Kerensa smiled, pleased to find it brought a puzzled frown to the young fisherman’s brow. ‘Will you please sit down, Bartholomew? I don’t have the chance to talk to you very often, but whenever I do it’s more like fencing swords than holding a conversation.’

For a few moments he appeared to be thinking, then he sat down very close beside her. ‘Are you sure you’re not hurt?’ he asked rather stiffly.

‘Yes, thank you, quite sure. Ah, here comes Bob.’

The black retriever sniffed around Bartholomew, weighing him up as friend or foe to his mistress before settling down protectively at their feet. Kerensa stroked the dog’s broad back. ‘How’s your mother and the children today, Bartholomew?’

He stroked the dog too, his deeply tanned hand moving next to hers until Kerensa took hers away. ‘Mother’s about the same. The girls are all right of course at the Sarrisons, those old brothers are a kindly pair, the young’uns not too bad. You asked me about my family once before I remember.’ He looked directly into her eyes. ‘It was after the wreck of the Amy Christabel. I told you then that you were pretty.’

‘Yes, you did,’ Kerensa said, smiling softly at the memory. ‘You could only have been about eight or nine, and a most forward child, as I recall.’

‘I was nine and I was wrong then.’

‘Oh?’

‘You’re not pretty, you’re beautiful, very beautiful.’ Kerensa drew in a deep breath and Bartholomew was satisfied that this time his remark was not to be warded off with indulgent amusement. He knew he was attractive to women, from the village maids to many a woman of mature years. Conquests came easily, but the females concerned meant little or nothing to him. The young woman beside him was a different matter. Kerensa Pengarron was as unattainable as she was beautiful and it was the unattainable and beautiful he seemed fated to desire all his life.

‘Thank you for the compliment,’ Kerensa said in her soft, lilting voice, then turned her head to the sea.

Bartholomew picked up one of her shoes. Holding it out on his palm he turned his work-roughened hand from side to side while looking at it intently. ‘I’ve always envied and respected Sir Oliver,’ he said.

‘Have you?’ she replied, looking at him now. ‘Why is that?’

‘To begin with he has you for his wife.’

‘Bartho—’

Whatever it was that she was going to say was lost as he continued, ‘He’s strong-minded, knows exactly what he wants and never gives up until he’s got it, and of course he’s rich and powerful and owns the estate and is the Lord of the Manor hereabouts.’