MASTER OF MARSHLANDS. Miriam Macgregor. CHAPTER ONE

MASTER OF MARSHLANDS

Miriam Macgregor

Blair Marshall disapproved of Lynn

He had made his mind up about her during their very first meeting and he wasn't about to change it.

City girls spelled trouble with a capital T and he avoided them as much as possible. They could be bad medicine for a countryman. The fact that Lynn was friendly with Delphine, the estranged wife of Blair's estate manager, only strengthened his opinion.

Lynn might have laughed off another man's criticism--but Blair was different. Surely she wasn't falling for a man who so clearly despised her?

CHAPTER ONE

The sound of hoofs thudding softly on the new spring grass reached Lynn's ears. She turned slowly to face the man who cantered across the field towards her.

He reined the large chestnut gelding, dismounted and tethered it to the nearby boundary fence, then strode closer to stare at her with unconcealed interest. His dark grey eyes lingered momentarily on the blue jeans that clung to her slim hips, and on the green windcheater jacket that protected her from the sharp southerly breeze. They took in details of her flaming red hair, her clear complexion and the unflinching gaze of her green eyes.

'Are you looking for somebody?' he queried politely, his deep voice resonant.

The question startled her into wariness. '1 was hoping to see Stan,' she said, making it an excuse for her presence. Was this the owner of the neighbouring Marshlands property? she wondered.

Dark brows arched as his next words confirmed the fact. 'You're referring to Stan Bennett—my manager?'

She nodded, noticing the athletic form of his tall muscular figure.

He regarded her narrowly. 'Are you in the habit of meeting him here, near the boundary fence—or perhaps more privately, over there?' He nodded towards a clump of dark pines which sheltered a haybarn.

She allowed the hint of secrecy to pass over her head as she admitted coolly, 'It wouldn't be the first time I've spoken to Stan at the boundary fence.'

'Well—you can forget it for today because he's unlikely to loom over the horizon. He's taking an extended trip overseas. At the moment he's in Australia.' He paused then added thoughtfully, 'If you're in the habit of meeting him it's a wonder you didn't know that small fact. My cousin is not usually secretive.'

'I did not say I'm in the habit of meeting him,' she flashed, making an effort to hide her disappointment. Without Stan it would be more difficult to learn about his small son.

The man continued to regard her closely, his lids slightly narrowed. 'Have we met before?'

'I don't think so.'

'You look vaguely familiar to me. I feel sure I've seen that mass of red hair in some other place. It's like a flambeau.'

She laughed, brushing away the compliment. 'To me it's more like a dish of mashed carrots, especially when it's so unruly.' She raised a hand to smooth it against the wind.

'I prefer a flambeau. I almost saw sparks drop on the grass. And the smile you flashed just now—it also struck a familiar chord.' He looked at her expectantly. 'You're sure you've no recollection?'

'Of meeting you? None whatever.' How could she forget meeting a man with such charisma, or with a face as handsome as this one? His dark brown hair was well-groomed. His nose was straight, his mouth well-formed, the touch of sensuousness only adding to its appeal. His complexion was tanned, the tiny white lines at the corners of his eyes indicating squinting against the sun. He's an outdoor man, she thought, then said, 'I suppose you're Mr Marshall?'

'That's right. And you...? I presume you're from around these parts?' The dark brows arched again.

'No. I live in Wellington.'

'Ah—a city girl.' He ended on a long-drawn breath as his mouth twisted slightly.

She caught the note of disparagement in his voice. 'You're—allergic to city girls, Mr Marshall?'

'I avoid them as much as possible.' The words came coolly.

She felt nettled, but kept her voice casual. 'May I ask why?'

'They can be bad medicine—for country men.'

She looked at him without speaking, deciding that silence would be the wiser policy. It was possible he had the breakup between Stan and Delphine in mind, and at this early stage of her inquiry about their small son she had no wish to discuss them. What she learned about young Tony must come from her own observation, if this could be achieved.

His next words held a reprimand. 'I suppose—being a product of the big smoke and bright lights—you imagine you can climb fences and wander where you please in the wide open spaces, especially if there are mushrooms in the fields.'

'Thank you for hinting that I look thoroughly stupid. I happen to know that mushrooms appear in the autumn rather than in spring.'

'And being a city girl you probably couldn't care less about the fact that you're trespassing,' he pursued pointedly.

The accusation startled her. 'Trespassing? Yes—I suppose I am, but after all I've...' She bit off her words, stopping herself from saying she'd walked along this track towards the manager's house many times. It would reveal that she knew Delphine, and, while she saw no tangible reason for keeping the fact a secret, intuition warned her to hold the knowledge from this man—at least until she knew him a little better, although at the moment this seemed to be an unlikely prospect.

His eyes held curiosity as they regarded her closely. 'Yes? You were about to say that after ail you've... what?'

She thought quickly then gave a slight shrug. 'Well, after all I've only come up the zigzag from Frog Hollow. Surely a neighbour, even a temporary one, is permitted to admire the view from your plateau without being accused of trespassing?'

She turned away from him to stare westwards where the small township of Waipawa sprawled from the river-bank towards higher ground. Beyond it farmlands stretched towards the long range of Ruahine mountains which lay at a distance of about twenty-five miles, their ridges now windswept and clear of winter snow, although their slopes were still streaked and patched with white depths that filled the gullies.

'You're staying with old Max Walker?' he asked.

'Maxwell Walker is my grandfather. I inherited this— this awful red hair from him.'

'Then I presume you're Miss Walker?'

'No. I'm Lynnette Nichols. My mother is his daughter. Most people call me Lynn,' she added, then wondered why she had offered this last snippet of information.

'My friends call me Blair,' he told her casually.

'How nice for them. Naturally, you mean the people who refrain from trespassing on your property.'

'Do you always prickle so easily?' Then, before she could snap a reply, he went on, 'How is old Max? I heard he'd been ill.'

'He had a bad chill which turned to pleurisy. The doctor put him in hospital, but he wasn't kept there for long. Mother and I thought he should have someone with him when he came home, so I decided to come to him for a period.' There was no need to expound upon her other reasons for wishing to visit her grandfather, she thought.

'That sounds as if you are out of a job, or have one that can be dropped at a moment's notice.'

'The latter, fortunately,' she said with a smile. 'My father is a doctor. I'm his receptionist, but we have a friend who stands in for me whenever necessary.'

'Your own private locum, in fact.'

'That's right. It means I can stay with Grandy for as long as I wish.' Or for as long as it takes to learn what I wish to know, she added silently to herself.

'Is Grandy your name for old Max?'

She nodded. 'Ever since I was a child.' She turned to look down at her grandfather's cottage. White-timbered and red-roofed, it stood on a rise beside an extensive swamp which lack of drainage had turned into a small lake inhabited by swans, ducks, swamp hens and frogs. The weed covering part of its surface lay like a green velvet blanket, while the clear water reflected the sky.

Blair's eyes followed her gaze. 'How long does he intend to live alone?' he asked.

She sighed. 'For as long as he has the health to do so, I suppose. My parents have tried to persuade him to live with us, but he just laughs at the idea.'

'Which is something you couldn't possibly understand,' he said, his tone decidedly mocking.

She felt irritated. 'Couldn't I? What makes you so sure about that assumption?'

'Naturally—because you're a city girl,' he snapped.

Anger made her flare at him. 'Mr Marshall, you do repeat yourself. Is it possible you've been hurt by someone who comes from a place larger than this small township of Waipawa?' Her voice rang with sarcasm.

'Definitely not—but I know someone who has,' he snapped abruptly, his jaw tightening.

He's thinking of Stan, hurt by Delphine, she decided, sensing the coldness that had crept into his manner.

'Then no doubt you understand all the circumstances behind that...that particular person's hurt?' The question came casually.

He hesitated momentarily before he said, 'I think so.'

'But you're not sure?'

'I'm sure enough to understand that women who have lived their lives in a city find difficulty in adjusting to country life. They miss the proximity of shops, theatre and every other activity to which they've become accustomed.'

'Unless they can find substitute interests in their new environment,' she pointed out. 'Wouldn't that make a difference?'

'Well—it might.' He reverted to the subject of her grandfather by saying, 'Old Max has reached the age of seventy and shouldn't be living alone. He'll probably tell you I've offered to buy his property. However, he refuses to part with it.'

'Are you saying you want him off Frog Hollow? Has he been trespassing?' she queried sweetly.

'Of course not,' he scoffed impatiently. 'Old Max can come and go as he wishes. His sheep are shorn or crutched in our woolshed. He enjoys pottering about during the shearing of our main flock and he gives a hand at docking time when the lambs lose their tails.'

'Then why do you want him to leave?'

He drew a deep breath as if still controlling his patience. 'Get this straight: I do not want him to leave. I merely wish to purchase Frog Hollow.'

Again her tone became sweet. 'Is this because you happen to be a trifle land-hungry? Shame on you, Mr Marshall.'

His jaw tightened as he gritted, 'You don't understand. It is simply that Frog Hollow was once part of Marshlands. It was sold by a previous owner of Marshlands who was in financial difficulties. That person later sold the remaining property to my great-grandfather.'

'And you would like to see Frog Hollow incorporated back into the main property?'

'Exactly. Besides, there's the lake. It's formed not only, from seepage off the hills, but also from natural springs. It never dries up, therefore it's an excellent watering-hole during times of summer drought. And that's where Max could come in. He could live in the cottage as keeper of the lake. His job Would be to see that animals did not become bogged. I'd pay him to do so.'

'You've suggested this to him?'

'Of course—but he still refuses to sell. He declares he has no intention of parting with his own roof over his head.'

Lynn laughed. 'I can just hear him. Grandy is very independent. He has always had his own roof, and I can't see him parting with it after all these years.'

'Not even for a good price?'

She shook her head. 'He doesn't need the money. Several years ago he owned a much larger property, but when Grandma died he could not bear to remain there without her. He sold and moved to another district, and that was when he bought Frog Hollow.'

'Let me assure you he wouldn't have had the opportunity if my father had been home at the time of its sale. Dad happened to be on an overseas trip—and believe me he was in a fine old rage when he knew he'd missed out on acquiring Frog Hollow.'

Lynn looked at him thoughtfully. Vaguely, she recalled this man's parents living in the Marshlands homestead when she had visited Delphine, who had been living in the manager's house. 'Your mother and father are still at Marshlands?' she asked casually, wondering if she would have to contend with them while learning about Tony.

'No; they've retired to live at Taupo, where Dad can fish all day and where Mother has become involved in charity work.'

'Then he'll no longer be mourning the loss of Frog Hollow.' She smiled. 'At least the place has kept Grandy nicely occupied for several years. He's maintained it well, so I'm sure you'll find it to be in good order when it is eventually gobbled up.'

'Gobbled up?' His mouth twisted into a line that betrayed anger. 'What the devil do you mean by that remark?'

'I mean when it loses its own identity and sinks into oblivion by becoming part of its neighbouring property.'

'Does that mean you might persuade Max to consider my plan?'

'Certainly not.'

'Yet you think the time will come?'

'I feel sure of it.'

'You happen to be psychic?' His tone held sarcasm.

'One doesn't need to be psychic to sense your determination, Mr Marshall. I suspect you to be a man who knows what he wants and who strides forward to grab it with both hands.'

'How would you know that, little lady?'

'Because what you are is written all over you. It drowns what you say.'

'I can believe the truth of that old maxim when I look at you.'

'What is that supposed to mean?' she demanded, her chin rising.

'I suspect you to be a typical burning bush: vibrant on the outside, but green, tender and loving below the surface.'

A flush rose to her cheeks but her expression remained serious as she said, 'That's something you'll never know, Mr Marshall.'

A soft laugh escaped him. 'Then we'll have to see about that.' He stepped closer, his dark grey eyes smouldering as an unexpected movement of his tanned fingers brushed her throat gently.

His touch caused her flesh to tingle and her flush to deepen. A small gasp escaped her as she moved away hastily, then she said with as much nonchalance as she could muster, 'It's time I went home to prepare Grandy's lunch.'

His eyes held amusement but all he said was, 'I suppose it's also time I went back to see how Gary is getting on.'

She was nonplussed. 'Gary? Who is Gary?'

'Gary Palmer. He's living in the manager's house and is working here while Stan is away. At the moment he's counting battens to be replaced in this boundary fence.'

'Oh. Well—goodbye.' She left him, and as she went towards the nearby zigzag she could almost feel his eyes piercing her back. She knew that he watched every movement of her walk, but she did not turn her head.

His voice called to her when she was halfway down. 'I'll see you around somewhere.'

She paused to look up at him. 'I doubt it. I intend to be kept rather busy.'

'Doing what?' he shouted as she continued to descend.

She stopped at the next sharp turn. 'Oh, this and that, and taking care of Grandy.' And other things, she added silently to herself.

The thought of Blair Marshall remained with her all the way back to the cottage. He's got a nerve, she decided, recalling some of the remarks he'd made. Burning bush, indeed! And the temerity of him to touch her throat upon such short acquaintance! Yet something about the recollection, plus the memory of the man's handsome face, left her feeling slightly breathless. But this, she told herself, was only because he was different from any of the men in hep Wellington circle of friends.

When she reached the cottage the odours wafting from the kitchen indicated that lunch was already on the way with Grandy preparing one of his favourite meals. The elderly man stood before the electric stove gently stirring the sautéed onions that awaited the egg and milk mixture about to be poured over them. 'Sorry I'm late home, Grandy,' she said contritely.

Max Walker turned to look at her. His back was still straight in a slim figure of medium height, and, while his previously red hair was now grey, his blue eyes had lost nothing of their sharpness. 'You've been looking over some of your old haunts?' he asked.

'Yes. I couldn't resist climbing the zigzag,' she admitted.

'But no Delphine at the top.' His eyes glinted at her slightly flushed cheeks. 'Is it possible you met somebody else?'

She knew it was useless to brush Grandy's questions aside. 'Well, actually... I did meet a man...'

'Himself, was it?'

'Himself? Well, he said his name is Blair Marshall.'

'Ah, yes, to be sure. The master of Marshlands.'

'You make him sound like a tyrant.'

'He likes his own way.'

'Does that make him different from any other man?' she teased, then asked, 'How did you know I'd met someone?'

'By the smile playing about your lips—and there's a sparkle in your eyes,' he declared shrewdly.

She controlled the desire to ask more about Blair. Instead she said, 'That's only because I have so much to do. A challenge on my mind, you understand.'

'You mean because of the boy, or because of your stories? Learning about the boy will need patience, and redheads are seldom patient.'

'I'm aware of that fact.'

'As for your children's stories, I doubt that they're much problem. They seem to pop into your head, roll down your arms and slip off your fingertips to the typewriter.'

'I try to please them while teaching them something at the same time,' she admitted with shy modesty.

'At least you seem to please the publisher, and no doubt the Inland Revenue Department as well. As for young Tony Bennett, you'll have little difficulty in catching up with him. Frog Hollow is one of his favourite haunts.'

She looked at him eagerly. 'Are you saying he comes here to see you?'

'Certainly not. He comes to catch frogs.'

'Frogs! I suppose they're still here in their hundreds?'

'Of course they're still here. They've been here for years and are unlikely to leave a place that suits them so nicely. Didn't you hear their chorus of welcome when you arrived last evening?'

'I was too weary after the long drive from Wellington, but I heard them early this morning.'

'After a while you'll become so accustomed to their croaking you'll not hear them at all.'

'I'll never hear a croak without thinking of Frog Hollow,' Lynn said with a smile. 'Do you remember the time Delphine and I fell in the water? We were standing too near an edge that gave way.'

'I sure do. The yells from the pair of you brought me running.'

'And what did you do? You stood on the bank and laughed. You told us about the size of the eels living in the lake.'

Instead of sharing her amusement his mouth tightened.

She sensed his disapproval. 'I know you don't like Delphine, Grandy. I wish you'd try to understand.'

Frowning, he commented abruptly, 'Oh—I understand, all right. I understand that she should be home with her man and her young son. I've no time for desertion.' The last words were snapped.

'I suppose Tony misses her.' Lynn's voice held sadness.

'Of course the boy misses her. When you write you can tell her so.' His irritation bubbled.

'I'll not be writing until my observations give me something definite to report,' she told him, then veered away from the subject of Delphine by saying, 'I'm glad to see the black swans are still out on the lake.'

'Yes—they come and they go, although I think they look upon this place as home. I love those birds,' he admitted gruffly. 'They always remind me of the trip your grandmother and I took to Perth in Western Australia where there are so many black swans.' He fell silent, staring at the table while his mind looked into the past.

Lynn said gently, 'There are teal and grey duck out there too.'

But he was still with the swans. 'Did you know they mate for life? If one flies away it soon returns to find its mate. Not like one person I could mention,' he growled.

She ignored his reference to Delphine, saying, 'I noticed a blue heron out there. It's really a blueish grey and not at all like the lovely deep blue of the native swamp hens with their red legs and beaks. Don't you think they're pretty birds, Grandy?'

'The pukeko?' He gave the heavily built bird its Maori name. 'They've almost forgotten how to fly. Food and shelter is what brings them. Naturally, the boy thinks the lake is a fine place. It's full of tadpoles to be taken to school.'

Lynn laughed. 'In a jar of water, of course. He's probably the only boy in his class with a supply so close to home.'

'Well, he's been forbidden to come near the place— not that he takes much notice of that particular order. Stubborn, self-willed little imp—just like his mother.'

Lynn made an attempt to defend her friend. 'Be fair, Grandy. I dare say there's a sizeable splash of his father in him as well.'

'If there is, it's slipped out of sight,' the old man growled.

Lynn did not pursue the subject. Instead she veered away from it by asking, 'What are your plans for this afternoon, Grandy?'

Without hesitation he said, 'I'll have a short nap, then go to the club.'

'Would you like me to drive you there?'

He was shocked by the suggestion, his blue eyes glinting as he said, 'Good gracious, no. The day I can't drive my own car will be the day I must give up Frog Hollow. Fortunately, it hasn't come yet.'

His words startled her, causing her to look at him wordlessly. She hadn't thought of him reaching the stage of being unable to drive his car, but of course that time would come, as it did for most elderly people.

And when it did he'd be unable to go to the township for his food supplies, or to collect his mail from his post office box. And—horror of horrors—he'd be unable to reach his club where everything from the political situation to the latest cricket, rugby or soccer match was discussed and dissected.

In short, Grandy's days at Frog Hollow were now numbered, Lynn realised. His recent bout of illness had left him looking rather frail, causing his age to show more than usual. And the astute Mr Marshall who coveted the property would be well aware of this fact. He had only to sit and wait for it to come on the market.

Max's voice cut into her thoughts. 'This afternoon I'll keep away from the grumblers' table. It becomes a bore.'

'I presume that's where club members have a good moan?'

'That's it exactly. Old age makes some people grumble louder than the rest put together.'

She hesitated, then asked, 'What do you feel about old age, Grandy? Does it worry you?'

He shrugged. 'It's there and I can do nothing about it. It's the inevitable, so I count my blessings, especially at the moment.' His eyes twinkled as he looked at her.

'At the moment?'

'Of course. You're one of my blessings. I know that this cottage is about to be given the fright of its life with a good spring clean, and that all my socks are about to be darned.'

'I might not even raise a finger to do these things.'

'You will because you're like your grandmother when she was your age. When I look into your green eyes I see her all over again.'

Lynn's heart went out to him. 'Does that make you feel sad?'

'On the contrary, I'm delighted. I feel she's not so far away after all.'

It was mid-afternoon when Lynn stood on the small front veranda to watch her grandfather leave for his club. His red Ford was backed out of the double garage attached to the side of the cottage, then turned to be driven on to the country side-road which ran past the Frog Hollow stretch of water.

As he began to drive away a series of howls and barks rose on the air from the back of the house. Mick, his. shaggy black and white Border Collie sheepdog, was registering loud protest at being left at home. The noise caused Max to put a foot on the brake, wind down the front passenger window and send out a whistle which resulted in an obedient silence.

For a few moments the car made a splash of bright colour against the green pastures, then it disappeared to twist and turn along the rises and falls of the undulating land. Lynn knew that half a mile along the road it would pass the entrance to the Marshlands homestead, and beyond that it would reach a main road where a turn would take it towards the Waipawa township.

She left the veranda and went through the french window which also served as the front door. Its small square panes of glass had already been cleaned, and she had transformed the living-room by the removal of dust and the newspapers left strewn in odd places. The open fireplace had been set in readiness for the evening's blaze and the hearth had been swept. A vase of purple lilac filled the air with a faint fragrance.

The cottage was old but comfortable. Originally built as accommodation for a shepherd, its kitchen had been modernised, although it still retained its old black coal range which gave warmth in the winter. The refrigerator had its deep-freeze compartment, and the washing-up sink was set in a stainless steel bench.

The two bedrooms opened off the living-room, the smaller being occupied by Max because it was conveniently closer to the bathroom and to the laundry with its toilet.

The front bedroom, occupied by Lynn, was larger because the end of the veranda had been closed off and added to it. The windows forming its alcove endowed the room with a sunny north-west corner which contained an extra divan bed and a table upon which rested her portable typewriter. Beside it were papers, carbons, correction fluid and a small pile of her published books, which were aimed at children of various ages.

After her arrival the previous evening Max had watched her set it all in order. 'The place is made for you,' he had said. 'An office and bedroom combined. I hope you'll occupy it for a nice long time. You know you're welcome to stay indefinitely.'

She had smiled. 'Thank you, Grandy.'

He had lifted a book from the table, its cover bright with farm animals. 'So this is what you do. I don't recall having such nice bedtime stories when I was a child. And these pictures are really beautiful.'

'They're done by an illustrator. I just do the stories,' she had explained.

He had sent her an anxious glance. 'Do you think you'll be able to work here? The place is very quiet. Inspiration might disappear.'

'Frog Hollow has an atmosphere of its own,' she had assured him. 'Ideas will come from observing all that goes on around the swamp or in the fields, especially at this time of the year when there are lambs.'

She had moved to the window to stare at a hillside where sheep with lambs at foot grazed the lush green pastures. Even as she had watched, a lamb had tried to drink at a ewe's udder but had been bunted away. It had then run to another ewe, but again had been given short shrift.

Lynn had felt shocked. 'Oh—did you see that?' she had exclaimed indignantly to Max who had joined her at the window.

'That lamb doesn't belong to either of those ewes,' he had explained. 'Each ewe knows its own lamb only too well—although there are some that desert their little one,' he had added drily.

She had remained silent for several moments, sensing the dig at her friend Delphine, but as she had no intention of discussing the subject so soon after her arrival she'd thought rapidly and said, 'I could do a story about a lamb that becomes separated from his mother and is bunted away every time he thinks he has found her. I'll call him Bobo. Do you like Bobo for a lamb's name?'

'Why not call him Tony? He's constantly searching for his mother.' His tone had still been dry.

Ignoring the remark, she had said, 'Bobo could get into all sorts of trouble during his search. I'll make it at shearing time when Mum comes out of the shed minus her wool and looking so different. It'll take him hours to find her. Grandy—I think I'll get a whole book out of Bobo.' She had become enthusiastic as the idea gripped her.

'You'd be wise to get yourself settled before that fertile brain takes control,' Max had advised. 'You haven't even finished hanging your clothes in the wardrobe.'

Lynn had laughed happily, glad to have latched on to a plot quite so soon after her arrival.

'Do you write only for small children?' Max had asked.

'No. Sometimes I concentrate on adventure stories for the older age-groups. They can become quite exciting.'

'Do you think you'll find adventure in these quiet hills?' The anxiety in his voice had indicated that he thought this would be difficult.

'It's possible.' She had gazed at the distant back country through half-closed lids, then had begun to speak as a vague idea swam into her head. 'The children in the big homestead are on holiday in the country. One night they see a light on the hills where there should be no light at that hour. Next day they go to investigate but can see nothing...'

Max had become intrigued. 'Yes, go on. There must be a reason.'

Lynn had shaken her head. 'One thing at a time. Bobo is waiting to leap on to the pages. And there are the birds on the lake. I must think of a story telling why the pukeko's legs and beak turned such a bright red, and why the swan's neck grew and grew, and about Freddie Frog who took singing lessons to enthral his lady love. You see—there's so much material here.'

Max had looked gratified. 'Good. It should keep you here for a nice long time, rather than for just a weekend.'

But now, as she left the veranda and wandered towards the wide shining stretch of water, the ideas for stories slid away from her, their place being taken by thoughts of the man she had met earlier that day. I'll see you around somewhere, he had said. When would that be? she wondered.

Memory of his attractive features and athletic virility caused questions to leap up and face her. Was there a woman in his life—a wife who lay in his arms each night? It was more than likely, but why should her thoughts move in such a direction?

Vaguely irritated with herself, she made an effort to drag her mind back to the material for children's stories, and as she felt Lucky, her grandfather's black cat, rub himself against her leg, she knew that he also must be featured. Tail aloft, he trod daintily, his instinct keeping him away from the treacherous edges that could fall away and drop into the water.

These animal stories, plus the ones concerning the inhabitants of the lake, would be of an educational nature, she decided. A frog he' would a-wooing go? She knew that old rhyme to be incorrect because frogs did not a-wooing go. The males, she had discovered through research, sat in groups while blowing up their cheeks and croaking to attract the females to the trysting place. That was why Freddie Frog was taking singing lessons. The thought made her laugh.

And there was Mick the dog, now lying beside his kennel and waiting to take part in a story. His whimpers to be let loose came to her ears, but she dared not allow him off the chain without Grandy's presence to control his enthusiasm for rounding up every sheep in the district.

She sighed as her thoughts refused to be controlled, and, despite herself, they returned to Blair Marshall. Again she recalled the touch of his fingers against her throat—and again she told herself that some men had a colossal nerve.

But even while trying to whip herself into some form of righteous indignation, genuine anger would not register. Nevertheless she promised herself that she would stand well clear of him in future—that was if she ever saw him again.

Just as she made the decision, the still air was shattered by a sharp bark from Mick. She turned to see what had roused his interest, and then a movement against the green hill grabbed her attention.

On the higher land across the water she could see a man making his way down the zigzag. Nor was it difficult to recognise him as being the person she had met that morning. Himself, as Grandy would say. The master of Marshlands. Apparently she was to see him again sooner than she had expected.

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