To most of its inhabitants, the principal charm of Abbotsbridge was its lack of proximity to any motorway. Bustling and friendly, not yet taken over by the developer, the small market town lay in a hollow surrounded by countryside straight from a Constable painting, and as a rule Lucy Drummond was happy to call it home. But tonight for once, she thought, sighing, she would have appreciated major, brightly lit roads. The heavy snowfall of the past week had begun a slow thaw earlier, making Lucy's outward journey relatively straightforward, but, with nightfall, temperatures were down to freezing again, glazing the road with icy patches. Worst of all, fog had reduced visibility to a few yards.

Lucy gave a vote of thanks to the inventor of the cat's eyes reflecting her headlights in the centre of the road, and eased the tension between her shoulderblades as she peered through the windscreen. She drove at a snail's pace, worried about missing the sign for Abbotsbridge. Luckily there was very little traffic on the road. Sensible people had stayed indoors on this freezing Sunday evening, and Lucy wished she could have done the same.

She gritted her teeth as the fog thickened, doing her best to be philosophical. Such intense concentration was a boon in one way. It left no room for depression about parting with Tom, which was an occurrence she never got used to. The swift goodbye kiss, the lonely journey back ... She blinked hard, straining to see through the blanketing whiteness, then gave a sigh of relief as the sign she was looking for showed dimly through the fog. At last! Feeling better at once, she turned off on the road for Abbotsbridge.

Lucy's relief was short-lived. She stiffened, slamming on the brakes. No more friendly little glow-worms in the middle of the road. She'd taken the wrong turning. Her heart sank as she recognised the private road leading to Abbot's Wood, just about the last house in the world she had any desire to be even near.

Instead of raging at herself, Lucy saved her energies for the task of navigating the big old estate car along a road which was lined either side by deep ditches, or had been in the days when she used to cycle along it regularly. Her lips tightened. One small comfort was that no one was likely to be about to accuse her of trespassing, least of all Jonas Woodbridge, the owner of Abbot's Wood. The town's most celebrated citizen was invariably up the Limpopo or the Hindu Rush or wherever, gathering material for his books, and rarely graced Abbotsbridge with his presence these days. Lucy gasped, paying at once for her lapse of concentration as the car went into a skid on a patch of ice. Somehow she managed to avoid braking sharply, but her heart was thudding as she drove on with more caution, envying people who lived in cities with bright lights and no fog. Oh, God, how she wished she were home!

The fog thinned a little as she passed the gates of Abbot's Wood, and Lucy drove with more confidence as she left them behind. Her spirits rose. Another mile or so and she would be back on Abbotsbridge road. The thought had barely crossed her mind when she hit a sudden blank wall of fog and braked instinctively. The wheels slewed across a sheet of ice and she screamed as the car careered off the road into the snow-filled ditch, coming to rest at a drunken angle.

After an interval of reassuring herself she was in one piece, Lucy fumbled with her seat-belt, her shaking fingers making heavy work of releasing the catch as she twisted to compensate for the tilt of the car. Miraculously, one headlight was still working, and by its beam Lucy managed to extricate herself and her belongings and heave herself out on to the road. Teeth chattering, she scrabbled in her bag for the small torch she always carried and shone it on the car. The extent of the damage was difficult to estimate in the dim light, but one thing was glaringly apparent. Without a tow-truck to

haul it out of the ditch, the car would have to stay put. She had no option but to walk the remaining couple of miles home.

After a struggle to turn off the headlight, Lucy locked the car and began to trudge along the road. It was narrow, with high, snow-covered hedgerows either side, and with only torchlight for illumination it looked altogether too eerie for comfort. She turned up her collar and walked as fast as she could through the eddying fog, which trailed chilly wisps of itself against her face like ghostly fingers . . . 'And that's enough of that, Lucy Drummond,' she said aloud, consoling herself with the thought that the adventure would at least be something to write to Tom about in her twice-weekly letter.

Lucy was euphoric when she reached the Abbotsbridge road. There was still a mile or so to go, but once off Woodbridge land she felt a lot better, and quickened her pace. Half an hour later she turned up the lane which led to Holly Lodge, almost weak at the knees with relief. Home! The peeling white gates stood open, as always, and beyond them, like a scarecrow mocking her through the fog, loomed the hated For Sale sign. Lucy frowned as she reached the front door. Odd. The house was in darkness. And she was quite certain she'd left lights on, because Tom had reminded her about it. She shone the beam on the door and unlocked it, opening it warily. No intruder rushed out to mug her; instead there was just darkness and a very ominous dripping sound.

With foreboding, Lucy turned on the light switch in the hall. Nothing happened. In horror, she shone the torch on great sodden patches of the hall carpet, at water still dripping fitfully through the ceiling above, then she jumped yards as a loud, rending noise came from upstairs. Lucy sprinted up to the landing, appalled as she shone her feeble light on the floor at mounds of plaster that had once been the ceiling. With a groan she dashed through the rest of the rooms, but to her relief the main damage appeared to be in the hall and on the upper landing. The little torch began to flicker, and she flew down to the hall closet for the big one kept there for power-cuts, then went into the kitchen to rummage in drawers for candles, saucers, matches. Blast the snow! she thought with venom. Why couldn't it just look pretty, instead of causing accidents and bursting pipes? Especially when the victim was Lucy Drummond.

Once every candle she could lay her hands on was lit, Lucy tried to calm down, think what to do. It was a bit like locking the stable after the horse was gone, but just the same it seemed prudent to turn off the stopcock in the cupboard in the hall. Telephone, next. Ring the plumber, the electrician. To her consternation, her replies came from the wives of the respective gentlemen. They sympathised with her greatly, but their menfolk were

already out on similar calls, and had been all day. But her name would be added to the list, they assured her.

Deeply depressed, Lucy waded again through the debris on the upper landing, struck by the thought that not even a cup of tea was forthcoming by way of comfort. Almost simultaneously she heard another ripping, groaning noise and something hit her on the head, and she sat down hard among the rubble with a screech. It was too much. But any desire to cry noisily died an instant death. She stiffened, her mouth drying, as she heard movement in the darkness downstairs, in her panic, she had forgotten to lock the front door. Someone was in the house with her. Rigid with fear, Lucy switched off the heavy rubber torch and got very quietly to her feet. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and at the very moment that a voice called her name Lucy swung out wildly with the torch and connected with the owner of the voice, screaming her head off, lost to all rational behaviour by this stage, and convinced she was about to be attacked.

There were curses and scuffling about, as hands seized her, and Lucy fought savagely to get free.

then a voice panted in her ear, 'For God's sake, Lucy, be still; you've almost blinded me!'

Lucy recognised the voice and froze, the mere sound of it acting like a cold sponge.

The man shook her slightly. 'Are you hurt? Did someone break in? Are you all right, Lucy—tell me!'

She was yanked to her feet and the torch shone in her face. She blinked like a mole coming out of its burrow, blinded by the light.

'I'm fine,' she said hoarsely, and shivered. The man cursed, and touched a finger to her forehead.

'You're cut,' he said tersely. 'Can you walk?'

'Of course I can,' Lucy said irritably, and suffered herself to be marched downstairs, still shivering, chilled to the bone. 'What are you doing here, Joss?' she asked dully, too numb by this time to feel surprise about anything much. Jonas Woodbridge stared down at her by the flickering light of the candles dotted round the kitchen. 'The door was open. I called, but your only response was to assault me with that bloody torch. I know perfectly well I'm persona non grata with you, Lucy, nevertheless I was worried when I found

your car in the ditch near my place.'

Lucy shrugged. 'Sorry to clutter up your private road.'

His mouth tightened. 'Were you hurt when the car went over?'

'No, no. I walked home from there.'

'Then why the blood on your forehead?'

'A piece of ceiling just fell on me.'

'A bad case of burst pipes, I take it.'

She nodded despondently, and Joss Woodbridge looked at her for some time. 'Where's Tom?' he asked at last.

'He went back this afternoon. I was driving home when I went into the ditch.'

He rubbed his chin, eyeing her curiously. 'Were you coming to see me, Lucy?'

She stared at him blankly. 'See you? Good lord, no.'

His face hardened. 'Then why were you on my private road?'

'I took the wrong turning in the fog.'

There was another awkward silence, while Lucy willed Joss Woodbridge to take himself off. It was a long time since she'd last seen him, and even longer since they'd spoken to each other. The dim, flickering light played odd tricks with his face, but she knew the angles and hollows of it as well as she knew her own. No bright lights were necessary to see that he was as tall and graceful as ever, with no spare flesh on his broad-shouldered frame. And he was still the most physically beautiful man she had ever seen. A face like a fallen angel, her father had once said. It was a good description. There had always been a subtle difference between Joss and his younger brother, the inseparable companion of Lucy Drummond's girlhood. Simon had been just as handsome, but a sunny, joyous soul, loved by everyone, including Joss. Especially Joss.

'I said,' repeated Joss impatiently, 'have you rung a plumber?'

Lucy blinked. 'Oh—yes. And the electrician. No dice. They're already out on calls.'

'I'll get Ted Carter on to it first thing in the morning.'

Lucy had no stomach for help from Joss Woodbridge, not even in the shape of Ted Carter, the very pleasant man who ran the Abbot's Wood estate for him. 'Please don't trouble yourself,' she said stiffly. 'The repairs will get done in time.'

Joss moved swiftly to grasp her shoulders, with the co-ordinated economy that was peculiarly his own. 'And in the meantime, Lucy Drummond, how are you likely to manage without light, heat—even water?' His eyes bored into hers as he shook her slightly. 'Is it still so impossible to accept any help from me? Even after all these years?'

'Yes,' said Lucy flatly.

He dropped his hands and stood back. 'So you still bear the same old grudge, Lucy. Have you never considered your attitude unfair? You know better than anyone in the world that I was off my head with grief when Simon died. I hardly knew what I was saying that day. I swear I never meant to hurt you so deeply.'

'Heaven protect me, then,' she said delicately, 'if you ever do.' She turned away. 'Now I'd better let you go, and start on some telephoning. I think I know where I can beg a bed for the night, since home isn't exactly sweet pro tem.'

Joss seemed about to say something, then shrugged and moved to the door. 'Very well, Lucy. But if you need anything '

'I shan't.' Not from you, she added silently, and felt a flare of satisfaction as she saw him read her mind.

'Goodnight, Lucy.' Joss went out without looking at her, leaving her alone by the light of the guttering candles.