Heir To Glengyle. Miriam Macgregor

lips on her own. She had not expected him to take Amy seriously—nor had she expected the tingling sensations that shot through her own body as his arms went about her. Also—a casual caress to satisfy Amy she could have understood, but this was something more than a mere butterfly kiss. It held a hint of suppressed passion.

      As it ended she looked at him in a startled, wide-eyed manner while searching for signs that he had experienced at least a little of her own blood-racing reaction; but his inscrutable face betrayed no emotion, and his arms dropped to his sides as quickly as they’d clasped her to him.

      He stood up and stepped away from the pew. ‘Does that satisfy you, Amy?’ he asked, sounding faintly amused.

      ‘It does for the moment,’ she conceded, a gleam of interest appearing in her bright blue eyes as they darted from Cathie to Baird. ‘Some day you’ll both learn that life is too short for quarrels.’

      Cathie heard her words only dimly. She was making an effort to pull herself together, and, while she was still conscious of the turbulence within her own mind, she suspected that Baird was completely unmoved. He was as cool as a breeze off the loch, she decided.

      And then Amy complained that she was missing her afternoon tea. ‘Couldn’t we buy a few sweeties?’ she pleaded. ‘There’s a shop further along the road.’

      They went back to the car and Baird drove the short distance to where a small stone building offered various commodities. Cathie remained with Amy while he went in, and when he returned he carried a bag of liquorice allsorts, a red and green tartan tin of clear golden Scotch barley sugar, and a postcard, which he handed to Cathie.

      ‘That’s for you,’ he said abruptly as he slid into his seat behind the wheel. ‘It will help you remember.’

      She took it from him wonderingly, then realised it was of the present Balquhidder church, its nearby ruin and graves, while beyond them the blue waters of Loch Voil lapped the base of the tree- and heather-clad hills.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said at last, and while still gazing at the postcard she began to wonder if it was meant to help her remember this place—or the kiss in the church. ‘Did you buy one for yourself?’ she queried casually.

      ‘There was no need. I’ll not forget this place.’ The reply came in an offhand manner, and the subject was then brushed aside as he turned to Amy with a question. ‘Is there any other area you’d like to visit?’

      She thought for a moment then said, ‘Yes—I’d like to go to the Trossachs Wool Shop near Callander. It’s not many miles from here. The Trossachs are woodland glens, you understand.’

      ‘You have a special purchase in mind?’ Baird asked.

      She nodded. ‘A brushed shoulder cape to take to my sister, and a tartan poncho for my niece. And I’d like to see Cathie in a nice kilt skirt.’

      Cathie sat forward to protest. ‘Amy, there’s no need—’

      ‘You have one already?’ Amy demanded over her shoulder.

      ‘No—but—’

      ‘Then don’t argue about it. This gives me pleasure. How much pleasure do you think I get these days?’ She waited for an answer but when none came she went on, ‘I’ll buy you one in Campbell tartan with plenty of green in it.’

      ‘Thank you, Amy,’ Cathie said in a small voice, then, watching Baird’s reflection in the rear-view mirror, she noticed his lips become compressed. He’s annoyed about it, she thought, then decided it must be her imagination. Surely he couldn’t care less about what she wore. No—of course he couldn’t, therefore she relaxed and looked forward to visiting the wool shop.

      They found it to be full of tourists, all appearing to be anxious to spend money, and as Cathie gazed at the colourful tartan garments she seemed to be wafted into a hazy dream. The pleated kilt that Amy insisted upon buying for her was dark blue and green with a narrow yellow stripe. It buckled on either side of her waist, and when Amy became determined to purchase a matching green pullover Cathie knew it would be useless to argue.

      ‘Keep them on,’ Amy requested when Cathie made a move to change back into the clothes she’d been wearing. ‘The day has turned much cooler, and besides, you look so nice.’

      Cathie obeyed, not only because she wished to please Amy, but also because she felt so comfortable in the garments.

      They went to find Baird, whose attention had been caught by the piles of tartan rugs stacked on shelves, but instead of affording Cathie’s new outfit so much as a second glance he appeared to be intent upon giving them minute examination by checking their size, scrutinising the weave and running his fingers over the nap.

      Was this his way of indicating he disapproved of her accepting gifts from Amy? she wondered. Then doubt crept in as she recalled that only the day before yesterday he’d advised her to accept graciously whatever Amy wished to offer. And then enlightenment dawned as she realised he could not be expected to admire a Campbell kilt, no matter how beautifully the pleats hung.

      When she least expected it he turned and surveyed her, drawling in a sardonic tone, ‘Very voguish, Miss Campbell.’

      She smiled sweetly. ‘I thought you’d never notice—although I can hardly believe that you really think so—Mr MacGregor.’

      ‘Why do you say that?’

      ‘Obviously for you it’s the wrong tartan.’

      He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I’m afraid you don’t really know much about me. You’re unaware that high-quality woollen goods always please me, no matter what colour of pattern. Just look at the excellence of these rugs.’

      And so her smart appearance was dismissed as he turned his attention back to the shelves and their contents. Nor could she understand why she should feel so disappointed in his lack of interest, especially when it was what she’d expected.

      A short time later they were joined by Amy, who had completed her own shopping, and when Baird examined the contents of the plastic carrier bags he displayed much more interest in the shoulder cape and poncho than he’d given to the new garments Cathie was wearing. ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Are you ready to go home now? I suspect Elspeth will be wondering where we are.’

      ‘She will not,’ Amy assured him. ‘She’s out visiting a friend. But in any case I am ready, because I want to wrap a couple of small gifts to take to your mother.’

      He looked pleased as he said, ‘That’s kind of you. May I ask what they are? Something you’ve bought here—?’

      ‘Indeed no. They’re two Royal Doulton figurines I have at home—my own, and not part of the Glengyle Estate,’ she added quickly.

      He laughed. ‘It wouldn’t matter if they were.’

      She went on, ‘I call them my two old dears because they’re both elderly women. One is a sitting figure in a brown skirt and tartan shawl. She holds a bunch of coloured balloons which she hopes to sell. I always feel sorry for her.’

      ‘And the other?’ Baird queried.

      ‘The other wears a blue dress and white apron. She bends forward slightly while holding a jug of milk and a saucer to feed her cat, which squats before her with one paw up. Her expression indicates that she adores the cat.’

      ‘I’ve noticed them,’ Cathie put in. ‘They’re both on the windowsill in the lounge.’

      ‘I’ve always loved them,’ Amy admitted to Baird. ‘I hope your mother will also love them.’

      ‘And you’re sure you’re willing to sacrifice them? Amy, you’re very sweet,’ he said softly.

      ‘Not at all,’ she returned in a brisk manner. ‘It’s just that I wouldn’t take anything to her unless it was something that I myself really liked.’

      When they reached home Amy led the way towards the