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him. At their age and after so short an acquaintance affection was fanciful, she told herself, but what had drawn him to her? What would he be wanting of her? Loyalty in response to his offers she would be prepared to give but would she be willing to share his bed if that was what he wanted? A tiny quiver of excitement told her she would not be too averse to the idea; she dared to let herself think it might be endurable, possibly even pleasant. She smothered the thought hastily. It must be made quite clear to him that she was almost certainly too old to bear children. But not yet, she wavered.
    When she returned to the kitchen he was looking at the newspaper which Mac had left.
    â€˜Will I make another pot of tea?’ she asked him.
    â€˜Aye,’ he agreed, ‘that will be welcome.’ He put away the paper and watched her while she made the tea and poured out two cups. Then with only a slight preliminary clearing of his throat he asked, ‘Will I speak to the minister here tomorrow about us?’
    Kirsty knew there was one final question she must put to him before she could agree. Falteringly she asked, ‘Your brother, will he be sore at you for asking a woman to share your house?’
    â€˜My brother will take no more to do with you than you’d wish,’ he assured her.
    She looked up at him critically while she again asked herself if she was being sensible; if leniency could be a substitute for affection?
    â€˜Will I do just that?’ he pressed.
    Kirsty lowered her eyes. ‘You will do that,’ she’d consented. He stretched out a hand but only far enough along the table to take her glass. ‘Oh, no more than a wee sippie,’ she bade him and since the bottle was almost empty he found it easy enough to comply.
    Standing up he raised his glass to his lips. ‘To Kirsty mho ghaoil! ’ he proclaimed.
    She raised her glass similarly. ‘To Ruari Beag MacDonald!’ she returned but she was too shy to add any endearment.
    Thus with no more than a dram, a smile and a handshake the compact had been made.

Chapter Five
    It had been after four o’clock in the afternoon of the following day before she’d encountered Ruari MacDonald again. The house had been quiet, with Mac at work, Isabel at one of her almost daily whist drives and Meggy out on an errand to the electric shop to get the wireless accumulators recharged. None of the guests were due back until shortly before the evening meal so she’d planned to wash out a few ‘smalls’, but before doing so she’d looked into the Smoking Room to check Meggy had banked up the fire ready for the evening. There she had found him sitting in an armchair near the window with the daily paper covering his lap, evidently having slipped from his hands, and his head lolling against the antimacassar which covered the chair back. She’d guessed he was snoozing and since the fire needed no attention was about to withdraw quietly when she heard him call abruptly, ‘ Tha e Fuar! ’
    â€˜ He Fooar! ’ she responded immediately, before reverting to the English, ‘Indeed it is cold. I wonder you are not sitting nearer the fire.’
    â€˜I am meaning it is cold outside this house,’ he explained. ‘It is not cold in here.’ He’d seemed unsure how to continue the conversation.
    â€˜I was just after checking to see if there was a good fire going,’ she told him and after a second or two’s pause asked, ‘You will be feeling like a strupak?’ She hadn’t really wanted to go back into the kitchen to make a strupak at this moment, having only a few minutes previously finished her own leisurely cup of tea but she’d felt a need to say something inconsequential and the traditional enquiry had shaped itself effortlessly to her tongue. He gestured grateful acceptance but as she turned to go he rose from the chair and stepped hurriedly to waylay her.
    â€˜I