Susan Stephens Selection. Susan Stephens

her thumb appreciatively. ‘This is delicious.’

      ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Guy murmured as he poured them both a glass of chilled white wine.

      After the picnic Guy insisted on staying on until he had removed every single board from her windows. And he promised that his workmen would bring tubs of plastic wood with them to repair any holes made by the nails. Then the decorators would arrive.

      Waving him off, Kate decided that the cottage would be back to normal in no time. Except that it never would be completely back to normal, she thought wistfully, taking the wicker trug laden with flowers they had collected inside with her. Her intention was to keep everything just as it had been during Aunt Alice’s lifetime. A memorial? No, a tribute, she corrected herself as she dropped the bunch of garden blooms into a vase of water. And when Guy found out what she really planned to do with La Petite Maison? She would have found the opportunity to explain her plans to him long before that became a problem, she told herself confidently.

       CHAPTER THREE

      IT WAS deep in the still and secret part of the night when time had no meaning that Kate woke up coughing. Reaching out still half-asleep for the switch on the lamp by her bed, she suddenly realised that her eyes were stinging too. Squinting her eyes as she peered at the clock she became slowly conscious of the sharp, throat-catching tang of fire. She could taste it, smell it…and, as if drawn by an invisible hand to contemplate the dawning horror, she could see it too as her eyes fixed on the bottom of the heavy oak door where the first few puffs were billowing innocently through a tiny gap at the base.

      Instantly alert, she sprang out of bed and raced to grab her robe. Returning to the door, she felt down the length of it with the flat of her hand. It was still cool and formed a sturdy barrier between her and whatever lay beyond. She stiffened, listening intently as she tried to gauge the extent of the fire. Her face tensed with concern. She could hear the crackling of the flames quite clearly. But she had been so careful…

      Obviously not careful enough, she thought, remembering the candles she had lit on the kitchen table. Recreating the scene in her mind, she pictured the photograph albums next to the candles. She had meant to move them before going to bed. But she had stayed up too long worrying about Guy, her mixed-up feelings, the state of the cottage and whether she could possibly get it ready in time for her first guests. A sharp sound of distress escaped from her throat as she realised that would never happen now. And if by some miracle it did? Guy would never forgive her either way. She had lied to him. And she had planned to coax Guy’s elderly mother out of isolation too, bring her to the cottage… Was this like drowning, she wondered, having your whole life flash before your eyes?

      Kate forced her attention back to the door. One thing was for sure; she had wasted enough time. Opening the door a crack, she stared into the smoke-filled gloom. The stairs were still clear and probably safe. Glancing behind her into the bedroom, she took the chance to go back and snatch up a couple of things.

      On the glass-covered surface of the bow-fronted dressing table sat a silver frame containing a photograph of Aunt Alice, and to either side of Aunt Alice like two disapproving sentinels stood Kate’s mother and father. Clutching the frame in one hand, she snatched up a silver locket. The locket contained a photograph of herself as a young child staring defiantly into the camera. Kate felt a sudden pang to see that at nine years old there had already been something pinched and anxious behind her bravado. Snub-nosed and freckled and with a halo of red-gold curls in such disarray it proved that the photograph could only have been taken in France. And on the facing side, in perfect counterbalance to the reckless young hoyden she had once been, Aunt Alice appeared, apple-cheeked and twinkling. The locket had no real value except that it expressed everything about her young life and the influence Aunt Alice had wielded upon it…and that made it one of her most treasured possessions. She never went anywhere without it, for in spite of the angst behind the tomboy façade, those two photographs represented everything that had been good and happy and carefree about her childhood once her parents had agreed that she could be released into Aunt Alice’s care each summer.

      The smoke was growing dangerously thick and Kate knew she would have to find some clean air or fall where she stood.

      This time when she opened the door the heat scorched her face, forcing her to draw back in alarm. Snatching another glance, she saw the fire licking up the sides of the wooden staircase, creating a surreal vista of shadows and flame and smoke and ash. Gathering her courage around her like an invisible blanket, she burst out of the door and with gravity as her only guide she launched herself down the stairs. Her eyes were stinging so badly they filled with tears, blinding her as the thick black smoke curled its deadly tentacles around her chest.

      Stumbling across the kitchen she found the back door, but fear made her clumsy as she struggled to pull back the locks. Gasping, coughing and sobbing all at once, only sheer bloody-mindedness kept her going. As the locks yielded she fell into the night and half-crawling scrambled along the path until she could no longer feel the heat of the fire. But as her mind slowly cleared she realised that somehow during her flight the precious locket had fallen from her hand. Her cry of despair sounded eerie in the darkness. But when she turned her agonised gaze on the cottage she saw that smoke was already billowing from the roof and glowing cinders were issuing in burnished clouds through the kitchen window like some unseasonable firework display.

      Laughing hysterically, Kate got to her knees and made a desperate calculation. There was no sign as yet of any flames on the upper floor of the cottage. Perhaps she could retrace her steps? Dazed with shock, she got up slowly. She had seen films where people wet a cloth and tied it around their mouth and nose to keep out the worst of the deadly fumes.

      All she could think about was the locket. And then she remembered the chain biting into her hand as she leaped down the stairs. Slipping off her robe, she soaked it under the outside tap. Then, shivering with fear and cold, she forced her arms back inside the sodden towelling. Stepping quickly out of her flimsy pyjama bottoms, she wet them too and, tying them around her face, she staggered back to the front door cursing the fact that while her resolve was as strong as ever, the old injury to her leg was holding her back. Darting her head in and out fast, she took in the scene. The fire had taken a strong hold, but the flames would light her way and she might be all right if she was quick enough. There was a slim chance she could save the locket before it melted into a pool of molten metal…and a slim chance was enough.

      She was just gearing herself up to dive in when the sound of noisy engines crested the ugly sounds of the fire. People were shouting and then she became aware that alarm bells were ringing in the village. Relief burst from her throat in a guttural cry she would not have recognised as her own. She was so thankful not to be alone—so grateful someone had noticed and had thought to rouse help. But she was past the point where reason governed her actions. And if she was going to find the locket she had to go now—

      ‘No! Kate, no! What are you doing?’

      An iron band snapped round her waist, holding her back. Then she was yanked away from the threshold of the cottage—carried off, away from the stream of people who were racing up the path—some carrying a wide bore hose between them, others bringing water in an endless stream of buckets and all of them shouting, urging each other on as they rushed to help.

      ‘Let me go! Let me go!’ Kate shrieked so forcefully that her throat was almost raw by the time Guy lowered her to the ground.

      ‘Mon Dieu! Kate!’ he said as he stared into her wild, desperate eyes. ‘What were you thinking of? You could have been killed!’

      ‘I don’t care! It doesn’t matter! Don’t you understand?’ she cried huskily as she tried to fight him off, tried to get back to the cottage. ‘I have to go back. Let me go!’

      ‘No!’ Guy rasped as he held her tight to his chest.

      ‘I’m warning you—’ But her voice was wobbling and her legs were giving way.

      ‘No,’ he said again a little more gently, but holding her even more securely.