Byron looked impatient. ‘I meant I would see to your costume. Maggie has enough to do.’
‘Then,’ she queried hesitantly, overwhelmed with relief, ‘what did you want to talk to me about?’
‘I want to see what you’ve done so far,’ he announced, with more of an air of a command than a request.
‘You mean my photographs?’ She spread her hands helplessly. ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible. I would be glad to send you the proofs before they go to press, if that would help, but that’s the best I can do.’
He shook his head in annoyance. ‘I want to see them before you leave.’
‘But they’re undeveloped!’
‘Can’t you develop film?’ he demanded.
‘Well, of course I could, if I had the equipment!’
‘Then,’ he commanded imperiously, ‘get your film and come with me.’
She had to go all the way up to her room to collect the film, still puzzling over what Byron had in mind and his autocratic reasons for it. When she rejoined him in the hall he led the way back through the kitchen, across an exposed wooden porch, and into a small room lit by a red light, equipped with two huge sinks, a counter, a drying rack, and smelling wonderfully of familiar chemicals.
‘A darkroom!’ she exclaimed.
‘An old washroom,’ he corrected. ‘But I think it will suit. I checked with the chemist on the mainland to make sure you had everything you needed. If I overlooked anything, just let me know.’
She turned to him. In the weird light his face looked detached, impersonal, like a memory floating through a dream. She said, ‘I had no idea there was a darkroom in the castle. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because it was only completed this morning,’ he replied.
‘What a terrible expense for only one use!’ she blurted, forgetting that expense would mean nothing to him.
She cursed the unrevealing light for masking his expression as he tipped his head towards her. ‘Oh, I think it will be worth it,’ he answered. ‘I may have the opportunity to use it again.’ He opened the door. ‘I want to see them as soon as you’re done.’
Dawn spent the afternoon in the fantasy world of chemicals and colours, watching the cold film come to life under the magic of her fingers. Chronicled before her she saw a wistful account of her life from the very first moment she had arrived here—it seemed like another world ago. The pink patch of thrift growing in the woods, heralding the gateway to adventure, the colours so true and vibrant she could almost touch them. The frontal view of the castle, rising majestically on the knoll, the ferocious carved lions, every detail sharp and clear in the sunlight. She had done a double exposure of the Boyd crest overlaid on a telescopic view of the castle, and the effect was magnificent. There was a shot looking dizzily down the tower staircase, with high-intensity lighting showing dust motes dancing in the air and sharp contrasts of shadows and light meant to give the impression, as it did, that one was being watched. Atmosphere. The commercial shots of the guest rooms and facilities she skipped over, thinking with true regret that those were probably the ones the magazine would give the most attention to. The garden colours were brilliant and true, taken at midday with the mountains in the background so close one could almost touch them. Then there were the pictures of the island ... the dark forests, the misty, snow-capped mountains, the grey beach and churning surf, the rugged cliffs. The still blue lochs, the placid meadows, and the ones she liked the best, the colourful street scenes from the village. Here she had let her penchant for character shots run wild, and captured what she thought was the essence of the little town. The vendor with his wagon, the musician with his mandolin, the girls huddled together before a fuchsia-pink shop front, giggling and whispering. A tall, rugged farmer boy plodding along on a horse. Housewives with stern, stoic features haggling at the fish market, and young men in tweeds pedalling by on bicycles. The collections of bottles on the office wall of the distillery, reflecting centuries of island prosperity, the dark, truer-than-life shots of the inner workings of the distillery itself, evoking strong odours and unpleasant sensations, but nevertheless a part of the whole. The magazine, she reflected again regretfully, would never use those. They were too intense. And finally was her cover shot, the castle brilliant in the sunlight, reflected in detail in the black pool at its base, surrounded by brilliant greenery and colourful borders. On the whole, she was very pleased, and could take them to Byron with self-confidence and a slight touch of professional pride.
They met in his office, and he spread them out over the desk, scrutinising each one in silence. Even though she knew they were good and her own opinion, as her editor was constantly telling her, was the only one that mattered, she found her annoyance growing with nervousness through his lengthy, scowling, intense examination. Why, she began to defend herself irritably, should he demand to see her work before even her editor did? She was not working for him! Did he have some insane notion that his power extended to censoring her work before she left the island? How dared he! What did he know about photography, anyway? What conception could he have of the hours of work which went into lighting and posing and arranging and re-shooting before she got that one perfect shot? What did he know of the years of training which went into being able to capture on film an idea, a concept, a way of thinking? He had no right to disapprove so arrogantly of anything she had done.
When at last Byron glanced up at her she tensed in her chair, ready to spring like a tiger defending its young. Then he said, looking down at the spread again, ‘Dawn, this is magnificent!’
The breath went out of her in one sudden, inaudible gasp.
He continued in a subdued, almost awed, tone, ‘I mean it. You’ve captured things here I would have thought even a native might have missed. It’s—the character of the island. Not just places, things ... but it lives and breathes right here before me. I don’t know what else to say.’ He looked at her, his eyes glowing softly. ‘This is it ... the place I love, the place I know as well as I know my own body ... you’ve discovered it. I could almost say you must love it as much as I do.’
She answered shyly, ‘I think I do. At least I’ve tried to show what I feel with the camera.’
He smiled, and that one shared moment sent a tingle of warmth through Dawn which was worth it all. If she never took another photograph again, that one moment was worth it all, for it seemed she had waited her entire life to hear those exact words of praise, to see in that one dark pair of eyes approval, and pride.
Then he asked, ‘Do you mind if I keep these for a while?’
‘Oh, no,’ she replied generously. ‘They’re yours to keep, if you like. I’ve got the negatives.’
He nodded, glancing at them again. ‘Good. Will you do the text to go along with them yourself?’
She nodded. ‘Not much. Just an intro and a few lines per picture. The idea for a magazine such as ours is to let the pictures speak for themselves.’
‘And they certainly do that,’ he agreed. ‘Yes, they certainly do.’ He favoured her with a teasing half-smile. ‘Now, you see, I’m not such an ogre. I’m pretty harsh with my criticism, but I can give honest praise when it’s deserved. Maybe it’s just that I’m a perfectionist.’
‘Well, then, I suppose I should be flattered.’ And she was. Deeply.
Byron told her seriously, ‘I never flatter.’ Then, with an abrupt change of subject, ‘It’s too bad you’ll be working the night of the festival. I don’t think you can really get involved in it from behind the lens of a camera.’ He glanced at her, and the expression on his lips twisted to mocking challenge. ‘But I forget. You don’t want to get involved, do you?’
She replied, coolly, the moment spoiled, ‘I have a job to do.’
‘Someone could do you a big favour,’ he answered with sudden low ferocity, ‘by slipping you a couple of stiff whiskies and making you forget, even if just for one night, that damn job.’
Dawn replied with an airiness she did not feel, rising,
‘I hope that person would be prepared to support me for the rest of my life, then, because I need that “damn job” to keep the wolf away from my door!’
Byron leaned back in his chair, templing his fingers, unpleasant mirth dancing in his eyes. ‘Why, Miss Morrison,’ he drawled, ‘is that a proposal?’
She flushed scarlet, and could not think of a suitably flippant reply. She merely answered, ‘No,’ and went in one moment from a sophisticated, successful career woman to an awkward, stammering schoolgirl whose only desire was to escape that room and the mocking eyes of the man she was afraid to love.
He drawled, ‘How disappointing!’ and began gathering up the photographs. Without looking at her again, he added, ‘I’ve got some work to do now, so if you’ll excuse me...’
Dawn felt like a toy puppet who had been made to dance for the amusement of royalty, whose strings had been cut and tossed away as her antics ceased to amuse.
The remaining days before the festival were filled with busy activity, and Dawn threw herself into it automatically. Anything to avoid facing the fact that in only a matter of days she must leave, draw the curtain over a segment of her life which would never be completely ended, and try, somehow, never to look back. Life was cruel, and she had not lived twenty-five years without discovering that, but she simply had never felt it more acutely than on that bright, clear morning of the festival. Only a few more hours and it would all be over. Saturday would be spent packing and saying her polite goodbyes, and Sunday would see her on a plane over the Atlantic, leaving behind more of herself than she could afford to lose.
Byron met her at the entrance to the dining room, an envelope in his hand. ‘This has just come for you,’ he said. ‘It looks important.’
There was the horror everyone feels when first presented with a telegram, combined with a sinking fear as she scanned the heading. ‘It’s—from my editor,’ she managed shakily. What had happened? Had Byron called her bluff and telephoned her editor to complain? Was this a stiff dismissal and a demand that she return immediately? Why else would he telegraph her...
She scanned it quickly, and then again, to make certain she had read correctly: ‘Dawn Stop. Loved the photos. Stop. Try a Sketch on the Hebrides. Stop. Take Two Weeks. Stop. Joe.’
She let the paper go limp in her hands and stared at Byron as though he somehow could hold the answer to the puzzle. ‘He—wants me to stay in the island. Do a thing on the Hebrides.’ She asked incredulously, ‘What photos?’
Byron replied casually, ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I sent them over by express post with a—rather complimentary note. I thought your editor might see the wisdom in doing a complete spread on the Hebrides, as long as you were here and seemed to have such an—affinity with the islands.’
‘Do you mean,’ she ventured, hardly daring to believe it, ‘that this was your idea?’
Byron lifted his shoulders negligently. ‘I might have suggested something. I don’t really recall.’
‘Oh!’ She turned quickly so that he could not see the sudden joy which had leapt into her face. Two weeks! Two more weeks in the gorgeous Scottish Isles, and critical acclaim from her editor. Two more weeks that much nearer to Byron. Within commuting distance, with Falkone’s Acres as her base point. Not leaving at all, no goodbyes ... it was all too much for her to accept at once.
But above it all was the soaring knowledge that it had been Byron’s idea. He wanted her to stay. He wanted it so badly that he had gone to all this trouble with her editor to arrange it. She was welcome here!
There was no purer joy than to know, for the first time in her life, that she belonged. And no sweeter pain than to hope, somehow, some day, to belong to this man. And to believe, for the first time, that he might hope the same thing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
All day long people were in and out, bringing dishes of cooked and uncooked food, table settings and cutlery. It was more like a well-organised family reunion than the impromptu pagan festival it was advertised to be, but, explained Maggie, ‘We would have absolute chaos if we didn’t have someone calling the shots. Things will get disorganised enough tonight after the sun goes down and the whisky starts flowing!’
It was not until luncheon, served late because of the schedule, that Dawn had a chance to propose, very casually, her idea. ‘Since I’m going to be here in the islands another few weeks,’ she said, ‘and Falkone’s Acres is rather centrally located, it would really be convenient for me if I could use the castle as sort of a base of operations, and continue to stay here when I’m not exploring.’ She glanced at Maggie anxiously. ‘If you don’t mind, that is.’
Byron looked up with mischievous twinkle. ‘Our first paying guest. How about that, Mags?’
Maggie shot him a quelling glance. ‘Paying guest, indeed!’ She turned to Dawn. ‘Of course you’ll stay here, my dear, as our personal guest. I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
‘You’ll never make a profit that way,’ observed Byron perversely, and turned back to his meal.
‘The magazine,’ Dawn told him, ‘will pay you out of my per-diem.’
‘You’ll need to arrange some method of getting back and forth between the islands,’ he reminded her. ‘The ferry’s base point is in Oban.’
‘She’ll use one of our boats,’ Maggie supplied. ‘You can spare a man to take her around.’
‘No, really,’ protested Dawn. ‘That’s too inconvenient...’
‘I’ll think about it,’ replied Byron, ‘and let you know how inconvenient it is.’
She did not resent him for attempting to make things as difficult as possible for her. In all fairness, she had not made things particularly easy for him in the past, and he deserved a chance to get even. But she had two more weeks to correct the injustices of the past, which was more than she had had yesterday. And no matter what he did or said to make her doubt his motives, nothing could change the fact that those two weeks were made possible only because of him.
In the afternoon young men and women began to bring in wagonloads of wild flowers and boughs of greenery which Maggie showed her how to wind into garlands which would be tacked up around the courtyard on trees and canopy poles. So far the day was clear if a little hazy, warm but certainly not hot. The fragrance of the fresh cut flowers and sap-laden branches wafted over the courtyard deliciously as she sat cross-legged on the grass in the midst of the other laughing, flirtatious couples, working with florist’s wire and tape to construct natural-looking arrangements out of the materials piled around her. She made a friend out of a twelve year-old boy, the tag-along little brother of one of the girls, and he sat faithfully at her feet, patiently weaving a garland of wild flowers for her crown. She graciously accepted his shy offering and allowed him to place it on her head, and they worked happily together the rest of the afternoon.
Late in the afternoon Byron stopped by, and he scowled as he noticed her sitting there, laughing and talking with the other couples. ‘Where did you get that?’ he demanded, gesturing to the garland.
‘Oh,’ she replied casually, feeling he deserved to be teased, ‘an admirer.’
‘It was me, sir,’ piped up little Sean, spoiling the joke, and Dawn was not sorry. She did not want his temper to spoil the evening.
His black expression lightened. ‘Best be careful,’ he remarked to her before moving on. ‘People have become engaged for less than that.’
Noticing the time, she left not long after that. Washing her hair was a major project, and even with the assistance of her electric blow-drier, it would take hours to dry.
Byron met her on the way to the shower, as she had done to him once before. The only difference was that she was swathed in a floor-length terry houserobe and she should have felt no reason for embarrassment. It was the way he looked at her hair, loose down her back, that brought back his husky, adoring words, ‘Bedroom hair ...’ And she thought he, too, was remembering the way it had looked against the pillow of his grandparents’ old-fashioned canopy bed.<
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She started to move past him, for the look was too uncomfortable to maintain for long, but he said abruptly, ‘Why did you never cut it?’
She turned back to him. ‘I—beg your pardon?’
‘Your hair,’ he answered curtly. ‘You’re so careful to disguise everything about you that’s feminine, why the vanity with your hair?’
It was a question that had no answer, and she simply stared at him, flustered.
‘I’ll tell you why you do it,’ he answered his own question in a low tone, his eyes not on her face but on the pattern her hair traced from the slight opening of the robe between the mound of her breasts, the belt at the slim waist,, the outline of her thighs, the curve of her hips. ‘It’s because you know it drives men mad, and being a woman, you can’t stop exercising whatever perverse power you have over them.’
‘That—is ridiculous,’ she defended, stammering. ‘It has nothing to do with—’
Almost, a smile graced his full, sensuous lips. ‘Ah, yes, Dawn love,’ he murmured caressingly. ‘You’re more of a woman than you think. And one day you’re going to allow me to show you just how much of a woman that is.’
He turned and went into his room, and she was left alone in the corridor, her chest tight with the implication of his promise, flushing with anticipation and shivering with dread. She would never understand what motivated his male mind, nor follow his drastic swings of mood. He had been angry enough to kill that night they had left the bedchamber, passions unconsummated, promises unfulfilled. Yet he had sent lavish praise to her editor and arranged for her to stay in the islands, then immediately acted as though it were immaterial to him whether she stayed or not. One moment he was cool and impersonal, the next intimidating her with his disturbingly suggestive sexuality and thinly disguised passion. It was a delightful whirlwind with which he had captured her mind, but one thing still bothered her, kept her from running into his arms as her instincts urged her to do, forced her to keep her composure and her emotions under control. Byron knew her terms, and he had not yet made a move to suggest conceding to them. The attraction he felt for her was still entirely physical. And perhaps it would always be.
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