Page 3 of Some Like 'Em Burly
I’m not close enough to catch her. I knew she was out there of course, knew she was tip-toeing around like a little pixie again. Lord knows what keeps tempting her all the way out here, but whenever I sense Gwendoline outside my forge, I make sure to stay inside. Hoping that she’ll linger a while longer.
I won’t scare her away. Won’t do anything to risk her never coming close again. But that means when she slips and falls down the muddy green slope, I’ve trapped myself inside, too far away to help.
“Gwendoline!”
My boots slam into the dirt, vibrations buzzing up my shins from the impact as I lumber outside to her, always so huge and ungainly. She’s a wet heap on the ground, mud-stained and blinking, all cuts and scrapes and soaked blonde hair.
“Rhys Evans.” She murmurs my name as I bend down, scooping her gingerly into my arms. How many times have I dreamed about this? Lifting her plump, perfect body against my chest? “I knew you’d save me.”
Well, that makes one of us. Fuck. Seeing little Gwendoline wince in pain, seeing her eyelids flutter shut as she passes out in my arms—this is my nightmare. This is the worst day of my lonely life.
“Hold on.” She can’t hear me, but I talk to her anyway, carrying her to my forge and barging the door open with my shoulder. “Hold on, cariad. Let me get a look at you.”
It’s dim in here, spots floating in front of my eyes as my vision adjusts. Flames dance and glow in the corner, my work left abandoned on the bench beside my anvil, and I carry Gwendoline there, laying her down on the blackened wood. It’s searing hot here, hot enough that sweat beads on my hairline, and hopefully that’ll warm her. That’ll help dry her clothes.
“Gwendoline?” She doesn’t stir as I brush the sodden hair off her forehead. Even soaked, her pale blonde hair is frizzy and rebellious. She matches the springtime lambs on her family’s farm. “Gwendoline. Shit.”
Do I call the doctor? In a storm like this, there’ll be no service. And if the river has burst, it could take hours for an ambulance to get through anyway. Farmer Roberts might have better luck in one of his big trucks, but I know from bitter observation that his daughter is not his first priority. If the weather’s wreaking havoc on his farm, he won’t spare a thought for Gwendoline until every last sheep is accounted for first.
Besides, what will he do for her that I can’t? I can watch her. Care for her.
Since moving to this valley two years ago, it’sallI’ve wanted to do.
“Easy. Easy, now.” I murmur nonsense to her as I check her over, sliding my soot-stained fingers into her hair and probing gently at her scalp. I can’t find any cuts, can’t find any massive lumps, and the sick pounding in my chest eases as I check her over slowly.
Her body lies limp on my workbench, the firelight dancing over her pale cheeks, and her wet clothes are plastered close to her curves. I notice her tempting body—I’d have to be blind not to—but it registers in the distant recesses of my brain. There are more urgent concerns, like how the hell I’m supposed to play doctor with these big, dirty hands.
It’s okay. Gwendoline’s banged up, yes. She’ll have some killer bruises from that fall, but I think she passed out from shock more than anything else. And as I check her limbs one by one, squeezing gently as I check for broken bones, her breathing changes. Gets quicker and more shallow, until I’m sure as day that she’s lying there awake, letting me run my hands all over her.
Jesus. I can’t think too hard about that.
“Who are you fooling, cariad?” My voice is a quiet rumble between us. If she were really asleep, there’s no chance she would wake.
But Gwendoline’s mouth twitches. She peeks up at me from one eye, a bright flash of periwinkle blue in the darkness. “No one, apparently.”
She’s got that right. I know this girl by heart, even though I’ve kept my distance, and I can read all of her moods. I know how she looks when she’s bored or wistful or hungry, and I know when she’s truly passed out and when she’s awake.
“You took quite a fall.” Since she’s not moaning in pain, I’ve got no more excuses. I take my hands off her thigh and fold my arms over my chest. “Are you dizzy? Should I call a doctor? Or your father?”
Gwendoline wrinkles her nose and shakes her head, fair hair shifting over my workbench. “No. Sorry. It’s all a fuss over nothing. I’ll get out of your way in a second, Mr Evans, I promise.” As she speaks, she pushes up onto her elbows; starts to struggle upright.
“Don’t.” I’m touching her again before I can think, pressing down on one shoulder. “Lay there for a second. Catch your breath in the warm.”
Gwendoline scoffs but she settles back, and my mouth twitches in turn. ‘Warm’ is an understatement. It’s so hot here by the furnace that her cheeks are flushed bright red and beads of sweat are sliding down my spine. The air shimmers with heat. You could chew on it. I’m used to it, but it must be a shock to little Gwendoline’s system.
“It’ll be a wet walk home.” I squint out of the nearest window. The afternoon light was already fading when the storm clouds came, and now it’s nearly as dark as night. “If you’re even up to it.” An image of her stumbling through the gloom drifts through my mind, bruised and soaked and dazed, and I clear my throat. Absolutely not. “Which you’re clearly not, so. You’ll stay here until it’s safe to drive you home. That’s that.”
Pink lips curve and blue eyes twinkle up at me. Gwendoline knits her fingers together over her stomach, visibly pleased, and I try not to notice the way her skirt’s rucked up her thighs. “You’re awfully bossy, Mr Evans.”
“Rhys.” She’s just showing respect, acknowledging the decade or two between us, but she called me by my first name earlier. I don’t want her taking it back now. “And it’s not bossiness. It’s care.”
Gwendoline’s breath catches, but she shrugs one shoulder, so casual. “I wouldn’t know.”
Shit. I knew that, knew she has a rough time at home, but hearing it plain as day makes my hands ball into fists. What are her parents thinking, trampling her spirit the way they do? Even though she’s a grown young woman, it clearly bothers her. So why doesn’t she leave?
Maybe she’s too loyal. Or maybe Gwendoline thinks she has nowhere to go, but that’s not true. Not at all. Though we’vebarely exchanged ten sentences in the last two years, though I’m nothing but the gruff, surly blacksmith to her, she could come here. She could run to me.
She couldalwaysrun to me. She certainly does often enough in my dreams.
