CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER FIVE

OUT of the goodness of his heart, my eye! Camilla was thinking sourly to herself as they came to Castle Crannach at last and the Land Rover drew up outside. The only reason he was forcing her to spend the night at the castle was because she had expressed a preference to go back to the hotel. His motivation, in other words, was nothing but typical sheer bloody-mindedness!

He had gone to the trouble of rescuing her—reluctantly, on his own admission—and now he was making her pay the price of her transgression!

He led her upstairs to a part of the castle she had never been in before, along corridors of velvet-soft, deep crimson carpet, past walls lined with paintings in heavy gilt frames, to a room at the end beyond a carved oak door. He thrust the door open and ushered her inside. The rose room,' he announced. 'At your disposal for the duration of your stay.'

My brief stay, she amended to herself. My exceedingly brief and reluctant stay. Aloud she told him, 'How very kind' Her tone was heavily sarcastic. As she spoke, she kept her eyes fixed on his face, not even bothering to glance round the room.

'I trust you’ll find it comfortable.' A flicker of amusement touched his eyes. The situation, evidently, appealed to his mawkish sense of humour.

Camilla stared back at him in silence, her own expression fixed and stony.

He was standing casually in the doorway, hands loosely in the pockets of his jeans, the thick, soft, deep red sweater he wore pushed half way up his strong, tanned forearms. At a guess, she would say that he wore nothing under it. Between the loose round neck and the column of his throat only a few dark hairs were visible. She could imagine, without any effort at all, the broad, sun-darkened expanse of chest hair-roughened and muscular, that lay beneath.

She dropped her gaze away, her colour rising. What the devil had got into her? She was stripping the wretched man with her eyes!

He shifted slightly to lean one shoulder against the door-frame. Tm going to be busy, I'm afraid, so I won't be able to have dinner with you. You can dine alone in the dining-room downstairs or I can have Maggie bring something up here.'

As he paused, waiting for an answer, Camilla raised her eyes to his. 'I think I'd prefer to eat in my room. Then I’ll just go straight to bed.'

'As you wish. I’ll inform the staff.'

He didn't move, just stood there looking at her, a tall, powerful figure, faintly threatening. Though the threat he posed was not so much physical, it was less easily defined, almost emotional. It was the way he was standing there, blocking her exit somehow seeming to hem her in. She could feel that sense of control that he exuded reaching out as if to claim her, just as she had done earlier in the Land Rover. The feeling was claustrophobic. It filled her with alarm.

She took a deep breath, composing herself, then let her eyes glide to the door. 'Perhaps you could leave me now? I'd very much like to take a shower.'

As he straightened, she relaxed a bit, assuming he was about to oblige. But then, instead of stepping out into the corridor, he took a step further into the room. She stiffened as he came to stand over her. 'Aren't you forgetting something?' he smiled.

Her flesh tingled strangely as she blinked up into his eyes, those dark, piercing eyes that seemed to see right through her. Then she swallowed drily. 'What have I forgotten?' Her mind was flying back to that incident in the chapel, as, still smiling, he reached out one hand towards her.

‘This.' There was an endless moment of suspense before his fingers softly touched the lapel of the black leather jerkin she had forgotten she was wearing, and she imagined she could feel the animal warmth of them searing through the soft fabric into her flesh. For a moment he allowed his hand to linger, the dark eyes provocative as they burned into hers. 'It looks very good on you, I confess, but I'm afraid I have to ask for it back.'

'Of course!' At once, she was struggling out of the garment, felling foolish, embarrassed by her own gaucheness. She thrust it at him 'I quite forgot Thank you for letting me use it.'

He eyed her closely. 'Don't mention it.' Then he slung the jerkin casually over his shoulder, the glossy black of the leather reflecting against the dark gloss of his hair. Without further ado, he turned to die door. 'I'll leave you to get on with your shower. I’ll tell Maggie to look out some pyjamas when she brings you up your dinner. There are bound to be some of my sister's somewhere.'

As she nodded her thanks, he stepped out into the corridor. 'I’ll see you at breakfast,' he told her with a smile. That is, of course, if you're up in time.'

Then, a moment later, the bedroom door closed and she was left alone.

Camilla didn't take her shower immediately. Instead, she sat down on the edge of the bed and took from her bag the postcard she had bought for Eric on her way back from Loch Maree and proceeded to write a long, affectionate message on the back. For suddenly she was filled with an urgent and overwhelming need to communicate with him. Somehow to bring him closer to her. To fend off the threat that she could feel closing in.

Later, when she had eaten, as she crawled beneath the rose-coloured sheets, dressed in the pretty broderie anglaise nightdress that Maggie had brought her, she propped the postcard carefully against the bedside table lamp. Like a talisman, or a string of garlic, that might protect her from some impending doom.

Then, for a long time before she finally turned out the light, she lay against the big, soft pillows, staring fixedly at it, struggling desperately to banish the troubling dark thoughts that invaded her mind.

'Eric. Eric,' she whispered over and over, like an incantation, to the empty room.

But it was a picture of Ross McKeown, with his wild, dark hair and piercing grey eyes, that still stubbornly refused to be banished from her mind as she drifted at last into fitful sleep.

* * *

Camilla awoke next morning just after seven.

After a night spent restlessly tossing and turning, she was feeling even more exhausted than she had the night before, but it was a relief to get up and get started with the day.

She hurried through to the adjoining bathroom and showered quickly, then pulled on her clothes—the same blue dress of the day before—then briskly brushed back her glossy blonde hair and made her way downstairs.

It would only be polite, she had decided, at least to go through the motions of accepting her host's invitation to breakfast. With a bit of luck, he would not actually be there. He would already have finished ages ago.

Alas, however, he had not.

She walked into the breakfast-room, following a mouth-watering aroma of bacon and warm toast to find him seated at the long oak breakfast-table, dressed in a dark blue roll-neck sweater and pouring coffee from a huge silver pot. But he was not alone. She stopped in her tracks, frowning as she recognised the old man seated opposite him. Even without the battered old hat he'd been wearing last time they'd met she recognised him instantly. The heir to Castle Crannach, it appeared, was having breakfast with his gardener!

Ross glanced up at her as she hovered in the doorway. 'Good morning, Miss Holden. Come and join us.' Then, as she did so, hesitantly, seating herself as far away from him as she possibly could without appearing obvious, he went on with a wicked smile, 'I believe you two have already met but I don't believe you've been introduced ...'

As she turned to meet the eyes of the old gentleman, who glanced up now from his bacon and eggs, Camilla had a sudden premonition of what was coming next She tied a tight smile to her lips and waited as Ross continued, 'Miss Holden, meet my grandfather. Grandfather—Miss Camilla Holden.'

So, her somewhat belated premonition had been absolutely right after all! Just as she had when she'd first met Ross, mistaking him for a lowly shepherd, she'd made a totally wrong, perhaps even insulting assumption about his grandfather's identity. In her dealings with these McKeowns she seemed destined not to put a foot right!

Pink embarrassment stained her cheeks as, avoiding Ross's amused and mocking eyes, she turned apologetically towards the old man. 'I'm sorry, last time we met I had no idea you were the Laird. I thought—' Abruptly she broke off, fearing she might merely compound the damage if she attempted to explain herself.

But the old man was smiling at her without a trace of censure in his eyes. He held out one gnarled and weatherbeaten hand. 'I was having a day off from being the Laird last time we met,' he explained. He winked at her and introduced himself less formally.

'Angus McKeown,' he announced. 'I'm delighted to renew our acquaintance.'

Just as she had that last time, by the rhododendrons, Camilla found the old man full of easy warmth and good humour. Not in the least like his overbearing grandson, she reflected wryly to herself as, soon, the two of them were chatting away quite happily, as though they'd known one another for years.

Ross remained with them only long enough to finish his coffee. As the old Laird plied her with questions about her life and her work in London, she was aware, from the corner of her eye, of his grandson watching her with that habitual look of superior amusement on his face. She felt quietly relieved when he started to leave.

'I've arranged for a couple of my men to go and pick up your car this morning. You can wait for it here, if you want, or if you'd rather go straight back to the hotel I can ask them to drop it off there.'

Camilla swivelled round to look at him, realising that he was talking to her. A faintly guilty blush stained her cheeks. The truth was, she hadn't given the fate of her hire car a second thought Somehow, quite unconsciously, she'd just assumed that Ross would deal with that—and the realisation of that assumption all at once made her feel uncomfortable. She had no right nor any wish, to make such assumptions where he was concerned.

‘Thank you,' she told him politely, then added, Td prefer it if they just brought it here. I thought I might take advantage of the early start by getting some more pictures done. Some outdoor shots, I thought if that's all right with you.'

'Very well.' He glanced at his watch. 'My grandfather has the key. He can let you into the collection. I'm afraid I have work to do.' The iron-grey eyes held hers for a moment 'However, I must insist that you wait to do the Ceo do dh'or until either myself or Maggie is available. Today, I'm afraid, is Maggie's day off and I am going to be rather busy.'

He cast an affectionate smile in the direction of the old Laird. 'I'm sure my grandfather would be only too willing to do the honours himself, but I'm afraid I can't allow such an imposition, His health of late has been a cause for some concern. It would be too much to expect him to run around after you as bodyguard to the jewels.'

'But of course! I wouldn't dream—' Camilla flashed a glance of concern at the old man, then turned back to Ross again. 'I wasn't planning to do the Ceo do dh'or. I think I'll probably leave that till last.'

'In that case, you're free to come and go as you please. Though, naturally,' he reminded her with just a touch of gravel in his voice, 'I expect you to treat even the less valuable items with due care and respect.'

As he pushed back his chair and prepared to leave them, Camilla met his gaze but did not reply. She felt faintly offended by that cautionary remark. Didn't he know he could trust her absolutely on that score?

And perhaps that was why her tone was laced with just a hint of defensive abrasiveness as she asked, 'Have you any idea when my car might be back? I'd like to nip back to the hotel at some point and change into fresh clothes.'

‘Then I'm afraid you’ll just have to wait until it's convenient for one of my men to go and pick it up. Either that or take a taxi.' The touch of gravel in his voice had turned to cut glass now. The dark eyes flashed at her with impatience. 'It may come as a nasty shock, Miss Holden, but some of us have better things to do than run around at your convenience.'

As he turned and strode out of the room on long legs, stiff with irritation, the old Laird paused to watch him go, then turned to the suddenly flush-faced Camilla with a sympathetic smile.

'He doesn't mean to be brusque,' he assured her. 'It's just that right now he's got a lot on his plate. Running Castle Crannach estate single-handed, as he insists on doing, is no mean feat, I assure you. And he worries about me, especially since my illness.' He smiled at Camilla, urging her indulgence. 'Believe me, he's got a lot on his mind.'

For the old Laird's sake, Camilla forced a smile. 'I'm sure he has,' she agreed politely. Though privately, angrily, she was thinking that it was his grandson's innate lack of civility, not any overload of pressures from outside, that was responsible for the roughness of his tongue. In spite of his lofty social status, when it came to manners he was a semi-barbarian. That was all there was to it Pure and simple.

The old Laird leaned back in his seat and threw her a confiding smile. 'Of course, it's in his nature as well. He always did tend to take on too much, even as a child. He never was one to turn down a challenge, no matter what the risks or sacrifice involved.'

As the old man fondly shook his head, Camilla had a sudden vivid vision of the recalcitrant Ross as a young boy. All wild hair and boundless energy, up to every mischief he could find. In spite of herself, she smiled a small smile. It was an image that illogically, she found faintly endearing. Angus McKeown ran one sun-browned hand across his silvery hair. 'He's always been one to live life to the hilt always in search of a bit of excitement. Even when it comes to his so-called leisure.' He sighed a little and shook his head. 'One would hardly describe motorbike racing as a relaxing pursuit now, would one?' he asked rhetorically.

'Motorbike racing?' Camilla frowned. 'You mean that bike he arrived on yesterday—he uses that for racing?'

'It's his great passion. And he's damned good, too. Most people are tipping him for the local championship this year.'

Camilla's eyes widened. So Ross McKeown's idea of a bit of quiet relaxation was hurtling round a dusty racetrack on two wheels at a hundred miles an hour. Somehow the picture that conjured up in her mind fitted perfectly with her image of the man. Yet she couldn't help but quietly reflect that motorbike racing hardly seemed like a sensible pastime for a man with a curse hanging over his head!

But then, that was strictly his affair, she told herself hurriedly as concern lanced through her. He had told her he didn't believe in curses, and it was hardly her place to do his worrying for him!

She glanced up now as his grandfather leaned across the table towards her. 'Will you still be around next Friday?' he wanted to know.

Camilla nodded 'I should be, yes. I plan to go back to London that weekend.'

'Good.' The white head nodded, pleased 'In that case, you're cordially invited to join the celebrations for my seventy-eighth birthday We're having a little party. Just family, you understand. I'd be honoured if you'd attend.'

'And I'd be more than honoured to do so,' she answered, genuinely flattered. Though it crossed her mind that there was at least one person who would be less than delighted by her presence at the party—and, perversely, that knowledge only made her look forward to the evening even more.

After breakfast, the old Laird accompanied her to the room where the collection was kept, then waited as she gathered up the various pieces that she planned on shooting outside.

As she did so, she noticed, with some irritation, that the carved box containing the Ceo do dh'or was no longer in the cabinet where it had been before. Ross had evidently returned it to the safe. So why had he bothered to make an issue of the fact that he didn't want her to shoot it today, when she didn't have access to it anyway? Easy, she answered herself. It was just another example of his difficult and contrary turn of mind!

The Laird went off to sit quietly in the conservatory for a while. 'Just give me a shout when you need me to perform my duty as keeper of the keys again,' he smiled. 'I'm more than happy to oblige.'

But Camilla didn't intend bothering him again for quite a while. 'What I've got here will keep me busy for a couple of hours. You just relax,’ she advised him.

She took the pieces she had chosen down to a secluded corner of the garden, to the old sundial that she had mentally earmarked as a possible location the previous day, and began to set up her first picture of the day.

Just as she had suspected, it was an ideal spot The rough stone of the body of the sundial, shot through with glistening earthy lights, provided a perfect complement to the elaborately worked silver of the pieces themselves, while the essential concept embodied in the old sundial seemed to make an appropriate statement about the timeless quality of their beauty.

Mysteriously, the passage of time had simply added lustre to their appeal.

She was right in her prediction that she would be fully occupied for the next couple of hours. It was just after ten o'clock when she finally wound up her last roll of film and deposited it with a satisfied smile, in the front pocket of her camera-bag. A good job well done, she congratulated herself. Instinctively, she just knew that the pictures she had taken would turn out well.

But the morning was still young, and now that she had got into her stride she had every intention of keeping going. She would return what she had shot so far to the safety of the collection room and select some more pieces to shoot elsewhere. With any luck, her car would have been returned by now, and she had loads more film stowed away in the boot If not she would take a quick taxi ride into the village and stock up there.

Carefully she loaded up her camera-bag and slung it with its broad strap, over her shoulder. Then, humming happily to herself, she set off across the grounds towards the main entrance of the castle.

She'd only got about half way there when she heard the shouting.

A man's voice, full of concern. 'Somebody, quick! Get a doctor!' A car's engine revving, a scuffle of footsteps, then more shouting. 'What's happened? Is he all right?'

Quite involuntarily, Camilla's steps quickened. Entirely of their own accord her finger tightened around the strap of her bag and a sudden, swift shaft of anxiety went piercing through her breast.

And somehow she knew, by some strange intuition, as she sprinted up the stone steps from the garden, what manner of horror awaited her at the top. Though she was not prepared for the rush of emotion, like a fist being driven straight into her stomach, that went charging through her at the sight that met her eyes.

Ross. Doubled up and bleeding, being helped out of a transit van. And the dark blue sweater he had been wearing virtually torn off his back

Just for a fraction of a second Camilla paused at the top of the steps, oddly winded by the sight. Then she was running towards him as the two men with him began to assist him towards the main door of the castle.

'What happened?' she blurted out. 'Ross, are you all right?'

As she came level with him, he had already freed himself from the assisting hands of his two companions and was determinedly making his own independent way to the front door. Typical! she thought to herself with a quick dart of impatience, then instantly felt her heart contract as he swivelled round to look at her, his face as pale as parchment beneath the darkness of his tan.

He smiled, a crooked, self-mocking smile. 'I had a bit of a fight with a tractor,' he told her. 'And if you think I look bad, you should see the tractor!'

One of the two men chipped in. 'You could have been killed, sir,' he protested 'It's a bloody miracle that you weren't.' He turned a pair of concerned eyes on Camilla. ‘The damned thing just set off across the field on its own, no one at the controls, it was the weirdest thing. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I swear to you, I would never have believed it.' He shook his sandy head and frowned 'It was as though it suddenly had a will of its own. It went heading straight for Mr McKeown.'

Ross shook his dark head 'Some fault in the electrical system,' he offered by way of explanation. 'I hardly think it likely that it was out to settle some personal grudge.'

In spite of his light dismissive tone and his determination to shrug off the incident Camilla could see by the knit of his brows that he was in considerable pain. As they reached the front door, she stole a glance at his shoulder, where most of the damage appeared to have been done. It looked in need of urgent attention. 'Has someone sent for a doctor?' she demanded.

The sandy-haired man nodded. 'Dave's gone to fetch Dr Fraser. His surgery's just a couple of miles down the road He should be here any minute.'

'Good.' As the two men began to take their leave, without even thinking what she was doing Camilla followed Ross protectively into the hall, her eyes on the torn and blood-soaked sweater that hung in shreds from his wounded shoulder. 'In the meantime, while we're waiting, I think I should have a go at cleaning you up.’

'I didn't realise that among your many talents you also possess a nursing certificate.' Ross paused in the hallway and looked down at her with a taunting expression in his iron-grey eyes. But if it was in his mind to reject her offer, he was momentarily diverted as the phone began to ring.

A minute or two later, he laid down the receiver. That was Mrs Fraser. Her husband's in the village delivering a baby. He won't be able to get here for at least an hour.' He smiled a lopsided smile. 'It looks, my dear Miss Holden, as though I'm obliged to accept your offer after all.'

Levelly, Camilla returned his gaze. 'Don't worry, I know what I'm doing. I don't possess a nursing certificate, but I did do a course in first aid once. I assure you, I'm fairly competent in the basics of treating a wound.'

Fifteen minutes later, through in the drawing-room and armed with a pile of big, soft towels, a bowl of warm water, antiseptic and cotton wool, she was ably demonstrating her skills. Ross had stripped off the bloodstained sweater and was straddling, back to front, one of the delicate Sheraton chairs, his arms draped loosely over its back.

Camilla stood behind him, carefully cleaning around the wound with sure but delicate strokes. And it was a mess, she observed to herself, her lips pursing with sharp concern as she surveyed the torn flesh of his shoulder and the dark bruise that spread: down his muscular arm. But, anxious not to alarm her patient, she told him kindly, 'It’ll be all right, but you may well need a couple of stitches.'

He shrugged indifferently. 'I’ll survive,' he said.

That fact was not in question. Camilla smiled quietly to herself, feeling a sneaking sense of relief that he was bearing up so well. Already, he seemed to have totally recovered from the initial shock of the accident It would apparently, take a great deal more than an encounter with a three-ton tractor to put Ross McKeown out of action!

But of course, she should have known that Ross was a survivor. Something we have in common, she found herself musing with a quiet smile, as her fingers worked delicately against his smooth skin. And though, on the surface, it was an alien thought it was at the same time oddly warming to discover that they might have something in common after all.

Almost worriedly, she shook the thought off. This sudden physical intimacy between them was doing strange things to her head! In fact the whole unfortunate incident had triggered off a series of emotional responses in her that were inappropriate and out of place. That rush of concern she had experienced at the sight of him, that tug at her heart on seeing he was hurt, now that she considered it made no sense. Why should she care in the slightest about him when all he ever did was make her life difficult?

Because I'm a normal, compassionate human being, she instantly chided herself in defence. Hadn't she felt exactly the same thing for the red deer last night? And what she was doing now she would have done for anyone. There was nothing strange or out of place about it. It was no more than a simple, impersonal kindness from one human being to another.

Still, she was mildly relieved when her task was done. Taking care that her fingers came into contact with his flesh as briefly as possible, she laid a soft pad of lint across the wound, and strapped it in place, to keep it clean. ‘That'll do as a temporary dressing, until the doctor comes.' Then, abruptly, she turned her attention to clearing up the first aid things.

He stood up and turned round to look at her, unstraddling his long legs from the seat of the chair. ‘Thanks, Camilla. I'm most grateful,' he told her, addressing her informally for the very first time. 'If I had to have a fight with a tractor, I'm glad I did it when you were around.'

Fumblingly she rolled up the gauze, avoiding contact with his eyes, wishing she weren't quite so aware of the muscular expanse of naked chest standing less than an arm's length away. He was every bit as splendidly built as she had secretly imagined he would be.

'Don't mention it,' she mumbled, forcing her attention on to the gauze and away from his all-too-near physique. Then she added, as a thought occurred to her, 'How on earth could a tractor just come rolling across a field on its own?’

‘That's something well have to investigate. I reckon it was a fault in the electrical system.'

Yes, that was the excuse he had given before, but Camilla had her own private theory. Obliquely, she asked him, 'Have you ever heard of such a thing happening before?'

'Not to me, personally. But I know that such things can happen.'

She half turned then to look at him. 'Don't you think it's a little odd?'

'Odd?' Ross met her eyes and smiled. 'Are you thinking what I think you're thinking? Are you suggesting it was the Ceo do dh or curse?'

A touch defensively she straightened. 'Well, it might have been.'

But he shook his head. 'Surely, if it had been the curse, I would have been dead, not just slightly wounded? These ancient Celtic curses don't fool around, you know.'

There was a gently mocking note in his voice that told her he was not taking her suspicions seriously. And he was probably right. She was merely being ^ fanciful. On a more down-to-earth note, she observed, 'I noticed you've taken the precaution of returning the jewels to the safe.'

"The Ceo do dh'or? What do you mean?' Suddenly, he was frowning at her. 'I haven't put them back in the safe. I left them in the cabinet with the other jewels.'

'Well, they weren't there this morning I can most definitely assure you of that.'

'Show me.' Without pausing for breath, he turned and strode across the room. 'Come!' he commanded as she began to follow him. 'I think we'd better check it out right now.'

She'd been absolutely right of course. As she'd observed that morning, the box containing the Ceo do dh'or was no longer in the cabinet with the other jewels. Even more peculiar, and alarming, when Ross opened up the safe it was not in there either.

'Perhaps your grandfather removed it,' she suggested as he stared, uncomprehending, at the empty space, his features darkening into a scowl.

Ross shook his head. 'He wouldn't do that without telling me. And no one else is allowed to handle them.'

She stated the obvious. 'Well somebody has.' Then she elaborated boldly as in a sudden flash of intuition, an explanation occurred to her. 'I bet I know where they are—back on that island you told me about, the island where they were originally kept!'

He regarded her closely, still frowning. ‘The Isle of Mhoire? What makes you think that?'

'Why, it's obvious!' Camilla declared, her enthusiasm growing as she went on. ‘That's why your accident wasn't fatal, as the curse intended it to be. ‘By the time the tractor hit you, the jewels were already back on the island where they're supposed to be. I’ll bet you anything that's what happened. After all, you said yourself that the curse only came about because the jewels were taken away!'

Excitedly, she paused for breath, aware that what she was saying sounded like a fairy-tale, yet utterly convinced that she was right.

For a moment Ross said nothing. He slammed shut the door of the empty safe. ‘That's as maybe,' he remarked, seeming to dismiss her theory out of hand. 'But before we start getting bogged down in legend, I think we'd better call the police.'

The next few hours were chaos.

First Dr Fraser appeared, to praise Camilla's first aid efforts and put a couple of stitches in Ross's wound. Then the police arrived and asked endless questions, to which, apparently there were no answers. Old Angus knew nothing of the fate of the Ceo do dh'or andMaggie, the housekeeper, the only other person who had access to a strong-room key, was having a day off and could not be traced. When the police finally left, Camilla left, too. She was no longer in the mood for taking pictures and there seemed little point in hanging around.

She was back at the Stag Hotel, getting ready for dinner that evening when the phone on the bedside table rang. She picked up the receiver, assuming it would be Eric, and was surprised when Mrs Cameron in reception informed her, ‘There's a visitor for you, Miss Holden. Mr Ross McKeown. I've sent him up.'

Camilla frowned as she laid down the phone. What the devil was going on? And what did Ross mean by turning up here at the hotel like this?

She did not have long to wait for her answer. A sharp tap sounded on the door. Then, even before she had pulled it half open, he was striding purposefully into the room.

She rounded on him. 'What the devil—?' But that was as far as she got.

Like some wild warrior, he turned to face her, hands on hips, his dark head thrown back 'Pack a case,' he commanded, 'and prepare yourself for a spot of adventure. First thing tomorrow morning you and I are sailing to the Isle of Mhoire!'

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