Kerensa looked at the bed and was gloriously transported back to a few hours ago, when she had felt the passion and heat of Oliver’s body, his perfect touch, his worship. Always his presence dominated every part of the manor house. She had come to love, deeply and passionately, the man who had arrogantly forced her into marriage over a parcel of land, as he had come to love her. Not yet had they reached a stage of comfortable companionship, of taking each other for granted.

‘I’ve more than enough to keep me happy, Beatrice.’

‘What? Visitin’ yer children or folk like that thar dressed-up mare, Lady Rachael Besweth’rick, or charity work. When are ’ee goin’ t’ do somethin’ fer yourself?’ In her vehemence Beatrice was spitting in all directions.

‘There’s nothing more I want out of life, Beatrice,’ Kerensa said firmly. ‘Now, my dear, before you settle and drop off to sleep I’d be grateful if you’d slip away somewhere else. Be careful of the stairs. I must see to the arrangements for the reception. Oliver’s so pleased Kane’s agreed to have it here instead of Vellanoweth.’

Beatrice was obliged to accept Kerensa’s aid in the struggle to get to her feet. ‘Ais, tes only right an’ proper every Pengarron be brought back ’ere after the church. Course,’ she added meaningfully, ‘it’ll mean Oliver ’aving one or two people under ’is roof ’e won’t wish ’ere at all.’

‘No one will be looking for trouble, certainly not Clem.’ Beatrice let out a snorting chuckle.

Kerensa closed the door and went to her dressing table. From a china trinket jar she produced a tiny ornate key. Listening first to be certain no one else was about to disturb her, she opened the bottom drawer where she kept the things she treasured. She pulled out a plain wooden box. Unlocking the lid she carefully took the contents into her hands.

Wild flowers of every season lay carefully preserved within the pages of a small book of bitter-sweet poetry. A folded kerchief, once belonging to a young farm labourer, and a lock of his blond hair delicately tied with blue ribbon. She brought these things to her nose. Could she still detect the essence of youth, hope and cherished dreams, when she had walked and talked on moor, cliff and seashore, and planned a different, perfect future with another man? Loved another man?

These were the love tokens Clem Trenchard, the son of an estate tenant farmer, had given her many years ago, when she had lived in Trelynne Cove. Oliver’s selfish scheme to own the cove and make it part of Pengarron land and the cunning of Kerensa’s criminal grandfather had destroyed their plans. Clem had since married twice, produced issue from both wives and moved far away in the county.