I went limp in his arms and asked the tree canopy. “Why? Why did you forsake me?”
“Ye need to give up those heels, lassie. They’re fucking up your back.”
That earned him the glare to end all glares.
“I am never giving up my heels. I’ll be a hundred and five and toddling around on my heels.”
“Then we best stock up on ibuprofen.” He paused. “And whisky.”
“Or, say, you don’t chase me across the English countryside and tackle me to the forest floor,” I suggested sarcastically.
His arms gave me a slight squeeze and he muttered, “Aye. That probably didnae help.”
“You think?”
“Hear this, love,” he said, still walking, “ye can try to run around the world to get away from me. I let you slip through my fingers once. That’s not going to happen again. I’ll grab hold any way I can.” His eyes came down to me. “So dinnae run next time.”
“You’re the worst,” I declared.
“Aye,” he said softly. “But you love me.”
I looked away.
“She loves me,” he whispered.
He was intolerable.
Not long later, the house started to come into view, and if I had my bearings correct, I’d been all of maybe twenty feet from seeing it.
Ugh.
“You wearing a poncho?” Dair asked like he’d just noticed it.
“It’s a Max Mara raincoat with poncho-like detailing,” I corrected.
His grin returned. “My Blake in a poncho.”
“It isn’t a poncho. It’s a Max Mara raincoat with poncho detailing,” I repeated.
“It’s a poncho, love.”
Argh!
Treverton fully formed, and with it came the sight of Christine outside, wearing a thin puffer coat and, for some housekeeper reason, wringing a dishtowel.
When she caught sight of us, she rushed forward.
“Oh my goodness, is she hurt?”
There went my English aristocrat street cred.
“She took a tumble,” Dair told her.
“That’s a nice way of saying, he tackled me,” I added.
Christine’s eyes grew wide.
Dair chimed in again. “She needs a hot bath, with salts if ye got them, a generous tumbler of whisky and a bottle of ibuprofen,” Dair said.
