at one another. ‘But he’s not ours, miss.’
‘Not...?’
‘He’s a stray,’ explained the lad. ‘We found him this morning up in the fields, really hungry, so we fed him and asked around. No one wants him. And he’s not wanted at home, either, at our camp, ’cos our dads say we’ve got enough dogs already.’
‘Well,’ she said. ‘Well.’
And Connor felt the memories surge and connect, rolling into place one after another. The young woman wore country clothes that were clearly homemade and years out of fashion; yet she carried herself with grace and spoke with unusual clarity. And more memories began to pile in. Far too many of them.
Then someone else arrived—that blasted Vicar, Malpass. ‘Best keep yourself out of this, young lady,’ he said curtly to the woman, looking almost with repugnance at the muddy puppy in her arms. ‘As for you,’ he declared, turning to the children, ‘how dare you run wild here, disturbing the peace and up to no good? Be off with you!’
Connor was about to stride forward and intervene, but the children had a defender already.
‘I’ve spoken to the children, Vicar,’ she said, still apparently calm, ‘about this little dog. He was in difficulties in the pond and they were trying to help him. Is that really so bad of them?’
The Vicar clearly thought it was. ‘You know their kind. They’re no better than their parents, living like vagrants, thinking they’re beyond the power of the law. And they never attend the church!’
‘Perhaps they don’t attend your church,’ the woman said steadily, ‘because they realise how unwelcome they’ll be.’
And her intervention—was this what she’d intended? Connor wondered—had given the children the chance to escape, scampering through a gap in the hedge and off into the neighbouring fields. Connor stepped forward, Elvie’s hand still in his, and said to the Vicar, ‘It seems there’s no harm done, Reverend Malpass. But I think we all need to remember that these children’s parents are vital to the summer harvest. Don’t we?’
The Vicar pursed his lips. ‘Of course, Mr Hamilton. But we still need to maintain basic standards of morality in the district.’ And—with a curt nod of the head—the Vicar moved on.
If Connor had been wise, he’d have moved on, too, but he didn’t.
Everyone else had drifted away, back to the ale tent or the food stalls or the livestock pens—but the young woman remained. She was still soothing the puppy, which had settled gratefully into her arms, and Connor noted that despite her slenderness, she certainly possessed her share of womanly curves. Swiftly he lifted his gaze to her face and saw that her eyes were as intense as ever—green flecked with gold and fringed by thick dark lashes...
Then he realised she was meeting his gaze steadfastly. And she said, ‘So you’re back.’
The little dog whimpered in her arms, as if suddenly uneasy. And Connor, too, was unsettled, was not quite sure how to handle this. Calmly would be best. He nodded. ‘Indeed, Miss Blake,’ he replied. ‘I’m back and you are still—how can I put it?—managing to find yourself in the thick of things.’
He thought he glimpsed a faint flush tinge her cheeks. But she lifted her chin and said, ‘In the thick of things? If that’s how you choose to see it, then, yes. It’s a habit of mine, perhaps an unfortunate one, but one I can’t appear to break.’ She met his gaze mildly, though he thought he glimpsed a pulse of agitation in her throat. ‘And I’ve heard, of course,’ she went on, ‘that you’ve bought Calverley Hall. Now, that is what I’d call a spectacular way of returning to the area where you grew up and I offer my hearty congratulations.’
He felt his breath catch. Just for a moment he’d gone back in time, gone back seven years in fact. He was the blacksmith’s son, and Isobel Blake, then sixteen years old, had been heiress to Calverley Hall and all its supposed wealth. He said, ‘I would hardly go to the trouble of buying the place purely to make an impression, Miss Blake.’
The puppy wriggled a little; she stroked it, murmuring a calming word, then turned her clear green gaze on Connor again. ‘Wouldn’t you? Oh, but I would. If I were you.’ Then she was dipping him a curtsy that was almost mocking and saying, ‘With your permission, Mr Hamilton, I’ll move on. I have certain purchases to make.’
‘You’re keeping the puppy?’ He’d stepped forward impulsively. ‘But how on earth are you going to look after him?’
Almost without realising it, he’d put his hand on her arm. The flowery frock she wore was short-sleeved and a jolt ran through him at the warm softness of her honey-gold skin. She looked at his hand and then at him, so he was able to see how her eyes flashed with some new emotion—anger? Swiftly he removed his hand and waited for her answer.
‘Do you think,’ she said levelly, ‘that I’d leave him to starve?’
‘No. But I had heard that you’ve fallen on hard times.’
‘I’m not destitute. I do work for my living.’
His mouth curled. ‘I’d heard that, too.’ He saw her catch her breath; she knew exactly what he was thinking.
‘Mr Hamilton,’ she said politely, ‘I’m disappointed in you. Once, you advised me never to heed the tattle of gossipmongers—’
And then she broke off, because the puppy had scrambled from her arms and was scurrying away, its rope leash trailing. ‘Oh,’ cried Elvie, ‘catch him, he’s escaped!’
And Connor suddenly realised that for a moment or two he’d almost forgotten little Elvie, because his past had come surging up to engulf him. Isobel Blake had come into his life again.
Not for any longer than I can help, he vowed to himself.
Elvie had already set off after the puppy, as had Isobel, but Connor quickly overtook them both with his long strides, then scooped the creature up and held it out to Isobel. She was forced to come close and he found himself breathing in her scent. Lavender, he remembered, she always loved lavender...
‘My thanks,’ she said. Holding the puppy firmly, she was clearly about to turn and go without another word. But then she became aware of Elvie, who was gazing longingly at the little creature.
‘He’s lovely, isn’t he?’ she said to her, in a completely different tone of voice to the one she’d used to him, Connor noted. ‘Would you like to stroke him? That’s it. He likes you. He trusts you.’
‘Do you know,’ Elvie said slowly, ‘he’s probably the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.’ Then she turned to Connor. ‘Connor. Do you possibly think...?’ Her voice trailed away.
Connor said quickly, ‘Elvie, I haven’t forgotten. I said you could have something to care for when we came to the country. A pony, maybe? We talked about it, didn’t we?’
‘But can I perhaps have a puppy instead? One like this, all white and small? Please? I promise, I would look after him so well! I’d feed him and brush him and take him for walks every day!’
And Connor, for a moment, was lost for a reply. Since her father died, Elvie had rarely spoken more
