"Mary Stewart - Wildfire" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stewart Mary)

kelpie?" Then I stopped. His eyes, meeting mine, held some indefinable expression, the merest shadow, no
more, but I hesitated, aware of some obscure uneasiness.
The blue eyes dropped. "I imagine Murdo meansтАФ" But Murdo cut the engine, and the sudden silence
interrupted as effectively as an explosion. "London . . ." said Murdo meditatively into the bowls of his
engine. "That's a long way now! A long way, indeed, to come. ..." The guileless wonder was back in his
voice, but I got the embarrassing impression that he was talking entirely at random. And, moreover, that his
air of Highland simplicity was a trifle overdone; he had, 1 judged, a reasonably sophisticated eye. "A very
fine city, so they say. Westminster Abbey, Piccadilly Circus, the Zoo. I have seen picturesтАФ"

"Murdo," I said suspiciously, as we bumped gently alongside a jetty, and made fast. "When did you last
see London?"

He met my eye with a limpid gaze as he handed me

out of the boat. "Eight years ago, mistress," he said in

his soft voice, "on my way back frae Burma and points

East "

The man called Grant had picked up my cases and had started walking up the path to the hotel. As I
followed him I was conscious of Murdo staring after us for a long moment, before he turned back to his
boat. That simple Skyeman act had beenтАФwhat? Some kind of smoke screen? But what had there been to
hide? Why had he been so anxious to change the conversation?

The path skirted the hotel to the front door, which faced the valley. As I followed my guide round the
corner of the building my eye was once again, irresistibly, drawn to the great lonely bulk of the mountain in
the east, stooping over the valley like a hawk.

Blaven? The Blue Mountain?

I turned my back on it and went into the hotel.




Chapter 2



IT WAS AN HOUR LATER. I had washed, brushed the railway smoke out of my hair, and changed. I sat
in the hotel lounge, enjoying a moment of solitude' before the other guests assembled for dinner. I was
sipping an excellent sherry, my feet were in front of a pleasant fire, and on three sides of the lounge the
tremendous mountain scenery was mine for the gazing. 1 felt good.

The door of the hotel porch swung and clashed, and presently, through the glass of the lounge doors, I
saw two women come into the hall and cross it towards the stairs. One I judged to be about my own age;
she was shortish, dark, thickset, with her hair cropped straight and mannishly, and the climber's uniform of
slacks, boots, and heavy jersey exaggerated her masculine appearance. The other was a girl of about
twenty, very young-looking, with bright red cheeks and straight black hair. She did not, I thought, look