say much more, I shall think you don’t want my company!’
Luke recognised defeat, but there was a grimness about his mouth which belied her victory. Mrs Tully appeared to see whether their guest required breakfast, and McGregor took his leave, mentioning he would see them both at lunchtime.
Abby finished her meal quickly, and went to change her shoes while Mrs Tully attended to Luke Jordan. She guessed he was not pleased with her offer of companionship, but if she was to go through with this she must not be put off at the first obstacle. Besides, he was aware of her—how could he not be?—and once they got to know one another … She refused to consider her own feelings.
She zipped her slender legs into long boots and added a crimson windcheater to her attire of jeans and denim shirt. Her hair she left loose for once, aware that its silky strands looked well against the brilliant colour of her jacket.
Luke Jordan was still at the breakfast table when she returned, reading the morning newspaper and apparently in no hurry to begin his sightseeing. But he was polite enough to get to his feet when she entered the room, and his gaze flickered briefly over the attractive picture she made.
‘I’m ready,’ she said unnecessarily, and he inclined his head.
‘So I see.’
‘Have you finished breakfast?’
He indicated his empty plate, the dregs in the bottom of his coffee cup. ‘It would appear so.’
Abby sighed. ‘But you don’t want to come out with me?’
Luke regarded her dourly for a few moments, and then he folded his newspaper and laid it beside his plate. ‘I—there’s no urgency, is there?’
‘No.’ Abby wished she could control her colour, but right now she didn’t seem to be having much success at controlling anything.
Luke frowned. ‘Tell me something—how well do you know Scott Anderson?’
‘Scott?’ Abby was glad she was red now. It disguised any further embarrassment she might have exhibited.
‘Yes, Scott. You do know him, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’ Abby lifted her shoulders awkwardly. ‘He—well, he used to live in the village.’
‘I know that.’
‘He was—a friend of my mother’s.’
‘Was he? How close a friend?’
Abby’s eyes sparkled angrily now. ‘What do you mean?’
Luke made a gesture of innocence. ‘Nothing detrimental, I assure you. I’m merely trying to ascertain Scott’s relationship to you.’
‘Well …’ Abby sought for words. ‘When—when my father first left my mother, Scott’s father was still alive and living in Ardnalui. He used to come up to see him, and he used to visit my mother at the same time.’
‘So he and your mother—and your aunt—were much of an age?’
‘No.’ Abby shook her head. ‘Aunt Ella was younger.’
Luke nodded. ‘But Ella—your aunt—she had left the village by this time.’
‘Oh, yes. She went away before I was born.’
‘And she never came back?’
Abby half turned away. ‘To begin with, she used to.’ She shrugged. ‘Do you want to see the village or don’t you?’
‘Do you know why Ella never mentions you?’
His question was direct, and Abby raised her dark eyebrows. ‘Like I told you, I suppose I might have ruined her image.’
Luke regarded her steadily for several seconds, and she was made intensely aware of the strength of her adversary. This was no easy task she had set herself, but already she had made some headway. All she needed was time, and an ability to act, almost as great as Ella’s.
The air was sharp, and the mist still lingered beside the loch. But it was going to be a fine day, and Luke breathed deeply of the clear northern air.
‘Where do you want to begin?’ asked Abby, as they walked away from the presbytery, and Luke glanced down at her wryly.
‘You tell me,’ he suggested, his hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket, and she smiled.
‘All right. We’ll walk to the harbour. It’s small, but you might find it interesting.’
They walked in single file along the narrow village street which the Lamborghini had negotiated the day before, and Abby had a greeting for everyone who passed. Some of the villagers stared openly at Luke, but she failed to satisfy their curiosity. She walked with an easy casual grace that gave elegance to the most informal attire, her long hair clinging in strands to the crimson windcheater, like ropes of black silk.
The jetty was almost deserted, the fishing boats which had nudged its sides the afternoon before all gone. A few old men sat together mending nets and smoking their pipes, and one or two of them called to Abby and she answered them.
‘Do you know everyone in this village?’ Luke asked, as they leaned together on the wall, looking out over the choppy waters of the loch, and she smiled.
‘Of course. I’ve lived here all my life—I told you.’
‘Except for a trip to Madrid. Yes, I know.’ Luke turned to look at her, and she had to look away from the penetration in his eyes. ‘That’s why your hair is so much darker than—–’ He broke off. ‘Don’t you have any relations in Spain?’
She shook her head, and a strand of her hair blew into his face. He put up a hand to brush it away, and his fingers lingered on the silky threads.
‘My father’s two brothers were killed in the civil war,’ she explained. ‘When my grandparents died, there was no one else.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yes. So am I.’
Luke frowned. ‘Would you like me to speak to Ella—–’
‘No!’
The vehemence of her denial brought a hardness to his jawline, and his mouth, with its full lower lip, became a thin line.
‘Why not?’
Realising she had been careless, Abby twisted her hands together and turned away. ‘You don’t understand, Mr Jordan,’ she said, in a choked voice. ‘After all these years, I—I couldn’t accept …’
Luke’s expression softened slightly. ‘People change, you know, Abby. And sometimes it’s difficult to show one’s feelings, sometimes one’s afraid they’ll be rebuffed.’
He put a hand on her arm, and beneath that persistent pressure she turned to face him. Deliberately, she looked up into his face, and
