By Jane Jackson
Published by Severn House, 2009
Excerpt
Crago came towards her, his soft boots silent on the beaten earth. His black hair was thick and shaggy and clearly needed the attention of a barber. As he approached through a shaft on sunlight, she realised why.
Warned what to expect, she had believed herself prepared. But for once, rumour and gossip fell short of reality. The white scar crossed his sun-browned face like jagged lightning. Struggling to hide her shock, Sarah felt unexpected and wrenching sympathy.
How many times must he have met quickly averted gazes or horror-filled stares, awed whispers, children pointing? Good manners demanded that she look away so as not to embarrass him. But she was all too familiar with turned backs and cold shoulders. She would not do to someone else what caused pain in her.
A muscle pulsed in his jaw and his lips tightened. Beneath black brows his eyes were the same colour as the surrounding bluebells and as cold as a quarry lake. He had seen her reaction, must have observed it countless times on other faces. He lifted his chin: the small movement a declaration that he despised her shock and rejected her pity.
It stung, but she understood. Did she not meet rejection and contempt every time she ventured into town? Becky’s description of him as “some great streak” was fairly accurate. But what she had failed to mention was the impact of his physical presence.
Over six feet tall, wearing a workman’s check shirt and coarse dark trousers tucked into the strangest boots she had ever seen, he had the powerful shoulders, deep chest and muscular build of a man familiar with hard manual labour. Yet the rumours declared him wealthy, and they had to be true. For without money, how would he have been able to restore the house or establish his business?
“Well?” he snapped. “What do you want?”
Sarah stiffened. “Such rudeness does you no credit, Mr Crago.”
“I owe you no courtesy, madam. Not only are you trespassing on private property, your presence here is a danger to us all.”