by Lucy Gillen
Rowan was loving every minute of her job in Ireland as companion to dear Mrs. Laura O'Neil every minute, that is, that she was not in the company of Michael Doran, the local lord of the manor, who was far too fond of exercising his feudal rights.
OTHER Harlequin romances by LUCY GILLEN 1383 A WIFE FOR ANDREW 1408 THE SILVER FISHES 1425 GOOD MORNING, DOCTOR HOUSTON 1450 HEIR TO GLEN GHYLL 1481 NURSE HELEN 1507 MARRIAGE BY REQUEST 1533 THE GIRL AT SMUGGLER'S REST 1553 DOCTOR TOBY 1579 WINTER AT CRAY }604 THAT MAN NEXT DOOR 1627- MY BEAUTIFUL HEATHEN 1649 SWEET KATE 1669 A TIME REMEMBERED 1683 DANGEROUS STRANGER 171 I SUMMER SEASON
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CHAPTER ONE
As the rather rickety bus chugged its way along the road Rowan gazed out of the window, her mind only partly on the tranquil greenness of the Irish countryside. Not for the first time since she had left England yesterday she was having some misgivings about coming all this way to a strange country. Rowan's father had never been a man to stay at home for very long, even when her mother had been alive. He had always had the same insatiable urge to travel, no matter how often his resources sank to rock bottom or how often his family suffered while he hunted or explored some remote part of foreign countries. His sense of responsibility was non-existent and his wife and little girl had often been in dire straits. It was Rowan's godfather who had provided for her quite good education and other friends had been as helpful as circumstances allowed them to be. Rowan's mother had died at the early age of forty-two, and even that had not kept her father from his travels for more than a week or two, then he had been off again leaving his daughter, a girl of seventeen, rather lost and bewildered and with only limited means of earning her own living. Luckily she was an intelligent girl and tor more than six years now she had managed to keep her head above water doing a variety of jobs. A few weeks ago her father, paying a rare visit, had barely taken time to hear how Rowan had been obliged to leave her flat because she could no longer .afford to keep it on, before he was off again. Some where in South America this time. Rowan thought vaguely, but she had been rather too preoccupied with her own affairs to give much thought to her father's. As it had so often been in the past it was Abel Rigg, a lifelong friend and admirer of her mother's and Rowan's godfather, who had come to the rescue. He had listened sympathetically to her problem and then arranged for her to take this post as companion to another old friend of his in Ireland. Mrs. Laura O'Neil, he assured her, was a lovely woman and she would be delighted to have Rowan to stay with her. Rowan, for her part, had been rather dubious about the prospect, not least because she could not easily see herself in the role of companion, not if her idea of the species was correct. It would require, she imagined, a certain amount of servility on her part and she was not the type of girl who found humility in another's service easy. She had a fierce pride in her own independence and a temper that left no doubt as to her opinions. Altogether, she thought as the bus jerked and puffed its way along the country lane, the whole venture could well turn out to be quite disastrous. She sighed deeply in sympathy with herself and the woman sharing her seat looked at her curiously. It was not the first time that friendly but speculative gaze had been turned on her, she realised, and she guessed that the woman was probably a normally garrulous creature who sought conversation. Not averse to a momentary distraction. Rowan half smiled. 'Did I hear ya say Grogan Street?' the woman asked, encouraged, and Rowan nodded. 'Yes, that's right.' She noted the woman's wide friendly smile at the confirmation and felt her rather low spirits lift. 'It's in Bogmoor, do you know it?' 'In-deed I do!' The shrewd but kindly eyes surveyed her for a moment. 'You'll be English,' she declared, and 6 for a moment Rowan wondered if she would be wise to admit to being at least partly so. 'Actually,' she compromised with a short laugh, 'I'm not sure what I count as.' 'Are ya not?' Curiosity now had the upper hand and was unconcealed. 'An' that has an interestin' sound to it, to be sure.' Rowan smiled, nothing loath to explain her rather mixed ancestry it was something she was used to doing. 'My father is Scottish and my mother was French and English and I was born in Peru,' she explained. 'Rather a mixture, I'm afraid.' Her companion admitted it with another wide smile. 'It is that,' she said, 'but sure it's done no harm to ya looks, for ya're a good-lookin' girl be annyone's book.' 'Thank you.' Rowan acknowledged the uninhibited compliment with a smile, glad she had encouraged the woman to talk to her. She had been told many times and in many ways that she was pretty and even more than just pretty, and she knew that to deny it would only be false modesty. Her wide green eyes were fringed with brown lashes that took no account of the natural red-gold colour of her hair which she wore fairly long and pinned back on top of her head to fall in soft curls and spirals. She was neither too tall nor too short, but just heart-high, as one romantically minded boy-friend had once told her, and as well shaped as any girl could wish to be. 'Would I be right to guess you were goin' to Mrs. O'Neil's, I wonder?' her companion ventured, and Rowan nodded, surprise evident in her eyes. 'Yes,' she admitted, 'as a matter of fact I am. Do you know Mrs. O'Neil?' 'I do indeed.' The friendly eyes beamed. 'She's as good a soul as you'll find this side've heaven, an' too good for some of them as takes ad-vantage of her.' The soft accent charmed Rowan and she smiled to hear her prospective employer so generously praised. 'I'm hoping to work for her,' Rowan said. Ive been offered the post of companion if I suit, of course.' 'All now, why wouldn't ya suit? Isn't she a woman no one could not get on wid?' 'I hope so,' Rowan said. 'I thought ya'd be the one we was expectin'.' The greying head nodded wisely, pronouncing the word thought without its first 'h', and Rowan noted the familiar 'we'. 'Ya'll be Miss Blair, will ya not?' her informant went on. 'Mrs. O'Neil told me ya'd be comin' today an' I wondered when I saw ya if ya'd be the one.' 'I'm the one,' Rowan admitted with a wry smile, 'and I can only hope that Mrs. O'Neil won't be disappointed in me.' 'An' why should she be?' the woman demanded, evidently having already made up her mind in the matter. 'Sure ya've no need at all to worry about herself, for she's a lovely woman to work for, and wouldn't I know, bein' wid her meself for twenty years, ever since himself passed on.' Rowan was uncertain whether himself was Mr. O'Neil or her informant's husband, but she felt encouraged by the woman's friendliness and by the prospect of her employer being less of an unknown quantity to her. 'Oh, you work for Mrs. O'Neil too,' she said, and the woman nodded, proffering a hand. 'I do. Donovan's me name, Mary Donovan.' 'I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Donovan.' Rowan took the proffered hand and smiled. 'I'm glad I bumped into you, you've taken quite a weight off my mind.' 'Aah, ya've been worryin', I suppose,' Mrs. Donovan sympathised, 'but ya've no need at all, like I told ya.' 'I'll try not to any more,' Rowan promised, her mind 8 still full of questions about her new employer, questions she wondered if she could ask Mary Donovan without causing offence. Too much open curiosity would perhaps be resented, but a tentative question or two would surely do no harm. 'Are you the only staff Mrs. O'Neil has, Mrs. Donovan?' she ventured. 'Or does your husband work for her too?' The grey head shook and Mary Donovan smiled. 'Donovan, did ya say? Sure he never did an honest day's work in his whole life, though he's passed on now these many years. God rest his soul. As to staff, well, I'm blessed if I know what I am be rights. Housekeeper I'm called an' so I am, but I'm cook, cleaner an' general what's-all as well, though God knows I'm not complainin'.' "Oh, I see, you must be very busy. Is it a big house?' 'Big enough,' Mrs. Don
ovan agreed, 'an' wid Mrs. O'Neil bein' the way she is, bless her Christian heart well, there's always comin's an' goin's, ya might say.' 'I see.' Rowan was unsure whether she found that piece of news reassuring or not. It sounded as if Mrs. O'Neil ran a rather unsettled menage. 'She's a good soul,' Mrs. Donovan insisted, 'an' she sometimes gets fooled be the sons of divils wid a gift of the blarney, but mostly Doctor Maxwell keeps an eye on them an' moves them.out when they needs it.' 'Doctor Maxwell?' This was new and rather intriguing news. Mrs. Donovan nodded, her smile excluding the doctor, whoever he might be, from the sinners she referred to. 'He lives in the rooms at the front of the house, downstairs,' she explained, 'an' does his work there too when needs be. He'll not be a people's doctor, ya understand, but a vet-in-ary.' 'Oh, I see,' Rowan said faintly. There seemed little else she could say, but her enthusiasm for the rather odd-sounding household was diminishing with every minute.'Now there's a lovely man,' her informant went on, blissfully unaware of the impression she was creating. 'An old friend of Mrs. O'Neil's?' Rowan suggested, wanting to learn as much about the household as possible before she found herself part of it. Forewarned was forearmed, she thought grimly. 'His father was,' Mrs. Donovan obliged. 'Doctor Maxwell lost the old house when his dadda passed on, an' herself gave him the rooms for as long as he wants them, though the good God knows he'll never make a fortune the way he goes on.' 'He's a a nice man?' she asked, to be polite. 'Ah, sure he is that. Just the way his father was at that age, though not so set on the drink, thanks be to God, an' a lovely-lookin' man too. Black hair an" blue eyes an' charmin" wid it, though he's still a single man.' The bus juddered to a halt and put paid to further conversation along those lines, stopping in a narrow street that seemed to have sprung suddenly out of the country lane they had been travelling. 'Is this ' she began, but Mrs. Donovan was already nodding. This is Bogmoor,' she told her, 'an' it looks like the dear man's waitin' for us.' Rowan spared only a cursory glance out of the window as she left her seat, reaching down for her two suitcases wedged in the dusty space between the driver's seat and a bent shield of painted metal. Quick as she was, however, someone else was quicker and before she could grasp the handles a hand descended from nowhere and took possession.'This one too?' a voice asked, and another hand hovered over her second suitcase. Rowan nodded silently, uncertain whether she should entrust her luggage to this stranger or not. She followed the tall 10 figure off the bus, however, and Mrs. Donovan followed them both with her shopping bag, beaming happily. Outside on the dusty path, her self-appointed porter put down the suitcases and looked at her, half-smiling as if he guessed her doubts, while Mrs. Donovan beamed at them both.' 'Tis good ya here. Doctor,' she told him, 'to carry the young lady's cases for her. This is the young lady Mrs. O'Neil's expectin' Miss Blair, this is Doctor Maxwell.' 'Sean Maxwell,' he enlarged, and held out a hand, engulfing Rowan's and holding it tightly. 'And strictly speaking it isn't doctor, that's misleading. I'm a vet, not a physician.' His appearance was much as Mary Donovan had described him. His hair was raven black and curled very slightly and his eyes were a warm deep blue eyes that looked kindly and rather sad, Rowan thought. He was good-looking, too, 'in a conventional, rather oldfashioned way, and there was a gentle tolerance in his expression. His smile was one that could be quite devastating, she suspected, when he put his mind to it, and altogether he was undeniably attractive. 'Mr. Maxwell,' she murmured politely, 'it was good of you to meet me.' 'I'm pleased to be of service,' he assured her as he bent to pick up her cases again, hefting them with a wry grimace. 'Besides which, you'd never have carried them yourself.' Despite the weight of her luggage he seemed to have no difficulty setting a pace that Rowan had some effort to keep up with and Mrs. Donovan puffed and panted breathlessly beside her. 'Is it far to Grogan Street?' she asked. 'This is Grogan Street,' he answered with a smile, slowing his pace to accommodate the puffing housekeeper. 11 Rowan recalled her godfather's words on parting. 'Grogan Street is Bogmoor,' he had told her, 'or as near as damn it, the rest is little bits of places here and there with the odd mansion scattered in for effect.' And it seemed he was right. 'Were ya expectin' a big town?' Mary Donovan asked kindly. 'I'm not sure just what I was expecting,' Rowan admitted. ' 'Tis quiet here,' Mrs. Donovan told her, 'if ya're a town girl ya'll find it a bit lonely at first.' 'Of course she won't, Mary,' he said, rather shortly, as if he disliked the suggestion. 'Stop trying to put Miss Blair off and let her form her own opinion.' He had an accent, but nothing as strong as the little woman's was, just enough to be attractive, Rowan realised. 'Are you a bright lights addict, Miss Blair?' he asked, turning a wide and rather disconcerting smile on her. 'Or will you settle for the quiet of Bogmoor?' Rowan smiled, unwilling to commit herself either way as yet, but liking what little she had seen of the village so far. 'I can't honestly say yet,' she demurred. 'It looks very pretty.' 'Pretty?' He raised his eyebrows at the adjective and Rowan had the feeling he despised her use of it. 'Is that how it looks to you?' 'Yes, it does,' she declared, flushing slightly at his obvious disagreement. 'It looks pretty on first impression.' 'Yes, I suppose it would,' he allowed, though grudgingly, she felt sure. 'Well, it may appear pretty to you, Miss Blair, but to me it's ' He shrugged and laughed a little uneasily, she thought. 'I'm sorry,' he apologised, 'I shouldn't start riding my hobby horse the minute you arrive. I apologise.' Mrs. Donovan shook lier head, obviously in sym13 pathy with him but more reticent about voicing her disapproval of whatever it was that angered her companion. Rowan looked around her at the squat white cottages and wondered what it was about the picture postcard village that aroused so much feeling in Sean Maxwell and why, if he disliked it so much, he did not leave and practise elsewhere. They walked along for perhaps fifty yards or so down the narrow, dusty road before Sean Maxwell turned into a short unkempt driveway leading to a huge grey stone house whose many windows glinted a welcome in the afternoon sun. It was a house that must have known much better days and it had about it an air of faded gentility that was rather endearing. Not a sad air, but a resigned one that betrayed gratitude for still being lived in and not deserted as so many old houses were. 'Here we are now,' Mary Donovan said, sighing her relief, 'an' thanks be to God, tor I'm dyin' for a cuppa tea this last half hour.' She opened the door and led the way into a wide, dim hall which smelled faintly of lavender and whose only light came from two small windows, one either side of the door and another, much bigger one, half way up the wide, worn staircase. After the brightness of the street outside Rowan found it almost impossible to see anything at all for a few seconds, then she looked around her a little dazedly. There were rugs on the polished floor and a huge vase of marigolds made a dazzling splash of colour against the panelled wall. There were portraits too, hung at eye level all round the hall, dark good-looking men who looked as if they belonged in this old house, and Rowan wondered if they were the forebears of the late Mr. O'Neil. 'Take off ya coat, acushia,' Mrs. Donovan told her, i3 bringing her back to reality. 'I'll get the kettle on before I do annythin' else.' She bustled off and disappeared through a door near the stairs which presumably led to the kitchen, leaving Rowan feeling at something of a loss. Sean Maxwell put down the cases he carried and turned to take her coat from her, a faint smile on his face. 'Mary always gets her priorities right,' he told her. 'Tea first, it's her prime rule for survival.' He hung her coat on one of several hooks fastened to the side of the staircase. 'I'll put it up here for now,' he said. 'You'll soon learn your way around.' 'Thank you.' She felt rather shy of him now that they had been left to their own devices, and she found the silence of the old house a bit unnerving. "I wonder where I can find Mrs. O'Neil,' she ventured. The smile broadened and he inclined his head in the direction of another door to their left. 'She'll be in there waiting for Mary to bring her some tea,' he told her with certainty. 'I'll take you in if you like, or would you like to announce yourself and talk to her alone first? Once I'm in I'll not be allowed to leave again until I've had tea as well,' he added by way of explanation. 'Oh, I'd rather you
came in with me,' Rowan assured him, hating the idea of facing her new employer for the first time alone. She was unsure just what his position in the house was and how much he was in Mrs. O'Neil's confidence, but if the housekeeper knew all about her coming it was apparently no secret. 'Come on, then,' he encouraged, and turned to stride across the hall with Rowan following him, all her previous misgivings suddenly reappearing now that the moment was here. He went straight into the room with only a brief, preliminary knock and Rowan heard him murmur a greeting to someone. Following him with less selfassurance, she hesitated in the doorway, momentarily surprised at the size and condition of the room." In contrast to the impression she had gained of the house from the outside, this room had the appearance not only of good care but expensive luxury. It was huge and high-ceilinged and furnished in such exquisite taste that Rowan realised it must have cost a fortune. Many of the paintings on the walls were originals, she thought, for there was a depth and richness of colour in them that. was unmistakable, and she paid silent tribute to a Monet and a Corot on the opposite wall before she even noticed her employer. 'You like paintings?' She started almost guiltily when a soft voice broke into her thoughts and she looked for the first time at Laura O'Neil. She was not as old as Rowan had expected, no more than in her mid-fifties, probably, but she had white hair without a trace of colour marring its snowiness and light blue eyes that were at once friendly and curious. 'I love paintings,' Rowan answered. 'Good ones like these, they're beautiful.' "They are, aren't they?' The blue eyes dwelt lovingly for a moment on the treasures around her. 'But I'm afraid I have to admit to having nothing to do with their acquisition. They're my late husband's collection.' 'Originals.' Rowan could not restrain the comment and the oddly dark brows below the white hair arched in surprise. 'You know enough about paintings to tell that?' Rowan shook her head, flushing at being taken for an expert. 'Not really,' she confessed. 'I have an uncle who's an art dealer and he always told me I had an unerring eye, but I don't claim any credit for it.' The woman smiled, holding out her hand. 'We'd better introduce ourselves, my dear. I'm Laura O'Neil and you must be Rowan Blair. Sean you've already met, of course.' Rowan shook the proffered hand and realised with a start how tall tier hostess was. When she stood right beside Rowan she was almost six inches taller, and Rowan could see why her godfather had referred to her as a fine-looking woman. , 'Mr. Maxwell very kindly met me off the bus,' Rowan acknowledged with a smile. 'My cases are rather heavy and I was very glad of his help with them.' 'Oh, Sean can be very sweet when he's a mind too,' Laura O'Neil allowed with a twinkle at the man they were discussing, 'and he can be very stubborn too.' 'No more than most,' he objected with a smile at Rowan. 'I've me donkey streak like any good Irishman.' Laura O'Neil laughed, tolerance and affection in her eyes when she looked at him. 'I suppose we all have if we admit it,' she said, 'and you're a good vet, Sean, that's the main thing.' She turned her gaze to Rowan again. 'Did you have a very bad journey. Miss Blair? That bus can be absolute torture, I believe. I would have asked Sean to fetch you in his car, but I wasn't sure exactly when you'd be arriving.' 'Oh, I didn't mind in the least,' Rowan assured her. T was talking to Mrs. Donovan at least part of the way and I quite enjoyed it.' 'Mary's a dear soul and she loves a gossip. I expect she regaled you with most of the local scandal during your journey here, didn't she?' It could have been imagination. Rowan thought, but there seemed more than idle curiosity behind the question. Rowan laughed, dismissing the idea as fanciful. 'Not scandal,' she denied, 'just chatter. Actually,' she added, 'we were almost here before we started talking, so there 16 wasn't time to say very much. I'm afraid I was rather preoccupied during most of the journey.' 'Having second thoughts?' Mrs. O'Neil guessed, and smiled understandingly, shaking her-head. 'I hope you won't. Miss Blair.' 'I don't think I shall,' Rowan said, feeling more certain now that she had met Laura O'Neil. The light blue eyes studied her for a moment curiously. 'You're a very pretty girl,' she told her. 'I hope Bogmoor won't prove too dull for you.' Without giving Rowan time to deny it she hurried on, smiling. 'You've a very unusual name, haven't you? It's rather pretty and it suits you. May I call you Rowan? It's so much more friendly than Miss Blair, isn't it?' 'Oh, please do,' Rowan told her. 'I'd rather you did.' 'Rowan.' It was Sean Maxwell who repeated her name, and she looked up to meet the deep blue gaze fixed steadily on her. 'It's very pretty and I agree with Laura it suits you.' 'Thank you.' She was uncertain whether he too was expecting to be given permission to use her Christian name, but she said nothing either way and Laura O'Neil turned to him with a smile. 'Sean dear, could you go and put a bomb under Mary? I'm dying for my tea and I'm sure Rowan is too.' He went to the door unhesitatingly, but was forestalled in his errand by the appearance of Mary Donovan pushing a well laden trolley. 'I thought ya'd be gaspin',' she told her employer with a smile, 'so I didn't even stop to unpack me bag.' 'You're an angel, Mary, thank you.' The trolley was pushed up beside Mrs. O'Neil and she began pouring tea from quite the most exquisite Georgian silver teapot Rowan had ever seen and which she assumed had also been acquired by the late Mr. O'Neil. He appeared to i7 have been a man with impeccable taste and with the money to indulge it. 'You can spare time for some tea, can't you, Sean?' she asked as he seated Rowan near the trolley, and the smile she wore anticipated his answer. 'Always,' he replied promptly. 'I brought an extra cup in case himself might be comin' down,' Mrs. Donovan remarked. 'Though 'tis hardly likely he'll be civilised enough to join ya.' 'Now, Mary, you mustn't be such a philistine,' Laura O'Neil protested mildly. 'Rupert isn't on the same plane as us ordinary mortals, you have to make allowances for the artistic temperament.' "Hahl' The snort of disgust came from Sean Maxwell and its vehemence startled Rowan. 'Scant You too,' Mrs. O'Neil scolded. 'You're just not fair to poor Rupert.' 'Poor Rupert ' he retorted. 'Poor Rupert knows when he's well off. He's a warm bed, unlimited food and a roof over his head and it costs him nothing but a good line in blarney. Oh, honestly, Laura, you're too soft-hearted for your own good. You should have let me throw him out long before now.' 'Oh, I couldn't,' Laura objected. 'I do so envy people who are creative, no matter in what form.' Rowan accepted tea from Mrs. Donovan, who was seemingly treated as one of the family, for she handed Sean Maxwell his tea, then took her own and sat down beside Rowan. 'He's nothin' but an idle layabout, is that one,' she declared as she settled her ample form into a chair, 'an' he never did an honest day's work since the day he was born, I swear it. Doctor Maxwell's right enough, ma'am, that feller knows he's on to a good thing an' you'll never move him aisy now.' 'But I don't want to move him,' Laura O'Neil said, and sighed. 'I suppose he does take advantage of me at times and I shouldn't encourage him, but he does write such lovely verse.' 'A poet?' Rowan felt compelled to comment. 'I don't believe I've ever met a poet.' 'Well, you're bound to meet this one,' Sean Maxwell told her. 'He'll probably see you as a source of inspiration.' Whether he intended it as a compliment or not Rowan felt the colour in her cheeks and sought to cover her embarrassment by changing the subject. 'I should-think this village would inspire a poet,' she ventured, forgetting his opinion of it for the moment. Tt's' very pretty.' Before their hostess could agree or not, Sean Maxwell had his say and with the same note of disgust for her opinion he had expressed before. 'Miss Blair will insist on taking Bogmoor at face value,' he declared, and Laura O'Neil shook her head, her expression sad and a little impatient. 'I know it's a thorn in the flesh to you, Sean,' she told him, 'but Rowan has only her first impression to go on and, no matter what you say, it is pretty, especially on a sunny day.' Tt's a slum,' he retorted sharply, 'and you know it, Laura.' 'I've heard it is,' Laura corrected him gently, but he took no heed of her correction. 'Doran should be locked up for allowing it to exist,' he declared vehemently. 'Michael Doran is the the almost feudal lord of the manor,' Laura O'Neil explained for Rowan's benefit. 'He owns most of the village and by all accounts he's a very feudal type landlord.' 'It sounds hardly feasible .in this day and age,' Rowan said. 'He must be a horrible man.' Laura sh
ook her head. 'On the contrary,' she denied, 'he's a very presentable and a very charming man.' i9 Sean Maxwell fixed Rowan with a speculative eye. 'I expect you'll be seeing him before very long,' he remarked. 'He won't miss a pretty girl like you he's an eye for them." so
