The Brooding Stranger. Maggie Cox

waif who needed to be tucked up in bed with a hot water bottle and a steaming bowl of broth—never mind a man with winter-grey eyes and a look fierce enough to quell even the indomitable Queen Boudicca.

      Her body grew warm at his assessment that she wasn’t the kind of woman who could offer him exactly what he’d needed right then. How did he know that she couldn’t? Spending night after night cold and lonely and hurting in her bed was apt to make a grieving woman slightly crazy.

      Karen sucked in a startled breath as she realised she could even contemplate such a thing with a man who was practically a stranger—especially when only minutes before she’d been breaking her heart over Ryan. Reluctantly closing the door, she leant back against the wooden panelling and shut her eyes. Any port in a storm—that was all Gray O’Connell was looking for. And maybe at the end of the day so was she. The man she’d loved and married was long gone. Maybe any port in a storm was all she could hope for now?

      But at least her brooding landlord had said she could stay—even if he had thrown his decision at her like a scrap of meat from his plate. There was really no need for her to feel so stupidly grateful but the fact remained that she was. she was.

      On Saturday, Karen made a more prolonged visit to the thriving local town. Elated by her landlord’s grudging permission to let her stay on at the cottage, she vowed she’d celebrate by buying some new bits and pieces to cheer the place up. When she left she’d leave them for whoever came after her, but while she was there they would help make the house feel more like home.

      With that thought in mind, she browsed contentedly around the quaint narrow streets and thoroughfares, dipping in and out of enticing little craft shops and bookshops, sampling textures, scents and colours, sometimes buying—sometimes not.

      Much of the time her exploration was accompanied by the uplifting Irish tunes that drifted out from many of the pubs she passed. The music stirred her soul, as it had always done. It made her happy and sad simultaneously. Happy for the fierce joy it brought her, and sad because she’d probably left that way of life behind for good. But still the fingers that curled round the strap of her shoulder bag itched to pick up a guitar and play, and she had a brief vision of the instrument tucked away beneath her bed.

      Squashing the thought, Karen drifted into a coffee shop for a latte and a Danish pastry, content to sit amongst strangers with lilting Irish voices and enjoy her refreshment in peace.

      When she came out again the light was slowly fading, and people were starting to head home. On a last-minute impulse she dived into the bookshop she’d spied on the way across the street to the coffee shop and purchased a little book that had given her some much needed consolation in the months directly after Ryan’s death. Unfortunately she’d left her copy back in the UK. Tucking the book carefully into her bag, she made her way tiredly but contentedly back to where she’d parked the car.

      Lifting the lid on the simmering pot of stew, with its delicious and mouthwatering aroma of braised lamb and fragrant herbs, Karen took a deeply appreciative sniff, hearing her stomach growl in response. Her day out had given her the appetite of a Titan, and she was so glad that she’d thought to make dinner the night before, because now all she had to do was let it properly heat through and enjoy it.

      In the tiny sitting room scented candles flickered on almost every surface, the mingled scents of sandalwood, musk and vanilla creating a soothing ambience of warmth and relaxation, which was exactly what Karen had hoped for. Now that she’d got over her cold she was fully committed to taking much better care of herself—not just eating sensibly and taking regular exercise, but learning how to relax properly. Something she had never really done up until now.

      Her life with Ryan had been wonderful, but the last couple of years before he’d died it had been pretty much commitment after commitment, with barely a blank space in the diary to call their own. Touring up and down the country had taken its toll, and Karen had for ever been promising herself that one day she would definitely make more time for herself. Well, now she had the opportunity.

      The atmosphere in the cottage was strangely evocative. It brought to mind images of past times—of an older, more simple way of life, when people had worked the land and, even though they’d struggled to make ends meet, there had been a real sense of community and pulling together to help each other. A sense of sadness lingered in the rooms, too—a melancholy air that was like the wisp of smoke after a candle had been blown out. Karen yearned to do everything in her power to dispel that sadness if she could.

      The story of Gray O’Connell’s father Paddy had been on her mind ever since he’d related it, and she had an ache in her heart that hadn’t left since she’d heard it. It was all too easy to imagine the man living here alone, with nothing but his memories and his whiskey to keep him company. No doubt Paddy had sorely missed his son when he’d left to make his fortune. In his case, accomplishing exactly that. In all probability the older O’Connell had been proud of his son’s achievements, but maybe he just hadn’t had the words or the courage to tell him? It was a shame that Gray was torturing himself over what had happened.

      At the end of the day everyone had a choice in how they responded to life’s challenges, Karen reflected, and if his father had sought solace in whiskey then that had been his decision and was nothing to do with his son. That said, Gray O’Connell was clearly a troubled man himself.

      He was so different in every way from her gentle loving Ryan. She tenderly recalled how her husband had had a real talent for communicating with people, and had always been able to find an encouraging word for anyone downhearted or in despair. In the music business, a temperament like his had been rare. She was so lucky to have had him in her life, if only for all too brief a time.

      Exhaling a long, slow breath, she was gratified to see that her efforts at building the fire that evening were impressive, to say the least. Right now the flames were licking high and fierce into a really good blaze, rendering the room snugly warm as a result. In the background Karen’s portable radio added muted sounds of conversation and laughter, and for the first time in a long time she was genuinely at ease. By that she meant she wasn’t yearning for anything—not even company.

      Her gaze roamed the room with satisfaction. The three small prints she’d purchased, of three different but equally beautiful traditional stone cottages, all set in the emerald-green landscape of the country, had been carefully arranged side by side above the fireplace. Sitting gracefully in a simple but elegant glass vase she’d found in a junk shop were a mixed bunch of cream and red roses, their evocative, fragrant scent mingling gently with the aromatic candles. They were just small, perhaps insignificant things in themselves, but the pleasure they gave Karen was immense.

      Combing her fingers through her newly washed honey-gold hair, she glanced ruefully down at the faded blue jeans and red sweater she was wearing. Both items had definitely lost a little of their shape after several washes. The clothing had taken on the comfortable qualities of a dear old friend. Not that she had many ‘dear old friends’ to call upon since Ryan had gone. She grimaced. It was strange how bereavement either brought people closer or pushed them away.

      Shaking off the thought, she wondered if she shouldn’t make more than a passing concession to her new mood of optimism and change into something a little more feminine. There were two very nice Indian cotton dresses in her wardrobe—one dark green with a red velvet inlay on the bodice, and the other a rich luxurious purple that she’d bought in Camden Market back home. It might be nice to wear one of them to highlight all the good things she’d done for herself that day.

      Contemplating a quick visit to the bedroom to change, she nearly jumped out of her skin when someone rapped on the door. Lifting the latch, she was greeted by the night, the bitter cold air and a handsome if austere Gray O’Connell.

      ‘I came by to tell you that I’ve bought some things for the cottage. Is it okay if I drop them round in the morning?’

      He addressed her without preamble, not even saying hello. Karen stared, feeling an answering jolt in her stomach when her glance collided with his. She’d never seen such heartfelt loneliness in a person’s eyes. It didn’t help that she knew some of the reasons