‘You finished the lavender field then? All by yourself? They look a bit odd half submerged like that, don’t they?’
Atholl turned without saying anything, walking along the rows gathering up the empty mulch sacks.
Beatrice followed after him.
‘I hope it works; we could do with some rain to settle them in,’ he said, seemingly to himself and looking up at the sky.
Folding the sacks into a bundle beneath his arm, he marched past Beatrice towards the open door of the But and Ben. She watched him pass, feeling hopeless.
‘Atholl? Are you all right?’
No reply came as he stooped inside the low cottage door and disappeared, so she scurried after him, perplexed. What had changed while she slept? Had she dreamt their kiss? Had they not faced death together and fought to survive? Had he not carried her all the way back to the inn while she dozed against his chest? But now this? She wasn’t expecting him to throw his arms around her and kiss her or anything, although that’s what she’d hoped for, but now the old formality was back?
‘Impossible,’ she told herself in a whisper.
She watched him around the door frame, washing his hands, his back bent over the workshop’s ceramic sink, and the restless, panicked feeling rose in her chest again, a feeling she thought she’d left behind her.
She only vaguely registered the sight of the gleaming copper vat with its pipes, meters and gauges newly constructed in the corner of the workshop; Lana Fergusson’s lavender oil still. Atholl had obviously kept himself busy while she’d slept away her exhaustion. She couldn’t know that he hadn’t allowed himself to sleep for watching over her and when Kitty had at last sent him away he had toiled in the field, stopping only to nap on the hard workshop bench during the few short hours when it was too dark to work.
Before she knew what she was doing she had crossed the floor and joined Atholl by the sink, clasping his wet wrist and turning him to face her. Reluctantly, his eyes met hers.
‘What’s changed, Atholl? One minute we’re swimming, and kissing… and drowning,’ she attempted a laugh, ‘the next you’re barely talking to me. What happened?’
‘Nothing.’
She felt the tension in his wrist as he tried to pull away from her grasp.
‘This doesn’tfeellike nothing.’ If she could have disguised the shock in her voice she would but it was hopeless. ‘“You need to learn to let other people help you.” That’s what you said. Well, I have, because of you, and now you’re withdrawing into yourself again?’
He forced out an exasperated breath, his heavy-lidded eyes still cast down and unmistakably guilty. She’d struck a nerve.
‘It’s nothing, Beatrice.’ Her name sounded harsh upon his lips today, so different from the affectionate way he’d called her Beattie only one long sleep ago. ‘Your holiday’s almost over. You’ve got two nights left of your stay. We’ve brought Kitty and Gene together, we’ve resurrected the lavender field, and you’ve given everyone their orders for the ceilidh planning. So why don’t you rest and enjoy what’s left of your holiday?’
‘No. That’s not it.’ She screwed up her eyes, peering at his face. ‘You can see that I’m fine. You know I love the work. No, that’s not it, at all.’
‘Beatrice, I don’t know what you want me to say.’
She released his wrist and his hands fell to his sides as he turned to face her. Her mind flitted to the way they’d stood exactly like this in the cool clear water and she’d sunk into his kiss.
Atholl scrabbled for words, but they sounded hollow when they came and the colloquial Scots he’d slipped deeper into as they’d got to know one another, was gone. ‘You’ve done enough to help us. It’s wrong to ask for more. You’re a guest here, a… holidaymaker. I was wrong to take advantage of you.’
Her chest heaved and the sting of tears burned her eyes. ‘You took me to Skye. I met your family. I held your sister’s baby, and I told you things I’ve never told anyone. You gave me the little bassinette and helped me begin to say goodbye to my baby and all that sadness, and you rocked me in your arms like you…’ Her words faltered and failed.Like you loved me, she thought, and her eyes conveyed the words.
She watched as Atholl wet his lips, his eyes widening as he returned her gaze.
‘We should get back to the inn. We’ve got a long day tomorrow what with the ceilidh and everything,’ he said, the smallest tremor in his voice.
She watched him retreat, holding the door open for her and letting the key swing from his finger.
She joined him outside and he locked the door and hid the key beneath the shell. Nothing could prevent her from reaching out and placing a hand on his back.
‘Atholl, talk to me.’
He stood frozen but didn’t turn to face her. ‘I had a long time to think while you were sleeping,’ he said. ‘You know you didn’t tell me about your husband until we were in the water together, and by then we’d kissed and…’
‘And? Didn’t you think there’d be a husband? How do you think I made the baby?’ She was forcing laughter into her voice, wanting to soothe the frustration in Atholl’s tense body.
He turned slowly. ‘It was only last month you were living together. He might need time out, like you did, to recover himself, then the pair of you can carry on as before.’
