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over there, much more economically!’

      He pointed to a very pleasant modern house, much more modest than the sprawling Georgian building Beth had admired. She looked back at Gideon’s house, large and imposing. It suited him.

      He turned in through a pair of tall gates and paused by a big brick building, itself larger than the present vicarage. Huge white-painted doors were set in the lower half, and the upper storey had tall arched windows set in the gables and dormers along the roofline. There you are—that’s the coach house. We use the bottom as a garage. When the kids were younger they used to play in the flat, but they’ve outgrown that sort of thing now.’

      He sounded regretful, as if their childhood had been a thing of delight for him, and she felt herself warming to him even more. What a lovely, solid, dependable family man he was—such a contrast to the fickle and faithless Matthew.

      She dragged her mind back to her surroundings, refusing to waste her mental energy on such a worthless topic.

      He was opening a door at the side of the coach house, and she followed him in. There was a hall which reached the full height, and above she could see the old beams stretching across the vaulted ceiling. A black cast-iron spiral staircase led upwards, its lacy treads ringing under her feet as she ran lightly up to the top.

      It was wonderful—huge, light and airy, the arched windows at each end looking out over the garden on one side and fields on the other. The crop hadn’t yet been harvested and the tall stalks whispered as the light breeze flowed over them. Nearer to hand she could hear the rustling of the leaves on the trees which edged the garden, and in one of the trees a bird sang, the notes pure and clear. Beth closed her eyes, speechless.

      ‘I know the furniture’s a bit old-fashioned, but it’s solid and everything’s quite clean. If you wanted we could get something else, I suppose—the mattress is new.’

      She opened her eyes and looked around, taking in the contents of the room instead of just its atmosphere.

      The walls were white, the carpet a soft, faded brick colour, and everything else blended—the warm old pine of the table and chairs, the heavily carved bed-ends, the natural oak of the beams that spanned the ceiling, and on the comfy old sofa a faded chintz cover in soft peaches and greens. At the far end was a small run of handbuilt pine units housing a little oven, a fridge and a sink unit, and on the other side a door led presumably to the bathroom.

      She turned to him, a silly smile lurking on her face. ‘It’s perfect,’ she told him, ‘absolutely perfect. I can’t believe my luck.’

      He smiled then, the weary eyes warming, and Beth felt somthing quiver deep inside her.

      ‘I’m glad you like it,’ he said softly, and she was suddenly aware of him, of his size, his nearness in the room that was suddenly far, far too small.

      She turned away, flustered. ‘It’s very homely—your wife must have quite a gift,’ she said, deliberately reminding herself that he was married.

      The silence was deafening, and something about its quality made her turn and look searchingly at him.

      The weariness was back, and with it a bone-deep sadness.

      ‘My wife’s dead, Miss Turner. She’s been dead for four years.’

      Sophie was refusing to co-operate in the way only a four-year-old could. Gideon hung on to his patience, determined to win the battle, if not the war.

      In the end she was bathed and into bed, and Claire had finished her Latin homework and was wrestling with biology. Will was in his room, Dire Straits tearing hell out of the walls and making the windows rattle. He opened the door.

      ‘William!’ he yelled.

      The music was cut drastically.

      ‘Hi, Dad.’

      ‘Just going over to the coach house for a minute—the nurse will be here soon and I want to make sure everything’s ready. Watch the girls for me, can you?’

      Will did the thumbs-up, and Gideon shut the door on the awful noise and headed for the relative sanctuary of the coach house.

      To be honest, he was still trying to work out why he had let her have it. It was his retreat, the oasis of tranquillity he escaped to whenever things got too much and he needed time out from the pressing reality of life as a single parent.

      He closed the door behind him and sighed, letting the absolute peace and stillness soak into him.

      He must be mad to give it away.

      He climbed the stairs and made his way over to the kitchen area, checking that his housekeeper had put a supply of fresh food in the fridge as he had requested, and that the bed was made up and aired and the bathroom in readiness.

      On impulse he went back down and picked some roses from beside the house and took them in, standing them in a glass for want of a vase. They were hardly arranged—that sort of thing wasn’t his forte, to say the least, but he wanted to make the gesture—perhaps of atonement?

      He had been rather abrupt, but he really hadn’t wanted to get into a discussion of Denise’s death and the events surrounding it.

      He set the roses down on the table and dropped into the sofa, stretching his legs out in front of him and dropping his head back with a sigh.

      Damn, she was pretty.

      Soft and warm, like sunshine on a spring morning.

      He snorted. Poetry now.

      He was conscious of an ache, deep in his chest, and another tightness further down, an awareness, a need that had lain dormant for years.

      No, he told himself. She was too sweet, too kind, too innocent to use for the slaking of his thirst.

      Hell, she wouldn’t even know the rules.

      A car scrunched gravel on the drive, and he went down and opened the door.

      She was climbing out of the car and dragging a heavy case behind her. Chivalry bade him take it from her.

      ‘Anything else?’

      Her sweet fragrance drifted against his skin, and the ache intensified.

      ‘No, that’s all for now. I’ll go back at the weekend.’

      He turned without speaking and went back inside, carrying the heavy case ahead of him up the steps.

      He set it beside the bed and dusted off his hands.

      Oh, roses—how thoughtful,’ she said softly, and he felt colour brush his neck.

      ‘I asked my housekeeper to get the room ready for you,’ he told her. The romantic little gesture seemed suddenly very foolish, and yet he was glad it had given her pleasure.

      The huge room suddenly seemed suffocatingly small.

      ‘Right, I’ll leave you to get settled in. If there’s anything you need, just come over and shout.’

      She turned towards him, her beautiful blue eyes softened by the smile, and his fingers ached to free her hair from the ponytail and spread it over her shoulders. He could almost feel the silky strands sliding through his fingers. It would be like golden rain, fanned over his pillow, cascading across his chest as she raised herself to look down on him, a teasing smile on her lips ——

      He yanked himself up short. No, Pendragon. Not this one.

      He bade her goodnight and turned, running quickly down the stairs and out into the blessed darkness of the night.

      Gideon—Beth found it impossible to think of him as Dr Pendragon—tracked her down the following morning at the surgery.

      ‘All right?’ he asked.

      She nodded. ‘Fine, thanks. I think I can find everything I’ll need. I’m helping Julie get rid of the backlog and then I’ll start my proper routine from Monday.’

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