Abby hunched her shoulders. ‘I’m not, but—–’
‘—but you’d rather go with Luke. I know.’ For a moment she tensed, expecting a lecture, but it didn’t come. Instead, he said: ‘I have to go. Mrs Lewis is worse. I’ll give her your good wishes, shall I?’
‘Oh, yes. Please.’ Abby felt ungrateful. ‘I’m—I’m sorry if you thought I was selfish.’
The priest shook his head, his eyes gentle. ‘You’re young, Abby, that’s all.’
After he had gone, Abby drank a second cup of coffee before leaving the table. As she opened the dining room door she came face to face with Luke, and she stepped back in surprise.
‘Where does this Mrs Jameson live?’ he asked, and her lips parted in astonishment.
‘Er—at Dun Ifor.’ She made a futile gesture. ‘It’s a tiny village two miles round the loch.’
‘And how do you propose to get there?’
Abby had no time to question this catechism, and she answered automatically: ‘On my bicycle.’
‘A bicycle!’ Luke stared at her, half amused.
‘Yes.’ A trace of resentment coloured her tone now. ‘Why not? Cycling is very good for you.’
‘I’m sure it is. But I was going to suggest I took you—in my car.’
Abby gasped. ‘Why should you do that?’
Luke hesitated. ‘Shall we say I’m prepared to wait until this afternoon to go—sightseeing?’
Abby coloured then. She couldn’t help it. Success was intoxicating. ‘I—but—I might be hours at the Jamesons’.’ She had to say something.
‘Perhaps I can give a hand,’ remarked Luke, and she stared disbelievingly at his cream corded pants and heavy cashmere sweater.
‘In those clothes!’
‘I can change,’ he replied steadily. ‘Well?’
Abby’s hand involuntarily sought the open vee of her cotton shirt. ‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘If that’s what you really want to do. Only—–’
‘Only?’
‘—I don’t know what Uncle Daniel would say.’
‘Uncle Daniel won’t know, until it’s too late,’ Luke returned dryly, and Abby felt a tremor of apprehension sweep over her as she turned away.
By the time she had paid an unexpectedly urgent visit to the bathroom, and pulled on the crimson windcheater and Wellington boots, Luke was waiting for her in the hall, lean and workmanlike in faded denims and a waist-length leather battle jacket. He held open the door for her and they emerged into the brisk air, overlaid this morning with the threat of rain. The dark green racing lines of the Lamborghini rested on broad tyres on the cobbled forecourt, much like some hungry predator waiting to spring. Even the prospect of riding in such a monster filled Abby with excitement which intensified when he swung open the door beside the wheel, and said: ‘Would you like to drive?’
‘Me?’ Abby stared into his dark face disbelievingly. ‘I—I couldn’t.’
‘Why not? You have a licence, don’t you?’
‘Well, yes, but …’
‘Don’t you want to drive?’
Abby wrapped her arms around herself. ‘I’d love to.’
‘Come on, then. I’ll show you how it works.’
Behind the wheel, with a seat belt securing her in place, Abby’s hands trembled as they clasped the wheel. Luke walked round the bonnet and levered himself in beside her, smiling at her tense face.
‘Relax. It’s as simple as learning your alphabet. All you’ve got to remember is that you’ve got five forward gears instead of four.’
‘It’s air-conditioned!’ she exclaimed.
‘Yes. And the windows are electrically operated, if you should wish to open them.’
Abby looked at the comprehensive dashboard. ‘It’s like flying an aircraft.’
‘I can assure you it’s much simpler.’
She turned to look at him with wide eyes. ‘Can you fly?’
‘Not without a plane,’ he conceded derisorily, directing her attention back to the dashboard. ‘Now, it’s power steering. Probably lighter than what you’re used to.’
Abby looked at the milometer and caught her breath. ‘That says two hundred and—–’
‘They’re kilometres,’ he corrected her dryly.
‘Even so—–’
‘You’re not likely to take off along two miles of the lake shore.’
‘The loch! The loch shore.’
‘All right, the loch shore, then. Right. Can you get us off this forecourt?’
The powerful engine roared to life, and Abby unknowingly had her tongue jammed between her teeth as she found bottom gear and the car crept forward. Driving through the village, she was intensely conscious of the curious glances cast her way, but she had no time to acknowledge anyone’s greeting this morning. Instead, she concentrated on avoiding the bicycles they passed, and the butcher’s van as it swung carelessly away from the kerb.
At last they emerged on to the open road, and she breathed a sigh of relief, taking the opportunity to rub first one palm and then the other over the knees of her pants.
‘You’re doing fine,’ observed Luke beside her, and she stole a glance at him.
‘Am I?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘Am I really? Oh, I nearly died when Mr Smith pulled out in front of us like that.’
Luke relaxed against the curving headrest. ‘Open her up a bit,’ he advised. ‘She’s baulking at this speed. You haven’t even reached top yet.’
Abby depressed the accelerator and allowed the needle on the speedometer to creep upward. The road beside the loch would not allow for much more than fifty, but even at that speed the sensation of latent power was exhilarating. All too soon the gates of the Jamesons’ property came into view, and she had to change down rapidly to negotiate the cattle grid.
Pauline Jameson was a woman in her late forties, whose family had owned this stretch of land for generations. Tall and rangily built, she had been brought up with horses and they were her passion. When she had first met and married Robert Jameson, a Glaswegian police constable, and gone to live in the city, no one had expected the marriage to last. But they had not taken Pauline’s determination into account, and soon she had persuaded her husband to leave the city force and return with her to the Highlands of her birth. Now everyone knew Robert Jameson almost as well as his wife. Their only regret was that they had had no children to carry on the tradition, and consequently Abby, orphaned at quite a young age, had always been welcome there. In the summer months, Pauline hired out ponies for trekking, and Abby had always enjoyed going over there to exercise the animals through the off-season months.
If Pauline considered there was anything unusual in a man of Luke’s evident wealth and ability desiring to help her part-time stable hand in cleaning out the stables, she succeeded in hiding her feelings admirably. Soon they were all wielding brushes of one kind or another while the Jamesons’ two retrievers bounded about excitedly, jumping up and barking, and generally making nuisances of themselves.
The horses had been turned into the field behind the Jamesons’ bungalow and when, halfway through the morning, Pauline called a halt while she went to make some coffee, Abby