Invitation To A Cornish Christmas. Marguerite Kaye

to the raw pain caused by the humiliating and devastating nature of Andrew’s revelations, if a bittersweet one. She missed their company at summer’s end, when they returned to school.

      Now, more than half a year after arriving in Cornwall, Emily had come to love her wild, rugged adopted home. She was mentally scarred but her heart was no longer bleeding. She had struck up no friendships with the villagers, but the hostility and suspicion which had greeted her arrival in Porth Karrek had given way to bland indifference. Emily was lonely but content.

      The November storms forced her to settle for a paddle in the shallows, which was what she intended to do today. The narrow strip of her front garden led on to the main path which wound its way up to the gates of Karrek House—though it would be more accurate to say gate posts, for the gates themselves were long gone, only the vacant gatekeeper’s cottage an indication that they had once functioned. From here the path forked. The broader path led through the estate cottages to St Piran’s Church, which stood guard at the top of steep Budoc Lane, the hub of Porth Karrek village, leading down to the harbour. But it was the lesser-used path Emily took, which cut across the grassy headland to a point above the beach.

      Grey dawn had given way to a fair morning. There were hints of pale blue sky peeking through the clouds, though how long it would last was another matter. The wind buffeted her skirts, sending her cloak flying out behind her as she hurried along, enjoying the salty breeze on her face, even though it made her eyes stream. Breathless but exhilarated, she arrived at the clifftop where the path narrowed significantly, cut like a staircase into the cliffs. Intent on keeping her footing, she didn’t notice the solitary figure until she had reached the sands.

      She felt an illogical spasm of resentment. Who was trespassing on her private domain? The man was standing at the water’s edge with his back to her, and she knew even from this distance that he was a stranger. Yet there was something in his confident stance, feet planted firmly in the sands, shoulders set, back straight, that gave her the strong impression that he belonged here.

      He appeared to be staring out at the outcrop of rocks known as The Beasts, the serrated tips of which were visible at low tide. For the rest of the time, The Beasts lurked just below the surface, waiting to trap the unwary sailor headed for the sanctuary of Porth Karrek harbour—or, if you listened to Jago Bligh, de facto harbourmaster, to ensure that only a native Porth Karrek boat might tie up there.

      The male figure was standing stock-still, as yet unaware of her presence. She could not ignore him. She could either abandon her paddle, take a chance on the weather holding and return later, or she could walk down to the water’s edge, bid him good morning, then leave him to his own devices. Shielding her eyes to gaze out at the horizon, Emily could see the first signs of clouds gathering. It wasn’t worth holding off and the tide, in any case, would be against her later. If she stood here prevaricating for much longer, he would eventually spot her and assume she’d been spying on him.

      For goodness sake, she had as much right to be here as he did! Perching on a rock, Emily took off her boots and unrolled her stockings. The sand was firm and damp. She set her bare feet down, closing her eyes in bliss at the feel of the soft, golden grains oozing between her toes. Tucking her stockings into her boots and placing them behind a rock, she made her way down the sands towards the lone figure. The waves were lapping just short of the tips of his brogues, though the sea was creeping ever closer now that the tide was on the turn.

      He must have sensed her presence rather than heard her approach, muffled by the roar of the surf further out, for he turned around while she was still a few steps from him. He was dressed in a wide-skirted brown coat, buckskin breeches and thick woollen stockings. It was rough country garb, though not coarsely made, for his coat fitted perfectly across his shoulders, and he wore underneath it not only a white linen shirt and neckcloth but a waistcoat of fine wool. Country garb, made by a city tailor, and certainly not purchased from the Chegwins’ store by the harbour. His skin was deeply tanned, with a fretwork of lines at the corners of his eyes as if he spent part of every day squinting at the horizon. His blue-black hair, slightly too long for current fashion, was tousled by the wind. The stubble, which was not quite a beard, not quite simply a matter of him having forgotten to shave, was the same coal-black colour.

      His smile dawned slowly as she approached, the nascent beard accentuating the fullness of his bottom lip, the whiteness of his teeth, and Emily’s insides responded in a positive lurch of attraction. He was not handsome, he was far too striking to be considered handsome, too unkempt—no, not unkempt, and not wild but—untamed, that was it.

      ‘Good morning.’ His voice was low but cultured, with no trace of the lilting Cornish accent.

      ‘Good morning.’ His eyes were hazel. He really did have a most beguiling smile. Emily smiled back. ‘It’s a lovely fresh day, isn’t it?’

      The man nodded at the massing bank of cloud on the horizon. ‘For the moment. Allow me to introduce myself. Captain Treeve Penhaligon.’

      ‘And I am Miss Faulkner, Emily Faulkner. How do you do, Captain—’ She broke off, her eyes widening. ‘Captain Penhaligon! The late Mr Austol Penhaligon’s brother? I never met him,’ she added when he nodded, ‘for I came to Porth Karrek in April, three months after he was lost at sea, but I know he was both respected and very much loved around here. Please accept my condolences for your loss.’

      ‘Thank you, I appreciate it, though in truth we were not close,’ Captain Penhaligon said awkwardly. ‘I have been travelling the high seas for nigh on twenty years and Austol was sure if he breathed anything other than Cornish air, he’d be poisoned, so our paths rarely crossed. To be perfectly honest, the officers and men of my ship are more family to me than a brother I barely knew as an adult. Still, it seemed very strange to me, arriving last night, not to find him in residence.’

      ‘That must have been very difficult for you.’

      ‘Of all the fates I’ve ever considered for myself, inheriting the Karrek estates wasn’t one. If one of us was going to die prematurely, you’d have thought it would be me, captain of a warship, not a country landowner. I’m not sure what to make of the situation I find myself in now, and I’m sure the villagers are equally apprehensive.’

      An understatement, Emily thought, though did not say. From what she could gather, the majority had hoped that Captain Penhaligon would never return to claim his inheritance, happy to continue under Jago Bligh’s familiar stewardship. ‘You’re an unknown quantity, and people in these parts don’t welcome change,’ she equivocated. ‘I’ll leave you to your musings.’

      ‘Please don’t. I have leave of absence until the end of the year, and plenty of time to muse. Right now, I’m happy to be distracted, and, if you have no objection, I’d very much like to accompany you on your walk.’ Captain Penhaligon glanced down at her bare feet, smiling quizzically. ‘Or should that be paddle? Unless you have that rare talent, the ability to walk on water?’

      Emily was surprised into a little huff of laughter. ‘When it comes to water, I much prefer to swim.’

      ‘I hope you weren’t planning to swim today? At this time of year, the tides and currents are too strong. It’s dangerous.’

      ‘You needn’t worry, I’m a very strong swimmer and I was raised to respect the sea in all its moods.’

      ‘Round here, people respect the sea by staying out of it.’

      ‘Round here, people believe that if you learn to swim your ship will sink.’

      ‘An old wives’ tale, adopted by mariners the world over.’

      ‘It’s true,’ Emily said. ‘I was born on the Isle of Lewis, in the Outer Hebrides, where the sands are every bit as golden, the surf just as high and the sea itself, not only every bit as wild and beautiful, but even colder than here. Lewis is very like Cornwall, where the people rely on fishing for a living, yet none of the fishermen will learn to swim for fear it will tempt the sea to take them for her own.’

      ‘You don’t share that particular superstition, then?’

      ‘My