And Emily Brontë gave him a cuff round the ear with her leather binding for good measure.

‘Idiot!’ she finally managed. But she was winded by her fall, and the word lacked force. Ellie sucked in some air and tried again. ‘Idiot!’-much better-‘You might have killed me!’ Then, because he’d somehow managed to walk through locked doors into a house she was caretaking-as in ‘taking care of’-she demanded, ‘Who the hell are you, anyway?’

Then, as her brain finally caught up with her mouth-and because burglars rarely stopped to exchange must-read titles with their victims-the answer hit her with almost as much force as she’d landed on him with.

There was only one person he could be.

Dr Benedict Faulkner.

The Dr Benedict Faulkner whose house she was sitting.

The Dr Benedict Faulkner who was supposed to be on the other side of the world, up to his eyes in ancient tribal split infinitives.

The Dr Benedict Faulkner who wasn’t due back for another nine months.

Now she had time for a closer look, it was obvious that he was an older incarnation of the lovely youth in a faded black and white photograph on the piano in the drawing room. The one she always gave an extra rub with the duster.

Older, but definitely not ‘aging’.

She’d somehow got this picture of him wearing tweeds and glasses, with the stooped and withered shoulders of someone whose life was spent poring over ancient manuscripts.

Not so.

It would seem that he had been either a very late surprise for his mother, or the offspring of a second, younger wife-because while he was wearing a tweed jacket, that was as far as the cliché went.

The man lying beneath her, it had to be said, could have stepped right out of the pages of one of her own romances. The ones that her own sister insisted on referring to as ‘fairy tales for grown-ups’.