CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SIX

THERE had been absolutely no point in trying to argue with him. Ross had suddenly decided, so he had explained that Camilla's intuition was worth following up. And in his usual impetuous way, no sooner had he decided than he was ready to act.

His insistence that she accompany him he had justified thus: 'If the jewels are on the island—which you seemed so sure about this afternoon—you’ll have a unique opportunity to photograph them in their original setting. Surely a professional like yourself couldn't throw up an opportunity like that?'

He was right, she couldn't. And besides, in itself, the prospect of a trip to the romantic Isle of Mhoire really rather excited her. What filled her with considerably less enthusiasm was the identity of her travelling companion. He had warned her they would be away for at least two days. The prospect sent shivers down her spine.

Nevertheless, packed and ready, just after nine o'clock next morning, Camilla called Eric's office in London to advise him of this unexpected development only to be told by his secretary that he was in an early-morning meeting.

As she left a message with the girl, she kicked herself mentally. She should have called him at home last night or earlier this morning, as soon as she got up. What on earth was he going to think when his secretary passed on the message that his fiancée-to-be had suddenly decided to go off to the Hebrides with the disreputable grandson of the Laird of Glen Crannach?

As she waited now in her hotel-room for Ross to come and pick her up, she checked her reflection in the mirror. She had opted for a workmanlike pair of cord trousers, in a plain grey colour, the same as her sweater, and she had drawn back her shiny blonde hair, almost severely, in a clasp at her nape.

She had also elected to wear no make-up, no jewellery, and plain flat pumps. This was a business excursion, pure and simple. Let Ross McKeown be in no doubt about that!

He arrived outside the Stag Hotel at nine-thirty on the dot precisely as they had arranged, and deposited her bag in the back of the Land Rover, alongside his own.

'How's your shoulder?' she enquired politely, as he climbed in beside her and they set off. 'Did you manage to sleep last night?'

He smiled across at her. 'Like a log. It feels a little stiff today, but I can't complain.'

He certainly didn't look as though it was causing him any discomfort Dressed in a heavy deep red sweater that enhanced and dramatised his dark good looks, and a pair of his customary jeans, he looked the picture of health and fitness. He probably always did, she mused, quite unable to envisage him in the passive role of invalid A strong constitution and an iron will would ensure he never had to play that unlikely part for long!

They were heading westwards towards the coast 'We'll drive down to Gairloch,' he informed her, 'and pick up the ferry there. There's one goes to the Isle of Mhoire about lunchtime, I believe. Though it doesn't go direct. We’ll have to stop off at about half a dozen other little islands on die way. With any luck, we should get there by teatime.'

‘Teatime!' Camilla threw him an impatient look. She had anticipated that their voyage would take less than an hour. 'Wouldn't it be simpler to take a ferry that goes to the island direct rather than all that messing about?'

He nodded 'You're right it would.' Then he turned to fix her with iron-grey eyes, a devilish smile curling round his lips. ‘The trouble is, there is no direct ferry. In fact we're lucky to be able to catch today's. The ferry service to the Isle of Mhoire only runs a couple of days a week.'

'You're joking!' She blinked; at him, knowing he was not. Suddenly, she understood why he had warned her they would be away for a couple of days at least.

He shook his head. ‘This isn't the London commuter service, with ferries every half-hour. The islanders lead an isolated life, and that's the way they seem to want it No telephones, no TV, a mail service only once a week. It was only just over five years ago that they elected to have electricity installed.'

Camilla blinked at him again. What sort of primitive, backward place was he taking her to? she wondered 'But this is the last quarter of the twentieth century! Surely people don't still live like that?'

‘There they do. But they live well. You’ll be surprised when you see for yourself.'

Suddenly, in spite of herself, Camilla was doubly curious. She had never visited such a place before, and, as Ross had warned her last night, it promised to be something of an adventure. Yet in spite of her excitement she felt a growing unease.

In such a place, someone such as herself, used to every modern convenience, would be forced to rely utterly on someone like him, who knew his way around, who knew how things worked. She would be totally dependent on him, and that prospect appealed to her not one bit

But short of demanding that he let her out of the car and carry on without her, there wasn't a great deal she could do. Not if she wanted to shoot the Ceo do dh'or, for she was still quite certain that it was on the island.

Resignedly, she sat back in her seat as they headed for Gairloch and the point of no return. Let's just hope this doesn't turn out to be too much of an adventure! she was thinking to herself.

The little ferry with its cargo of just three vehicles and a score of passengers set sail shortly after twelve o'clock.

Camilla leaned against the guard rail to watch the noisy convoy of seagulls that escorted the little ferry as it chugged out of the tiny harbour. Then she sighed and let her gaze drift back to the rapidly receding coastline with its clutter of little grey stone buildings twinkling in the low autumn sun and behind them, brooding and protective, the cloud-capped peaks of the Western Highlands.

She closed her eyes and lifted her face up to the wind a kindly, gentle westerly breeze that caught at the loose strands of her hair and made them dance like gold threads in the sun.

Unaccountably, she felt good. This place that, just a couple of days ago, had seemed so alien, so strange, had somehow, much to her surprise, wormed its way into her heart As the clean salt tang of the sea filled her lungs, she breathed in deeply and smiled. It was all so different from what she was used to, but at this moment she would not have been anywhere else.

With a stab of guilt she thought of Eric, stuck in the pulsing melee of London, his ears assaulted by the roar of the traffic, his nostrils by the stench of fumes, as he battled his way to some crowded restaurant for a hurried lunch. Then she smiled to herself. The truth was, Eric thrived on that, just as she had always done. He would be amused if he could see her now. This sudden taste for the rural life was a side of her he had never seen.

But this peaceful interlude could not last.

'So what does boyfriend Eric think of you coming away with me?' Just as she had almost managed to blot his existence out of her mind, Ross was standing right beside her, by some fluke appearing to read her mind.

She turned her head briefly to glare at him. Earlier he had been chatting to the ferryman, and she had been hoping he might stay thus occupied for the remainder of the voyage. She pushed the loose strands of hair from her face. 'I don't know what you mean,' she said.

He leaned casually against the guard rail, the dark hair whipping in the wind, and regarded her with a look of amusement 'I take it you did let Eric know that you were coming away with me?'

'Of course.' She narrowed her eyes at him, riot quite certain if she cared for his choice of phrase, at the same time feeling that familiar tension that instantly knotted inside her whenever he mentioned Eric's name. Something which he did with such casual familiarity that she felt faintly thrown as to how to respond He referred to Eric as though he knew him personally and uncomfortably, that seemed to close the distance between them. In a conscious effort to widen the gap, she turned her attention back to the sea.

'Are you hungry?'

'A little.' In all the excitement, she had quite forgotten about her stomach, but by now it was at least five hours since she had eaten breakfast Just the mere suggestion of the subject of food had awakened a ravenous, gnawing pang.

'Let’s eat then.' Ross held up the plastic bag he was carrying in one hand. While they were waiting to load the car on to the ferry, he had disappeared off into the village and reappeared fifteen minutes later, carrying this unidentified package. He hadn't said what it contained and Camilla hadn't asked. She was relieved now to discover that in whatever basic form, it appeared to contain their lunch.

He led her to a quiet corner of the deck and sat down on one of the slatted wooden benches. Then, as she sat down beside him, but not too close, he proceeded to amaze her by laying on the bench before her a mouth-watering selection of crispy filled rolls, a lump of cheese and some shiny red apples, plus a thermos flask of coffee. He grinned at her with the self-satisfied air of a magician producing rabbits from out of a hat 'Hey presto! Help yourself,' he invited, watching her.

She selected one of the rolls, crammed with thick slices of honey-roast ham, tomatoes and a generous dollop of home-made chutney, and sank her teeth into it gratefully. It was melt-in-the-mouth delicious.

'OK?' he wanted to know, as he poured coffee for both of them and helped himself to one of the rolls.

She nodded enthusiastically. 'Excellent,' she confirmed between chews.

'Not quite the sort of lunches I'm sure you're used to enjoying with Eric, but it won't do you any harm to rough it just for once.'

The sarcastic humour in his voice made-her glance round at him. She could see the same sarcastic humour reflected in his eyes. One dark eyebrow was lifted speculatively as he watched her. He was mocking her as usual. Camilla felt her anger rise.

She laid down her roll and looked straight back at him. 'You're wrong about me, you know,' she told him.'

‘Wrong?' He took a mouthful of his roll. ‘Tell me, in what respect?'

'In just about every respect I can think of.' She hesitated, wondering if she should continue. Her background was something she rarely spoke of and it was really none of Ross McKeown's business. But something urged her to go on. 'You seem to think of me as some kind of spoiled and pampered brat. Someone who's had things easy all her life. Well, nothing could be further from the truth.'

Attentively, the grey eyes watched her. He neither confirmed nor denied her accusation.

Stiffly, Camilla continued, 'My mother died when I was seven. I never even knew my father. I was brought up in a series of children's homes and foster homes in one of the poorer parts of London—a million light years away from Knightsbridge, where you seem to think I belong. Believe me, when it comes to roughing it, there's absolutely nothing you can teach me.'

As she came to the end of her brief resume, her fists were clenched and her heart was beating hard, as it always did when she remembered these things. To hide her emotion she dropped her eyes to her lap and waited in a silence that seemed to go on forever.

Then, at last, Ross spoke. 'I'm sorry,' he told her simply. ‘Though perhaps what you've just told me helps me a little better to understand certain things about you.'

'What things?'

'Oh, things. Certain things that didn't add up.'

'And now they do?'

‘They're beginning to.'

Camilla looked away, strangely disturbed by the suddenly profound look in his eyes—and by the illogical sense of satisfaction she had felt in unburdening herself to him And though there was much more she could have told him, some instinct told her there was no need.

But suddenly the spell was broken as he asked her, 'So where does Eric fit into all this?'

'What do you mean, where does he fit in? I've already told you he's the man I'm going to marry!' For some inexplicable reason, the mention of Eric at that moment felt almost like an intrusion. 'What's this obsession with Eric, anyway? Why do you keep mentioning him?'

'Just curious, I guess.' He took another bite of his roll, leaned back in his seat and pushed back his sleeves. 'I know I've told you this before, but for the life of me I still can't figure out what a girl like you is doing with a guy like him.'

Which just went to prove how totally non-existent was this understanding he had just laid claim to! She felt both soothed and irritated by the revelation. Normality was restored, but something had been lost.

'Well, it makes sense to me,' she informed him curtly. ‘Total sense. So, please don't worry yourself.'

He took a mouthful of his coffee and stretched his long legs out in front of him. 'Oh, I'm not worried, but I can't help wondering what the devil it is you see in him.'

There he was again, talking as though he knew Eric personally! Perhaps it was the lunacy of the whole situation that spurred her to offer a reply instead of just telling him to mind his own damned business. With perfect composure she took a bite of her roll. Let him not see how much he rattled her.

'As it happens, Eric and I have a great deal in common. We like the same sort of music. We enjoy doing the same sorts of things.' She chewed discreetly and carried on, deliberately avoiding Ross's gaze. The facetious mockery she would see there, she knew, would only put her off. 'What's more, our views on most things coincide. We have very similar outlooks on life. Our tastes are similar. We like the same things.' She paused and glanced across at him, satisfied with this assessment 'I would say that Eric and I are a very highly compatible couple.'

The dark eyes scrutinised her face as, with a smile of satisfaction, she wound up her case. He seemed to be waiting for her to continue. 'Is that it?' he said at last.

The blue eyes sparked. 'What more do you want? Eric's a kind and decent man. He's going to make me an excellent husband!'

Thoughtfully, Ross narrowed his eyes, then, very slowly, he shook his head. 'You know, I seriously think you believe all that claptrap you've just told me.'

'Claptrap?'

'Claptrap,' he repeated. Then, in a gesture at once impatient and dismissive, he turned and tossed the crust of his bread roll over the guard rail into the sea. From out of nowhere, before it ever hit the water, a seagull swooped down to catch it in its bill, then wheeled away triumphantly to the squawking disapproval of it companions. Ross watched it go. The scavengers of the sea,' he observed. They'll accept anything that's edible.'

Camilla glared at the contemptuous dark profile, the strong, straight nose, the square, proud jaw, and felt the irritation bubbling inside her. A lesson in marine zoology was not what she was interested in right now. In a taut even tone she demanded, 'Would you mind explaining what you mean by claptrap?'

'Garbage. Nonsense. Utter baloney.' He raised one dark eyebrow and turned to look at her. 'All those reasons you gave me for marrying Eric. Claptrap, that's what they are.' Then, before she could intervene, he carried on, The world is full of kind and decent people who share our opinions and our taste in music. But, hell, that doesn't mean to say we have to go and marry them!'

Camilla blinked at him, momentarily thrown by the obvious logic of his argument Then she stiffened uneasily as, quite unexpectedly, he slid along the bench towards her.

There has to be more to it than that' he told her. 'A very great deal more, I'd say.' An intense expression filled his eyes as, catching her totally off guard, he reached out one hand to grasp her arm 'Does he move you when he's close, like this? Does he feel like an extension of your soul?'

Camilla jerked involuntarily away as his unexpected touch ignited her nerve-ends. Indignantly, she met his gaze. "And what is that supposed to mean?' she shot back at him defensively. If he was asking if Eric sparked in her the raw sexual responses that she felt for him, then her answer, without a shadow of a doubt had to be no. But then, she reasoned, that was probably because he had respected her wishes to keep their courtship chaste—a chivalrous gesture of the type that Ross McKeown would never understand!

She glared at him disapprovingly and charged, "You're the one who's talking claptrap now! You can make fun of me all you like, but I still claim that a common outlook is important between two people who intend to spend their lives together. How can you expect to live in any kind of harmony unless you agree about essential, basic things?'

'Oh, don't worry, I'm all for harmony, too.' He smiled a blatantly disharmonious smile as he dropped his hand from her arm at last and leaned back, watching her beneath long lashes. 'But I don't think it's something two people can achieve through the sorts of superficialities you mentioned alone. What does it really matter if one partner likes Stravinsky and the other prefers Springsteen, or if one enjoys playing football and the other would rather stay at home and paint? Any relationship worth having should be strong enough to tolerate such differences.'

'Maybe,' she conceded reluctantly. The irrefutability of his reasoning was making her feel acutely uncomfortable. She decided, for a change, to put him on the spot 'So, tell me, then, since you're the expert what makes an ideal relationship?'

A self-mocking smile curled round his lips. He ran his fingers through his hair. 'Oh, I'm no expert' he assured her. The ideal relationship, I'm afraid, is something that so far has eluded me.' His expression sobered. He looked straight at her. 'But I’ll know beyond a shadow of a doubt if and when I ever find it—and it will have nothing whatsoever to do with compatibility of tastes in music.'

He was really rubbing that point in. ‘Then what?' Camilla demanded caustically.

He shrugged broad shoulders and half turned away. 'It isn't easy to describe, but I know I'll recognise the girl for me, possibly without knowing anything about her. What I see in her eyes will be all I'll need to know. There'll be an instant bond an instinctive understanding, that goes beyond all human calculation. And when we touch, or even when we don't I’ll feel as if she's a part of my soul.'

As he looked back at her Camilla looked away, aware that his words had struck a chord in her heart. But an uneasy and faintly threatening chord. Though it surprised her to have to admit it, she had suddenly understood exactly what he meant.

Defensively, she raised her eyes. 'You're looking for a romantic ideal that only happens to the lucky few. Like most people, I'm sure, in the end you’ll settle for less.'

'As you have, you mean?'

She had not meant that though it was true. In spite of herself, she felt her face flame. 'I'm a realist,' she told him, glancing self-consciously down at her lap. 'I don't waste my time with impossible dreams.'

'And I'm an incurable romantic. I refuse to settle for anything less.'

As their eyes met he was smiling, but behind the smile lay a deadly seriousness that Camilla could only wonder at—and reluctantly, admire. He would have his dream or settle for nothing. She felt a twinge of envy at his resolve.

'So what happens if your dream girl doesn't come along? Do you intend to live your life alone?'

'If I have to,' he assured her. ‘Though I thoroughly intend to treat myself to the occasional diversion along the way.'

That was more like it! Camilla thought at once. A bit of rough and ready pragmatism amid all the starry idealism! 'I take it by that that you intend to have affairs—or rather, that you do have affairs?' she corrected herself.

Ross smiled amused by her boldness. 'Would you expect me to live like a monk?'

No, she would not expect that. A man like him, it would not be possible. As the old Laird had said he would live life to the hilt

'Perhaps you should consider a similar strategy yourself.' Ross was watching her now with a strange new expression. 'Instead of rushing into a second-rate marriage, indulge yourself in the occasional passing fancy until that special someone comes along.'

What was he saying? Camilla blinked at him, her skin growing suddenly uncomfortably warm at the invitation he seemed to have implied. Was it merely her imagination, or had his suggestion had a personal ring? She felt herself stiffen. 'No, thank you,' she replied. ‘That may suit you, but it would never suit me. And besides,' she reminded him sharply, 'you forget, I've already found my special someone.'

As he nodded—'Yes, of course, I forgot'—she turned her gaze deliberately seawards, pointedly ending the conversation. She would not listen to this disruptive talk. She had chosen the path she intended to follow and she would not be diverted from it Eric was not and never would be, the romantic soulmate that Ross had spoken of, but he was a good man for all that and she would be lucky to have him for a husband.

She glanced up at the swooping, diving seagulls, still following the ferry as it headed for the islands. Let Ross, if he happened to feel so inclined go chasing after impossible dreams. She, for her part in her short lifetime, had had enough of struggle and uncertainty. What she needed now were simple love and security and those were precisely the things that Eric offered her.

He was the best future she was ever likely to have, and she intended hanging on to him.

They finally reached the Isle of Mhoire just as the sun was going down. By then, they were the only two passengers left on the ferry, all the others having disembarked at the various islands along the way.

As they climbed into the Land Rover and trundled down the ramp on to dry land, the ferryman stood and waved them off. 'Wednesday, eight a.m. sharp, remember!' he called after them. That's our next sailing time back to the mainland. Be sure you're here in plenty of time!'

Don't worry, Camilla assured him silently. ‘I’ll be the first person in the queue! She had a feeling that by eight a.m. on Wednesday she'd be ready to swim back under her own steam!

She leaned back in her seat and looked out at the view, at the rugged mountains inland and the perfectly stretching sandy shore, all bathed now in the fiery, crimson-red rays of a spectacularly setting sun. It was all so peaceful, so untouched, like some secret little corner of a private paradise. As ever, there was only one discordant note. She turned in her seat and glanced across at him.

'How far to our hotel?' she asked. 'I could do with something to eat.'

'Hotel?' He turned to look at her, a look of amusement his face. ‘I’m afraid, on this little island, the first hotel has still to be built.'

Irritation flared inside her. He took such pleasure in telling her she was wrong! 'Boarding house, then. Bed and breakfast. Wherever it is we're going to spend the night.'

'I'm afraid there are no boarding houses or bed and breakfasts, either. They don't have very much call for such things over here.'

'So where are we going to sleep? Under the stars, on a bed of heather?'

'If that's what you'd like, I'm sure we could arrange it.' He held her eyes for a moment mockingly. 'Don't tell me that after all, this is a sign that a hint of romance lurks in that cold, calculating soul of yours?’

Cold and calculating—was that how he thought of her? If it was it just showed how little he understood. Oddly hurt she turned her attention to the road, refusing to dignify his mockery with an answer. Wherever he was taking her, she would find out soon enough.

The sun had dipped beyond the horizon when they drew up at last outside a pretty whitewashed farmhouse, nestling in a quiet corner of the valley. This is it' Ross informed her. 'Come and meet Davie and Katharine McLeod, your hosts for the night.'

A moment or two later, in answer to his knock, the door was opened by an apple-cheeked young woman with two small children clinging to her skirts. At the sight of Ross, her face blossomed in smiles. She threw her arms around his neck 'Ross McKeown! Well, of all the surprises! Come in. come in! It's grand to see you!'

As they were ushered into a narrow hallway, Ross quickly introduced Camilla. Katharine McLeod shook her hand warmly and smiled at her with bright hazel eyes. 'A welcome to you. my dear. Any friend of Ross's is more than welcome in this house.'

Through in the parlour, her husband Davie was seated by the fire, three more children of varying ages gathered around his knee. At the sight of Ross he laid down the storybook that he had evidently been reading from and rose from his seat, one hand held out, grinning as widely as his wife. 'Ross, man, you're just in time! Kate's got supper cooking on the stove.'

Camilla couldn't help but feel gratefully impressed as, half an hour or so later, she and Ross and Davie and Katharine seated themselves round a laden table while the children played quietly by the fire. She had barely been introduced to these people and already she had been made to feel like an old friend.

She dug into her delicious lamb stew and glanced across with mixed feelings at Ross. The McLeods evidently doted on him and were honoured and delighted to have him as their guest But perhaps the most astonishing thing of all was that 'Uncle Ross', as the children called him, seemed to fit so naturally into this homely milieu. Without outwardly seeming to change an atom, this wild and unpredictable man was suddenly a part of this big, warm family.

Eventually the conversation got round to what had brought Ross and Camilla to the island Davie and Katharine exchanged glances, then Davie confided to Ross, 'I heard tell there was a stranger on the island just the other day. A young lad in his twenties, by all accounts—though we didn't set eyes on him ourselves.'

As Ross frowned, seeming to consider this intelligence, Katharine laid a hand on Camilla's arm. ‘In a small place like this a stranger gets noticed and word quickly gets around.' She smiled at her young guest. ‘Nobody means any harm by it. They're just curious, that's all.' She turned to look at Ross across the table. 'If this stranger had anything to do with the disappearance of the Ceo do dh'or, or the bringing of it here, I'm sure you'll find out soon enough.'

But it was already late and their investigations had to wait until the following morning. After the children were tucked up in bed, the four adults gathered round the fire for a cup of coffee and some quiet chat then, diplomatically, Ross rose to his feet.

'I think it's time we all turned in. I know it's long past Kate's and Davie's bedtime.' He threw Camilla a knowing wink. 'I happen to know that these good people have been up and busy since the crack of dawn, and they'll be up again at the same time tomorrow. They're both far too polite to say it but they're falling asleep before our eyes.'

'Ross McKeown, you're quite incorrigible!' With a good-natured cluck of reproof, Katharine waved a finger at Ross. 'How dare you suggest to Camilla that Davie and I are unwilling hosts?'

As she got to her feet to stand beside him, Ross affectionately took her arm. 'Not unwilling,' he assured her. 'Never unwilling. Just tired.'

Katharine giggled and stifled a yawn. 'Well, now you come to mention it... maybe it is time we all turned in.' She glanced up at the tall dark man at her side. 'Will the but'n'ben be all right? As you know, we've no spare beds here. Too many children. I'm afraid.' She giggled again and threw a smile at her husband. ‘That's what happens when you've no television.'

The but'n'ben turned out to be a small converted outhouse at the back of the cottage. 'Some of the farmhands use it when we're extra busy—like at harvest time,' Katharine explained to Camilla as, torch in hand, she escorted her guests across the courtyard. ‘I’ll leave you, Ross, to settle the pair of you in.' She smiled at Camilla as she handed over the key. 'He's stayed here many times before.'

Inside, there were two rooms, tiny, warm and immaculate, and a bathroom with a shower unit. ‘You can have the bedroom,' Ross told her, as she eyed with a sudden flare of trepidation the pair of comfortable-looking twin beds. He followed her eyes and smiled a slow smile. 'I'll sleep on the put-you-up next door.'

Relief rushed through her. 'Fine,' she said.

'Unless, of course,' he added silkily, deliberately holding her eyes, 'you fancy a bit of company?'

'I do not,' she assured him, much too quickly. Thank you, all the same.' Her eyes slid anxiously to the bedroom door, surreptitiously checking that there was a key in the lock. Observing that there was, she breathed with relief. She would start to feel a great deal happier once he was locked on the other side!

But for once, he was behaving like a gentleman, retreating discreetly while she unpacked her things, even allowing her first use of the bathroom. Evidently, she thought to herself, with a measure of quiet satisfaction, the presence of Katharine and Davie in the cottage just across the way was having a pleasantly chastening effect.

After her shower she had changed into a pair of cotton pyjamas and matching blue-striped robe, which she had wrapped extra decorously around her slim form, the belt secured tightly at her waist Now she sat on the edge of her bed, listening to the sounds of the splashing shower coming from the adjoining bathroom. She stretched her legs and stifled a yawn. 'Hurry,' she murmured to the bathroom door. 'I want to get into bed and get some sleep.'

A moment later, as though in answer to her plea, the shower was switched off and the lock shot back. Then she felt her heart give an odd little lurch as Ross came striding out of the bathroom, dressed only in jeans, naked to the waist.

He paused to look at her, his powerful frame suddenly seeming to completely fill the tiny space between the bathroom and the bed, a tall and vibrantly masculine figure, the dark-skinned planes of his shoulders and chest broad and taut and muscular. A slow smile lit deep in his eyes. 'I wonder if you would do me a favour?' he said.

'A favour?' All at once, at the devilish look in his eyes, a spasm of anxiety went rushing through her, fixing her motionless to the bed She met his gaze with an effort 'What sort of favour?' she croaked.

In answer, he half turned round so that she could see his damaged shoulder. ‘That dressing Doc Fraser put on for me, I'm afraid it got wet and came off in the shower.' He glanced appealingly over his shoulder. 'I wonder if you could just stick it back on for me?'

Instantly Camilla was on her feet a frown of concern puckering her face, all her anxiety instantly forgotten, as she crossed over to investigate. 'Really, you should have been more careful,' she clucked admonishingly at him, observing with some relief that only a corner of the dressing was undone. With gentle fingers she smoothed it back into place. 'Didn't the doctor tell you you're not supposed to get it wet?'

'Yes, Nurse.' He was smiling as he turned round, a wicked, humorous, taunting smile, and Camilla's temporarily vanished anxiety came rushing back in on her with full force.

Somehow she had managed to wedge herself in a tiny corner beside the door, hemmed in on every side, it seemed, by Ross's massive, looming frame. And she was virtually pressed up against him. She could smell his heady, masculine scent, feel his pulsing animal warmth. She shuddered, her limbs suddenly stricken, unable to move. All at once, she could scarcely breathe. Her heart felt as big as a football in her chest.

‘Thank you.' He hadn't moved and she couldn't find the words to ask him to. He looked down at her with those fierce grey eyes, their expression momentarily softened 'You know, when you drop your iron lady act you're really quite a decent human being. You should make a point of dropping it more often.'

Camilla swallowed and attempted a glare. 'I've fixed your dressing,' she told him tightly. Then added unwisely, 'Will that be all?'

Predictably, he shook his dark head 'Since you ask, Camilla, there's just one more thing.'

At least she had the wit not to ask what it was. She had no need. She had already guessed. As he continued motionless, to gaze down at her, she felt her whole body tense. Then a sudden bright spark of excitement flared as he leaned towards her.

Softly, one hand was circling her waist, making the breath freeze in her throat, while the other reached out to touch her hair, then slid round slowly to the back of her neck.

She could have pulled away. She had ample time. But, instead, to her own quiet horror, she closed her eyes and waited, breathless and helpless in his arms, to feel the intoxicating brush of his lips.

When it came, her heart seemed to burst into flames. Deep inside her she shuddered and moaned. Beyond her control, her body clung to him, a fierce, dark longing invading her loins.

The mouth pressed to hers was hot and urgent, prising her trembling lips apart, and the hand that swept round to cover her breast moved hungrily over her aching flesh.

Only half believing that she could really be allowing this to happen, that she was a willing and eager collaborator, Camilla shuddered with helpless pleasure as, in one bold and breathless movement, he snatched the robe and the pyjama jacket open to gain greedy access to her naked breasts.

Then, fiercely, he was caressing her, drawing her nipples into hard tight peaks beneath his fingers, and she was pressing herself wantonly against him as she felt her whole body stir with sinful pleasure.

With a moan she let her fingers trace the warm, hard shoulders, then reach to tangle in his hair as his lips hungrily devoured her, igniting in her a savage agony of wanting far more powerful than her will to resist.

But then, abruptly, he loosened his embrace and paused for a moment to look down into her eyes, consuming her with that burning dark gaze. Only half comprehending, she looked back at him as, unsteadily, he took a step back, relief and regret fuddling her brain as he told her in a low, rough voice, 'I think I'd better say goodnight, Camilla, before things get totally out of hand.'

Then, before she could answer him, he turned and strode into the other room. After the door closed behind him, Camilla sat down, struggling to gather her shattered poise. Her body still burned, her limbs were trembling, her brain was swimming inside her head. What had just happened was quite appalling. She thought of Erie and closed her eyes. Appalling, she repeated to herself. How could she ever have allowed it to occur?

She lay on the bed and curled into a ball, tears of shame and resentment pricking her eyes. Somehow he had tricked her into reacting as she had. Like the savage that she knew he was, he had cast some wicked spell on her.

Like a dog with a bone, she clung to that thought as, still trembling, she slipped beneath the covers at last 'I hate you, Ross McKeown! I hate you!' she kept muttering over and over to herself—yet knowing with a growing sense of desolation that it simply was no longer true.

⇐ Предыдущая 21 22 23 24 25 262728 29 30 Следующая ⇒