a husband who’d callously greeted that news by saying he didn’t ever want children—had plunged her into a lethargy she couldn’t shake off. A subsequent miscarriage had stripped her of any ability to cope. The shock of her mother’s illness and David’s flat refusal to let her go back to New Zealand had piled on more anguish than she could bear.
And then Rafe had arrived, tall and lithe and sinfully attractive, his intimidating authority somehow subtly diminishing David, and made his casual offer to take her home with him. By then she’d suspected she might be pregnant again and it was this, as well as her mother’s illness, that had given her the courage to stand up to her husband.
Back in New Zealand and caring for her mother and a father whose grief-stricken bewilderment had rendered him almost helpless, she’d discovered that her pregnancy was a fact.
It had been another shock but a good one, giving her a glimpse of a future. With that responsibility to face, she’d contacted a counsellor.
Who’d told her not to be so harsh on herself. “A miscarriage, with the resultant grief and hormonal imbalance, can be traumatic enough to send some women into deep depression,” she’d said firmly. “Stop blaming yourself. You needed help and you didn’t get it. Now you’re getting it and you’ll be fine.”
And during the years spent with her parents and looking after her son, she’d clawed her way back to the person she’d been before David. Her fierce determination to make sure Keir had everything he needed for a happy life had kept her going.
For him she had turned herself around. And because of him she would never marry again …
* * *
The next morning was busy, which was just as well. She’d been wound tightly, waiting for Rafe to call for her and Keir, but his pleasant aloofness almost convinced her that she had no reason to fear him. He might find her attractive, but a small-time shopkeeper was not his sort of woman. They tended to be tall and beautiful and well-connected, wear designer clothes and exquisite jewels, and be seen at the best parties all over the world.
In the afternoon she and Keir worked in the cottage garden; by the time she went to bed she was tired enough to fall asleep after only a few thoughts about Rafe Peveril.
She woke to Keir’s call and a raw taint of smoke that brought her to her feet. Coughing, she shot into Keir’s room and hauled him from bed, rushing him to the window and jerking back the bolt that held it in place.
Only to feel the old sash window resist her frantic upwards pressure. A jolt of visceral panic kicking her in the stomach, she struggled desperately, but it obstinately refused to move. Ignoring Keir’s alarmed whimpers, she turned and grabbed the lamp from the table beside his bed, holding it high so she could smash one of the panes.
And then the window went up with a rush, hauled up by someone from outside.
Rafe, she realised on a great gulp of relief and wonder and fresh air.
He barked, “Keir, jump into my arms.”
Gasping, her heart hammering in her ears, she thrust her son at him and turned, only to be stopped by another harsh command. “Get out, now! The verandah is already alight. The house will go any minute.”
She scrambled over the sill and almost fell on to the grass beneath. A strong hand hauled her to her feet.
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