Free In The Garden Of Stones by Lucy Pepperdine Page A

gets up herself.
    “ No thanks to you.” She brushes gravel dust from her
backside. “Touch me again and you’re going to be in a whole
barrowload of trouble, matey.”
    “ I said I’m sorry.”
    “ You will be when I have you up in court, showing them the
bruises on my backside while I’m suing the pants off you, and
that’ll be you, not me, out of here … for good!”
    Colin
McLeod first gapes at her, swallows hard, and then snatches his cap
from his head and wrings it frantically in his hands, all the fight
gone out of him. No bluff and bluster now. Instead he looks
frightened and ashamed.
    “ I’m sorry. I didn’t mean ta … I didnae ken … I wouldnae …”
Another swallow. “Forgive me.”
    He bows
his head, looking at his boots, and looks so totally deflated that
Grace finds herself overcome with shame and guilt at having acted
so unreasonably. Bombarding him with silly empty threats has done
nothing but upset them both.
    If this is what Dr Mal meant when he suggested Colin is
merely another part of my psyche and my arguing with him represents
me battling against my inner self, it seems to be a cruel and
heartless way of going about it, and I don’t think I like it very
much.
    “ It’s okay. Forget it,” she says. “No real harm done. I
won’t say anything if you promise not to do it again.”
    “ I … I won’t.”
    His head
twitches and he blinks hard, screwing his eyes tight closed.
Nervous afflictions she has seen before in others, often brought on
by sudden and intense stress.
    She lays
her hand on his sleeve to still his agitation. “It’s okay. We’ll
forget all about it.”
    He
flinches at her touch, twitches his head again, and she removes her
hand. His eyes stay on his boots.
    “ Thank you, Miss,” he murmurs.
    “ My name’s Grace. Did you forget?”
    Eyes
like a whipped dog’s dart to hers, then back to the ground. “No,
Miss.”
    An
awkward silence descends and she sucks at her bleeding finger
again.
    “ You want to get that looked at,” he says, risking a quick
glance. “There might be a bitty thorn in it. It might get infected.
You canna be too careful.”
    She
offers him the wound for examination. “I can’t see anything. Would
you like to take a look? I’m sure you have plenty of experience
with these types of things.”
    “ No, Miss.” Obviously he doesn’t like skin contact
either.
    “ Please, I’m giving you my consent,” she says, adding, to
her own astonishment, “I trust you.”
    He looks
as surprised as she feels and they hold each other’s gaze for a
moment, until he breaks off and turns his attention to her
outstretched finger, gently cupping her hand in his, holding it
steady and running his fingertip over the wound, feeling for any
piece of embedded thorn. For a man of such unkempt appearance, such
outward roughness, his touch is ultimately tender. He lifts the
finger close to his eye and examines the puncture carefully. He
squeezes the skin around it and a tiny seed pearl of blood emerges.
Without hesitation he snatches a handkerchief from his pocket and
wipes it away.
    “ It’s fine,” he says, and lets her go. “It’s jest a scratch.
I’m pretty sure there’s nothing in theer. Ye might’a sooked it out
already.”
    She
takes her hand back, astounding herself when she discovers she is
desperately disappointed he hasn’t offered to kiss it
better.
    “ Thank you for looking,” she says.
    “ You’re welcome, Miss.”
    Now he looks uncomfortable again, gaze darting, not knowing
where to settle, and she suspects he’s embarrassed, if a
vision can be embarrassed.
    “ You’re right, I should go and leave you in peace,” she
says.
    “ Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss.”
    “ But before I do, I have to say Mr McLeod, you keep a
beautiful garden. Probably the loveliest I’ve ever seen. It’s a
credit to you. You must be very proud of it.”
    “ I am, Miss. Thank you, Miss.”
    “ But it’s such a shame nobody’s allowed to see it.