Summer Of Love. Marion Lennox

‘to discover myself before we marry’—what she’d told him this morning had only confirmed what he already knew. Their relationship was over, but she’d been in tears and he owed her enough to listen.

      And then, on top of everything else, there’d been trouble lambing. He’d bottle-fed Sadie from birth, she was an integral part of a tiny flock of sheep he was starting to build, and he hadn’t had the heart to leave until she was safely delivered.

      Finally he’d tugged on clean trousers, a decent shirt and serviceable boots, and there was an end to his preparation for inheriting title and castle. If the castle didn’t approve, he’d decided, it could find itself another lord.

      And now he was about to get muddy, which wasn’t very lordly either.

      At least he knew enough of bogland to move slowly, and not get into trouble himself. He knew innocuous grassland often overlaid mud and running water. It could give way at any moment. The only way to tread safely was to look for rocks that were big enough to have withstood centuries of sodden land sucking them down.

      After that initial panicked call, the woman was now silent and still, watching him come. The ground around her was a mire, churned. The bog wasn’t so dangerous that it’d suck her down like quicksand, but it was thick and claggy so, once she’d sunk past her knees, to take one step after another back to dry land would have proved impossible.

      He was concentrating on his feet and she was concentrating on watching him. Which he appreciated. He had no intention of ending up stuck too.

      When he was six feet away he stopped. From here the ground was a churned mess. A man needed to think before going further.

      ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said.

      He nodded, still assessing.

      She sounded Australian, he thought, and she was young, or youngish, maybe in her mid to late twenties. Her body was lithe, neat and trim. She had short cropped, burnt-red curls. Wide green eyes were framed by long dark lashes. Her face was spattered with freckles and smeared with mud; eyeliner and mascara were smudged down her face. She had a couple of piercings in one ear and four in the other.

      She was wearing full biker gear, black, black and black, and she was gazing up at him almost defiantly. Her thanks had seemed forced—like I know I’ve been stupid but I defy you to tell me I am.

      His lips twitched a little. He could tell her anything he liked—she was in no position to argue.

      ‘You decided to take a stroll?’ he asked, taking time to assess the ground around her.

      ‘I read about this place on the Internet.’ Still he could hear the defiance. Plus the accent. With those drawn-out vowels, she had to be Australian. ‘It said this district was famous for its quaking bogs but they weren’t dangerous. I asked in the village and the guy I asked said the same. He said if you found a soft part, you could jump up and down and it bounced. So I did.’

      His brows lifted. ‘Until it gave way?’

      ‘The Internet didn’t say anything about sinking. Neither did the guy I asked.’

      ‘I’d imagine whoever you asked assumed you’d be with someone. This place is safe enough if you’re with a friend who can tug you out before you get stuck.’

      ‘I was on my bike. He knew I was alone.’

      ‘Then he’d be trying to be helpful.’ Finn was looking at the churned-up mud around her, figuring how stuck she truly was. ‘He wouldn’t be wanting to disappoint you. Folk around here are like that.’

      ‘Very helpful!’ She glowered some more. ‘Stupid bog.’

      ‘It’s a bit hard to sue a bog, though,’ he said gently. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll fetch planks from the truck. There’s no way I’ll get you out otherwise. I’ve no wish to be joining you.’

      ‘Thank you,’ she said again, and once more it was as if the words were forced out of her. She was independent, he thought. And feisty. He could see anger and frustration—and also fury that she was dependent on his help.

      She was also cold. He could hear it in the quaver in her voice, and by the shudders and chattering teeth she was trying to disguise. Cold and scared? But she wasn’t letting on.

      ‘Hold on then,’ he said. ‘I’ll not be long. Don’t go anywhere.’

      She clamped her lips tight and he just knew the effort it was taking her not to swear.

      * * *

      To say Jo Conaill was feeling stupid would be an understatement. Jo—Josephine on her birth certificate but nowhere else—was feeling as if the ground had been pulled from under her. Which maybe it had.

      Of all the dumb things to do...

      She’d landed in Dublin two nights ago, spent twenty-four hours fighting off jet lag after the flight from Sydney, then hired a bike and set off.

      It was the first time she’d ever been out of Australia and she was in Ireland. Ireland! She didn’t feel the least bit Irish, but her surname was Irish and every time she looked in the mirror she felt Irish. Her name and her looks were her only connection to this place, but then, Jo had very few connections to anything. Or anyone.

      She was kind of excited to be here.

      She’d read about this place before she came—of course she had. Ireland’s bogs were legion. They were massive, mysterious graveyards of ancient forests, holding treasures from thousands of years ago. On the Internet they’d seemed rain-swept, misty and beautiful.

      On her lunch break, working as a waitress in a busy café on Sydney Harbour, she’d watched a You Tube clip of a couple walking across a bog just like this. They’d been jumping up and down, making each other bounce on the spongy surface.

      Jumping on the bogs of Galway. She’d thought maybe she could.

      And here she was. The map had shown her this road, describing the country as a magnificent example of undisturbed bog. The weather had been perfect. The bog looked amazing, stretching almost to the horizon on either side of her bike. Spongy. Bouncy. And she wasn’t stupid. She had stopped to ask a local and she’d been reassured.

      So she’d jumped, just a little at first and then venturing further from the road to get a better bounce. And then the surface had given way and she’d sunk to her knees. She’d struggled for half an hour until she was stuck to her thighs. Then she’d resigned herself to sit like a dummy and wait for rescue.

      So here she was, totally dependent on a guy who had the temerity to laugh. Okay, he hadn’t laughed out loud but she’d seen his lips twitch. She knew a laugh when she saw one.

      At least he seemed...solid. Built for rescuing women from bogs? He was large, six-two or -three, muscular, lean and tanned, with a strongly boned face. He was wearing moleskin trousers and a khaki shirt, open-necked, his sleeves rolled above the elbows to reveal brawny arms.

      He was actually, decidedly gorgeous, she conceded. Definitely eye candy. In a different situation she might even have paused to enjoy. He had the weathered face and arms of a farmer. His hair was a deep brown with just a hint of copper—a nod to the same Irish heritage she had? It was wavy but cropped short and serviceable. His deep green eyes had crease lines at the edges—from exposure to weather?

      Or from laughter.

      Probably from laughter, she decided. His eyes were laughing now.

      Eye candy or not, she was practically gritting her chattering teeth as she waited for him. She was totally dependent on a stranger. She, Jo Conaill, who was dependent on nobody.

      He was heading back, carrying a couple of short planks, moving faster now he’d assessed the ground. His boots were heavy and serviceable. Stained from years of work on the land?

      ‘I have a bull who keeps getting himself bogged near the water troughs,’ he said idly, almost as if he was talking to himself and not