one short, controlled shriek before it stopped, and in the gloom of the cottage’s small front room he blinked, his vision focusing slowly. A woman stood by the fireplace hearth, half bent over as she tended to its flickering flames. The light from the fire danced over her hair, turning it the same colour as the flames.
She straightened now, a log still held in her hands. A weapon.
Of course, as a weapon it posed no threat. With nearly twenty years’ training in the martial arts, Jacob knew he could disarm the trespasser in a matter of seconds. But he wouldn’t hurt her. He wouldn’t hurt anyone ever again.
His gaze flicked over her appearance; she was not what he’d expected. Auburn curls cascaded down her back in an untamed riot, and her skin was as pale as milk. She wore some stylish, trendy outfit, utterly unsuitable for a life in the country.
What was she doing here?
And then her eyes, already dilated with shock, widened even further and the log dropped from her hands.
‘Jacob?’
Mollie hadn’t recognised Jacob Wolfe when he’d burst through her front door like a madman from a horror film. She’d only screamed once, the sound abruptly cut off as truth dawned, and with it shock. Jacob Wolfe—the lord of Wolfe Manor—had returned. He was older, of course, and bigger, his body sinewy and yet with the muscles of a man. Even in her shocked state Mollie took in the way the faded grey T-shirt and old jeans clung to his powerful frame. His hair was dark and rumpled and just a little long, his eyes dark too, black and cold. He held a torch in his hand, and its beam was pointed directly at her.
It was impossible. He was gone, maybe dead, disappeared in one afternoon, leaving seven siblings broken-hearted. He hadn’t been seen or even heard from in twenty years.
And yet now he was here. Here, and as Mollie stared at him, she felt a confusing welter of emotions: surprise, relief, even a strange joy. And then, suddenly, a sharp needle of anger stabbed her. She’d seen how Jacob’s departure had affected his siblings; from afar she’d witnessed their own sorrows and struggles. And she’d struggled herself; in the long, lonely years since Jacob had left, Mollie had wondered if the crumbling of the manor and the wild ruin of the garden had speeded her father’s own descent into dementia. She’d often imagined the seductive what-ifs … what if Jacob had stayed, if all the Wolfes had stayed, if the manor had remained loved and lived in, and the gardens as well …?
Yet now it was too late. Now her father was dead, the Wolfes all gone, the manor a falling-down wreck. Now Jacob was back, and Mollie wasn’t sure she was glad to see him.
Standing there now, staring at him, at his coldly composed face, so handsome, so blank, she felt the bitterness rush back, filling the empty spaces in her heart and mind.
‘You know me?’ His words were careful, controlled and completely without emotion.
Mollie let out a short, abrupt laugh. ‘Yes, I know you. And you know me, although you obviously don’t remember. I know I was always easily forgotten.’ Even that rankled. She’d watched the Wolfe siblings play together, seen them tramp off to London to go to their fancy department store, and in some desperate corner of her childish heart she’d been jealous. Their lives had been torn apart by unhappiness and despair—who didn’t know that? Yet at least they’d always had one another … until Jacob had left.
Jacob’s eyes narrowed, and his gaze swept around the dismal clutter of the cottage. Her bags still lay in a heap by the door, and Mollie was conscious of all the things she hadn’t thrown out before she’d left, because she hadn’t been ready to. Her father’s pipe and tobacco pouch on the mantel, his coat hanging on the door. Even her father’s post was stacked on the table, a jumble of flyers and bills and letters that no one would ever answer.
‘You’re the gardener’s girl.’
Indignation rose up inside her; it tasted sour in her mouth. ‘His name was Henry Parker.’
Jacob turned to face her again. His eyes were cold and grey and so very shrewd. ‘Was?’
‘He died seven months ago,’ Mollie replied stiffly.
‘I’m sorry.’ Mollie nodded jerkily in acceptance and Jacob’s glance flicked to the suitcases by the door. ‘You just returned …?’
‘I’ve been in Italy.’ Mollie realised how it sounded; her father died and she swanned off to Italy?
She refused to explain herself. Jacob Wolfe could think what he liked. She would not make excuses. He did not deserve explanations.
‘I see.’ And Mollie knew just how much he thought he saw. ‘And you returned to the cottage because …?’ It wasn’t so much a question as an accusation.
‘Because this is my home,’ Mollie replied. ‘And has been since I was born. You may have run out on Wolfe Manor, but that doesn’t mean the rest of us did.’
Jacob tensed, his body stilling, and Mollie felt the sense of latent anger like a shiver through the room. Then he relaxed and arched one eyebrow, the expression eloquently contemptuous. ‘Wolfe Manor is your home?’ he inquired with a dangerous softness.
Fury raced through Mollie’s veins and burst in her heart. ‘Yes, it is, and always has been,’ she snapped. ‘Even if you never thought of it that way. But don’t worry,’ she continued before Jacob could say something scathing in reply, ‘I’m not staying long. I just came back to pack up my things and then I’ll be on my way.’
Jacob folded his arms. ‘Very well.’ His glance took in the small, cluttered cottage. ‘That shouldn’t take too long.’
Mollie’s mouth dropped open in indignant outrage as she realised what he was implying. ‘You want me to leave tonight?’
‘I’m not completely heartless, despite what you seem to think,’ Jacob said coolly. ‘You can stay the night.’
Mollie swallowed. ‘And then?’
‘This is private property, Miss Parker.’
Staring at him now, his eyes so black and pitiless, his expression utterly unyielding, every grudge and hurt she’d held against Jacob Wolfe crowded her mind and burst from her lips.
‘Oh, I see,’ she managed, choking a little on the words. ‘You don’t have enough space up at the manor. You need this little cottage as well.’
‘It’s private property,’ Jacob repeated. His expression didn’t flicker.
‘It was my home,’ Mollie threw at him. Her voice shook, but only a little bit. ‘And my father’s home. He died in the bed upstairs—’ She stopped the words, the memory, because she didn’t want Jacob sharing it. She certainly didn’t want him to pity her. Besides her four years doing a degree in horticulture, this had been the only home she’d ever known. It churned in her gut and burned in her heart that Jacob Wolfe was going to throw her out without so much as a flicker of regret or apology, especially considering how her father had given his very life for the wretched Wolfe family.
Yet how she could protest? She’d been living here rent-free for years, and Jacob was right, it was private property. It had never been hers. She’d grown up with that knowledge heavy in her heart; she could certainly live with
