Island Of The Heart. Sara Craven

husband was Irish, and he left her a life interest in the house. He was killed in a hunting accident while Flynn was still a baby. She’s two husbands further on now, but she still spends her summers at Killane, although the damp can’t be good for her throat. The house really belongs to Flynn, my half-brother, of course, but he’s rarely there.’

      ‘Flynn.’ Sandie tried the name. ‘Is he a musician too?’

      ‘God, no!’ Crispin’s laugh was faintly derisive. ‘Magda’s always said he’s some kind of changeling. He hasn’t a note of music in his body, even though he spent his formative years touring with her. She’d put her career into cold storage when she married, but took it up again in a hurry when she found herself a penniless young widow. And the rest, as they say, is history.’

      ‘So what does he do?’

      ‘My father’s family were merchant bankers, and they lured him into commerce.’ Again Sandie sensed a faint sneer. ‘Now he’s a high-powered financial consultant, dealing mainly with tax advice for the rich and famous. He even keeps my mother on the straight and narrow. God only knows where he gets it from. Neither she nor his father had any head for figures at all,’ he added with a shrug. ‘But that’s enough about Flynn. Are you prepared to give up your summer to a madhouse in the west of Ireland?’

      Sandie said, with a catch in her voice, ‘It sounds wonderful. But what will your mother say—having a stranger foisted on her?’

      ‘You won’t be a stranger. I’ll explain the position, and you’ll arrive with the backing of my warmest recommendation. How’s that?’

      ‘It can’t be that simple.’

      ‘Where are the complications?’

      ‘Well, have you ever had a private pupil before? I mean—won’t your family think it’s odd, if I suddenly appear …?’ She looked away, reddening slightly.

      ‘I know what you mean, Miss Alexandra Beaumont.’ Crispin sounded amused, then his voice sobered. ‘I’m asking you to Killane because I think you have a worthwhile talent which you won’t otherwise have the opportunity to exploit.’ He paused, then said deliberately, ‘Let’s leave any other considerations in the lap of the gods, shall we? Now, do you accept my proposition?’

      Sandie’s heart was thumping swiftly and painfully against her ribs. She could feel other objections crowding in. She was assailed by nervousness and exhilaration at the same time.

      She said, ‘Yes, I do. But I don’t know what my parents will say.’

      ‘Leave them to me,’ he said. ‘I’ll handle them.’ He rose, and so did she. ‘Now, shall we seal our bargain in the time-honoured way?’

      He held out his hand, and Sandie put her fingers into his, only to find herself drawn forward to receive Crispin’s light kiss on her mouth.

      He said, ‘I’ll be in touch,’ then the dressing room door closed behind him.

      Sandie stared after him, her hand lifting involuntarily to touch her lips.

      She thought, A summer in Connemara. It sounds like magic—too good to be true. She hesitated. But after the summer—what then?

      She shrugged. I’ll wait and see, she told herself, and let the remembrance of Crispin Sinclair’s smile dispel that faint chill of anxiety inside her.

      A fortnight later, still dazed at the total upheaval in her life, Sandie found herself descending from the plane at Shannon.

      Looking back, she realised she had never thought her parents would agree, and she hadn’t the slightest idea how Crispin had persuaded them. Neither, she thought, had they. But she was aware that he’d accentuated her dubious role as his mother’s accompanist rather than her status as his pupil, and although this wasn’t exactly a deception, it had caused her a slight flicker of uneasiness.

      Inside the terminal building, she collected her luggage and made her way to the Aer Lingus desk as Crispin had instructed.

      ‘Excuse me,’ she addressed the green-clad girl, who looked up smiling at her approach. ‘My name is Beaumont. Someone is meeting me here.’

      The girl nodded. ‘Your man was just enquiring for you,’ she said. She looked past Sandie, and beckoned.

      Sandie turned to find herself confronted by a short, squat individual. His face was as brown and wrinkled as a walnut, and his greying hair still held a tinge of fierce red. He was staring at Sandie with an expression of incredulity that was too disconcerting to be amusing.

      ‘It’s you, is it, I’m to take to Killane?’ His tone held lively dismay.

      Sandie tilted her chin a little. ‘I’m Mr Sinclair’s guest, yes,’ she returned coolly. ‘How do you do, Mr—er—?’ She held out her hand.

      ‘O’Flaherty will do—without the Mister.’ The man ignored her hand, and picked up her cases. ‘Guest,’ he added with a faint snort. ‘Well for Mr Crispin that himself’s not at home to see this.’ And on this obscure utterance, he turned and strode towards the main doors, heading for the car park. Sandie had to run in order to keep up with him.

      She said breathlessly, and a little desperately, ‘I am expected, aren’t I?’

      ‘They’re expecting someone, surely.’ Sandie’s cases were fitted into the back of a large estate car. ‘In you get, now. We have a fair drive ahead of us.’

      Sandie got into the passenger seat and fastened its belt. It was not the introduction she’d expected to Ireland of the Hundred Thousand Welcomes, she thought, trying to feel amused, and failing.

      ‘It’s a beautiful day,’ she tried tentatively, as they won free of the airport’s environs, and embarked on the road to Galway.

      ‘It won’t last,’ was the uncompromising reply, and Sandie sighed soundlessly, and transferred her attention to the scenery.

      It took well over an hour to reach Galway. Beyond the city, the road narrowed dramatically, and the weather, as O’Flaherty had predicted, began to deteriorate. Ahead, Sandie could see mountains, their peaks hidden by cloud, and the whole landscape seemed to be changing, taking on a disturbing wildness now that the narrow grey towns had been left behind.

      O’Flaherty had wasted no time with his driving so far, but now he slowed perceptibly, as the rattle of loose chippings stung at the underside of the car. Moorland rolled away on both sides of the road, interspersed with a scatter of small white houses, most of them with thatched roofs. Here and there, the earth had been deeply scarred by turf cutting, and piles of turfs stood stacked and awaiting collection near the verges. There were great stretches of water too, looking grey and desolate under the lowering sky. Some of the lakes had islands, and Sandie, fascinated, spotted the ruined stones of an ancient tower on one, half hidden by trees and undergrowth. She would have loved to have asked its history, but after sneaking a look at O’Flaherty’s forbidding countenance she decided to save her questions for Crispin.

      She was frankly puzzled by the little man’s hostility, and it made her apprehensive about her reception generally when eventually they reached their journey’s end. If they ever did, she thought, stretching her cramped legs in front of her.

      ‘Too long a ride for you, is it?’

      ‘No, I’m enjoying it,’ Sandie said mendaciously. ‘The scenery’s fabulous, isn’t it? So romantic.’

      Her innocent comment was greeted by another snort, and silence descended again.

      There was little other traffic—some cyclists, a lorry piled high with bales of hay, a few cars and a couple of horseboxes. Occasionally they were brought to a halt by sheep and cattle wandering across the road in front of them.

      Rain splattered across the windscreen, and O’Flaherty swore under his breath, and flicked on the wipers, before turning off on to a side road bordering yet another enormous lake. The clouds were down so low now