Free In The Garden Of Stones by Lucy Pepperdine

depressed.
After a bath and a glass of wine, she retires to bed,
exhausted.
    It might
be the bone numbing tiredness, or the influence of the splendidly
rich Australian cabernet, but soon her mind begins to wander and
she feels powerless to stop it.
     
     
    She
finds herself back at the iron gate to the gardens. When she puts
her hand on the barley twist ring, something catches her eye - a
black rectangle of wood with block capital letters carefully
painted in white.
    PRIVATE
PROPERTY. NO TRESPASSING.
    This
wasn’t here before. Colin must have put it up because somehow he
knew, and quite rightly so, that she would ignore his warning not
to come back, the notice was his way of reinforcing his desire not
to be bothered by nosey parker interlopers.
    “ My garden, my rules,” she says, turning the ring, lifting
the sneck and pushing open the gate. It squeaks so loudly they can
probably hear it up at the house.
    Last
time she was here she was concentrating so hard on the garden she
didn’t pay much notice to the fine red brick building with its
plethora of windows and ornate chimneys. In fact, now she comes to
think of it, she doesn’t remember seeing it at all. Even now it
looks only half there, as if she’s looking at it though a heat
haze. She might take a closer look… another time.
    She
stops at the rose bed to smell a bloom of the deepest red. Its
perfume is heavenly, hypnotic almost, and she is sorely tempted to
pluck the flower and carry it with her to enjoy it whenever she
likes. They won’t miss one flower. She grasps the stem, being
careful to avoid the thorns.
    “ Don’t yoo dare!”
    The
authoritative bellow makes her start and squeal with fright, and
she lets go of the stem, jabbing her right middle finger on a
thorn. It stings and starts to bleed, and she sucks at
it.
    “ Mr McLeod. I didn’t see you there,” she says, the pad of
her finger pressed to her lips.
    He puts
himself between the flowers and their potential thief. “Fit ken
ye’re deein’?” he says.
    “ I’m sorry.”
    He
repeats the question. Still as clear as mud.
    “ You’re going to think me awfully crass, Mr McLeod,” Grace
says, maintaining an air of politeness. “And I don’t mean any
offence, but your accent is very strong and I can’t understand what
you’re saying.”
    He
glares at her for a long moment before taking in a slow deep
breath. “I said, what do you think you are doing?”
    Every
word is measured and carefully enunciated, as if he’s speaking to
someone who is either deaf, or stupid, or both, and as he’s gone
too far the other way, it comes out sounding
condescending.
    “ I was admiring the roses,” she says, equally
tersely.
    “ Gain ta steal one mair like.”
    Nothing
lost in translation there. “I was not!”
    “ I telt ye afair, these gardens are private,” he says
angrily. “Ye’re trespassing and ye’re no welcome here. I’ll give ye
a count of three ta be on yer way, after that…on yer ain head be
it. Oan.”
    So much for polite introductions. Grace folds her arms defiantly, head
cocked to one side.
    “ Twa.”
    She
lifts her chin, daring him to …
    “ Three.”
    The
world turns upside down as in one swift movement he snatches,
lifts, and flings her over his shoulder in a classic fireman’s
carry.
    Grace
yowls in alarm. “Put me down!” she screeches.
    “ I asked ye to go, ye refused,” he says, striding toward the
gate. “I’m well within ma rights to send ye on yer way in any way I
choose. Yoor fault.”
    She slaps at his back. “Gerroffme! How dare you! I’ll
bloody well have you for assault or kidnap or something!” She
wriggles furiously, squirming and writhing until she breaks free
from his grip and drops down into the gravel with a crunch , pain radiating from her banged backside. “Ow! Bloody
hell!”
    “ Ah, crap.” A hand appears in front of her face, ready to
help her to her feet. “I’m sorry. I couldna hold ye. Are ye
hurt?”
    She bats
the hand away and