The Brooding Stranger

‘One kiss,’ he said hoarsely.

Startled, Karen was still gathering her wits as he stepped towards her and hauled her against his chest. The sensation of heat and damp from his sweater enveloped her, even as the wild fresh scent of the sea and the Atlantic air invaded her senses so profoundly that she suddenly felt dizzy as well as exhilarated.

Then, as suddenly and abruptly as he had pulled her into his arms, Gray released her.

‘Are you okay?’

He voiced his concern almost grudgingly, as if he couldn’t wait to be gone. Karen suddenly wanted him gone too. Now she understood why hate and love were so closely intertwined.

‘Why should you care?’ she tried, but was unable to prevent the sob that accompanied her words.

‘I do care, damn you!’

Shaking her head, Karen blinked up at him through eyes that were helplessly brimming with tears. ‘No, you don’t. Just go. Please … just go.’

About the Author

The day MAGGIE COX saw the film version of Wuthering Heights, with a beautiful Merle Oberon and a very handsome Laurence Olivier, was the day she became hooked on romance. From that day onwards she spent a lot of time dreaming up her own romances, secretly hoping that one day she might become published and get paid for doing what she loved most! Now that her dream is being realised, she wakes up every morning and counts her blessings. She is married to a gorgeous man, and is the mother of two wonderful sons. Her two other great passions in life—besides her family and reading/writing—are music and films.

THE BROODING

STRANGER

MAGGIE COX

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the wonderful Conar and Sandy, and the equally

wonderful Luke and Mia, with my everlasting love.

CHAPTER ONE

TO KAREN, the thumping tread thundering in her direction sounded like a herd of wildebeest on the rampage, and for a few vivid seconds she imagined she had somehow stumbled into some other dimension. Lord knew it couldn’t be beyond the bounds of possibility in these deep, labyrinthine scented woods she’d recently taken to wandering in. A lively imagination was bound to go haywire. And right now Karen’s imagination was doing just that. She regretted taking the sleeping pills she’d swallowed last night to help her drop off—especially when her head felt as though every percussion instrument in the world was being played inside it. Her wits needed to be razor-sharp—not dulled by medication of any kind.

As the thumping tread drew nearer, she glanced through the tangle of trees and foliage, fear coating her mouth as surely as if her dentist had numbed her in preparation for a filling. She couldn’t run. The bones in her legs had turned to water and it was impossible to think straight. Her gaze swept down desperately to the sensible walking boots she wore that were liberally caked in mud. She told herself she could sprint if she had to—but from what? She had yet to find out. Oh, Lord! Don’t let me faint … anything but that. Please don’t let me lose consciousness. Her desperate silent plea was bordering on a mantra as she waited for whatever was coming towards her, ice-cold terror jack-knifing through her heart.

Seconds later, a fawn-coloured monster hurtled out of the trees into the clearing where Karen had turned to stone—heading with a great lolloping gait towards her. A strangled gasp left her lips as she came face to face with the unseen terror that had halted her morning walk with such spine-tingling fear, her heartbeat mimicking an increasingly loud drumroll in her ears. He was a beast and no mistake! What idiot would let such a creature loose? Left alone to roam and terrify and possibly attack at will? At the thought of the latter possibility, she made her gaze home in anxiously on the huge fawn head and wide mouth, saw the creature’s long tongue, lolling and wet as he panted heavily, and felt physically sick.

A commanding shout rang out that took them both by surprise. The beast pricked up his ears as though he were a transmitter receiving a signal, and came to an abrupt stop only bare inches from her, his ears cocked, his intimidating energy streaking between them like lightning.

‘Oh, God!’ Karen covered her mouth with her hands and cursed the foolish tears that hazed her wide blue eyes. It was going to be all right, she told herself. The creature had an owner. Irresponsible clod he must be, but he hadn’t let the beast out on its own. Thank God for small mercies.

When he appeared from out of the trees, the man appeared as shocked to see her as Karen had been at the sight of his animal—shocked but apparently unrepentant … That much was evident even in the space of just a few seconds. Pausing briefly to assess the situation, he immediately gave her the impression that he was the one who held the upper hand, and something told Karen that apologies or concern for another didn’t come easily to him. Remorse was probably just as alien. There was something innately proud and overbearing in his lean rugged stance that immediately raised her hackles and put her senses on high alert.

Tall and unquestioningly commanding, with black hair that edged untamed and untrimmed onto his shoulders in arrogant defiance of trend or convention, he had a hard, unforgiving face that even at a distance looked forbiddingly incapable of any notion of kindness whatsoever. Perhaps it would have been better if she had fainted, Karen thought wildly. Here she was, at not much past seven o’clock in the morning—despite her sleeping pills—alone in the woods with an intimidating dog and his equally intimidating owner. If only she had listened to the instincts of her tired, aching body and succumbed to an extra hour or so in bed. But, no … As usual she’d had to push herself to the limit. Past events might have taken their toll, but no one would accuse her of being lazy or idle. Maybe she’d have cause to revise that opinion later, she fretted now, her gaze fixed on the dominating individual striding towards her. She’d have to wait and see.

As he walked there was a kind of reined-in anger in his tread, and his boots were crunching through the carpet of twigs and mulch as if tolling a death knell on Karen’s peace of mind. When he came to a stop just behind the animal, he reached out and roughly stroked the oversized head.

‘Good boy.’ He stopped petting the dog, then pushed his hand deep into the pocket of the battered leather jacket he wore, which might have been a high fashion item for the mouth-watering effect it had on that hard rangy body. Nonetheless, Karen all but shook with the effort of trying to contain her rage.

‘Good boy?’ she echoed in a disbelieving rasp, ‘Your damn dog—if that’s what he is, and I have my doubts—scared the living daylights out of me! What do you think you’re doing, letting him run loose like that?’

‘This is a free country. You can walk for miles in these woods without meeting a soul. Besides, Chase wouldn’t hurt you … not unless I told him to.’

A glint crept into eyes that were the winter-grey of an icy lake. Strangely light. Teamed with that rich, cultured voice, they were potent enough to cause a ripple of unease in anyone.

‘Chase? That’s his name? How apt. What is he, exactly?’ Karen plumped for bravado to waylay the pulsing thud of fear that was rolling through her in increasingly disturbing waves.

‘Great Dane.’ He spat the words out as if only a fool would have to ask him that.

‘Well, he still shouldn’t be off the lead.’ Ignoring his obvious contempt, she folded her arms defensively across her thick navy fleece, silently cursing his innately masculine ability to intimidate and belittle—and amazed by her temerity in pursuing a conversation with such a man for even a second longer than necessary. His accent was rather more clipped than the softer lilt she had became used to from the locals.

Just in front of her, Chase breathed heavily in a cloud of steam, his ears still pricked, as if waiting for the next instruction from his master. Karen kept a wary eye on him in case he should suddenly make a lunge, despite what his owner had said. Right now she trusted neither one of them.

‘The problem seems to me to be strangers in the woods making a fuss over nothing.’ An innate arrogance angled his jaw, highlighting the high, sculpted cheekbones and the disdainful slash of his mouth. ‘Come on, Chase. It’s high time we headed home.’

The dog leapt away at his master’s words and Karen knew she had been dismissed—dismissed and discarded as nothing more than a trifling annoyance, a gnat on the end of his battered leather sleeve. He hadn’t even offered her the most grudging apology for frightening her half out of her wits.

Okay, perhaps she’d overreacted a little at the idea of his dog being off his leash, when these woods weren’t exactly overpopulated with folk out for a stroll … but even so. Her body tight with indignation, she was even more unsettled when the stranger turned back to regard her with a glance that could easily have matched the temperature in a deep freeze.

‘By the way, if you’re planning on coming this way tomorrow I can assure you we won’t be taking this route again. We value our privacy, Chase and I.’

‘Do you seriously imagine I’d want to come this way again after the fright I’ve just had?’ Karen’s chin jutted forward, her blue eyes challenging the cutting arrogance in the stranger’s hostile glance, despite her desire to escape as soon as possible.

The corners of his lips curled upwards in an almost wicked caricature of a smile. Karen blanched.

‘Nothing surprises me about the female species, little girl. Now, run along—and if anyone asks why you look so pale, you can tell them that you just bumped into the big bad wolf in the woods. Be thankful he didn’t eat you for breakfast.’ And, smiling his cold unnerving smile, he turned away.

‘Very funny,’ Karen murmured under her breath, but silently acknowledged it was anything but.

A nearby branch whinnied and creaked in the wind, almost making her jump out of her skin. Alarmed, and shaken by the anger that still lodged like a red-hot stone in her chest, she stomped off in the opposite direction from the dark, hostile stranger, furious with herself because she was crying again. Only this morning she’d promised herself that today was the day she would finally turn off the waterworks for good. Fat chance of that after that highly unpleasant little encounter!

That reference of his about the ‘big bad wolf’ had chilled her to the bone. Had he been referring to that beast of a dog, or himself? Most definitely himself, she decided, shivering, and walked on.

Back at the old stone cottage where she had hidden herself away for the past three months, she saw with satisfaction that the fire she’d started in the ancient iron grate was well underway, the peat and twigs hissing and crackling nicely. It was amazing how small, everyday things like that gave her such a sense of achievement these days. She supposed it was because she’d had to learn how to do them all by herself. The heat that started to permeate from the blaze lent some much needed warmth to the chill damp air that clung like frosted mist round the old place—that seeped into its very walls.

Sometimes it even made her clothes feel damp when she put them on in the morning. And at night it was so cold that Karen had taken to wearing both pyjamas and a dressing gown in bed. Her mother would absolutely hate such an abode. She’d probably ask just what she was trying to prove by living in such primitive conditions. Just as well, then, that she wasn’t around to comment.

Shivering, Karen stripped off her rain-dampened fleece and hurriedly laid it over the back of a chair. Lighting the gas burner on the stove, she filled the slightly dented copper kettle and plunked it down with a sense of something vitally important being accomplished … tea. She couldn’t really think until she’d imbibed at least two or three cups. This morning she was even more in need of it than usual, since that horribly frightening incident with the man in black and his beast of a dog.

Great Dane, indeed—he was more like a slavering cave troll! Just who was that hostile stranger, and where was he from? She’d been living in the area for three months now, and hadn’t heard mention of him from anyone. Mrs Kennedy in the local shop was the font of all wisdom, and even she hadn’t mentioned the strange well-spoken Irishman and his huge dog—at least not in Karen’s hearing. Sighing, she registered the sound of the kettle whistling, and hurriedly put the makings of her tea together with a determined purpose that had definitely been absent when she’d forlornly left the house to venture into the woods.

Her fellow walker might have been unpleasant, antisocial and taciturn, but, recalling his image now, Karen wondered if his unsettling demeanour wasn’t some kind of shield that cloaked some deep, personal unhappiness. Even though he’d probably not cared that both he and his dog had frightened her, the morose expression in those unusual compelling grey eyes of his had somehow haunted her. What had put it there? she wondered. Was he recovering from some terrible shock or sorrow? Karen could relate to that. Not least because in the past eighteen months she’d been to hell and back herself.

In fact, she was far from certain whether she’d returned yet. There were days when she was so dark in spirit that she almost couldn’t face waking up in the morning. But slowly, inch by inch, she’d begun to see that the possibility of healing her wounded spirit in this beautiful place in the west of Ireland was real and not just wishful thinking. With its wild mountain backdrop, mysterious woods and the vast Atlantic Ocean only a short walk from her door, its beauty had started to penetrate the gloom that had overshadowed her since the tragedy. The wildness and isolation of her surroundings had provided a welcome sanctuary to help ease the fear and heartache that so often deluged her, and she’d learned there was a good reason why people referred to the healing powers of nature.

One day when she was whole again, she told herself, she might find the courage to go home. One day … but just not yet.

Gray O’Connell couldn’t seem to get the image of the pretty blonde stranger who had lost her temper with him out of his head … feisty little thing. He grimaced. With every step he took on the route back to the house, her exquisite features—particularly her lovely blue eyes—became clearer and more compelling. Who in blazes was she? There were a few Brits in these parts who had holiday homes, but in the midst of October the homes usually stood empty and forlorn.

Then he remembered something that made him stop and shake his head with a groan. He should have kept on top of things better. Instead he’d been progressively letting things slide, he realised. It certainly wasn’t the sharp, incisive mindset that had helped him make his fortune in London.

Suddenly aware of who the girl might be, he wondered what made her stay here when in another month winter would bite hard, quickly replacing the mellow autumnal air and making even the local inhabitants long for summer again. Perhaps she was a loner, like him? he reflected. What if personal circumstances had driven her to take refuge here? Gray of all people could understand the need for solitude and quiet—though a fat lot of good it seemed to be doing him lately.

Not wanting to explore that particular line of thought, and irritably snapping out of his reverie, he lengthened his stride and determinedly headed for home … .

‘And I’ll take some of that lovely soda bread, if I may, Mrs Kennedy?’

Standing on the other side of the counter from the ebullient Eileen Kennedy, Karen was in silent admiration of how such a plump, elderly woman could still be so robust and also graceful on her feet. Bustling here and there, reaching up to sturdy home-made shelves that had probably been there for ever, rooting amongst tins of fruit and packets of jelly and instant sauce mixes to supply Karen’s grocery list, she kept up a steady stream of chat that was strangely comforting. The trouble was Karen had grown so used to being on her own here that there weren’t many people whose company she could tolerate for long. The grandmotherly Irish woman was a definite exception.

‘Now then, me darlin’, is that all you’ll be wanting today?’ The groceries piled up on the counter between them, Eileen smiled warmly at the young woman who for once didn’t seem in a particular hurry to rush away.

Holding out her money, Karen felt a faint flush stain her cheeks at being the recipient of such unstinting warmth. ‘That’s all, thank you. If I’ve forgotten anything I can always come back tomorrow, can’t I?’

‘Indeed you can. You’ll be as welcome as the flowers in May, and that’s the truth—though I can’t help thinking it must be awful lonely, living up there in Paddy O’Connell’s old cottage all on your own. You’ve been here for quite a while now, haven’t you? What about your family? Sure, your poor mother must be missing you something awful.’

Smiling uneasily, Karen said nothing. Who was she to disenchant this lovely old lady of the idea that her mother must be missing her? The truth was that Elizabeth Morton was probably glad that her tragic daughter had moved to Ireland for the foreseeable future. That way, she wouldn’t have to deal with all the messy, ‘inconvenient’ emotions she so clearly detested and that Karen’s presence would inevitably bring up. With Karen settled in Ireland for a while, Elizabeth could fool herself that all was still well in the world. A world where she’d become a master at keeping up appearances and disguising her feelings—a realm where she could continue socialising and lunching with her friends as though tragedy had not hit her only child like a tidal wave and all but dragged her under.

Eileen Kennedy was too astute a woman not to see that the reference to her mother had unsettled Karen. Her reluctance in commenting easily conveyed that something had gone on there. Not that Karen blamed the shopkeeper for being curious. She’d often sensed that the locals she bumped into in the small but buzzing Irish town were curious about the ‘aloof’ English girl who had rented ‘Paddy O’Connell’s old place’, as it was regularly referred to—not least of all the local lads who whistled and tried to engage her whenever she passed by. All Karen wanted was some peace and quiet, but people wouldn’t know why unless she told them. And she wasn’t ready to do that. Not by a long chalk.

‘Now, love …’ Carefully arranging the groceries in Karen’s large wicker basket, Mrs Kennedy rang up the amount on the old-fashioned till—another charming relic from long ago. The cosy corner shop set-up was much more appealing to Karen than a soulless supermarket. As the elderly lady counted out her change, her watery blue eyes seemed to consider her unsmiling expression sympathetically. ‘Please forgive me if you think I’m being too forward, but I get the distinct feeling that you could use some cheering up—and I have a suggestion. There’s music and dancing down at Malloy’s Bar just off the high street on Saturday night, and you’d be made as welcome as if you were one of our own. Why don’t you come and join us? I’ll be there about eight or so, with my husband, Jack, and we’d love you to come and sit with us. Sure, a bit of music and dancing would do you the world of good. Put the bloom back into those lovely cheeks of yours.’

Music … Inwardly, Karen sighed with longing. How she had missed it. But how could she return to it with any enjoyment after what had happened to Ryan? It had been eighteen months—eighteen long months since she’d even picked up her guitar. What if she couldn’t sing again? What if the tragedy had robbed her of her voice for good? What was the point anyway? Karen’s singing career had been her and Ryan’s joint dream. Now that her husband was no longer living, she didn’t have the heart to pursue it on her own. ‘Tragic Princess of Pop’ the local papers had dubbed her. Maybe that would always be the case. That was one of the reasons why she had eventually fled to Ireland—Ryan’s homeland—selecting the most westerly and rural location she could find, where no one would have heard of the singer who had been starting to make a name for herself back home in Britain.

Now she sighed out loud, wishing with all her heart that she didn’t feel so emotionally ambushed by a simple kind invitation to an evening out. If only she could be normal again—if only she could reply easily and with pleasure at the thought of being amongst people having a good time again. Her gaze focusing on the neat row of canned baked beans and tinned tomatoes behind Eileen Kennedy, she willed herself to say something. Anything. Before the kindly shopkeeper concluded she had lost her manners. But the lady behind the counter didn’t seem in a hurry for a reply. All the shopkeepers Karen had met here had easily transmitted to her that there was nothing they liked better than passing the time of day with a customer.

Finally, sighing again deeply, she found the words she was searching for. ‘I don’t think so, Mrs Kennedy. It’s very nice of you to ask me, but I’m—I’m not very good around people just now.’

‘And sure, no one will expect anything different, sweetheart. They understand you’ve come here for your own private reasons. My guess is to get over something … or someone, maybe? No one expects you to be the life and soul of the party. If there’s any nonsense from anyone my Jack will give them short shrift and no mistake! Come on, now—what could it hurt?’

That was the six-million-dollar question as far as Karen was concerned, and one she still hadn’t figured out the answer to. What was certain was that she definitely wasn’t ready to socialise yet—the way she was feeling she’d sooner jump out of a plane without a parachute. ‘I can’t. I appreciate you asking me, I really do, but right now I.I just couldn’t.’

‘Fair enough, dear. You come and join us when you’re ready. We’re always at Malloy’s on a Saturday night, me and Jack, so we are.’ Eileen rubbed her hands down her wraparound apron, its worn cotton fabric quaintly adorned with sprigs of red berries on a faded pink background, and smiled.

‘Mrs Kennedy?’

‘Yes, my dear?’ The old lady leaned across the counter at the unexpected lowering of the younger woman’s voice, resting her well-covered forearm on the scratched wooden surface.

Karen cleared her throat to give her courage. She respected everybody’s right to privacy, she really did—she hated hers being invaded—but she suddenly had an imperative need to know about the man in the woods. The ‘big bad wolf’, as he’d sardonically dubbed himself.

‘Is there a man in the area who owns a huge fawn-coloured dog? A Great Dane, he said it was.’

‘Gray O’Connell,’ Eileen replied without hesitation. ‘His father lived in the very cottage you’re staying in.’

‘His father? You mean his father is Paddy O’Connell?’ Karen frowned as a wave of shock shuddered through her.

‘Was, you mean … Yes, Paddy was a fine man until the drink did for him—God rest his soul.’ The old lady crossed herself, then leaned conspiratorially towards Karen. ‘His son owns practically everything of any worth around here—including your cottage, of course. Not much pleasure it brings him, either. ‘Tis a wonder he hasn’t gone the way of his father himself, with all that’s happened. But there, I expect he finds solace in his own way, with his painting and such.’

‘He’s an artist?’

‘Yes, dear … a good one, too, by all accounts. My friend Bridie Hanrahan works up at the big house, cleaning and cooking for him. If it wasn’t for Bridie we wouldn’t hear anything about the man at all. Turning into a real recluse, he is. ‘Tis true that money doesn’t buy happiness. More than true in Gray O’Connell’s case, I would say.’