Prescription-One Husband

CHAPTER ONE

A BRIDE’S thoughts on her wedding day…

That she looked perfectly ridiculous!

Dr Fern Rycroft smoothed her cloud of white satin and took three deep breaths. Uncle Al was waiting. Sam was waiting. Indeed, it seemed that the whole island was waiting for Fern to do the right thing.

The sensible thing. Many Sam Hubert…

Well, if only they’d be content with this, Fern thought wryly. Fat chance! There were two things that Fern should do to prove herself worthy of the islanders’ regard. One was to marry Sam. The other was to come home to stay.

She and Sam both.

Well, they’d be waiting a long time! Fern’s green eyes grew bleak behind the veil. Live on Barega again? Never!

‘Ready, Fern?’

Uncle Al was fidgeting by his niece’s side, worry etched on his kindly face.

Fern could guess what he was thinking. Fern Rycroft might be twenty-eight and a trained doctor of medicine but, with her huge green eyes, close-cropped, flamecoloured curls and smattering of freckles, she looked very much the same as the tear-stained orphan that Uncle Al had carried home thirteen years ago. Her uncle worried about her as if she was still a child.

But Fern couldn’t guess her uncle’s deeper worry. Albert Rycroft dredged up a reassuring smile for the lovely girl by his side but he saw the same desolation in Fern that had been with his niece through all the years since her family were killed. The same sense of helplessness behind the laughter and the same belief that life was not to be trusted…

Fern’s infectious chuckle, her cheerfulness and bright smile had endeared her to the islanders from the moment Albert Rycroft had brought his niece home. ‘Our Tonic’, the islanders called her, and when Fern had announced her intention of studying medicine they’d joked,

‘Well, you won’t need medicine with your smile, dear. You’re a tonic all by yourself.’

Only Uncle Al saw the misery behind the laughter-the distrust of a world that had snatched her family in one awful night.

‘Uncle Al…’

‘Now, there’s no need for talking, Fern,’ the elderly farmer said hastily. Even at this late stage he wouldn’t be surprised to see his niece turn and run. ‘They’re all here. You can’t disappoint them now, love.’

Fern looked up at his worried expression and her impish face broke into a smile. ‘Oh, Uncle…’ She hugged him hard, crushing her gown in the process. ‘As if I would. Sam and I have made the right decision.’

‘Of course you have,’ he told her roundly. ‘And all that nonsense between Sam and Lizzy Hurst was long ago.’

‘Lizzy’s part of the island,’ Fern agreed, taking her uncle’s big hand in hers. ‘And Sam and I are no longer islanders. We’ll be back for visits-but we’ve moved on.’ She tucked her arm through his and looked firmly ahead. ‘Now, are you taking me in to marry Sam, or will you have a spinster niece on your hands for the rest of your days?’

Albert chuckled and squeezed her hand. ‘Your aunt and I would have no objection. We’ve loved having you, Fern-you know that. But you’re right. It’s time for you to marry.’

Time for Fern to be safe…

In the choir-stalls, the trumpeter had been waiting for the signal. The tiny church was crowded and there were people out on the headland craning to see. The farming community was stricken by drought and this was a glorious opportunity to thrust worry aside. Faces turned eagerly toward Fern as the magnificent ‘Trumpet Voluntary’ sounded forth.

The bride stood for one long moment at the church door, looking down the aisle at her future.

Then, finally, Fern let her train fall behind her and started forward.

‘What a lovely, lovely bride,’ the islanders whispered to each other, escaping from harsh reality into misty romance, but they were seeing Aunt Maudie’s gorgeously worked dress and veil and they were seeing Fern’s tremulous smile behind her veil.

They weren’t seeing the real Fern.

The real Fern was somewhere else.

Fern certainly wasn’t this vision in white. Someone else was keeping careful step with her uncle and smiling at wedding guests to either side.

The real Fern was numb.

When medical texts had been too heavy to handle Fern had read her share of romantic novels. She knew a bride should glide down the aisle in a haze of emotion. She should see her beloved turn toward her from the altar and she should catch her breath at the sheer sight of him…

How could Fern catch her breath when it was just Sam-the boy she’d known for ever? When it was just the sensible thing to do to marry Sam. The right thing…

Well, she should at least look at him.

Fern forced herself to look toward the altar. At the end of the aisle Sam was definitely turned towards her-and his eyes were almost as anxious as Uncle Al’s.

That was odd…

Sam was the sure one. It was Sam who had badgered Fern for years to take this step. What was he doing being anxious now?

Weddings did funny things to people, Fern guessed. She made a huge effort and gave him a wide, reassuring smile.

Uncle Al had been directed by his wife to walk slowly and he was doing just that. It was taking an age to get to the altar. Time seemed to stand still.

Maybe Lizzy was here…That might unsettle Sam.

Fern turned to search the crowd-and caught the eyes of a man standing almost right beside her…

Who on earth…?

This was a man Fern had never seen before. Immaculately dressed in a deep black dinner suit, the stranger stood out from the similarly dressed wedding guests as a man apart.

Why?

There was nothing so different about him, Fern thought, but her eyes were still caught. There was nothing extraordinary. Was there?

He was not overly tall-maybe five feet ten or so-with a strongly built body and broad, muscular shoulders.

Most of the islanders were fishermen or farmers so there was nothing unusual in a good physique.

The man’s thick, gold hair, crinkled and in need of a cut, was bleached blond with weather and sun and his skin was burnt brown-but most islanders were similar so there was nothing remarkable in that, either.

But Fern knew every man on this island and she didn’t know this one.

The man was in his early thirties, she guessed, mentally flicking through the wedding guest list in her head and ticking people off.

How romantic! She should be thinking of Sam.

So why was she still staring at the stranger?

It was his eyes…

The stranger’s eyes were the most direct, mocking eyes she had ever seen. They met hers and somehow locked her to him and it was as if there was some magnetic force holding her in thrall. The stranger’s taunting eyes challenged her with mocking laughter- as if he knew that the real Fern wasn’t some vision in white satin but really a child dressed up in play clothes, playing a part.

He could see who she really was…

For heaven’s sake…Even if Fern was playing a part, she’d better get on with it.

With a small, indignant gasp, Fern tugged Uncle Al forward, sweeping past the unknown guest and turning her eyes from his disconcerting gaze.

She had things to do.

She had Sam to marry…

Sam…

There was something wrong. Sam’s look of anxiety had deepened.

Fern’s waiting bridegroom looked agonised!

Sam…

Fern stopped about four feet from her future husband, her face puckering into concern under her misty veil. ‘Sam, what’s wrong?’ she whispered.

‘Fern…Fern, I’m sorry…’

The thickset Sam was sweating and pale. His broad face had a sickly green tinge and his dinner suit looked as if it was too tight and too hot for him. Rivulets of sweat were running down from his receding hairline.

Behind him, the vicar looked on with astonished concern.

‘Sam, what is it?’ Fern whispered.

The trumpet sang out unconcernedly behind them but now Fern’s attention was fairly fixed on her fiancé.

‘I can’t…’

It was too much.

Sam cast his bride an agonised glance, clutched his stomach and bolted…

Fern was left standing alone at the altar.

It wasn’t just Sam.

Fern stood in the centre of the aisle, still holding her uncle’s arm, and around her the church erupted into action. It was as if Sam’s departure had opened a release valve.

There were people pushing past with the same agonised expression that Fern had seen on Sam’s face, hands to mouth or stomach…

The church was emptying as if it was burning.

Fern stared around her, dumbfounded.

The vicar was backing into the vestry.

Someone was sobbing at the end of one of the pews.

The strident trumpet died away. The trumpet player let his instrument fall. The trumpeter stared down at Fern from his place in the choir-stalls for a long moment before, with a small groan, he too disappeared from view.

And then, as Fern gazed around the chaotic church, she saw a girl move quietly from the back pew. She was a slip of a girl-Fern’s age or a little younger-dressed demurely in black with her mass of unmanageable hair tied back severely into a knot.

Lizzy Hurst…

Lizzy was slipping away, as unobtrusively as she could, and there was no agony on Lizzy Hurst’s face.

On her lips was a smirk of malicious triumph.

It had to be food poisoning…

Fern’s mind worked fast as she gazed round at the confused scene. There was no explaining what was happening except the theory of a massive dose of something bad to eat.

Fern’s aunt was in trouble. Uncle Al turned as Aunt Maud walked unsteadily forward from the front pew and clutched her husband’s arm.

‘Take…take me home, Al,’ Maudie whispered. ‘F-fast! Oh, Fern, I’m sorry but I think I’m going to be sick…’

She turned and ran.

Fern’s uncle looked helplessly at Fern. ‘What…?’

‘Uncle, I think the wedding’s off,’ Fern said unsteadily. ‘Auntie Maud needs you.’

Al closed his eyes in disbelief and then nodded. He followed his wife, leaving Fern at the altar. Alone.

Good grief!

Well, she couldn’t stay here. Fern walked slowly to the main entrance, her fabulous bridal train sweeping unnoticed behind her.

Outside there were people climbing into cars and departing at speed. There were also people who weren’t even trying to make it home. From where she stood, Fern could see Sam’s broad back in the bushes at the side of the church. His shoulders were heaving as his stomach rid itself of whatever was troubling it.

Fern’s heart wrenched in pity. Poor Sam. He’d planned this magnificent wedding for years-and now this!

What on earth had he eaten? What on earth had they all eaten?

She started down the steps towards Sam but then paused.

‘Some wedding!’

The voice behind her made Fern jump.

The voice was deep, resonant and, astonishingly, laced with laughter. Fern didn’t have to turn around to know who the voice belonged to. The unknown wedding guest!

‘What on earth have you been feeding your guests?’ the stranger demanded. Then, as Fern stayed silent-staring out at Sam and the surrounding chaos-he placed a cool hand on the bare skin exposed by the dropped shoulders of Fern’s gown and twisted her round to face him.

‘Well, Dr Rycroft?’ he asked. The stranger met her stunned gaze with a quizzical arch of mobile brows. His penetrating eyes demanded a response.

‘I didn’t…I haven’t…’ Through the mist of her veil Fern met the man’s satirical look with bewilderment. ‘Dear heaven…This is awful!’ Her voice broke on a confused whisper.

‘I’ve been to a few weddings but none as different as this,’ the man told her. Incredibly, those eyes were still filled with lurking laughter. ‘It is awful, isn’t it? You should have made it “bring your own basin”!’

Fern gasped. ‘Look, I don’t know who on earth you are but this is hardly a laughing matter!’

‘No.’ The smile finally faded from the dark eyes as the stranger surveyed the scene before them.

It was truly awful. The people unaffected were fully occupied with those who were. There were huddled groups of misery everywhere.

‘I guess we shouldn’t laugh until we know what’s happened,’ the man said slowly. He took Fern’s hand in a swift, decisive tug and pulled her forward from the church door. ‘So, Dr Rycroft…’

‘Look, I don’t know you,’ Fern managed, digging her satin shoes into the ground and resisting his pull. ‘Who the heck are you?’

He grinned, laughter returning with a smile that lightened and warmed and made Fern want to smile right back-no matter how ridiculous a smile would be in the circumstances. Those deep eyes dared her to smile. It was all Fern could do to keep her lips from twitching.

‘Well, I know you, Dr Rycrof,’ the stranger told her. ‘I make it a point to know the names of all brides whose weddings I attend.’ His smile belied the mock gravity of his words.

‘And you attend heaps?’ Fern snapped. She shook her head as if trying to rid herself of a bad dream. She was so confused that she was dizzy.

‘You’re asking if I’m a professional wedding guest?’ That dangerous smile again. ‘Hardly that, Dr Rycroft.’ He released her shoulders, held out a large hand and enveloped her smaller one in a strong, reassuring grip. ‘I’m Quinn Gallagher-the island doctor.’

Quinn Gallagher…

Dizziness receded.

Fern nodded. At least one piece of the puzzle was falling into place. She’d forgotten this man’s arrival.

Quinn Gallagher was an island blessing.

Barega Island had always needed a doctor but none had been tempted to a place that was cut off from the mainland by two hundred miles of sea and restricted to a population of a few hundred plus occasional tourists. Barega might be an island paradise but it was hardly a lucrative medical practice.

When Fern had announced that she intended studying medicine the islanders were delighted. At last they’d have a doctor. A lawyer, too, if Sam Hubert came back.

Unfortunately neither Fern nor Sam had any such intention.

And Fern had been made to feel so guilty!

‘After all we’ve done for you,’ the islanders had told Fern reproachfully. ‘We’ve accepted you as one of us-it’s the least you can do to come back here and practise.’

She couldn’t It would kill her.

So when Aunt Maud had written and announced that the island had a new doctor Fern had been delighted.

‘Dr Gallagher’s such a nice man,’ Maudie had written. ‘So responsible and caring. He’s a real family doctor. Fern, I know you won’t mind us inviting him to your wedding.’

Of course she hadn’t minded. Fern had been so grateful that she could have kissed the unknown Quinn Gallagher. ‘Invite him, by all means,’ she’d written back.

A family doctor…Fern had conjured up visions of some elderly, retiring doctor who wanted to mix a little fishing and rural tranquillity with his medicine.

So why had Quinn Gallagher decided to practise medicine on Barega?

That had nothing to do with her, Fern thought hastily. What should be bothering her right now was that almost half her wedding guests seemed to be in extremis. Including her fiancé.

‘I…I need to go to Sam,’ she said unsteadily, lifting her veil back from her face and gathering her train over her arm.

‘I don’t think your beloved wants you.’ Quinn grimaced. He motioned to Sam’s heaving back in the distance. ‘I think he wants a little privacy at the moment. You might come in useful later but it’s too soon for your Sam to need more than someone to hold a basin. And you don’t have a basin,’ he added helpfully.

‘But what…?’

What was causing it?

‘I have no idea,’ Quinn said slowly, reading her thoughts. ‘But we should find out. Let’s assume we’re not dealing with some deadly strain of the dreaded Bridal Fever-or Wedding Day Plague-and take the most obvious plot. We assume these people have eaten something bad. The normal onset of symptoms after bad food is four hours. What were they eating four hours ago? What were half your wedding guests eating four hours ago, Dr Rycroft?’

‘L-lunch, I guess…’ Fern frowned, deep in thought. She and Quinn Gallagher were standing on the top church step, and they were alone. The photographer employed to take pictures of the newly married Fern and Sam was wandering from one group of distressed people to another. The photographer had the look of a man who’d been slapped over the head with a wet fish. He looked how Fern felt.

Uncle Al was hovering anxiously over Aunt Maud by the car. Maudie was bent double.

‘Lunch,’ Quinn Gallagher repeated slowly. ‘You’ll have to be more specific than that.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s five o’clock now. Did you have lunch at one?’

‘Y-yes.’

‘Then that’s four hours ago. The right amount of time for-the standard reaction to dubious food. Did people eat lunch together?’

Fern made her bewildered mind concentrate. ‘I…Yes. Aunt Maudie put on lunch. It was supposed to be for a few relatives from the mainland but it turned out huge. Most of the island was there.’

‘And what did you have?’

‘I…’ Fern shook her head. ‘I can’t remember. For heaven’s sake, I was so darned nervous I couldn’t eat a thing.’

‘Lucky you,’ Quinn said drily. ‘That’s why you’re not getting rid of it like your Sam. But I’m not asking what you had for lunch, Dr Rycroft. I’m asking what these people had. Let’s stop playing the nervous bride for a moment, shall we, and start acting like the doctor you’re supposed to be.’

The voice was suddenly hard and businesslike-all trace of laughter gone. It was like a douche of cold water and it had its effect.

Fern’s mind stopped turning in meaningless circles and concentrated. Absently she pulled the net veil from her head and ran her hand through her close-cropped curls as she thought.

Medicine first. Her training slid back into its rightful niche and took over.

‘Sandwiches,’ she said firmly. ‘My aunt and I and a couple of neighbours made them this morning. And a huge vat of vegetable soup.’

‘What was in the sandwiches?’

It was a crazy conversation. To be standing on the step of the church, still dressed in bridal white, with the wrong man standing by her side demanding to know what was in sandwiches! Fern blinked.

‘Ordinary. Ham, egg, salad, Vegemite…Different fillings.’

‘Sounds like gastronomic heaven,’ Quinn said drily, the smile lurking once again. ‘But hardly dangerous. And the vegetable soup?’

‘Aunt and I made it last night. Everything was fresh. It can’t have made people ill.’

‘Well, something did.’ The smile faded and Quinn’s eyes snapped into demanding professionalism. ‘Come on, lady. You were there and I wasn’t. If this isn’t food poisoning then we have something potentially more serious on our hands and we may need reinforcements. Can you assure me that was all that was eaten?’

‘Yes!’ Fern’s voice was practically a wail. ‘There was nothing…’

And then she stopped dead.

Lizzy…

Lizzy Hurst arriving just as the soup was being served. Apologising for being late. Kissing Sam’s crimson cheek and wishing him all the best. Saying that she hadn’t been able to afford a gift but she’d made something special for lunch-just to help in her small way to make Sam’s wedding day truly memorable. And carrying in her arms loaded trays of hors d’oeuvres.

Oysters, gathered fresh that morning, Lizzy had said, but to make them special she’d topped them with grilled, melted cheese and slivers of bacon. Hot from Lizzy’s oven. They’d been eaten in a flash and Lizzy had smiled sweetly and said, ‘See you in church.’

And Lizzy’s triumphant smile as she’d slipped out of the church.

‘It’ll be the oysters,’ Fern whispered. ‘I’ll bet…’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Fern took a deep breath. She found that she was trembling. Poor Sam. He hadn’t wanted to come home for fear of Lizzy’s reaction and he’d been almost pathetically grateful when she’d seemed gracious. And now…

She glanced over at Sam’s still-heaving shoulders. Their wedding was in ruins. Because of one malicious stunt.

‘We had oysters as hors d’oeuvres,’ Fern said unsteadily. ‘I think…I guess they’ll have been made with oysters that were off. They had garlic and herbs and bacon and cheese grilled on top. That would have disguised the fact that they were bad. A lot of people were commenting that there was so much stuff on them that you could hardly taste the oysters.’

Quinn’s brows snapped together. ‘Where did they come from?’

‘From Lizzy Hurst,’ Fern whispered miserably. ‘She’s…she’s a local fisherman.’

‘But if she’s a fisherman she’ll know not to serve bad oysters. She’ll have known…’

‘Yes.’

Quinn’s face grew more and more incredulous. ‘Are you saying this could be deliberate?’

Fern nodded. She felt like weeping. ‘I’m almost sure it is.’

‘But…’ Quinn’s mind was racing and it showed. ‘If it’s deliberate…If you believe that’s possible then how do you know she didn’t just add poison? Dr Rycroft, we could have a major emergency here…’

‘Lizzy’s not that stupid-or that bad.’ Fern put her hand to her cheeks in a gesture of distress. ‘Look, I know this sounds dreadful and I probably can’t prove a thing. But Sam-my fiané-lived next door to Lizzy Hurst all the time he and Lizzy were kids. Lizzy adored him. She always assumed they’d marry.

‘Well, at seventeen, Sam decided he wanted to leave the island and be a lawyer. He didn’t want Lizzy. Lizzy hit the roof. She did all sorts of crazy things. Every time he’s come back she’s made his visits miserable-even though he’s been gone now for over ten years.’

‘So you believe…’ Quinn Gallagher let out his breath on a long, slow whistle. ‘You believe this is a deliberate attempt at sabotage?’

‘Lizzy has an oyster lease south of the island. She knows everything there is to know about oysters. She’ll know just when they start to turn-and she’ll know we won’t be able to prove a thing.’

Quinn gazed round.

‘The photographer’s not ill,’ he said. ‘Was he…?’

‘He wasn’t at lunch.’

‘Your uncle?’

‘He hates oysters.’

‘And you?’

‘I was too nervous to eat anything.’

‘OK, it fits,’ Quinn said decisively, and Fern had a sudden image of him in Casualty Department, complete with white coat and stethoscope. She found the image strong, competent and strangely comforting. ‘But we need to find Lizzy and confirm it.’

‘I guess…’ Fern looked doubtfully over the scattering groups of guests. They were nearly all gone now-taken to their cars and bolting like rabbits to the privacy of their own homes.

‘You know where she lives?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can we phone her?’

‘She doesn’t have a phone.’ Fern grimaced. ‘And if I know Lizzy, she’ll be hard to find. But I agree; she has to be found and I guess I know the places to look. OK, I’ll go.’ She looked ruefully down at her bridal splendour. ‘But I’ll stop on the way and get something more suitable to wear.’

‘What you’re wearing is hardly clinical.’ The smile surfaced again. ‘Though it’s white enough.’

‘There’s no need to laugh.’ Fern drew herself up to her full five feet three inches and glared. ‘It’s not your wedding that’s been totally ruined.’

‘No.’ He smiled down at her, his lips curved in what almost seemed a trace of self-mockery. ‘A pity…’

‘We’re wasting time,’ Fern snapped. ‘Are you coming with me to find Lizzy?’

‘No.’ Quinn shrugged expressive shoulders. ‘There’s work that might need doing here.’ He looked across to where Sam was still in deep distress, his lean and harshly contoured face growing grim.

‘I’ll check Sam before I go,’ Fern told him. ‘I’ll take him home to his parents.’ She stared around helplessly. ‘They seem to have gone already.’

‘I’ll check Sam,’ Quinn said brusquely. ‘He’s the least of our troubles. It’s not the fit young men I’m worried about.’ The laughter had completely faded from Quinn Gallagher’s voice.

‘There are others we need to be worried about. Lizzy Hurst might have thought she was doing nothing but playing a sadistic joke, but there are a couple of your wedding guests whom this could really hurt. Frank Reid’s elderly and diabetic. As far as I can see he’s gone home alone-and gone in a hurry. I’ll go there now.’

Fern drew in her breath. She had forgotten Frank.

Who else? She forced her mind to run through the list of guests. ‘There’s Pete Harny,’ she said finally. ‘You’ve been here for six months, haven’t you, so I guess you know he’s haemophiliac. He was there at lunchtime and I think he ate the oysters-but his parents will phone if he starts haemorrhaging.’

‘His parents will phone if they’re capable-if they’re not in too much trouble themselves-and I’d rather treat him before he starts haemorrhaging.’ Quinn’s eyes were suddenly cold as consequences started flooding through both their minds. ‘What a foolish girl! What a stupid, stupid thing to do.’

‘She’s in love,’ Fern said bleakly. ‘Anything’s supposed to be excused if you’re in love.’

‘Well, you’re a bride and I can’t see you poisoning people,’ Quinn retorted.

‘But I’m not in love!’

The words were said before Fern had time to stop them. They hung in the warm evening air, as incongruous as everything else that had happened this day. As incongruous as the white satin…

Quinn Gallagher stared down at her for a very long moment. Fern stared straight back, her huge eyes defiant. They looked a picture, the two of them; the bride in a floating vision of white satin and the muscular man by her side, virile, capable and commanding in the deep black of his tailored dinner suit.

Bride and groom-from a mockery of a wedding!

‘Then, would you mind telling me what we’re doing here?’ Quinn demanded finally. ‘If you’re not in love what in heaven’s name are you doing playing brides and making island girls so jealous they commit criminal injury?’

‘I mean…I mean I’m not in love like Lizzy,’ Fern stammered. ‘I…Sam and I are getting married for sensible reasons-not for stupid, romantic love.’

Silence.

This was crazy.

She was going mad. She’d have to get out of here.

Fern lifted the folds of her white skirts from the ground and cast a doubtful look across at Sam. Sam would just have to cope with Quinn Gallagher’s ministrations. She had to find Lizzy.

She had to get away from Quinn Gallagher. He was unsettling her more than anything else was.

‘Look, I have to go,’ she stammered. Quinn Gallagher was watching her as a bemused hawk would have watched a tiny chicken’s futile attempts at escape. ‘The sooner I find Lizzy the better.’ Fern took two hasty steps down from the church door. ‘I’ll telephone if I find out anything,’ she called as she backed away. ‘Where…where can I reach you?’

‘Mobile phone.’ The hawk, it seemed, was releasing his prey. Quinn lifted the machine from the belt under his jacket and held it up. ‘The island telephonist has the number.’

‘Can you…? You will check Sam before you go? Please…?’

‘I’ll check your beloved,’ Quinn said grimly. ‘Just make it worth my while by finding Lizzy fast.’

Fern nodded, lifting her skirts high and breaking into a run.

Bridal chicken in full flight…

She needed a car.

There was only one car available in front of the church-the big white limousine in which her uncle had been planning to drive the newly married pair to the reception. It stood deserted, beribboned in white satin, white net over the back seat and a set of bride and groom dolls smiling at the world from the back shelf.

The dolls must be the only happy couple on the island!

The keys were in the ignition.

It was all Fern needed.

Ignoring the impulse to pick up the dolls and throw them as far as she could, Fern wedged herself into the driver’s seat. The hoops of her bridal gown welled up around the steering column.

Good grief…

Get on with it, Fern…

She started the car and put her satined foot on the accelerator, all the while crazily aware of the dark figure on the church steps, watching…

She could feel Quinn Gallagher’s eyes still on her until she rounded the bend and was out of sight of the church.

It was all she could do not to glance back.

It was the end of her wedding.

For good?

That was a crazy notion. They could try again tomorrow, Fern thought, and closed her eyes at the idea of the reorganisation her aunt would insist on.

Aunt Maud wouldn’t be well enough tomorrow. Or the next day either, Fern thought savagely. Fern’s aunt had seemed weak and out of sorts since Fern had arrived home on the island and Fern had fretted that Maud seemed to be ageing early. Lizzy Hurst should have calculated the effects her horrid oysters would have on people like Aunt Maud.

Quinn would be learning the effects of the poison on the island’s invalids right now, Fern thought bleakly, and for a wild moment she wished that she was driving beside him to check on the two islanders they were concerned about.

‘I should be wishing I was staying with Sam,’ she corrected herself, and knew that she didn’t wish it in the least. Sam would be devastated.

She swore at the road in front and shoved her foot harder on the accelerator. The bridal car sped forward with undignified haste.

What a mess.

How could things possibly get any worse than this?