end. An agitatedly wriggling rear end.
‘Oh, my God,’ she whispered, ‘how on earth am I to—?’
‘Never mind the Almighty,’ he ordered, with harsh impatience, ‘just grab hold of him.’
With obviously no choice in the matter, she pushed her arms in first, then eased herself into the narrow opening. She felt Garde take her ankles and grunted in fear and pain as he yanked her upright so that she slid more easily into the hole. Unable to see properly, unable to tilt her head, she groped around, felt the feather-light brush of the dog’s tail against her fingers and wriggled further inside. By touch alone, she forced her hands to either side of his haunches, gripped hard and, with a muffled yell, told Garde to pull her out.
He wasn’t gentle—but then, she didn’t suppose he was able to be. He grabbed her round the knees and tried to lift, and when that didn’t work grabbed her hips, and then the waistband of her trousers and gradually eased her up. Afraid her wet hands were going to slip on the muddy fur, she gripped harder, bit her lip at the dog’s whimper of pain, and then her body was dropped flat on the wet earth and she was dragged over the lip of the hole.
Her hands were ruthlessly uncurled, and she lifted her head to see Garde hoist the little Jack Russell into his arms and begin to check him over. ‘You’re all right,’ he said brusquely as he put him down. He sounded extremely bad tempered.
Certainly the dog looked all right as he shook himself before scampering off, nose to the ground. Sorrel hoped she was, too. It felt as though all the skin had been torn from her chest and stomach.
‘Shouldn’t you call him to heel or something?’ she asked absently as she rolled onto her back and sat up. Lifting her sweater, she stared down at herself.
‘No,’ he denied tersely. ‘Are you hurt?’
She shook her head. There was a slight redness across her ribs, but nothing else. Tugging down her sweater, she stared up at him. Tall and dark with broad shoulders, jaw unshaven and his hair wild, he looked dangerous. Sounded dangerous.
‘Thank you,’ he added grudgingly.
‘That’s all right,’ she said quietly. ‘Being skinny has its advantages.’
‘Yes.’ Moving away, he began trying to shift a large boulder that was embedded in the earth. He wasn’t skinny. He was large and well built. Even through his sweater she could see the bunch of his muscles.
‘Give me a hand with this, will you? I need to block the hole before he does it again.’
Getting to her feet, she went first to retrieve her coat, and then gave a cry of dismay at the state of it. Forgetting for the moment that this was a prospective employer, she demanded, ‘Did you have to throw it in a muddy puddle?’
He didn’t answer, merely continued trying to shift the boulder by rocking it backwards and forwards.
Pulling a face, she shoved her arms into her coat and went to help. Five minutes later they’d managed to roll it into the hole. He then dusted off his hands, and walked away.
‘Hey! Mr Chevenay!’ Hurrying to catch him up, she added breathlessly, ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘I don’t give interviews.’
‘I didn’t ask for one,’ she retorted automatically, and then halted, a little frown on her face. Was he normally plagued by journalists? Giving interviews, or not giving them, as the case may be, smacked of—fame. Seeing that he was now some way ahead, she ran to catch him up again. ‘Are you famous?’ she asked as she matched him stride for stride.
‘No. Who told you where I was?’
‘A woman at your house…’ she began, before registering the tightening of his lips. Someone was going to be in trouble for telling her, weren’t they? Damn. ‘Look,’ she began again, ‘I only wanted to ask you something.’
‘I don’t do favours, either.’
‘I don’t want a favour! In fact, I’m about to do you one! Well,’ she qualified, ‘maybe not a favour exactly. I’m here about my letter. You did get my letter? I’m—’
‘No.’ He continued on towards the house.
Taken aback, because he must have got it, hesitating only momentarily, she sprinted after him. ‘How do you know you didn’t get it?’ she demanded. ‘You don’t even know who I am! I sent it special delivery,’ she continued in the face of his silence. ‘You’d have to have signed for it.’
He didn’t answer.
‘Unless you were out when it came,’ she murmured, ‘and it went to the depot.’ Getting absolutely no response from him, she wondered if she’d got the wrong man. He hadn’t actually said who he was. ‘You are Garde Chevenay, aren’t you?’
He halted, looked at her, and then strode on.
Beginning to get cross, she grumbled, ‘Well, it surely can’t be a secret!’
He jumped the small ditch that divided the hill from the gravel drive—or, more accurately, what had once been a gravel drive, and was sadly now mostly devoid of its gravel and sprouting weeds—then crunched along it and round to the back of the old house.
Absolutely refusing to give up until she had a satisfactory answer, she trailed after him. ‘I wrote to you about your grounds. I’m a landscape gardener,’ she added for extra clarity as she followed him into what looked like a utility room. ‘So you see—’
‘You’re going somewhere?’ he enquired with hateful interest.
‘Yes,’ she agreed firmly, ‘I’m going to tell you what I can do.’
‘I wasn’t aware I’d shown any interest.’
‘You haven’t. Yet. But, Garde—’
‘Mr Chevenay, to you, and don’t tramp that mud in here,’ he ordered disagreeably.
‘You are,’ she pointed out.
‘I live here.’
With a little tut, Sorrel kicked off her ruined shoes and padded after him in her socks—wet socks—and bumped into his back as he suddenly halted to remove his own boots.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered.
He said something she didn’t catch, dragged off his wet sweater, tossed it aimlessly towards the corner, and opened the door in front of him. Striding through, rolling up his shirtsleeves as he went, he left it to swing shut behind him.
‘You are so rude!’ she complained as she yanked it open and followed him along a stone-flagged floor the colour of chestnuts.
‘Possibly because I didn’t invite you.’
‘But you must be interested! Your gardens are an absolute mess.’ Halting in pleased surprise, she stared curiously round her at white walls, a few highly polished pieces of furniture. Stark. Monastic—which was appropriate, seeing as it was an old monastery. A beautiful old staircase ran up the outside
