WINDS FROM THE SEA
Margaret Pargeter
When Sara decided to get away from it all and take a job in the Scottish Hebrides, she looked forward to a complete change from the city life to which she was accustomed.
Her new employer, the disconcerting Hugh Fraser, was certainly very different from any man she had ever met before!
CHAPTER ONE
The car-ferry sailed past Lady’s Rock, close under the walls of Duart Castle, and anchored by the pier at Craignure.
Mull at last! Sara heaved a small sigh of relief as she stared around, her blue eyes searching eagerly through the small crowd of people on the pier. James had said that Hugh Fraser would be here to meet her, but she could see no one whom she thought might fit his description. James had sketched him briefly as a big man, in his thirties, tall and dark. She only hoped that having employed her in a hurry, without having seen her, Mr. Fraser hadn’t just as suddenly forgotten all about her.
With a slight frown creasing her smooth forehead, she turned and gathered up her luggage before scrambling down the narrow gangplank off the boat. The crossing had been choppy, but she had enjoyed it, only it did seem a long time since she’d left Euston yesterday.
Jane, the friend whom she had been staying with in London, had seen her off. “You’re bound to have a good journey, darling,” she had said cheerfully, after managing to find Sara an almost empty compartment and loading her with magazines.
Sara had travelled overnight to Glasgow, then on by train to Oban, where she had caught the ferry. It had, she supposed, been a good journey, but tiring none the less. Now an urge to reach her destination was uppermost in her mind as she wondered impatiently how long she would have to wait.
Moving a short distance from the boat, Sara dropped her cases haphazardly by her side and gazed curiously across the harbour to Craignure. It seemed a small place, with only a few scattered houses and hotels built almost on the water’s edge around the bay. Behind them, in the background, she could see high rugged mountains against the skyline. She noticed that some of the cars from off the ferry were already making their way along the narrow road which, according to her map, led to Tobermory, but there wasn’t much sign of life otherwise. Just the sea and the wind and a small boy fishing. A young boy, he seemed, with a bright freckled face, fishing for mackerel while huge white gulls swooped hopefully around.
Intrigued, Sara watched, until a sudden gust of wind caught wildly at one of her smaller bags, rolling it over. Startled, she sprang forward, but before she could reach it someone hurried past her and picked it up. She recognized him almost immediately. She had noticed him earlier on the ferry because he had been whistling an aria from Rigoletto. He was thin and young, with a bearded face, and wore tight black velvet trousers with a black sweater. More fitting, she thought, for a Chelsea coffee bar than a Scottish island, but he did grin cheerfully as he returned her bag.
She smiled back quickly. “You were just in time,” she said warmly. “Another inch and it would have been over the edge into the water.”
“And I can’t swim,” he joked, laughing as he brushed aside her breathless thanks, his eyes narrowed on her flushed face. “Can I give you a lift anywhere, or are you just deciding where to go?”
Disconcerted, Sara looked away, trying to ignore a faint uneasiness. “We might not be going in the same direction,” she murmured, bending to flick an imaginary speck of dust from her anorak. She wished now that she had worn something more conventional than her old blue jeans for travelling in. Obviously this man thought she was just roaming around looking for company. “Actually,” she rushed on, not caring for his bold stare, “I’m on my way to Lochgoil to work for Mr. Hugh Fraser. I’m to wait for him here, so I really don’t need a lift. Thanks all the same.”
“Hugh Fraser!” For a moment he looked quite startled, but the impression was so fleeting that afterwards she wasn’t sure it had been there at all.
“Oh, well,” he shrugged his thin shoulders indifferently, “I’ll probably be seeing you.” With a careless lift of his hand he turned, and Sara watched silently as he jumped lightly into a shabby old car and drove away.
She stared after him, frowning uncertainly. Had she been too hasty? He had probably only meant to be helpful, but in her present rather overwrought state she found it very easy to jump to the wrong conclusions. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so abrupt, but she didn’t want to get involved with another man before Hugh Fraser arrived. She didn’t want to start off on the wrong footing, especially as James had intimated that her new boss wasn’t an altogether easy man to get on with.
With a sigh she turned away, sitting down on an overturned fish-crate, and prepared to wait. The air smelt of seaweed, fish and salt, and she breathed it deeply, finding the sharpness of it invigorating. She hadn’t met Hugh Fraser, not yet. She didn’t even know what he looked like apart from what James had told her, and that had been very little.
It seemed strange, and not a little improbable, that she should be sitting here so far from home preparing to start a new job on an island which she had scarcely heard of. Previously it had only been a name on a map, and if it hadn’t been for the plane crash which had killed both her parents it might have remained that way.
It was actually Jane who had got her this job. Jane Marlee, who had been a family friend ever since she could remember, and whom Sara had lived with since the accident. Then it had been absolutely necessary that another doctor should take over the house and surgery where her father had practised, and where Sara had been employed as his receptionist. In any case Sara hadn’t wanted to live there after her parents had gone.
Jane worked for a well-known firm of solicitors in the West End, and she was personal secretary to James Kerr, one of the senior partners. It was she who had suggested that Sara got right away for a while. She had rung from the office.
“I think you need to, darling,” she had said gently. “Much as I hate to part with you, you do need a change. But I haven’t been able to think of anything. However, it seems that at last my prayers have been answered in the shape of a Scottish island, and a man called Hugh Fraser.”
Into Sara’s mystified ear she had poured the rest of her story.
“I don’t know this man Fraser, Sara, but James does. Actually he has inherited some property on the island of Mull, and requires someone for about a month or so to help him sort things out. He especially asked James to find him someone who would also be willing to help entertain his young sister—stepsister, I believe. Of course he could probably get one of his own office girls. He’s the Fraser bit of Fraser and Harding, the importers. You’re sure to have heard of them? Anyway, it seems that he would rather have a stranger, and this is why he rang James.”
“But why me?” Sara had interrupted, clutching the receiver tightly in an effort to take in what Jane was telling her.
“Because,” Jane had repeated anxiously, “you do need a change, dear, and when James asked if I knew of anyone, I immediately thought of you. We both know how heartbreaking these last few weeks have been, and something like this would be better, I think, than a holiday just now. It would keep you occupied and take your mind off the accident. Anyway, you think about it, and we’ll talk it over this evening. If it appeals to you, James will see you in the morning.”
Careless of Jane’s advice, Sara hadn’t thought about it very much. Although it was almost a month since the air-crash her mind still retained a degree of numbness which accepted rather than rationalized. If Jane said that this man Fraser was all right, and that a change of scene would be a good thing, then she was quite willing to co-operate.
Next day she had gone along with Jane to see James Kerr. He was a quiet pleasant man of
about fifty, who had been in love with Jane for years. Unfortunately Jane had been divorced, and with one unhappy marriage behind her was unwilling to try matrimony again, but she did go out with him occasionally, and a long time ago had introduced him to Sara’s parents, who had liked him very much. Smiling, he waved Sara gently to a chair, pressed the bell for coffee, then told her briefly what would be expected of her. He had seemed quite satisfied with her qualifications, and equally satisfied that she
would suit his client very well.
“I know that Hugh’s uncle had a rather elderly retainer who still lives there,” he told her as she got up to go. “She’s a very efficient cook-housekeeper, so you should be well looked after. Jill, I imagine, could be a bit of a handful, not that I doubt you’ll manage very nicely ...” He had beamed at her reassuringly over the top of his gold-rimmed spectacles.
Jill was the stepsister. Sara stirred restlessly on the fish-crate. She was the reason, James had explained, why Mr. Fraser didn’t want someone too young, or a middle-aged paragon. Mr. Fraser sounded a bit of a paragon himself! Sara hoped, with a quirk of her soft lips, that he would consider her twenty-one-year-old status satisfactory. Over-all Jill didn’t appear to constitute much of a problem. All her brother probably had in mind was someone sensible, and agile enough to keep a young girl occupied in an isolated place like this.
She glanced frowning from her wrist-watch to the afternoon sun before the throb of an engine drew her gaze back along the pier. A Land-Rover wheeled off the south road and sped along to the boat. It pulled up with a jerk of brakes and a tall man jumped down. His eyes moved briefly over the rapidly dispersing crowd. He was well but casually dressed in cord trousers and a white crew-necked sweater, clothes that looked well on his hard muscular body. A man who spent most of his time outdoors, Sara guessed. His face had a hard vitality that suggested storm and wind and a liking for dangerous living.
His gaze had reached her now, measured but impersonal. Cool grey eyes surveyed her from under heavy dark brows. She saw the hard curve of his temple and jaw, the sweep of dark hair. He was too tough-looking to be really handsome. Big and interesting, was her final summing up, and almost automatically, because she had been staring, Sara smiled.
His eyes narrowed as his expression changed. The heavy brows lifted slightly and a smile touched his firm mouth, a smile which made Sara’s cheeks go pink. It was amused, patronizing, and somehow utterly disconcerting.
He strode over to where she sat, towering above her as he asked sharply, “Do you happen to be Miss Sara Winton, my new secretary?” When Sara nodded awkwardly, her cheeks still pink with confusion, he added smoothly, “I’m Fraser from Lochgoil.”
Sara scrambled to her feet. She felt curiously at a disadvantage to have him staring down at her and said with as much dignity as she could muster, “I’ve only just got off the boat.”
“Then perhaps we can get away.” Without paying her any more attention he swung her luggage lightly into the back of the Land-Rover, and with a casual wave of his hand indicated that she should climb into the passenger seat.
Sara winced. No use expecting him to open the door. After all, he was her employer. She saw a flicker of amusement on his face as he waited, hands in pockets, while she did as she was told. He could read her thoughts, and the knowledge annoyed her. She supposed the mud-spattered Land-Rover was the best type of vehicle for a Highland estate, but could it not have been tidied out a bit? Fastidiously she surveyed the conglomeration of articles littering the floor. Everything from pickaxes to drainpipes. Her luggage sat regally on top of a bale of straw. She pulled back the hood of her anorak and sat gingerly on the edge of the seat.
“No luxury coach, as you can see.” The seat bounced as he settled himself beside her. “Just throw those old papers in the back, and mind that can of engine oil. Had a good journey?”
“Yes ...” Sara considered his belated inquiry purely conventional. His voice held no real interest.
He reversed carefully off the pier into the road, driving with casual ease, soon leaving Craignure far behind, taking the road north to Salen.
She felt a faint stir of surprise. “You came from the south,” she said. The words were out before she could stop them.
“That’s right,” he replied lazily, with a scarcely discernible lift bf dark brows. “I was seeing a man about a dog.”
Sara flushed. She was sorry she had spoken. It was, as he implied, none of her business.
“I was, actually.” He smiled, glancing with some amusement at her downcast face. “I’m looking for a special breed which is proving difficult to find. This way we go by Salen, then take the road left to Lochgoil. Salen is a small village a few miles up the coast. I could tell you, I suppose, that it was founded by a man called Lachan MacQuarie, a Scotsman who was Governor of New South Wales. When he retired he brought the Salen estate and built the village.”
“I see.” Sara was not quite sure that she did. Lachan MacQuarie must have been quite a man.
“Been here before?” His voice sharpened.
“No.” Her brain could only produce monosyllables.
“If you sat back in your seat you might relax.” Patiently he slowed down to allow some sheep to cross the narrow road. The sea at this point was only a few yards away. There was no beach, just shingle which the water lapped gently. Again she did as she was told, and surprisingly found it better. His lips twitched. “We learn to take things easy in this part of the world, although I must admit it takes a bit of getting used to.”
He moved forward again as the sheep passed. Sara moistened her bottom lip, watching them go.
“Mr. MacQuarie obviously didn’t follow that advice,” she murmured demurely.
He slanted her a quick look, his eyes glinting. “You’re confusing the issue, Miss Winton. Relaxation has nothing whatever to do with laziness.”
Already he was proving too sharp for her! She turned her fair head slightly, studying his profile, puzzled, half frowning.
He turned his own head, sensing her prolonged scrutiny.
“What did you expect?” he grinned. “A wild Highlander, complete with a claymore and kilt?”
Colour surged beneath her skin as his mocking eyes met her own. “I hadn’t given it a thought,” she replied, not quite truthfully.
His gaze left here, slipping over her tawny loveliness.
“Would it be out of line to ask what a girl like you is doing here?”
She wasn’t quite sure what he meant. There was an oddly speculative look in his eyes. “You did ask for a secretary,” she pointed out.
His eyes touched her pure, averted profile. “I wouldn’t have thought a girl with your looks would be keen to work on an island like this, even for a few weeks.”
Dismayed, Sara swung around, staring at him defiantly. What was he trying to say? “Perhaps you think I’m too young?” Her pulse gave an apprehensive jerk. Surely he couldn’t mean that she was unsuitable? Not when she’d come all this way!
“You misunderstand me.” His gaze left her face and swung front again. “I especially asked James Kerr to find me someone youthful. You probably seem too young because I’m older than you are.”
James had said he was about thirty-five, not Methuselah! “I can assure you,” she said quickly, “that my appearance, one way or another, will in no way interfere with my work.” Her words hung on the air, Victorian, starchy. Again Sara’s cheeks flamed.
“You sound resentful.” He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered her one. When she shook her head numbly he drew one out for himself, and after lighting it flicked his burnt match through the window.
“Perhaps you should have emphasized plainness when you rang Mr. Kerr.” Sara stared unhappily out of the window through the haze of smoke from his cigarette.
The road narrowed and suddenly Hugh Fraser whipped the Land-Rover up a side-track and stopped. They were surrounded by dark woods and the smell of Scots pine hung sharply on the thin spri
ng air. Oak, ash, and silver birch stood bare, just coming into leaf, and the wind moaned in the tree-tops accentuating the silence as he switched off the engine.
He looked at her again with easy amusement and that slight lift of black eyebrows which so annoyed her. “I personally have no objection to your being decorative,” he smiled. “In case you’re wondering, I’ve stopped because there are things I’d like to discuss before you meet the others.”
He considered the glowing end of his cigarette with maddening deliberation, while Sara waited, stirring uneasily, thrusting back her long fair hair with slim nervous fingers. This man repelled and intrigued her, endued her with caution, even after so short a time. There was something about him she couldn’t quite make out. He was certainly a bit different from any man she’d ever known. Then, perversely, because she didn’t care for mysteries, she asked, “Wouldn’t an older woman have suited you better?’’
He shifted his weight impatiently in the confining space as he turned towards her inhaling deeply. “Maybe,” he said, his eyes on her hair. “But they’re not always so adaptable, and often take longer to settle down.”
Sara thought she understood. “I suppose you want this job finished as soon as possible?” She smiled politely.
“Not necessarily.” His eyes left her hair and studied her face, lazily, like considering a painting. “I did have six weeks in mind, but it would be impossible to give an exact date.”
“So we might be finished sooner?”
“Or later. It depends how long I can be here. I might have to spend some time in London. More, I’m afraid, than I thought.”
Sara digested this in silence. Of course, she had forgotten. His main business would be in London, not here. She sat for a moment gazing at the dashboard, unaware of his scrutiny. “It mustn’t be very convenient living so far away from town,” she murmured at last. Then, because it seemed the obvious thing to say, “Jane told me you’re an exporter.”
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