Page 15 of Three Days to Be Ruined
Staring at the vine before her, she grimaced. It felt almost violent, cutting the poor plant. Placing the blades against a brown twig, she pressed. The blasted thing refused to cooperate.While cuttings surrounded Mr. Sandeman’s knees, she had yet to chop her first branch.
His hands moved over the vines with an ease she couldn’t understand—but wanted to. Why did he have to make it look so effortless?
The shear slipped from her hand, snapping her nail. She sucked in a breath, barely suppressing the impulse to hurl the instrument at the Romans who built these vineyards.
Boyd raised a judgmental brow. “Has no one ever taught you how to hold a scissor, Miss Croft?”
Ridiculously, tears sprang to her eyes. Would he find fault with everything about her?
“It’s only a broken nail. It will grow again.”
“A lady’s hands should be clean and delicate.” How would she play theVariations on One Stringwith a bruised nail?
“A winemaker’s wife has dirt under her nails. Ye’ll learn tae love it.” Boyd traced the long line of her palm, his mellow brogue caressing her as much as his words. She much preferred it to the polished tones of the tycoon.
“I doubt that.”
“Here.” He held her wrist, leaning closer.
His chest brushed her back as he positioned their hands over a withered branch. His touch was strong, rough, and steady, making her head spin.
“This one.” He guided the scissors to the brittle vine.
Together, they applied pressure, the blades snapping through the branch with a satisfying crunch.
She flinched at the sound.
“Aye, there ye go now, lass.” His hand steadied hers, guiding their movements.
The work was tiring—or perhaps it was just his presence that left her overheated. With each cut, her heart beat faster, her senses overwhelmed by the intimacy of the moment. Hiswarmth against her back, the texture of his skin on hers, the quiet focus they shared as they pruned the sleeping vineyard.
Her world, so often defined by fine manners and polite restraint, felt impossibly small—insignificant in the face of his silent, assured presence.
When the last branch fell, he didn’t release her hands.
“See, Miss Croft,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear, “ye’re a natural.”
His hand lingered over hers.
Beth closed her eyes. “I am?”
He stood up abruptly, and only then did she notice they had an audience. A burly worker stood nearby, waiting to speak with him.
Mr. Sandeman cleared his throat. “Find a vine, Miss Croft, and show me some progress. I’ll be right back.”
There went her brogue.
He moved away, his stride deliberate, as if eager to place distance between them.
Beth exhaled and straightened her back, her hands tightening around the shears with renewed purpose. When he returned, she would surprise him with the best-pruned vine he’d ever seen.
Her gaze swept the rows of vines until she spotted it—a particularly unruly one, its branches shooting out in every direction like defiant limbs. Its gnarled base was thick and twisted, an ancient gnome standing guard over the vineyard.
With a determined breath, she crouched beside it and began cutting. One twig fell, then another.
As the stubs dropped to the ground, something unfamiliar stirred in her chest. It wasn’t a cramp. It was... pride.
For some mystic reason, each little cut felt like a victory. The once-overgrown vine now stood bare, its knotted base exposed and its branches stripped down to thin, quivering stumps.
