In one limber movement, he dismounted the saddle and landed lightly on the ground. After watching a moment, Trevor unpicked the sleeve of his jumper from the metal thorn, and when he turned, the man stood towering over him.
“If you could just give me your hand and help me to—” he began, but before he could finish, the man had reached down, placed a hand under each of his armpits and hauled him effortlessly out of the ditch. When Trevor finally regained his composure, red-faced, wellies full of water, standing in a puddle on the path, he could barely find the courage to look his handsome rescuer in the eyes.
“I’m Rudy Mortimer,” said the man, holding out a hand. “And you are?”
The words ‘I’m ruddy mortified’ sat on Trevor’s tongue, but once again he managed to restrain himself from speaking them aloud.
“Hang on. Mortimer?” he said instead, shaking the strong, warm hand. “Any relation to Mrs Mortimer-King, the owner of Stratham Lodge?”
“Her son. Or one of them.”
“In which case I’m McTavish. Trevor McTavish. I’m the one renting the place.”
“Oh, yes. McTavish. That’s a good Scottish clan name you have there. Do your folk hail from this way?”
“You know, I’m not really sure where they come from. Apart from Balham in South London. That’s where my mum’s parents grew up. Maybe my father’s parents came from Scotland. They died before I was born.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Anyway, welcome to Arkaig, Trevor McTavish.”
“Are you the one who handed over the keys last night? To my friends?”
“Yes, I am.”
“The same person who never answers his phone?”
“Sorry?”
“I tried calling you last night. On the number your mother left me. I think it’s a mobile phone number.”
“That’ll be mine. Forgot to charge my phone last night. Those unknown calls I missed were from you, then?”
“Unless you have any other holidaymakers who arrived last night and who have no power in their holiday home.”
Rudy Mortimer had the decency to turn a shade of beetroot, the colour rising from his neck to his cheeks and making him look positively adorable.
“Och, I’m sorry. Please, don’t tell my mother. She’ll surely kill me. I told her I had everything under control. I’m on my way to the lodge now, to make sure you settled in all right.”
“In all fairness, we did. And as you were kind enough to stop and help me out of the ditch, let’s call it quits. But if you could show me where the fuse box is so that I can switch on the electricity, we would all be really grateful. I think I’m going to need a hot shower when we get back. Is that our Christmas tree?”
“Aye. Freshly cut down this morning.”
“Perfect. With everyone else arriving later this afternoon, I’ll have plenty of time to decorate.”
“I really do apologise, Trevor,” he said guiltily. “This is entirely my fault. I remembered to sort out the heating during the day, but completely forgot to switch on the power. How did you manage last night?”
“Candles and a camp stove. My friend’s mother, Mrs Madison—you’ll meet her soon—is incredibly resourceful. She managed to produce a breakfast feast last night and again this morning.”
“Well, I’ll need to apologise to her, too. Can I ask, how did you end up standing in the ditch?”
“I was being impulsive, leaning over the fence attempting to pick heather and thistle. To use for decoration in the lodge.”
“If it’s heather and thistle you’re wanting, there’s a whole field full of yon prickly weed around the back of the lodge. Come, I’ll show you.”
“Before you do, I have one request.”
“Of course.”
“Can I empty my Wellingtons?”
