Sarah Morgan Summer Collection. Sarah Morgan

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      About the Author

      As a child SARAH MORGAN dreamed of being a writer and, although she took a few interesting detours on the way, she is now living that dream. With her writing career she has successfully combined business with pleasure and she firmly believes that reading romance is one of the most satisfying and fat-free escapist pleasures available. Her stories are unashamedly optimistic and she is always pleased when she receives letters from readers saying that her books have helped them through hard times.

      Sarah lives near London with her husband and two children, who innocently provide an endless supply of authentic dialogue. When she isn’t writing or reading Sarah enjoys music, movies and any activity that takes her outdoors.

      Readers can find out more about Sarah and her books from her website: www.sarahmorgan.com. She can also be found on Facebook and Twitter.

      

      CHAPTER ONE

      THE ferry docked in the early morning.

      It was the start of summer, a fresh June day with plenty of cloud in an angry sky, and Ethan stood by the white rail with the other foot passengers, his eyes on the shore. The cool wind whipped playfully at his dark hair as if to remind him that this was remote Scotland and that meant that even summer weather was unpredictable.

      Despite the early hour, the harbour was already busy and people were milling around the dock, buying fish straight from the boats and passing the time of day. From his vantage point high on the boat, Ethan could see a cluster of cottages, a café, a gift shop and an old-fashioned greengrocer with fruit and vegetables artfully arranged to draw the eye and the customer. From the harbour the road rose, snaking upwards and then curving out of sight along the coast.

      Even without the benefit of local knowledge he knew where that road led. In fact, he felt as though he knew every contour of Glenmore island, even though he’d never been here before.

      As if to remind himself of his reason for being there, he slipped a hand into his pocket and fingered the letter. He’d done the same thing so many times before that the notepaper was crumpled and the writing barely legible in parts, but he didn’t need to read it because he’d long since committed the contents to memory.

      The description in the letter had been so detailed, the words so vivid that already the island felt familiar. In his mind he’d felt the cold chill of the wild, inhospitable mountains that clustered in the centre of the island and he’d walked the rocky shores that had sent so many ships to their doom. In his imagination, he’d sailed the deep loch and scrambled on the ruins of the ancient castle, the site of a bloody battle between Celts and Vikings centuries earlier. Glenmore had a turbulent past and a rich history thanks to the fierce determination of the locals to maintain their freedom.

      Freedom.

      Wasn’t that what everyone wanted? It was certainly one of the reasons he was there. He needed to escape from the throttling grip of his past.

      Suddenly Ethan wanted to sprint to the top of the highest point and breathe in the air and then he wanted to plunge into the icy waters of the Atlantic Ocean and swim with the porpoises that were reputed to inhabit this area. It felt good to escape from external pressures and the expectations of others and he had to remind himself that being there wasn’t about escape, it was about discovery.

       He’d come for answers.

      And he intended to find those answers.

      If he happened to enjoy being in this wild, remote corner of Scotland, then that was a bonus.

      Ethan felt a sudden lift in his spirits and the feeling was as surprising as it was unexpected.

      Well-meaning colleagues and friends had told him that he was mad to bury himself all the way up here on a Scottish Island. With qualifications like his, he should have been returning to Africa with all its medical challenges, or working at the renowned London teaching hospital where he’d trained. They’d warned him that Island life would be dull. Nothing but ingrowing toenails and varicose veins—old ladies moaning about the pressures of advancing age. He would be bored within a week.

      A faint smile touched Ethan’s classically handsome face. It remained to be seen whether they were right about the lack of job satisfaction, but at the moment it wasn’t boredom he was feeling. It was exhilaration.

       And a deep sadness for the loss of something precious and irreplaceable.

      He breathed in deeply and felt the salty air sting his lungs. It was time to leave the ferry. Time to begin. He started to move away from the rail and then he paused, his eye caught by a tall, slender girl who was weaving her way through the groups of people hovering on the dock, awaiting the arrival of the ferry. She walked with bounce and energy, as if she had a million things to do and not enough time, returning greetings with a wave and a few words, hardly breaking stride as she made for the boat. Her hair was long and loose, her smile wide and friendly, and she carried a large sloppy bag over one shoulder. Anchoring it firmly, she leapt onto the ramp of the ferry with the grace of a gazelle.

      Not a girl, he saw immediately, but a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties, and everything about her was vital and energetic.

      The wind drew the conversation upwards.

      ‘Hey, Kyla, you can’t come on without a ticket.’ The ferryman strolled towards her, a grin on his weathered face, and the girl reached up and planted a kiss on his cheek, her eyes twinkling.

      ‘I’ve come for my deliveries, Jim. Logan ordered some equipment from the mainland and I’ve orders to collect it before breakfast, along with the post and the new doctor.’

      Ethan frowned. Kyla. The letter had mentioned Kyla and finally he was putting a face to the name. And it was a lovely face. So lovely that he found that he couldn’t look away.

      The ferryman was hauling a sack onto the dock. His boots were dusted with sand and there were streaks of oil on his arms. ‘The new doctor?’

      ‘That’s right. We ordered him from the mainland, too.’ The woman stooped to help him with the sack. ‘He’d better be good quality. If not, he’s going right back. My poor brother needs help in the surgery almost as much as he needs a decent night’s sleep.’