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“Who?” He shook his head and then set her straight. “I assume you’re looking for Violet Cottage—which is next door.” He inclined his head with a slight nod to the house next door.

“But the taxi dropped me here.” Her shoulders sagged and it was like watching an exotic flower wilt beneath his gaze. Regret spiked in his chest for a brief moment, but he needed to be cruel to protect himself. Being alone was what he wanted.

“This is Rose Cottage. You’ll find the key beneath—”

“I know where to look for the key. I just had the wrong cottage.” She turned away and picked up a small bag and a laptop case. “Please accept my heartfelt apologies. I’m sorry your sexual thirst won’t be slaked tonight.” The sarcasm dripped from her words and he smothered a grin. “You’ll have to make do with your drink. I’ll come back for my suitcase after I let myself into Violet Cottage.”

Chapter Six

Megan found the key where Beth had said it would be. She turned it with trembling fingers and it unlocked the door with surprising ease. Exhaustion claimed her and as soon as she switched the light on, she headed for the first chair. Old fashioned floral fabrics and an overpowering smell of camphor filled the room and she slumped gratefully into the soft sofa.

She leaned her head back and groaned. The train had been late and when the taxi had finally dropped her at the cottage, she’d been unable to find the key where it was supposed to be. She’d pulled out her phone but it was dead and she couldn’t charge it till she got inside, so she’d decided to camp out on the porch of the cottage until daylight and then head into the village to call Tony. From a distance, the muted sound of music reached her through the still air and her skin tingled with anticipation as she realised she was hearing the rehearsal from the festival.

And, of course, she’d ended up at the wrong bloody cottage. Why had things suddenly gone so wrong for her? Ever since her parents’ accident, nothing in her life had seemed to go right.

She closed her eyes to rest…for a brief moment, and then she’d go back and get her suitcase. God, she was so tired. She’d gotten a lot of work done on the twenty-two-hour flight across from Australia but going more than twenty-four hours without sleep, and worrying about her appeal, had drained her. It had taken five hours to get out of terminal three at Heathrow and make her way across London to Paddington Station. She’d almost—only almost—been too tired to even appreciate being in London. A place she’d dreamed of visiting her whole life.

Then, at the almost-deserted railway station it seemed as though she’d waited for hours for an old black cab to drive her down the never-ending country lanes until they had finally reached the cottage.

The wrong damn cottage.

Her face heated as she remembered the reception she’d gotten from the dark and brooding David Morgan.

When the light had first shone on his face and she’d seen those deep blue eyes staring at her, her heart had almost stopped beating. Davy Morgan was her idol and she knew his face intimately. In her teens, she’d scoured the retro shops and had found posters of him as well as David Bowie, Queen, and Bryan Ferry to cover her bedroom walls. While all her friends had been into nineties bands, she had loved listening to all the compilation CDs of seventies music and she’d uploaded them all to her iPod. She was sure she’d been born in the wrong time.

She grinned to herself. The posters of his uncle were still rolled up somewhere in a box along with her CDs of all his albums. She even had her parents’ old vinyl records stowed away. In a special place—in her flat, and in her heart— was the record that Dad had bought for her on the day her parents had been killed.

Davy Morgan’s songs had started her love affair with music. She hadn’t even heard of this nephew, David Morgan, but if he was playing at Glastonbury, he must have some claim to fame. Probably cashing in on his uncle’s reputation.

But he’d assumed she was a groupie, so he must have some fans of his own.

But what a jerk. Heat filled her cheeks as she recalled his words. A shag, for goodness sake,

Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. He wasn’t even original. She knew her Bowie song lyrics, thank you very much.

And God, he was her neighbour. She hoped like hell he wasn’t around when she went back to collect her bag. She’d just rest her eyes for a minute before she went back to get her bag, and then find a bed.

Alone in Violet Cottage.

The sun filtering through the narrow paned window and the twittering of an unfamiliar bird woke Megan. She lay on the soft sofa, pondering the birdsong, before the events of the previous day came crashing back. Closing her eyes, she groaned at the memory of last night and how she had ended up at the wrong house.

Megan cleared her mind, focusing on her breathing until her consciousness was directed inward. After a few moments, she was aware only of her inhaling and exhaling, until the tightness in her chest began to ease. Keeping her eyes closed, she let snatches of songs float through her mind. It was a technique she had perfected through her grief last year and she could now achieve it without any external aids.

No candles, no music. Just her own thoughts. Good thoughts.

She dozed again and woke a short time later, refreshed and calm. The sun was still shining in the window and the same bird was trilling away happily. Wandering through the small cottage, she smiled at the contrast to her own apartment, which was always cluttered with books, papers, and music.

This little place was filled with knickknacks and crocheted doilies and dozens of framed photos. She climbed the narrow stairs and peeked into the two small bedrooms. The one facing the east was full of sunshine and she chose that one for her stay. Sitting on the bed, a wide grin broke across her face as she sank into the soft bedding, which was covered with a white candlewick bedspread.

She was in a cottage in the English countryside. It was all she could do not to break into a happy dance. Huge pink roses and trailing tendrils of green leaves papered the wall. She crossed the room to the window and looked across at the other cottage.

Rose Cottage was only a short distance away, across the emerald-green grass and a low fence. Too close for her peace of mind, but she’d just ignore the guy next door. Pushing the window open, she leaned out. The two small cottages were surrounded by open green fields with a narrow road lined with hedgerows winding away into the distance. On the horizon, the hill she knew from her research was Glastonbury Tor rose above the distant village. Church roofs and spires glinted in the bright sunlight and a sense of well-being stole over her as her problems receded. It was like coming home. In the field at the back of the cottages were three tall stone markers and Megan grinned. She wouldn’t even have to take a tour to nearby Stonehenge now. It looked as though there were Neolithic monuments almost in the back garden.

Bright yellow roses tumbled over the fence between the two homes and in the distance she could see the tents and stage being set up for the festival on the farm at Pilton. A frisson of anticipation ran through her and she smiled. She planned on heading over to have a look at the festival site as soon as she got settled, but first she had to go next door and collect her suitcase. Hopefully, he’d gone out.

Going back down the steep wooden staircase to the ground floor of the cottage, she wandered into the kitchen. A huge ancient Aga stove filled the whole wall next to the door. She picked up the kettle and turned the tap at the old stone sink.

Nothing. Apart from a few creaks and groans and spits of rusty water. Opening the old refrigerator, she was pleased to see a jug of water and filled the kettle from that. It took a bit of fiddling to get the stove going but after a while she had a little gas flame alight. It would take a few minutes before the cold water in the kettle heated enough to have a coffee so she went into the small bathroom next to the kitchen to give her face a quick wash. But the tap there produced no water either. After running her fingers through her mussed hair, she straightened her now-crumpled T-shirt and jeans and went back into the kitchen. The whistling kettle was bubbling merrily on the stove and she switched the flame off and scrabbled through the cupboards for coffee.