Page 35 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

That one – she was sure – meant yes. ‘Do you ever get bored?’ she asked.

The reply came instantly. ‘No.’

‘You don’t do anything outside of . . .’ she swung the knife around the kitchen, ‘. . . this?’

‘Of course I do. Brambleton is a very close-knit community. I am well known in the village.’

She laughed. ‘That sounds ominous.’

‘I represent the house.’

Sammy tilted her head. ‘But what about you?’

‘I am the butler at Brambleton Hall.’

She lined up the next cut. ‘That must get a bit . . . lonely.’

Magnus’s eyebrow rose. ‘A house does not require love to endure,’ he said. ‘Only order.’

Sammy sawed at a carrot. ‘If you say so.’

Her phone rang on the counter. Chloe. She dropped the knife, reached out flipping the screen face down. She’d call later.

‘You keep looking for something or someone to fix,’ Magnus said. ‘There is nothing here to fix,’ he continued, his tone firmer now. ‘The house runs smoothly. The systems are in place. Your role is to maintain them, not to alter them.’

There it was – that edge again. Sammy held his gaze. ‘No fixing.’

‘Correct.’

She lined up the next carrot, picked up the knife and sliced. Decent.

For now, she thought, that would do.

When Miss Jenkins arrived, Nate focussed on the border.

The bed ran the length of the south-facing wall, dense with cutting flowers thriving in the heat.

He heard her footsteps stop beside him.

‘These are . . . definitely flowers,’ she said.

He trained his eyes on the stems. ‘Good start.’

‘Magnus sent me to collect flowers,’ she said coming closer.

Always coming too close, this woman, as if she didn’t understand personal space.

‘Apparently I’m learning flower arranging now,’ she added.

Nate shifted back onto his heels, easing out of the crouch enough to take her in. ‘Do you know what any of these are?’

She concentrated on the display, as if something might introduce itself under scrutiny. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Flowers.’

He nearly smiled. ‘Snapdragons,’ he said, pointing at the nearest row.

She repeated it under her breath. Memorising, as she always did when he named plants.

‘Alstroemeria,’ he went on, pointing further along. ‘And the last of the foxgloves.’