Fire of My Heart (4 page)

Wait. No.
Just her imagination playing up again. Or did there lie somewhere in the house,
another poor victim of her clumsiness? Other than the antique blue willow
planter pot she’d smashed in the conservatory, of course.

Good. Of
all the things she was desperate to recall, she would have to remember that.

“Tea?” He
looked down at the spilled water, shook his head. “You’ll be needing some more water
then, I take it, but first I must tend to your fire. You must be cold.” He
flashed a coy smile, his steady gaze wandering from her toes up the length of
her frame. Clearly her mode of dress fascinated him. She edged her way around
the table toward the door.

 “Um, yes.
Cold. I’m very cold.” Though the weight of his stare made her body hotter by the
moment, and palms sweaty. Time to go. She crept backward into the hall and
bumped against the banister. “So, why don’t I leave you to it and I’ll just go
up and get into something more comfortable, er, suitable. Look, I’ll be right
back.” While darting up the stairs, she grilled herself over the virtues of
good first impressions, but conceded in the end, she was doomed.

Upon her
return to the kitchen some ten minutes later, dressed in her best jeans and favourite
figure-hugging pullover, he was nowhere to be found. She frowned, disappointed,
though somehow not surprised.

Must have
been the socks.

The distance into the quaint
town of Breymar proved much farther than she recalled.

Stumbling
toward what appeared to be a grocery store, her legs dragged like lead. The jet
lag still played havoc with her.

But fatigue
alone wasn’t causing her consternation.

As much as
she tried, she couldn’t keep her thoughts from straying to Rowan, and how good he’d
looked earlier in the kitchen. How in hell could she have forgotten such a
gorgeous man? Lord, she must have been tired the night before. And those taut
muscles in his legs etching a powerful impression against his pants as he’d
knelt and stacked the wood….   No wonder she couldn’t hold a teacup straight.
Her entire frame had quivered just being near him. The urge to throw herself into
his arms had threatened. Yet she couldn’t tell a perfect stranger that she’d
some incredible, unexplainable urge to hold him. No, more than that. She wanted
him to kiss her! Yes, she was crazy.

The feeling
of déjà vu returned as she imagined him embracing her. Now, she was dreaming. At
least daydreams of Rowan didn’t involve screaming people and bloodshed. She shivered
as she pushed the door of the little shop open.

The town
was small, but like many places home in Australia it had all the essentials--a
pub and a post office. Throw in a corner store, butcher and a few tourist-type
shops, and it made for a cute, postcard village.

The first
stop was the grocer, which hopefully accepted credit cards. She’d forgotten to exchange
her cash.

* *
* *

A portly
gent wearing an old green apron greeted her, smiling widely. “Good morning to you,
young miss.” He wiped his hands on a cloth and extended one. She shook it.
“Haven’t seen you around these parts before. On holiday are you?”

“No,
actually. Yes. I mean I’m staying at Banth Manor and--”

“Ooh, you
must be Miss Quinn.” He flushed a rosy shade of pink. “I’m Mr. Grady. I was supposed
to deliver you a hamper yesterday, aye? As it so happens, my delivery van broke
down you see, and what with the missus taking the Morris down south to see her
sister for the week, I’ve got no other transportation. Poor thing, her sister I
mean. She’s got terrible gout you know, gives her an awful lot of trouble it
does. Why I remember...”

Awestruck
at his verbosity, Ellen stood there while the man prattled on without so much
as drawing a breath. She didn’t have all day. “Dreadful!”

The man
stopped what he was saying and blinked. “Eh?”

 “Your
sister-in-law. It’s dreadful she is feeling so poorly. But while I’m here, is
there any chance I could get a couple of packets of chocolate biscuits, a jar
of coffee and… Oh, do you take plastic?”

His expression went blank.

“Plastic?
You mean credit cards. No need, miss. No need.” He reached behind the counter and
hoisted up a hefty basket. “I’ve got lots of treats in here for you. Puddings
and cakes, jams and a nice wedge of cheese--made local it is. Besides, if there
is anything else you need, his lordship said to put it on his account.”

“No, I
couldn’t let him pay. I mean, the hamper is one thing, but I don’t--”

“Come now.
What’s a little thing like you going to eat? He’ll never even notice such a pittance.
Speaking of which...” Reaching behind the counter once more, he produced an
old, chipped baked enamel cake tin, opened the lid and passed the container to
her.

“Here miss,
you must be starving. And, walking all that way too. Have a bit of fruitcake.
My wife made it especially for me--her own secret recipe you know. I suspect
she puts in a lot more whiskey than most, bless her, but her sister thinks...”

She held
back a sigh. Very sweet of him, but she didn’t have time for this. She grabbed
a small chunk of the dark brown confection. “That looks great.”

“Now,
Grady. Trying to tempt young women while your wife is away, are you?” said someone
behind her in a warm male voice. She turned and met the quizzical gaze of a
fair-haired young man leaning on the other counter, a shy smile tilting his
lips. He straightened and approached her then reached into the tin and removed
a piece of the cake.

“Hah. Good
day to you, Daniel.” Mr. Grady chuckled and replaced the lid on the tin. “Just offering
our new visitor some of Meg’s fruitcake.”

One of the
young man’s eyebrows rose and he smiled at her, studied her face with a slate
blue gaze. Couldn’t be more than twenty, twenty-one at the most.

“Visitor?
Hi, I’m Daniel. Welcome to Breymar, our own mad little corner of the world.”

A grin
itched at the corner of her mouth. A sense of humor. Nice. “Thank you. It’s a
beautiful place.”

“At times,
yes. I see you’ve already met Mr. Grady. Bit of a scoundrel he is. Only kidding,
of course. If there’s anything I can do to make you feel at home, just let me
know, miss?”

“Ellen.”

“Lovely
name.” The words dwelled upon his lips, interest flickered in his eyes. She
could take a hint. Warmth flushed her cheeks.

Right.
Okay, time to go.

Stuffing a
piece of cake into her mouth, she looked down at her watch then back at
Mr.Grady. “My, will you look at the time? I must dash. Nice to meet you,
Daniel.” A sudden thought caused her to look back down again. Her timepiece was
working, the tiny second hand ticking merrily away as if the watch had never
stopped. Strange. She would have to get it fixed.

“I guess
I’ll push off too. Mr. Grady, I’ll pick up my order tomorrow morning if that’s
okay? Good. Ah, lots to get done before finals next week. Pleasure meeting you,
Ellen.”

She smiled
at him and nodded then he turned and left the shop. Thank goodness. Nice enough
guy, but he was a little too friendly for her taste.

Adjusting
the time on her watch to the old cuckoo clock on the wall, she swallowed the mouthful,
produced a crumpled note from her jeans pocket and passed it to the grocer.
Hmm, the cake was tastier than she thought it would be. “The hamper looks great
Mr. Grady, but could you please add these few things to it? I’d like to have a
quick look around the town, so I’d better be off.”

Looking
puzzled, the gent examined the note and scratched his head.

“I’ll do my
best, miss.”

On her way
out, she paused in the doorway. “Oh, would there be any chance of getting a lift
back to the manor?”

“No, I’m
afraid not. The mechanic can’t look at my van ’til Monday. A right bother it
is, I say. Mrs. Murphy won’t be at all happy when she doesn’t have her
groceries for the morning. Six children she has you know, eating her out of
house and home. No, won’t be happy at all.”

She pursed
her lips into a smile. “Surely, Mr. Grady, there is a taxi, or someone you know
who wouldn’t mind taking me. The hamper is far too heavy to carry such a long
way back. I’d be happy to pay for the fuel or whatever.”

He stood
there, one hand on his chin, deep in thought. “Well, now you mention it, there
may be someone who can give you a ride. It isn’t a taxi mind you, but you have
to be back here in half an hour. He don’t like to be kept waiting.”

Finally, a
break. She beamed at the man. “Don’t worry, Mr. Grady. I’m sure whatever it is,
it will be perfect.”

* *
* *

Such an
overrated word, ‘perfect’.

The old
wooden wagon rattled and bumped its way along the winding dirt road. Its load—six
fat, muddy little piglets. Every little hole in the rutty surface transmitted
itself through the wooden boards, right into her backside.

There’d
been no room to sit up front with her driver, a farmer named Donnelly who
swigged out of a suspicious looking flask and said very little. Her legs swung
over the edge of the cart, dangling. An odd little ditty was being hummed up
front.

Guess it
was better than walking. She turned and faced the pigs, which had been grunting
with disapproval since they’d left the village, and poked her tongue out at
them. “What are you looking at?”

The journey
dragged on, and she started to doze. After what felt like hours, the rickety
old cart stopped with a jerk, nearly launching the heavy basket she’d been
balancing on her lap into the roadway.

Old and
rusted, the open gates of Banth stood before her. Thank goodness. Home. She
slid off the buggy, lugged the hamper toward the gates and turned to wave her
kind host goodbye.

A strange
expression had taken the place of his wrinkled smile. He stared past her,
fixated on the dreary old house.

“Is there
anything wrong, mate?”

He spat at
the ground.

“No good,
that place. No good at all. Best not be staying too long, if you take my
advice, missy. Nope. No good. You should be in town, get away from here. Up to
you though. That’s my say, and that’s all I’ll say.” Okaaay. As he finished,
the two previously placid horses began to move and fidget, tossing their heads
and whickering.

Without
waiting for the offer of money she’d begun to dig from her purse, he slapped
the reins and the horses trotted away.

“Er,
thanks,” she called out after him, though he never looked back. What a strange
man.

After
watching him disappear over the rise, she picked up the basket and began
hauling it up the long driveway. Then she noticed the smell.

Oh no.

Placing the
hamper on the ground, she twisted to see the back of her jeans. “For the love
of Pete.” They were covered in a selection of greenish-brown smears too obvious
not to be pig waste.

Fabulous.

Once she’d
unlocked the kitchen door, she placed the basket down and walked back outside. Not
happy. Whilst looking for the bathroom the day before without success, she’d
happened across an old shed next to the ‘out-door facility’. The structure was
old, maybe even by a hundred years, but would need to do the job. Inside, a
long granite trough sat dry and empty. Probably it had been used for animals.

Standing
there before it, she shook her head in both amusement and trepidation. “Well, I
guess it’s better than smelling like a pig.”

* *
* *

A
high-pitched squeal echoed across the field to Rowan in his retreat in the old
stable at the back of the estate overlooking the property next door. Where his
manor once had been, a modern brick and tile residence now stood.

Strange.
He’d never given any real thought to it until now, but he was certain he’d
watched the old home burn to the ground some eighty years before. Eighty years?
Could have been yesterday. Unless he concentrated on it, time meant nothing.
Since Ellen had arrived, he’d begun to remember fragments, though many made
little sense to him.

He wasn’t
alive. That much he understood.

After his
passing, there had been no one to carry on his line. The property had been sold
off by greedy distant cousins eager for quick money. The land was nothing to
them.

It had gradually been
divided, picked at like crows feeding on a deer carcass. Then only a tiny
parcel of earth with a rundown manor remained.

Until the
fire.

The last
evidence of his existence perished in the blaze--the final cremation of a
legacy long dead.

At a second
shrill cry, he headed back toward the house. Ellen. He’d been doing his best to
stay away from the woman, his thoughts too confused when she was around, but
perhaps she needed help?

Why did he
even care? In fact, when had he started?

He knew the
answer to that, damn it. It was the moment she walked into the manor. But she was
a Donegal. A bloody Donegal!

He
materialized near the conservatory, and when about to enter the kitchen through
the back door, more noises came from the nearby shed. What could the woman be
doing in there?

As he
approached, he noticed the door was shut but strange splashing sounds followed
by a loud exclamation came through.

The old
well.

Once used
for watering the horses, it lay in that shed. What if she’d fallen in? Forcing
the door open, he glanced around. She sat up to her neck in soapy, gray water.

“Rowan,”
she shouted as he tumbled into the shed. “What’s the matter? Why did you burst in
here like that?”

He stood
there, unable to take his gaze from her. Her unruly auburn curls were gathered
in a fiery mass upon her head. Tiny ringlets tumbled down, sticking to her
pink, wet cheeks and pale bare shoulders. Tracing each subtle line on her face,
he realized the more he stayed near her, the more he was changing.

A burning
sensation the likes of which he’d never known ignited, coursed through his
being and became almost overwhelming.

“I thought
you might have been in trouble.” Her blush deepened as he attempted to
penetrate the murky water with his gaze. “You were shouting. I thought you
needed help.”

“No,” she
replied, swirling her fingertips through the top of the water. “It’s just that
this water is bloody cold.”