Leaning on the railing, Rolf stared at the raging sea far below. As it beat relentlessly against the rocks, spray rose high into the air. The rare visitors who came to the lighthouse turned white and dizzy with fright when, after climbing the winding staircase, they realised just how high they were.
The sea held no fear for him. In fact, he’d always loved it, loved the isolation and the raw beauty that surrounded his unusual home. There had perhaps been times when the solitude grew too hard to bear, but over time he'd grown used to it, and would not now choose to live elsewhere. It was a fact that few people would be willing to live in such isolation.
Of course, the lighthouse was fully automated now, and there was little for him to do daily, except keep an eye on things. Rolf was full of admiration for those gallant men who once operated this light from the early days when it was illuminated by candles—then oil, and finally electricity—on one of the most dangerous stretches of sea on the coast of Britain. Often, he wondered just how many lives the warning light of his lighthouse had saved.
“Come on, Hanno, let's go.” Rolf patted the head of the wolfhound looking up at him expectantly. “Go get your leash.” The large dog jumped up with a yelp of delight and bounded ahead down the staircase. Hairy and not the handsomest of creatures, Hanno was given to him as a pup and had grown into one of the most faithful companions a man could have, especially one who lived in such isolation.
With one last look out to sea, Rolf pushed away from the rail and went inside, then followed the dog down the staircase that wound around the inner perimeter of the lighthouse to his quarters below. Most people would think his living arrangements sparse but the small bedroom, even tinier kitchen and bathroom, and combination of study and living room suited his needs. A man used to living alone, he had everything in its place and a place for everything, as he told curious visitors.
Many people chose to live in mobile homes these days so his was not a lot different—except for the fact that it was static. His living accommodation was just as restrictive. The view from his balcony altered daily as the tides and weather controlled the conditions, and he never tired of his ever-changing scenery. Cornwall with its magnificent coastline and vistas always had been and would always continue to be a haven for travelling holidaymakers in their various modes of transport. Often when he got the chance to chat to them in town, they were curious as to why he would choose such a static existence. To each his own, was his standard response.
After changing out of his scruffy jeans and into a pair of cord trousers, Rolf pulled on the sweater his sister knitted for him as a gift last Christmas. After running a brush through his hair, he called, “Ready?” before picking up his wallet and keys. As he went on downstairs to the main door, the dog, tail wagging, leash in mouth, followed close behind him.
Out of habit, Rolf locked the door after him although there was no real need. No one came to the lighthouse unless invited. It was too far off the beaten track for casual passers-by, and none of the locals were interested in coming to visit him anymore. Once their initial bout of curiosity he incited, after moving in three years ago was satisfied, they left him to his own devices.
Everyone greeted him cordially when he paid his once or twice-weekly visits to the local shops or pub, and one or two single women in town looked at him with interest—well, he presumed they were single. They could possibly be bored housewives, looking to brighten their dull lives while their husbands were off playing golf, fishing or enjoying whatever pursuit they took part in. So far Rolf had not been interested enough in any female to invite her back to his isolated home. Moreover, he long ago worked out that he was not the flirting type, and certainly not interested in casual relationships. No, he knew when he was well off, and had no intention of getting himself into the bad books of the local men. On the whole most were decent folk.
Rolf took the leash from his dog’s mouth before skipping down the twenty or so steps carved into rock that led away from the lighthouse and strolled along the narrow pathway between shrubs that almost brushed his sides in places. The hardy plants growing in abundance around here had weathered many a storm. Once they reached the path, Hanno loped ahead, turning back every now and then to make sure his master followed.
A chill wind blustered around him but here on the pathway he was protected from the worst of the weather. It could get bitterly cold here in mid-winter and when the seas were rougher than today Rolf often felt as if he was at the end of the earth, especially on the rare occasions when the snowfall was heavy, enveloping his world and turning it into a white wonderland.
It took a mere five minutes to walk to his car where it stood parked in a small lean-to in the lee of the cliff. At Rolf’s whistle, Hanno returned from a mad dash, panting as he stood patiently waiting for the back door of Rolf's station wagon to be opened. “Not many rabbits about today, boy,” he asked as he closed the door after the dog and walked round to the driver's seat. Hanno never came back with any creature—Rolf guessed he just enjoyed the thrill of the chase.
Rolf was so used to the twenty-minute drive along the winding gravel track leading to the main road that he could practically do it blindfolded. Whistling off-key, he stopped at the Tee intersection while a truck rumbled by, the driver saluting as he recognised Rolf's vehicle. Rolf relished small courteous gestures like that about living here—the people were friendly but not intrusive.
Not that they weren't inquisitive. He knew that they theorised and surmised about his past, but that was human nature and quite normal in any small town. And perhaps they fantasised about him, for he'd overheard a couple of women in the newsagent's gossiping about him once—guessing that he must be nursing a broken heart and had fled the city to forget the woman who cheated on him. That story amused him. Catching sight of him, the women blushed, and began to talk loudly about the price of food, which amused him even more.
Nobody so far had the audacity to come right out with it and ask him point blank why he lived in a lighthouse, or why did he choose to move to this part of the world. Most locals ran either guesthouses or bed and breakfast hotels as a good living could be made from the holidaymakers who came here in droves every summer. Of course, life slowed down in winter, so giving them time to speculate and gossip.
The streets of town were practically deserted, quite usual on a mid-March Wednesday. The tourists never started their annual invasion until Easter at the earliest. Parking in front of the one bookshop in town, Rolf climbed out. When he opened the back door, Hanno bounded out. “Sit here,” he ordered and obediently the hound sat—his eyes bright as he watched his master go into the shop.
A bell above the door tinkled and the owner looked up with a smile. “Morning, Rolf, what brings you to town today? I thought you bought your art supplies a couple of weeks ago.” Well into his seventies, Jeff Bones had lived in these parts all his life and owned this business for thirty years. Originally, a printing press took pride of place here, but as new technology took over Jeff started to sell books and then art supplies when the local area became a haven for artists. All this he told Rolf once it was established that Rolf was practically a local, and an artist too. This news was welcomed, because Jeff sold all the supplies Rolf required for his pastime.
“Morning, Jeff. No, I have all I need for a while. I have a more tedious task today. I need to buy a gift for my niece. She's seventeen.” Rolf shrugged and pushed his unruly hair back as he made a face. “What do you buy a seventeen-year-old these days? I have no idea.” His sister's only child loved to read, and a book seemed the only solution as she was far too old for toys and he had no idea about the clothes young women liked. He hated to give her money. It was so impersonal, but he had a feeling the time when he would have to do just that was nearing. Teenagers had minds of their own these days and lived in a world far removed from his own.
Jeff laughed. “Hmm, seventeen, hey. A book is a safe bet. Depends what she likes. Is she horse mad?”
“She owns a horse, yes, but I have a suspicion she already has all the tomes she needs on that subject. Perhaps I'll just potter around a bit.”
“Good idea.” Jeff grinned. “The females seem to like a bit of romance.” He jerked his thumb to the back of the shop. “I suggest you look over there.”
Romance? Good grief! That was wandering into totally un-trod territory. Rolf dawdled down the aisle where Jeff directed him, taking no real interest in the contents of the shelves. Only one other customer currently shared this section of the shop with him. Looking cosy and warm in a fleecy jacket, tight jeans and snug ankle boots the woman bent over a book, and as she did so her long black hair obscured her face. Even though he felt sure he didn’t know her, there seemed to be something familiar about her, but then again, he didn’t know everyone who lived in these parts. It was likely she was a visitor, uncommon at this time of the year.
Shrugging, Rolf bypassed the romance books and came to a section more familiar to him, where he focused his attention on the shelf containing books to do with the Viking age. As he reached for a thick book at shoulder level, another hand reached for the same book. When the small white hand met his, Rolf jumped as if he'd received an electric shock.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, the lilt in her voice proclaiming that she wasn’t Cornish but might hail from Dorset or Somerset or elsewhere in the West Country. There was also an unmistakable smile in her voice as though she were on the verge of laughing at something. “We seem to be after the same book.”
Rolf could feel the colour rising up his cheeks and cursed his red hair and light skin. “Sorry.” Feeling very much like a clumsy schoolboy, he stared at her, thrusting his hands deep in his pockets as if he'd been caught doing something naughty. He also felt like a complete idiot and was not quite sure why.
“Don't be.” Her smile was like a breath of summer, illuminating what would otherwise be an ordinary face. Except for the eyes. What eyes she had! As green as the sea on a spring day, or the grass after rain. “Are you a Viking fan too?” She pointed to the book that still sat on the shelf.
“I think I have Nordic blood in my veins,” he said, feeling even more stupid. What on earth possessed him to say such a foolish thing to someone he'd just met and didn’t know. Then, to top it off he added, “Everything about them seems to fascinate me.”
“Me too.” She chuckled, and he had to smile then, her laugh was so contagious. With a jolt he realised he didn't smile very often these days and it felt good. “Shall we get the book down and have a look? Perhaps if we both want a copy the owner can see if he has another one tucked away or can order it in for us.” She nodded up at the shelf and Rolf pulled the book out, fumbling with it.
When he held it in front of him she moved in closer, and her perfume surrounded him. She smelt of roses and he breathed in her scent deeply. She wasn't very tall and just reached his shoulder, so Rolf lowered the book a bit, so they could both see it clearly. Not that he could currently see clearly, for she seemed to have a strange effect on him, which made him slightly dizzy. Rolf shook his head. What was wrong with him? He wasn't usually given to fanciful notions—but that oddest feeling they'd met before washed over him.
After glancing at the book briefly, she said, “I don't think this is what I’m after. I'm looking for a book about a Celtic princess who fell in love with the Viking warrior who enslaved her.”
“Oh?” Was that all he could say? Rolf wanted the floor to open up and engulf him. What the hell was wrong with him?
“Yes, one of my ancestors, actually. The story's been handed down through my family for generation after generation.” She shrugged and when her eyes met his Rolf couldn't look away. “I really don't know how much of it is truth and how much fancy.” Another laugh of merriment. “Probably a good tale thought up by a great, great, great grandmother or such with a fanciful imagination, but I like to think it's the gospel truth. Do you believe in reincarnation?” That was asked with a touch of devilment, and now he wasn’t sure if she was teasing him.
Rolf shook his head. “Can't say I've given it a lot of thought, really.” That was the truth. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her, caught once again by the sheer honesty in her gaze.
“Have we met before?” A tiny frown marred her forehead as she asked this, as if she was trying to recall a past meeting and couldn't quite put her finger on it.
Taken aback, Rolf rocked back on his heels. What would she say if he told her he had experienced the same feeling? “I don't think so.” He chewed on the inner side of his lip. “I think I would remember if I had met you.” Again, he cringed inside. How gauche was that?
“Are you going to take that one?” She pointed a slender finger.
Rolf stared down at the forgotten book, still in his hand. “I don't think so. As a matter of fact, I'm shopping for a book for my niece's seventeenth birthday and shouldn't be looking at books about Vikings at all.” He shrugged sheepishly. “I got side-tracked.” And was secretly glad he did, otherwise he might not now be chatting with this unusual woman. He couldn’t recall the last time someone roused his interest as she did.
She laughed again, and Rolf wanted to laugh along with her. “Hmm, that's rather a large and difficult task for a man. Would you like some help?”
Would he ever! “Would you mind? Samantha has lots of books on horses already, and she's mad about all these pop stars you see on the front of magazines.” He glanced about. “I haven't a clue where to start looking. I just thought a book might be suitable. But I'm now having second thoughts.”
“No, you're perfectly right. It is eminently suitable I must say. Follow me.” With a cheeky wink and a crooked finger, she tilted her head and Rolf followed her as she rounded the shelves, leading him to the other side of the shop. “Now let me see...” Her snub nose wrinkled as she studied a row of books. “Ah, this one I think.”
Rolf took the book she handed him, not really noticing what it was about or who the author was. All he was aware of was her perfume, her eyes, and her smile.
“Thank you. Look, can I buy you a drink?” Where did that come from? “Sorry, I shouldn't have asked. I don't usually go around asking women such things when I've only just met them. Perhaps in appreciation for your help.” He stumbled to a halt, wanting the ground to open up and swallow him.
She was clearly amused at his bumbling, and he felt like turning tail and running. “Don't apologise. I would like a drink, but I would rather have a cup of tea if that's all right. I noticed a nice little teashop just around the corner and thought of going there for lunch. I'd be delighted to have you share lunch with me.”
“Oh.” Rolf breathed a sigh of relief. “Right.” He waved the book. “I'll just get this wrapped. What about your book? You spent so much time helping me you didn't get to look for the one you were after.”
She shrugged. “I can come back later. There really is no hurry. I'm in town for a week or two.”
That news pleased Rolf. At least she wasn’t passing through on her way to some other location. Feeling light hearted, he paid for his book, ignoring the curious glances Jeff passed between him and the woman as he wrapped the book.
Saluting a thank you to Jeff, Rolf gestured for the woman to go before him. When they were on the footpath, Hanno stood and stretched, wagging his tail. Rolf bent to pat his head, praising him for being good.
“Is he yours? I saw him through the window and was admiring him.” She held out a fist for Hanno to sniff. The dog licked it—he liked people. “I always wanted a wolfhound but have never had the room.” Once she established Hanno wasn’t about to bite her, she stoked his hairy head. Hanno liked that and grinned at her.
“Do you live in a flat then?” Rolf asked as they started the walk towards the corner of the street, Hanno at Rolf's heel.
“I did. When my husband and I moved to Bath, we lived above a shop. There wasn't room to swing a cat, let alone keep a dog.”
Rolf's insides did such a flip he stumbled on the footpath. She was married. For some silly reason that news made him want to bawl like a baby. “Oh, you say lived, so where do you live now?” To his own ears, his voice sounded full of disappointment.
Her eyes clouded momentarily. “Michel died last summer. I've been sharing a flat with a friend, but she's getting married soon.” Her sadness didn't last long, and a smile replaced the melancholy expression that lingered fleetingly. “I'm on the lookout for a place to live and I always liked this part of the world. Do you like living here?”
Rolf’s good mood resumed at that news. He ensured that Hanno was safely sitting at the curb and then held the door to the small tearoom open for this interesting woman. A warm blast of air met them, and she began to remove her fleecy jacket. Rolf helped her, and then hung it on the wooden coat stand. It was a long time since he performed such a small task as that for a woman and he felt like a teenager. Which was utterly stupid for a man coming up to forty.
“Yes, I like it a lot, but I don't actually live in town. My place is a short drive out.” Rolf held a chair for her at a table for two by the window.
After they'd given their orders, she asked, “Inland or near the sea?” Her dark hair was slightly dishevelled by now, but she didn't seem the least bit concerned about her appearance and hadn't smoothed it down as most women would have after being out in the wind.
“I live in a lighthouse,” he said, sure she would be taken aback or amused. Most women were. Not that he came into contact with many outsiders these days, but most of the locals gave him the impression they thought him an oddball—or a recluse, and perhaps he was.
Her beautiful eyes gleamed with interest. “Honestly? How exciting. Is it haunted?” she rested her elbows on the table, her dainty hands beneath her chin as if in readiness for hearing a ghostly story.
What a funny one she was. Rolf chuckled. No one had asked him that before. “I haven't seen any ghosts so far—but perhaps that's because I haven't been watching for them.”
“Oh, don't worry, if they were there you'd have become aware of them by now. Is your lighthouse on an island?” She smiled up at the waitress, as their sandwiches and tea things were set down on the table.
Mrs. Bloom, the owner, cook, waitress and just about everything else at the tearoom lingered, keen interest written all over her face. No doubt, whatever happened here would be broadcast all around town before teatime today. Shifting on his seat Rolf fixed her with a meaningful stare. She huffed, took the hint and wandered back to the kitchen, or her sitting room, whatever was behind the wall separating her home from the tearoom.
“No, it's actually on a small spit of land. It gets surrounded by water at exceptionally high tides, but that doesn't happen too often.”
She sipped her tea then leaned forward. “How dramatic. So, what made you pick a lighthouse?”
Rolf took a mouthful of his own drink. “It was up for lease, and I wanted solitude,” he said, staring out of the window at Hanno, now lying down, head on his paws.
“Well I guess you've got it.” As she picked up her sandwich he noticed for the first time her wedding ring finger was bare.
“What did your husband die of?” Rolf instantly bit his lip. Perhaps that was impertinent. She might possibly not like talking about it.
“A massive heart attack,” she said. “He was a lot older than me.” Both sentences held scant emotion. She took another bite of her sandwich.
“Oh.” Rolf guessed her age at around the early thirties. “People don't have to be old to suffer heart attacks, you know. I had one and I'm not forty yet.” Damn, why did he tell her that? Something about this woman made him say things he would never usually disclose. No one in these parts knew anything about his past. That was the way he liked it, but this woman made him want to open his heart and bare his soul.
“Did you? You look healthy enough now.” Her eyes wandered over him and Rolf felt the colour rush to his face again. “I guess the sea air agrees with you, so you’ve obviously recovered well. Was that why you came here seeking solitude?” Without waiting for a response, she went on, “What did you do before you came here and moved into your lighthouse?”
“I was in the merchant navy.” No one in these parts knew that either. “I love the sea—have some sort of urge to always be on it or near it, have done so since I was a boy playing with my boats on the local pond.” Another fact few people apart from his close family knew. His parents always lived near water, so he guessed that was where the urge originally sprung from. Deep inside Rolf often felt there was more to it than that. His love of the ocean bordered on obsession. He never felt complete when far away from it.
“Isn't that strange—I'm sort of like you. I was never really happy in Bath, much as I loved the town, and that's one of the reasons I decided to venture down here—to buy a place overlooking the ocean.” She smiled across at him and that smile lit up her features, made her beautiful. Rolf shook his head, now he was becoming fanciful. He’d start quoting poetry soon if he wasn’t careful.
“Do you know it's a fact that no British person lives more than sixty miles from the sea. And in fact, about two million can actually see the ocean from an upstairs window.” Rolf could have bitten his tongue. Why was he spouting facts and figures at her? She would probably think him a complete idiot.
She nodded, agreeing, “I read somewhere that most Brits can't survive without a glimpse of the sea at some time.” A little frown then marred her brow. “Must be the Viking blood running through our veins. They were certainly the finest sailors around. Have you ever been on a longship?”
“Yes.” It was Rolf's turn to frown. What the dickens made him come out with that bit of nonsense? Of course, he had never been on a longship. The word just slipped out of its own accord. “I mean... I've, um...” He stumbled to a halt. “I've been on many ships, large and small, but not an actual longship.”
“I have dreams about Vikings and longships,” she said, and then it was her turn to blush. She rubbed at her chin, looking sheepish. “I don't know why I told you that.”
That made Rolf feel exceptionally good. He grinned. Good to know that she was going through the same mixed emotions he was experiencing.
“You should smile more often,” she said, making him feel even better. “It makes you look a lot younger than nearly forty.” She wagged a finger his way. “And, know what? You look just like a Viking warrior I’ve seen in one of my books. If you had a long beard to match your red hair, you'd look remarkably like Eric the Red, you know?”
Rolf rubbed at his hated thatch of hair. “That's the nicest thing anyone's ever told me, I think. I hate this carrot top.” Another titbit never disclosed before. Even his sister didn't know that—for her hair was just as red and she despised it, so he always assured her it was a great colour.
“It's unusual.” For a moment she studied him, before saying, “In fact you're just about the most unusual man I've ever met.”
“By that I take it you mean odd.” Rolf shook his head. More than a few of his fellow sailors labelled him weird. More, he surmised, because he didn’t enjoy painting the town red with them or picking up stray women in every port of call.
She brushed her palms together after finishing her sandwich. “Not at all. There's a distinct difference.”
It hit Rolf then that he had opened up more to this woman in the last half hour than he'd done to anyone in his life before. “Do you know, I feel as if I've known you a long time, and something funnier—I don't even know your name.”
Another couple entered the café and she nodded to the elderly woman before saying, “My name’s Brigid, with an id on the end. What's yours?”
“Rolf.” He took her outstretched hand and shook it, then didn't want to let it go. But courtesy dictated he release her. “How come you have that spelling? Most times it is spelt with a double t.”
With a small shrug, her lips curved into that infectious smile. “It's all to do with the story I was telling you about in the book shop. The name has been handed down through generations. My mother was called that and her mother before her, and so on and so on way back to who knows when.” Her fingers wiggled before her as she sketched out a line. “It’s all very romantic. So, what about Rolf? That's not a common name either.”
It was his turn to shrug. “Nowhere near as romantic. I think my mother found it in a book. It certainly hasn't been around in my family for endless generations—in fact I think I'm the first one with it.”
“I like it. It has a very Viking ring to it.”
Mrs. Bloom served the new customers and then came across to their table, where she stood watching them and waiting, hands across her chest.
“Would you like another pot of tea?” Rolf asked. Brigid shook her head and so the woman walked off, Rolf guessed reluctantly.
Brigid rested her elbows on the table again and put her chin on her hands. “I'll tell you what I would like, Rolf. Do you think I could have a look at your lighthouse?”
Rolf beamed across at her. Usually he was reluctant to take anyone to his home, certainly anyone he’d just met, but there was nothing in the world that would please him more than to take this woman, Brigid with an id, back to his lighthouse. “Certainly. Do you have a car?” He rose as she shook her head.
“I do, but would you believe it’s in with the mechanic for a service. I noticed a strange rattle on the way here so thought it best to have it checked out. After all, I wouldn’t want it to give out on me on one of the lonely country lanes around here.”
“True, then we’ll go in mine. It’s parked up near the book shop.” Rolf helped her on with her jacket and gestured for her to precede him from the tearooms. She called out a thank you over her shoulder to Mrs. Bloom, who nodded in response, no doubt filled with a sense of purpose as she had a juicy item of gossip to pass on to her cronies at the next card group meeting.