer arrogance of the man! 'Oh no, you won't,' she said, speaking quietly. 'I don't need anything from you.' They had just been words, spoken in the heat of an argument, that was all. He had probably forgotten them by now. But as she went to get her coat, Gemma had the oddest sensation, almost a kind of knowledge—that he remembered everything he had said. And meant it all.

CHAPTER THREE 'OH dear,' said Grandma Logie. 'Gar will never hear the lunch gong—and in any case he'll need a wash. Would you be an absolute dear -' 'And go and shout him?' Gemma finished for her. 'Yes. You don't mind, do you?' 'You know I'd do anything for you,' Gemma smiled. She felt, much better after going to church and being drawn into the life of the village again, almost as if she had never been away. And in any case she could think more clearly away from him and realised how foolish she was to let him get her down. 'I'll go in a minute when I've drunk my tea.' She picked up her cup, and added casually: 'Did he say who was looking after his business while he was away?' 'He has a partner, and several assistants, so I'm sure everything is going well. The partner—now what did he say she was called?— Madame Fevrier, I think, is extremely talented. He showed me a photograph of her—one of these elegant French blondes, very chic -' 'Oh. Is her husband in the business as well?' very casually. 'She's a widow.' 'Oh.' Gemma finished her tea. 'I'd better go. It's nearly twelve-thirty.' As she walked along the drive, Gemma digested the latest titbit of information. She was probably his mistress. A chic French blonde. She could imagine a woman like that appealing to him. She felt a vague sense of annoyance for which there was no logical explanation, and when she reached the house she pushed open the front door and shouted: 'Gar!'

No reply, only hammering and whistling from upstairs. She shouted again, realised she was wasting her breath, and ran up the stairs. The hammering came from the front bedroom, the door of which was closed. She pushed it open, and the hammering-stopped— and she looked at Gar, who stood there stripped to the waist, hammer in hand. He stopped in mid-whistle and said: 'Do you want me?' Want you? You must be joking—was the answer that she neatly stopped in time. 'My grandmother sent me to tell you it will soon be lunchtime,' she said, trying not to look at the bare brown torso, chest hair- covered, hard muscular arms—she swallowed. 'Really?' He seemed surprised, turned to pick up his watch from the windowsill, and gave a low whistle. 'So it will. I must just finish this'—he nodded to the fireplace he was ripping out—'and then I will come.' 'Why are you taking the fireplace out?' she asked. 'Because your grandmother is going to have an electric fire fitted. 'I see.' There seemed nothing more to say. He turned away from her and began hammering again, using a wedge of wood to prise the metal fittings free. She was dismissed. Gemma went out and ran down the stairs. It was all coming back again, the sense of helplessness against that overbearing arrogant confidence, and she didn't like it at all. Lost in introspection, she stepped out of the front door—and stopped dead in her tracks. For a moment of sheer paralysis she stared into the hostile eyes of a small sandy creature with a stubby tail. Then she saw the flattened head and ears and knew that this was no ordinary torn, out for a Sunday stroll—it was a genuine wildcat. Then, like lightning, it moved—towards her— and she must have shouted out, not in fear, more in astonishment. Then it was gone, vanishing like lightning into the shrubbery, gone. Gemma felt a sense of elation. She had seen her very first wildcat—

and she wanted to tell someone. Then she sobered—and before she could think further, she heard Gar's voice, and the next second he nearly cannoned into her as he came out of the front door. 'What is it? You shouted,' he said. She looked at him blankly, still lost in what she had just seen. 'The wildcat,' she said. 'It was there- -' 'Did it go for you ?' 'No. It moved. I didn't know I called out, but I was startled.' He looked at her. 'Frightened?' 'No.' She shook her head, well aware he wouldn't believe her. 'It was just like an ordinary sandy-coloured cat, except for its eyes and the way its ears were very flat to its head——' 'Then we ought to go to the house and telephone the policeman -' he said slowly. 'No!' Gemma was surprised with her own vehemence, and as he made as if to move away from her, she grabbed hold of his arm. 'No, you mustn't.' He looked down at her hand on his bare arm, and half smiled. 'Why?' he demanded. 'You wouldn't understand. Please don't say anything.' She discovered that she was shaking. 'You had better come back into the house and tell me why,' he said, almost gently for him. 'Because I will freeze if I stand out here with no sweater on much longer—and you might let go of my arm if we move.'

Gemma let go as if his touch burned her, and he pushed wide the door and she went into the hall. She turned to face him. 'They'll set traps for it, try and kill it,' she said. 'But it has been eating hens -' 'You would if you'd nothing else to eat,' she blazed. 'Don't you understand? It's a wild creature—no one's going to feed it, are they?' 'I do not think anyone would dare try,' he said, and for the very first time she saw a glint of humour in his eyes as he answered her. 'Wouldn't they?' She looked out of the window, and the beginnings of an idea had come to her, but she wasn't going to talk about it. She had forgotten the bond that—however much she .might resist it—linked them. 'Oh no,' he said. 'It could be dangerous--—' Gemma whirled back on him. 'What could?' 'What you are thinking.' It wasn't her imagination. He knew. 'What,' she said slowly, 'am I thinking?' 'It is written in your face. Trying to feed it. Why?' She took a deep breath, feeling almost dizzy. Had he the power to read her mind as well? 'Don't be stupid,' she said dismissively. 'I'm going back to the house-—' 'No. Not until you tell me if I am right.' She couldn't pass him. He effectively blocked the way to the door—and he was too big, and he

wasn't moving. 'It was just a thought'—she shrugged. 'You mustn't take things so seriously -' Gar shook his head. 'Oh no,' he said. 'No, you do not fool me at all Why should you want to feed a wildcat?' She looked up at him, meeting his eyes, seeing the dark depths, feeling unable to look away even had she wanted. 'I don't like any creature to be hungry. Especially not an animal—they're not like human beings, they're helpless -' 'It does not appear that this one is,' he pointed out reasonably. 'It can hunt -' 'And if it's here, it means it's looking for food—which means it's keeping away from the village -' 'Which also means, I think, that you probably like animals better than humans?' 'How did you guess?' she said lightly. 'Then trees, then plants— human beings come a bad fourth, except for my grandmother. I love her better than anyone, or anything else—but you wouldn't understand.' 'Oh yes,' he said quietly. 'I think I do—more than you know. Very well, I will not say anything about your wildcat. Now, had you not better go back to the house?' 'I intended to before, only you stopped me,' she answered smartly. 'Excuse me.' He stood aside to let her pass, then, seemingly on impulse, caught her arm. 'One thing, before you go. How are you going to feed it? What on, and where will you leave it?'

That had actually not occurred to Gemma. In the first rush of enthusiasm, such minor points had seemed unimportant. 'I'll think of something,' she answered. 'Then think well. I do not imagine you could go down to the village store each day for a chicken without causing some comment -' He had a point, Gemma had to admit. There was a momentary silence as the image came to her of her walking into the village general store and ordering a daily chicken 'Unless—' he said. 'Unless -' 'Yes?' 'You go elsewhere -' the words lingered in the air. 'You mean—to another village?' 'Yes. Are there none within easy driving distance?' There was something strange here. What devious reason could he have for actually appearing to be trying to help? She looked at him, puzzled. 'I don't -' the less he knew the better. The idea was sound. 'Yes, you do. You do know—but you are nervous.' She shook her head. 'No. Just forget I spoke. Of course the whole thing's ridiculous. People can't go around feeding wildcats -' 'Now it is you whom I do not believe.'

'I asked for that, I suppose,' she shrugged. 'That makes us even. On some things we just don't believe each other. Let's leave it at that, shall we?' and she made as if to brush past him. 'Wait.' 'No—there's nothing more to say. Lunch will be ready in a few minutes, remember? And you have to finish something— 'It will do afterwards. There is no time now. Stay there—I will go for my sweater.' He ran up the stairs. Gemma did no man's bidding, least of all his. She opened the door and went out and walked towards the house, eyes and ears alert for any sign of the wildcat. Gar caught her up as she walked down the twisting overgrown path. He was pulling his sweater on as he went. 'I asked you to wait,' he said. She glanced behind at him. 'So you did. And I didn't, did I?' 'I asked you for a reason,' he said. 'Do you not want to know what it is?' There was something in his voice that made her pause. Something... 'Yes.' 'I think I know where it lives.' She turned slowly to face him. They were in the thick of the trees, where shreds of mist lingered, and the air was cold and damp so that their breath became wispy threads of cotton wool. Then she knew. 'You've seen it,' she said, without surprise. 'Yes. Not only one.' 'Why didn't you tell me before?'.

'Because I was making sure -' he stopped. 'Sure of what?' 'That you felt as I did.' It was happening all over again—a sensation of utter bewilderment. 'But you said -' 'I know what I said. If you had been determined to telephone the police I would have managed to persuade you that you had imagined it all before we reached the house—but you were not. So- -' he shrugged. 'Then I knew.' Gemma felt as if she had to get her balance back. 'When,' she managed slowly, 'did you see it—them— and where?' 'Two days ago. I was on my way here when I saw what looked like a kitten peeping out of the bushes. I was about to bend and pick it up, thinking it must be lost, when the mother—I imagine it was the mother —shot out of the shrubbery and nearly had me.' He grinned. 'I moved in time. The cat picked up the kitten and vanished.' He looked down at her. 'You know what that means ?' 'That they're living near?' 'Yes. -The kitten was very young. It could not have gone far alone. It was darker with stripy markings——' Perversely Gemma was dismayed. She would have preferred to be alone in this. There was no way in which they could ever be allies— and yet his attitude was the same as hers. He felt the same way as she did. 'Thank you for telling me,' she said coolly. 'You can leave it to me now. It would be better if we just forget it now -'

'As you wish.' Of course he knew—again. 'We had better go before your grandmother wonders where you are. Come.' She turned away without another word and they walked back to the house in silence. But now she had much to think about. liven more than before.

All desire to paint had left Gemma. She sat at her easel later on that afternoon and stared at the blank canvas. Her mind was equally blank. Gar was back at the small house working; Finlay, a man from the village, was coming tomorrow to work with him, and it was all arranged, had been even before she arrived. Her grandmother was having her afternoon doze, and Jessie and her husband were listening to the radio in the kitchen. All was quiet. Gemma leafed through her sketches and then put them down on the table in disgust. It was no use. She just was not in the mood for inspired art-work. She sighed. And then the telephone rang. She waited a moment, in case Jessie answered, but the insistent shrillness went on and on. Quickly she ran to the extension on the landing and picked it up. 'Hello,' she said. There was a hollow sound to the line, a faint humming, and then a woman's voice: 'Monsieur Anders, if you please.' Slightly imperious, even over all that distance, and Gemma didn't need a crystal ball to hazard a guess as to who it was. I'm sorry, he's not here at the moment,' she said. 'Can I take a message?'

There was a faint, exasperated sound, a mere breath of annoyance. 'It is quite important—will you have him ring me? Just say Madame Fevrier—F-E-V -' 'I can spell it, thank you,' Gemma cut in swiftly. 'Does he know the number?' 'Yes. Are you the maid?' For a second Gemma took the receiver from her ear and stared at it, lost for. words. Then, very sweetly, hoping the nuances would carry over the miles—or should it be kilometres?— she answered: 'No. I am staying here with him. I'll see he gets the message. Goodbye.' And she hung up. So that was his partner, and as arrogant as him, judging by the way Gemma's neck prickled in annoyance. She picked up the pad by the phone, wrote: 'Gar, please ring Madame Fevrier,' and then put it down again. Quite important, the woman had said, and whatever Gemma's private opinions of him, or his partner, she would never deliberately delay anything like a message. Sighing, still feeling a faint prickle of resentment at the Frenchwoman's disdainful manner she ran down the stairs and went out of the front door. She didn't waste her breath shouting him when she reached the house. She ran up the stairs, scarcely aware that there was in fact no hammering going on at all, opened the door to the bedroom—and saw him crouching by the fireplace, his hands cupped in front of him, near the floor, his body intent—'Gar,' she said, and heard a muffled oath, then he answered abruptly: 'Be quiet!' She was so startled that she closed her mouth, and watched him instead. 'Ah!' He gave a sigh of satisfaction, stood up, looked at her and said: 'Will you open the window, please?'

'What is it?' 'A bird fell down the chimney. I've caught it It's only dazed.' 'Oh.' She opened wide the window and watched him hold the young starling in the palm of his hand outside it. The bird looked round, clearly decided it wasn't going to be killed by its captor after all, shook itself, and flew away. 'Now,' said Gar, turning to her. 'Do you want something?' For a moment or two Gemma didn't answer. Despite everything, all her intense dislike of his arrogance and overbearing manner, she was moved by his consideration for a helpless creature. Then she mentally shook herself. 'I have a phone message for you,' she said. 'From a Madame Fevrier -' 'What does she want?' he cut in, frowning. Gemma looked. 'I really don't know. She wouldn't tell me— probably,' she added blandly, 'because she assumed I was a servant of some kind,' and she smiled. 'She said it was urgent, and will you ring her.' She looked at him, but he gave nothing away by his expression. 'I came straight away.' 'Thank you.' There was an infinitesimal pause, then: 'I'll come now.' Perversely, Gemma felt a stab of annoyance. Apparently there was one woman who could make him jump to it. 'Oh, I should,' she agreed. 'She sounded quite annoyed that you weren't in—I wouldn't keep her waiting longer than necessary.' There, she felt better for having got that out. He didn't say anything, just looked at Gemma, and it was there again, as it always was, the growingly perceptible tension, the deep

awareness. She saw his mouth twitch at the corners, as if he was having difficulty holding back a smile, and his dark eyes held hers, and no words were needed. Then he turned and went to the door and held it wide open. 'After you,' he said. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to hurt him and see him suffer—and she was frightened by the strength of her own feelings so that she walked quickly past him and ran down the stairs and out of the front door. He caught up with her along the path, and he knew all right, and that was becoming even more frightening than her own feelings. 'Tell me,' he said, 'why are you so angry -' She whirled on him. 'Angry? I'm not angry, I -' 'Oh yes, you are. Is it because you have had the trouble of coming out to give me a message—' 'Don't be absurd!' she snapped. 'It didn't bother me! I just- -' 'You are giving off sparks of anger—I can almost see them -' 'Then you have a very vivid imagination, that's all I can say,' she retorted swiftly. 'Why, I don't know what you -' 'Yes, you do,' he shot back. 'You must learn to control your temper. It will show in your face before long—' 'I don't need you to lecture me, thanks!' She turned away lest he see something she didn't want him to see in her eyes—but he caught her arm and pulled her round so that she was facing him again, then he began to smile, a smile of sheer enjoyment that lit his eyes, and in a second it would turn into a laugh—and Gemma did the only thing she had ever wanted to do to him. She raised her free arm and hit

him with all her strength on his face. Then she stood there breathlessly, because her heart was pounding so fast that she was afraid to move, and she knew, in a blinding flash of intuition, that he was going to hit her back ... Only he didn't. He just stood there and he looked down at her, and she saw a terrible anger in his eyes, an anger that swallowed her up, filled her, surrounded her. She felt the strength of his hand as he gripped her arm, and it seemed to her that the hand trembled with rage that had taken him, and now she felt a raw kind of dread at what he would do to her. She was strong, but she knew without any shadow of doubt that he was infinitely more powerful and she knew that he could crush her if he chose, and she waited.., 'So,' he said, and his voice was deep and harsh. 'Now you have struck me, and you are satisfied, perhaps. If you were a man you would not be standing there now, believe me, but you are not a man. You are a woman, and I have never hit a woman in my life, and I do not think I ever shall, so in that respect you are safe. But if you ever strike me again, you will be sorry.' His voice went quieter. 'For I do not like being struck across, the face by anyone—especially not you.' The dark eyes raked her face and body. 'And I am not even sure if you are a woman—the way you dress, and talk, and look -' It happened before Gemma could help it. Almost as if something possessed her. She hit him again. She could have cried out with fear as she did it—then he grabbed her, roughly, with no gentleness at all, and she heard him say something, explosively—then the next second his mouth was on hers, punishing her with a savage kiss that went on and on, taking all the strength out of her, making her weak and helpless, his arms tightly round her, and bending her back, and there was an animal passion, a ruthlessness that both excited and terrified her with its roughness, and she felt herself going dizzy, felt as if she was falling, falling...

He released her. Gemma fell to the ground and before she could get her breath, he hauled her to her feet. He grasped her by the arms and shook her. 'See what will happen next time,' he said, released her, and strode away, leaving her standing there, bruised, weak, and shaken. She couldn't move. She dared not.

CHAPTER FOUR GEMMA looked at her grandmother, aghast. 'Tomorrow lunchtime?' she repeated. 'Why, yes, dear,' said Grandma Logie. 'Don't look so surprised. I'll make sure Finlay and 6ar are settled in properly working together before we go, and then we'll have a nice leisurely drive down to Fort William, spend the night at Agnes's—you remember Agnes?— and then—But Gemma wasn't really listening. The words were being said and she tried to look attentive, but a cold sense of dismay and horror filled her. She supposed she had secretly hoped that her grandmother would change her mind, that perhaps she would decide not. to go after all... '—so you see, it's all quite simple. We'll only be away for a couple of days—well, perhaps three or four at the most, and there's lots of food and everything in fridge and freezer so you won't even have to go out to the shops.' Her grandmother stopped. 'Are you paying attention, dear?' 'Yes—I -' Gemma stared at her. How could she even begin to say what was in her mind? 'And in the evening you and Gar can go round the house and he will tell you his estimate of the value of the antique furniture and—are you sure you're all right?' 'I can't stand him!' Gemma burst out. 'Mmm—well, yes, I had noticed a slight coolness in the air whenever you two are in the same room, and I can't say I understand it, because he really is quite a charming boy——' Boy? thought Gemma wildly, fighting the impulse towards hysterical laugher. Boy? He's no boy.

'—otherwise, of course, I wouldn't dream of leaving you alone, but I trust him implicitly, and he's an excellent cook, I do know that. Lots of Hungarian men are, you know,' she added, with a reminiscent look in her eyes that Gemma was too agitated to notice properly. 'So it won't be difficult at all. You can do your painting in peace and quiet during the day, then take turns at doing meals.' She smiled happily, seeing all her little plans working out nicely. The thought of sharing a kitchen with him was practically the last straw for Gemma. She stared wide- eyed at her grandmother, and for a moment was completely and utterly lost for words. The door opened, and Gar walked in, stared straight across at Gemma and said: 'Excuse me—am I interrupting anything?' 'No, no, of course not,' Grandma Logie trilled. 'Do come in. Gemma and I were just chatting about tomorrow, you know. It will all work out beautifully, I'm sure, and I'll not be away long.' 'Ah, you are leaving for your friend tomorrow?' he asked, in that deep voice, and went and sat beside the old woman on the settee. 'Why, yes. And I was just telling her what an excellent cook you are. That goulash!' she sighed. 'Yes? Then perhaps I shall make it one evening. Would you like me to, Gemma?' he said, looking at her, face and voice pleasantly bland, giving nothing away, and it might have been a different man from the one with whom she had recently had a violent fight. She still bore the marks on her arms where his fingers had gripped when he had hauled her to her feet and shaken her. Then she noticed the bruise on his cheekbone. Had she done it? She hoped so. 'If you want,' she said, then added, knowing she shouldn't, but unable to help herself: 'Have you hurt your face? You have a bruise there,' and she smiled gently.

He touched it reflectively. 'Ah yes, that will have been when I— bumped into something—I forget what. Nothing important,' but his eyes said it for him. Grandma Logie couldn't see the expression in them, for he was beside her and looking across at Gemma, and they were very hard, and there was no laughter in them now—and at that moment Gemma knew. It was war. The undercurrents were there, and that tough implacability he possessed vibrated across the room, and he might well have added the words: 'You will regret it'—but he didn't need to. For it was almost as if he had said them. 'Oh dear, let me see.' Obediently he turned his face towards the old woman, who tutted. 'Gemma, go and get the witch-hazel from Jessie—and some cotton wool.' 'Please—no—it is nothing -' he began. 'I insist!' Gemma silently rose and went out, closing the door behind her. She heard Gar begin to laugh, begin to say: 'Really, Mrs Logie, you must not worry -' and tight-lipped, walked off towards the kitchen where Jessie was preparing dinner. James was sitting with his feet up by the kitchen fire, reading the Sunday papers. An elderly, amiable Scot, he started to get up as Gemma went in and she said hastily: 'Don't move, James, I've only come in for something for Grandma.' She looked longingly round the warm room, wishing she could stay. She could relax here. Not with him, though. 'Will I get it for you?' he inquired. 'Jessie's just away at the back getting some peas from the freezer -' 'Some witch-hazel. I'll get it if you tell me where it is.'

'Aye. In the cupboard over yonder.' He watched her fetch the bottle out, and the packet of cotton wool. 'A bruise, is it?' he asked gently. 'Yes. Mr Anders has one.' 'Aye, well, that's the best thing for it, then. You can't beat the oldfashioned remedies, I say.' 'No, you can't.' She smiled at him, 'Thanks, James,' and went out. She should have known. She really should have guessed. As she returned to the lounge, Grandma Logie said kindly to Gar: 'Gemma will dab it on. My eyes aren't what they used to be, you know,' and she gave a little sigh. For a moment of electric silence the two antagonists looked at each other, then Gar rose slowly to his feet. 'You are very kind,' he said, and gave Gemma a warm smile. His secret smile, the one that let her know how amusing he found it all. She had to look up at him. 'You'd better come by the light,' she said. 'I don't want to miss the place.' 'Is that better?' He looked down at her. 'Yes.' She swabbed the cotton wool with colourless liquid, gave him the bottle to hold, and taking a deep breath began to dab the bruise with witch-hazel. Their eyes met and held. It was as if they were alone, just the two of them, the only two people in the world. Everything else faded away and the only reality was Gar, standing there before her, head slightly bent as she dabbed and patted the soaked cotton wool on the results of her handiwork.

'This will cure the bruise?' he asked in polite tones. 'That is very useful, is it not? I must remember that.' The hard eyes challenged her to reply. 'As long as you're careful,' she answered slowly, 'you shouldn't get any more.' The conversation was on two levels, and it had happened before— one level of mere triviality, mere making of conversation for Grandma Logie's benefit, and the other the hidden talk that they both understood. And that was for their ears alone. It was strange, and it had never happened to Gemma with anyone else but it was happening now and it was disturbing and, in a way, almost— exciting. She put that thought firmly out of her mind at once. 'That's it,' she said, and threw the used piece of cotton wool into, the fire. 'I'd better go and change,' she said, 'if you'll excuse me -' and she sailed out. It was nearly six-thirty. Gar was already changed, presumably while they had been talking before in the lounge. They hadn't heard him come into the house, and Gemma wondered fleetingly if he had been listening at the door. She wouldn't put it past him. She would not, for that matter, put anything past him. And I'm no better, she thought, for when she returned to the house before, after their brief violent clash, and had gone up to her room, he had been on the telephone extension on the landing. She had left her bedroom door ajar—deliberately. He had been talking in French, and he was arguing—and Gemma, who spoke French fluently, had unashamedly eavesdropped. She had still been trembling with reaction over what had happened, and she had had to calm her breathing before she could feel steady enough to stand just behind the partially open door. Presumably Gar assumed she couldn't speak French, for he had made no attempt to drop his voice. Or perhaps he simply didn't care. That was more likely.

They had been arguing about a painting that Madame Fevrier intended buying, that Gar clearly thought was not worth the money, and she had obviously made some remark to the effect that if he hadn't gone away he would be there to make the decisions for himself, because he had very firmly told her that lie would go away when he chose—-as she did— frequently, and that in any case she was supposed to have sufficient sense to use her judgment correctly and noi make mad purchases. So it went on, and Gemma could almost feel the crackling antagonism along the line—and she wondered at their relationship. A lovers' quarrel? Possibly. Or perhaps he just argued with every woman as a matter of principle. Except Grandma Logie, of course. His manner with her was unfailingly courteous and gentle, occasionally teasing, but in a way that Grandma Logie responded to with delight. Oh yes, thought Gemma as she rebelliously stared at her long skirts, he's a smoothie all right. And how I hate smoothies! She picked out the blue flowered cotton, a gently swirling affair that always made her look slimmer than she was, and with it a plain blue blouse, low-' necked, a rare concession to femininity. She surveyed herself in the mirror afterwards, and saw a glow in her cheeks, saw the blue of her eyes brought out by the blouse—and she knew she looked good. If was to please Grandma Logie, of course. She had always liked Gemma in blue, and said so. For his opinion she didn't give a fig. She ran lightly down the stairs as the dinner gong went, and saw them emerge from the. lounge together, and saw Gar's eyes upon her as she reached the hall. For a moment there was a flicker of something that might have been appraisal—swiftly smoothed away, erased as if it had never been. Then they went into dinner.

Monday morning dawned bright and sunny. A good day for travelling, and with the bustle of impending departure in the air as Jessie busied herself packing clothes, and James had the old Rolls out of the garage and to the front of the house while he polished it with loving care. Gemma watched him from a front window, and her mouth was dry. In another few hours they would be gone, and then she would be alone with Gar. She had a job to do, and rather than think about the difficulties of the next few days she would go out and do it. The previous night, after Jessie was safely abed, she had gone down to the kitchen and rescued the leftover food from a day's meals, carefully wrapped in paper in the bin. Then she had taken it and left it in a slight clearing away from the small house. There had been vegetables and gristly meat, and there had been a cupful of rich gravy. She had left it all on the ground, poured the gravy over the vegetables, and feeling like a criminal had stolen back to the house. Now she was going to see if the food had been touched. She left the house quietly as if going for a walk, and made her way towards the small house, branching off before she reached it. Gar had departed there early after Finlay arrived, and she didn't want him to see her. Distant sounds of hammering came from an open window, and men's voices. Finlay was a quietly spoken fisherman who did odd jobs in between fishing-trips, and was a good worker. Gemma wondered how he would get on with Gar, and smiled to herself. Quiet though Finlay was, he was very much his own man, and like most Highlanders, took orders from no one. And Gar—what was he like? She already knew that. She only hoped, for her grandmother's sake, that the volatile Hungarian would curb his temper sufficiently to enable him to work in harmony with the other man. If it hadn't been for that, she would have enjoyed seeing Finlay put him in his place— which he was amply capable of doing, as she well knew. Quiet—except when crossed—and he had once been fined for assaulting an English tourist who had foolishly made disparaging

remarks in the single village pub, about Highland women in particular and Scots in general. Finlay had spent a night in police cells and the tourist had spent two days in hospital. After that Finlay had been regarded as a local hero until some more interesting news came along to replace the incident in the villagers' minds. The food had gone, Gemma forgot all about Gar as she stood and looked at the clearing. Nothing remained. In fact for a moment she wondered if she had come to the right place until she bent down to look more closely and saw paw-marks on a patch of moist ground. She stood up, pleased. Good! Next time she brought food, she would wait for a while hidden, and see what happened. It seemed as if the rest of her day was being planned for her... A trip out for food, once Grandma was safely on her way, some painting, and a walk after dark. And that would be Monday taken care of. Satisfied, she turned to go back home, and nearly bumped into Finlay when she went near the small house. He mumbled a good morning, his face going rather pink. He was tall and well built, normally tongue-tied with women and especially so with Gemma who, oddly enough, despite her dislike of most men, had a soft spot for him. At nearly thirty he still lived with his mother in a small cottage beside the loch by the village. 'Oh, hello, Finlay,' she said. 'How's the work going?' 'Och,' he said, after considering the question for a moment, 'well enough. I have to go and telephone for some wood. Do you think your grandmother would mind?' 'Of course not,' she answered. 'I'm going back there now. She's going away for a couple of days, did she tell you?'

'Aye. But you'll not be in the house alone, will you? There's been tinks hanging around a day or so, and one or two break-ins. I've told her before now to get a dog, but she doesn't listen.' Gemma laughed. 'She wouldn't! No! I won't be alone. Mr Anders will be here well.' This seemed to reduce him to silence, and she added helpfully: 'I've come up to do some painting in the peace and quiet while you both get on with the little house.' But she wondered what was going through his mind. He was old-fashioned to a degree. 'Ah well,' he said at last. 'There'll be Jessie as well, of course.' 'No. She's taking Grandma.' They were nearly at the house now, and Gemma had a mildly dismayed moment of near-panic. She could almost see the shock on Finlay's face. How could she reassure him? It shouldn't be necessary, but she felt the need. But how on earth to do it? 'Mr Anders and I don't know one another very well,' she said quickly, 'and we don't particularly like one another—so it will be a relief to have you here,' she added, in a burst. 'Is that a fact?' He seemed if anything slightly more embarrassed than before. 'Aye well, just watch out for the tinks, that's all,' he managed to say. 'Oh, I will, don't worry,' she assured him as they reached the front door. And that was that—until much later, when evening came, and she and Gar were alone in the house, he in the kitchen having said he would do the dinner, and Gemma 0n the way to the clearing with three opened tins of cat food. Then two things happened that were, in a way, to affect her life. She saw the wildcat family—and the tinkers arrived.

The scene was set. In the faint moonlight Gemma waited, hidden behind a bush where she could see the clearing. Her heart beat faster. She had tipped the meat on to the ground in three little piles and carried the empty tins back into the shrubbery with her. Nearly half an hour had passed and she was feeling the cold, but she kept thinking—just another few minutes—and then would stiffen at perhaps a slight sound. --- . She stole a glance at her watch, catching the face in a gleam of moonlight. Nearly eight. Maybe they wouldn't show themselves until much later, if at all. Gar would probably have eaten his dinner—but Gemma wasn't hungry, so she wasn't concerned. She was about to give up and go before her feet froze— when she saw the silent dark shadow come slinking into the clearing, followed by another, smaller shape, then a third. She held her breath as the first wildcat raised his head and sniffed round delicately. The second gave a warning growl, as if to say, hurry up, and then they were at the meat. She watched in fascination as the three silent creatures— the third was obviously the kitten Gar had seen—ate the food, every last swallow, and then departed as silently as they had come, melting into the blackness. Gone. She turned away, wondering what would happen if she had put milk down as well. Now, there was a thought! Carrying the empty tins, she began to make her way back home, heard a slight noise ahead of her, and stopped, wondering if it could be another wildcat. Then faint voices, and a trickle ran down her spine. She could see nothing, but she could hear two men talking, and it couldn't be Gar and Finlay, which had been her first instinctive thought, because they wouldn't talk in whispers. There was a faint crackling in the undergrowth, the snapping of twigs, and then, in a gleam of moonlight, ahead of her, she saw the dark outline of a man, and then a second. There was a furtiveness about their

movements—and they were going into the small house. She only had to wait a few moments and then run back to her grandmother's house and tell Gar to phone the village policeman. She froze where she was, but her hands were numb with cold—and she dropped a tin, which fell to the ground ? with a hollow clatter. She heard a warning shout, and began to run, away from the little house, fear giving speed to her feet, allowing her to ignore the snapping branches which caught her face and clothes. She heard distantly: 'It's a girl—fast!' and sped on, and now she was frightened; Nearly there, nearly at the house—then thudding footsteps closed in on her and she called out Gar's name, scarcely aware of what she was doing, paused in flight and flung the other two tins at her dark pursuers—and the next second tripped and sprawled full length over a stone. She heard their laughter, that was the worst thing of all, as she lay dazed on the ground, and the next moment one of them half lifted her, and she heard his triumphant shout, and felt sick at the reek of cheap whisky that filled the air. She had no weapons, only her hands and feet, and she lashed out and twisted herself free, until she was grabbed from behind by the second one who held her close and whispered: 'Don't shout or it will be the worse for you—aah!' This as she jerked her foot back to kick his shin. 'Right, you little b——' 'Help!' she called with all the power of her lungs, and then screamed. A dirty hand was pressed over her mouth and she bit it hard and struggled, but she was getting weaker, she knew. A hand cracked her across the face and she saw stars, went dizzy, knew she

was falling—but knew she must not—and then heard the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. She heard Gar shouting: 'Gemma! Where are you—' With her last ounce of strength she called out something, she knew not what, and was abruptly released as her captors turned to face Gar. From the ground where she had fallen she saw them go for him and in her last conscious moments she remembered thinking that it was one against two, and he wouldn't stand a chance 'Gemma, Gemma.' Someone was shaking her and saying her name over and over again and she opened her eyes to see Gar crouching over her on the ground. Her mouth felt as if it would never open, and she made a sound to indicate she could hear him. 'You 're safe. You hear me. You are safe.' With a great effort, she managed to say: 'Two men.' 'Do not talk. They are unconscious. I am going to get something to tie them up, then come back for you. You hear me?' 'No!' she found her voice. 'D-don't leave me -' Terror filled her. 'Then I will carry you to the house.' He picked her up and said: 'Look.' She saw the two sprawled figures on the ground, and felt as if she would be side. 'Put your arms round my neck,' he ordered. She did so, and she felt utterly safe. The relief washed over her in a great warm wave. 'Thank you,' she whispered.

'Do not talk.' He carried her along, into the back of the house, and put her down on the easy chair in the kitchen. Then he crouched down by the chair and looked at her. Apart from a smudge of dirt on his cheek, he bore no sign that he had been in a fight. 'I will go and phone the police,' he said, 'and go back to the men. You are safe here. You understand me? And you are not to move.' He stood up, looked at her, and then went away. Gemma felt strength gradually returning, but for the moment she was content not to move—even though it meant obeying him. She closed her eyes and lay back in the chair. Her arms and legs felt black and blue, and her face was almost numb. She could taste blood in her mouth, but it was too much effort to feel if all her teeth were in place. So she waited for Gar's return. And waited ... 'Drink this, Gemma.' The voice woke her and she opened her eyes to see Gar holding a glass. 'What is it?' she whispered. 'Whisky. It will do you good. Drink it, please.' She took the glass and drank, coughed, handed it back. The whisky surged through her veins like fire and she immediately felt better. 'Where are the men?' she managed to say. 'Tied up at the front door, waiting for the policeman to come and collect them.' 'You phoned?' 'Yes.' 'I thought you hadn't heard me shout,' she said.

'I was coming out to look for you when I heard you call my name and then scream—for a moment I thought it was your idea of a joke, then I saw the three of you struggling, and ran up. They left you when they heard me, and went for me instead.' 'You're not hurt?' she said. He laughed. 'Me? No. I have a few tricks that they did not know about -' he stopped. 'Your mouth is bleeding.' 'Yes.' 'Did they hurt you badly?' Gemma tried to shake her head, but it was an effort. 'I'm—bruised, that's all.' She heard his sharp intake of breath. 'I think, a doctor -' he began. 'No, I'll be all right, really -' She looked at him as he crouched down beside her chair. 'There must be no fuss. If my grandmother finds out -' She didn't finish. 'Yes, I see—of course. But you must go up to bed. Then we will have a look at you -' 'But I'm all -' 'Do not argue.' The hardness was there again, in his face and eyes. Only somehow, this time, she felt no resentment, only a kind of acceptance. 'Then I'll go. I'll manage by myself. You stay by the front and wait for Constable McEarchie -'

'I will take you. Please don't try to fight me now as well. Haven't you had enough for one night -' He stopped and looked at her. To Gemma's own horror, she burst into tears. The next moment Gar had lifted her up as though she were a baby, and was carrying her up the stairs.

She waited in the darkened room, and there was no strength left in her to fight, or argue with Gar. The tears had stopped, and with them had gone all tension and fear, and she waited ... 'Gemma,' his voice was soft, from the doorway, and she murmured something in reply, and he came in silently, like those cats she had seen moving in the clearing, swift, surefooted, then he crouched by the bed and said: 'They are gone now. The house is locked up. You are safe.' She closed her eyes. Safe? With him? It was ironic in a way. How could she tell him that she was more frightened of him when she didn't know why herself? Some of the tension, the inescapable tension that always existed when they were alone together had evaporated, as if he sensed it and was trying to be gentle—but not all. It was there all right, and building up again. She moved her head restlessly. 'I'll be all right now.' What she wanted to say was: Leave me alone; but she couldn't. She dared not. 'Yes. When I have attended to -' 'No, I can manage. I'll go and wash -' 'Come then, to the bathroom. Let me look at your mouth, and then -'

'It's all right, it's only my lip.' She had run her tongue round her teeth, and they were all there. But there was a cut in her lower lip. She could taste the saltiness of it. He stood up, bent towards her, put his arms out as if to hold her, and panic caught her. 'No, leave me -' She pushed him away, only her hands encountered a hard chest, muscular arms, then she was swung up in them, and being carried. She heard him laugh. 'You can't fight me -' and cried out. 'Put me down! Can't you see—leave me alone!' 'I see that you are a stupid stubborn creature, about as tame as your little wildcat—What do you think I intend? To rape you? Is that why you are frightened?' The dark face looked down at her as he stood her on her feet in the bathroom, which was lighted. The shadows caught his face, accentuating the high Slavic cheekbones, the wide mouth, the strong cleft chin, the neck. Gemma watched him in fascination. Because suddenly she knew why she had been so frightened of him before. Suddenly, without any warning, she knew so much that she was scared. She had never been attracted to a man, never felt the weakness of longing, had always been perfectly in control—and now, suddenly, she was more aware of him than she had ever been of anyone or anything in her whole life. If he kissed her now... Numbly, helplessly, she waited, as if hypnotised, and Gar, frowning, said: 'Ah yes, the flannel.' He turned, dipped the flannel in cold water, began to dab around her mouth. His fingers burnt like fire as he steadied her chin with his other hand, and his touch sent shock waves through her body, and he appeared engrossed in his task. Only his breathing was a little quickened as if he sensed something, something ...

'There. It is a small cut. It will soon heal.' Was his voice less steady, or was it her imagination? 'Your blouse is torn. Let me see your shoulder, please.' Numbly, she unbuttoned the top two buttons and pulled the blouse top down. She heard his sharply in- taken breath. 'Ah, they hit you— there is a nasty bruise. Come, back to your bedroom and I will go and find that hazel witch--' 'Witch-hazel,' she corrected in a mere whisper.' 'Yes, that is it. I left it in the lounge, after you had treated me for my bruise -' There was a gentle amusement, but she scarcely heard. She allowed him to lead her back to her room. He made her sit on the bed. 'Take your blouse off,' he said. 'I will be back in a minute, but I will not switch the light on—do you understand me?' 'Yes,' she whispered. When he had gone she took off her blouse and waited for him to return. She looked down at her shoulder. In the narrow edge of light from the landing she could see the darkening bruise-spreading down her arm. She remembered now when that had happened. When the man had tried to push her to the ground, had yanked at her arm ... The memory of it was like a brief nightmare, and she caught her breath. If Gar hadn't heard, what might not have happened? Gemma closed her eyes and lay back. She had not eaten, and now she felt weak. She drifted; she could feel all pain receding in a kind of warmth bathing her. It was all right. Everything was all right. A hazy golden blur filled the room through her half closed eyes, and she opened them to see Gar standing with the light behind him so that he was in silhouette. He was just standing watching her, a tall black shape of a man filled with the kind of strength she had never encountered before. He must have

seen her movement, for he came forward. He carried the bottle, and cotton wool, and he sat down on the bed. 'Be still,' he said. 'I can see the marks. I will be as gentle as possible.' I'll do it.' She didn't want him touching her again. She was afraid. 'No, you won't.' Very deliberately he applied the cotton wool to the open neck of the bottle- And Gemma tensed herself, feeling dizziness overwhelm her.

CHAPTER FIVE THE room spun round, and she with it. Gemma gasped, and Gar frowned, or appeared to, in the shadows. 'I am hurting you?' he said. 'No—no. Everything's b-blurred -' 'You have had a shock, that is all. And—ah! You have not eaten, have you? Of course! After I have done, you will eat.' 'But I—— his hand was gentle as he stroked the lotion on her arm, and how could she tell him that it was he who was causing her anguish? Almost a caress, the touch, but not deliberate, she knew. Then it was her shoulder, and at the electric touch she bit back a sigh. Not only physically but mentally dizzy, totally confused, Gemma began to hate him for what he was doing to her. A different hate from the one before, because he had made her see her vulnerability— 'That's enough,' she whispered, and his fingers lingered like fire as he paused in his task. 'Enough?' 'Yes. Go away.' She trembled. Then suddenly he knew. The atmosphere changed as if in an instant, and he knew. She heard his indrawn breath. 'Yes,' he said. 'Yes, I see.' He took his hand away from her and the air was charged with the knowledge and he seemed to grow, become more powerful. 'Do you think,' he said slowly, 'that I would harm you? You are more safe with me at this time than you have ever been.' It's not you I'm worried about, it's me, she wanted to cry, but she was silent. Only her shuddering breath gave her away, and Gar rose slowly. 'I will go and get you something to eat,' he said. 'You had

better put your blouse on.' He dropped it on her and walked away towards the door, pausing before opening it wide, to say: 'I will knock before I come in.' Then he was gone, and the door closed sharply after him. Gemma, left alone in the dark, put her hand to her head. Did he really know, or had it been her fevered imagination? It was too difficult to think clearly. She sat up and put her blouse on, pulled the cord to put on the light and smoothed down her skirt, and waited for him to return. So now I know, at least, she thought. Now I know the fire in the blood and what it means, and she despised herself for her weakness. It wouldn't happen again, she would make sure of that. When he returned and rapped twice on the door, she was ready for him. 'Come in,' she said. She looked across at him, and her inner strength held her, and gave nothing away. Gar's eyes met hers. He carried a tray, and for a moment he stayed by the door just looking at her. 'Do you wish to eat alone?' he inquired. 'Yes. I can manage. I'm better now, thank you.' 'You make a quick recovery.' It was there again, that nuance in his voice, the shade of meaning only she understood. The hidden words between them. 'Yes.' The challenge of his eyes was too much. Gemma looked at the tray. 'If looks good. I must have been very hungry—I've just realised.' • 'Of course.' He put the tray down on her knee and removed the covering plates from the two dishes upon it. 'Goulash, and cooked apple to follow. I will let you eat in peace.' She was busy regarding the delicious- looking stew on one plate as he moved away, and heard, as if from a distance, Gar's voice from the door. 'Bon appetit.'

Then he was gone. Gemma began to eat, careful to avoid touching her cut lip. The goulash was hot and spicy and as good as it looked, and she ate slowly, savouring it, appreciating his talents as a chef even in the midst of her remaining confusion. When the plates were empty she put the tray down on the floor and walked slowly to her dressing table. Solemnly she regarded herself in the mirror, seeing her white face, seeing the blackness on her lower lip, the bruise on her chin, the wide eyes that stared back at her, eyes wide with her new awareness of herself. She gently touched the cut on her lip, and then winced. So now what did she do? Stay in her room? It was too early. She was rapidly recovering from the shock of what had happened—the physical shock, that was. The other, the knowledge—the sudden awareness, was something different again. And later, she told herself, she would be able to rationalise it. Not now. She looked round at the tray on the floor. It would be better to take that down, then Gar would know that he had imagined anything he might have thought ... Gemma caught her breath. She had seen it in his eyes, seen an understanding, a depth of knowingness—the sooner that she went down, the better. The sooner everything was normal again, the safer she would be. At that thought she gave a wry smiley unable to help herself. What was normal with Gar? A state of smouldering dislike, the hidden words; but better that than anything else. And it wouldn't be for long—she had that consolation. Grandma had said she would only be away for a few days at the most. Gemma shrugged. 'I've lived through worse, she thought. It will be a test of survival. And with that, she picked up the tray, opened her door, and went slowly down the stairs. Gar was in the kitchen putting coal on the fire. He turned and straightened up as she went in. 'You should not have come down,' he said.

Gemma had been practising a cool smile on her way down. She gave it him then. 'I'm fine,' she said. 'I was hungry—that was the main thing that was wrong with me. The goulash was very good. Is there any left? For the cats, I mean.' For a moment he looked at her, then he went forward and took the tray from her. 'Don't you think it might be too spicy for them?' he asked, gently for him. 'There's plenty of meat in it,' she answered. 'Unless you're saving it for tomorrow.' 'No. But you would not go out alone again at night, would you?' 'They won't be back,' she pointed out. They're locked up, aren't they?' 'Yes. But there could be others.' He walked away with the tray towards the sink. 'So I would prefer it if you stayed in after dark—' She couldn't help it. 'Are you telling me What to do?' she burst out. She didn't intend it to come out like that, but with him, as she had already discovered, her flashpoint was extremely low. He turned at that, one eyebrow raising in the infuriating way he had. 'Telling you?' he repeated, as if tasting the words. 'Why, yes, I suppose I am. Do you not think I have the right—after what happened?' Gemma took a deep breath. 'I've already thanked you,' she breathed. 'I appreciate your help, but -' 'But you are still stubborn.' He ran his fingers through his black, hair. 'Look at you—cut mouth, bruised shoulder and arm—and probably suffering from shock -'

'And as you said, I recover quickly,' she cut in. 'And that too.' His dark eyes were hard on her. 'Yes, you are tough, I cannot deny that.' The undercurrents of tension were there again, smothering, filling the air in the room, and Gemma fought for calm. She didn't want him looking at her, but she didn't know how to tell him. She turned away instead and went over to the fire which had begun to blaze up with the new coal. She held out her hands to feel the warmth from it, and every move was still an effort, because she was stiff and sore all over, and she could turn her head only with difficulty—but she had broken away from his bard dark stare, that was the main thing. 'Why do you not sit down? I have the kettle on. I will make us some coffee.' It sounded good. It sounded very good indeed. Hot coffee. 'And with it,' he went on, 'I would advise you—please note, I said advise, not tell, to have two aspirins or something.' 'Very well, I will.' She heard the gradually rising shriek as the water in the whistling kettle came to the boil, then it was silenced, and the next moment Gar came over to her with a steaming beaker. 'Drink that.' She looked up. 'But it's black! I prefer -' 'Black is best for shock.' 'But I don't -' 'Then it is time for you to try it,' he cut in, and sat in the chair opposite her.

For a brief moment Gemma fought the silent battle within her. Then she picked up her handbag, took out two aspirins, and swallowed them with some coffee. Surprisingly, it was not as bad as she had expected. 'Tonight,' he said, 'I intend to go around the house and begin to value some of your grandmother's furniture, and antiques. But as I am sure you would prefer to rest- -' 'No, I wouldn't. I'll come round with you. I can't just sit here like an old lady you know. I'll feel better, really I will.' 'As you wish, of course. You will permit me to smoke -' just as he finished the words, the telephone shrilled sharply from the hall, and he rose to his feet. 'I will answer it.' He walked quietly and quickly out, a big man who moved silently. Gemma waited. Her grandmother? The Frenchwoman? She could hear nothing save a blurred murmur, and she sat back, closing her eyes. So much had happened in the last twenty-four hours, and exhaustion suddenly caught up with her in a sheer wave of tiredness. She was alone in the house with him, and she was more aware of him than she had ever been of any man before—and she hated him as well... When she opened her eyes, it was to see him in his chair again, and the rich aroma of a good cigar filled the room, and she realised she had fallen asleep. Gar smiled. 'I did not wake you,' he said. 'You look very tired.' Gemma blinked, confused. 'Who was on the phone?' 'The policeman from the village.' 'Oh. What did he want?' 'Just to tell me that the two tinkers are safely locked away. He brought Finlay with him when he came to take them—did I tell you? No, of course I didn't. They will be safe overnight at the police cell,

and tomorrow they go to Fort William to face charges of burglary and drunken driving there. Apparently they've left a trail of damage through the Highlands. Your two attackers, Gemma, are wanted men!' She couldn't hide the shock of his words. Wide-eyed, she stared at him. 'Oh, no!' 'Oh yes. And the other thing was—they are alone, or said that they are. But they could be lying. There could be others.' Gemma was silent, the images crowding into her mind. If Gar hadn't been at the house, if Grandma and Jessie and her husband had been alone —if Gar hadn't been as tough as he so clearly was— if—if.,. She looked at him. Very quietly, she said: 'I'm glad you were here. And I'm glad you heard me -' 'Please,' he shrugged, and there might have been a glint of humour in his dark face and eyes, 'it was nothing. But you will not go out alone after dark again, no?' She let out her breath in a sigh. 'No, I won't.' 'Finish your coffee. We have work to do.' She picked up her cup. The coffee was nearly cold. Grimacing, she drank it. Somehow, just at that moment, she daren't do otherwise.

They were in the attics. Gemma had nearly forgotten their existence; it was years since she had bothered to venture up the steep stairs at the back of the house, not since childhood in fact And now, as she looked round her, the room recalled the strangest memories, sharp, evocative—and in some odd way the man Gar, who stood by the fireplace regarding an old picture intently, could have been part of it. It was most odd. He was a stranger; one she didn't like; the room

belonged to her childhood, where she and her brothers had played— and yet she had the sensation that he belonged here. She mentally shook herself, and crossed ovfer—being careful not to trip over the piles of dusty books, boxes, tennis racquets and rolls of carpet—to where he stood. The picture was propped against the wall, and now Gar crouched down as if to see it even more closely, and Gemma looked at it and a sense of familiarity washed over her.' It was an oil painting of a cottage surrounded by trees and with hills in the background. She had always loved it as a child—but had completely forgotten it. For a moment she looked in silence, and Gar, turning, saw something she could not hide in her eyes. He stood. 'What is it?' he said. 'I'd forgotten about that,' she answered. 'It used to hang in my bedroom when I stayed here as a child.' She didn't want to say any more. But she had forgotten about his uncanny ability to see into her mind. 'Ah yes,' he said. 'I see.' 'You don't,' she answered, more sharply than she intended, then added, ridiculously: It's not valuable.' 'I can see that as well. Is that important to you?' 'No! I didn't mean -' she wasn't sure what she did mean. She felt suddenly tired, and cross. He moved slightly, and his face was partly in shadow and Gemma felt afraid. 'I meant -' she began, and her voice sounded shaky, even to her. 'What you meant 'was,' he explained, patiently, as if to a stubborn child, 'that because it is of little value, it can hold no interest for me. Is that not so?' Without giving her time to answer, he went on: 'Do I look so mercenary?'

'No—but I -' 'It is a nice picture. So -' he shrugged carelessly. 'I would not want to buy it from your grandmother, but not for that reason—simply because I think you would like it yourself. Why do you not ask her to give it to you? I am sure she would do so.' He turned away from her as if the subject no longer interested him and picked up a heavy statuette from the mantelpiece, turning it over slowly in his hands as he looked at it. Gemma watched him. She thought: it's happening again, just like it always happens when there's only the two of us. The trunks,' he said suddenly, putting the heavy statuette down again. 'Am I allowed to look in those?' 'I should imagine so,' she answered. 'Grandmother did give you permission to go through the house, didn't she?' 'Yes, of course, but occasionally trunks have private papers in them. I would not like to pry.' There's one way to find out,' she said, because it was far better to- be doing something than just standing watching him. 'If you'll lift the lid of the first one, I'll have a look insider' She followed him across to the corner of the dusty room and he opened the lid of the huge metal trunk. A smell of faded lavender and mothballs arose, and Gemma bent—with difficulty—and put her hand inside. She lifted out a dress of pink satin that looked as if it might crumble in sunlight. 'It seems to be all clothes,' she said. 'And very old ones too. I wonder whose they were?' 'Your grandmother's?' Gar suggested. 'Let us see.' He lifted out a second, and another, arid the mingled perfumes of a bygone age filled the room. 'They are beautiful,' he said, and before Gemma could guess his intent, he held one, a long silky blue gown, against

her. She stiffened; she couldn't help it. 'Ah yes,' he said, and a fleeting gleam of mockery lit his eyes. 'Very feminine- -' 'And very old,' she said, and tried to move back, but couldn't because another trunk was pressing into the backs of her legs. 'Perhaps,' she added, 'you should have been born then, instead of now-—' 'Because I like women to be women?' he said, grinning. 'Perhaps.' 'Because I should imagine you like women to be small helpless creatures,' she retorted, 'who don't answer back -' 'No,' he appeared to consider it briefly, 'I like mine with a bit of fire—--' 'Just as long as they don't mind you interrupting everything they say,' she shot back. Gar began to laugh, put the dress carefully down, and looked at her. The dim light on the ceiling moved slightly as if in a breeze, and the shadows flickered at the corners of the room and suddenly their brief truce —if that was what it had been—was over. 'You tlon't do so badly at that yourself,' he answered, and his- eyes were so dark Gemma could not see what expression they held. 'Because I don't like you telling me what to do all the time,' she said. 'You're nobody to me—a stranger who happened to be here when I came, and you're bossy and arrogant, and I -' 'And you,' he cut in, 'are equally so—only it is less becoming in a woman, or has nobody told you that?' 'You're insufferably rude!' 'I can be—if I have to be. Yes. And with you—I have to be -'

'I'm not staying here,' she said, incensed, 'to be insulted -' and she went forward to go past him, only he didn't move, and a pile of magazines was in the way and she didn't see the string that tied them, nor that it was loose, and she caught her foot in the loop and would have gone sprawling had he not caught her. And in doing so she fell against him. He held her, and she could feel the laughter shaking his body and his voice was muffled as he said: 'Be careful -' 'Let me go!' she stormed. 'At once!' 'You will hurt yourself again. You are not well—' 'I don't care -' she tried to struggle free, but he was right, her arm hurt her terribly, and a pain shot up into her shoulder, and the room spun crazily like a roundabout gone mad. She gasped and Gar said gently: 'Don't be silly, Gemma,' and lifted her up like a baby and stood her in a comparatively clear space, then let her go. Gemma glared wildly at him. 'Ohl Oh!' she said helplessly. 'I hate you!' 'No, you don't. Come now, to bed. We cannot do much more this evening. Tomorrow we will look again —you are tired, and I was stupid to let you come up here in your condition, very stupid. It is past ten o'clock, and tomorrow will be another day. You will be much better in the mornings-see if I am not right.' Every word he said made sense, of course, but it didn't make Gemma feel any better. She looked at him, unable to speak, then turned away to the door. He was ahead of her, and opening it, his movements quick as a cat, and as sure. 'I will make you a warm drink,' he said, as if the outburst had never happened. 'What shall it be? Coffee, tea—or honey and milk?' And before she could think what to answer, even as she went out of the door and he moved in

front of her to go down the stairs first, he continued: 'Of course— honey and milk. That will make you sleep.' He didn't look back as she followed him down the steep uncarpeted stairs. The matter was decided. At the foot of the stairs he paused and waited for her to join him. 'Off you go then,' he said. Gemma walked away down the corridor without answering, went into her room and closed the door. She went to sit down on her bed and cradled her aching left arm in the other one. The echo of his last words filled her ears as she sat there very still; his deep voice, the tantalising accent with which he spoke, his complete command of everything. She felt warmth rush to her face, despising herself for the weakness that overwhelmed her, for the memory of her own feelings when he had carried her upstairs—and for the fact that he could read her mind. She looked round her room. This house would never be the same again. It was filled with his presence. Soon, when his work was done, he would leave, and she would never see him again. Unless Grandma Logie invited him, and who was to say what she would not do? He had appeared from nowhere—a mystery man, apparently a very old friend—and Gemma felt still very confused about that. Why had he never been mentioned—ever? It would be useless to ask her brothers, for she herself had always been closer to her grandmother than anyone in the family. She put her hand to her aching forehead and tried t?o clear her thoughts. The sooner Grandma Logie came back, the better. Then she would leave. It Was quite simple. The old lady wasn't really ill, or feeling lonely—anything but. And Gemma would return when he had departed. Once that was decided, she began to feel a little better. Not much, but enough for the moment. She. stood up and went over to the desk by the window. Tomorrow morning she would start painting. The less she saw of Gar, the better. She picked up a pile of sketches and looked through them, half turned as a knock came at the door, and said: 'Come in.'

He carried a beaker, looked across at where she stood, and half smiled. 'Ah, yes,' he said. 'Your paintings. May I look at one or two while you drink your milk?', She didn't want him to, but how did you say no? 'If you wish,' she answered. 'I was making a few sketches „ for my new picture -' He put the beaker down and took them from her. 'Yes, I see.' The keen dark eyes looked into hers briefly. 'They are very good.' 'Thank you.' He was looking down again, leafing through the rough pencilled pictures of the woman on a horse, a castle blurrily etched in the background, the shadowy figure of a man to one side of the picture. 'And this is to be a cover for a book, yes?' he inquired. 'Yes. An historical romance.' He held a sketch away from him, as if to gain perspective. 'Yes, this one I like very well. You have captured something there.' She looked to see which one he had chosen, and unavoidably, her hand touched his as he handed it to her. The shock sent a current of electricity up her fingers so that she nearly dropped the paper. 'Yes,' she said, 'I'll use that as the basis for the painting.' She didn't hand it back to him, she put it on the table. 'I'll start tomorrow morning while you're working at the small house.' 'Yes.' She wanted him to go now. She picked up the drink and began to sip it. 'I'm rather tired—' the words lingered in the air.

'You should be.' He walked away from her to the door. 'Goodnight, Gemma. Sleep well.' And he was gone. Gemma sat down at the table, finished the sweet hot milk and stared unseeingly at the pile of sketches. She felt suddenly exhausted.

Gemma had never slept so soundly in her life before. She woke, and lay for a minute wondering where she was and why her left side ached so, then she remem bered, and sat up in bed. The light came through the curtain, and the loud ticking of her alarm clock gently reminded her to look at it and see the time— nearly eleven. Eleven! Gemma swung her feet over the side, then winced. She was starving. Putting on her dressing gown and slippers, she went downstairs. The scent of something interesting cooking wafted from the kitchen. The room was empty. A fire burned merrily, fireguard in place, and a note was propped up against a marmalade pot on the table. Gemma picked it up. 'I am working with Finlay,' it said. 'You were asleep so I did not wake you. Lunch is preparing in the stove. Gar.' Brief and to the point, and the writing was fascinating, bold and upright with no flourishes, just simply written with a thick black pen. About to crumple it and throw it away, Gemma paused, and smiled. Suppose she were to—no! She didn't even finish the thought, which was absurd, because of course she wasn't remotely interested in knowing anything about him ... The idea intruded again, only this time it wouldn't go away. It wouldn't do any harm, rationalised Gemma, to send it to Marjie, for a brief analysis. It would in fact be doing Marjie a favour, because having studied graphology for some years, she enjoyed practising her skills. Gemma held the note away from her, hunger forgotten, and studied it slowly, remembering Marjie's detailed report of her own, Gemma's, handwriting a few months previously—and how accurate

it had been. Headstrong, impulsive, determined—she pulled a little face. 'Hmmm, let's see what she makes of you,' she said aloud. No sooner said than done. She found an envelope a sheet of paper and dashed off a brief note which was impressive for its sheer casualness, sealed the eiivelope and addressed it—then wondered why she should feel faintly guilty. There was only one thing left to do, and when that deed was done, there would be no mind changing, for Gemma hated waste. She took a stamp from her purse and stuck it on the envelope with a defiant thump of her fist There! Done. Then she made herself a cup of coffee and a piece of toast and sat down at the table. Chewing at the buttered toast, she reflected on the events of the past few weeks, leading up to her arrival at Correy House, here at-her grandmother's. She would have come anyway, in response to the appealing letter, but it had seemed the break she needed, after a bout of 'flu, which had left her feeling vaguely disillusioned and restless, not sure where she was going in life—and not sure if she cared. Gemma heaved a sigh. And now this! To be catapulted into a situation like this, with a man like Garret Anders, would be practically enough to finish a sensitive soul off. She rested her chin on her head and thought about that. How on earth does he sell antiques if he behaves to his customers the way he behaves to me? she puzzled—but perhaps he's different. Maybe he's like he is with Grandma and Jessie, laying on the charm, and—all right, she conceded, he can be charming, in a certain way - The subject of her thoughts walked in through the back door and looked at her. 'Ah,' he said. 'You are awake—good. And do you feel better?' For a moment she stared at him, confused, as if he might have heard her thoughts. 'Er—yes, thank you.' She pulled herself together. 'I have come to make tea for Finlay and myself.' He went over and put the kettle on the cooker. 'You got my note?'

'Oh. Ah—yes -' Gemma wondered if she was actually blushing. The envelope on the table seemed suddenly huge, as if it might be saying: Look at me! 'I went in to wake you, but you were sound asleep— so I did not.' He gave her a disarming look. 'Finlay was quite concerned about you.' 'Was he? I hope you told him I'm fine.' 'I did. A police van came for our two men this morning, he tells me, so they are gone now to Fort William. And I took out some food this morning for your cats.' 'My cats!' She couldn't help the exclamation. Gar was busy pouring boiling water into the teapot, and didn't answer for a moment. 'Why, yes. One was waiting—hidden, of course, but I sensed its presence, and I went away, then doubled back. They were there —three of them.' 'And they didn't hear you?' He gave a crooked smile. 'I move silently when I 'wish.' Oh, I know you do, she thought. 'And they were eating? Was the kitten there as well?' 'Yes. They seemed to like the goulash. I must make some more.' It was all very civilised. Gemma might even have been talking to someone else. Gone the aggression, the simmering undercurrents of unease. 'Thank you for feeding them,' she said. 'I would have gone out later -'

'But now you needn't. It would not be wise to get them too accustomed to being fed. For when you go —what then?' The words hung in the air with a sense of finality. Gemma looked at him. 'I know, I've thought about that,' she said. 'I just didn't want them getting caught —that seemed the best thing to do.' 'But once a day is enough. They will find their own food other times, but probably keep away from the village.' 'What if Finlay sees them?' Gar shrugged. 'I will ask him not to say anything. We get on well, Finlay and I.' He had poured out two large mugs of tea, and now he picked them up—and saw the letter on the table. 'Ah, you wish that to be posted?' 'Um -' she began, lost for words. 'Because if you do, I will take it now. After we have had our "elevenses" as you call them, we are going down to the village for some wood. Is there anything else you want me to bring back?' She couldn't have thought of anything if she had wanted. Her mind was a blank. 'No, thanks,' she said. 'Fine. I'll post this, then, if I may?' 'Yes, yes, of course.' She handed it to him, already regretting the impulse that had made her write to her friend, but it was too late now. And how ironic that he should be the one to post it. As he went out, he said: 'There is a casserole cooking in the oven. I think you will like it.' Then he was gone.

Cats fed, lunch cooking, letter posted. There seemed to be another word to apply to him now; Super- efficient.

CHAPTER SIX HE might be super-efficient, thought Gemma as she donned her brown painting smock after lunch, but for the sake of my own selfrespect I can't let him do all the work, around here. And she decided that she would cook the dinner that evening. The truce had still existed at lunch—but then Gar seemed preoccupied with the work he and Finlay were doing, so it was hardly surprising. Gemma had spent the rest of the morning trying to sketch, without much success, and had made up her mind that now, this afternoon, nothing would be allowed to distract her, and she would concentrate, really concentrate, on the task at hand. There was something soothing in the ritual of setting out paints and easel and canvas, seeing that everything was just so. There, she was ready. The strong north light hit her canvas at the correct angle, all was in order. All she had to do now was convey to canvas the sharp images within her head. She pinned the sketch that Gar had admired to a corner of her easel, and started to work. For the next hour or so time ceased to exist for her. She knew that tingle in her fingers, that feeling in her bones, that this one was going to be something special. The two foreground figures gradually took shape and the brush strokes became more positive, and Gemma felt a sense of sheer happiness as she shaded the angles of the heroine's face, catching the expression with deft touches of her brush, capturing a certain haughtiness 'Oh!' She stretched and sighed, and put down her brush. A cup of coffee was called for, before she overtired herself. She looked away out of the window and flexed her fingers. It was a cold grey day, with the promise of rain in the cloud-laden sky. Without a further glance at the painting, she went out and down to the kitchen to make herself a drink.

The kettle was full, and still hot. Presumably Gar had recently been in for tea. It only took a minute for her to make her coffee and take it back upstairs. She opened the door to her bedroom, walked over, and stood in front of her picture to see what she had done —and nearly dropped the beaker. For what seemed like ages she just stood there looking at the canvas, unable to move. She blinked, swallowed some coffee, looked away, out of the window. The light was playing tricks, of course. It couldn't be—But it was. She looked again, and there was no mistake. Gar's face looked out at her from the canvas, that tall dark figure she had so enjoyed painting—and the heroine, sitting on a horse, was Gemma herself. She drank the rest of her coffee, put the beaker down, rubbed her eyes, and looked again. Now there was no mistake. 'Oh, my God!' She went and sat down on her bed to think about it. It had all gone so well. For the first time in weeks, she had relished every moment of the painting, had just known it would be good. And it was, there was no doubt about that. It was probably the best thing she had ever painted—only she had unconsciously used as model the man she didn't like—and if it was so obvious to her, it would be to him. She caught her breath. So what do I do now? she thought. Alter it? She stood back, looked at it from another angle, and the dark face with its mocking smile looked out at her as if to say: 'See?' 'Damn, damn!' She felt like throwing down her brushes—or alternatively painting out that face and starting again. But she knew she couldn't.. To alter it would be to ruin it. It was just right as it was. And the girl—Gemma studied her closely. A faint smile on those features too, as if herself astonished at what had happened— and it was like looking into a mirror. She couldn't do any more now, not of the background, not with those two looking at her. There was only one thing to do, and that

was go for a ride, and have a good think. Gemma pulled off her smock and threw it on the bed. Then she took her coat from the wardrobe and put it on. Minutes later she was driving out of the gate in her red Capri as though pursued.

She parked in a lonely spot by the shore and walked down to the beach. There would be not a soul for miles, for here she had come many times before when she needed to think, and had never seen anyone. She sat down on a rock, after first removing a trail of dried seaweed, and looked out to sea. The distant hills of the Isle of Skye were blue smudges on the horizon. For Gemma this was the most beautiful place on earth, and here she was at home as she had never really been anywhere else. And so it was that here she could think clearly—or at least, had been able to, before. Now the images of Gar intruded whenever she tried to sort out in her mind what she. should do about her painting. It was quite simple really, she decided firmly. All I have to do is alter the faces slightly. Simple. Only it wasn't— because it was perfect as it was. It had atmosphere. It had the kind of atmosphere that made people take a look at a book cover—and look again, and pick up the book. And that, reflected Gemma, is what book covers are all about, and fresh from it as she was, fresh from the painting of it, and therefore unable to judge in perspective, she knew that fact in her bones. So there was only one thing to do. She stood up, and turned away from the cold grey waters and looked towards her« car perched in solitary splendour on the roadside, and knew she would go back, finish the background as quickly as possible—that was the easy part anyway, a misty castle, hint of thundery sky—and parcel it up and send it off to Jeremy, her boss. Gar would never see it because he'd be back in France. She laughed, and the breeze caught her laughter

and carried it out to sea. Of course, that was all she had to do. And then, if she was still here by the weekend, she could begin the next, and she would make sure this time that the hero was as unlike Gar as it was possible to be. She began scrambling up the rough track to her car just as the rain started. By the time she reached Correy House, it was pouring down. She left her car at the front and went in, and upstairs to take off her soaking coat. The landing was dark and full of shadows, and she reached the top of the stairs and heard a door creak—and stood still, heart thumping. 'Gar?' 'Yes?' He appeared silently and stood there, looking at her. 'Oh. I heard a sound—I thought you were still at the little house -' she began, confused. 'No, I have been back a while. I came up to see where you were— and got no answer when I called you.' There was. some subtle atmosphere, almost a waiting, as if he would say more, then Gemma knew what it was. She made as if to go past him, and he said: 'You have been working hard.' 'Have you been in my room?' She turned on him, half angry, half frightened. 'Yes. Forgive me—I thought when there was no reply that you might be lying down, not well. So I went in—I knocked several times first -' 'I'm fine, I thought that was obvious -'

'And I could not help seeing the picture.' She didn't want to hear any more. Her cheeks burned in the darkness. She turned away from him and walked towards her room, but he came after her. 'May I see it again?' 'No.' She waited outside the closed door and stared at him, willing him to go away, remembering their fight only yards away when she had first arrived; 'It isn't finished yet.' There were no lights on, and she couldn't see him properly, only as a shadowy figure, but she felt his presence so strongly that she wanted to push him away. 'I appreciate that. It was a point I wanted to make to you about the background -' 'I don't need,' she said faintly, 'any advice from you—thank you.' She was finding it difficult to get her breath. 'Do you know that you have painted yourself -' 'It's nothing to do -' she began, and he cut in: 'It is interesting, is it not? Especially when I see the man's face as well -' Gemma opened her door and went in, hardly caring any more. Just not wanting to hear the words. And his hand went out to hold the door, to stop her closing it on him, and there was an inexorable quality to his movements, as if he intended to have his say, and nothing would stop him. Then he was inside the room. Gemma whirled round on him. 'Will you please go?' she demanded.

'Why are you so angry?' But the dark hidden amusement on his face told her that he already knew. 'I couldn't help noticing the likeness in both faces——' 'So?' Once a situation had become impossible the only thing to do was brazen it out. She faced him, head tilted back, chin lifted defiantly. 'You thought it was like you?' She managed a scornful laugh, by some miracle. 'Heavens, you flatter yourself! I've a few standard models of hero for my covers—that happens to be one of them. I'm sorry if you think .I've painted you, but I can assure you -' 'Then you too noticed it? Yes, I see.' It was there again, that allknowing 'I see', that had the power to infuriate her. 'You don't see at all,' she snapped. 'I guessed what you were going to say, that's all -' 'And you didn't like it? Perhaps you too had a surprise when you saw what you had painted? Is that why you went out in the rain?' 'It wasn't raining when I went out,' she began, and stopped. She saw the maddening grin on his face, and somehow she knew she'd managed to give herself away. 'I don't have to explain my movements to you,' she said stiffly. 'Of course not!' Gar sounded faintly surprised. 'Nor do you have to be so upset at my comments on your excellent painting. Believe me, it is superb, and I would not in any way attempt to criticise it -' and he looked across the room towards it. Although at an angle to the window, it was plainly in view. Gemma had the absurd desire to go and stand in front of it and block his view, but that would probably have had him choking with laughter. 'The point I wished to make was—excuse me- -' and he stepped neatly past her and over to it, and stood in front looking. Gemma followed him. There was one

shattered remnant of her dignity left. Before he could speak, she said quickly: 'Oh, I do see what you could mean. There is a faint resemblance— what a coincidence!' She hid a yawn. 'What did you want to say about the background?' He pointed to the pencilled outline of the castle. 'It is too far away— if perhaps you could make it a little nearer, to avoid the horizon behind him, it would accentuate the shadows of it all—do you see what I mean?' 'Perfectly, and I'll bear it in mind.' It was quite a good observation to make, and she nodded briskly. 'If you'll excuse me, I'll do a little more, and then go down and prepare dinner fot us tonight -' 'No need It is taken care of. I took a chicken from the freezer—that is why I came in to the house, to put it on to cook.' 'Oh, but I was going to cook the meal -' she began. 'Then perhaps tomorrow? You did not say, so I assumed I would be doing it -' 'But you're working at the little house -' 'And you are also busy, painting, no?' he said, amused. 'That is equally important.' And he looked again at it, and smiled. 'When this is finished, and used, what happens to it?' Gemma was taken by surprise by his question. 'To the painting? It's kept at the publishers'. Why?' 'I would like to buy it.' She was even more stunned by that. 'But—I—why do you want it?'

'Why do you think? . Because I am flattered——'I've told you -' she began, temper rising mercurially. 'Yes, I know, it is not me, of course—only it looks like it— 'You're stupid!' she burst out. 'And conceited!' 'Yes, perhaps,' he shrugged. 'But then it isn't every day I have my likeness painted, especially when it is done from memory.' 'Leave my room at once!' she demanded. 'I don't have to listen to your idiotic suppositions -' Gar did a strange thing. He put his hand up to touch her face. 'Why don't you relax, little wildcat?' he said quite gently. 'Because you are getting in a temper and you are not strong enough -' She knocked his hand away. 'Don't touch me!' She saw his eyes narrow. 'Very well, I won't. I'll leave you alone to your painting, and your thoughts. Perhaps one day, before it is too late, you will learn to be human.' And with those cryptic words, he went out. Gemma, alone, went to the window and' looked outside. She felt as exhausted as if she had just run a long distance.

Later, when Grandma Logie telephoned, it was as though Gemma had known all along what she was going to say. Gar took the call, for it was before dinner, and Gemma was still at her painting, touching in the dark castle background. She had expected, after the upset of the afternoon, that it would not come easily. But it was as if her brush was touched with magic. Nothing could go wrong. It was quite simply the best work she had ever done—or probably ever would.

She heard the telephone shrill, but the sound hardly impinged on her consciousness, so engrossed was she. Gar's voice brought her back from her stormy castle and she put down her brushes. 'Yes?' 'Your grandmother on the phone. Will you take it up there?' 'Yes.' She wiped paint-smeared fingers on her smock and picked up the receiver on the landing, hearing the click as Gar replaced the one in the hall. 'Grandma? How are you?' 'I'm fine, love, just fine—er—how are you and Gar getting on?' It was hardly the most easy question to answer, and Gemma cleared her throat. 'Everything's okay here, Grandma. I've nearly finished a painting, and he and Finlay are working hard at the house—' 'I'm so glad! Only you see, dear, Helen isn't at all well, and I -' The old lady's voice faltered, and Gemma knew that wistful hesitation of old. It was her cue to interrupt, to say, 'But of course you must stay a while longer.' But Gemma, for the life of her, could not. 'Hadn't she better get the doctor?' she asked, hating herself. 'Oh, she has! There's not much physically wrong, you understand— she's very lonely -' 'Why don't you bring her back here for a visit?' Gemma said desperately. 'She'd love to, but she's got five cats, as you know, and she wouldn't leave them—oh, dear me -'

Five cats, thought Gemma. That's all I need. We've got three wild ones here and they're less trouble. 'But, Grandma,' she said, 'you told me you'd only be away for a few days -' She was tinglingly aware that Gar could well be standing in the hall listening to every word she said. She lowered her voice. 'I came to visit you-— ' Can't hear you, love. Speak up.' 'I said—oh, never mind—when will you be back?' 'I'll call you again in a day or two. I'm so pleased your painting is going so well—Gar told me how good it was—oops! Must go— Jessie's just serving up dinner. She and James are having a lovely time, lots of friends to visit—I didn't tell you, did I, that she knows loads of people in Stirling? And it's so much nicer weather here, not raining or anything. You must wrap up warmly, you know, dear, don't want you catching cold—' 'But when,' Gemma interrupted the flow of oratory, 'will you be coming home?' 'You know, I can hardly hear you. Isn't the line terrible? Jessie sends her love—oh, I forgot to call Mrs Monroe from the village—if you want her she's in the book. I'll ring you as soon as I can. I really must go now. Don't forget to show me the painting—'bye, dear.' The line was abruptly dead, and Gemma held the receiver and stared at it—and realised that she didn't even know her grandmother's number in Stirling. There was a funny side to the situation, but just at that moment, Gemma was in no mood to see it. She felt completely helpless, and it wasn't a pleasant sensation. She was used to being in control of events, and now, just at the moment, she felt as if she were on shifting sand, unsure which way to turn for safety. That was painting finished for the day. The mood was completely shattered. Gemma walked slowly back to her room, and took off her

smock. Then she went down to the small library to search for a book to read. It was there that Gar found her a short while later. 'I was calling you,' he said. 'Did you not hear me?' Gemma closed the book she had been looking at. 'No,' she answered briefly, 'I didn't. Is dinner ready?' 'It is, as a matter of fact. I've served it in the kitchen. It's warmer there—I trust you don't mind?' His eyes said it for him; you can like it or lump it; or whatever term was equivalent in Hungarian. 'Of course I don't. And I'll do all the meals tomorrow.' 'As you wish. Can you cook?' 'Of course I can!' 'I did not mean it insultingly,' he said in mock- soothing tones. 'Well, that's how it sounded.' It was no use—it was happening again. Gemma took a deep breath. 'You'll see tomorrow, won't you? Do you like pork?' He shrugged. 'I like anything. Shall we eat before it gets cold?' 'Yes.' He held the door open for her and she walked out holding the book. 'And after dinner, we will work in the house, yes?' 'On the antiques?' 'Of course.' 'As you wish.' She borrowed his expression.

'Unless you have to finish your painting?' 'I've done all I want to for one day. I'll do that in the morning.' 'And then send it off to London?' They were entering the kitchen and Gemma saw the neatly set out table, the roaring fire, heard the rain lashing on the windows and thought: with anyone else this would be lovely. The room was warm, making the outside seem alien and cold, the ceiling light cast a bright orange glow round the room, setting the cutlery agleam, and the wine glasses on the table. 'Yes, I'll send it off to London. Shall I help you?' 'No. Sit down, please. All is ready.' He produced two plates from the grill where they had presumably been kept warm and set them on the table. There was chicken, roast potatoes, peas and carrots^ stuffing and rich gravy—a mouthwatering sight, and Gemma had to acknowledge it. Gar nodded. 'Yes, I thought I would try some English cooking today—or should I say Scottish?' he grinned disarmingly, then looked at the book she^ had casually discarded on a chair. 'I see you are interested in my country. That is good.' She really didn't know what he meant. She had picked the book from a shelf and opened it, but hadn't really seen any words because she had still been too shaken after the telephone call. She looked at it, saw the title, and inwardly groaned. Life in Hungary, it said, and he would never believe her if she told the truth. There would be that mocking half smile again, the knowing eyes. 'I read a lot,' she said, 'on. most subjects. That was jutting out slightly from the shelf -' that was true.

'Had you been looking at it?' 'No.' He seemed surprised. 'I have not been in the library before. Eat your food—please. Before it gets cold. Then you can get back to your reading.' 'I thought we were going round valuing the antiques?' 'Not if you are tired. Painting is tiring, is it not?' 'Usually.' Gemma wanted to get off that subject. 'But I'm wide awake this evening. Did—did the work go well with Finlay today?' 'Oh yes. Tomorrow he brings a cousin of his from a nearby village. That way we will be done quicker.' That was good news. It would be too much of a miracle to hope he would be finished and away soon, but at least work was progressing. 'Then I'd better fetch tea out for you mid-morning,' she said. 'It seems hardly fair to let you keep stopping for a small chore like that.' 'That is kind of you.' He sounded almost as if he meant it. Gemma bent to her food, slightly confused. She knew where she was with him when he was being arrogant—she didn't know how to cope with the charming Gar. 'Wine?' He brought a bottle from the refrigerator and looked at Gemma.. 'Please.' She watched him pour it out into the glasses, his hand steady and strong, a large tanned hand with dark hairs on the back, and a gold watch on his wrist that gleamed softly in the light. He kept his nails very short, and his fingers were long and capable; and they held me, she thought—and nearly choked on a piece of chicken.

'Are you all right?' Gemma looked up through watering eyes. 'Yes,' she gasped. 'I swallowed the wrong way, that's all. It's gone now.' She sipped some of the sparkling white wine, which was dry and pleasant. 'That's better.' He sat down again, and they ate in silence. The fire sparked and crackled, and outside the 'rain lashed down ceaselessly, and somehow, in that warm room, with the wine inside her, Gemma felt unaccountably sad. It was as if she caught a glimpse of another life, a world in which there could be joy, and tenderness, and laughter. She picked up her glass and swallowed the rest of the wine, and it didn't help, it only made things worse. 'More wine?' 'Yes—no-—' she held up her glass. 'Yes, please.' She had to blink, because just for that moment the room had gone blurred. She saw that Gar was regarding her thoughtfully, and his expression was serious, not mocking, nor arrogant, nor smiling, but as if he guessed her mood. She looked away towards the fire. She didn't want him looking at her at all, but especially not in that way. 'Is the meal not to your liking?' 'Yes, of course.' Leave me alone, she wanted to cry. Just leave me alone. 'Excuse me—I must—-—' She stood up and turned away, and heard his chair scrape back as he began: 'Gemma, what is it?' 'Nothing. A hanky -' She turned and ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs to her room. Safely inside in the darkness, she leant against the door. What's happening to me? she thought. What's the matter with me? She put her hand to her mouth. She knew. In that

glimpse of a world of warmth, there in the kitchen, she had suddenly caught hold of a dream that had haunted her for years, never remembered before —until that mornent, and jt was like a shock of recognition. In the dream, scarcely recalled upon waking, but now Suddenly vivid and real, she was there in a warm room with a man, eating a meal, with a sense of Tightness and security, the kind of feeling that is hard to capture by choice, but it can happen in the twilight plane of dreams and leave a warm afterglow. And there, just for a moment, she had glimpsed it, in the kitchen of Correy House, and it had frightened and surprised her. She went to sit down on the bed, still shaken by what had happened both mentally and physically. A realist, Gemma was too down-toearth to give herself to vague imaginings—but that had been too real for comfort. 'She stood and went to her chest of drawers for a handkerchief, making a strong effort to pull herself together. She must go down again 'Axe you ill?' Gar's voice from the doorway made her jump. The room was still dark, so he could not possibly see her face. 'No. I came up for a hanky—I told you.' She forced her voice to appear normal. 'Then why in the darkness?' He was outlined in the light from the corridor, but he made no attempt to switch the light on. 'I—I know where they are. I'm c-coming down in a moment.' He walked in, the tall silent shadowy shape, and walked over to her. 'You are crying.' It was a statement, not a question. 'No, I'm not.' But there was no fight in her. She stood there trembling.

'Shall I put the light on ?' 'No.' She swallowed. 'Please go away.' 'No. Not until I know what is the matter with you.' 'You're making something out of nothing. I've already told you, I'm --' His hand was on her cheek, his fingers touched beneath her eyes, and she heard his indrawn breath. 'Did I do this to you? Tell me.' 'No.' It was useless to try and lie. And somehow, at that moment, she didn't want to. 'I've had a certain dream for years—and something, when we were in the kitchen, made me remember it. That's all, I promise you.' 'And it is a sad dream, yes?' 'Not—perhaps, in that way—I don't know. I'm confused. Please let me be. I'll come down in a minute, I promise you.' 'What was the dream?' 'I don't want to tell you.' She shook her head softly. 'Then I shall not ask you again. I am sorry. Shall I bring your wine up here and you can drink it alone?' Could this be Gar? Was it really him speaking? 'No, thanks. I'll— I'll—' she stopped. Gar took her in his arms as if she were a child, and held her, and she felt his strength, as though it flowed through her, and the tears poured down her cheeks and she couldn't stop them. Sadness overwhelmed her, and with it came something else, equally overwhelming, and she stood there, and gradually was

soothed. But when she tried to move away, because now she knew what that other sensation was, he released her, equally gently. 'You are better?' 'Yes, thank you. Give me a minute to wash my face -' 'Of course.' He melted out like a shadow, and she was alone. And now she truly knew what it was that she felt, and had resisted for so long. She knew that Gar was the man in her dream.

CHAPTER SEVEN GEMMA walked softly through the night house like a ghost, her feet silent on the thick carpets; hearing the rain drumming against the windows—and the dream haunted her, the memories of it returning, desperately though she tried to forget. The rain was a rhythm in her head, an insistent beat that seemed to fill the house. That was why she could not sleep. At least that was what she had told herself when, after lying wide awake for over two hours, she had decided to go down, find herself something to read, and make a warm drink. Gar slept. There had been no sound from his room when she had passed it, and she had been as quiet as any mouse walking along, down the stairs, and now into the library. Here she dared to switch on a light, once she had closed the door. She pulled her housecoat more tightly around her, for there ^as no heat in the room, and she felt suddenly cold. She picked out a book of poems and a dictionary of quotations and went out to the kitchen. Although the fire was dying down, the room was warm and welcoming. Gemma bent to put a few pieces of coal to revive the glowing embers, then filled the kettle and lit the gas. She looked around her, then she saw the unfinished bottle of wine on the table. She switched off the kettle, picked up the bottle, and poured out a glassful, not sure why she was doing it, for she drank little, and rarely, but at that moment she needed something, and, she reasoned, it might help her to sleep. She sat down and opened the book of quotations, a sure-fire way to forget all that troubled her, for it was always easy to get lost in the words of centuries, to pause, to remember half-forgotten poems and lines from childhood, to browse. The wine was pleasant enough; she sipped it, leafed through the papers, and the fire caught the new coal and grew warmer, and Gemma, for the first time in hours, felt herself relax. In a few minutes she would go to bed, because coming

down had done the trick. She would sleep. And in the morning she would try and finish her picture, and send it off, feed the cats, prepare the meals—it all jumbled up into a pleasant mixture. Then that would be another day gone, another twenty-four hours lived through, and the sooner Grandma would return—and then, soon, she would go. And perhaps, perhaps, she would forget the man who so disturbed her. Some of the wine spilled, and Gemma sat up with a start, aware that she had been nearly asleep. It was time to go. She stood up to put the fireguard in front of the fire, and finish her wine, put the book down. With the light off, she turned for a last look at the room. Gas off, fire safe, clock on the mantelpiece preparing itself to chime one, house about to go to sleep again. She turned and cannoned into Gar, who had come up and was standing silently in the passage. 'I thought you were an intruder,' he said, and steadied her. 'Oh!' The shock was great. She was wide awake instantly, 'I— couldn't sleep—I came down to read -' 'I'm sorry. Have I frightened you?' 'No.' But he had. She could feel her increased heartbeats, the lightness in her head—and she; was afraid of him, because as they stood there in the darkness and silence of the old house, the tension, the undercurrents, were there again, filling her, surrounding them like a mist. 'Let me go,' she said, and he did. 'I thought you would fall.' 'I'm going to bed now.' She felt as though she was babbling. 'I have to be up early in the morning—I have a lot to do -'

'Yes,' he said. 'I know- -' 'Please let me pass -' 'Are you sure you are all right?' 'Of course.' But she wasn't. If only she had been quieter—but she hadn't made a sound. 'How did you know someone was down here? I was careful not to make any noise -' 'I don't know. Something woke me, that's all. Even had I known it was you, I would, still have come down——' 'Why?' she cut in. 'I'm old enough to -' 'But earlier, after dinner, you weren't yourself. You were upset——' 'I'd rather not talk about it,' she breathed, 'if you don't mind. It was nothing, just too much wine -' 'But you drank very little,' he said, and he seemed puzzled, if not concerned. 'I don't like drink very much. Perhaps it didn't suit me.' 'You should have said.' He seemed almost amused. 'Well, I just did—please -' 'Then why have you just had more?' 'How did you -' She stopped. Perhaps it was obvious. 'I thought it might make me sleepy—and it has, so if you'll let me pass -'

'Of course. Now it is I who am awake. Perhaps I should have a glass too.' 'I'm sorry I woke you. I didn't intend to, but yes, there's some left in the bottle. It's on the table in the kitchen.' Gar stood to one side to let Gemma pass, and she looked up at him. His face was a shadowy blur in the dimness. 'Yes,' he said. 'I will.' And suddenly everything was changed. The atmosphere was charged as if with electricity that crackled round them. She took a deep breath. 'Goodnight,' she said. 'Goodnight—Gemma.' He knew. Whatever it was she felt, he was aware of it too, for he moved suddenly away from her, and Gemma turned and ran.

She thought she would sleep late, but she was awake at seven and feeling tired and out of sorts, she washed and pressed and went downstairs. The kitchen was cold and grey, a different room from just a few hours previously. Shivering, Gemma lit the gas and filled the kettle. She had a headache, she had slept badly, and she wished she were anywhere but at Correy House. She made a pot of tea and plugged in the toaster, thinking longingly of the warm bed: she had just left which now seemed tempting. 'Good morning, Gemma.' She turned to see Gar standing in the doorway and her heart skipped a beat. 'Good morning.' He looked as if he had slept even more badly than she had, which shouldn't have made her feel better but did, slightly. 'I've just made tea. Ill pour some out. Do you want toast?'

'No, thank you. Just tea.' He feat down at the table, and she noticed that he hadn't shaved. The dark bearded cheeks and chin served to make him look more gypsyish than ever. 'Are you all right?' she said. Gar looked as she handed him the beaker of tea. 'Thank you. Yes, why do you ask?' 'You look as if you're not very well.' 'I am never ill,' he said, with flat finality. 'I slept badly, that is all. The rain kept me awake.' Gemma turned away to put bread in the toaster. His tone was dismissive, with that trace of arrogance that made her nerve ends tingle. So you don't want to talk, she thought, and that suits me fine because I'm not in the mood for much this morning, and she picked the hot toast up and went to butter it. She didn't want to sit at the table with him, but there was no choice. When the silence stretched to breaking point and Gemma could stand it no longer, she said : rWhat time do you want your morning cup of tea?' 'I will make it. There will be three of us today,' Gar said as he stood up to pour himself out more tea. 'I know. Three cups is no more trouble than two,' she answered. 'You have your painting to do -' 'I know that too. But I've said I'll do all the meals today, and I will,' she said. 'So I'll bring the tea out at eleven.' And she bit into her toast as if that was the subject closed. 'You didn't come here to make tea,' he said. 'I'm perfectly capable -'

'What's the matter?' she burst out. 'Do I make it that badly?' She should have been delighted, but perversely she was annoyed at his tone. He put his beaker down on the table and sat down. 'No,' he said, as if considering the question! 'But you want to finish your work, do you not?' 'Yes, And I will, don't worry -' 'I am well aware of that. So I will make our tea. You can do the lunch and dinner.' 'I don't really care,' she said. 'Let's get that straight. Do your own tea, then. And this afternoon too. And I can get on with what I came to do.' She stared at him and a pang smote her. He really didn't look very well at all. 'You know,' she added, not sure why she should speak so, 'you can take the morning off if you want. Finlay is a hard worker, he -' 'Thank you for your concern, but I suggest you save it for yourself. After all, it is you who cannot get to sleep at night, isn't it?' The sarcasm was what she had been used to. She took a deep breath. There was nothing much wrong with him! Her sympathy evaporated. 'I'm sorry I spoke,' she snapped, childishly she knew. He didn't answer. He looked at her instead. Level glance from under thick level brows, eyes dark, fathomless, his wide mouth set in a straight line, high cheekbones finely etched, shadowed. She was suddenly aware of the power of the man, of the sheer vibrant strength that filled him. It seemed too, suddenly, as if he had been in her life for a long time—but that was impossible. And Gemma, no longer able to stand his gaze, turned her face away, and looked out of the window. She had never been so confused before. The toast no

longer appealed. She doubted if she would be able to swallow it any way. She stood and went to the sink, taking her plate and cup with her. Then she walked out of the kitchen and went upstairs to her room. She hadn't looked at the picture at all since the previous day. She had turned it on the easel to face the corner, and now at least, as she turned it round towards the light, she knew what to expect. But it was still a shock to see the two familiar faces looking put at her from the canvas—to feel as if they knew. She caught her breath again at the sheer rightness of it. There was no way in which she could change it. She picked up her palette and began to squeeze on the poster paints for the background—the greys, blues and blacks which would complete the picture. Then she donned her smock and began to work. Once begun, time lost all meaning, as it always did, and she had set her alarm clock to ring at eleven so that she might prepare lunch. Its shrill ring brought her back to earth with a shock, and she looked at her watch in disbelief. Three and a half hours had passed since she had begun— and it was almost complete. She put down her palette and stretched herself, wincing slightly at the pain in her shoulder—she had forgotten about it. She had forgotten everything in the sheer joy of putting paint to canvas—even, for a moment, why she had set the alarm in the first place. Lunch—that was it. She was to prepare the lunch for them both. She took her smock off and went down to do so.

It was on Friday that Marjie's answering letter came. Gemma, who had gone down to the village for bread, called in at the post office

for stamps and was handed an envelope by Mrs Murchison, the postmistress. 'I was going to give it to Finlay,' she said, bright blue eyes regarding Gemma with curiosity, 'for the postman is away sick, and Finlay is up at your grandma's wee house, is he not?' Gemma sensed what would be next, and longed to escape. So little happened in the village that speculation must be rife concerning the mysterious Hungarian at Correy House. And without doubt, everyone, but everyone, would know that Grandma Logie was away. 'That's kind of you, Mrs Murchison,' she said, giving the little woman a brilliant smile. 'I hope it's nothing serious with Tom?' 'Och no, a bad back.' She sniffed, implying malingering on Tom's part. 'Oh dear—er—I need a few stamps -' Gemma began to fumble in her purse. 'My parcel went off all right, did it?' 'Aye, it's safely away to London. A painting, was it? You've been busy, then?' 'Oh yes,' agreed Gemma. 'I'm painting all the time. It's so quiet at Correy House. The perfect atmosphere to work in. -' She watched as the little woman began counting stamps from the sheet to the value of Gemma's proffered pound note. Hurry up, she prayed 'Och, there now, I nearly forgot. There's another letter—for a Mr Anders -' a small, significant pause, not quite a sniff, but implied. 'He'll be there too now, won't he?' 'Ah, yes,' said Gemma brightly. 'Shall I take it?'

'If you will be so kind -' Another woman entered the shop, and Mrs Murchison sighed, and Gemma smiled her smile of relief as she bade the woman good morning. The letter and stamps were handed over and Gemma escaped, fully aware that she would be the sole topic of conversation the minute she had closed the door. She got into her car, slammed the door, put the letters and stamps on the seat beside her, and started the engine. Once out of sight of the village she pulled up in a passing place. For some reason she could not explain to herself, she felt shaken by her visit to the post office. Yet, as she sat there, she began to realise what, it was. And that was even more something to ponder over. In London, life was so impersonal— here, it was like being drawn into a net the minute you arrived. Everyone's life was everyone else's business, it was a simple .fact that people either accepted— or left. And I'm part of it in a way, Gemma thought, as she sat there, staring out through the windscreen, fingers tapping the wheel. While I'm here, I'm part of it, because to me this is like coming home. She looked down at the letters, and picked up Gar's. No need to guess who had sent it, for the elegant scrawl on the back of the violet envelope told her. She wondered what Madame Fevrier should find to write about to Gar—whether in fact he had written to her first, then decided that it was none of her business anyway and put the letter down. She sighed. The last two days had been nerve- racking. They had scarcely spoken to each other—if only the postmistress, with all her speculations, knew that. And in a way, Gemma knew, it was all connected with the incidents on Tuesday evening. Since then, something—everything—had changed. Gar had become like a stranger. It was as simple as that. Polite, but distant. Which was exactly what she should have preferred—but she didn't. She had started another painting the previous day, and it was going all

wrong. She thought about it now, and gave a little sigh, and opened Marjie's letter. Marjie never minced her words, and she didn't do so now. 'My dear Gemma,' Gemma read bemused, 'where did you find this one? Wow—don't let him go, for heaven's sake, or if you do, can I have him, please? I'm enclosing detailed analysis of his handwriting on a separate sheet in case you want to show him, though your letter was remarkably reticent. No details, no nothing. It's hardly fair to keep your loyal chum guessing like this, though on second thoughts—I can see why! Give me a ring when you get back to London and tell me all!' The letter continued for another page with items of gossip concerning mutual friends, and when she had read it, Gemma picked up the separate typed sheet. It only confirmed what she had already sensed, already knew in her heart, about Gar. It, was strange to see it in black and white, though. Like reading into the secret parts of another person's mind. The words came from the page with all the clarity of Marjie's assessment—'great strength of character as shown in the strong pressure of pen to paper—aggressiveness—self-confidence—a person who knows what he wants, intends to get it, and seldom fails—compassion—deep loyalty -' Gemma stopped reading and looked out of the window with unseeing eyes, recalling the way Gar had rescued a starling from the chimney, the way he would feed the wildcats. She went back to the sheet of paper. 'A certain streak of ruthlessness is softened by the lines indicating sympathy -' Sympathy? Gar? And yet, Gemma supposed, remembering the incident that covered both those points, Marjie could be correct. He had been ruthless with the two tinkers—but afterwards, in the bathroom, and in Gemma's room, there had been nothing ruthless then. What was it he had said? 'You are safer with me now -' Her breath caught in her throat at the memory of his touch.

And that other evening, when, upon remembering her dream of years, and being unaccountably sad, he had comforted her—she closed her eyes. No, she thought, all that is changed now. She looked down at the sheet of paper again. Something was missing. It didn't say that he was a Jekyll and Hyde character. Perhaps that didn't show in his writing. She put the letter down and started the car to go back to Correy House.

A cold sunny October afternoon, and Gemma knew she could do no painting that day. She put down her sketch pad and 'looked out of the window, remembering lunch. Gar had been most silent, thanking her briefly for the letter, and then continuing to read the morning's paper which she had also taken back with her. Now she was back in her room, ostensibly to spend the afternoon at work—but it was impossible. She had a choice of book covers, and a list of them in her bag, and her mind was a blank. She opened her bag, found the list and took it out, her eyes skimming down the lines; book titles followed by a brief description of contents. Then she paused and blinked anil read something again. 'Title, The Golden Wildcat,' she read, 'historical romance set in 1750s in Hebrides -' She stopped. 'I don't believe it,' she said out loud. She looked again at the list, wondering how she could have missed it before. Yet she already knew. She had been so engrossed in the cover she had just finished that she had scarcely glanced at her list, or taken in its contents before. That was it! She looked out of the window at the watery sun slanting through the high trees and saw in her mind's eye the completed picture. But first she had to telephone London to confirm, to check something. She was alone in the house. Gar was back at work with Finlay and Douggie, and everywhere was silent.

She was through to Pamela within half a minute of dialling, and told her briefly what she needed to know. Pamela, the assistant, who had everything at her fingertips, didn't keep Gemma waiting long. 'Hold on, Gemma—yes, here it is. You want me to read details of the book to you? Not having problems?' 'No, I just want to check something.' 'Okay. Here goes -' she began to rattle off plot details of The Golden Wildcat, and Gemma listened, a tingle of excitement growing within her as she heard the words confirming the idea, so fleeting before, that was now becoming more real every moment. 'Thanks, Pam, you're an angel. That's just what I wanted to know— only we've got a family of wildcats here that I've been feeding— everything will fit in superbly. Incidentally, I sent off a painting yesterday. I think you'll like it -' She paused, wondering if Pamela would recognise who the girl on the horse was. She undoubtedly would. 'That's super. We'll get it Monday, I hope. Keep at it.' 'I will. 'Bye.' She hung up. And now she knew how she was going to spend the rest of the afternoon. Methodically Gemma began to gather together all the things she needed—sketchpad, several pencils, black fibre-tipped pen, camera, coat, outdoor shoes. That was all from here. One final item from the kitchen— food for her wildcat family. Lighter of heart than she had been for days, she went downstairs.

She knew the rules. Feed them only once a day, and then they wouldn't depend on her too much. But this was an exception, and if it worked, she would have her rough sketches—and possibly a

photograph to work from. The background was decided as well: her quiet spot on the shore, where the misty Cuillins melted into the sea. She could almost see the finished picture now. Gemma sat very still and patiently in her hidden vantage point—and began the long wait. The food was set out. Cold pork, some fish she had found in the freezer, and, mentally apologising to Jessie for the theft, had rapidly thawed out and partially cooked— and the contents of a tin of sardines, a brilliant afterthought, for they were decidedly aromatic and she could smell them from her hide in the bushes. While she waited she begun to sketch the background she intended to use from memory. A girl standing on the shore, looking out to sea, a girl with long flowing hair and cloak watched with, cold eyes by a wildcat in right foreground. Misty mountains in the distance, a sketching of sea, rocks, shore—it began to take shape as her pencil brushed in the faint lines on the thick cartridge paper of her sketchpad—and she knew this was going to be another good one. No problems of the hero's face this time either, for the only two figures were girl and cat. Cat! The slight sound sent a tingle of anticipation ' up her spine and holding her breath, she quickly turned over the page—and waited. The camera was ready, on the ground in front of her, her pencil was poised—and the first wildcat appeared. It was the ginger one she had seen outside the small house the very first time. It sniffed the air delicately, head turning, seeking out any threats before going over to the sardines and beginning to eat. Gemma's pencil moved quickly; she was engrossed, not waiting to see the rest of the family in her haste to get down on paper all the essential touches that would be difficult to remember. There was a certain elegance about the feline shape that appealed to the artist in her, a delicacy of movement as he ate. The other two arrived, but Gemma had what she needed and concentrated solely on him.

It was then, as she was about to pick up her camera that she saw that the kitten was limping. Its left front paw looked crooked as if broken, and a wave of sympathy and pity overwhelmed her. She didn't think about what she was doing—she just did it. She went forward, out of her shelter, to pick the kitten up, to help it, to see— But she should have known. There was one moment pi stillness, of poised-for-flight stillness, then the world erupted into a mass of violence, of spitting fury as the father wildcat leapt for her, a bundle of muscle, fur—and sharp claws. Gemma screamed, seeing the red, swelling furrows on her hands, turning to escape, lashing out blindly— then it was all over. Three creatures vanished into the bushes and she looked at her wrists and hands and saw the deep scratches, and she felt sick. 'Oh, God,' she whispered, fighting the desire to faint, feeling weak, knowing she must get back to the house and cleanse the scratches 'Gemma—what -' Gar was suddenly there. There was blood on her sketch, she noticed that, noticed too, the dark, utter blankness, then, as realisation dawned: 'Oh no—you didn't try to touch one, did you?' 'I—the kitten was limping——' She began to shiver. He was holding her hands, looking at them. 'You fool! They could have gone for your face. You stupid blind fool-—' 'Leave me alone! I know that now, don't I? Do you think I need you to tell me anything? It was, my own fault entirely, okay, so I've said it for you -' She stopped. 'We go back to the house now and get those cleaned. Do you not think I have enough to do without acting as nurse for you every time you get into trouble? What next, I -'

She pulled herself free. 'Then don't. I can manage, thank you. I must take my sketches and camera back to the house—' 'Damn those. They can wait. You can't——' 'I said I'm going to take them -' She turned away, bent to pick them up and nearly fell over as dizziness overwhelmed her. The next moment Gar had picked her up and was carrying her back to the house.

'Now you will sit perfectly still. And when your scratches are clean you are going to the doctor for an anti-tetanus injection -' 'Oh no—they'll want to know how, don't you see? They'll ask. I can't tell them- -' Gemma faltered. 'And besides—' she stopped. 'Then you'll have to lie, won't you? But you're going even if I have to knock you out and take you -' 'You wouldn't dare!' His eyes gleamed darkly. 'Would I not? You will see -' 'I'll be all right. The antiseptic is stinging like mad —ouch! That's always a good sign -' She winced again. There was nothing gentle about his touch this time. They sat in the kitchen, Gemma at the table, and a bowl of TCP and water was rapidly growing pinker as Gar applied the moistened cotton wool repeatedly and thoroughly to each scratch.

'Perhaps.' He pressed the cotton wool down hard, then pulled her hand over the bowl and dripped the antiseptic solution over her entire hand. 'We are still going.' 'But I- -' She bit her lip. How could she tell him? He paused in his task and looked at her. 'No, I don't believe it! You are frightened of a needle?' Now his eyes gleamed with something other than anger. Gemma snatched her hand away. 'Leave me alone!' That's enough. It's not that, only I -' 'Oh, but it is. I can see it on your face. You— frightened!' 'I can't help it,' she said defensively—and then he laughed He laughed. Gemma stood up. 'Oh!' she said. 'You—you -' She had had enough. First the cats, and now him. 'How dare you laugh at me!' 'But—forgive me—-' he was shaking—'I did not think anything could scare you.' 'Well, now you know,' she snapped. 'So go on, laugh your stupid head off. See if I care! But I'm npt going --' 'Oh yes, you are.' He stopped laughing. 'And now. Come.' He stood waiting for her to move. For a few moments they stared wordlessly at each other, and then Gemma turned away and walked over to the cooker. 'I'm going to have a cup of coffee,' she said 'Are you having -' 'Now, I said. The coffee will wait -' He was behind her, and it wasall suddenly as it always was, the prickling aggression in the air, the subtle build-up of tension—and he, waiting, like some tiger about to pounce.

'Make me,' she challenged. 'Touch me—once—and you'll regret it.' The atmosphere was electric, flowing round them in waves, and they might have been the only two people in the world. She turned to face him, slowly. Turned and looked at him, ignoring the pain in her hands, sensing his leashed strength but suddenly no longer afraid. Gar looked down at her, then down, down, as if sizing her up, and back to her face. Then he smiled, very slowly, and said: 'Just one more time I will ask you. Are you coming willingly with me or not?' 'No.' 'Very well.' He moved too quickly, far too quickly for Gemma to even guess his intention, picked her up in his arms and walked towards the door, and she was held in a grip of steel so that all her kicking and struggling were useless. 'You beast! Put me down—' she shouted. 'Oh! Oh!' 'Yes, when we are there—and you will have to tell me of course -' He hooked the door open with his foot and carried her outside and Gemma shouted: 'I'll never tell you -' 'Then I will have to ask, won't I? And I will tell everybody why you are having to go for the doctor.' He was walking towards the garage, seemingly unconcerned with her utter fury. He put her down by the door of his silver grey Citroen, holding her arm tightly as he opened the door. 'In you go—please. It is no use you fighting me, you know. I will always win. Just remember that.' He pushed her in, not unkindly, slammed the door, and went to his own side and got in. Seething, Gemma sat there looking straight ahead, Gar's words mocking her. 'I will always win.'

'I don't think I've ever disliked anyone as much as you,' she whispered, and stared wide-eyed at him. He paused with his hand on the ignition. 'There are not many things you do like,' he said softly. 'Only animals, perhaps. Do you think I am bothered by your words?' He looked at her. 'One day, one day, you will learn.' And with that he started the engine, leaving his words ringing in her ears like a warning.

CHAPTER EIGHT THEN it all changed. Friday evening, and Grandma Logie telephoned to say that she would come home the following day. The first, overwhelming sense of relief was followed by the thought: how do I explain the scratches away? Gemma looked at her hands and pulled a face. She put the telephone down and went back to the kitchen. It was dark. Gar had gone out an hour previously and Gemma hadn't asked him where he was going. She didn't care. She told herself she didn't care, but the question niggled at the back of her mind—where was there to go? She had a few books to read, the fire was warm, and the radio played softly in the background, and she gradually felt herself relax. A few more days, for politeness' sake—then she would escape, back to London. Gemma put her book down—she'd just read the same paragraph three times without a single word registering—and looked across the room. Soon it would be suppertime, and then bed—and she remembered her sketches and camera. They were still outside ! Without pausing to put on a coat, she ran out, along the path to the shrubbery, wishing briefly that she had brought a torch—but- she knew exactly where she had left her things. At least, she thought she did. She stood there, allowing her eyes to accustom themselves to the darkness, lit only fitfully by a pale sickle moon, and looked around her. The bush where she had hidden was there. The spot where sketchbook and camera had lain on the ground was here. The only trouble was, they weren't there any more. For a moment the absurd thought that the wildcats had crept back and stolen them flashed into her mind, and she stifled a laugh, then sobered. It was no joke. The camera was a Polaroid colour, with flashbulbs attached —but the sketch of the cat was even more important, for it was all she had.

Bending, Gemma felt around the ground gently, in one last vain hope, wary of her sore hands, still neatly bandaged. 'Now I know you English are truly mad!' Gar's voice nearly made her jump out of her skin. It came from somewhere out of sight and she looked round, seeking the dark shadow, and he moved towards her. 'You have come back for more?' he inquired dryly. 'I came to find my -' He didn't allow her to finish. 'Your camera? And your sketchpad? I have them, and your pencils . ' Gemma straightened up. 'Then why didn't you tell me? I—' 'Because I had a reason, and because I have something to show you. Come back to the house.' He stood waiting, the tall dark shadow of him now visible, and she saw the camera as he held it up. 'Come,' he said impatiently, 'for it grows colder, and you are foolish to come out without a coat, for the next thing you will have is pneumonia, and I am not a doctor --' 'My grandmother's coming home tomorrow, so your problems will be over,' she answered pleasantly. 'Because I'm going home as soon as I can.' But not before I've had a long talk with my dear grandmother, she added silently, for she didn't intend him to know that. 'Ah yes? Good.' Gar walked away, and she wasn't sure whether he meant good that she was going or good that Grandma Logie was returning. She had a shrewd idea it was both. . In the kitchen he put down the camera, sketchpad, and pencils on the table and then reached into his pocket. 'Do you wish to know where I was this evening?' he said, looking at her.

'No.' And she smiled. But she did. have been giving our wildcats their third meal of the day. Three I They will be getting fat and spoiled, _ won't they—and can you guess why?' Gemma looked at him blankly. It still didn't register. Then, as he carefully drew out of his pocket a photograph, it did. He handed it to her. And there he was. Ginger wildcat, her attacker, glaring at the camera, caught in the perfect pose for her bookcover, sideways, head turned, eyes gleaming, frozen in that instant of time, for ever. 'It's—perfect,' she whispered, forgetting the enmity, the bond of hate, forgetting everything at that moment save that Gar had captured for her the picture of a lifetime. 'Thank you very much.' Gar shrugged. 'Unfortunately he didn't wait for me to take another one—even though I asked him politely. He was gone before I had even pulled the film out of the camera. So, it pleases you?' 'Yes. Very much. I doubt if I could have got one as good.' 'Even had you not impulsively rushed forward to rescue the kitten? Yes, I doubt it too,' he said, and Gemma swallowed the retort and looked at the photograph instead. There was certainly nothing modest about him. 'And the kitten was there as well. He has hurt his leg, but they are very tough. It will heal. In a week or two you will see the difference.' In a week or two I won't be here, Gemma thought, and wondered why, inexplicably, the realisation brought with it an odd feeling of loneliness. 'I'm—glad about that,' she said. 'Of course it was stupid

of me to try and pick it up like that,' she was talking quickly, because the small ache in her heart disturbed her and if she ignored it, it would go away, 'but I just didn't think.' 'You are impulsive. One expects that in a woman.' All right, she thought. That's it. Time to go. In a minute we'll have a full-scale row going, because if he's going to lecture me about the faults in women—'Will you excuse me? I'd like to take these upstairs to my room. In the morning I'll start painting -' 'With your hand like that? You can paint?' She smiled sweetly. 'I assure you, nothing will stop me.' She picked up her things from th? table. 'Thank you again for all the trouble you've taken. Goodnight.' 'Goodnight, Gemma. Sleep well.' 'I'll try.' She walked out and left him in the kitchen. Tomorrow, two main tasks. Her painting—and a few questions for Grandma Logie.

'And your second painting is going well too? I'm delighted about that,' said Grandma Logie in a transparent effort at subject changing, at which she was adept, when she wanted to be. But she hadn't encountered Gemma at her most determined, and right now Gemma intended to find out all there was to know about Gar Anders, so that she could leave Correy House with an easy mind that Grandma wouldn't wake up one morning to find everything gone. Although, Gemma conceded briefly, considering I've been alone ill the house with him, and he could have knocked me on the head at any time and made off with anything he chose, and hasn't, he's perhaps not a villain after all—--but he was still very much a mystery man.

'Yes, Grandma, I'm glad you're pleased, and I'll certainly show it to you later, and 'I'm delighted that you've had a lovely visit—but now I want to know exactly who he is.' There was no point in mincing words. Grandma Logie could be so delightfully vague at times that she could skirt round a subject for hours. And Gemma didn't have the time to waste because it was late Saturday afternoon, one of the rare times when they could be sure of being undisturbed by the subject of the matter because he had gone out in his car—and because Gemma intended leaving Monday lunchtime. Grandma Logie sighed and looked wistfully at the fire. 'I've already told you,' she began. 'He's the grandson of an old friend——' The pause stretched out. 'And?' Gemma prompted. 'And what?' Innocent eyes looked at her. Innocent —but not so innocent. Could Grandma be ever so slightly embarrassed too?' Gemma sighed It was going to be one of those conversations. 'Who,' she asked slowly, 'is the old friend? Do I know her?' 'Him, dear,' prompted Grandma gently. 'It's a him.' 'Oh!' The old lady smiled at Gemma's face. 'Oh dear, it's no good, is it? You'd better pull your chair nearer the fire—and then, before you sit down, I want you to go up to the attic and get me a box from the bottom of the trunk by the window, underneath layers of clothes. Are you sure you can manage with those poor hands? You were very foolish, my dear, to try and touch one of those wildcats, though I'm not sure I'd not have done the same under the circumstances. How strange you should want to feed them—I did it myself years ago when I was first married, only I never dared tell anyone because

they'd have thought I was mad, and who knows? These cats could be direct descendants of the ones I used to look out for -' 'I know, love,' Gemma silenced her with a hug. 'I'm glad you care as well, and yes, my hands don't really hurt, and I'll go and get the box, because he might be back soon -' she went out. She ran upstairs and found the box exactly where her grandmother had said it would be, at the bottom of the trunk she and Gar had briefly looked at a lifetime ago. At least it seemed like a lifetime. There was a strong temptation to open it and peep, but Gemma resisted it and carried it down to the lounge and put it down on the low table in front of the old lady. Grandma Logie sighed and touched the cover of the box gently. 'Ah yes,' she said. 'It's many years now since I even- -' she looked up at Gemma, who was shocked to see tears in her grandmother's eyes. 'Oh, Grandma!'—Gemma's voice faltered. 'You mustn't—if it upsets you -' 'Tears of nostalgia!' said Grandma firmly. 'I'm a silly old woman,' she gave what could only be described as a brisk sniff, 'and if I care to enjoy a little cry now and again, I don't see why anyone should stop me. There!' She opened the box. It was full of letters —and something underneath, for which she searched, fingers probing gently amid the faded papers. 'Ah, yes.' She took out a photograph and handed it to Gemma. 'Look at that, my dear, and tell me if anything strikes you about it.' Gemma held the photograph carefully by the corners and did as her grandmother bade her. There, looking back at her, was a young man, strikingly dark features and eyes undimmed by the years. There was an arrogant set to the head, softened only by the half smile at his mouth—Gemma caught her breath. 'It— it could be Gar!? she whispered.

Grandma Logie nodded slowly as Gemma gazed wide-eyed at her. 'Oh yes,' she said. 'You see it too, do you? It could be—but it isn't. That's Gar's grand-, father.' There was a brief, pregnant pause. 'And when I was seventeen, I fell madly in love with him, and he with me.' Gemma wouldn't have spoken at that moment, even if she had been able to. She waited. Her grandmother's eyes had a faraway reminiscent look to them. She was somewhere—but it wasn't in that warm room at Correy House. 'It was when my father—your great great-grand- father—was First Secretary at the British Embassy in Budapest. Emil Anders—that was his name—was a young clerk on the staff. We used to meet whenever we could, and talked about getting married, until my mother found out—and then it was like the end of the world.' She paused and gave Gemma a sad little smile. 'Things were a lot different in those days, my dear. It wasn't the permissive age—Emil and I had done no more than hold hands, and exchange kisses—but you would have thought he was a vile seducer the way my mother, and then my father, carried on. He was banished from the Embassy, of course, dismissed instantly, and I was sent to Switzerland to a finishing school for young ladies. We managed to exchange letters for a while—but one day, his letters stopped abruptly, and I must confess I thought the worst. That was a bad time. I was nineteen, and as far as I was concerned, my life was over—I even contemplated going into a nunnery, for a while!' She gazed at Gemma fondly. 'Ah, but then, shortly afterwards, I was introduced to a very handsome young Scotsman, and somehow my ideas of a noble life of chastity faded. We were married soon afterwards and I loved him dearly—but I never forgot my first love. You never do, do you?'

Gemma shook her head. 'I don't know,' she said softly. 'I've never been in love.' She didn't see the look in her grandmother's eyes, a look of infinite compassion—and something more besides. Grandma Logie went on: 'That wasn't an end to the story, as I'm sure you can imagine.' 'I know,' answered Gemma. 'Tell me.' 'I had been widowed for two years—I'm going back now about—oh, let me see, twenty-five years—before you were born, my dear. I went to Paris with two friends, and one evening we went into a. famous restaurant—' she paused. 'And?' Gemma breathed. 'And it was like being transported back into the past. He was there— at least, for a minute, it seemed so. I was frightened that I was going mad—Hooked at this handsome young waiter who was serving us, and I thought I would faint. I was looking into Emil's eyes, seeing him again, exactly as he had been air those years before—and he was staring at me as if he recognised me too, that was the surprising thing. But of course it wasn't Emil. This man was- no more than forty, whereas Emil would have been in his early sixties. Yet I knew—so I asked him if his surname was Anders, not caring at my two friends' reactions. He said yes, and I asked him his father's Christian name, and of course it was Emil. He was the son of my first love.' 'Oh, Grandma,' said Gemma, 'please go on.' Grandma Logie gave her an infinitely sweet smile. 'That was the beginning of a friendship that lasted until recently when Laszlo was killed in a plane crash, only a year ago. I met him on his day off the following day and we talked and talked, and he told me all about his life in Hungary with his father and mother -'

'But -' Gemma began, too fascinated to resist, and her grandmother interrupted. 'Ah yes, I know what you are going to ask. Why had he stopped writing to me? Of course, that was what I wondered—but you see, Emil had been told I had got married in Switzerland. Who had told him such a lie? How can we know, after all these years? I can only guess—it was my parents.' 'Oh! How cruel,' whispered Gemma. 'It seems like that to us, I know, but they worked by a different standard in those days. They didn't want me marrying a penniless Hungarian—so they saw to it that I didn't. I dare say it was quite clear-cut to them, my dear.' She sighed. 'It's not, thank goodness, the same nowadays.' 'So you kept in touch with him?' Gemma asked softly. 'And Gar is his son.' 'Yes. He was a ten-year-old boy then—and more like Emil than his own father. They were living in Paris in a seedy apartment while Laszlo worked all hours as a waiter and tried to save money to start up his own business in antiques—he succeeded eventually, started with a small stall in a market and went on from there. Gar's mother had died when he was only five and he too was brought up to work—and my Emil had been killed in the first world war when he was only twenty-five -' She stopped. For a few moments there was silence. Then Gemma spoke. 'So you've known Gar nearly all his life?' Grandma Logie nodded. 'Yes. In a way, he's nearly as dear to me as you are—but I never thought you, or anyone else, would understand—we wrote, and you remember when I used to go abroad every year?' Gemma nodded. 'It was to visit my second family, as I thought of them.' She sighed again. That's the story. You have a

right to know, of course—and now perhaps you understand why I invited Gar here when I wanted help with the house.' 'Yes.' Gemma was shaken by what she had heard. She was about to try and explain something of her feelings about it to her grandmother when Gar walked in. He stood in the doorway for a moment, and it seemed as if he might know exactly what had been said. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Am I interrupting anything?' He was looking at the box on the table. The photograph was beside it, and Gemma saw the darkness in his eyes, saw that strange quality to him, the deep strength—saw, too, something he didn't try to hide from her as he glanced briefly at her—the hostility, resentment—and she. knew now why. She knew a lot of things all of a sudden. She stood up. 'Excuse me, Grandma,' she said, 'I'll not be long.' She didn't look at him as she passed him. She didn't need to. She felt the undercurrents all about them, the awareness—the bond that linked them. He closed the door after her, and as Gemma walked quickly away she heard him start to speak. 'My dear,' he said, 'you have told her -' She didn't want to hear any more, she wanted to get away. She ran up the stairs as if pursued, and into her room, shutting the door after her and going straight to the window to stand by her table. She stared out, not seeing anything of the misty scenery, only the image of his face burned in her mind's eye. 'My dear,' he had said, and she seemed to hear the words echo and re-echo around the room. 'My dear—my dear -' There was a bond between him and her grandmother as well. A bond of love across the years, in which she had no part. Gemma put her hand to her mouth. She felt almost ill. It was as if, suddenly, her whole world had been turned upside down—as if she, not Gar, were the outsider. She took a deep breath. Her painting, newly begun that morning, stood on the easel beside her. The photograph of the wildcat was

pinned to a corner of it, and the sketches lay on her table. That was what was important to her—-her work. Here she was safe. She knew what she was doing, she knew she was good. And soon—oh, very soon, she would be back in London, in her own little world, which represented safety. Perhaps Monday morning might be a good time to leave, stay overnight somewhere and be back in London Tuesday—or even drive on and on until she made it in the one day. Motorway driving didn't tire Gemma. She looked at her hands. Tomorrow the bandages could come off. Gar would feed the cats, especially if Grandma asked him. And Gemma would come up again soon, when he had gone 'Gemma? May I come in?' She experienced an odd sensation at the sound of his voice, and for a moment wondered if she had imagined it, but the following rap on the door was real enough. 'No, I'm busy. Go away,' she said, and didn't look round—until she heard the door opening. Then she turned. 'I said -' 'I know. I heard you.' He stood inside the room and looked across at her. 'Your grandmother sent me up. She thought you -' 'I'm fine!' She lifted her chin. 'Just fine.' 'How do you know what I was going to say?' He walked across towards Gemma. 'I can guess.' She stared at him. 'Grandma wondered if I was all right. Tell her I am. I'm going to do some painting now-—' 'No. She wishes you to come down -' 'When she has you?' The words burst out of her before she could help it, and were said, and nothing could ever take them back. It was as though they hung in the air, and she saw his face change, saw his eyes darken, saw the muscle that tightened in his cheek, and she

would have given anything to have unsaid those words, but it was too late. It was growing dusk. Soon darkness would fall, soon it would be night, and one more day gone—and Gemma knew she couldn't stay in the house a moment longer. She needed to get away, to think—to sort out in her mind the confusion that existed, before she went mad. I'm going out for a ride,' she said because she didn't want him to reply. She didn't want to hear what he might say after her words. 'Tell her I won't be long-—' 'It is getting dark——' Gar began. 'I can see that.' She walked past him, fighting the temptation to run, forcing herself to walk. 'I'm old enough to drive in the dark -' she ran down the stairs and out of the door, down the steps, along the drive, towards the garage. She had no coat, her keys were in the car, she had no idea where she was going. But she was going. And she was alone. Gar might still be in her bedroom, she didn't care. She didn't care about anything at all except getting away from Correy House.

She had driven for miles, and she had only the vaguest idea where, except that it was upwards all the time, and now it was dark and she was parked in a disused quarry at the side of a worn-out trail—and it was quiet. Gemma sat in the front seat of the car and looked out at a blurred outline of hills against a leaden sky, and for the first time she began to relax. She did it deliberately, relaxed her muscles, rubbed the back of her neck to ease a throbbing headache, and began to try and sort out her feelings. It's jealousy, she thought. Straight and simple. Because Grandma has always been so close—and then suddenly, out of the blue, it's almost as though she's had another family hidden away, and—and—She paused deliberately in her

thoughts. If it wasn't Gar—if it was someone else, would I mind so much? There was no way to answer it. Gemma reached out and turned on the radio and music flooded the car, and for a few minutes she listened, making her mind a blank from the other, intrusive thoughts. She leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes, willing herself to hear only the music, which she didn't recognise, but it had a certain soothing quality to it. They'll wonder where I am, she thought—so I must go back soon, because running away never solved anything and if I can get through this weekend, pretend everything's all right, then I'll be all right, and Grandma will never know because she's too old to be upset She opened her eyes, to turn off the radio, to begin to think about going back to Correy House again, and she looked out at the blank grey wall surrounding the car and wondered why she could see nothing, blinked, rubbed her eyes and looked again. She breathed out the panic that arose, and opened the car door. Instantly the mist rushed in, filling her, surrounding her in damp wisps that searched out every crevice in the vehicle. Gemma slammed the door shut. In a few minutes it had fallen and she should have noticed the warning signs as she had driven ever upwards, but she hadn't. She should have smelt the dampness, seen the gradual blurring of mountain tops, but she had been too engrossed in her own problems to take heed of what every Highlander knew by instinct. Oh God, she thought, now I have no choice—until this lifts. She wondered how long it would be. Perhaps it's worse here, in this hollow! Maybe it's not so bad on the road—but she knew, even as she got out again, shivering in the cold air, that she was snatching at vain hope. There was no road visible, save that directly under her feet, and a few yards around her. And if she moved too far she wouldn't be able to find the car again. At least that represented shelter of a kind, and warmth, with the heater going. She began to stumble back, and heard—oh no, not again! This time it must be her fevered imagination—'Gemma! Stay where you are. Don't move.'

It couldn't be Gar. Then she saw the dark shape looming out of the grey black mist and she could only stand and watch. The shape resolved into a man, and he came nearer, and nearer—and then he spoke again: 'I always thought you were crazy,' he said, 'now I know you are. Do you realise we're completely lost?' He didn't even sound angry, it might not have been so awful if he were. He sounded as concerned as Gemma felt. And how he was standing before her and she looked up at him, wide-eyed, totally confused. 'How—how did you get here?' she stammered. 'You little fool, I followed you. I've been waiting for you back along the road, until you decided to return, only now it's too late. Get into your car -' and he grabbed her arm and pushed her roughly towards it. He slammed the doors shut and faced her. Now— now—he was angry. 'You're more trouble than ten wildcats. You are completely stupid and irresponsible!' It was the moment of truth; the instant when, at any other time, and under other circumstances, Gemma would have retorted something that would have sparked off one of their inevitable battles. She didn't; Shaken, she turned her head away from him and looked at the window. 'Do you not hear me?' Gar demanded. 'Are you deaf now as well— or have you nothing to say for once in your life?' 'Just go away,' she said, her voice barely a whisper. 'Hah! And where shall I go? I am not such a fool as to run off into a fog like this -' 'It's a mist,' she said dully.

Tog—mist—you think I care for the finer meanings of such words-' 'Then why,' she said, gathering confidence with each moment that passed, at least she wasn't alone, 'did you bother to follow me in it?' 'Because your grandmother asked me to,' was the surprising answer. 'Oh no!' 'Oh yes,' he mocked. 'I went down to tell her you had decided to go out and she was worried, not me— she asked me to see you did not come to any harm.' Gemma turned to him then. 'I'm sorry,' she said. She wasn't sure whether she was apologising to him— or because she had worried the old lady. 'I didn't know it would -' She made a gesture towards the outside with her hand—'I just wanted to get away for. a while -' 'And you have. Perhaps for longer than you think: We had better go to my car. It is larger than this, and; more comfortable, and -' 'I'll stay here.' The merest touch of defiance coloured her words. 'You will not argue with me. You are staying with me—and I am not staying here, so—now—come. Where is your coat?' 'I haven't got one, and I'm not -' she began, to be silenced by his exasperated oath, said in a tongue she didn't understand, perhaps fortunately, but the meaning was clear enough. 'Oh yes, you are. Now, come.' He got out, walked round to her door and opened it. 'Out, please.' His fingers rapped a tattoo on the open door, his face was a dark blur. Gemma should have known, but her reflexes were dulled by the extreme cold.

'No, I -' she began. It was as far as she was allowed to go. Gar bent, reached in and pulled her bodily out—not roughly but with such strength that it was useless to resist. 'Do I carry you or will you walk?' he breathed, and his tone was more menacing than if he had shouted. She jerked her arms free of his grasp. 'Leave me alone,' she said. 'Just leave me -' 'You need a good spanking -' 'Not from you! All right, you've made your point. I'll walk to your car—I'll bet you enjoy fighting people--' 'Not as much as you do! How that wildcat managed to scratch you is a mystery to me! I would have thought -' It all caught up with her at once. Delayed reaction to the scene at the house, the cold, damp air—and his anger. She began to shiver, then she burst into tears. The next moment she felt something warm go round her and was swept up into his arms as he began to walk away from the red, mistshrouded Capri, away out of the quarry and towards the road. She couldn't stop the tears and didn't try. Gar's coat was round her and she was warm in his arms, and she saw him look at her, heard him say: 'You are just a child, aren't you?' but it didn't register, not then. He put her down on the ground beside his car and opened the door. 'Get in,' he said. Gemma obeyed. He closed the doors and switched on the heater. Then he sat and looked at her. 'Now,' he said slowly. 'Now—you are beginning to learn.' He reached into the glove compartment and handed her some paper tissues. 'Blow your nose and dry your eyes,' he commanded.

Gemma obeyed, sniffing slightly afterwards. 'And now,' he said, 'tell me something. Have you any idea where we are—or if there are any houses nearby?' She shook her head. 'No.' 'I thought not. And I am not going out to look— nor are you. Which means just one thing. We will stay here until it is safe to move—and if it means sleeping together in the car, then that is what we will have to do.'

CHAPTER NINE THAT didn't register either. Not for a few minutes, until the numbness had seeped from her bones, and Gemma began to feel slightly warmer. She sat very still, then very slowly she took off his coat and laid it across the back of the seat between them. 'Lost for words again?' he said. She didn't answer immediately. She looked out of the window at the blank wall that surrounded them. 'It will clear,' she answered. 'Perhaps you know better than I,' Gar agreed, but the veiled mockery gave lie to his words. 'I'm not staying in this with you anyway,' she said. 'If we have to stay here—if—I'll sleep in my own car.' 'No, you won't.' His tone was flat, dismissive. 'You'll stay here—I want you where I can see you, or who' knows what you'll do next?' 'Listen, you!' she burst out, 'I've had just about enough of your orders—telling me what to do all the time, b-bossing me about -' She faltered, the treacherous tears not far away, but determined not to lose , this time. 'Yes? Don't stop there.' 'Oh! Leave me alone.' She turned away. 'I should like to be able to do so, but fate seems t© have thrown us together, does it not? So- -' he shrugged carelessly, 'here we are and here we stay, and it is as good a time to have a talk, do you not think?' There's nothing I want to talk to you about -' she began.

'No? You mean you don't want to ask me any questions about my grandfather—or my father?' He paused and began to feel in the pocket of his coat. 'How strange. Considering that what your grandmother told you caused you to rush up to your room -' 'Shut up,' she said fiercely, 'just shut up!' 'No. I can talk, and you must listen. Your manners are appalling for a young woman. I told you once before I was going to teach you some—and here, I think, I will.' Gemma stared at him. Stared hard, saw his face— and then for the first time, she began to realise exactly her predicament. There was no escape, not now. Not for quite a time. Gar was ruthless and hard—and unbeatable. He was also angry. Not in a shouting way— but icily so. And that was the worst kind of all. Gemma knew a kind of fear. There was nowhere to run, and no one to help her. They were completely and utterly alone. She took a deep slow breath. 'I have no choice,' she said, 'and you know it. You can say what you like to me—is that how you prefer it? Because I'll have to listen, won't I? I know that now. All right, go ahead. Say all you want to say, get it off your chest—I can't fight back—and if it makes you feel better, then you'll have achieved something.' She looked at him, and waited, watched him light a thin cheroot, sitting very still because she sensed the leashed strength, the hidden violence within him, and there was nothing she could do about that either. He was a very powerful man. It was as simple as that. Then he did something surprising. He smiled. 'I think,' he said very slowly, watching the red tip of the cheroot grow in the dark, 'that you have just learned the first lesson.'

It couldn't be that easy! Gemma looked blankly at him. Careful, she warned herself, don't relax. 'Yes?' she queried. That was a safe enough thing to say anyway. He nodded. 'You've stopped fighting, little wildcat. Good. Are you hungry?' That was even more surprising. She had to think before she answered. 'A little,' she said at last. 'Naturally. It is dinner time now, is it not? There is chocolate in the glove compartment. Go on, open it— it won't bite.' She obeyed and took out a large bar of nut chocolate. 'Have some—it's all right, it's not a trap. I'm not going to beat you if you eat a little.' She removed the wrapper and broke off a piece. 'Aren't you going to have some?' she asked him. 'Later, perhaps. Eat it slowly—as slowly as you can. It will help. Now. And are you thirsty?' 'Not, not yet—not if I don't think about it.' A crooked smile. 'Then don't. All I have is a flask of cognac. Not suitable for quenching thirst, but liquid all the same. Relax, Gemma. Did you think I was going to beat you or something?' 'There'd be nothing to stop you.' But she made sure she answered in carefully noncommital tones. 'No—true. But you are safe with me—physically, that is. I have no taste for fighting ones weaker than myself. Especially not women— I've already told you that. Unless you hit me, of course.' 'You'd hit me hack?' She couldn't help it.

He shrugged. 'No. But you would regret it.' 'How?' 'There are other ways -' the words lingered in the air—and she remembered, and felt the warmth creeping into her face. To cover her awful confusion, she said quickly: 'There may be some water near here—a stream—I think I saw one just before I turned in here -' She was babbling as much as any stream, but at least it meant she didn't have to think, to remember the awful scene... 'Ah yes? Then we will go and look together soon. Good. I have a water container in the boot.' Gar sat back, seemingly relaxed, seemingly as if he was quite used to getting stranded in mists, then he looked at Gemma. 'There is no need to look so frightened.' 'I'm—I'm not -' 'Yes, you are. I have already told you, there is no need to fear me.' 'Don't be so stupid,' she snapped, suddenly angry. 'I'm not scared of you! I just want to get away—do you think I'm looking forward to spending hours alone with you? My goodness, we can't even get on when we're at Correy House, and that's a big enough place -' 'And why do you think we don't "get on", as you put it? Have you thought out a reason for that?' 'It's easy enough!' Gemma could even manage a rather shaky light laugh. 'We don't like one another, do we?' He didn't answer. He seemed to be concentrating on his cheroot, which was nearly at the end. He tapped it gently, looked at it, blew an invisible speck of ash from it—then looked at Gemma, and

smiled. 'No, we don't seem to, that is true. And why do you think that should be?' 'Is this an inquisition?' One eyebrow lifted fractionally. 'I am being perfectly civil—or did you not notice? Could you not also- try? Inquisition? I would like to see inside your mind sometimes to find out why you hate me—why you hate men—so much.' The tension was building up again. 'Hadn't we better go and get the water,' she asked, 'before it gets any worse outside?' 'I think it might be better,' he agreed, 'before we start to fight.' 'I didn't mean that -' she felt breathless. 'Oh yes, you did,' he corrected. 'Put my coat on again. I am warm enough.' 'No, I'm all right.' 'Put it on. It won't bite you, any more than I will.' Gemma picked up his jacket, but she had no room to manoeuvre and she felt his hands reach out and take it from her. 'Right arm first, that is it. Now your left -' They were too near each other. He was too mar—she couldn't breathe. It was almost like a caress —almost- 'Thank you, I can manage,' she said. She leaned over to open the door and slid out. She waited, watched Gar go to the boot and open it, then bring out a plastic container. The boot closed with a soft click, and then he was beside her. 'Lead the way,' he said.

'It was over this way.' She started walking, and slowly, because the mist was damp and all-enveloping, enfolding them in a cold blanket that could be treacherous, hiding any dangers as it did. There was no sound, nothing. Just a world of grey in which they were completely and utterly lost and alone. 'I think—near here,' she said, 'Just before the entrance to the quarry.' It was frightening. She couldn't even see the car when she looked back—nor could she see hers parked inside the hollow. She stopped. 'I don't know where we are -' she began. Gar. took hold of her arm. 'Just a few steps further,' he said, 'Come.' Then they were there. The water trickled out of the rocks to fall into the ground to be soaked up. Gar held the container at an awkward angle to catch the drops and Gemma waited beside him trying not to shiver. Beads of moisture glistened on his hair and thick sweater, and she breathed shallow breaths, trying not to take too much of the mist in, for it choked her. 'All right. We have enough.' He fastened the stopper and took her arm again. 'Come, I know the way, and I have left my headlights on.' They began to walk back again, he leading the way, slightly ahead of her, Gemma following. For a moment he took his hand from her arm and Gemma was startled by the instant panic that rose in her, and without realising what she was doing she reached out towards him, heard him laugh—then he took her hand. 'I was only checking that the stopper was on securely,' he said. 'I had no wish to spill the water and have to return. Come, we are nearly there.' She had never held his hand before. It was large, and nearly enveloped hers—and it was warm and strong and strangely comforting, although she didn't realise that until afterwards, as he let go of her at sight of the car lights, dim yellow orbs, haloed, very reassuring.

Inside the Citroen she took the jacket off and sat back in the seat. Gar brushed at his hair and shoulders with his hands and said: That was like walking under water. You want a drink now?' 'Not yet—thank you.' 'Then I shall have one, with a drop of cognac. I shall not be driving for a while, so there is no likelihood for my being arrested for drunken driving, I think.' He looked at her, and for some reason he was trying to be pleasant, so Gemma smiled. 'No,' she answered. 'It's not likely.' She watched him fill a plastic beaker with water and add cognac from a flask. Even in the shadowy confines of the vehicle, with only the dashboard casting a subdued light over them, she saw the way of his smile, knew what Grandma and Jessie found in him that could charm them, and she silently fought the thought. She didn't want to like him. She just wanted to go away from him. 'Are you sure you won't have some? It will warm you, because -' and he paused, as if seeking words. 'Because?' 'Because soon I will have to switch the heater off to save the batteries—you understand?' 'Yes. I understand.' But she didn't, not fully. Not then. The full dawning of comprehension came a few minutes later. Gar fumbled in the glove compartment and brought out a book, then switched on the interior light and began looking inside it. Gemma watched him. He handed her the beaker. 'Will you hold that, please?' 'Yes. What are you doing?'

'You will see in a moment.' There was nothing in his tone to tell her. 'Ah, yes, here it is.' He was reading a page intently now. 'Mmm, so -' She waited, holding the beaker, puzzled, saw him turn in his seat, lean over to the back and begin feeling down the side of the rear seat. There was a click and a whirr and movement in the back. Then she knew, and she froze, and she looked at the cup in her hand, and she said: 'I think I'd like a drink now.' 'Help yourself. There is more.' She swallowed it all, and Gar looked at her and she seemed to see amusement in his eyes as he said, quite gently: 'It is more comfortable in this car, I told you that.' 'You didn't——' she cleared her throat. 'You didn't say that the back seat let down into a bed, did you?' 'It is preferable to sitting up all night, is it not?' 'I'm not -' she swallowed. She seemed to be having difficulty with her words. 'I'm not lying down there with you.' There will be ho heater on. It will be very cold. We don't have much choice, I'm afraid.' He stopped, then added: 'It was not my idea to come here—it was yours. There is only one rug that I have with me—it will cover us both and keep us warm.' Gemma took a deep breath. 'You don't understand -she began, and he cut in: 'No, it is you who do not understand, Gemma. I am not doing this for fun—it is a matter of life and death, or can be, up in these hills. We stay together, and we lie together, for our bodies will warm each other, and we will sleep until it is safe to drive back home to Correy House-—

'No!' 'Yes.' His hard eyes met hers in the dim light. 'You will obey me. I would not be here but for your foolish action in running away from the house -' 'I don't care!' she burst out. He reached out his hand and turned off the heater, and the gentle hum stopped instantly, and the car became cooler. 'Now you see how warm you will feel in a few minutes,' he went on. 'Then tell me what will you do.' 'I'll sit here in the front -' she began. 'As you are? No coat—no blanket? Have you ever spent a night sat in a cold car in this temperature?' 'But—c-couldn't I borrow your coat?' She knew the answer even before she asked the question, and a sense of helplessness overwhelmed her. 'No.' 'You beast!' 'Yes, possibly.' 'I hate you!' 'No, you don't. You think you do—but you're all mixed up. Getting cold?' Gemma gritted her teeth. 'No. I'm fine.' She felt his hand on hers, and jerked it away. 'Don't touch me.'

'Your hand is cold already.' Without pausing to think what she was doing, Gemma picked up his jacket and wrapped it around her like a blanket, then glared at him. 'I'll be all right like this,' she said defiantly. 'Except that it is mine, and I have already said I am not going to lend it to you.' 'Then take it off me if you dare!' her eyes blazed. Gar shook his head. 'I dare—oh yes, I dare—and I will, when I am ready, have no doubt about that, Gemma. Now, the choice is yours—are we going to remain here fighting each other, or pass the next couple of hours sensibly?' 'What do you mean?' she said. It was difficult to remain defiant when your opponent spoke in terms of reasoned calm. 'I mean that I have magazines in the boot—I have also a radio here. We can read and listen to music for a while, and who knows, maybe the mist will disappear and all your worries will be over.' Gemma looked out of the window and hoped for a miracle—which seemed impossible, for the mist was, if anything, more dense than five minutes previously. 'We might as well read,' she said eventually. 'Good. You are sensible. Excuse me, I won't be a moment.' He got out, closing the door. She waited, hearing the boot open, and risked a look at the back' of the interior. The back seat lay flat—and very comfortable-looking. Gemma stifled a yawn hastily. There was no getting away from the fact: they were both here—and it was entirely her own fault. She moved uneasily in her seat. There was just no way of escaping that truth.

'There you are. Take your pick.' Gar was back, sliding into his seat, bringing in a blast of icy air with him, making the hairs prickle on the back of Gemma's neck. He switched on the radio, twiddled the knobs until he found music. Gemma looked through the pile of magazines he had put on her knee. 'They're all French ones,' she remarked. 'Very good. You noticed. You can read French?' She ignored the mild sarcasm. 'Yes,' she answered. 'Then it will be interesting for you. Do you speak French well?' 'Not badly. Do you?' she asked sweetly. He laughed. 'Assez bien, mon enfant. Que pensez vous?' It was intriguing to hear French spoken with a Hungarian accent while at the same time resenting the rather patronising 'my child'. 'Je ne suis pas voire enfant,' she retorted smoothly, in her most impeccable French. 'Mais vous parlez pas trial—pour un Hongrois!' He began to laugh. 'Yes, I like that. So I don't speak badly—for a Hungarian! And nor do you, for an English girl.' She looked down at the top magazine, not deigning to reply. Then she opened it and began to read. At least it was something to do, something that avoided the necessity for conversation, but it didn't ease the atmosphere of waiting for something to happen that pervaded the air. It was there, as tangible as the mist itself, and as stifling. The hands on the dashboard clock moved silently on and Gemma found herself watching it, hardly aware of what she. was reading. Gar was apparently engrossed in a crossword, pen in hand, ignoring her—and yet, in a way, not.

When she could stand the silence no longer, Gemma said: 'My grandmother will be worried.' He looked up. 'I doubt it. She knows I am with you.' 'But -' there was no answer to that, and the memories of the last conversation came surging back. He was something special to Grandma—he was nearly as much a part of her as Gemma herself— and Grandma knew him and trusted him implicitly. Was that why she had gone away to visit a friend? Knowing she could leave him at Correy House? So much became suddenly clear to Gemma. She felt hurt and bewildered, like a small child whose security is threatened, and now, even more than before, she knew she had to get away from there, to go back to where she was safe, and lick her wounds in private. She looked out of the window, a forlorn hope vanishing at the blackness outside. 'What were you going to say?' asked Gar. She shook her head. 'Nothing. It doesn't matter.' 'Eat some more chocolate if you wish—and you have only to say if you are thirsty.' 'I know. Thank you.' 'It is nearly nine. Why do you not try and get some sleep in the back of the car? I will stay here and read for a while.' It seemed sensible. With any luck he'd stay there— and then the mist might lift and they'd be away. Gemma's heart thudded with a sense of relief. 'Yes, all right—won't you be cold?' 'I'll put my coat on. The blanket is behind the back seat.' There was only one slight problem remaining. Gemma took a deep breath.

'Er—I must just go outside -' 'You're not going to do anything stupid like trying to make your way to your own car, are you?' He barely looked up from his crossword as he spoke. 'No. I promise.' 'Keep within touching distance of the car. You understand?' 'Yes.' She opened the door and got out. 'I'll only be a minute.'

Gemma lay down and covered herself with the blanket. He had turned the radio down, and poured himself some water and cognac, and from where she lay she could see the back of his head outlined against the interior light He had lit a second cheroot and its aroma filled the air. She knew she wouldn't sleep even though she was tired, for it was cold in the car—in that respect Gar had been right. 'Shall I switch the heater on for a while?' It was as though he could pick up her thoughts. She had forgotten the bond linking them. 'Please.' He did so, and she felt the warmth immediately, and the hurt she felt mingled with tiredness, and washed over her; she closed her eyes, trying not to think about anything except the painting she was doing, that must now be finished in London. But she had enough to go on. She had the background sketched out, and a superb picture of her wildcat, and she could see exactly in her mind what the finished painting would look like, and it all blurred hazily and blended into a golden mist of colours ... She did not know she had been asleep until she opened her eyes and became aware of the silence filling the car. Gemma felt warm, so warm, and comfortable —but where was Gar? She moved slightly,

and then she knew, and for an awful moment she didn't breathe. He lay behind her, and the weight across her waist was his arm, and the blanket was over them both. He was asleep. There was no light, nothing. She couldn't see a thing. She had never known that darkness could be so utterly dense. She would have been frightened had she been alone—but she wasn't. She didn't know how long she had slept, or how long he had been there. She only knew a sense of being cocooned in a warm place safe from the world of mist and darkness outside them, and a feeling of quiet contentment. His breathing was deep and steady and his body was warm. What was it he had once said to Gemma? 'You are safer with me at this moment ...' It had been said in Correy House, when they had been alone there, but it was equally true now. She was safe because, and she knew this too now, he didn't see her as a woman at all. He disliked her. He had told her so in many ways—and Gemma, in that quiet darkness, when thoughts come freely, and the mind's defences are down, knew the truth of it all, and knew too, with a sudden sick longing, that for the first time in her life she wished it were different. She stirred, in an anguish of the realisation, heard his murmur, and lay still again. Then she felt him move, and she knew, even before he spoke, that he was awake. He spoke in French. Perhaps in that moment of sleepiness, of being on the borders of waking and sleeping, he thought in the language he was most familiar with. He said: 'Ca va, cherie?' Darling—he had called her darling—but he didn't know—he must have thought—Gemma's breath caught in her throat, the image of a blonde unknown woman coming to her mind. The lovely warmth, the safety, was shattered. 'I'm all right,' she said huskily. There was a pause, a silence, then he said in English: 'I thought you called out.'

You liar, she thought. 'I woke—I wondered what time it was,' she answered. She felt his arm move away, and he sat up, and she felt cold with the movement. 'It is—ah, it is difficult to see—one moment.' He leaned over, and the light clicked on and filled the car. 'One-fifteen. I will go outside and see if it is any better.' She sat up and saw him open the door and hugged her knees as she waited. She began to shiver in the cold air. She knew the answer even before he slid in again, closing the door firmly after him, and sat beside her. 'It is no better. I am sorry, Gemma.' Then he looked at her. 'You are cold—but I dare not turn on the heater again. I left it on for as long as I could, until you slept -' 'It's all right. I was warm before, lying down.' 'Then lie down again. You will soon be warm. That is what I told you before, when you didn't believe me -' 'I know—you don't need to say "I told you so!" You were right. But you always are, aren't you?' She couldn't help it. She wished she could stop talking, stop the words tumbling out, but she couldn't. She felt as if he could see into her mind, know her thoughts— see the vulnerability, the jealousy of an unknown woman -.. 'Relax!' he said. 'You have slept. You must know by now that you are safe with me -' 'Of course I know it!' she burst out. 'Oh! Oh——' she put her hands to her face. 'Just leave me alone!' 'My God! ' He pulled her hands from her face. 'Can no one do anything right with you?' He was kneeling now, beside her on the seat-bed, his eyes dark and hard. 'Would you prefer me to sleep in the boot or something? Would you then be satisfied?' She glared at him helplessly, her eyes filled with tears so that he was blurred and

hazy, and she wrenched her hands free of his grip and cuffed him hard with her bandaged right hand. 'I said—never do that again!' He reached out and pulled her hard towards him and shook her. 'You little -' he didn't finish. She never knew what he was going to call her because she struggled furiously, arching her body to free herself, wrenching herself away from him in a desperate attempt to make him let go—then she was suddenly helpless in a grip of steel, and frightened. Gar looked down at her pinioned beneath him, and let out his breath in a deep sigh. 'Now, you little wildcat,' he said. 'Get out of that if you can.' His face was shadowed, the light behind him. She could not see his expression, but she knew he was going to kiss her and a treacherous wild excitement filled her, and she knew now that subconsciously, this was what she had been waiting for all along. She saw him bend, felt his lips on hers, and she responded with the hidden fires that now exploded into one nerve-tingling kiss that rocked the world with its impact. On and on, for ever, and she had never known anything like it, had never imagined that there could be anything like it existing. His arms were round her, and hers round him, and the kiss had changed from the savage punishment it had started out to be into an embrace that enfolded them both in a mixture of wonder and torment. And now he was kissing her deeply, and their bodies were on fire with it all, and Gemma, in a brief flash of awareness, knew the inevitability, knew that soon, in a few moments Gar suddenly rolled away, pulled himself up, and free. He leant over, and put his head in his hands, and he groaned. She reached out and touched him, all her senses tinglingly aware of him, and heard him mutter: 'For God's sake don't touch me, Gemma.'

She took her hand away, shattered. 'Gar—tell me -' He looked at her, and his face was that of a man in torment. 'Don't you know? Are you so blind? I nearly -' he gave a long shuddering breath. The air was suddenly cold again. Gemma felt sick, knowing that what had so nearly happened—could have happened—would have been her fault. Knew that he hated her. The sense of rejection was overwhelming. With a muffled sob she pushed past him, opened the door, and ran out into the darkness. Blindly she stumbled away from the car, and heard him shout her, telling her to go back, but she took no heed. She fell over a stone, then heard his footsteps, and he leaned over and picked her up. 'You little fool!' he gasped. 'You could kill yourself out there—you don't know where you're going -' 'Leave me be. I'm getting away from you, that's all.' But her strength was exhausted. She allowed him to lead her back towards the car, and she was freezing, and shaking inwardly, and all fight had gone. Gar sat down beside her in the back and began to rub her numbed arms. 'You will have some cognac,' he said, moving away, leaning over for the flask. 'Here, drink this.' Gemma drank it slowly, coughing a little. Her head was aching, and she felt ill. 'Have you finished it?' 'Yes.' 'Then lie down. I will stay in the front.' 'No. I can't sleep any more.' She knew she wouldn't. The sense of humiliation was so overwhelming that she could hardly think. He sighed. 'Very well. We will have the radio on, and read. And as soon as the mist clears, we will go home.' His voice was like that of

a stranger, completely impersonal. He had said they would go home. Perhaps that was how he regarded Correy House. Gemma looked blankly at the magazine he handed to her, and with all her will power, she tried fo push out of her mind the memory of what had just happened. But she couldn't. She knew she never would. And as soon as she was able, she would leave Correy House, and never see him again.

CHAPTER TEN SHE had left, without any fuss, on the Monday morning, and driven virtually non-stop to London. Now it was Tuesday, and she telephoned in to the office to speak to Pamela, to tell her she was back, and to see if they had received the picture of the events leading up to her departure from Correy House, Gemma resolutely refused to think. It was better that way, and work was all-important now. Pamela's voice came over the line charged with enthusiasm. 'I tried to phone you at your grandma's and a gorgeous sexy voice answered and told me you'd left—not the butler, was it?' She laughed happily at her little joke. Gemma tried to join in. 'No, someone—a friend of the family. What was it you wanted?' 'The picture's arrived—and she's seen it!' Pamela lowered her voice. 'Who's she?' Gemma was beginning to feel as if she had strayed on to a crossed line. 'My dear, Georgina Hayes, that's who. Only our top-selling authoress before whom we all curtsey -' 'But -' Gemma's heart sank. What had she done wrong now? 'But -' 'No buts, ducky! Just listen. She demanded to know why we'd been hiding this most superb artist from her and insisted you paint the cover for her next book, which is as we know guaranteed to be a world bestseller before it's even hit the market, and -' 'Oh! I don't believe it!'

'You'd better,' said Pamela. 'She wants to meet you. She's having lunch with the boss today, so if you can pop in about three with your best bib and tucker on— and try not to look too gorgeous, 'cos she's a bit of an old -' 'But I'm in the middle of the cover for The Golden Wildcat now,' Gemma cut in desperately, 'and I can't just—' 'Oh yes, you can. For her you can.' 'But -' all Gemma seemed to be saying was but. Yet how could she tell Pamela the truth? That she had sat for two hours before phoning her, in front of her easel, and stared blankly at it, unable to paint a thing? She couldn't. 'It's—er—difficult to work at the moment,' she said, playing for time. 'I've just got back from Scotland and the flat's rather small and you know what Peter and Graham are like—there's always a collection of friends round, and -' 'Mmm, I know what you mean. Only wish I had your problem, my love. I mean, all those men!' 'But it's difficult to get down to work,' said Gemma. She definitely didn't want to think about men, and about one man in particular- 'Then move,' was the rather surprising reply. 'Oh yes! Where to?' 'My aunt's cottage in Kent, that's where. You remember, we stayed there last year for that long weekend, and she's away visiting all my cousins in Canada so she'd be delighted for someone to air it for her, and she won't be back for nearly three weeks, by which time you'll have done all you want -' 'But I can't just go -' began Gemma weakly.

'And,' cut in Pamela, who could be as determined as Gemma when she made up her mind to it, 'I can give you the keys this afternoon when you come in because she left them with me so I could pop down, and you'll be doing me a favour because I've been too busy to go, and it's only an hour's drive away from your flat. I'll see you this afternoon at three. Now, have you anything else to say before I go?' 'I think you just said it all,' answered Gemma. 'I'll be there, and don't worry, I'll look as plain as possible. 'Bye.' She put the telephone down and stared at herself in the mirror. That last wouldn't be too difficult, she thought. She looked as exhausted as she felt, and her face was pale with smudgy shadows beneath her eyes. I'll go to the cottage, she decided, and I'll sleep for a day—then I'll work. And somehow, once the decision was made, she began to feel a little better. Not much, but it was enough for the present.

She didn't tell her brothers where she was going, because they would be quite likely to telephone her at all hours of day and night to find out where she'd left the iron, or a tin of baked beans, or even for advice on their latest lady love's taste in perfumes. Gemma drove away from London secure in the knowledge that only Pamela knew where she would be, and had promised not to telephone except on a matter of life and death. The meeting with the famous author had gone well—except for one thing. Georgina Hayes insisted that she wanted a similar hero to Gemma's other cover. The rest of the picture was up to her—but the man's face was to be almost a copy of that 'divine man' on the cover she had already seen. There was no budging her from this, and Gemma didn't try. It was almost as if there were a conspiracy to stop her forgetting Gar. Perhaps, in painting him again, she would be able to get him out of her system.

She drove carefully in the gathering dusk of the Tuesday evening, and began to look forward to seeing the cottage again. It was small and quaint, at the end of a winding lane, surrounded by trees, and was the ideal place to paint in peace. That it was lonely bothered Gemma not at all. Pamela's aunt had lived there happily for years with never a sign of burglars or ghosts, and in fact the cottage had a very welcoming air—and sensible locks on the doors. Gemma smiled to herself at that thought as she turned downv the lane towards the cottage—and had to jam on her brakes to avoid hitting the dog that was lying in the middle of it. 'Oh no!' Her heart gave a sickening lurch as she got out, wondering if the dog had been run over. She bent down over the shaggy black and white mongrel and gently, and very cautiously, put a hand out towards him. Her reward was not a bite but a gentle wag of a long thin tail. 'Oh, you poor thing,' she said. 'But you can't stay there, you know.' She felt for his collar. There was none. He was painfully thin and clearly exhausted; for he made no move to get up, merely lay looking at her. Gemma sighed. 'You're lost, aren't you?' she said. 'You and me both—come on, let's give you some food.' She stood up and made brisk patting motions on her legs. The dog rose clumsily to his feet and followed her towards the car. Five minutes later she was in the cottage with an electric fire already warm—and the dog sprawled out on the rug in front of it. Gemma smiled, went into the kitchen and began to unpack the provisions she had brought with her in a cardboard box. The only thing remotely like dog food was a pound of best steak she had brought as a treat for her first meal. She looked at it, said out loud: 'You know, Gemma, you'd rather have an omelette, wouldn't you?' and began to chop it into bite-sized pieces.

'I'm soft, that's what I am,' she told the dog as she watched him wolf them down with great enthusiasm a few moments later. He gave her an apologetic wag of the tail and continued eating. She found a basin and filled it with water for him, then began to make her omelette. In the morning she would drive into the village to find out where the dog lived—and buy more food. He licked the plate, gave her a grateful glance, and wandered off back to the fire. Gemma ate her omelette by the fire with the dog sitting looking at her. She went up to put a hot water bottle in her bed and he followed her up, and when she went to the bathroom he sat at the door and watched her wash. At ten she went to bed and fell into a deep sleep of utter exhaustion. When she woke the next morning it was to feel a heavy weight on her feet, and the dog sat up at the same time that she did and gave a great delighted woof. Gemma began to laugh. She couldn't help it. 'I think I'm stuck with you,' she told him. She regarded him solemnly through the mirror as she brushed her hair and he sat patiently waiting by the bedroom door. 'I hope I am anyway—and if I am, I'm going to call you Bob. Okay?' Bob cocked his head on one side and pricked his ears as if agreeing. 'Okay, Bob, breakfast, and then down to the village with me. Come on, boy!'

It was Wednesday evening. Gemma sat in front of a blazing coal fire with her dog and thought about life, about painting, about dogs and wildcats, and twists of fate—but she didn't think about Gar. Whenever the slightest image of him threatened to intrude she pushed it firmly aside and began to think of something else.

At that moment she was thinking about the quirk of fate that had brought Bob into her life. For the villagers knew him, and had told her all about him. He had belonged to a pensioner, old Mr Granger, who had recently died. The old man's daughter had taken hint in, but he wouldn't settle, and had spent all his me wandering about as if looking for his master. Three days previously he had vanished completely— until Gemma had found him. Gemma, had called on the daughter, a harassed middle-aged woman already possessed of two cats and a small snappy terrier. She had left Bob in the car when she knocked at the door, and had told her simply what had happened—and asked if she might keep Bob, for it was clear that the daughter didn't really want him. The relief on the woman's face had told her all she wanted to know and she had gone back to the car lighter of heart and said: 'We're going home, Bob. You're mine now.' She looked at him sprawled at her feet as she remembered, and a lump came into her throat. There would be problems in London, of course, but she would manage. Peter and Graham were too easygoing to really care if she brought a houseful of animals home, and Gemma had always enjoyed long walks anyway. She sighed. So that was one matter sorted out. The next was the book cover. Tomorrow she really would begin. Tomorrow morning at nine, she would don her smock, set up her easel, and start painting. 'You hear me, Bob?' she said. 'Tomorrow we start work.' He really was the ideal companion, listening intelligently and invariably agreeing with a tail wag as if Gemma could do no wrong. He scrambled to his feet now and placed his head in her lap, his brown eyes gentle and filled with affection. 'I'm glad you agree,' she said firmly, stroking the rough head. 'Now don't forget. Nine o'clock sharp.'

Gemma left the easel and went over to the window, flexing her fingers. It was nearly twelve, and she had been painting since nine, as she had promised herself, and if progress was slow, at least she had begun, and that was the important thing. She needed a break, a short walk before lunch, to unwind. She looked at Bob who lay fast asleep curled up by the fire. He had been out most of the morning and only recently returned, announcing his arrival by staccato barks at the door until she had let him in. Smiling, she took off her smock, put the fireguard in front of the fire, and went out quietly, collecting her coat from the back door on the way. It was a cold frosty autumn day, a perfect day for thinking—and she had done more than enough in the last few days. But she hadn't thought about the man she loved. For she knew it now. She loved him as she had never loved anyone; in a way that was overwhelming, in a painful, aching way she could no longer hide, for here in the quiet of the country with no distractions, no other human being to deflect her thoughts, walking along a leaf-strewn lane, she was facing herself for the first time in ages. And she didn't like much what she saw. From the first there had been overwhelming antagonism between them—and now, in retrospect, she wondered if it had been caused by her own subconscious fear of herself. She saw again in her mind's eye that first sight of Gar standing by the trees on her greatgrandmother's estate. The stance—the look of him as he had faced her, had stared at her when she had asked him what the hell he was doing—and the arrogant tilt to his head when he had eventually replied. The 'I don't give a damn' look. That was the start of it. It was from that moment that it had been a battle. Gemma clenched her hands tightly in her pockets. I've been such a fool, she thought. And he told me he would teach me a lesson—I wonder if he can guess how well he did.

The ultimate humiliation had been his rejection of her. That still hurt more than anything—she could not even bear to remember it now. She stared up at the sky and saw the beginnings of rain. It ivas time to go back, to have lunch, to get on with the painting. And in a few days she would write again to her grandmother, a fuller letter, to try and explain her reasons for leaving so suddenly—to ask forgiveness. Soon she would go up again. But not until she was sure Gar was no longer there. That was the only important thing. She pulled up the collar of her coat and set off homewards.

The cottage was waiting for her. There was a car outside, a new yellow Renault. Pamela's aunt? Gemma quickened her footsteps, for what would she think if she had arrived home unexpectedly to find not only a fire, but a casserole simmering in the cooker—and a strange mongrel at ease on the rug? She almost ran the last few steps, flung open the door and went in, straight into the living room to see Bob being patted by the man who sat on the settee. Gar. Gar, who rose slowly to his feet as she went in and said: 'Gemma.' He moved towards her. 'Gemma-—-' And Gemma walked into his arms. She walked into his arms because it was the only thing she wanted, to do; the only place she wanted to be. Gar held her closely, and gave a deep sigh, and said again: 'Gemma, oh, my Gemma,' and there was all the world in his voice. There was everything she had ever wanted to know. They kissed, then he moved slightly back, to look at her, looked down at her, smiling, his eyes no longer dark and hard, but soft with love. 'You'd better sit down,' he said. 'I'll make us a cup of coffee—and then we're going to talk.'

'I -' Gemma began, then stopped. She smiled slowly. 'Yes, Gar,' she said. 'But do you know where the coffee is?' 'I'll find it. I have already put the kettle on a low flame. I can already smell food. Will there be enough for me?' Gemma laughed. 'Of course. But -' He put a finger on her lips. 'Sit down and talk to your dog. He is your dog, is he not?' 'He is now.' 'Hmm—I wonder how he'll cope with the wildcats?' And with that exceedingly cryptic remark he released- her and went out to the kitchen. Gemma could hardly sit down after that. She followed him, and Bob followed her. She stood in the kitchen doorway. 'Gar, I'm sorry, but I don't know what you mean——-' He turned round from his search among various containers and regarded her severely. 'I thought I told you to sit down.' Gemma put her hand to her head. 'Yes, yes, I will, but—you can't just arrive here and kiss me and say something like that and expect me to meekly sit down -' 'I just did. Ah, here it is.' He spooned instant coffee into the two cups, and added milk and sugar from the bottle Gemma had bought that morning from the farm. 'Come on.' They sat on the settee, to be joined by Bob, who it seemed had accepted Gar as an old friend and sat patiently in front of them. Gar handed Gemma her coffee. 'I telephoned your office and spoke to someone called Pamela who is a friend of yours, is she not?'

'Yes.' Gemma sipped her coffee. She could look at him now, could see his face for perhaps the very first time properly, and oh, she liked what she saw. Dark and expressive, his eyes steadied upon her as he talked, he was everything she had ever wanted in life. 'She refused to tell me where you were—so I went to the office to see her.' He smiled slowly. 'Then she told me.' 'I'll bet she did!' A smile grew on Gemma's face. She could imagine Pamela's expression when he walked in. Especially with that giveaway, the picture somewhere in the office. 'So here I am. And I suppose you want to know why?' 'You're going to tell me?' He tapped her chin with his finger. 'Ah! No sarcasm, or I shall beat you.' 'Now or later?' she murmured. Gar began to laugh, put his cup on the floor, took hers from her, and kissed her soundly. 'I'll think about it. I flew down because your grandmother was worried about you -' 'Oh!' 'And because I decided that I loved you.' 'Oh!' 'Is that all you can say?' 'I don't know. Oh, Gar, am I dreaming?'

'Possibly. But if you are, I'm in it with you, so it's all right.' He put his arm round her and pulled her to him. 'So I hired a car in London, and drove straight down here. You're not staying here alone, are you?' 'Yes.' 'No, you're not. Not any more. Either I stay here with you, or you come back to Scotland with me—and Bob, of course.' He looked at the dog who wagged his tail on cue. 'And we are going to get married and live at Correy House. I'm buying it from your grandmother—Yes? Are you trying to say something?' 'No.' Gemma shook her head. Words wouldn't come, anyway not at that moment. 'Good. You have done enough talking, enough giving of the orders. It is my turn now, I think. Someone has to look after the cats anyway, so that is the best place to be. We may even end up with an animal sanctuary—who knows? As well as painting, of course, and looking after the children.' He paused. Gemma began: 'I -' and stopped. 'Yes? Do you wish to speak? To disagree perhaps?' It was the same old Gar—but not the same. The confidence, the touch of arrogance was there, but softened by the look of his eyes. He took Gemma's hand and held it in his own. 'I think,' he said, 'I think—you have learned now, haven't you?' She nodded. 'I think so.' 'That is why I let you go. But I would have come down anyway after a few days, because I knew what you knew.'

She looked at him, her eyes shining with laughter and happiness. 'What did you know?' 'That you love me. And if I hadn't known,' he continued as Gemma moved, 'I would have been told anyway.' 'By whom?' 'By your grandmother. She could see it. She could also see what I wasn't admitting to myself—that I loved you. In fact she told me so in no uncertain terms.' He shook his head. 'For such a quiet, gentle old lady she can certainly speak her mind when she wants to!' He threw back his head and laughed, and Bob, no doubt thinking it was some new kind of game, jumped up and put his paws on Gemma's knees and began to bark excitedly. 'Down, Bob, it's all right, he's not gone mad,' said Gemma. 'I like him,' said Gar. 'He has good taste. He let me in as if I belonged here. Where did you find him?' So Gemma told him what had happened—and then she asked the question that she had to ask, because something he had said in his car, in French, still haunted her. 'What about Madame Fevrier?' she asked. 'What about her? She is—was—my business partner, no more. Did you think otherwise? Oh, my dear -' he started to laugh again. 'Not in a million years! I have no taste for cool blondes. She is shrewd in business—that I do like—but that is all.' He looked at her. 'You were jealous?' Gemma nodded. 'A little. When you called me "ma cherie", there in the Citroen—I thought you thought —it was her -'

'Ah! I see. I was half asleep—I knew it was you all right. Mon dieu, I was well aware of that all the time. Concentrating on trying to go to sleep instead of making love to you was no easy task, I promise you, but I managed it, only when I half woke, it was you I spoke to, no other woman.' 'So that was why -' Gemma breathed. 'Why—you mean afterwards?' He took a deep breath. 'Yes. I am only human, Gemma, but I could not have faced your grandmother if anything had happened there—and you thought—ah, what you must have thought! What a fool I am.' He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. 'I wanted you from the first moment that I saw you— you remember? Striding towards me from your car, cheeks rosy with temper, accusing me of heaven knows what—oh, I wanted you. And I always get what I want.' 'Always?' murmured Gemma. 'Yes, always. But you were like one of those wildcats we seem to have adopted—always ready to do battle, claws unsheathed—you were a challenge to me. I decided to tame you.' 'Then I suppose,' said Gemma slowly, 'that you've succeeded.' She sighed, a gentle, happy sigh. 'Perhaps. Life will never be dull for us. I've got a temper—like you. We'll fight, but we'll love as well. Always remember that, Gemma.' 'I know, Gar. I know.' She put her arms round him impulsively and hugged him. 'Oh, I love you!' 'That should make Grandma very happy as well. She made a confession to me just before I left Correy House to fly down here— she told me that she'd invited us both at the same time for one very good reason -'

'You mean she was trying to do a bit of matchmaking?' Gemma began to laugh. 'Crafty old Grandma!' He grinned. 'It worked. We owe her a lot, Gemma. I realise you were hurt—but she means a great deal to me. I would not have just dropped everything for anyone else—but for her, I would do anything. I love her dearly, as you do. Can you understand that, my darling?' 'Of course. I was stupid before. I've grown up a lot in the past few days, believe me, Gar.' He surveyed her seriously for a few moments. 'You have.' Head tilted slightly to one side, he added: 'And it suits, you. The new Gemma—my Gemma. I like that. Yes, I like it. And now I think we'll have lunch. You may prepare it while I phone Grandma to tell her—don't worry, I'll reverse the charges and sort that out with her when we return. Off you go, woman.' He pulled her to her feet. She heard him on the phone from the kitchen. She wondered if she was hearing aright, and then began to laugh softly to herself. If Gar said it would take at least another day to buy a collar and lead for their new dog, who was she to argue? She set out the places, and waited for him to return. And Bob sat by the door and watched her, wagging his tail. She wondered how he would get on with the wildcats. Probably not at all. Life, she thought, as she heard the click of the telephone as Gar replaced it, is going to have its little problems, but well cope. We always will, together. She looked out of the window at the rain lashing down, and the memory of her dream came back to her, the dream of her in a room with the man who had turned out to be Gar. And now, at last, she knew the meaning of it. She had been waiting for him all her life, and now the

waiting was over. She turned and walked towards him as he came into the kitchen, and into her arms. 'The dream I had,' she said. It was of you.' He smiled at her. 'I know,' he answered. 'I've known it all along. But you had to discover it for yourself.' He kissed her. 'My little wildcat. My tame wildcat.' Gemma began to laugh. 'Yes,' she said.