Some people, he supposed, prolonged their honeymoons, taking time leisurely to explore the delights of love-making, leading each other from one experience to the next. But theirs, begun so short a time ago, had swept onwards with the fury of a tempest. Last night, as the shadows lengthened across the hills, there had been her trembling anticipation when he had undressed her, then that fragile moment when she stood before him in her nakedness, proud and unashamed. He had lifted her in his arms, carrying her to the bed, and she slipped the chain from about her neck and laid the little cross on the bedside table.
He had thought her shy and reserved, but little did he know woman. At first he had been impatient and demanding, too swift for her. What was it she had whispered? 'Don't be silly, my own beloved: I can never be the same woman again, not now. You're part of me, for ever, whatever happens — don't you know that?' Afterwards, lying across him in the delicious aftermath, she had whispered into his ear: 'It's your turn now. No, don't talk. I want to make you happy.' And, gently, at first, not sure of herself, she began to rouse him. But this time, unhurriedly, deliberately, aflame herself with desire, she led him on, giving herself totally to him. And in the tranquillity of the awakening dawn, he groaned softly to himself: he could not allow these last hours together to slip away. He enfolded her roughly against him.
'What's the matter, darling?' She was awake, reaching for him. 'Oh, Julian, what's the time?'
His hands were caressing her, gently at first. 'It's nearly dawn,' he said. 'Look, the sun'll soon be on the Cuillins.'
'When d'you have to go?' she murmured sleepily.
'The boat's at seven-thirty. We've got two hours.'
She did not reply. Lying passively in his arms, she was awakening again to his loving, while they talked softly. He spoke of his submarine, of his men, of his officers. 'I'm worried about one of them,' he ended. 'But I've got to take him with me, even on this trip.'
He hesitated, then told her briefly of Woolf-Gault's failure. 'He knew we were watching him yesterday forenoon, during our deep-dive,' he said. 'He was okay — almost too much so. He's a cocky bastard/ 'There's so much I want to ask you,' she said.
'Go on, then, ask me. I shan't answer if it's verboten.' 'Julian, you're working on something with Kevan, Commander Coombes, aren't you?' Her hands were responding now, rhythmically, with his.
'Why d'you ask that one?'
She rolled on top of him, her face above his. 'Open your eyes,' she whispered. 'I love looking at them.' She was staring down at him, her eyes flickering.
'Kevan is my half-brother, Julian,' she said softly, 'Kevan Coombes.'
'Janner?'
She nodded. 'I didn't know you called him that.'
'Why didn't you tell me?'
'I didn't realize. Down at Spinneycombe, I told you about my half-brother: how he joined the Navy.'
He took her head between his hands, the better to watch her face:
'You were in love with him? Might have married?'
'He loved me very much,' she whispered. 'I was seventeen, infatuated: it was a long time ago.'
'I knew him way back. We shared a cabin during our first perisher.'
'I didn't know. But now…'
'Now?' he queried softly.
'Kevan came here last evening, before Orcus anchored. We had tea together.'
'He was looking for you?'
'He'd rung mum to say goodbye. She told him I was up here.'
He did not answer. So, during their brief meeting last evening, Coombes had known that Farge was up here secretly, chasing his stepsister.
'What a turn-up for the books,' he chuckled. 'What was Janner's reaction?', 'I told him everything, that I loved you,' she said simply. 'That we'll marry when you get back from patrol. Kevan was pleased, Julian, happy it was you.' Her eyes were alight with mischief. 'He said he didn't think I had it in me.'
'What d'you mean?'
'Coming up here to you — like this.'
'The old devil…' and then for a brief hour, the frenzy of their love claimed every precious minute. Wordlessly, rejecting the complications of the world, they loved again until they heard the clock downstairs chiming six-thirty. She clung to him then, for the first time overwhelmed by tears. He tried to soothe her, and as the shuddering of her body eased, he gently slid from her arms.
'Stay there,' he said, 'while I get ready.'
He shaved in the bathroom and when he returned, she was in her dressing-gown, packing his grip. He dressed in silence while she stood at the window, staring across the shimmering sea.
'Don't come down,' he said. 'When I get back this afternoon from Safari, I'll go straight alongside Orcus.' 'When are you sailing?' she whispered.
'Dusk. Don't hang around: it's better for you to go quickly. Your mother'll be worrying.'
She did not answer, but shook her head.
His voice hoarse, he asked: 'If it's a son, you'll call him Julian?'
As she turned, tears streaming down her cheeks, he brushed her golden hair with his lips. He picked up his bag and swiftly left the room.
By the evening of Thursday, 8 May, the weather in the Hebrides had worsened to half a gale. Blustery and bleak, the wind was gusting through the Kyle of Lochalsh and whipping the running tideway into flecks of white. The fishing-boats, lungeing against each other along the quays of the little harbour, were pitching in the scend.
The harbour master was worried as he leaned against the gale, on his final rounds to check the warps. When he reached the harbour light, he found a solitary woman sheltering in the lee of the boat which was shored up on the extremity of the outer jetty.
'Dirty night,' he remarked, darting her a glance: not a local girl, she was in her mid-twenties; her face beneath the scarf about her head was pale and drawn. 'You all right, miss?' he asked kindly.
She nodded, but he could not catch her reply as she stared up the loch, her back to the wind. From the darkness three pin-points of light were emerging, growing rapidly in brilliance: one white, above the other two, green and red. The harbour master stood back, watching the sleek, black submarine as she swept towards them. Her bows showed now, a bulbous dome on her stemhead; she rounded up for the narrows, then slid abeam of the two lone observers, her long fore-casing glistening from the light cast by the harbour lights. She was abreast of the jetty, a flurry of spray dashing against her fin as her bows clove the confused waters of the kyle.
The men on her bridge were mostly indistinguishable, hooded in their heavy-weather gear as they peered into the night. The only exception must be her captain who was still wearing his cap. He stood apart from the others, leaning over the lip of the bridge as he conned his boat through the narrows.
The girl standing beside the harbour-master had dragged off her scarf. Holding it above her head, she let it stream in the wind while the submarine slid past. The submarine captain was peering toward the Carnburn Hotel, when he seemed to spot the two figures under the light at the end of the jetty. As he raised his binoculars, the woman started brandishing her scarf back and forth. The captain lowered his glasses; he raised his arm and waved towards the jetty. Swivelling round to cope with the rapid change of bearing, he stood momentarily rigid, his hand at the salute. A final wave and he was lost among the huddle of figures on the bridge, as the boat swept onwards through the kyle.
The girl's arm fell listlessly. The harbour-master could not see her face while, facing the wind, she stared after the submarine until the stern light vanished into the filthy night.