But again the phone was crashed down and there was nothing but an eerie silence as the wind gathered its breath for a further onslaught.

Maddy glared at the telephone. ‘Arrogant, bad-tempered bastard!’ she hissed. ‘Sort your problems out on your own, then!’

Her lips were trembling in time with the rest of her. She wasn’t frightened, just angry. How dare he talk to her like that? How bloody dare he?

She stumbled back along the hall and collided with the bathroom door. Tears prickled beneath her eyelids. She’d just crawl into bed, pull the duvet over her head, and pray for oblivion. That was the only sensible thing to do. Sod Drew Fitzgerald and his bloody problems. Let Angie sort them out. She, Maddy Beckett, was never going to be at anyone’s beck and call ever again. She’d become an icon – or did she mean island? – and distance herself from everyone’s problems in future. Milton St John could manage without her. She’d show them.

Thirty seconds later she was tugging Suzy’s Doc Martens onto her bare feet and pulling her Oxfam showerproof over the crumpled Knightsbridge dress. Maybe she’d start being an icon in the morning.

She pulled open the front door and was almost knocked sideways by the storm.

‘Damn and bugger, Drew Fitzgerald!’ she cursed as the wind tore at her hair and the rain slapped icy knives into her face. ‘I bloody hate you!’ And staggering against the punching wind, she stumbled across the road towards Peapods.

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty

The thunder which had been growling round the hills, suddenly decided to pounce just as Maddy tottered into Peapods’ drive. With a roar it reverberated overhead, followed by a zig-zag of green-white lightning. Maddy ducked her head and ran, the unfamiliar boots skidding on the cobbles, the Oxfam jacket instantly saturated.

The welcoming lights of earlier had been extinguished. Peapods loomed gloomily through the storm, only visible each time a further fork of lightning lit the sky. The wind was clattering unseen horrors around her feet, her hair was plastered across her eyes, and all the time the thunder crashed directly above her.

The stable yard had become a torrent. Rivulets of water gushed unseen, splashed over the Doc Martens and up her legs. It was if the world had exploded.

Parting her hair with icy fingers, panting from a mixture of panic and exertion, Maddy focused on a swinging, blurred illumination somewhere through the clock arch. Head down again, she struggled towards it.

The light came from a hurricane lamp, swinging eerily against the tack-room door. The stables were all bolted and closed snugly against the storm, but Maddy could hear the shufflings and murmurings of their occupants, complaining about the disturbance. Although horses were so often spooked by thunderstorms, there didn’t seem to be any immediate signs of panic. She cursed under her breath.