Welcome to a Regency Christmas…

…in these two festive short stories!

Captain Treeve Penhaligon must return to Cornwall when he inherits his family’s grand estate. But could his meeting with Emily Faulkner on the wild beaches be even more life changing? Find out in Marguerite Kaye’s The Captain’s Christmas Proposal. Then, discover what happens when Treeve invites composer Cador Kitto to complete the celebrations, and Cade clashes with local girl Rosenwyn Treleven in Unwrapping His Festive Temptation by Bronwyn Scott…

Praise for the authors of

Invitation to a Cornish Christmas

MARGUERITE KAYE

‘Kaye is clearly a superb storyteller and a careful craftsman.’

—All About Romance on

A Scandalous Winter Wedding

BRONWYN SCOTT

‘She is one of those authors… It doesn’t matter what the book is about, if you see her name you have to buy it!’

—Goodreads on Compromised by the Prince’s Touch

MARGUERITE KAYE writes hot historical romances from her home in cold and usually rainy Scotland, featuring Regency rakes, Highlanders and sheikhs. She has published over forty books and novellas. When she’s not writing she enjoys walking, cycling—but only on the level—gardening—but only what she can eat—and cooking. She also likes to knit and occasionally drink Martinis…though not at the same time. Find out more on her website: margueritekaye.com.

BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and the proud mother of three wonderful children—one boy and two girls. When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog, bronwynswriting.blogspot.com. She loves to hear from readers.

Invitation to a Cornish Christmas

The Captain’s Christmas Proposal

Marguerite Kaye

Unwrapping His Festive Temptation

Bronwyn Scott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08940-1

INVITATION TO A CORNISH CHRISTMAS

The Captain’s Christmas Proposal © 2019 Marguerite Kaye Unwrapping His Festive Temptation © 2019 Nikki Poppen

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Authors

Praise

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

The Captain’s Christmas Proposal

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Unwrapping His Festive Temptation

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Extract

About the Publisher

The Captains Christmas Proposal

Marguerite Kaye

Chapter One
November 1822—Porth Karrek, Cornwall

It was still dark when Emily Faulkner left her rented cottage on the estates of Karrek House, which sat on a bluff headland above the small fishing port after which it was named, the high cliffs and narrow entrance providing a safe harbour from the rough Cornish seas. Last night’s sky had offered the prospect of a brief respite from the winter storms which had been raging interminably, and she was eager to take advantage of any break in the weather. She hated these bleak winter days which kept her indoors and restricted her ability to work, since the intricate nature of the tasks involved in producing her only source of income required natural light.

The permanently lowering skies which had so far defined November were one of the many aspects of life in Cornwall she hadn’t anticipated when she’d fled here, back in April. Yet Porth Karrek was an ideal bolthole. Snuggled into a small inlet on the rugged south Cornwall coast, about four miles from the larger port of Penzance and a day’s travel from Truro, the regional capital, it was a world away from London. The perfect place to disappear from view, which was what she had craved.

Her cottage stood on the periphery of the estate, in an exposed position, the low drystone wall which formed the boundary of her tiny garden providing little protection from the elements. The briny prevailing wind which blew in from the English Channel made gardening a challenge, just as Jago Bligh, the surly estate manager, had predicted. The cottage itself was almost impossible to keep warm, as the wind howled through every nook and cranny of the floorboards and window frames—something else Mr Bligh had pointed out when she had first viewed it. Emily had thought it odd at the time that he seemed so intent on discouraging her from taking up residence when it was obvious that the place had been lying empty for some time, but she reckoned now that her crime had simply been her lack of Cornish heritage. Like the proud Highlanders of her mother’s native Lewis, the Cornish considered themselves a nation apart, isolated from the rest of Britain, with their own traditions and way of life—which, needless to say, they considered vastly superior to any other.

Emily, Mr Bligh had made clear, would be a grudgingly tolerated outsider, and once again he’d been proved right, but this too had suited her. Back in April, with her life in tatters, she had been happy to close the door of her cottage, turn her back on the world and lick her wounds. Weeks passed, and she had been barely conscious of life outside, spending the days at her workbench or tending her sparse garden, cursing the day she had met Andrew Macfarlane, and reliving every moment since she had, wondering if at any point she could have avoided her fate. If she hadn’t been so blinded by her feelings for him, might she have spotted the signs before it was too late? A painful and ultimately pointless waste of time those weeks of recrimination had been, for she couldn’t undo the past. All she could do was wipe the slate clean and start again.

Spring had passed, and summer had been making an early appearance in June when Emily had begun to emerge from the dark cloud she had been under since her world had collapsed around her at the start of the year. She had awoken just after dawn one morning to vibrant blue skies. In the garden, the earth had been warm beneath her bare feet, the rows of vegetables, which had appeared on the point of dying, had blossomed, seemingly overnight. The air had been heavy with the tang of salt, and when she had made her way down to Karrek Sands, the sea was turquoise, sparkling, the waves gentle, the rhythmic swish as they broke on the beach no longer a warning but an invitation.

She hadn’t intended to swim, but she’d been unable to resist, wary at first of the undertow, the unfamiliar currents and her own neglected muscles. But the skills honed by years of swimming in the wild seas off Lewis had not deserted her. The familiar sensation of being cocooned in water soothed her. Pitting herself against the tow and pull of the waves invigorated her, cleared her mind and made her look anew at her life, forcing her to admit that she had been living under a cloud of fear for most of last year. Now the worst had happened and she had nothing more to lose, she need no longer be afraid.

She took to the sea every day after that, in the early mornings when Karrek Sands were deserted, unaware that she had an audience until the two fascinated local children plucked up the courage to speak to her, so utterly strange it was to them, to see anyone swimming. Teaching them to swim, watching their initial fear turning to sheer joy as they grew in confidence had been a real pleasure, a balm to the raw pain caused by the humiliating and devastating nature of Andrew’s revelations, if a bittersweet one. She missed their company at summer’s end, when they returned to school.

Now, more than half a year after arriving in Cornwall, Emily had come to love her wild, rugged adopted home. She was mentally scarred but her heart was no longer bleeding. She had struck up no friendships with the villagers, but the hostility and suspicion which had greeted her arrival in Porth Karrek had given way to bland indifference. Emily was lonely but content.

The November storms forced her to settle for a paddle in the shallows, which was what she intended to do today. The narrow strip of her front garden led on to the main path which wound its way up to the gates of Karrek House—though it would be more accurate to say gate posts, for the gates themselves were long gone, only the vacant gatekeeper’s cottage an indication that they had once functioned. From here the path forked. The broader path led through the estate cottages to St Piran’s Church, which stood guard at the top of steep Budoc Lane, the hub of Porth Karrek village, leading down to the harbour. But it was the lesser-used path Emily took, which cut across the grassy headland to a point above the beach.

Grey dawn had given way to a fair morning. There were hints of pale blue sky peeking through the clouds, though how long it would last was another matter. The wind buffeted her skirts, sending her cloak flying out behind her as she hurried along, enjoying the salty breeze on her face, even though it made her eyes stream. Breathless but exhilarated, she arrived at the clifftop where the path narrowed significantly, cut like a staircase into the cliffs. Intent on keeping her footing, she didn’t notice the solitary figure until she had reached the sands.

She felt an illogical spasm of resentment. Who was trespassing on her private domain? The man was standing at the water’s edge with his back to her, and she knew even from this distance that he was a stranger. Yet there was something in his confident stance, feet planted firmly in the sands, shoulders set, back straight, that gave her the strong impression that he belonged here.

He appeared to be staring out at the outcrop of rocks known as The Beasts, the serrated tips of which were visible at low tide. For the rest of the time, The Beasts lurked just below the surface, waiting to trap the unwary sailor headed for the sanctuary of Porth Karrek harbour—or, if you listened to Jago Bligh, de facto harbourmaster, to ensure that only a native Porth Karrek boat might tie up there.

The male figure was standing stock-still, as yet unaware of her presence. She could not ignore him. She could either abandon her paddle, take a chance on the weather holding and return later, or she could walk down to the water’s edge, bid him good morning, then leave him to his own devices. Shielding her eyes to gaze out at the horizon, Emily could see the first signs of clouds gathering. It wasn’t worth holding off and the tide, in any case, would be against her later. If she stood here prevaricating for much longer, he would eventually spot her and assume she’d been spying on him.

For goodness sake, she had as much right to be here as he did! Perching on a rock, Emily took off her boots and unrolled her stockings. The sand was firm and damp. She set her bare feet down, closing her eyes in bliss at the feel of the soft, golden grains oozing between her toes. Tucking her stockings into her boots and placing them behind a rock, she made her way down the sands towards the lone figure. The waves were lapping just short of the tips of his brogues, though the sea was creeping ever closer now that the tide was on the turn.

He must have sensed her presence rather than heard her approach, muffled by the roar of the surf further out, for he turned around while she was still a few steps from him. He was dressed in a wide-skirted brown coat, buckskin breeches and thick woollen stockings. It was rough country garb, though not coarsely made, for his coat fitted perfectly across his shoulders, and he wore underneath it not only a white linen shirt and neckcloth but a waistcoat of fine wool. Country garb, made by a city tailor, and certainly not purchased from the Chegwins’ store by the harbour. His skin was deeply tanned, with a fretwork of lines at the corners of his eyes as if he spent part of every day squinting at the horizon. His blue-black hair, slightly too long for current fashion, was tousled by the wind. The stubble, which was not quite a beard, not quite simply a matter of him having forgotten to shave, was the same coal-black colour.

His smile dawned slowly as she approached, the nascent beard accentuating the fullness of his bottom lip, the whiteness of his teeth, and Emily’s insides responded in a positive lurch of attraction. He was not handsome, he was far too striking to be considered handsome, too unkempt—no, not unkempt, and not wild but—untamed, that was it.

‘Good morning.’ His voice was low but cultured, with no trace of the lilting Cornish accent.

‘Good morning.’ His eyes were hazel. He really did have a most beguiling smile. Emily smiled back. ‘It’s a lovely fresh day, isn’t it?’

The man nodded at the massing bank of cloud on the horizon. ‘For the moment. Allow me to introduce myself. Captain Treeve Penhaligon.’

‘And I am Miss Faulkner, Emily Faulkner. How do you do, Captain—’ She broke off, her eyes widening. ‘Captain Penhaligon! The late Mr Austol Penhaligon’s brother? I never met him,’ she added when he nodded, ‘for I came to Porth Karrek in April, three months after he was lost at sea, but I know he was both respected and very much loved around here. Please accept my condolences for your loss.’

‘Thank you, I appreciate it, though in truth we were not close,’ Captain Penhaligon said awkwardly. ‘I have been travelling the high seas for nigh on twenty years and Austol was sure if he breathed anything other than Cornish air, he’d be poisoned, so our paths rarely crossed. To be perfectly honest, the officers and men of my ship are more family to me than a brother I barely knew as an adult. Still, it seemed very strange to me, arriving last night, not to find him in residence.’

‘That must have been very difficult for you.’

‘Of all the fates I’ve ever considered for myself, inheriting the Karrek estates wasn’t one. If one of us was going to die prematurely, you’d have thought it would be me, captain of a warship, not a country landowner. I’m not sure what to make of the situation I find myself in now, and I’m sure the villagers are equally apprehensive.’

An understatement, Emily thought, though did not say. From what she could gather, the majority had hoped that Captain Penhaligon would never return to claim his inheritance, happy to continue under Jago Bligh’s familiar stewardship. ‘You’re an unknown quantity, and people in these parts don’t welcome change,’ she equivocated. ‘I’ll leave you to your musings.’

‘Please don’t. I have leave of absence until the end of the year, and plenty of time to muse. Right now, I’m happy to be distracted, and, if you have no objection, I’d very much like to accompany you on your walk.’ Captain Penhaligon glanced down at her bare feet, smiling quizzically. ‘Or should that be paddle? Unless you have that rare talent, the ability to walk on water?’

Emily was surprised into a little huff of laughter. ‘When it comes to water, I much prefer to swim.’

‘I hope you weren’t planning to swim today? At this time of year, the tides and currents are too strong. It’s dangerous.’

‘You needn’t worry, I’m a very strong swimmer and I was raised to respect the sea in all its moods.’

‘Round here, people respect the sea by staying out of it.’

‘Round here, people believe that if you learn to swim your ship will sink.’

‘An old wives’ tale, adopted by mariners the world over.’

‘It’s true,’ Emily said. ‘I was born on the Isle of Lewis, in the Outer Hebrides, where the sands are every bit as golden, the surf just as high and the sea itself, not only every bit as wild and beautiful, but even colder than here. Lewis is very like Cornwall, where the people rely on fishing for a living, yet none of the fishermen will learn to swim for fear it will tempt the sea to take them for her own.’

‘You don’t share that particular superstition, then?’

‘My grandmother taught me to swim. She was an extremely practical woman, who believed you make your own luck.’

‘And you take after her?’

‘I do think you make your own luck, both good and bad.’

Captain Penhaligon raised a brow. ‘Now that sounds like the voice of experience talking.’

How little he knew! But Emily did not want to taint this surprisingly enjoyable conversation with her sordid past. ‘If I am ever unfortunate enough to fall overboard, I shan’t be trusting to luck to throw a helpful wave my way and cast me safely on the shore. Can you swim?’

‘I confess I can’t, though you’ve made see that I should learn,’ he answered, looking somewhat shamefaced. ‘Perhaps you will teach me?’

‘Not in these winter seas. If you were staying until the summer, it would be another matter entirely. You could join my little class of two pupils.’

‘You teach swimming! Here! Who are these rebels?’

‘They are the niece and nephew of your estate manager, as a matter of fact, Kensa and Jack Bligh. They spied on me for days before they plucked up the courage to speak to me, and it took me a week before I could persuade them into the water.’

‘And what did their parents have to say?’

‘They were afraid they’d be told to stay away, so it remained our little secret. The two of them were like seal pups by the end of the summer, diving in and out of the waves, though of course the weather is far too rough for them now—and they are back at school.’

‘You sound as if you miss them.’

‘Oh, I do. They thought I was a mermaid, when they first saw me.’

‘Oh, no, you are far too lovely to be a mermaid. They are ugly creatures, more fish than female, with seaweed for hair and scales all over their bodies.’

Lovely? He meant in comparison to a fish, Emily told herself sternly! ‘Are you telling me you’ve seen one? Had you been at the ship’s rum ration?’

‘No, and no—I never drink on board, but I’ve heard enough tales from my men to believe there’s something in it—as there is with all superstitions, I reckon. There’s a place on the other side of Penzance known as Mermaid’s Rock, where they are said to comb their hair, and sing a siren song to lure sailors to their doom.’

‘In Lewis, it is not mermaids but selkies the sailors fear will lure them on to the rocks. Selkies are seals who can take the shape of a beautiful woman on land, and who are said to have certain appetites, according to my grandmother,’ Emily said. ‘I remember wondering what on earth she was talking about. I thought perhaps they liked porridge.’

Captain Penhaligon gave a bellow of laughter. ‘She was not, then, quite lacking in superstition?’

‘Oh, selkies are no myth. Ask any Lewisman or woman.’

‘A seal who can take the shape of a beautiful woman,’ Captain Penhaligon mused. ‘I wonder if that’s what your pupils saw, a selkie looking to beguile a sailor?’

Emily chuckled. ‘You will never know, their victims never do know, until it’s too late.’

‘I’m a sailor. Are you warning me off, Miss Faulkner? You don’t look the siren type.’

‘Ah, but that’s why I’m so dangerous.’

‘You are certainly intriguing. I am very glad that I decided to take a walk this morning. Not that we’ve done much walking yet. Or even paddling.’

Emily looked at the incoming tide in surprise. ‘We must have been standing here for at least half an hour.’

‘A very pleasant half-hour, as far as I am concerned, though perhaps I’ve intruded on your privacy too long?’

‘When I saw you standing here this morning, I’ll admit I was irked,’ Emily confessed. ‘I consider Karrek Sands my own personal beach, I’ll have you know. But now—I am enjoying our conversation, Captain Penhaligon.’

‘Will you call me Treeve?’

‘If you will call me Emily.’ There was a warmth in his smile that she could not resist. It seemed to her that fate had brought him to the beach, the perfect antidote to her loneliness for he was, in some ways, as much a stranger here as she. A very appealing stranger, who for whatever reason, seemed to find her appealing too. And whether that made her shallow or not she didn’t care! It was a salve to her ravaged sense of self-worth. What harm could there be in enjoying the moment!

A wavelet, bolder than the rest, washed over Treeve’s brogues, and she burst out laughing. ‘If we are actually going to do any walking today, you’ll need to take those shoes off or they’ll get ruined.’

‘And here was me thinking that you were going to teach me to walk on water too.’ Treeve knelt down, divesting himself quickly of his brogues and stockings. ‘There, now we can both enjoy the bite of the sea on our toes. Shall we?’

Chapter Two

The wind blew Miss Emily Faulkner’s cloak and skirts around her legs, revealing tantalising glimpses of her slim ankles, her shapely calves. Her face was tanned. From the long hours she had spent in the Cornish sunshine this summer past, Treeve presumed, swimming here in the cove. He’d give a good deal to have watched her. Miss Emily Faulkner was one of the most attractive women he had ever met. Though it had never happened to him before, it would be no exaggeration to say that he was, in fact, well and truly smitten.

She was not in the first bloom of youth—thirty or so, would be his guess—for though she looked no more than five or six and twenty, her expression had none of the openness of a younger woman, and all the guardedness of one having lived long enough to have secrets to protect. Her hair was the colour of wet sand, dark blonde streaked with gold, and her eyes were the colour of a stormy ocean, grey-blue fringed with long dark lashes. Perhaps she was a sea nymph after all! Her nose was too strong to belong to an accredited beauty, her mouth too generous. Intelligence blazed in her eyes, something that many a man would find intimidating. He thought it merely added to her charm.

‘What brings a Highland lass all the way to Cornwall?’ he asked.

‘I am renting that cottage up there, the one on the furthest point of the headland, which I suppose makes you my landlord.’

‘Forgive me, I’m a rough sailor accustomed to speaking my mind, but frankly you neither look nor sound like a woman obliged to fend for herself.’

‘Necessity, as they say, is the mother of invention. I do very well for myself, thank you. And while I know next to nothing about the Royal Navy, I am pretty sure they expect their officers to be gentlemen, not rough sailors.’

‘Oh, I can play the gentleman if required, and the rough sailor too, if the situation demands it. Tell me, is the cottage in good order? If there is anything that can be done to improve it?’

She cast him a levelling look. ‘It suits me very well, and if there was anything needing done, I am sure Mr Bligh, your estate manager, would attend to it.’

‘I was merely thinking of your comfort.’

‘Thank you, but it’s more about how it would look. I’ve already stolen a march on all of Porth Karrek in meeting you this morning. Imagine the reaction if one of your first acts of generosity was towards an outsider like me.’

‘You’re right, it was naïve of me.’

Emily shook her head, smiling faintly. ‘A lovely gesture nonetheless.’

The wind ruffled her hair, dragging thick tendrils free of her ribbon and whipping it around her face. He had been apprehensive about returning to his birthplace, even temporarily, but the prospect of spending the next few weeks in Cornwall suddenly seemed a lot more appealing. A lot more, Treeve thought, as she stooped to pick up an empty crab shell, and the wind tugged at her skirts, outlining her very shapely bottom.

‘We used to boil these up in buckets of salt water on the beach,’ Emily said, happily oblivious. ‘The claw meat in particular is so sweet. The fishermen throw them back into the water in Lewis though, no one wants to buy them.’

‘It’s the same here. I must admit, I’ve never tasted crabmeat.’

‘Oh, you should.’ She cast the shell into the waves. ‘There’s nothing like it.’

‘You have not the accent of a Highland woman,’ he said, as they continued on.

‘That’s because I’m not really a Highland lass. I was born on Lewis, as was my mother, but my father was a Londoner and that’s where we made our home. We visited my grandparents every summer, Mama and I, and when she died—I was only fifteen—I became even closer to them. I lost them both ten years ago.’

‘That must have been difficult for you.’

‘They were elderly—my mother was a late child—and they died as they’d have wished, in their own beds, only a few months apart.’ Her voice wavered. ‘I’ve never been back. Far too many ghosts.’ She paused for a moment, her throat working, then gave a tiny shake of her head, as if to clear it of unpleasant thoughts.

Her words struck a chord. ‘When they served dinner last night, I almost told the housekeeper we’d better wait for Austol. I feel like I’m trespassing. If I could have stayed away—ah, but then I’d never have met you, and that would have been a great pity.’

She glanced at him, coloured faintly, then looked away. ‘I was fortunate to be spared the difficult task you face. My grandparents’ estate was inherited by a rather distant cousin from my grandfather’s side—though in actual fact I think he is now my nearest relative, since my father died. Mama was an only child, you see, as am I. It is the way of things up there, for lands to be passed down the male line. Besides, John-Angus had long acted as my grandfather’s estate manager—as Mr Bligh does for you. And I know nothing about farming.’

‘I pictured you holidaying in a small, whitewashed Highland croft,’ Treeve said. ‘I take it I was mistaken?’

‘There were certainly a number of crofts on the lands. It was—is—a substantial estate. John-Angus will keep them it in good heart. And he has three sons. A good strong line to continue,’ she said wistfully. ‘My grandmother was an only child too. I think—I know, for Grandmama told me—that my grandfather brought John-Angus in as a sort of insurance policy. And he was wise to do so.’

‘I understand that is how things are done, but it seems very arbitrary, to take no account of the possibility of your having a son. Ah, forgive me,’ Treeve said, aghast at his own thoughtlessness, seeing Emily’s stricken face. ‘I meant only that you were so young when they died—not that I mean to imply that you are too old now, but I—’ He broke off, cursing. ‘I’m so very sorry. As I said, I’m a rough sailor, but I should not have spoken out of turn.’

She shook her head, turning away from him, though not before he saw a sheen of tears in her eyes. ‘I will never have a son,’ she said flatly.

Was she set on spinsterhood? Or had she been badly hurt? Both questions were intriguing and impossible to ask. ‘I apologise unreservedly,’ Treeve said, ‘for commenting on such a very personal matter, especially since we’ve just met. You don’t know me well—or at all,’ he added, with an embarrassed laugh. ‘I’m not usually so forthright. It’s partly the awkward position I find myself in, I expect—a position I never sought. I know I’m an outsider here in Porth Karrek, an unknown quantity at best. I’m in uncharted waters, and that’s not something that sits well with me, after all these years in the navy, knowing precisely where my duty lay. I’m rambling on now, which is something else I never do. But it’s not only the situation, it’s you. I must confess I am very drawn to you, I feel there is an affinity between us. Have I got it completely wrong? If I have, tell me to go to the devil, I beg you.’

Emily frowned down at the sands, digging her toes in. He waited on tenterhooks for some long, painful moments. Seven waves’ worth of waiting. Finally, she looked up, meeting his eyes, smiling faintly. ‘I don’t intend to tell you to go to the devil.’

‘Thank you.’ He followed her lead, walking on, forcing himself to remain silent for fear of saying anything that would make her reconsider. Who was she, this obviously beloved granddaughter and only grandchild, who had inherited nothing? She did not have the look of a woman who had spent the last ten years living in poverty. Her well-made clothes had the kind of quiet elegance that spoke of excellent cloth, and though they were not in the first style of fashion, nor were they dated. Her figure was slim, but in a lithe way, and her skin had none of the unhealthy pallor which he’d seen in many a new recruit starved in the city of both sunshine and sustenance. Why had she avoided marriage? He could not believe it was for want of any offers. There could be any number of reasons—he’d avoided marriage himself, hadn’t he? Better to not risk asking for fear of upsetting her again.

Their hands brushed as they walked, and each time it happened, Emily felt her fingers tingle, as if they were asking to be clasped, she thought fancifully to herself. Though Treeve’s words had startled her, in a way they’d been a relief, for she’d felt it too, the instant attraction between them. They did not know one another at all, but she felt that they should, as if they were meant to.

It was decidedly not at all like her to be so fanciful. She had been on her own too long, not only here in Cornwall but before. For months before she had finally confronted Andrew, she had been lonely, a self-imposed isolation, unable to confide her doubts and fears to anyone. Not that there had been anyone, for Jessie, who had known her since she was a bairn, and had been Mama’s maid before she was ever Emily’s, had finally been persuaded to retire. As for Beth, she wouldn’t have dreamed of polluting her happiness, even if her oldest and closest friend had been close by, rather than in distant Yorkshire with her beloved curate.

So the fates had been kind to her, to provide her with a confidante. Not that she would ever dream of confiding in him exactly, but to talk—yes. She liked the way he listened to her, not simply waiting until she’d finished so that he could have his say as Andrew was wont to, but really listening. And not just answering but responding. And she liked the way he looked at her, the frankness in his eyes that told her he found her attractive. She knew that the frisson she felt—there, just like that!—as their hands brushed again, was not one-sided.

Treeve had been quiet for some time now, for fear of upsetting her further, no doubt. The next time their hands brushed, Emily met his eyes and smiled. ‘What would have happened to the Karrek estates if your brother had been an only son?’ she asked.

‘My cousin is next in line, by default, I suppose,’ he answered, his relief at her breaking the silence obvious. ‘That’s another thing I must do, make my will. Austol’s will left everything to me in the absence of a son, though I reckon he’d have preferred to hand it over to Jago Bligh. A true Cornishman, and one who, like your John-Angus, knows the lands. His would be a safer pair of hands than mine.’

‘You don’t consider yourself a true Cornishman then,’ she quizzed. ‘Though you are from Porth Karrek, born and bred as they say.’

‘I doubt they do say that. In fact, I’m pretty sure that some would disagree most profoundly with you there. I was born here, that is true enough, but bred—no, the navy made me, not Porth Karrek. My one love,’ he added with a wry smile, ‘and my only mistress.’

‘But your brother, being a true Cornishman, no doubt thought your career choice somewhat disloyal?’

Treeve rolled his eyes. ‘He certainly did, as do the entire population of Porth Karrek and beyond, I’ll wager. In Cornish eyes, there is not an iota of difference between a captain of the Royal Navy and an Exciseman. I’m only one step above being an informer.’

‘I’ve only been here a short while, but it’s long enough to know you’re not exaggerating. You must have been very keen to join up, in the face of such opposition. And indeed, very determined, for one so young, if you’ve been twenty years in the navy.’

‘I was sixteen, and the second son, so my father was largely indifferent to what I did. And before you pity me, let me reassure you that I consider myself fortunate, since it meant no obstacles were put in my way. In fact, if I’d not joined the navy of my own accord, it’s likely that my father would have tried to push me towards the church, and in doing so deprived the parish of an excellent man in the form of Reverend Maddern.’

Emily raised her brows sceptically. ‘I can’t imagine that you would allow yourself to be pushed into anything by anyone.’

‘It’s been attempted, but none so far have succeeded.’

‘Though now,’ she ventured, ‘you must be torn?’

‘What do people here want to happen?’

‘You’ve not been away so long as to imagine that anyone in Porth Karrek would share their thoughts with an incomer, surely?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

They had come to the end of the beach, where the cliffs of the next headland protruded out to sea, preventing them from continuing. The wavelets washed over their toes, drenching the hems of her cloak and skirt. Emily frowned. ‘There has been a good deal of speculation about you, I know that much.’

‘I couldn’t have come here any earlier—until last week I was at sea. I didn’t even hear of Austol’s death until a month after he was drowned. People will be wanting to know where they stand, and that’s natural enough.’ Treeve picked up a flat stone and skimmed it expertly into the surf. ‘As far as I’m concerned, provided I can satisfy myself that Jago Bligh has been doing his job, they stand exactly where they do now. My leave of absence expires at the end of the year. I have no plans to extend it, and certainly no intention of making it permanent. Don’t people get on with Bligh? Is that what you’re hinting at?’

‘I’m not hinting at anything. Mr Bligh, though not exactly loved by all, is certainly held in respect—and in some awe, since he wields quite a lot of power. But that’s only an impression. You must make up your own mind.’

‘Oh, I intend to, but it’s always useful to have an independent view from someone with no vested interest.’

‘Well, I can certainly provide that.’

Treeve sighed, digging his toes into the sand, in precisely the same way as she did. ‘It’s a damned mess, all the same. Karrek House shouldn’t be left to lie empty. My brother’s widow has moved back to Penzance to stay with her parents. I called on her yesterday, on my way here. It is a great shame that their union wasn’t blessed with a son. She’s a Hammett of Penzance, whose father would have been happy to look after the estate on behalf of his grandson.’

‘And now it will fall to you, to marry and provide an heir.’ Emily spoke lightly, but avoided his eyes all the same, for fear that he’d see the pain her words induced. All men wanted a son, didn’t they!

But Treeve looked quite aghast. ‘That is something I have not considered, nor intend to. I am at sea more often than I’m ashore. I would make a very poor husband and father.’

‘Loyalty, a strong sense of duty, honour, and respect for those you command—the attributes which make you an excellent naval captain would surely also serve you very well as a husband.’

‘Are you funning?’

‘Only a little.’

‘You don’t think that love is the starting point? Surely if one loves, then the rest follow—save that I don’t think a husband should command a wife.’

‘That is very enlightened of you.’

‘I know little of such matters, to be honest.’

‘Ah, yes, the sea is your mistress, as you said.’

‘Well, not precisely my only mistress, but the one I have always returned to.’ Treeve cursed under his breath. ‘That makes me sound like the archetypal sailor with a woman in every port. It’s not what I meant at all.’

‘You don’t have to explain…’

‘I meant only that I’m thirty-six years old. Of course there have been women. But I’ve never been a man to make any sort of false promises, Emily. That’s what I meant. And now it sounds as if I’m propositioning you, which I’m not. I’m simply—I want us to be honest with each other, that’s all.’

A very refreshing change indeed, if he meant it. All her instincts told her that he did, but her instincts had been catastrophically wrong before. Yet she did feel she could trust him. Was it then dishonest of her to keep her past to herself? No, she decided. All Treeve wanted was her honest opinions, and those she could give freely.

‘I honestly think we should turn back,’ Emily said teasingly. ‘Before we’re trapped by the rising tide.’

‘I’ve said too much again, haven’t I?’ Treeve said, making no move, pushing his hair, damp from the salt spray, back from his brow.

‘We’ve only just met. You are only here until the end of the year.’ She considered this. ‘Though I suppose that is an argument for us to skip the conventional niceties.’

‘I think we’ve already done that,’ he replied, indicating their bare feet.

‘Very true.’

They set off back through the lapping waves. The next time their hands brushed, their eyes met, and their fingers clasped. His hand was warm against her icy skin. The sun was bright now, making the sea glitter. Emily’s blood tingled and fizzed in her veins. Any other day she would put it down to the exhilaration of walking on an unspoilt beach in fine weather. Today, it was a whole combination of things: this particular beach; this particular sun; this particular man.

‘I’m a silversmith,’ she said, wanting to surprise him, to give him the gift of an unsought confidence, wanting to trust him with it.

Treeve looked suitably startled. ‘A silversmith?’

‘That’s how I earn my living.’

‘How extraordinary. You don’t look like a silversmith.’

‘What do you imagine a silversmith looks like?’

‘A wizened old man wearing spectacles, hunched over a workbench. How on earth did you learn such a trade? Doesn’t it require some sort of apprenticeship?’

‘My father was a silversmith of some repute. I lost him six years ago.’

‘By the sounds of it, you were very close.’

‘Very.’ Emily blinked furiously. ‘I worked with him from an early age, and through a friend of his, also learned the basics of jewellery making—the two are very distinct trades, usually. I combine them. My father made much bigger pieces on a grander scale than I could produce here. My work is not so profitable, but luckily for me, I’ve discovered that I’m most adept at cutting my cloth to suit my purse.’

‘By moving to a tiny cottage at the ends of the earth,’ Treeve said. ‘Though you only arrived here in April.’

He wanted honesty. How to explain that honestly? Emily wondered. ‘London is expensive and I also desperately wanted—needed a change. My resources have been dwindling.’ Which was most certainly true. ‘Though I am quite self-sufficient,’ she added. ‘You must not feel sorry for me.’

‘I don’t,’ Treeve said, clearly confused by the challenge in her voice.

‘Good. I won’t be pitied, you know.’

‘I can’t imagine why you think I would do such a thing. If anything, I envy you your independence.’

She bit her lip. ‘It has been hard earned, believe me.’

He eyed her for a moment, struggling, she thought, with whether or not to pursue the subject, whether to ask her the obvious question. ‘All the best things are hard earned,’ he said eventually, a platitude for which she was grateful.

‘True. I like to be busy, though the short days at this time of year are problematic. My work requires daylight.’

‘Is that a hint that I’m holding you back?’

‘No, though I ought to get back to my workbench soon.’

‘May I have the privilege of seeing some of your work?’

‘You are very welcome to call, though I think you will find that your time is not your own, once it becomes known that you have arrived. Everyone will want to meet you, and you will wish to make yourself familiar enough with your new domain to be able to decide whether or not to entrust it to Mr Bligh.’

‘True, but I think you in turn underestimate my determination to become better acquainted with you. Assuming, of course, that you have a similar wish?’

This time there was no mistaking the glow in his eyes. Emily’s cheeks heated. ‘I think I’ve made it plain that I do.’

They were back where they started on the sands. The tide had all but swallowed The Beasts. The surf was getting higher and the clouds lower. Treeve rescued his shoes and stockings from an incoming wave, and they headed up the beach to the foot of the cliff path, Treeve turning his back without being asked as Emily picked up her own shoes and stockings.

‘Why is it,’ she said when she had finished, ‘that damp sand on bare feet feels so delightful, yet damp sand in wet wool is so unpleasant?’

He laughed. ‘Perhaps every pleasure comes at a price.’

Now, what was one to make of that remark? He led the way up the path. She allowed herself to enjoy the view of him from behind, the athletic ease with which he negotiated the steep path, and the smile he gave her every time he turned around to check that he had not gone too far ahead.

When they reached the top, Emily was more breathless than she should be. ‘Are you headed to the village? There’s a path…’

‘I know,’ Treeve said.

‘Of course you do!’

‘Actually, I’m headed back to Karrek House. An appointment with my brother’s lawyer. Or I should say mine, now. I am not looking forward to it, but there’s no point in putting it off. The sooner I understand the extent of my obligations, the better. I’ve very much enjoyed our walk.’

‘As have I. I walk on the sands most mornings. If you feel like company. I mean, you don’t have to join me.’

‘I’d like that, Emily.’ He caught her hand, covering it with his own. ‘I would very much like to say that I’ll see you tomorrow, but I think you may be right, in the very short term at least. My time is not likely to be my own. Shall we say soon?’

‘Soon.’ Their fingers twined. ‘I should go.’

He nodded. He stepped towards her. She thought he was going to kiss her. He would taste of salt. His hands tightened around hers. Then he let her go.

‘Whatever happens with the rest of the day, it has begun very well. Until the next time, Emily.’

‘Until the next time.’

She headed along the path towards her cottage. She could sense him watching her, telling herself she was being silly, resisting the urge to turn around. And then she thought, why not, turning around. And he waved. And though she couldn’t see his face clearly, she was sure he smiled.

Chapter Three

For the next three mornings, Karrek Sands was once again Emily’s exclusive domain. She was not surprised, but she was more disappointed than she cared to admit. Replaying her conversation with Treeve, she was astonished by her own frankness, not so much with facts but regarding her feelings. To admit, within such a tiny space of time, so much, seemed to her in retrospect utterly foolhardy. Yet she had done no more than he—had in fact followed his very frank lead. Had there really been the affinity that both of them had professed to feel? How could she be sure that he had not pretended, in order to gain her trust?

Opening the door of her cottage, Emily shook her head decidedly. Treeve was no dissembler, she simply knew it, in her bones. She had been nineteen when she met Andrew Macfarlane for the first time, a green girl with no experience of life. The second time, she had been grieving and vulnerable in a different way, and ripe for the plucking. Yes, she could admit that. But she was thirty-two now, an independent woman who knew her own mind, her strengths and more importantly her limitations.

She sat down at her workbench, pulled the bonbon dish she had been working on towards her and began to smooth the pierced silver with a wire brush. The light was good this morning. She ought to make the most of it, finish the decoration at the very least.

Treeve was drawn to her. She was drawn to him. Their attraction was one of the mind, but it was also physical. Yes, she could admit all of those things, and she could relish them too. Why not, when there was absolutely no risk of either of them becoming in any way embroiled. He was going back to sea at the end of the year. And she—well, her heart was well and truly locked away.

If it wasn’t, or if Treeve ultimately decided to stay, then that would be a very different matter. If he were to remain as lord of the manor, she would have to keep him at arm’s length, for she could not risk their feelings running deeper. She knew what heartbreak felt like. She would not inflict that on either of them.

Emily stared down at the bonbon dish in dismay. She had brushed so hard, she was in danger of wearing through the design. Was she still heartbroken? She must have loved Andrew, that other, gullible Emily. If she had not loved him, he would not have succeeded in his deception, and if she had not been so determined to turn a blind eye, he would not have continued to succeed. She most certainly didn’t love him now. His betrayal had been so callous and the extent of it so shocking that he had destroyed not just her faith in him, but in human nature. She was determined to recover from that, despite the fact that a separate part of her was broken irreparably. But she couldn’t blame Andrew for that. His only crime had been to inadvertently highlight an unpalatable but inescapable fact.

Casting her work in progress aside, Emily got to her feet. This morning’s paddle had not eased the restlessness she’d woken with. She was tired of being cooped up here, alone. Pulling her cloak back on, she hurried out once more into the fresh air.

The gatehouse had been built at a later date than Karrek House, though in a sympathetic style, with a sharp pointed roof and mullioned windows. It had lain empty since Emily’s arrival, but now the windows on the top floor were open, presumably to give the place an airing. Treeve’s doing perhaps, or possibly a signal that a new tenant was imminent.

There were two stone lions standing guard just beyond the gatehouse on the path leading up to Karrek House. The salty Cornish air had eaten away their features, leaving the pair with bizarrely broad smiles, no noses, and manes that had long lost their shagginess. The Penhaligon family home was beautiful, an Elizabethan manor built of Cornish granite with five distinctive Dutch-style gables. Three narrow protruding wings formed an ‘E’ shape. Was Treeve inside, going through his estate account books? Or was he outside, making a tour of his inheritance in Jago Bligh’s company, eager to be reassured, eager to get back to his ship, and the life he loved?

A seagull came to a squawking halt on one of the lions’ heads, making Emily jump. The last thing she wanted was to be caught gazing forlornly up at Treeve’s house. Emily turned on her heel and headed for the village.

Budoc Lane, the main street of Porth Karrek and the hub of village life was narrow, steep and cobblestoned, the whitewashed shops which lined both sides protecting those going about their business from the worst of the elements. The door to the butcher’s shop stood ajar, but there was no sign of Phincas Bosanko. Phin, as he was known, though Emily never dared address him as such, was a very fine specimen of a man, if you valued brawn—and a fair few of the local maids certainly seemed to. As far as Emily had been able to deduce, the butcher dispensed his favours evenly, treading a fine line between flirtation and commitment to cannily keep all his options open. It amused her on one level, but on another, the idea of him assuming he had the right to break as many hearts as he wished made her hackles rise—though she knew she ought not allow her own pathetic history to colour her view.

The mouth-watering smell of fresh-baked bread wafted from the baker’s yard at the rear of the shop. ‘We’ve no pasties ready yet, if that’s what you’re after.’ Eliza Menhenick eyed Emily with her customary reserve.

‘Thank you, I would like a loaf of that delicious-smelling bread, Mrs Menhenick.’

‘What size of loaf would suit you, Miss Faulkner?’

‘The smallest one you have, as usual.’ Emily forced a smile. She’d been buying her bread here for nigh on seven months, yet each time Eliza Menhenick asked the same question, determined to remind Emily that she was a stranger in Porth Karrek, and a solitary one at that. How long would it take, she wondered as she left the shop, the bread tucked into a fold in her cloak, before she was accepted as one of the locals? A lifetime most likely, and for the likes of Eliza Menhenick and Jago Bligh, even that probably wouldn’t be enough.

The village shop run by the Chegwin family was at the bottom of Budoc Lane, facing directly on to the harbour. Besides groceries, the shop stocked a bit of everything, from rope, needles, cotton, and the rough-spun, oiled wool used to knit fishermen’s jumpers, to nails, ink, pencils, herbs and spices, and cooking pots. There were everyday candles of tallow, more expensive ones of beeswax, and the most beautiful carved and scented candles made by Cloyd Bolitho, a melancholy candlemaker who looked as fragile as his creations. The Chegwins also stocked flagons of rough cider, the strong fermented apple drink that Emily suspected would crack her head open with one taste. There were other, unmarked barrels in the shop too, which it didn’t take a genius to work out contained contraband. She had enjoyed a glass or two of Bordeaux in the past, but she couldn’t afford such a luxury now, and in any case knew better, as an incomer, than to suggest to the Chegwins that they would be able to sell her such a thing. The shop smelled of a particularly pleasant combination of tea leaves and coffee beans and cheese and—for some reason—wood shavings, but Emily had no purchases to make there today.

The harbour beach, a mixture of sand and stones, sloped steeply down to the water. The tide was still out, leaving the limpet-covered harbour wall exposed. A number of the smaller boats were beached on the sand, their moorings at full stretch, though the bigger pilchard boat belonging to Jago Bligh was tied up close to the wall, and still afloat on the water. The air was rich with the tang of the sea, the remnants of yesterday’s catch, and that distinctive smell of brine-soaked nets and rope which Emily had never been able to put a name to, but which was another reminder of happier times, watching the catch come in on her grandfather’s herring fleet at Stornaway harbour.

She wandered out along the harbour wall to stand at the furthest point gazing out beyond the headland to the sea, where The Beasts were only just visible, the waves cresting white as the incoming tide broke over them. Beyond the wall the sea was grey-blue, but inside it was calm, turquoise, the sandy seabed visible, shoals of tiny fish darting about in the seaweed.

Picking her way back through the ropes, creels and nets, she saw a tall figure striding down Budoc Lane, recognising him immediately. Treeve didn’t get far before he was waylaid by the butcher. The two men struck up what looked from this distance like a friendly conversation.

Emily stood in the lee of the Ship Inn, curious to see what the other villagers would make of their new landlord. Phin was laughing at something Treeve had said. The two men shook hands. The butcher, in her view, had an inflated opinion of himself but there were no sides to him, from what Emily had seen, and she liked that about him. When she’d arrived in the village back in April, Phin had been openly curious rather than hostile, his blunt questions as to where she had come from and what she was doing in Cornwall a refreshing change from the mutterings and speculation of most of the others. She had, of course, answered none of his questions, and to his credit he’d not persisted either. A man who liked plain dealing. He and Treeve would likely do well together.

How the Menhenicks received Treeve, she had no idea, for he disappeared into the shop for a good ten minutes. Several other villagers watched his progress towards the harbour front, some answering his ready smile with a doffed cap, a curtsy, a handshake, others a sullen look, one or two with a pointedly turned back. She could have avoided him altogether and headed back up Budoc Lane while he was in the Chegwins’ shop, clearly on a mission to make himself known to one and all, but that would be to attach an importance to him she had decided she didn’t want to encourage. So Emily waited, intending to bid him a polite good day, before heading home.

‘Ah, the very person!’ Treeve exclaimed, emerging from the shop. ‘If I hadn’t bumped into you here, I’d have called at your cottage. I’m afraid I haven’t had a moment to call my own since I last saw you.’

‘I did warn you that would be the case.’

‘You’re on your way home,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you can wait for half an hour or so, then I can walk back with you? No, it’s wrong of me to ask. The light is good. You’ll be wanting to get back to your workbench, so I won’t detain you.’

‘I can spare half an hour,’ Emily found herself saying, which she wouldn’t have, had not Treeve acknowledged that she too had other claims on her time.

‘Thank you,’ he said, smiling. ‘I appreciate that. I’m told I can get a decent cup of coffee at the Ship, will you join me?’

‘I’m not sure that I’ll be welcome there. As a female, I mean.’

‘This is not London, Emily. The Ship has always been the hub of the village, a place for men, women and children to relax—not in the taproom, obviously, but there is a parlour.’ Treeve pursed his lips. ‘But you must know that, you’ve lived here long enough. What you mean is that you don’t think you’d be welcome as an outsider. I’ll let you into a secret. I am not convinced I’ll be welcome either, and I own the place. Shall we step inside and find out?’

‘Oh, what the devil,’ Emily said, earning herself a raised brow and a conspiratorial smile.

The parlour of the Ship was empty. It was cosy and low ceilinged, a fire smouldering in the stone grate that took up most of one wall. The floors were bare boards, pitted and scarred from decades of contact with the customers’ hobnail boots, the seating a combination of tall settles on two walls, and rickety chairs, with a scattering of small wooden tables, as scarred and pitted as the floor. The air was pungent with the smell of stale ale and the vinegar used to mop it up. The room was dark, lit only by a small window, and smoky, not only from the fire but the open hatch through which the taproom could be seen—and could likely be heard too, Emily presumed, were it not for the deathly silence which greeted their arrival.

Treeve pulled two chairs and one of the tables closer to the fire, stretching his long legs out to rest on the hearth. He was wearing buckskin breeches and boots today, another wide-skirted coat, dark blue, made of fine wool, with a waistcoat to match. His linen was pristine, making his beard seem more blue than black—not that it was quite a beard. Emily wondered how he managed to keep the bristle in trim, for he looked like a man who must shave at least twice a day, yet it was every bit as neat and tidy as it had been when she first saw him.

A low mutter had resumed in the taproom, but no one had yet appeared to serve them. Treeve, rolling his eyes, was just pushing back his chair to get up, when the door opened.

‘Captain Penhaligon.’ Derwa Nancarrow, the Ship’s formidable landlady, was about the same age, Emily reckoned, as herself, with the black hair and very pale skin of the Celt so common in Cornwall. She was a handsome woman, with deep-set brown eyes and a mouth that was capable of producing a sultry smile, but today was decidedly sullen. ‘How may I help you?’

‘I see I have no need to introduce myself,’ Treeve said, getting to his feet. ‘How do you do, Mrs Nancarrow? I don’t think we’ve met before.’

‘I’m from Helston. You had left Porth Karrek for the navy before I married Ned. Your brother is much missed. He was a true Cornishman.’

If she had not been watching him closely, Emily would have missed the slight tightening of his mouth at this barb. ‘None truer,’ Treeve replied blandly enough, however. Not indifferent, but determined to be seen to be. She admired him for that.

‘What can I get you?’

‘I’m not your only customer. This is Miss Faulkner, who is renting one of the estate cottages,’ Treeve said.

‘I know who she is. I’m assuming it’s coffee you’re after?’

‘If you could find it within yourself to bring us some,’ he answered sardonically, ‘that would be delightful.’

‘I warned you,’ Emily said as Mrs Nancarrow disappeared again, her entrance next door clearly marked by the sudden increase in voices.

‘I wonder, if I’d asked her, if she’d have served me a fine French cognac.’ Treeve sat down again beside her. ‘No, she’d have told me they don’t stock such things, even though they almost certainly do.’

‘You think that is why she was so…’

‘Sullen? Wary? Yes, because she doesn’t want a navy man asking awkward questions as to whether it is contraband or not.’

‘Especially since you own this inn now.’

‘I wish to hell that I did not. Excuse my language.’

‘Oh, for a rough sailor, your language is remarkably civilised.’

Treeve gave a snort of laughter. ‘You have no idea.’

‘If you came here in the hope of gaining acceptance,’ Emily said, keeping her voice low, casting a wary glance at the open hatch, ‘you’d have been better off in the taproom, taking a glass of rough cider and rubbing shoulders with the men.’

‘I’m not sure I’m looking for acceptance. It might be different if I planned to remain here.’

‘You’ve decided that Mr Bligh is trustworthy then?’

‘He seems to have kept things ticking over very well since Austol died, but I’ve discovered in the last few days that there’s a great deal more required than simply keeping things ticking over. A good many decisions have been put on hold. I had no idea. These last few days have been quite an eye-opener. If I told you…’

‘Captain Penhaligon. Miss Faulkner.’

Ned Nancarrow set down a tray bearing two cups, a pewter coffee pot, and a sugar dish. A tall man of sparse build, with hair to match, he had a long face, and a way of looking sideways that gave the impression he was forever keeping a weather eye on his potential escape route.

‘Thank you, Ned,’ Treeve said, getting to his feet and holding out his hand. ‘How are you?’

‘Well enough.’ The hand was taken, rather reluctantly. ‘Jago tells me you’re headed back to your ship at the turn of the year.’

‘Does he?’ Treeve sat down again, picking up the coffee pot. ‘He knows more than me then.’

‘Said you had leave until the end of December.’

‘That’s true enough.’

‘So you’ll be here for the Nadelik celebrations then—that’s what we call Christmas, Miss Faulkner. You’ll be hosting Gwav Gool up at the big house, as your father did, and your brother, too?’

‘I had not thought that far ahead.’

‘People expect it. No Gwav Gool festival means the harvest will fail, and the catch next year will be poor. You should know that, Captain. It’s a tradition that goes back generations. Perhaps it might be best to leave it to Jago to organise. He’s well versed in local customs.’

Treeve set the coffee pot down again. ‘When you know me better, Ned, and I hope you will take the time to do that, you’ll understand that I prefer to make my own mind up about local customs, both good and bad.’

He spoke quietly. He hadn’t moved from his chair, but there was no doubting the steel in his voice. Emily sensed it, and so too did Ned Nancarrow, who narrowed his eyes. ‘Not sure what you’re getting at, but I sincerely hope you’re not casting no aspersions. The Ship has been run by my family for generations without any complaints from the authorities.’

‘I’m aware of that, and I’m happy for it to stay that way.’

‘I told Jago, you’re a Cornishman, before you’re a naval man.’

‘The world is changing, Ned, and Porth Karrek is being left behind.’ Treeve held up his hand to stall the other man’s protests. ‘I want only what is best for this place, I assure you. We all want that. We should all be on the same side.’

‘Aye, you’re right, we should. Can I get you anything else? Only I’ve some thirsty fishermen in the taproom.’

‘Nothing, thank you.’

The door closed softly, and Treeve pushed a cup of coffee towards Emily. ‘It seems I have my answer, with regards to the cognac at least.’

‘Is smuggling really still a problem here, now that the war is over?’

‘Locals would claim that it’s the over-inquisitive Excisemen who are the problem, not the smugglers earning an illegal coin.’ Treeve stirred sugar into his coffee. ‘For me, it’s not a question of right or wrong, it’s a simple matter of the law. You can’t pick and choose what laws to uphold and which ones to break with impunity, even if they do seem to be unjust, or the punishment seems to far outstrip the crime. I’ve seen that for myself Emily, at sea. I’ve been obliged to enforce ship’s discipline, even when in my heart I wanted to be merciful.’

He finished his second cup of coffee, grimacing. ‘I sound like a pompous ass, but I know what I’m talking about. Mutiny. Whether it’s on board a ship on the high seas or here, in Cornwall where the likes of Bligh and Nancarrow think themselves above the law. I won’t tolerate it.’

‘But how can you stop it, if you are not planning to remain here?’

‘Damned if I know!’ Treeve groaned. ‘Nancarrow’s right about Gwav Gool though. As a man of the sea myself, I know that she has to be placated.’

‘Are you teasing me?’

‘Only a little. Your family are from a seafaring community, you know how superstitious such folk are. Gwav Gool is a very ancient Cornish tradition, celebrating the year gone past, and looking forward to an even better one to come. In Porth Karrek, it takes the form of a dance with a supper hosted, as Nancarrow pointed out, by my family two days before Christmas. What’s more, there are a raft of other traditions, both pagan and religious, all tangled up together.’ He frowned. ‘The shopkeepers dispense gin and cake to their customers in December as a thank you for their custom. As I recall, there’s usually a solstice bonfire on the beach which the Treleven family host a couple of days before Gwav Gool. Then Nadelik—Christmas Day—sees the Reverend Maddern’s yuletide service.’

‘Good heavens,’ Emily exclaimed. ‘It sounds as if the entire month of December is given over to some sort of celebration or another.’

‘It’s a hard life here, it’s not surprising they celebrate with gusto. This will be your first Cornish Christmas. Are you looking forward to it? You’ll be expected to join in, you know.’

‘Oh, no, I’m not—all those things you describe, they are for local people.’

‘Which, for the time being, includes you. Don’t you like Christmas?’

‘I’m simply—I don’t mark Christmas. In Lewis, the New Year is more important, and so it was with my family, even after Mama died. And since Papa died…’ She trailed off, appalled to discover her throat clogging. Not one Christmas in their whole five years together, had been spent with Andrew. How virtuous she had felt, surrendering him to his poor mad mother for the festive season. What a fool she had been to believe that barefaced lie.

‘This year will be different,’ Treeve said, so kindly that she felt herself on the brink of most unusual and unwelcome tears. ‘Since I must host Gwav Gool, perhaps you’ll help me out? On board ship, it’s just another day, it will be quite a change for both of us.’

A radical change, and a refreshing one. Emily nodded gratefully. ‘If you think it won’t be resented—my helping you, I mean?’

‘They’ll get short shrift from me if anyone does. Anyway, it’s a good few weeks away yet. I wish I’d thought about it last night, I could have discussed it with Sir Jock Treleven. It is his family who host the bonfire. I had dinner at the Trelevans’ and met all six of his daughters.’

‘Several of them are of marriageable age, I believe. Sir Jock was making hay.’

‘Oh, no, I don’t think—’ Treeve broke off, looking aghast.

‘Oh, come now, you are not so naïve. The new lord of a very wealthy manor, unattached, very far from his dotage—quite the opposite in fact. Sir Jock would have been signally failing in his duty, if he had not introduced you to his little stable of fillies.’

‘I’m not in the market for a horse, far less a wife.’

‘But if you were,’ she persisted, ‘then you would struggle to find anyone more appropriate than one of the Miss Trelevens. I have not met any of them, of course, but I have heard they are all very convivial, and have dowries as attractive as they are.’

‘They are undoubtedly both pretty and convivial, though I’m not sure I could tell one from the other.’ He eyed her coolly. ‘I am not a thoroughbred to be put to stud, Emily. If I married, it would be because I had found a woman I didn’t want to live without, not to provide Karrek House with an heir.’

‘I was only teasing.’

‘It didn’t sound as if you were.’

Mortifyingly aware that he was right, that her words had been laced with an inexplicable and most unworthy envy, Emily pushed back her chair, but Treeve stayed her with a hand on her wrist. ‘Why do you consider yourself so beneath them—the Trelevens, I mean? No, don’t deny it. “I have not met them, of course”, that’s what you said. Why of course?’

‘I’m a silversmith, the daughter of a silversmith, eking out a living in one of your cottages.’ She tried to free her wrist, but his fingers tightened around it.

‘Your mother was the only child of a clearly respectable and wealthy Lewis family. From what you’ve said, your father was no lowly artisan. Your accent and manners betray your roots and your education, the quality of your clothes, the fact that you need to eke out a living is a relatively recent development. The only thing that makes you an unlikely friend for the Miss Trelevens is your age.’ He smiled at her. ‘Quite in your dotage as far as they are concerned, though I consider you the perfect age to make for interesting company.’

‘A back-handed compliment if ever there was one,’ Emily said drily. She was flattered, but wary too, for Treeve had garnered a great deal from the little she had told him of herself.

‘A compliment, sincerely meant.’ Treeve let go of her wrist, but only to cover her hand with his.

‘I’m sorry. I’m not used to compliments.’

‘You have been hiding yourself away for far too long.’

‘I think you might be right.’

She smiled. Treeve smiled back. Their eyes locked. Her fingers tightened in his, and she felt a quivering response, saw a flare of heat in his eyes that she was sure was reflected in her own. She wanted to kiss him. He wanted to kiss her. The possibility drew them towards each other, then the grating opening of the door sent them jumping apart.

‘Mr Penhaligon.’ Jago Bligh entered the parlour, pulling up short when he saw Emily. ‘Beg pardon if I’m disturbing you,’ he said, drawing her a look that made it very clear he disapproved of her presence, ‘but I believe we had an appointment.’

‘As you can see, I am currently otherwise engaged.’ Treeve eyed his estate manager with some hauteur. ‘Why you felt it necessary to seek me out when there are, as you have told me several times now, not enough hours in the day for you to attend to your work—’

‘We have important matters to discuss,’ Jago interrupted truculently.

‘I do hope, Mr Bligh, that you are not implying that my discussion with Miss Faulkner is of lesser importance?’

Treeve spoke with an air of quiet authority. His expression was bland, but his message was perfectly clear. Jago Bligh’s jaw tightened. ‘I shall await your convenience back at Karrek House,’ he said finally.

‘Good man. I will see you there once I have escorted Miss Faulkner back to her cottage.’

‘There is no need.’ Unwilling to be the cause of any other further tension, Emily got to her feet, pulling on her cloak. ‘I’ve detained you long enough. In any case, I intend to walk the long way around the headland, get some fresh air while it lasts. Good day to you, Captain Penhaligon, Mr Bligh.’

Outside, the clouds were ominously black, the wind was up, and her cloak whirled around her as she climbed up to the cliff path. Looking back, she saw Treeve emerge from the tavern, striding ahead up Budoc Lane, his estate manager lagging slightly behind, gesticulating in a way that made it clear that whatever he was saying, he wasn’t happy.

Mr Bligh was not unattractive, with craggy but regular features set under a thatch of thick dark hair, and a beard which he kept neatly trimmed. She reckoned he must be about ten years older than Treeve, though he was very fit and muscled, his bulky shoulders and barrel chest testament to the hours he spent at sea, skippering his pilchard boat. Both he and Treeve were captains—how odd that this hadn’t occurred to her before—but they could not be more different.

Jago Bligh was very much respected in the village—though as she had observed for herself in a confrontation between Mr Bligh and Abel Menhenick, it was a respect bordering on fear. She did not like him, and it was not simply because he treated her with the contempt of a man who considered her beneath his notice. He looked to the right when he spoke, never quite avoiding her eyes, but never quite meeting them square on. And he was not confident, he was arrogant.

‘Foolish man,’ Emily muttered to herself, as the pair disappeared from view. ‘In any conflict, I know who my money would be on.’

Chapter Four

‘Of course, these are small-scale pieces compared to my father’s,’ Emily said, ‘but the techniques are the same, whether you are making a tea urn or a snuffbox. The first task is to cut a shape from a sheet of metal, such as this, using a template. I make them myself, from practice pieces of brass or copper.’

Treeve watched, fascinated, as she demonstrated, seated at the long wooden bench which took up most of the living space in the cottage. He had planned to call on her yesterday morning, having reluctantly allocated Bligh the rest of the day before, once the blasted man had sought him out at the Ship Inn. But once again his best-laid plans had been holed below the waterline, this time by Austol’s lawyer—correction, his lawyer, who had arrived unannounced with another wooden chest full of documents to be perused. This day, he was absolutely determined to claim for himself, and if he could persuade Emily to spend it with him, then all the better.

‘Next,’ she continued, ‘I use a small hammer to beat out the shape I require.’

‘You don’t need to heat the metal then?’

‘No, it is hammered cold, but as you work it, the silver hardens, so you do have to soften it now and then—we call that annealing. I have a small brazier which burns charcoal, which I keep outside, so you need not worry that I’ll burn down your cottage by dropping hot coals. It’s not big enough for me to do any casting, which is why everything I make is on a small scale.’

‘What happens next?’

‘The piece is soldered together, if required—if it is a box, for example. And of course if I’m making jewellery it requires extensive soldering, using silver wire. Then the last stage is the decoration, which is the part I enjoy the most. See, here are some samples which are complete, apart from final polishing. This is filigree, which is formed from fine silver wire.’

The trinket box was adorned with a delicate pattern of leaves and flowers. A central flower in each panel sent twining garlands out to each corner, and the four little feet were formed from leaves. ‘It’s beautiful,’ Treeve said, tracing the design with his fingers.

‘This one is made using a mixture of hammering and pierced work,’ Emily said, swapping the box for a salt lined with dark blue glass. ‘I buy the glass linings, obviously, and then make the framework to fit each exactly. And here,’ she said, unrolling a piece of chamois leather, ‘are some earrings which I’ve been working on. The stones are paste, I can’t afford precious gems.’

‘Bluebells?’ Treeve asked, gazing down at the tiny flower-like earrings set with blue glass.

‘They are, how clever of you to notice.’

‘It is you who are clever. These are wonderful pieces. And so diverse.’

She beamed. ‘Thank you. I must confess, I enjoy the variety.’

‘Such craftsmanship, I would have thought it would have earned you your fortune.’

‘Sadly not. If I wished to make my fortune, I’d have to set up on a much larger scale, and make much grander pieces too, as my father did. Dinner services, tea services, serving dishes, epergnes, that kind of thing. But aside from the fact that is simply not possible here, I prefer working on smaller, more modest pieces.’

Emily took the earrings from him, rolling them carefully back in the chamois leather before picking up a cloth. He watched her polishing the floral trinket box, a small frown furrowing her brow, her generous lips pursed in concentration. She was wearing a plain gown of soft wool the colour of a pale wintry sky. She had rolled the sleeves up to expose her forearms. Tanned and slender yet far from frail, he could see the ripple of the muscles under her skin as she worked, and dammit, he found it absurdly arousing. She wore her hair up in a knot. There was something arousing too, yet vulnerable, in the long line of her exposed neck as she bent over her work.

Looking up, she caught his eye and smiled faintly, offering him the little box. ‘If you look closely, you’ll see my hallmark.’

‘“EF”,’ Treeve read. ‘If your father was so well known, and you were his apprentice, couldn’t you continue to use his mark?’

‘No. It wouldn’t have been permitted, I was never his official apprentice.’ She got to her feet, retrieving a walnut tea caddy from a shelf, and took out the silver spoon inside. ‘There, you see. “RF”, for Robert Faulkner. That was my father’s mark.’

‘More flowers,’ he said.

‘He made it for my mother. It runs through the female line, the love of nature. There is a beautiful rose garden attached to the big house in Stornaway—that is the main town on the Isle of Lewis. It’s a walled garden, to protect it from the harsh weather. I remember the scent on a sunny day—we did have them in Lewis, every now and then.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Perfume so strong it made you dizzy.’

‘You are never tempted to go back? I do understand what you meant about ghosts, but—being here at Karrek House has also dredged up a plethora of happy memories for me. Things I had quite forgotten.’

‘I can’t possibly go back,’ Emily said bleakly. ‘My happy memories are now tainted for ever. Besides,’ she added, before he could ask her what she meant, ‘more than likely my cousin will have dug up the rose garden and planted potatoes. John-Angus never could see the point of flowers. Needless adornment, he’d have said of that spoon. It’s one of the few of Papa’s pieces I kept.’

Where had the rest gone? The obvious, painful answer, was that they were sold, so Treeve did not ask. He set the spoon down carefully. ‘I can see you’re busy, but I was hoping that I could persuade you to take a walk with me.’

‘Don’t you have other matters to attend to?’

‘I’m beginning to realise that if I wanted to, I could tend to estate business twenty-four hours a day. But I don’t want to. Bligh deprived me of a walk with you the other day, and legal business took up all of yesterday. I’ve earned a break, but I know that your work must come first, I don’t want to…’

‘I work to eat, it’s true, but I reckon I too have earned a break. Do you think the weather will be kind enough to us to allow us to go further than the beach?’

‘I made a special plea to the weather gods,’ Treeve said, ‘in the hope that I could persuade you. The clifftop path from here towards Porth Leven is beautiful.’

‘I’ll fetch my cloak,’ Emily said.

Treeve’s pleas to the weather gods had been answered, it seemed, for it was a lovely afternoon, the skies pale blue with a weak lemon sun, the breeze as gentle as it was possible to hope for at this time of year. Crossing the top of Budoc Lane by St Piran’s church they avoided the village, making for the path that hugged the clifftops.

Emily was wearing one of her favourite dresses of russet-and-cream-striped wool. She had dressed carefully yesterday morning too, in another of her favourite gowns, telling herself that she was merely getting the use out of them, knowing perfectly well she was hoping Treeve would call.

‘Are you immune to the cold?’ she asked, hugging her cloak around her, for he was hatless and gloveless, without even a greatcoat.

‘Try standing on the open deck of a ship in a storm,’ he replied. ‘The cold I never mind, it’s being soaked to the skin that gets to you.’

‘What about the heat? Have you been to the tropics?’

‘I’ve been around the world several times over. I always laugh when I hear people in England complain about the weather. True enough, we have a bit of everything, sometimes all four of our seasons in a day, but it’s all in moderation.’

‘I’ll try to remember that,’ Emily said, smiling. ‘The next day I’m confined to my cottage by the torrential rain, unable to work because it’s as dark at midday as midnight.’

‘What do you do, on those days?’

‘It might sound stupid but sometimes, when it’s really wild, I like to go outside. There’s something so—so elemental about the storms here, you know? Standing on the headland, with nothing in front of you but the horizon, on days like that it can feel as if you’re the only person left in the world.’

Treeve cocked an eyebrow. ‘And that’s a nice feeling, is it? Is that why no one even knows about your little cottage industry? I mentioned it at dinner to the eldest Miss Treleven and…’

She came to an abrupt halt, turning towards him angrily. ‘You told her I was a silversmith!’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘I don’t want people talking about me. I mean,’ she amended, for her words had sounded disproportionately defensive, ‘that I prefer not to be the subject of gossip.’

‘I was expressing my admiration, not gossiping.’

‘You hadn’t even seen my work at that point.’

‘My admiration was for your determination to make your own way in life, Emily, for the guts it must take, and the skill to make a living for yourself and, to use your own words, to “cut your cloth to suit your purse.”’

Embarrassed, she felt her cheeks heating, but she could not keep the resentment from her voice. ‘I also told you that I don’t want to be pitied.’

‘It seems to me, it is you who sees yourself as a pitiful creature. I certainly don’t, and nor did Miss Treleven.’

The truth of his words were like a punch in the stomach. ‘I was too hasty,’ she said stiffly. ‘I apologise.’

‘Don’t look so stricken. Whatever travails you’ve endured since your father died…’

‘Are my business, no one else’s.’

Treeve put his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to meet his gaze. ‘Don’t be so defensive. I didn’t ask you out here to interrogate you. Some polite conversation—you know, a little give and take.’

She smiled reluctantly. ‘I’ve largely forgotten how to make conversation.’

‘Would you like to put some practice in?’

‘Yes, please.’ She liked the way he met her eyes, so straight on, the way he looked at her, not through her, the way he listened to what she said, even if by listening he saw through her enough to tell her a home truth or two.

The wind had blown his hair across his face. Without thinking, she reached up to push it back. He caught her hand. She held her breath as desire flared unmistakably in his eyes, as her body responded, heat prickling her back, tingling deep inside her. He kissed her, but only by brushing his lips on her glove. When he let her go, she felt absurdly disappointed.

‘Look at this.’ Treeve made a sweeping gesture. ‘On days like this, I can see why my brother always said there was nowhere like it in the whole world. Perhaps Cornwall is in my blood after all.’

He had turned them both to face towards Penzance. The tide was out, so the long crescent of beach which stretched almost all the way to Porth Karrek was revealed, and the cobbled causeway leading out to St Michael’s Mount, the tiny rocky island topped with a fortress, was clearly visible. ‘I always think it is some sort of strange ship, moored to the mainland by a stone rope,’ Emily said.

‘There’s another similar island just off the coast of Brittany you know, called Mont St Michel. They were both priories, up until about four hundred years ago or so. Shall we press on?’

They headed off along the path, just wide enough for them to walk two abreast as it hugged the clifftops, giving breathtaking views out to sea. Treeve pointed out a number of lethal-looking rocks similar to The Beasts, visible only because the tide was low. Little London, The Frenchman, The Bears, each had their own special name, and if they had any particular meaning, according to Treeve, it was long forgotten. What each was remembered for were the wrecks they had been responsible for, so many of them that Emily wondered why any fisherman would risk their life in these waters.

‘It’s true,’ Treeve answered her, ‘the Cornish coast is the most treacherous in all of England, the sea can turn from flat calm to a storm in the blink of an eye, but our fishermen must fish, or they will starve. They need to follow the shoals of pilchards wherever they go, regardless of the danger.’

‘Did you ever sail here?’

‘Of course I did. My father taught Austol and I to sail in the harbour when we were very young—he wouldn’t allow us to venture out of Porth Karrek until he was happy we knew what we were doing, because of The Beasts. My father was an excellent sailor.’

‘So it runs in the blood, your own affinity with ships and the sea?’

‘It does, though my father, like my brother, had no interest in any sea beyond this one.’

‘While you wanted to sail them all?’

‘Something like that.’ He frowned. ‘It wasn’t only a case of wanting to see the wider world though, I didn’t relish the prospect of being constrained by the boundaries of their world.’

‘And be obliged to become a vicar, to boot.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Heaven forfend. Truly.’

‘You wanted to be your own man,’ Emily said. ‘I can understand that. I have worked very hard to become my own woman.’

‘Yes, it’s something we share, our refusal to be hidebound. Though it comes at a price. I am master of my own ship, but I still have to obey orders. What’s more, the navy has a book of rules and regulations as thick as—I was going to say Jago Bligh’s skull, but that would be unfair. He’s not the least bit stupid, merely stubbornly attached to the old ways, like most of the village. You’ve experienced that, Emily. You had to swear Bligh’s niece and nephew to silence about their swimming lessons, for heaven’s sake.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s true, they don’t like change, and they are wary of strangers. In that sense, Porth Karrek is very like Lewis.’

‘And the scenery too, from what you’ve said.’

‘Oh, yes. I came here because it was as far south from London as I could get, but I have stayed because it is quite simply beautiful. On days like this, who would want to be anywhere else? I love the sea, as much as you do.’

They stopped to admire the view back to Mount’s Bay from Cudden Point. The causeway had disappeared under the incoming tide. A sudden gust of wind tugged a strand of Emily’s hair free from its ribbon. The sea below was a deep blue, turning to turquoise in the shallower water back at Perranuthnoe where it met the sands, and further out, where the swell was rising, the water was almost midnight blue.

‘But you have been lonely here.’ Treeve turned to her.

‘I have, but that’s partly because I’ve chosen to be. I wasn’t ready for company until you came along. Next April, I’ll have been here a year. I have high hopes that by then, Eliza Menhenick will offer me a loaf of bread without asking me which size I want. Maybe next summer, Kensa and Jack will persuade the Nancarrow boys to join them to swim. In ten years’ time, if I ask for a glass of cognac at the Ship, they might even serve it to me. You see,’ Emily said awkwardly, for the revelation had only just occurred to her, ‘unlike you, I’d like to make my home here. I don’t have any family now, and I can’t go back to Lewis, but this place is alike enough to remind me. I won’t be a stranger for ever.’

‘Shall I build a swimming pool in the rocks, so that you can give your lessons safely?’

‘I know you’re teasing, but I can’t help but feel that the children here are missing out on so much, not enjoying the sea.’

‘To say nothing of the fact that it’s depriving some of them of the ability to save their own life.’

‘Oh, Treeve, I’m so sorry. That was completely thoughtless of me.’

‘No, but you’re right. If Austol had learned to swim, there’s a chance he may not have perished. I’ve resolved to learn, thanks to you, and see if I can persuade some of my men to do so. Perhaps one day we can swim together at Karrek Sands.’

‘So you do intend to return?’

‘Occasionally, my naval duties permitting. I’ll have to. It’s horribly clear to me that there are a good many things I can’t delegate.’

‘You know, it sounds to me as if being the lord of the manor and being a naval captain are more similar than you think. Both require a steady hand on the tiller, a man who is not afraid to make tough decisions, who can inspire loyalty and command respect.’

‘What is demanded in Porth Karrek, is that the lord of the manor acts in the exact same way as his predecessors did. Austol essentially became my father, when he inherited. Acting the lord of the manor, is precisely what I’d have to do. I refuse to meekly follow in my father’s and brother’s footsteps.’

Emily dared to take his hand, pressing her lips to his knuckles. ‘I, for one, applaud you for that.’

A gust of wind sent her staggering back. Her ribbon was torn from her hair, whirling up into the sky. Instinctively she lunged to catch it, only to be yanked back hard against Treeve as she stepped off the path and dizzyingly close to the edge.

‘Thank you,’ she said, clutching gratefully at him. He put his other arm around her, putting himself between her and the cliff edge. The wind suddenly dropped and the sun came out from behind a cloud, and Emily smiled up at him. His eyes were made golden by the sunlight, his close-cut beard coal-black. His bottom lip was full, his answering smile reflecting not only her own delight in the wild coastal scenery and the glorious freshness of the day, but the latent desire which had quivered between them earlier.

Treeve brushed her hair back from her face, his fingers warm on her cheek, on her neck as he tucked the long tress behind her ear. Her heart began to race. She took a step closer, and he slipped his other arm under her cloak, around her waist. She reached up to touch his hair and felt him exhale sharply as her fingers smoothed the silky soft damp curls away from his forehead. And then the sun was blotted out and the earth seemed to tilt on its axis as he lowered his head and their lips met.

He tasted of salt. His lips were gentle, his beard soft yet prickly, rasping just enough on her skin to delight rather than grate. She sighed, opening her mouth to his kiss, nestling closer into his reassuringly solid bulk, and he brushed his tongue along her bottom lip, making her quiver, her quiver made him sigh, his mouth covering hers, deepening the kiss, until another gust of wind made them stagger backwards.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Luckily the wind blew us away from the cliff.’

‘You know that’s not what I meant, Emily.’ His eyes were lambent, heavy-lidded. It touched her that he needed reassurance. That he took nothing for granted.

‘I’m fine.’ Her words, so trite and so completely inadequate, made her shake her head at her own banality. ‘I’m perfectly fine.’ And free, she added silently to herself. Not that she’d tell Treeve, ever, but his kiss had freed her. ‘Truly,’ she said instead.

Treeve laughed, pulled her back into his arms and kissed her again. ‘I feel like I’ve been waiting for months to do that.’

‘Not even a week. I hope you’re not disappointed.’

‘You exceeded my very high expectations.’ He wanted to kiss her again, but this was hardly the place! His body was thrumming with desire. For the love of the gods, it was just a few kisses. Extremely enjoyable, enough for him to want more, but dammit, he was not in the habit of going around kissing virgins. Not that Emily kissed like a virgin, though how the hell he thought he knew what a virgin kissed like when he’d never kissed one…

He cursed under his breath, scanning first the horizon and then his watch. ‘I think we’d better turn back.’

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