Hospital in the Highlands by Anne Vinton Page B

tripped on to the floodlit smooth lawns and the dancers took up their positions in sixes and stepped and turned and honored and bowed in time to the music.
    Flo enjoyed every minute of the dance, and in a nearby set she could see that Meg was enjoying herself with the padre, also. Each time Robert Strathallan’s arm went around her she became slightly delirious, and she wondered what falling in love with such a man would do to a woman.
    There wasn’t much respite between dances, for the night air was cool and there was a white mist rising from the waters of the loch. After an eightsome reel Flo felt she must rest or die, however, and she had actually to cling to her partner while she fought for breath, though she still laughed when she could.
    “Don’t go in just yet,” he said as the others wandered indoors. “You haven’t seen the gardens.”
    He unpinned his plaid and draped it shawl-wise around her shoulders, and his hands trembled as he did so.
    “Not that way,” he told her as she nervously edged away. “There’s nothing there but dark water, ninety feet deep in parts.”
    “Any monsters?” she asked faintly as he led her away from the lights, and panic welled in her bosom.
    “I don’t keep such things in my glen,” he assured her, and now they were in darkness and there were scents of narcissi and tulips and wallflowers and pine-needles and—romance.
    “There’s nothing happening here,” she said wildly. “Let’s go back!”
    “Something’s going to happen, Miss Flo, if you’ve no objection?”
    Her head floated away as his arms reached round her, drawing her onto her tiptoes.
    “Miss Flo, Florence,” he said, caressing every syllable of her name, “I cannot be patient any longer. Ever since I first saw you I knew what must be done, and this is my promise to that end.” His lips, firm and muscular, descended, drawing what she had regained of her breath quite away. For a long time they clung together, thus, then she laid her hot cheek against his heart, hearing its thunder and strangely loth to speak. His hand caressed her hair, and then there was the demand for her lips again, a demand to which she acceded far too readily for her own peace of mind.
    “This has to stop,” came the murmur of conscience below the roar of desire. “He has to be tol d about Jim.”
    But she could no more have spoken of Jim in that moment than fly.
    Just then there was an altercation outside the house.
    “Of course I’m invited, you fool!” came a female voice, indignantly. “Take your filthy hands off me!”
    “Fay!” said Flo in dismay. “She has arrived!”

 
    CHAPTER ELEVEN
    Fay Lamont had been in a strange mood all day. Of course her injured pride must be avenged, and in a manner that would make all concerned most uncomfortable. She gave the matter a good deal of thought and finally decided on a plan.
    Fay drew the last of her savings out of the post-office and spent the morning shopping in the town. She daren’t take her wares home, but having left the note in her room she wasn’t worried about keeping away from Rowans all day. She had lunch with her mute friend from the forestry commission, and then left him in favor of another appointment with the leader of the orchestra that was now in residence at the Heather Hotel.
    Alec Wylie was a violinist himself, so Fay didn’t attempt to outshine him as a performer. Nevertheless she was obviously an asset to any company, if only for her looks, and he had no hesitation in signing her on and glamorizing a professional musician’s life for her benefit.
    “It’s not all hotel work,” he told her. “Sometimes we accept a private engagement, a wedding or a ceilidh, and then we turn out the Strathspeys and reels for variety.”
    “How interesting!” said Fay. “Actually I’m invited to a ceilidh tonight.”
    “Not at Lochside?” asked Alec. “MacGregor’s place?”
    “Yes. That’s the one.”
    “If it had been any day but Saturday we would