Despite the presence of the package in her pocket, Joanne felt better for just being among the pines, their heady scent enveloping her.

She was worrying for nothing, she told herself. She’d come to Blackrig to be safe, and safe she was. She would stay for as long as she continued to feel that way. And the longer she remained away from London, the more hope she had that he would give up on her.

But he doesn’t give up, she reminded herself.

From the first moment they’d met, Richard had been on a mission to capture her. At first it had been magical. He did everything right, especially sex. Their coupling had become her drug of choice, sweeping away any concerns she might have had about him as time went on.

He used it still, no longer to pleasure her but as punishment. His drug of choice was now her pain and humiliation.

You began the same way with Greg. You selected him. Seduced him. You did everything you thought he might want. And it had worked.

It was the first time she’d allowed herself to acknowledge the similarities. ‘But I am not like Richard,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘I have no wish to control Greg.’

Richard, on the other hand, would do everything he could to find and resume his control over her. And he had both the power and the connections to make that happen.

She slipped her hand in her pocket to grasp the package. If he imagined for a moment that she might be pregnant . . .

That thought caused her to stop and take a steadying breath.

Even worse . . . if he ever thought that she might be pregnant with another man’s child . . .

Richard had defended a man once who’d killed his wife and two young children because he believed she’d been unfaithful to him. The case haunted her still because of its ferocity. The man’s weapon had been petrol, which he’d poured down their throats before setting them alight.

She’d had endless nightmares about it. Not because Richard was doing his job as a defence lawyer, but because he’d told her that, in his opinion, the man had been driven to it by his wife’s infidelity.

So the woman’s death and those of her children had been her fault, according to him.

Which is why you’ll stay hidden here for as long as possible, she told herself as she descended the path into the fairy glen.

Its sudden and enveloping stillness seemed to calm her and she took a long, deep breath of the lush air. Here the scent of moss and water replaced the sharpness of pine.

She knew at once that she’d done the right thing in returning here to take photographs. Each carving was unique and beautiful, and she decided she must ask Greg who had created them, for she thought each had had a different artist.