Rory took her in his arms and held her tight. They stood together at the top of a windy hill overlooking Clew Bay, wrapped in each other’s arms, overcome with an emotion neither of them recognised.

‘I think you’re probably a genius,’ she said.

This time he kissed her properly, passionately, deeply, bringing her already alerted senses to a peak of sensation. Her head whirled and swam, and when he drew her down on to the damp grass she let him kiss her more. It was only when his fingers started to fiddle with the toggles on her borrowed duffel coat that she pushed away his hand and sat up. ‘Not yet, Rory. You have to take it slower.’

Rory pushed his hand through his dark hair and shook his head. ‘No one has seen my work for a long time. I got a bit carried away.’

‘So did I. It’s wonderful, fantastic work. You’re an incredible painter and you could be rich. If you showed those paintings in the right place you’d make your fortune.’

‘Are you sure? I tried it once, remember.’

‘You wouldn’t blow it like that again. And no, I’m not at all sure. I don’t know about markets or anything, but I know good work when I see it. You’ve got to show it, Rory. It’s selfish just to keep it here, hidden away.’

They were both dazed, drunk with their discovery. They sat on the hill in silence, he shaking his head, she recognising the view from one of the paintings, knowing she had to make him show his work if it was all she ever did in her life.

‘You really think it’s that good?’

‘You must know how good it is. You’re a trained artist, for God’s sake!’

‘But no one has ever wanted anything from me except a painting of their damned horses.’

‘That’s because no one knew you could do anything else.’

‘It’s only you who’ve liked them, though. You may be wrong. You may just have fallen in love with me and so with my work.’

‘Rory, I haven’t fallen in love with you, not yet. But I have definitely fallen in love with your work. Let me tell someone about them. Let me take some photographs and send them to someone.’

‘But who?’

‘I don’t know. I know people at the art college where I live. They’ll know who might be able to tell you how good they are. This is important. If you don’t show them, you’ll die without ever selling a painting, like Van Gogh.’

Rory drew himself up. ‘You’re forgetting my animal paintings, woman. I have sold those.’

She hugged him again. ‘I’m going back down to the house. Can I use your phone? You have got a phone?’

Chapter Five

Chapter Five