Snowfire. Anne Mather
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his collar tipped against the weather. He was a fairly tall man, solidly, though not stockily built, with fairish hair and skin that was browner that it should have been in this chilly part of the world.
The landlord emerged from the inn as he was walking past, and the two exchanged the time of day. It was a brief encounter, not least because Tom Drake was in his shirt-sleeves, and Olivia guessed the state of the weather had been mentioned. But, as the man lifted a hand to rake back his sandy hair before continuing on his way, she was struck by his resemblance to Conor Brennan. It was a fleeting glimpse, of course, and she guessed there must be dozens of men around who might be said to resemble the youth she remembered. Even so, it was an amazing coincidence, coming as it had on the heels of the thoughts she had had earlier.
Which was probably why she had imagined the resemblance, she conceded to herself now, as Mrs Drake returned with her toast and coffee. She was tempted to ask the woman who Mr Drake had been speaking to, but to do that would invite exactly the kind of questions she was hoping to avoid. It would mean admitting some connection with the village, for why else would she be interested in one of its inhabitants unless there was some reason why she might know him?
In any case, she didn’t know the man. It had just been a momentary aberration. If Conor had come back to this country for any reason, surely he would at least have tried to get in touch with her? He might not have her address, but he still knew where she worked.
Her appetite had been negligible since the accident, and this morning was no exception. But the pot of coffee was very welcome, and she managed to swallow half a slice of toast. Then, leaving the warm fire that was burning in the dining-room, she went back up to her room. She had decided to go for a walk. So long as she wrapped up warmly, she would enjoy the exercise.
But today she didn’t walk around the harbour and out on to the breakwater as she usually did. Nor did she venture across the salt marshes, which, even in winter, provided a veritable haven for birds. Instead, she decided to test her leg by walking inland, up Paget’s cobbled streets to where houses clustered on the hillside. It was further than she had ventured before, but it was time she took a look at her grandmother’s old cottage, she told herself. She refused to admit what her real intentions were. But anyway, what was wrong with being curious about who was living in the Brennans’ house these days? she argued. It was years since it had been sold to pay for Conor’s education.
Her thigh was aching by the time she reached Gull Rise. And the irregular row of Victorian dwellings looked much the same as she remembered them. They were mostly cottages—some terraced, like her grandmother’s, and others independently spaced. The house the Brennans used to occupy was bigger than the rest, but Olivia remembered Sally saying they had got it fairly cheaply, because it had needed so much doing to it. The young couple had spent their first few years at Gull Rise renovating the place, and by the time Conor was in his teens it was a home to be proud of.
It still was, Olivia saw poignantly, her eyes flickering over her old home and settling on the house next door. She felt an unfamiliar ache in her throat. Someone had cared enough about it to keep the exterior bright and shining, she noticed. The woodwork was newly painted, and the drive was clear of weeds.
She halted a few yards from the house, on the opposite side of the road. With the collar of her cashmere coat pulled high about her ears, and her gloved hand shielding her face, she didn’t think anyone would recognise her. Besides, most of her grandmother’s old neighbours had either died or moved away, and the gauntness of her own features would deceive any but her closest friends.
There was a car parked in the drive, she saw—a small Peugeot, with current licence plates. And, even as she watched, a young woman came out of the house and unlocked the car, before pausing, as if someone had attracted her attention. Her blonde head tipped expectantly towards the door of the house, which she had left ajar, and, leaving her keys in the car, she sauntered back.
Her actions spurred Olivia to life. For heaven’s sake, she chivvied herself irritably, was she reduced to spying on other people for entertainment? The house was lived in, and evidently by someone who cared. She had satisfied her curiosity, and that was all she needed to know.
But, as she turned away, a man appeared in the doorway across the street. A tall man, with light hair, wearing a black leather jacket. Seen face on, his resemblance to Conor was even more striking, and with a sense of alarm she realised it was him.
But, it couldn’t be, her brain insisted, refusing to accept the evidence of her eyes. Conor didn’t live in England, he lived in America. There was no way he could have bought this house and settled down here. It was too much of a coincidence. Too incredible to be true.
And yet she lingered, aware that her injured leg was cramping beneath her. Dear God, how was she going to find the strength to walk back to the harbour? she fretted. If she didn’t move soon, she was going to collapse on the spot.
But the truth was that the sense of panic she was feeling was as much psychological as physical. Whoever the man was—and the young woman was kissing him now, running a possessive hand down his cheek, and saying something that brought a grin to his lean face—he wouldn’t appreciate the thought that she had been prying into his affairs. If it was Conor, he evidently had no need of her assistance.
But it hurt that he should come back to England without even letting her know. She had been his surrogate aunt, for heaven’s sake. His parents had been her close friends. And she had known Conor since he was two years old! That should have meant something to the boy he had been.
Of course, he wasn’t a boy any more, she acknowledged ruefully. He was a man, and an extremely attractive one at that. Even from a distance, she could see he looked bigger and stronger than his father had ever been. And the young woman, with her silky blonde hair and long, unscarred legs, evidently thought so, too.
Olivia’s lips tightened. Who was she? Who were they? If it was Conor, was this his wife? And why should it mean so much to her? He obviously didn’t desire her approval.
Sucking in her breath as a sharp, stabbing pain shot up her thigh, she made a determined effort to extinguish her curiosity. It was nothing to do with her, she told herself grimly, endeavouring to put one foot in front of the other. She could look in the phone book when she got back to the inn. In fact, she wished she had just done that in the first place. Then she could have made up her mind to ring, or not to ring, without any knowledge of his status.
Tears sprang to her eyes as the wind swept a sudden gust of sleet into her face. Oh, great, she thought bitterly, as the frozen flakes stung her cheeks. This was all she needed: soaking to the skin!
Afterwards, she was never sure how it happened—whether her leg had simply given out on her, or her foot had slipped on a thread of ice. But, whatever the cause, she found herself falling, hitting the pavement heavily, and scraping her gloved palms.
It was so humiliating. She had never considered herself a particularly graceful creature, but she had never been as clumsy as she was now. Landing on her bottom, she felt a jarring sensation all up her spine, but she knew she should be grateful she hadn’t fallen on her leg.
Blinking back the hot tears that never seemed far away these days, she was making an ungainly effort to get to her feet when strong hands gripped her arms. ‘Steady,’ said a husky male voice, holding her where she was without much effort. ‘Take it easy, ma’am. You’ve had quite a shock.’
HE WAS beside her, not yet able to see her face, and Olivia wished the ground would just open up and swallow her. If she had had any doubts about his identity before, the soft southern drawl had dispelled them. There couldn’t be another man who looked like Conor in Paget, not with the same transatlantic accent.
’I’m—fine,’ she muttered shortly, shaking off his hands, and keeping her face averted. She was aware that the other woman had come to join them. She had heard the hurried tap of her heels, with the impatient, ‘Is she all right?’ enquiry, which put Olivia squarely into the category of