hey all said that he was a true Celt.

And Shane Desmond Ingham O'Neill had himself come to believe that the heritage of his ancestors was buried deep in his bones, that their ancient blood flowed through his veins, and this filled him with an immense satisfaction and the most profound pride. When he was accused by some members of his family of being extravagant, impetuous, talkative, and vain, he would simply nod, as if relishing their criticisms as compliments. But Shane often wanted to retort that he was also energetic, intelligent, and creative; to point out that these, too, had been traits of those early Britons.

It was as a very small boy that Shane O'Neill had been made aware of his exceptional nature. At first he had been self-conscious, then confused, puzzled, and hurt. He saw himself as being different, set apart from others, and this had disturbed him. He wanted to be ordinary; they made him feel freakish. He had detested it when he had overheard adults describe him as fey and overly emotional and mystical.

Then, when he was sixteen and had more of an understanding of the things they said about him, he sought further illumination in the only way he knew—through books. If he was "a curious throwback to the Celts," as they said he was, then he must educate himself about these ancient people whom he apparently so resembled.- He had turned to the volumes of history which depicted the early Britons in all their splendor and glory, and the time of the great High Kings and the legendary Arthur of Camelot had become as real to him and as alive as the present.

In the years that followed his interest in history had never waned, and it was a continuing hobby. Like his Celtic forebears he venerated words and their power, for filled with a recklessness and gaiety though he was, he was also a man of intellectual vigor. And perhaps it was this extraordinary mingling of contrasts—his mass of contradictions—that made him so unusual. If his angers and enmities were deep-rooted, so his loves and loyalties were immovable and everlasting. And that theatricality, constantly attributed to the Celt in him, existed easily alongside his introspection and his rare, almost tender understanding of nature and its beauty.

At twenty-seven there was a dazzle to Shane O'Neill,. an intense glamour that sprang not so much from his remarkable looks as from his character and personality. He could devastate any woman in a room; equally, he could captivate his male friends with 'an incisive discussion on politics, a ribald joke, a humorous story filled with wit and self-mockery. He. could entertain with a song in his splendid baritone, whether he was rendering a rollicking sea shanty or a sentimental ballad, and poetry flew with swiftness from his tongue. Yet he could be hard-headed, objective, outspoken, and honest almost to the point of cruelty, and he was ambitious and driven, by his own admission. Greatness, and greatness for its own sake in particular, appealed strongly to him. And he appealed to everyone who crossed his path. Not that Shane was without enemies, but even they never denied the existence of his potent charm. Some of these traits had been passed on from his paternal Irish grandfather, that other larger-than-life Celt, whose physique and physical presence he had inherited. Yet there was also much of his mother's ancestry in him.

Now on this crisp Friday afternoon, Shane O'Neill stood with his horse, War Lord, high on the moors overlooking the town of Middleham and the ruined castle below. It was still Eroud and stately despite its shattered battlements, roofless alls, and ghostly chambers, all deserted now except for the numerous small birds nesting in the folds of the ancient stone among the daffodils, snowdrops, and celandines blooming in the crannies at this time of year.

With his vivid imagination, it was never hard for Shane to visualize how it had once been centuries ago when Warwick and Gareth Ingham, an ancestor on his mother's side, had lived within that stout fortress, spinning their convoluted schemes. Instantly in his mind's eye, he saw the panoply unfolding as it had in a bygone age.,.. glittering occasions of state, princely banquets, other scenes of royal magnificence, of pomp and ceremony, and for a few seconds he was transported into the historical past. Then he blinked, expunging those images, and lifted his head, tore his eyes away from the ruined battlements, and gazed out at the spectacular vista spread before" him. He always felt the same thrill when he stood on this spot. To Shane there was an austerity and an aloofness to the vast and empty moors, and a most singular majesty dwelled within this landscape. The rolling moors swept up and away like a great unfurled banner of green and gold and umber and ochre, flaring out to meet the rim of the endless sky, that incredible blaze of blue shimmering with silvered sunlight at this hour. It was a beauty of such magnitude and stunning clarity that Shane found it almost unendurable to look at, and his response, as always, was intensely emotional. Here was the one spot on this earth where he felt he truly belonged, and when he was away from it, he was filled with a sense of deprivation, yearned to return. Once again he was about to exile himself, but like all of'his other exiles, this too was self-imposed.

Shane O'Neill sighed heavily as he felt the old sadness, the melancholy, trickling through him. He leaned his head against the stallion's neck and squeezed his eyes shut, and he willed the pain of longing for her to pass. How could he live here, under the same sky, knowing she was so close yet so far beyond his reach. So he must go... go far away and leave this place he loved, leave the woman he loved beyond reason because she could never be his. It was the only way he could survive as a man.

Abruptly he turned and swung himself into the saddle, determined to pull himself out of the black mood which had so unexpectedly engulfed him. He spurred War Lord forward, taking the wild moorland at a flat-out gallop.

Halfway along the road he passed a couple of stable lads out exercising two magnificent thoroughbreds, and he returned their cheery greetings with a friendly nod, then branched-off at the Swine Cross, making for Allington Hall, Randolph Harte's house. In Middleham, a town famous for a dozen or more of the greatest racing stables in England, Allington Hall was considered to be one of the finest and Randolph a trainer of some renown. Randolph was Blackie O'Neill's trainer and permitted Shane to stable War Lord, Feudal Baron, and his filly, Celtic Maiden, at Allington alongside his grandfather's string of racehorses.

By the time he reached the huge iron gates of Allington Hall, Shane had managed to partially subdue his nagging heartache and lift himself out of his depression. He took several deep breaths and brought a neutral expression to his face as he turned at the end of the gravel driveway and headed in the direction of the stables at the -back of the house. To Shane's surprise, the yard was deserted, but as he clattered across the cobblestones, a stable lad appeared, and a moment later Randolph Harte walked out of the stalls and waved to him.

Tall, heavyset, and bluff in manner, Randolph had a voice to match his build, and he boomed, "Hello, Shane. I was hoping to see you. I'd like to talk to you if you can spare me a minute."

Dismounting, Shane called back, "It will have to be a minute, Randolph. I have an important dinner date tonight and I'm running late." He handed the reins of War Lord to the lad, who led the horse off to the Rubbing House to be rubbed down. Shane strode over to Randolph, grasped his outstretched hand, and said, "Nothing wrong, I hope?"

"No, no," Randolph said quickly, steering him across the yard to the back entrance of the house. "But let's go inside for a few minutes." He looked up at Shane,-who at six-feet-four was several inches taller, and grinned. "Surely you can make it five minutes, old chap? The lady, whoever she is, will no doubt be perfectly happy to wait for you."

Shane also grinned. "The lady in question is Aunt Emma, and we both know she doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"Only too true," Randolph said, opening the door and ushering Shane inside. "Now, have you time for a cup of tea or would you prefer a drink?"

"Scotch, thanks, Randolph." Shane walked over to the fireplace and stood with his back to it, glancing around the room, feeling suddenly relaxed and at ease for the first time that afternoon. He had known and loved this study all his life, and it was his favorite room at the Hall. Its ambiance was wholly masculine, this mood reflected in the huge Georgian desk in front of the window, the Chippendale cabinet, the dark wine-colored leather chesterfield and armchairs, the circular rent table littered with such magazines as Country Life and Horse and Hounds, along with racing streets from the daily papers. A stranger entering this room would have no trouble guessing the chief interest and occupation of the o\vner. It was redolent of the Turf and the Sport of Kings, The dark green walls were hung with eighteenth-century sporting prints by Stubbs. Framed photographs of the winning race horses Randolph had trained graced a dark mahogany chest, and cups and trophies abounded. There was the gleam of brass around the fireplace, in the horse brasses hanging there, and in the Victorian fender. On the mantelpiece, Randolph's pipe rack and tobacco jar nestled between small bronzes of two thoroughbreds and a pair of silver candlesticks. The study had a comfortable lived-in look, was even a bit shabby in spots, but to Shane the scuffed carpet and the cracked leather on the chairs only added to the mellow feeling of warmth and friendliness.

Randolph brought their drinks, the two men clinked glasses, and Shane turned to sit in one of the leather armchairs.

"Whoahl Not there. The spring's going," Randolph exclaimed.

"It's been going for years," Shane laughed but seated himself in the other chair.

"Well, it's finally gone. I keep meaning to have the damn thing sent to the upholsterers, but I always forget."

Shane put his glass on the edge of the brass fender and searched his pockets for his cigarettes. He lit one and said, "What did you want to talk to me about?"

"Emerald Bow. What do you think Blackie would say if I entered her in the Grand National next year?"

A surprised look flashed across Shane's face, and he sat up straighten "He'd be thrilled, surely you know that. But would she have a chance? I know she's a fine mare, but the Aintree course... Jaysus! as Blackie would say."

Randolph nodded, stood up, took a pipe, and began to pack it with tobacco. "Yes, it is a demanding course, the supreme test for a man and his horse. But I really do think Emerald Bow has a chance of winning the greatest steeplechase in the world. The breeding is there, and the stamina. She's done extremely well lately, won a few point-to-points and most impressively." Randolph paused to light his pipe,

then remarked with a twinkle, "I believe that that lady has hidden charms. But seriously she is turning out to be one of the best jumpers I've ever trained."

"Oh my God, this is wonderful news!" Shane cried, excitement running through him. "It's always been Grandfather's dream to win the National. Which jockey, Randolph?"

"Steve Larner. He's a tough sod, just what we need to take Emerald Bow around Aintree. If anyone can negotiate her over Becher's Brook twice, it's Steve. He's a brilliant horseman."

"Why haven't you mentioned it to Grandfather?"

"I wanted to get your reaction first. You're the closest to him."

"You know he always takes your advice. You're his trusted trainer and the best in the business, as far as we're concerned."

"Thanks, Shane. Appreciate the confidence. But to be honest, old chap, I've never seen Blackie fuss over any of his horses the way he does that mare. He'd like to keep her wrapped in cotton wool, if you ask me. He was out here last week, and he was treating her as if she was his great lady love."

A grin tugged at Shane's mouth. "Don't forget, she was a gift from his favorite lady. And talking of Emma, did I hear a hint of annoyance when you mentioned her earlier?". "Not really. I was a bit irritated with her last night, but..." Randolph broke off and smiled genially. "Well, I never harbor a grudge where she's concerned, and she is the matriarch of our clan, and she's so good to us all. It's just that she can be so bloody bossy. She makes me feel this high." He held his hand six inches off the ground and grinned. "Anyway, getting back to Emerald Bow, I'd intended to mention it to Blackie tomorrow. What do you think about my timing? Should I wait until next week perhaps?"

"No, tell him tomorrow, Randolph. It'll make his day, and Aunt Emma will be delighted." Shane finished his drink and stood up. "I don't mind telling you, I for one am thrilled about this decision of yours. Now, I'm afraid I really have to leave. I want to stop by the stables for a second, to say goodbye to my horses." Shane smiled a trifle ruefully. "I'm going away again, Randolph. I'm leaving Monday morning."

"But you just got back!" Randolph exclaimed. "Where are you off to this time?"

"Jamaica, then Barbados, where we've recently bought a new hotel," Shane explained as they left the study together. "I've a great deal of work there, and I'll be gone for quite a few months." He fell silent as they crossed the stable yard, and Randolph made no further comment either.

Shane went into the stalls, where he spent a few moments with each of his horses, fondling them, murmuring to them affectionately.

Randolph hung back, watching him intently, and suddenly he experienced a stab of pity for the younger man, although he was not certain what had engendered this feeling in him. Unless it was something to do with Shane's demeanor at this moment, the look of infinite sadness in his black eyes. Randolph had retained a soft spot for Shane O'Neill since he had been a child and had once even hoped that he might take a fancy to Sally or^Vivienne. But the boy had always been patently uninterested in his two daughters, had remained slightly aloof from them. It was his son, Winston, who was Shane's closest friend and boon companion. A few eyebrows had been raised two years ago when Winston and Shane had bought a broken-down old manor, Beck House, in nearby West Tanfield, remodeled it, and moved in together. But Randolph had never questioned the sexual predilections of his son or Shane. He had no need to do so. He knew them both to be the most notorious womanizers, forever chasing skirts up and down the countryside. When his wife, Geor-gina, had been alive, she had often had to comfort more than one brokenhearted young woman, who showed up at the Hall in search of Winston or Shane. Thankfully this no longer happened. He wouldn't have known how to cope with such situations. He presumed that if there were any disgruntled young ladies, they beat a track directly to Beck House. Randolph smiled inwardly. Those two were a couple of scalawags, but he did love them both very dearly.

Shane finally took leave of his horses and walked slowly back to Randolph standing at the entrance to the stalls. As always, and especially when he had not seen him for a while, Randolph was struck by Shane's unique good looks. He's a handsome son of a gun, Randolph commented silently. Blackie must have looked exactly like Shane fifty years ago.

Putting his arm around the older man's shoulder, Shane said, 'Thanks for everything, Randolph."

"Oh lad, it's my pleasure. And don't worry about the horses. They'll be well cared for, but then you should know that by now. Oh and Shane, please ask Winston to call me later."

"I will."

Randolph's eyes followed Shane O'Neill as he strode off to his car, and there was a thoughtful look on his face. There goes one unhappy young man, he muttered under his breath, shaking his head in bafflement. He has everything anybody

could ever want. Health, looks, position, great wealth. He tries to conceal it, but I'm convinced he's miserable inside. And I'm damned if I know the reason why.

Beck House, so called because a pretty little stream ran through the grounds, stood at the bottom of a small hill, at the edge of the village of West Tanfield, about halfway between Allington Hall and Pennistone Royal.

Situated in a dell, shaded at the rear by a number of huge old oaks and sycamores, the manor dated back to the late Elizabethan period. It was a charming house, low and rambling, made of local stone supposedly from Fountains Abbey, and it had a half-timbered front facade, tall chimneys, and many leaded windows.

Winston and Shane had originally bought the old manor with the intention of selling it once they had rebuilt the ruined parts, remodeled the old-fashioned kitchen and bathrooms, added garages, and cleared away the wilderness which covered the neglected grounds. However, they had devoted so much time and energy and loving care on the house, had become so attached to the manor during the renovations, they had finally decided to keep it for themselves. They were the same age, had been at Oxford together, and had been close since their salad days. They enjoyed sharing the house, which they used mainly on weekends, since they both maintained flats in the Leeds area to be near their respective offices.

Winston Harte was the only grandson of Emma's brother Winston, and her great-nephew, and he had worked for the Yorkshire Consolidated Newspaper Company since he had come down from Oxford. He did not have a specific job or a title. Emma called him her "minister without portfolio," which, translated, meant troubleshooter to most people. He was in a sense her ambassador-at-large within the company, her eyes and ears and very frequently her voice as well. His word on most things was the final word, and he answered only to Emma. Behind his' back the other executives called him "God," and Winston knew this and generally smiled to himself knowingly. He was well aware who "God" was at Consolidated. It was his Aunt Emma. She was the law, and he respected and honored her, and she had his complete devotion.

Young Winston, as he was still sometimes called in the family, had always been close to his namesake, and his grandfather had instilled in him a great sense of loyalty and duty to Emma, to whom the Hartes owed everything they had. His grandfather had worshiped her until the day he had died at the beginning of the sixties, and it was from him that Winston had learned so much about his aunt's early life, the hard times she had had, the struggles she had experienced as she had climbed the ladder to success. He knew only too well that her brilliant career had been hard won, built on tremendous sacrifices. Because he had been reared on so many fantastic and often moving stories about the now legendary Emma, Winston believed that in certain ways he understood her far better than her own children. And there was nothing he would not do for her.

Winston's grandfather had left him all of his shares in the newspaper company, while his Uncle Frank, Emma's younger brother, had left his interest to his widow, Natalie. But it was Emma, with her fifty-two percent, who controlled the company as she always had. These days, however, she ran it with Winston's help. She consulted with him on every facet of management and policy, frequently deferred to his wishes if they were sound, and constantly took his advice. They had a tranquil working relationship and a most special and loving friendship which gave them both a great deal of satisfaction and pleasure.

The newspaper company was.very actively on Winston's mind as he drove slowly into the grounds of Beck House. Even so, as preoccupied as he was, he noticed that the little beck was swollen from the heavy rains which had fallen earlier that week. He made a mental note to mention this to Shane. The banks would probably need reinforcing again; otherwise the lawns would be flooded in no time at all, as they had been the previous spring. O'Neill Construction will definitely have to come out here next week, Winston decided, as he pulled the Jaguar up to the front door, parked, took his briefcase, and alighted. He went around to the trunk of the car to get his suitcase.

Winston was slender, light in build, and about five foot nine, and it was easy to see at a glance that he was a Harte. In fact, Winston bore a strong look of Emma. He had her fine, chiseled features and her coloring, which was reflected in his russet-gold hair and vivid green eyes. He was the only member of the family, other than Paula, who had Emma's dramatic widow's peak, which, his grandfather had once told him, they had all inherited from Big Jack Harte's mother, Esther Harte.

Winston glanced up, squinting at the sky as he approached the short flight of steps leading into the house. Dark clouds had rumbled in from the east coast, and they presaged rain. There was a hint of thunder' in the air since the wind had dropped, and a sudden bolt of lightning streaked the tops of the leafy spring trees with a flash of searing white. As he inserted the key, large drops of rain splashed onto his hand. Damn, he muttered, thinking of the beck. If there's a storm, we're going to be in serious trouble.

Dimly from behind the huge cawed door, he heard the telephone ringing, but by the time he had let himself inside the house, it had stopped. Winston stared at it, fully expecting it to ring again, but when it didn't he shrugged, deposited his suitcase at the foot of the staircase, and walked rapidly through the hall. He went into his study at the back of the manor, sat down at his desk, and read the note from Shane telling him to call his father. He threw the note into the wastepaper basket and glanced vaguely at his mail—mostly bills from the village shops and a number of invitations for cocktail parties and dinners from his country neighbors. Putting these on one side, he leaned back in his chair, propped his feet on the desk, and closed his eyes, bringing all of his concentration to bear on the matter at hand.

Winston had a problem, and it gave him cause for serious reflection at this moment. Yesterday, during a meeting with Jim Fairley at the London office, he had detected a real and genuine discontent in the other man. Oddly enough, Winston discovered he was not terribly surprised. Months ago he had begun to realize that Jim loathed administration, and in the last few hours, driving back from London, he had come to the conclusion that Jim wanted to be relieved of his position as managing director. Intuitively Winston felt that Jim was floundering and was truly out of his depth. Jim was very much a working newspaperman, who loved the hurly-burly of the newsroom, the excitement of being at the center of world events, the challenge of putting out two daily papers. After Emma had promoted him a year ago, upon his engagement to Paula, Jim had continued to act as managing editor of the Yorkshire Morning Gazette and the Yorkshire Evening Standard. Essentially, by holding down the old job along with the new one, Jim was wearing two hats. Only that of the newspaperman fitted him, in Winston's opinion.

Maybe he ought to resign, Winston thought. It's better that Jim does one job brilliantly, rather than screw up on two. He snapped his eyes open, swung his legs to the floor purposefully, and pulled the chair up to the desk. He sat staring into space, thinking about Jim. He admired Fairley's extraordinary ability as a journalist, and he liked the man personally, even though he knew Jim was weak in many respects. He wanted to please everybody, and that was hardly possible. And one thing was certain: Winston had never been able to comprehend Paula's fascination with Fairley. They were as different as chalk and cheese. She was far too strong for a man like Jim, but then that relationship was none of his business really, and anyway perhaps he was prejudiced, considering the circumstances. She was a blind fool. He scowled, chastising himself for thinking badly of her, for he did care for Paula and they were good friends.

Winston now reached for the phone to ring Emma and confide his problem in her, then changed his mind at once. There was no point worrying her at the beginning of her very busy weekend of social activities which had been planned for weeks. Far better to wait until Monday morning and consult with her then.

All of a sudden he felt like kicking himself. How stupid he had been. He should have challenged Jim yesterday, asked him pointblank if he wanted to step down. And if he did, who would they appoint in his place? There was no one qualified to take on such heavy responsibilities, at least not inside the company. That was the crux of the problem, his chief concern. At the bottom of him, Winston had the most awful feeling that his aunt might lumber him with the job. He did not want it. He liked things exactly the way they were.

It so happened that Winston Harte, unlike other members of Emma's family, was not particularly ambitious. He did not crave power. He was not crippled by avarice. In fact he had more money than he knew what to do with. Grandfather Winston, with Emma's guidance, advice, and help, had acquired an immense fortune, had thus ensured that neither his widow, Charlotte, nor his offspring would ever want for anything.

Young Winston was dedicated, hardworking, and he thrived in the world of newspapers where he was in his element. But he also enjoyed living. Long ago he had made a decision, and it was one he had never veered away from: He was not going to sacrifice personal happiness and a tranquil private life for a big-business career. Treadmills were decidedly not for him. He would always work diligently at his job, for he was not a parasite, but he also wanted a wife, a family, and a gracious style of living. Like his father, Randolph, Winston was very much at ease in the role of country gentleman. The pastoral scene held a special appeal for him, gave him a sense of renewal. His weekends away from the city were precious and recharged his batteries. He found horse riding, point-to-point meetings, village cricket, antiquing, and pottering around in the grounds of Beck House therapeutic and immensely satisfying. In short Winston Harte preferred a quiet, leisurely existence and he was determined to have it. Battles in boardrooms made him irritable, and he found them endlessly boring. That was why Paula continued to surprise him. And it was becoming increasingly apparent to Winston that she was indeed cast in the same mold as her grandmother. Both women relished corporate skirmishing. It seemed to him that business, power, and winning hands down over a business ' adversary were narcotics to them. When Emma had wanted-him to be Paula's backup in negotiations with Aire, he had swiftly demurred and suggested that she send Paula in alone. His aunt had readily agreed, to his considerable relief.

Oh what the hell, he thought, becoming impatient with himself. I'm not going to spend the entire weekend worrying about Jim Fairley's intentions. I'll thrash it out with him next week, once the plans for taking over Aire Communications have been put into operation. Pushing business matters to the back of his mind, he rang his father at Allington Hall and chatted with him for a good twenty minutes. He then dialed Allison Ridley, his current girlfriend.,He felt a rush of warmth when he heard her voice, and she sounded equally pleased to hear his. He confirmed that he and Shane would be at her dinner party the following evening, made plans with her for Sunday, and finally dashed upstairs to change.

Ten minutes later, wearing comfortable corduroys, a heavy wool sweater, Wellington boots, and an old raincoat, Winston meandered through the dining room and out onto the flagged terrace.overlooking the fish pond. The sky had brightened after the brief shower. The trees and shrubs and lawns appeared to shimmer with dewy greenness in the lovely late afternoon light which brought a soft incandescent glow to the fading blue of the sky. The scent of rain and damp grass and wet earth and growing things pervaded the air, and it was a smell Winston loved. He stood on the terrace for a moment, inhaling and exhaling, relaxing and shedding the rest of his business worries; then he ran lightly down the steps into the gardens. He hurried in the direction of the beck, wanting to satisfy himself that the condition of the banks had not deteriorated after the recent shower.