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'I won't give him the satisfaction,' she thought mutinously, and bent over the map her uncle held out, feigning an interest that for once she did not feel.

'I'll shade it for you as soon as we get home,' she promised. The small service would suit her purpose very well, and take her away from Reeve's presence the moment they reached the Fleece.

'That'll be a great help.' Her uncle accepted her offer with alacrity, as she knew he would, and she instantly felt guilty at using him as a shield between herself and Reeve.

'You'd better have the map now, in case I forget to give it to you when we get home.'

Marion smiled. At least her uncle knew his own shortcomings. When he had his mind on the book he was writing, he became as absent-minded as a professor. Her smile vanished as, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Reeve stir in his seat and lean forward, as if he was going to take the map himself. She sat up straight and reached out and almost snatched the parchment from Miles Dorman's hand. Swiftly she rolled it into a pencil-thin tube, and slipped it up her sleeve as far as her elbow. The ribbed wrist of her sweater would effectively prevent it from falling out. It was a ruse she had used more than once with her own . sketches, when prevailing hazards—and she had faced many on her various journeys over wild terrain— might take her immediate attention and make her momentarily forget her work in the face of more immediate urgencies, until it was too late to retrieve it, and her efforts had gone to waste.

She felt Reeve stiffen beside her, and knew that her move had angered him. It emanated from him in a cold aura, and she shivered under the silent, implacable force of it.

'I've got a right to the map. Uncle Miles held it out for me, not for him,' she told herself, but just the same she wished she could ride in the back seat of the car when they touched down at the airport and changed their mode of transport. But once again Reeve put her determinedly into the front passenger seat, and effectively removed any objection she might make by saying considerately to her uncle,

'You'll have more room for your papers on the back seat,' he smiled at the older man in a kindly manner, 'and there's a pull-out table if you want to work on your maps between here and the time we get to the Fleece.' He pulled down the neatly concealed folding table, deliberately pandering to her uncle's patent reluctance to waste a minute before making notes on his new-found knowledge, Marion thought furiously. He handed her into the front seat, and his hard glance dared her to defy him.

'He'll probably leave me to walk back if I do,' she shrugged resignedly, and tucked herself into the luxurious embrace of the big seat, trying to force herself to feel glad that at least Gyp was enjoying his ride. The dog curled up contentedly in the well in the back of the car with her uncle, and made it plain he approved of the novel experience by his lazily waving tail, but it did not prevent him from jumping out of the car the moment the door opened when they reached the forecourt of the Fleece, and following his nose kitchenwards with a single-mindedness of purpose that drew a laugh from Willy as he prepared to garage the car in the stables at the back of the hotel.

'Well!' he exclaimed disgustedly to the back of the retreating animal, 'he might at least have stopped to say thank you!'

'I'll leave Marion to make amends for him,' smiled her uncle, and courteously thanking Reeve himself, he disappeared in the direction of his study, leaving Marion reluctantly facing Reeve across the narrow hall.

'Thank you.' She made amends as briefly as possible.

'Is that all?' he asked her, and his tone was as steely as his eyes.

'What else is there to say?'

'You could say you're sorry,' he suggested coldly.

'Whatever for?' She gazed at him in angry astonishment. If he thought she was going to apologise for being wrong about the route of the drovers' road, he was very much mistaken. 'I've got nothing to feel sorry for,' she told him adamantly.

'I'll soon remedy that,' he growled.

All the pent-up anger that he had held until now under rigid control released itself in his kiss. His lips descended on hers with a bruising force. She struggled and tried to break away, but his arms encircled her like a vice, and her strength was as nothing against their power. She arched her back, trying to force herself away from him, but the pressure of his lips did not slacken, until the burning heat of his kiss melted her resistance, and in spite of her fury she felt herself begin to yield. Her body became pliant in his arms, responding against her will, the treacherous fire running once again through her veins until it blotted out everything but the feel of his arms around her, his lips pressing against her own ....

'Feel sorry for that!' he ground out, and pushed her away from him.

For a second he stared down at her, saw her hands rise to her face, her eyes registering the shock of what he had done, and then he turned abruptly on his heel and left her. Through a dark haze she heard the outer door slam, with a force that brought a back-draught of air against her hot cheeks. Her fingers clung to them, as if covering the sting of a blow, and they burned as if with a fever, although her body felt icy cold.

She shivered, and the violent tremor brought returned consciousness of her surroundings, and an awareness that she could not remain in the hall for the rest of the evening. She turned towards the stairs, and began to mount them on legs that felt as if they did not belong to her. She did not know where Reeve had gone to, but soon he would have to come upstairs as well, to change for dinner. The thought spurred her failing strength, and she reached the landing and the sanctuary of her own room with a sob of relief. Her strength deserted her then. Her bed held out soft arms to cushion her fall, and her pillow received the scalding outflow that she could no longer control.

Eventually her sobs lessened and died away, but she lay where she had fallen, exhausted by a storm of intensity as she had never experienced before. Gradually she became aware of the discomfort of her wet pillow beneath her cheek, and she turned over restlessly and lay supine, bereft of the strength to get up, until the rich smell of cooking that had homed Gyp kitchenwards—how long ago was it, now? a lifetime?—drifted through her open window, a pungent reminder that somehow she must soon find the energy to rise and go downstairs, and face Mrs Pugh's sharp eyes, and try to make believe that nothing was amiss, when her whole world had crumbled in ruins about her feet.

'I've taken your uncle's meal into his study,' Mrs Pugh clicked her tongue disapprovingly. 'I can't part him from his maps, so I might as well take him his food in there and be done.'

'In that case, let's stay here and eat ours,' Marion suggested quickly, 'it'll save laying our own dining room table just for the two of us,' she begged. Suddenly she wanted to remain in the kitchen. It was warm and comforting, and represented security.

'It'll help if we do,' Mrs Pugh conceded. 'Mr Harland and Willy were a bit later coming in to their meal tonight, I can serve them and us at the same time if we stay in here.'

Luck seemed to be with her, Marion decided dully, as faced with her own good dinner and a total reluctance to eat it, she was able to deposit most of the contents of her plate on the glowing coals of the fire as soon as Mrs Pugh disappeared to take the first course in to their guests.

'There, I said a day out would do you good,' the housekeeper exclaimed on her return, seeing Marion apparently finishing off the last mouthful with relish. 'It's given you an appetite—and about time, too!' She bustled towards the oven where her own dinner was keeping hot, and Marion heaved a small sigh of relief. The light make-up she applied before coming down, and which she rarely wore, was evidently a sufficient disguise for the signs of distress that soap and cold water had not been able to fully erase.

She was drying the crockery with a listless disinterest after the meal was over when she became aware of a louder than usual noise from the public part of the house. She hung a jug back on its hook on the dresser and paused to listen.

'Someone seems to be having an argument in the bar.' Her forehead creased into a frown.

'Jim can handle anything that's likely to crop up in the bar,' Mrs Pugh retorted firmly, and Marion picked up a plate and resumed her work. The housekeeper was right, of course. Trouble in the bar of the Fleece was almost non-existent, and even under normal circumstances she knew that neither her uncle nor Mrs Pugh liked her to go in there. She pandered to their rather old-fashioned point of view readily enough. She had no desire to frequent the public rooms of the house, and her work kept her spare time amply occupied, but tonight ... The crease across her forehead deepened. More than one voice seemed to be raised, indeed there was a swelling volume of sound that augured trouble.

'D'you think I ought to call Uncle Miles?' she began, when a sharp rap sounded on the kitchen door, and the face of Jim, the barman, peered round it, bearing a frown as deep as Marion's own.

'Can you come in a minute, Miss Marion?' He sounded as worried as he looked. 'I've got a bar full of folk tonight.' That was unusual enough in itself these days, thought Marion with a prick of apprehension. 'And they're all looking for trouble,' he did nothing to allay her fears. 'They're all asking for you,' he said.

'For me?' She stared at him, uncomprehending. 'What do they want me for?'

'I dunno, miss. They keep on about something to do with the beck. I can't make head nor tail of what they're talking about,' the barman admitted helplessly.

'I'll come.' Quickly Marion slipped the bow on the back of her apron, and draped it across the back of a chair.

'Do you think you ought to, Marion?' Mrs Pugh moved across the kitchen towards her uneasily. 'Let me go and fetch your uncle,' she urged.

'Time enough to bring Uncle Miles into it when I've found out what they want me for,' Marion said with a briskness she was far from feeling. 'You stay here,' she told the housekeeper, 'I'll come back and let you know what it's all about in a minute or two. In the meantime,' she instructed firmly, 'leave Uncle Miles in peace until we know whether it's worth disturbing him or not,' she said hopefully.

'They're all steamed up about whatever it is,' Jim said gloomily as he opened the door that led into the public bar.

'I can see that.' The place was indeed full to capacity, Marion's surprised eyes picked out John Cornish, the schoolteacher; Zilla Wade, who despite her forthright habit of speech usually left her menfolk to enjoy the hospitality of the Fleece alone; the postmistress. Surely not the postmistress? Marion looked again, but her eyes had not deceived her. Even the local vicar was there. The sight of the vicar calmed her apprehension somewhat.

'Tha' took tha' time acomin'!'

'I came as soon as I was asked.' She did not like Aaron Wade any more than she liked his wife and son, and her withering glance told him so. 'What is it you want?'

He seemed to be the self-appointed spokesman, and with a courage she did not know she possessed, she tackled the unprepossessing farmer head on. The day had already produced enough difficulties on its own, she felt, without adding a controversy with the Wades.

'We wants to know about this dam thing.'

'What thing?' She could not see anything in his hand. 'And don't use bad language in here,' she snapped, 'you know my uncle won't put up with it.'

'Dad ain't swearing.' Ben Wade shouldered his way through the crowd in the bar until he stood beside his father, and Marion realised how very much alike the two were. The comparison did not flatter either of them, she thought critically. 'He's talking about those two blokes you've got staying here. The ones who're going to build a dam across the beck, and turn the valley into a reservoir.'

How did he know? She stared at him in consternation. It was obvious that he did, and the rest of the people in the bar as well. That must be why they were there in such numbers. Realisation gripped her like a cold hand. They had come to the Fleece as the nearest public place to hold an indignation meeting, about something that was supposed to be still a secret.

'Is it true, Miss Marion?' The quiet question came from the husband of their own daily help. Marion had not noticed him before, but he too edged forward, and she found herself facing a sea of faces, some anxious, some angry, the Wades belligerent as usual, but all awaiting her answer.

'What about my farm?' Aaron Wade shouted at her angrily. 'What'll happen to that, if they has their way and floods the valley?'

'What'll happen to our homes?'

'What's going to happen to the school? My job?' That was from John Cornish, whose eyes, thought Marion with quick compassion, looked haunted with worry.

'Is that why they won't renew my Post Office licence?' The postmistress seemed to have shed her normally timid nature, and spoke up boldly with the rest.

Marion stood helpless before the avalanche of questions.

'Is it true? What's going to happen?' And the question she herself had asked, repeated from the crowd over and over again, 'Why us?'

'I don't know.' She pressed frantic fingers to her suddenly throbbing temples.

'Tha' must know. The men are staying here, aren't they?' It was Aaron Wade again, aggressive as ever, and shouting louder than the others. Tha' must have known afore us,' he accused her bitterly, 'but I suppose it paid to keep tha' mouth shut, seeing as they was staying at the Fleece,' he sneered.

'I only learned about it this morning.' With commendable outward calm she held up her hand for silence. Inside, she felt anything but calm. Her mind was a seething mass of questions, that ran along the same lines as their own, but with another one added for good measure. How had they found out?

'Do you expect us to believe that?' Aaron Wade growled.

'Shut up, Aaron!'

Their daily help's husband came to her aid. He was a quiet man by nature, Marion knew him slightly, but nevertheless he was a brawny quarryman, and a force to be reckoned with if put to the test. To Marion's relief Aaron Wade did not try. He subsided into sullen silence, and with a grateful glance at her helper she went on clearly.