The cut had already been made. I straightened to meet the gaze of the man who’d accosted me. It wasn’t, thank God, the vicar: that would have been too embarrassing. ‘I didn’t actually bring it to the wedding,’ I explained. ‘I keep it in my coat. In the car.’ ‘In the car, right.’ He made it sound just as wicked. Standing on the churchyard grass with his hands in the pockets of his beautifully cut suit, he was clearly relishing the thought of my lawbreaking. Under his black brows there was a complicit glint in his eyes. ‘So, what sort of woman keeps a knife in her coat pocket? International assassin, perhaps?’ He looked pointedly at the thick black strap in my hand. ‘Rubber fetishist?’ I could feel the blush warming my face. ‘I’m an arborist,’ I said, folding the clasp knife safely away. I touched the trunk of the young rowan I’d been tending to. ‘This tree’s been staked for so many years that the strap’s cutting into the bark and choking it.’ I poked the rotten base of the tree stake with my foot.
