What, she wondered, as she climbed the cliff path at
his side, had happened to her hatred and resentment?
From their first meeting she had had a picture of him
as an arrogant, overbearing tyrant whose every word
put her back up. She had detested his self-assurance,
his sarcasm and scornful dismissal of women as mere
playthings. When had all that changed?
She flinched away from too close an examination of
her new feelings. That she no longer bristled at the sight
of him was sufficient food for thought at the moment.
The goatherd’s hut was built of warm creamy stone,
rough and unfaced, but as solid as the rocks beneath it.
The one small window was shuttered and the door
closed.
There was no answer to their knock, so Marc pushed
the door open and shouted. No reply came. The small
room beyond was empty. A wooden ladder led up into
the tiny attic bedroom, from which wisps of straw
protruded, leading Kate to conclude that it was a hay
loft as well as a bedroom.
Marc went out again and walked round the hut,
shouting. Then he came back, shrugged. “Nobody in
sight. I’ll get a fire going. There’s an outhouse with
plenty of dry wood stacked up.” He opened a large
wooden cupboard which took up the whole corner by the
fireplace and produced a thick oiled wool sweater, which
he flung to her, telling her to put it on while he got the
wood.
Gladly she slipped out of her wet clothes and into the
sweater. It was obviously intended for a huge man, and