half turned away. ‘To begin with, she used to.’ She shrugged. ‘Do you want to see the village or don’t you?’
‘Do you know why Ella never mentions you?’
His question was direct, and Abby raised her dark eyebrows. ‘Like I told you, I suppose I might have ruined her image.’
Luke regarded her steadily for several seconds, and she was made intensely aware of the strength of her adversary. This was no easy task she had set herself, but already she had made some headway. All she needed was time, and an ability to act, almost as great as Ella’s.
The air was sharp, and the mist still lingered beside the loch. But it was going to be a fine day, and Luke breathed deeply of the clear northern air.
‘Where do you want to begin?’ asked Abby, as they walked away from the presbytery, and Luke glanced down at her wryly.
‘You tell me,’ he suggested, his hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket, and she smiled.
‘All right. We’ll walk to the harbour. It’s small, but you might find it interesting.’
They walked in single file along the narrow village street which the Lamborghini had negotiated the day before, and Abby had a greeting for everyone who passed. Some of the villagers stared openly at Luke, but she failed to satisfy their curiosity. She walked with an easy casual grace that gave elegance to the most informal attire, her long hair clinging in strands to the crimson windcheater, like ropes of black silk.
The jetty was almost deserted, the fishing boats which had nudged its sides the afternoon before all gone. A few old men sat together mending nets and smoking their pipes, and one or two of them called to Abby and she answered them.
‘Do you know everyone in this village?’ Luke asked, as they leaned together on the wall, looking out over the choppy waters of the loch, and she smiled.
‘Of course. I’ve lived here all my life—I told you.’
‘Except for a trip to Madrid. Yes, I know.’ Luke turned to look at her, and she had to look away from the penetration in his eyes. ‘That’s why your hair is so much darker than—–’ He broke off. ‘Don’t you have any relations in Spain?’
She shook her head, and a strand of her hair blew into his face. He put up a hand to brush it away, and his fingers lingered on the silky threads.
‘My father’s two brothers were killed in the civil war,’ she explained. ‘When my grandparents died, there was no one else.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yes. So am I.’
Luke frowned. ‘Would you like me to speak to Ella—–’
‘No!’
The vehemence of her denial brought a hardness to his jawline, and his mouth, with its full lower lip, became a thin line.
‘Why not?’
Realising she had been careless, Abby twisted her hands together and turned away. ‘You don’t understand, Mr Jordan,’ she said, in a choked voice. ‘After all these years, I—I couldn’t accept …’
Luke’s expression softened slightly. ‘People change, you know, Abby. And sometimes it’s difficult to show one’s feelings, sometimes one’s afraid they’ll be rebuffed.’
He put a hand on her arm, and beneath that persistent pressure she turned to face him. Deliberately, she looked up into his face, and as she did so she saw his instinctive withdrawal. For some reason, he resented her, and only time would prove whether it was on Ella’s behalf—or his own.
‘Do you know my aunt very well, Mr Jordan?’ she asked innocently, and his hand fell away from her.
‘Reasonably,’ he returned, straightening. ‘Shall we go on?’
As they passed the bakers, the smell of newly baked bread and pastry was irresistible. Abby gave Luke a rather speculative glance before disappearing inside, emerging a few minutes later with a paper bag containing two hot meat pasties. She offered him one, and after a moment’s hesitation he took it, biting into the crumbling pastry as she was doing and savouring the juicy filling.
‘I’ve just had breakfast,’ he protested, when she suggested they seated themselves on the low wall surrounding the church yard to eat them.
‘So have I,’ she replied easily. ‘But I’m sure a man of your size doesn’t need to watch his weight.’
Luke’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is that a compliment?’ he inquired dryly, and she coloured, unable to meet his gaze.
‘Naturally,’ she murmured, looking down at the pastry in her hands. ‘Don’t you think this pastry is delicious?’
Luke conceded that it was, and they sat in silence until they were finished. The sun was gaining strength, and its rays beat warmly upon their backs.
Afterwards they walked down to the shore of the loch, and Abby pointed to a small rowing boat pulled high up on the shingle.
‘That’s Uncle Daniel’s,’ she said. ‘Would you like to go out on the loch? You can see the whole village from there.’
Luke was obviously torn between a desire to do as she suggested, and his desire to get this outing over. His reluctance for her company had not diminished, and she wondered what had made him so wary of her. Unless, somehow, he had spoken to her aunt …
That telephone call he had made the previous evening. He had told her uncle that he had spoken to Scott. What if he had spoken to Ella as well? But she was in Rome, Scott had told Abby so. And Luke would have told her uncle if he had made a call to Rome.
Now Luke said: ‘I should very much like to row out on to the loch. But there’s no need for you to come with me. I’m sure you must have better things to do than keeping me company.’
Abby took a deep breath. There it was again—that aloofness, that withdrawal. This wasn’t at all how she had planned it. But how could she penetrate that mask of politeness he was wearing?
She gambled, knowing that if it didn’t come off, she might have destroyed any chance of success. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you like me?’
Luke sighed then. ‘That’s not the point, is it? Good God, I’m old enough to be your father! You can’t possibly enjoy being with me.’
Abby held up her head. ‘And if I do?’
Luke shook his head. ‘I’d rather go alone.’
Abby’s confidence crumbled. ‘Why?’ she demanded, childishly. ‘Because I remind you of my aunt?’
Luke’s brows drew together. ‘That would be silly, wouldn’t it?’
‘Would it?’ Abby knew she had to make a stand. ‘I don’t think you like being reminded of the kind of woman she is!’
That was unforgivable. She knew, as soon as the words were uttered, and Luke looked justifiably furious.
‘What the hell do you mean?’ he snapped, forcing her to go on.
‘I—I know about you—and her.’ Abby fumbled the words. ‘I—I know about your—your relationship …’
‘Indeed?’ His tone was grim.
‘Y—yes.’ Abby swallowed convulsively. ‘I—I know that she—she’s your mistress, that—that you’ve been living together—–’
‘What?’ Luke’s green eyes blazed into hers. ‘Where the hell have you got that from? What do you know about my affairs? What can you know, living here, miles from anywhere, out of touch—–’
‘I can read,’ she reminded him unsteadily. ‘We get newspapers—–’
‘Newspapers!’