Free Island of the Heart by Sara Craven Page A

prettiest of her
    clean nightdresses and crept along to the bathroom for yet another
    quick bath. She sprayed herself with scent and brushed her long hair
    until her arm ached with the effort, all the time keeping a wary eye
    on her door, waiting for it to open, and Crispin to come to her.
    She wondered if she ought to put on some lipstick. She applied
    some, then with a grimace, wiped it off with a tissue. But the stain
    of it still remained on her lips, and she supposed she should really
    have another wash. She was half-way to the door when she stopped
    suddenly, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.
    What the hell was she doing? She was running in fruitless circles,
    like a hamster on a wheel, just trying to stop herself from thinking—
    from considering too deeply what she was doing.
    She had been listening, she realised, for the telltale footstep in the
    passage outside not with eagerness but with dread. Because,
    although it galled her to admit it, Flynn Killane had been right about
    one thing. She wasn't sure. In fact, she was a mass of seething doubt.
    She had more or less allowed Crispin to talk her into something she
    just wasn't ready for. She couldn't take this giant leap in the dark—
    surrender herself without commitment, especially in this house
    where all his family lived.
    It's impossible, she thought, pressing her hands frantically to her
    face. What could he have been thinking of? And why did I give him
    even the slightest idea that I would be willing?
    She half stumbled to the door, and using both hands, turned its big
    old-fashioned key, screeching in protest, in the lock.
    She turned off the light and got into bed, pulling the covers up to her
    chin, hoping desperately that when Crispin came knocking at her
    door, he would simply think she was asleep, and go away again. She
    prayed he wouldn't actually try the door, and discover the reality of
    her rejection of him.
    It would be awful trying to explain it to him, trying to justify her
    change of heart, if that was what it was. Whereas tomorrow she
    could talk to him rationally, explain her misgivings—his own word.
    But it was deeper than that. She'd experienced something close to
    panic. She needed more time, and more reassurance. Surely—surely
    she could make him understand.
    She lay still, staring through the darkness at the door, as the minutes
    became hours, and until, eventually, weariness overcame her, and
    she fell deeply asleep.

CHAPTER FIVE
    SANDIE slept late the next morning. When she finally woke, a glance
    at her watch had her frantically scrambling into her clothes. When
    she arrived downstairs, out of breath, and a little embarrassed, the
    house seemed curiously quiet.
    'So there you are,' Bridie appeared from the kitchen regions. 'I
    suppose you'll be wanting coffee.'
    Sandie hesitated. 'I'm not sure I'll have time. Mrs Sinclair will be
    wanting me.' _
    'She's gone into Galway with the young ones. They'll not be back
    until teatime.'
    In a way it was a relief. Sandie felt as if her head was stuffed with
    rather painful cotton wool, and not at all in any state to cope with
    Magda's strictures.
    She nerved herself. 'Do you know where Mr Crispin is?'
    If he'd come to her room last night, she would been totally oblivious
    to the fact. But whatever had happened, they had to have a serious
    talk.
    Bridie laughed. 'Mr Crispin, is it? You'll not be seeing him before
    noon, with the head that he'll have on him! I'll get your coffee. Will
    you take a rasher with it?'
    Sandie shook her head. 'Just some toast would be fine.'
    'Toast!' Bridie scoffed. 'Why, a puff of wind would blow you away
    entirely!' She went off, muttering under her breath, and Sandie
    walked slowly into the dining-room. Jessica was seated at the table,
    frowning over an article in the Irish Times.
    She gave Sandie a brief smile. 'Hello, there. You've been let off the
    hook today.'
    'So I hear.' Sandie pulled out a chair and sat down. 'Is—is Crispin
    ill?'
    His