Rosalie Ash - Myths Of The Moon

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Excerpt “I’ve been sitting herestaring at St. Michael’sMount, wondering whythe hell I can’t rememberwho I am!” “Getting angry about it won’t help. At least you know that’s St. Michael’s Mount,” Carla pointed out. “Which tells me I’ve been in this part of the world before.” “So it does!” She turned to him, eyes alight. “And slowly but surely it will all come back, Daniel.” “I’m sure you’re right. If I can survive the wait.” “Are you a naturally impatient person?” Daniel shrugged. “Impatient is maybe the wrong word. Active. I’d say I feel like I’m naturally active. I get the feeling I’m used to a lot of challenge in my life. Mental and physical.” Carla gazed at him, her brain whirling in fascination.

About the Author Having abandoned her first intended career for marriage, ROSALIE ASH spent several years as a bilingual personal assistant to the managing director of a leisure group. She now lives in Warwickshire, England, with her husband, and daughters Kate and Abby, and her lifelong enjoyment of writing has led to her career as a novelist. Her interests include languages, travel and research for her books, read” ing and visits to the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in nearby Stratford-upon-Avon. Other pleasures include swimming, yoga and country walks.

Title Page Myths Of The Moon Rosalie Ash www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

Copyright

“Getting angry about it won’t help. At least you know that’s St. Michael’s Mount,” Carla pointed out.

“Which tells me I’ve been in this part of the world before.”

“So it does!” She turned to him, eyes alight. “And slowly but surely it will all come back, Daniel.”

“I’m sure you’re right. If I can survive the wait.”

“Are you a naturally impatient person?”

Daniel shrugged. “Impatient is maybe the wrong word. Active. I’d say I feel like I’m naturally active. I get the feeling I’m used to a lot of challenge in my life. Mental and physical.”

Carla gazed at him, her brain whirling in fascination.

Having abandoned her first intended career for marriage, ROSALIE ASHspent several years as a bilingual personal assistant to the managing director of a leisure group. She now lives in Warwickshire, England, with her husband, and daughters Kate and Abby, and her lifelong enjoyment of writing has led to her career as a novelist. Her interests include languages, travel and research for her books, read” ing and visits to the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in nearby Stratford-upon-Avon. Other pleasures include swimming, yoga and country walks.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

HE’D fallen asleep. But, in spite of that long, hard body sprawled in the red wing-chair by the fire, he managed to retain an air of wary vigilance. In a position when most men would look vulnerable, this one looked threatening…

Carla hesitated in the doorway, tray in hand. Then she crept quietly into the cottage, and closed the front door behind her. She could feel her heart beating a touch faster than normal. Carefully, soundlessly, she put the tray down on the black oak sideboard by the door, and stared at him.

Who was he?

Not for the first time in the past twenty-four hours, she wondered bleakly what on earth she’d got herself into. It was all very well being a good Samaritan. And she being naturally stubborn, the words of warning from friends in the village had merely made her more determined to offer help…

She had the accommodation. She’d had this small self-contained cottage converted last year, from the stables of her stone farmhouse. She rented it out to holidaymakers in the summer. It had a superb view over the bay, and down along a mystical, timeless stretch of south Cornish coastline. It even overlooked the precise spot where the cliff accident had sent ripples of concern through this tiny Cornish village. The cottage was tailor-made for the accident victim’s recovery…

It wasn’t as if she was sharing her own house with a total stranger, was it? Back in the safety of the farm, she could shoot the bolts and turn the heavy old keys in the locks, and barricade herself in against potential night-time assaults, should he prove to be the crazed rapist of the village postmistress’s imagination…

And it wasn’t as if she was a naive, impressionable young girl, her reasoning ran on, bolstering her nerve. She was a twenty-five-year-old widow, a successful writer of detective novels, nobody’s fool…

So…why was she standing here, throat dry as sandpaper, staring at her mysterious lodger as if he were Jack the Ripper?

Catching sight of her wind-blown appearance in the big oval mirror above the fireplace, she pushed her fingers hastily through her tousled brown bob. She made a rueful face. Rufus had always complained that she didn’t take enough trouble with her appearance. And since his death in an accident last year she’d probably taken even less. Bundled up in heavy Aran polo neck, green cord jeans, and ancient, battered Barbour jacket, she felt quite sure that Rufus would have disapproved. But then she and Rufus should never have got married. They’d discovered that, very shortly after their wedding. Her late husband had envisaged a wife as someone who spent mornings at the hairdresser, afternoons painting her nails, and evenings cooking cordon bleu meals before slipping into slinky lace night-wear for torrid nights of pleasure. He had disapproved of just about everything he’d discovered about Carla, during their three brief years of marriage, and wasted no time in seeking consolation elsewhere…

Carla chewed her lip indecisively, wavering over whether to retreat, with the meal-tray, and return later. Lurking under the silver foil was a robust beef and red wine casserole, judged by her to be ideal food to fortify a large six-foot male recovering from concussion and temporary amnesia.

Could it endure a re-heat in the microwave, and still retain recuperative properties? she wondered wryly…

‘Hello.’

The husky voice made her jump with nervous reaction. The black-fringed eyes were open. Her visitor was looking at her, with a bemused expression.

‘Oh, you’re awake…! Sorry, did I wake you?’

‘Possibly.’ His mouth twisted in wry humour. ‘But don’t feel guilty. Something’s smelling good on that tray. Would it be presumptuous to hope it’s for me?’

She smiled stiffly.

‘Yes. It’s beef and red wine…with mushrooms. I hope you like mushrooms?’

‘Sounds delicious.’

He made a visible effort to straighten up, and lever himself to standing. With his left arm still in a sling, his progress was hindered. But he made it. In the low-ceilinged cottage, Carla found his height less alarming than she’d expected. Tall, lean, black-haired, with that villainous growth of stubble on his jaw, he should surely have exuded even more threat. But, with the slight hint of unsteadiness in his stance, perversely enough he now looked more vulnerable than when he’d been asleep.