Brooke wasn't at all as Legs had first thought. She'd seen a jockey-sized, angry malcontent with his son's darkness, dry wit and his own demons to boot. Instead, Byrne's father had an unending appetite for life and food. He was Henry the Eighth on wheels, forever calling for more wine, women and song, although in his case it was endless tea, Zina and his fiddle. He had strong opinions on everything and, unlike Byrne, he delighted in expressing his emotions, his accent far thicker and his spoken voice far quicker than his son's.

'Me oul wan and her fella will be mad to have missed you, Legs,' he apologised now, slotting his fiddle under his chin, 'but it's Tuesday so they're getting ossified at Shaney's.'

'Nan and Mal are out at the local pub,' Byrne translated.

Brooke fixed Legs with a beady look. 'Jago needs to settle down with a good wife. We're all muck savages apart from him. Ignore any shite he gives you about being a typical Oirish farmboy. He's the black sheep of this family.' He launched into 'Rose in the Heather', bow jigging across the strings.

And it was a big family, the shelves and mantels of the farmhouse crammed with framed photographs of uncles and aunts, cousins, nephews and nieces. Brooke had been born third of six. Byrne had over twenty first cousins alone. There were many parties held here, Brooke boasted happily, huge Christmas and Easter gatherings, visitors constantly coming and going.

All her misconceptions were quickly turned on their heads as she re-evaluated Byrne once again. There he was in the photographs, surrounded by his huge close-knit brood, joining in the laughter and merrymaking. Far from being an aloof loner, he was known as a family joker and a daredevil, an unpredictable risk-taker that they all adored, mothered by the aunts and idolised by the younger cousins, forever being set up with ravishing single women he failed to appreciate.

'Sure, we thought he was of the gay persuasion at one time,' Brooke admitted as he lay down his bow between jigs to take a swig of tea. 'All those pretty girlfriends and never a hint of a proposal.' He eyed Legs' P signet ring beadily. 'There was the dusky one who ran off with Peter, of course, which came as a relief all round because she was terrified of the horses. Not a natural like you, Allegra. I haven't seen aul Lapis looking that loving since he shared his summer pasture with a feral goat.'

'That's enough, Dad.'

With a wise look, Brooke launched into 'King of the Fairies', Zina swaying along adoringly from the sofa behind him, swollen feet propped up on a pile of race cards on an occasional table.

For all Brooke's teasing, he clearly doted on his son: 'I don't deserve one as loyal and selfless as this man here. Jago was put on this earth by God to do good. His family are everything to him.'

Seeing them together, it was even more obvious to Legs why Byrne wanted to protect them all from the public world of Gordon Lapis and the media interest his wealth and fame would bring. Exposes about his childhood and his father's bleakest years would never be welcome here amid such hard-won contentment.

And Brooke made no secret of the fact that Byrne was responsible for his survival: 'He's been my minder since he was knee high to my wheels, always looking out for me, helping me with the horses, driving the wagon as soon as he was old enough, bullying me to clean up my act. He even bribed me into giving up the drink by offering to get As in all his exams. I remember saying to him, "surely it's supposed to be the other way around, son"?'

Brooke had great charm and warmth, and Legs saw why a young Poppy would fall for him against her family's wishes, and why wild-child Liz Delamere had been seduced by his charm. Zina obviously doted on him. And while he refused to be pitied, it was impossible not to feel compassion for a man whose lifelong mission had always been to race horses, and yet who could no longer ride them.

He seemed to derive pleasure from life itself these days though, and drew delight from those closest to him, sharing in their joys and loves. He took to Legs from the off, telling her she looked like a young Sinead Cusack, relishing in her sense of humour and even sharing her great love of crime thrillers, 'Sure I've read everything that Dick Francis ever wrote, most so many times they've fallen apart. I love a good murder.

'My beloved boy Jago has introduced me to a new girlfriend!' He raised his fiddle in salute. 'I never thought I'd see the day the love could shine out of him like this. And what a girl to love!'

Even her perceived connection with the world of international art theft seemed to enhance her appeal. 'Byrne likes to live life on the wild side. He comes from a long line of clever scoundrels and brilliant horsemen.' And he'd not forgotten the fact that bad-tempered, lame Lapis had nuzzled her like a favourite companion. 'Sure, she has a way with horses, Jago. You'll have lots of little baby jockeys, although Zina and myself will beat you to the maternity suite.'

'You're not expecting a baby ... ?' Byrne feigned astonishment as though this was the first he'd heard of it, his jaw swinging open, making his father laugh so much his tyres bounced. On the sofa, Zina snoozed on oblivious, slim fingers cradling her perfect semi-sphere bump.

Brooke laughed until tears ran, his delight in being a father again clearly a running joke at Coolbaragh.

Wiping his eyes, he sighed happily, At least God didn't take the tune from my flute as well as the use of my legs, although whether the instrument's playing the right music remains to be seen. I'd love a little girl. I'd hoped to have a pretty brood step-dancing to my fiddle by now, not a sean-nos.'

Byrne cleared his throat. 'Actually, Dad, I need to talk to you about something which may have a bearing on that.'

While father and son went outside onto the terrace so that Brooke could smoke a cigar and Byrne could talk, Zina jerked awake and, blinking sleep from her eyes, drew Legs over to one side, her long face guarded.

Now that Legs had studied her closer, without the jealous demons poking at the backs of her eyes, she could see Zina was not as young as she'd first thought and not as pretty, but she had a fire in her eyes that seemed a prerequisite to being a member of the household.

'You hurt him and you will be covered with Byrnes, you understand? Legs wasn't sure whether she was using the family name or threatening her with smouldering skin torture, but it was definitely not the moment to ask.

'I'm afraid my family are rather demanding,' Byrne apologised while they waited in the hall under strict instructions from Zina who was thumping around upstairs gathering yet more clothes for Legs. Fiddle music filled the house as Brooke played 'Drowsie Maggie' from the sitting room, shouting out "Is this not bloody good?" between refrains.

'They're lovely,' she assured him happily.

'I told you I'd give you plenty of opportunities to run away before I propose. Now is one.'

'I like it here,' she insisted, knowing she'd be happy to stay indefinitely.

Byrne's dark eyes flashed. 'We're leaving tonight. It's too risky to stay.'

Nodding, she kissed him, toes and fingertips buzzing as they had been all day, as though she was now so infused with love it was trying to fire itself out of her nerve endings.

'How did your father take the news about Kizzy?' she asked quietly as Brooke launched into 'Irish Washerwoman' with such aplomb the thumping feet overhead started tapping.

'I am the daddy of fecking fiddle players!' came the ecstatic cry from the sitting room.

'I think that answers your question,' his lips closed over hers and that devastating kiss just got better, as it had upon each replay for three days. It also got terribly out of hand if left to its own devices, and they were far too accustomed to being alone. When Zina finally came back downstairs clutching a bulging stack of pastel separates between her bump and her chin, Byrne and Legs were knocking framed photographs of Coolbaragh racehorses past and present into jaunty angles against the pattered wallpaper as they slammed from wall to wall, bodies craving chemical synthesis. They pulled apart as Zina dropped her pile beside them.

'I know you cannot keep your clothes on for more than a few minutes at a time,' a look of wistful reflection passed through her tired eyes, but then she hugged her bump and smiled broadly, nodding at the pile. 'These are all unwanted rip them all off. Please do.'

From the sitting room, 'Irish Washerwoman' was reaching an ecstatic conclusion.

The first thing Legs noticed about Byrne's car was its colour.

'It's red!'

'Burgundy.'

'Red.'

'It's burgundy, Allegra. I asked for a custom purple one, but the Bentley dealer persuaded me that might attract the wrong attention.'

Legs looked around at the tan leather and walnut of the high-class convertible. 'And this doesn't attract attention?'

'The locals call it "the English car"; I bought it from Belfast. Sure, they think it's a bit flash, but they covet Paddy Flynn's new Isuzu pick-up far more.'

Chapter 51.

The not-quite-red English car weaved its way from Laois to the Wicklow Mountains, its hood up, luxury interior filled with constant flirtation and laughter. Asleep on the back seat, Fink snored loudly, chin propped on a leather armrest.

Legs loved being a runaway, however irresponsible. She shivered with anticipation at the thought of a five star hotel, signing in as Mr and Mrs Prodygal-Sonne or suchlike, then playing with a four-poster and a marble bathroom all night.

But as dusk fell, Byrne pulled into a campsite on the banks of a lake glowing like molten copper.

Legs turned to him in surprise. 'Do we have a tent?'

His face gave nothing away. 'Know how to work one?'

'Is this a test?'

He smiled, saying nothing.

Legs was torn between throwing the bagged tent she found in the Bentley's boot straight at him or creating a framed canvas structure to screen sexual tension that was growing to intolerable levels between them. In the end, it was no contest.

Having camped since infancy, Legs erected the two man hiking dome in less than twenty minutes while Byrne cooked up a feast on a humble gas stove.

'There's more room in the car,' she complained after laying out two ground mats and a double sleeping bag in the tiny dome. Then she sniffed the air indulgently. 'That smells like campsite nectar.'

Byrne presented her with a plate of caramel-sweet, spicy sausages, baked beans and curling bronze toasted doorsteps with the reverence of a butler lifting silver cloche from a plate of Wagy steak. He was a master of fireside food.

'If we're going to live our lives on the run on the road, this is a great start.' She speared up her bangers blissfully, caramel, pepper and smoke exploding on her taste buds.

'I'm just an Irish tinker at heart.'

'Perhaps we should scrap the Bentley and buy a camper van then?'

'Irish tinkers like their big bling motors,' he reminded her, feeding Fink a sausage.

For desserts, they took ripe pears, slabs of chocolate and instant campsite coffee to the banks of the lake, its expanse now silver and blue shot silk in the moonlight.

'Where are we running to?' Legs asked quietly, the heat of the coffee burning her lip and blowing steam up her nose, yet filling her with strength.

In the moonlight, Byrne's flame-hot eyes flickered with steely light. 'Each other.'

Legs nodded, watching a full moon climbing the oblique angle of the lake's western mountain, like a silver ball being rolled uphill by a determined child.

'That's worth wearing out our soles.' She shared her last corner of Maya Gold with him before savouring the exquisite aftertaste with that mind-blowing kiss. Still kissing, they dived hurriedly under cover to share intimacies behind canvas walls which kept them awake for many more hours.

'I love all of you,' she whispered into the crook of his arm in the early hours.

'All of me?'

'Jago Jamie Kelly Ptolemy Finch Gordon Lapis Byrne.'

'Not Gordon.'

'Why not? I knew him first.'

'I wish to God he'd never existed.'

'You wouldn't be camping with me and a Bentley Continental if he hadn't.'

He turned his back to her and pretended to sleep.

The following morning, they ran for miles through breathtaking mountainous countryside, although Legs' breath was taken far more by the kiss at the highest point than by any scenery around them. She was now so high on love that they could have jogged along the central carriageway of the M6 and she would have been just as happy.

Why was it, then, that she had an uncanny knack of saying exactly the wrong thing, always?

His phone, which had no reception in the campsite, was in his pocket and chiming with messages now, like a morning Angelus. One was from Poppy, ever more panic-stricken that her long-lost son had lost faith in her.

'What does she say?' Legs demanded, ignoring her own phone bleeping sociably from her bum bag.

'She wants to meet up.' He read the message, hollow cheeks leaping with muscles. 'She's even prepared to forsake Farcombe.'

'She's going to leave Hector?' Legs gasped.

'I sincerely doubt it.' He looked at the message again. 'By "forsake" I think we can read "cream tea with tranquillisers in the village", or "car park at a Travel Inn" at bravest.'

Acutely aware that Gordon Lapis's scheduled appearance at Farcombe Festival was now just days away, Legs couldn't stop herself pushing the point. 'If you meet up, you can tell her the truth about your writing career, surely?'

'Why? We just keep running. Sooner or later Ptolemy Finch will be forgotten.'

'You know that's not true!'

'I'm no liar!' he exploded. 'If I don't tell the truth it's because I write fiction. I killed Ptolemy. He's currently dead, as thousands of readers are finding out on a daily basis. That's not fact, granted. Based on his track record, rescue should be guaranteed; one takes it for granted. Author and reader have an unwritten agreement nestling cosily between the lines that good will eventually triumph, however slim the odds may appear at times. That's fiction. I write it, I don't live it.'

'But isn't life on the run just make-believe too?'

'If you want to get real, Allegra, you can rewrite the script.' He stood up and started pounding down the mountainside, only to double back to catch her in his arms as she stumbled blindly in his wake.

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.' He held her so securely she felt as though she was drowning in him, his lips tight to her throat. 'I love you. Please don't let's stop running yet.'

When they returned to the banks of the lake, he took both their iPhones and hurled them into the water.

'Isn't that terribly environmentally unfriendly?'

'Shit, you're right!' He stripped off his clothes and waded in to dive for them, dipping around like a dolphin.

Stripping off, Legs waded in too. Soon they were getting beyond friendly in their environment, the phones forgotten.

They drove to Dublin in the not-quite-red car, where Byrne had booked a suite in the Gresham once occupied by Taylor and Burton. There, they made love half-on, half-off the four poster bed, shared a deep bath, dressed in such a hurry that both their buttons were one out, and ran on foot to the Abbey Theatre to catch the last night of the sell-out, highly acclaimed production of The Playboy of the Western World, starring a Hollywood bad boy originally hailing from Ballymun.

'How did you ever get tickets?' she gasped as they claimed their balcony seats seconds before curtain up.

'Like everyone else. I booked online as soon as they were released.'

'But you can't have known we were going to be here?'

'I was going to bring Nan. She loves this guy playing Christy.'

It was an extraordinary performance, the actor proving he was far more than a brooding heartthrob with a well publicised drug problem and sex tape to his name. He could act. Legs was moved to tears by his reconciliation with his father at the end and his rejection by Pegeen, who she knew made the right choice even though almost every woman in the audience would have taken the brooding Hollywood actor then and there.

'I'm only sorry your grandmother didn't see it,' she said to Byrne as they emerged, hands still buzzing from clapping.

'I'm not.' He took her buzzing hand and held it to his lips to kiss it, making it buzz even more. 'When she learns he didn't even take his shirt off, she'll not think it was worth coming. Do you want to eat?'