Fiona Hall had long since come to terms with her marriage.

When her husband demanded his conjugal rights, she made a mental note to polish the brass door knocker and reviewed the contents of the larder between gentle moans of simulated ecstasy.

Her life was comfortable, ordered and depressingly predictable until Fiona paid her fortnightly visit to the hairdresser for a tasteful renewal of her blonde hair.

She found it unsettling, not to say disturbing, to realise she had fallen in love at the ripe old age of thirty something and what was more, not with an obvious candidate like poor Henry - always seeking advice and help over domestic matters since Catherine died - but with an advertisement.

A full-page advertisement on the back of a magazine laid on her lap to cheer the hour of suspended animation under the hair-dryer. What began as a casual glance became a prolonged study until Fiona knew every inch, every nuance by heart.

There he stood, his face half hidden by the hood of a new type of sportswear, a study in muted green. A leash of hounds were held in check, a hooded hawk perched on a gloved fist, man the hunter, primitive, strong, mysterious.

The soft focus background suggested a land of moor and mountain; the whole romantic image recalling juvenile fantasies about Robin Hood, Young Lochinvar, every Tall, Dark and Handsome Hero striding out of a misty glen to claim his bride.

Looking at that shadowy face Fiona felt again the flutter in the stomach, the sudden uplift of spirit, the sharpened awareness of everything and everyone about her that recalled days she had supposed gone forever.

Released at last from enveloping pink gown and constricting rollers, Fiona admired her freshly coiffered head, paid her dues and glanced at her watch.

She had just time to dash into the newsagents to secure a copy of the magazine for herself in order to feed her infatuation with surreptitious glances while appearing to be only a wife, mother and part-time secretary to Henry, the local estate agent.

There must have been a living male model under the waxed fabric. Fiona tried to suffocate her obsession by reminding herself the poor mans remote stare might be due to short sight, a concealed milk-crate provided extra height, the hawk was stuffed and the dogs superimposed on the print, but it was no use.

A tall, dark and mysterious man had come into her life and Fiona had not the slightest idea what to do next. She only knew that she was enjoying herself, the first time for years.

So much so, the brass door knocker shone like a shaft of sunlight clear across the street and Richard, his middle-aged spread filling his designer jeans a little too adequately for comfort, went off to lecture his students wondering what had got into the old girl.

Suppose the photograph to be of a man going about his normal occupation, then he must be a falconer and it would be wise to drop in at the Library and do basic research on falconry and birds of prey in case she ever met Falcon, yes, his name was Falcon, she met Falcon then she would know what he was talking about.

Look at Richard, computers morning, night and every weekend. The quickest way to a mans heart was through his obsession.

Tamara and Tequila confronted maternal conversation on the subject of jesses and bow-porches with blank disinterest and remained in the car when Fiona organised a family outing to a Falconry Centre.

There was no handsome young man to be seen, only a cheerful girl demonstrating the ancient art of falconry with the slightly anxious air of a primary school teacher uncertain of her pupils behaviour in front of strangers.

On the Monday, Fiona found a letter on her desk when she unlocked the estate agency office.

Dear FeeFee, wrote Henry, her employer and friend of many years Aunt Sarah died on Friday so I must fly to Scotland to look after Drumsound. I trust Richard will forgive us both if I suggest you are more than capable of running the place in my absence and a red blush of Sold notices will shortly brighten the neighbourhood.

Henrys absence lengthened from days to weeks until it was tacitly agreed Fiona was managing the now flourishing business and employing not one, but two departmental assistants.

Dear FeeFee. Congratulations on last months figures. You really earned your commission. This is a lovely if remote part of the world but the locals seem to march in slow time. It takes aeons to get anything done and I feel I must put Drumsound in good order before I decide whats best to do.

Spring turned to summer until holiday time approached inexorably.

Dear FeeFee. I have decided to retire and farm Drumsound. Mr. Wilson will be writing to you regarding a well-deserved partnership in the business. Meantime, why do not you, Richard and the children, spend at least part of your holiday here? I have eight bedrooms after all.

Henrys letter continued: I have met my neighbour, a fascinating young man who lives in a half-ruined, or half-restored, am not sure which, castle on an island in the loch. He was hunting for the pot as he said, on Drumsound Hill. He certainly had dogs with him but he did not, as far as I could see, carry a gun. So how he killed the brace of grouse he left on my doorstep, I do not know!

Dear Henry replied Fiona. Richard and I have arranged a sailing holiday with the girls, all very Howards Way! If only we had known of your kind invitation before we booked accommodation...

Fiona would not confess, even to herself, that she had a new interest. Her favourite magazine had a back-page advertisement for sailing gear.

There he stood, blond hair and beard wind-disordered, eyes blue as any Vikings fixed on invisible sails. Sunburnt hands steadied a ships wheel, legs and back braced against the surge and roll of turbulent seas.

Fiona paused to give a final polish to the brass door knocker with her handkerchief before locking the door and joining the family already packed in the car.

The Skipper, yes, her magazine lover would be called The Skipper, he would certainly insist on a high standard of brass polishing. Whatever else she had to learn of seafaring craft, Fiona knew her brights would outshine the rest of the class.

Westward Ho, my hearties! she said, doing up her seat belt, then in sudden panic, Did I remember to pack that magazine of mine?

Doesnt matter if you did forget. Richard eased out into early-morning traffic. You can always buy another one. I never know what you see in them, myself.

Fiona smiled, the smile of a successful businesswoman about to enjoy the holiday of a lifetime.

There were some things too precious for words.