Frances.’
‘I think not.’
There was such emphasis on the three words that Lesley wilted. Then she was gone.
Gray crouched beside her, drawing the wet mass of her hair away from her neck and shoulders and spreading it fanwise over the rug. He picked up the glass which Lesley had put down, and raising her so that she was supported against his shoulder, held it to her mouth.
‘Drink some more.’
Obediently she took a sip. ‘Ugh, it’s nasty!'
‘Nasty? It’s the best Glenlivet!’
He had torn off his soaking shirt and his bronzed torso was bare except for a faint golden down on his chest. One naked arm held her closely against him, while he offered the glass. Disturbed by the close contact, she said faintly:
‘I fell in the loch, didn't I?’
‘You did.’ His face was grim.
‘You jumped in after me?’
His arm tightened about her. ‘Did you think I could let you drown?’
‘I ... I was careless . . .’
Gray said nothing to that, but his face became even grimmer. Frances made a movement of withdrawal.
‘I . . . I’m better now. I’d like to sit up.’
There was an ancient armchair near the fire, in which Gray very occasionally relaxed, when he was working there. He lifted her to put her into it, and as he did so, the rug slipped from her shoulder; beneath it she was naked, and she wondered anxiously who had stripped her. Her soaked clothing was in a pile on the floor. Her uncovered white flesh made contact with Gray’s and he suddenly bent his head and pressed his lips to it. An electric shock shot through her, leaving every nerve tingling. Never had she imagined a man’s proximity could so violently affect her.
‘Please, Gray,' she murmured, and there was appeal in voice and eyes. She was begging him not to exploit the powerful force that was igniting between them.
‘Woman, you’re a menace,’ he said hoarsely.
She could have retorted that he was even more so to her, but she was too spent for banter. She was seeing again the dim quay, Lesley’s taut figure beside her as she slipped, the hand extended but not to succour her ... no, surely Lesley could not have deliberately pushed her in? Mad jealous she might have been because Gray had spent the day with her, but she wouldn’t go that far . . . or would she? She shivered, and Gray sat down in the chair with her upon his knees, crushing her close to him so that the heat from his body could penetrate hers.
‘What the devil’s keeping that girl?’ he muttered.
Frances could feel the strong beat of his heart next to hers.
Then they heard voices and running feet and the room was full of people. Frances was wrapped in more blankets, while Murdoch assisted Gray into dry clothes. Feebly she protested:
‘I can’t walk in all these swathings!'
‘You’re not going to walk,’ Gray told her, and it was he who carried her up to the house, while Murdoch and Lesley brought their wet garments. The last glimmering of twilight lay over the loch, turning the water to pewter; the first stars gleamed above the mountains. Light streaming from the house lit their path. Frances murmured against Gray’s shoulder:
‘It’s a beautiful world, I'm glad I’m still in it.’
‘If you're staying here, you must learn to swim,’ was his prosaic rejoinder.
He had not known she could not swim, but Lesley did, and again she shivered, feeling she was wading into tides of emotion which were too strong for her. Could one hate a rival enough to want to see her dead? But she was not Lesley’s rival in any real sense. She had merely caught Gray’s passing fancy, and if she judged him correctly it would be only a fleeting one.
Frances suffered no ill effects from her ducking, though Morag fussed over her and insisted that she have her breakfast in bed next morning. She got up in the afternoon and found to her dismay that Gray was coming to supper. When he honoured them with his presence, the meal was formalised into dinner; everyone changed, and efforts
‘I think not.’
There was such emphasis on the three words that Lesley wilted. Then she was gone.
Gray crouched beside her, drawing the wet mass of her hair away from her neck and shoulders and spreading it fanwise over the rug. He picked up the glass which Lesley had put down, and raising her so that she was supported against his shoulder, held it to her mouth.
‘Drink some more.’
Obediently she took a sip. ‘Ugh, it’s nasty!'
‘Nasty? It’s the best Glenlivet!’
He had torn off his soaking shirt and his bronzed torso was bare except for a faint golden down on his chest. One naked arm held her closely against him, while he offered the glass. Disturbed by the close contact, she said faintly:
‘I fell in the loch, didn't I?’
‘You did.’ His face was grim.
‘You jumped in after me?’
His arm tightened about her. ‘Did you think I could let you drown?’
‘I ... I was careless . . .’
Gray said nothing to that, but his face became even grimmer. Frances made a movement of withdrawal.
‘I . . . I’m better now. I’d like to sit up.’
There was an ancient armchair near the fire, in which Gray very occasionally relaxed, when he was working there. He lifted her to put her into it, and as he did so, the rug slipped from her shoulder; beneath it she was naked, and she wondered anxiously who had stripped her. Her soaked clothing was in a pile on the floor. Her uncovered white flesh made contact with Gray’s and he suddenly bent his head and pressed his lips to it. An electric shock shot through her, leaving every nerve tingling. Never had she imagined a man’s proximity could so violently affect her.
‘Please, Gray,' she murmured, and there was appeal in voice and eyes. She was begging him not to exploit the powerful force that was igniting between them.
‘Woman, you’re a menace,’ he said hoarsely.
She could have retorted that he was even more so to her, but she was too spent for banter. She was seeing again the dim quay, Lesley’s taut figure beside her as she slipped, the hand extended but not to succour her ... no, surely Lesley could not have deliberately pushed her in? Mad jealous she might have been because Gray had spent the day with her, but she wouldn’t go that far . . . or would she? She shivered, and Gray sat down in the chair with her upon his knees, crushing her close to him so that the heat from his body could penetrate hers.
‘What the devil’s keeping that girl?’ he muttered.
Frances could feel the strong beat of his heart next to hers.
Then they heard voices and running feet and the room was full of people. Frances was wrapped in more blankets, while Murdoch assisted Gray into dry clothes. Feebly she protested:
‘I can’t walk in all these swathings!'
‘You’re not going to walk,’ Gray told her, and it was he who carried her up to the house, while Murdoch and Lesley brought their wet garments. The last glimmering of twilight lay over the loch, turning the water to pewter; the first stars gleamed above the mountains. Light streaming from the house lit their path. Frances murmured against Gray’s shoulder:
‘It’s a beautiful world, I'm glad I’m still in it.’
‘If you're staying here, you must learn to swim,’ was his prosaic rejoinder.
He had not known she could not swim, but Lesley did, and again she shivered, feeling she was wading into tides of emotion which were too strong for her. Could one hate a rival enough to want to see her dead? But she was not Lesley’s rival in any real sense. She had merely caught Gray’s passing fancy, and if she judged him correctly it would be only a fleeting one.
Frances suffered no ill effects from her ducking, though Morag fussed over her and insisted that she have her breakfast in bed next morning. She got up in the afternoon and found to her dismay that Gray was coming to supper. When he honoured them with his presence, the meal was formalised into dinner; everyone changed, and efforts
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