Page 16 of Three Days to Be Ruined
Let him come and see.
It wasn’t the delicate touch he had shown her—she had perhaps pruned the thing within an inch of its existence—but she had done it. She had conquered this wild, unruly thing.
Who knew I’d be so good at this?
The sound of his steps approached behind her, steady and measured. Beth shuffled backward, eager for him to admire her work.
“Well, Mr. Sandeman? Did I... pass?”
“Ye pruned an olive tree.”
The insufferable Scot raised an eyebrow, his expression as dry as the schist. “A fine job, if we were makin’ olive oil.”
The lass was giving the olive tree a glare fierce enough to wilt it, her stubborn chin quivering like it had betrayed her. She gripped the shears with knuckles that had seen more dirt in a day than they likely had in a lifetime, her ridiculous egg-yolk skirts gleaming like a bloody beacon.
Chest tight, Boyd stepped toward her. If she wanted to make a grapevine out of an olive tree, then by thunder and glen, he’d find a way to grant her wish.
The intensity of his own thoughts shook him. Was he really drooling over her entitled girl’s charms? What the devil was wrong with him? She was a delicate English doll, a symbol of everything he despised—and yet, here he was, wanting to give in to her whims like some foolish knight.
Her moist gaze lifted to him, trembling with equal parts defiance and vulnerability.
“I knew it was an olive tree,” she said.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Aye, and ye turned it tae firewood.”
He needed to leave. To put some distance between his weary boots and her teary smile before he gave in to the fool notion of brushing her frown away with his lips.
“We’d best get ye back to the house before yer new allies send an expedition.”
His shoulders tightened as he descended the terraces, his gaze fixed on the expanse below, feigning interest in the land rather than the woman trailing after him.
“Mr. Sandeman, is this part of a winemaker’s attributions? To race downhill? Perhaps instead of an English lady, you should have invited a thoroughbred.”
Boyd grunted. A vision of himself riding Miss Croft like a dainty filly speared into his mind with the force of a battle charge.
Eyes forward, Boyd hastened his steps, refusing to glance back. The schist was safer. Anything was safer than looking at Beth Croft, who somehow managed to be out of place and disturbingly right among his hard-won empire.
Pruning an olive tree. What a sight. Crouched there, that impractical gown blazing like a daffodil in a thicket, her delicate fingers fumbling with the shears. A misplaced flower, stubbornly bright against the dull winter brown.
And yet, her determination—impractical and absurd as it was—carried a stubborn charm that gnawed at him.
Had she fallen behind? What an arse of a gentleman he was. No doubt her complaints about his lack of manners would find their way back to Oporto. Since when did he give a damn what those perfumed English folk thought of him?
And yet, he strained his ears for even the faintest clatter of her impractical shoes.
Halfway down the vineyard, a panicked gasp made his heart stutter. He halted, a surge of protective instinct flaring in his chest. Muscles tense, he spun on his heel just in time to see Bethflailing her arms on the terrace above him—a wild flurry of lace, her yellow gown billowing, her eyes wide as she headed straight for disaster.
Boyd lunged forward, arms outstretched.
She crashed into him, a blur of skirts, elbows, and the sharp point of a hairpin jabbing his collarbone. They went down in a tangle of limbs. Boyd’s back hit the earth with a jolt, his hands tightening around her to cushion the fall.
Her startled gasp was muffled by his coat as she collapsed against him with a force that knocked the breath from his lungs.
Her bright yellow dress splashed across the rough ground as they sprawled on the schist, both catching their breaths. Too soon, the dust settled, and Boyd found himself with Beth nestled atop his chest, her face mere inches from his.
Boyd swallowed as his pulse hammered in his ears, a traitorous rhythm that kept him all too aware of her softness. Her jasmine scent curled through him like smoke—intoxicating, unwelcome, and a heady reminder of just how foreign she was to this rough earth—and how damn well she fit against him.
He knew he should release her, sit up, make some quip to break the silence, but the words eluded him. She was close—too close.
