The Brooding Stranger

by Maggie Cox

  Sometimes it had been hard to breathe, staying surrounded by the same old people and the same old scenery. She’d longed to escape.

  Putting aside her drink, she sniffed gingerly into her handkerchief, doing her utmost not to irritate her already sore nose. The next instant the sniffing somehow manifested as a muffled sob, and before she knew it her heart was breaking once more. She missed Ryan so much. He’d been her constant companion, her rock. Her heart was submerged in a drowning wave she didn’t have the strength to kick against. He’d been taken from her so suddenly and cruelly that they hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye. Her mind and body had been incarcerated in ice ever since. No one could comfort her. Not her mother, any of her family, or even well-meaning friends. No one but Ryan.

  She held her arms across her middle, as if to comfort herself, but knew it was an ultimately useless exercise. Nothing could heal her heartache. Only the passing of time might blunt the edges of sorrow, and eventually when she was ready, the letting in of people who genuinely cared. The crumpled square of linen in her hands quickly became soggy with more tears.

  When the knocker hammered in a staccato echo on the front door she froze in her seat, silently willing whoever it was calling on her in this foul weather to go away. The truth was, the way she was feeling, even stirring out of her seat required a colossal effort she didn’t feel up to making right now.

  When she didn’t rise to see who it was the knocker hammered again. The sound cut like a scythe through Karen’s already thumping head, making her wince. Hastily wiping her face with the damp, crumpled handkerchief, knowing miserably that she must look a wreck, she reluctantly roused herself to answer it.

  Outside in the rain, droplets of water coursing down his coldly handsome face, his arms folded across his chest, Gray O’Connell leaned impatiently against the doorjamb. As Karen stared up at him in surprise, he straightened and jerked his head. ‘Can I come in?’

  Frankly amazed that he hadn’t just barged in anyway, Karen nodded dumbly. Inside, the sitting room’s crackling fire blazed a cosy welcome, despite the definite lack of sociability on the part of the house’s tenant. Resignedly making her way back to the armchair, Karen resumed her seat. If only she wasn’t feeling so pathetic she’d tell him to go away—even if he did own the house. She still had some rights as a tenant. Slowly Gray approached the fire. His jacket dripped onto the stone flagged floor. It was partially covered with a hand-woven rug that must have been beautiful and vibrant once, but was now a dull shadow of its former self.

  Reluctantly Karen made herself speak. ‘You’d better take off that jacket. You’re soaked.’ Heaving herself back onto her feet again, she forced herself to wait patiently as he reluctantly took it off. He handed it to her without a word, and she took it and hung it on the peg at the back of the door. It smelled of the wind, the rain and the sea, and for a wildly unsettling moment Karen fancied she could detect the arresting male scent of its owner, too. Surreptitiously she allowed her fingers to linger a little longer than necessary on the soft worn leather.

  Turning back into the room, she was immediately struck by the intensely solitary picture that her visitor made. He was holding out his long-fingered hands to the fire and his handsome profile was marred by a look of such unremitting desolation that Karen’s heart turned over in her chest. Why had he come here? she wondered. A feeling of desperation clutched her chest. What did he want from her? He’d already told her that he didn’t want her as a tenant. There was no need to tell her again. She’d received the message loud and clear.

  ‘I couldn’t paint.’ Turning briefly to regard her, almost instantly he returned his gaze to the fire, as though locked deep inside the prison of his own morose thoughts. ‘Not today. And for once I didn’t want to be alone.’

  ‘I heard that you were an artist.’

  ‘And I’m sure that’s not all you heard. Am I right?’ He shook his head disparagingly.

  In spite of her innate caution, Karen moved hesitantly towards him, surprise and compassion making her brave. Suddenly the inexplicable need to offer this man comfort overshadowed everything—even her personal feelings of misery and pain.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘Help what? Free me from this incessant gloom that follows me everywhere? No. There’s nothing you can do to help.’

  His voice harsh, Gray pivoted away from the fire and started to pace the room. He was an imposing broad-shouldered man, with hair as black as tar—a dramatic hue that gleamed fiercely as though moonlight was on it—and his very stature made the already small room appear as though it had shrunk. The two of them might have been occupying a dolls’ house.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do except maybe refrain from asking questions and be silent,’ he uttered less irritably. ‘I appreciate a woman who knows how to be silent.’

  Intuitively Karen understood his need for quiet. She’d already registered the turmoil reflected painfully in his eyes and in the grim set of his mouth. This time she wasn’t offended by his sharp words. On soft feet encased only in the thick white socks she wore beneath her jeans, she made her way back to the armchair and sat down. Gathering up the book that earlier on she’d been attempting to lose herself in, she laid it on the coffee table beside the chair and offered him a weak and watery smile.

  ‘Okay … no questions, and I’ll just sit here quietly.’

  She might have meant it when she’d told him, that but it didn’t stop Karen’s mind from teeming with questions and speculations about her taciturn landlord. And heaven knew it was nigh on impossible to concentrate on anything else, with his brooding figure moving restlessly round, up and down in front of her.

  ‘Why were you crying?’

  The question pierced the silence that by mutual agreement had enveloped them. The sound of it reverberated through Karen like the shattering of glass.

  ‘I wasn’t crying,’ she quickly denied, picking up her book again and staring unseeingly at the cover. ‘I’ve got a cold.’ She sniffed into her handkerchief as if to emphasise the point.

  ‘You were crying,’ Gray reiterated, his gaze steely. ‘Don’t you think I’m capable of knowing when a woman’s been crying?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything about you.’ She blinked sorrowfully down at the pale cold hands that covered the book in her lap and a shudder of distress rippled through her. Why did he have to call on her today of all days? It was said that misery loved company, but if only he would just go and leave her to her own misery in peace.

  ‘I don’t want you to know me, either.’ He shook his head, as if warding off further unsettling thoughts, then glared at her.

  Karen retreated even more inside herself. Wrenching her glance away, she stared back down at her book. She hadn’t a hope in hell of reading any more of it today—at least not while her brooding landlord was taking up space in the house.

  Gray exhaled deeply. ‘You’re probably thinking that’s hardly fair, when I’ve invaded your own peace and quiet and you’re clearly upset.’

  ‘If you need to talk … just to have someone listen without judging or commenting … then I can do that,’ she answered softly, her heart racing a little because she didn’t know how he’d react.

  ‘All right,’ he said aloud, almost to himself. ‘All right, then. I’ll talk.’ He breathed deeply, gathering his thoughts. ‘My father lived in this house for five years before he died.’ He stopped pacing to address her, his distant storm-tossed gaze restless and preoccupied. ‘He’d never let me put things right. Liked it just as it was, he said … didn’t want my money. He was mad at me because I didn’t stay and work the farm that he used to own—until it got too much for him. The farm that his father and grandfather had owned before him. He didn’t understand that those days were gone. Working the land wasn’t in my blood like it was in his. I had other dreams. Dreams I wanted a chance at. Besides, a man can barely scratch a living out of farming these days—not when the supermarkets c
an undercut him at every turn and fly in cheap vegetables from Peru rather than buy them from local farms.’

  His expression was scornful for a moment, and pressing his fingers hard into his forehead, he twisted his lips angrily. ‘What had my fancy university education and my cleverness done for me? my father asked once. As far as he could see all it had accomplished was to send me away from this place—away from home.’ He paused, as if weighing up the wisdom or indeed lack of it in proceeding with his story. In the end it seemed he’d decided to throw any caution he might be feeling to the wind. ‘He wasn’t interested that I’d made a fortune on the stockmarket. He asked me, “How much money does a man need to live a useful life?” I’ve been pondering that question ever since. I’m not sure how useful it is, but eventually I did find something to do with my life that gave me even more pleasure than making money. I discovered that I loved to paint, and lo and behold it turned out I had some skill at it! My desire to pursue it in the place I grew up finally brought me home, but it was too late for Paddy and me to be reconciled. He was too bitter and too full of regret at what he had lost, and the man was dead from drink three months after I returned. I found him dead down on the beach one morning, a half-bottle of whiskey in his pocket. He’d fallen against a rock and smashed his head.’

  A lone tear splashed onto the cover of Karen’s book. Gray’s raw desolation merged with hers, welling up inside her like a dam strained to bursting. Missed opportunities, families torn apart, lost loves—it was all too much to bear.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘There’s no need to be sorry for me. What I did … everything that happened … was down to my own selfish actions. Oh, hell!’ Raking his fingers through the thick black mane that was still sodden from the rain, he shook his head. ‘I don’t know why I’m even telling you all this. I never did believe the adage that confession is good for the soul. Put it down to a momentary descent into madness and despair, if you like.’

  ‘Sometimes it helps to talk.’

  ‘Does it? I’m not so sure about that. But I can see how tempting it might be for a man to confide in you. That soft voice and quiet way you seem to possess suggests you might be capable of easing pain … for a while at least. Not that I’m looking for that.’ He regarded her suspiciously for a moment, his voice scathing.

  ‘Believe me … I’m no expert at healing anybody’s pain, and I wouldn’t pretend that I was.’ Stung, Karen dipped her head.

  ‘Then we’re even, aren’t we? Because I’m not looking to be healed. So don’t make the mistake of thinking that’s what I came for.’ Throwing her a brief warning glance, Gray O’Connell stalked to the door and grabbed his still wet jacket almost violently off the peg.

  Ignoring the insult, Karen immediately got to her feet, her book tumbling unheeded to the floor. ‘Perhaps—perhaps you’d like to stay and have a cup of tea with me?’ she offered uncertainly, her smile unknowingly engaging.

  The stark expression of raw need in those startling grey eyes impaled her to the floor. A red lick of heat kindled and grew inside her—heat that transcended her cold and the feeble state her body was currently in and put twin flags of searing scarlet into her cheeks.

  ‘Tea’s not what I need, Miss Ford. And something tells me you’re not the kind of woman who’d be willing to offer me exactly what it is I do need right now …’

  He didn’t need to explain. The force of his desire was as palpable as a storm about to break.

  He pulled on his dripping jacket, then yanked open the door with unnecessary force. ‘And, by the way, you can stay here as long as you like. Stay or go—it’s up to you. I don’t really care one way or the other.’

  Catching the edge of the door, Karen unhappily watched him go, head down, striding off into the rain, like a man whose broad shoulders were weighted down with the cares of the world. Shockingly, she wished she knew a way to make him stay. The thought made her heart thump hard inside her chest. If her landlord had descended into temporary madness then apparently so had she. It was jolting to realise that craving bold glance he’d shot her just now had had the power to make her feel aroused. Or was it just that it had been so long since a man had regarded her with desire in his eyes?

  After Ryan had died she’d told herself she’d never want or need a man again. And it was hard to believe Gray O’Connell of all men wanted her … especially in her current unappealing state. Her usually glossy fair hair had lost its lustre, whilst her cold made her resemble some half-starved waif who needed to be tucked up in bed with a hot water bottle and a steaming bowl of broth—never mind a man with winter-grey eyes and a look fierce enough to quell even the indomitable Queen Boudicca.

  Her body grew warm at his assessment that she wasn’t the kind of woman who could offer him exactly what he’d needed right then. How did he know that she couldn’t? Spending night after night cold and lonely and hurting in her bed was apt to make a grieving woman slightly crazy.

  Karen sucked in a startled breath as she realised she could even contemplate such a thing with a man who was practically a stranger—especially when only minutes before she’d been breaking her heart over Ryan. Reluctantly closing the door, she leant back against the wooden panelling and shut her eyes. Any port in a storm—that was all Gray O’Connell was looking for. And maybe at the end of the day so was she. The man she’d loved and married was long gone. Maybe any port in a storm was all she could hope for now?

  But at least her brooding landlord had said she could stay—even if he had thrown his decision at her like a scrap of meat from his plate. There was really no need for her to feel so stupidly grateful but the fact remained that she was. she was.

  On Saturday, Karen made a more prolonged visit to the thriving local town. Elated by her landlord’s grudging permission to let her stay on at the cottage, she vowed she’d celebrate by buying some new bits and pieces to cheer the place up. When she left she’d leave them for whoever came after her, but while she was there they would help make the house feel more like home.

  With that thought in mind, she browsed contentedly around the quaint narrow streets and thoroughfares, dipping in and out of enticing little craft shops and bookshops, sampling textures, scents and colours, sometimes buying—sometimes not.

  Much of the time her exploration was accompanied by the uplifting Irish tunes that drifted out from many of the pubs she passed. The music stirred her soul, as it had always done. It made her happy and sad simultaneously. Happy for the fierce joy it brought her, and sad because she’d probably left that way of life behind for good. But still the fingers that curled round the strap of her shoulder bag itched to pick up a guitar and play, and she had a brief vision of the instrument tucked away beneath her bed.

  Squashing the thought, Karen drifted into a coffee shop for a latte and a Danish pastry, content to sit amongst strangers with lilting Irish voices and enjoy her refreshment in peace.

  When she came out again the light was slowly fading, and people were starting to head home. On a last-minute impulse she dived into the bookshop she’d spied on the way across the street to the coffee shop and purchased a little book that had given her some much needed consolation in the months directly after Ryan’s death. Unfortunately she’d left her copy back in the UK. Tucking the book carefully into her bag, she made her way tiredly but contentedly back to where she’d parked the car.

  Lifting the lid on the simmering pot of stew, with its delicious and mouthwatering aroma of braised lamb and fragrant herbs, Karen took a deeply appreciative sniff, hearing her stomach growl in response. Her day out had given her the appetite of a Titan, and she was so glad that she’d thought to make dinner the night before, because now all she had to do was let it properly heat through and enjoy it.

  In the tiny sitting room scented candles flickered on almost every surface, the mingled scents of sandalwood, musk and vanilla creating a soothing ambience of warmth and relaxation, which was exactly what Karen had hoped for. Now that she’d got over her cold sh
e was fully committed to taking much better care of herself—not just eating sensibly and taking regular exercise, but learning how to relax properly. Something she had never really done up until now.

  Her life with Ryan had been wonderful, but the last couple of years before he’d died it had been pretty much commitment after commitment, with barely a blank space in the diary to call their own. Touring up and down the country had taken its toll, and Karen had for ever been promising herself that one day she would definitely make more time for herself. Well, now she had the opportunity.

  The atmosphere in the cottage was strangely evocative. It brought to mind images of past times—of an older, more simple way of life, when people had worked the land and, even though they’d struggled to make ends meet, there had been a real sense of community and pulling together to help each other. A sense of sadness lingered in the rooms, too—a melancholy air that was like the wisp of smoke after a candle had been blown out. Karen yearned to do everything in her power to dispel that sadness if she could.

  The story of Gray O’Connell’s father Paddy had been on her mind ever since he’d related it, and she had an ache in her heart that hadn’t left since she’d heard it. It was all too easy to imagine the man living here alone, with nothing but his memories and his whiskey to keep him company. No doubt Paddy had sorely missed his son when he’d left to make his fortune. In his case, accomplishing exactly that. In all probability the older O’Connell had been proud of his son’s achievements, but maybe he just hadn’t had the words or the courage to tell him? It was a shame that Gray was torturing himself over what had happened.

  At the end of the day everyone had a choice in how they responded to life’s challenges, Karen reflected, and if his father had sought solace in whiskey then that had been his decision and was nothing to do with his son. That said, Gray O’Connell was clearly a troubled man himself.