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strong and touched by a hint of melancholy. Was he remembering Pauline ... or had he shared the family disapproval of his brother's wife.
    'Such atmosphere,' he spoke almost to himself. 'If I were a writer or an artist I would find such surroundings of inestimable value to my work, and I'm sure this has been so for Jack. What do you think of his work, young woman?'
    'I think he's one of the best popular writers alive today,' she said warmly. 'I—I just haven't the words to describe his latest book!'
    'I imagine it thrills,' he said drily.
    She smiled. 'Columbine are going to be enormously pleased with the book—I get so involved with the typing that sometimes I don't notice that the room is darkening as evening draws in, and then I—I imagine that someone has come into the den and is hiding among the shadows. I quickly switch on the overhead light and everything is back to normal again—'
    Debra broke off, for she hadn't meant to confide the eeriness that crept into the leather-walled den with the fall of dusk, when she would quickly cover the typewriter and hurry to the nursery suite to be with Nanny Rose and little Dean.
    'If you don't care for the atmosphere of Jack's den, why not work in one of the other rooms?' Abruptly he turned to face her, his shoulders spread wide against the afterglow. 'There's a small morning-room facing the library, so why not work there on Jack's book? I am aware that his descriptive powers can be effective.'
    'No,' she shook her head, 'it would be childish of me to give in to fancies, and I'm all right most of the time.'
    'You're over-imaginative, I expect.'
    'I think I am,' she agreed. 'That's why I chose to work for a publishing house.'
    'You have ambitions to become a writer yourself?'
    'Oh no,' she said quickly. 'I love books, but I don't think I have it in me to be a writer of them. I was so grateful for the chance to work for your brother.'
    'A touch of hero-worship, no doubt.' Abruptly her chin was enclosed by his hard fingers and he tilted her face so he could study it. The tide below them was crashing across the beach and hitting the cliffs as the sky turned to sable.
    Debra felt her pulse beating with an intensity that was quite frightening and she had to subdue the urge to pull away from this man who had seen her with only her long smooth hair caping her body. She wished he was a stranger who would walk away from Abbeywitch, but instead he was the master who meant to stay awhile, and he had already implied that it wouldn't be possible for either of them to forget the way they had met down on the sands that were now possessed by the sea.
    'Let us go and have dinner,' he said decisively, and they walked towards the house where lights were glowing behind the windows. 'Do you take your meals with the family, Miss Hartway?'
    'No, I have them with Dean's nanny.'
    'At your wish or my stepmother's?'
    'Mrs Salvador suggested it, and it's what I prefer to do.' Debra spoke firmly. 'I like Nanny Rose and I—I feel more comfortable with her.'
    'I'm sure you do, señorita .' But there was a rather hard note in his voice, and as they entered a sideway into the hall of the house the big chandeliers lit his face and reflected diamond-hard in his eyes. Instantly, in the big portrait of the Don Salvador who had founded the family, which hung against the dark richness of the panelled wall, Debra saw the man who walked at her side.
    There was the proud arrogance in the shape of the head and the features; there the compelling look of authority, and the skin that a hot, fierce sun had tanned.
    More than once Debra had stood and looked at the portrait that commanded the attention of whoever came into the house, but she hadn't dreamt that she would ever meet such a man in the flesh.
    'My infamous ancestor,' said Rodare Salvador, catching the look she flung at the portrait. 'He was said to have the blood of the Moors in his veins . . . very jealous men where their women are concerned, as Othello proved