I cast a dramatic glare at the pony. “I thought that was the whole reason for this ride.”
“Not thewholereason.” He sounds so mischievous. I can’t trust my ears, so I look up at him. That hard face, with the scars and the once-broken nose, gazes down at me with something like tenderness.
“Patience, Rosie, and let me finish the telling of it. Bluebells come in May, but ’twas a mild autumn, and I ken a secret wee spot where a few still bloom.”
As he steps back, he slides a hand down my arm until he’s laced his fingers with mine. The move is confident and sure, like this is our thing now.
I follow him into the woods, thrown by how I might trust him to lead me anywhere.
Unlike the trees near Donag’s cottage, these are airy andbright. Dappled sunlight throws coins of light along tangles of ferns and moss, and somewhere close by, a stream burbles cheerfully.
I gasp as we cross into a clearing so magical, I half expect a unicorn to wander by. Grass unfurls before us like a tufty green and yellow picnic blanket. Heather grows in the sunniest patches, its blooms faded to palest lilac, and spines turned the gold of fall. Trees encircle the glade, their roots like giant gnarled feet nestled in carpets of red fern.
It’s a messy palette of color, but what draws my eye are a few pops of vibrant purple-blue—tiny flowers sprinkled like fairy gems in the deepest shadows.
I grin. “Those are bluebells?”
“Aye.”
“It’s like they were hanging on just for me.”
“Just as I was,” he says, his voice low with intent.
My gaze jumps to him. “What did you just say?”
But he’s grinning again, light and breezy as he chucks my chin. “Your hearing’s a mite feeble for a lass of so few years.”
He bounds into the clearing, turns, teeters playfully, then plops down. He kicks his feet out in front of him, leaning on elbows stretched behind, at complete ease. “In May, this will be a blanket of blue. I’ll bring you back and show you.”
I’ll be gone.
The thought buzzes at me, and I mentally swat it away like a bug I’m pretending doesn’t exist.
He watches me, waiting. “Rosie-love.” His voice is a low caress, soft and encouraging. His palm skims over the ground beside him in invitation. “Come bide a wee while with me.”
Rosie-love. Nerves like a million dragonflies take flight in my chest.
My legs carry me closer. I hope I don’t look as lumbering as I feel when I sit next to him.
He stretches to pluck a bluebell, and I forget myself, exclaiming, “You can’t do that. There are so few left.”
“Aye.” He tucks it behind my ear, fingers threading through my hair, gentle and reverent. “And there’s only one of you.”
Like a slow flame curling along paper, heat crackles down my body, consuming me, until I’m in danger of floating away.
I’m not sure what’s happening here. It’s so surreal that this evenishappening. Never have I ever been looked at with such rapt focus.
How did I hurtle through time to land here? With him?
I toss aside the thought with a self-deprecating laugh. “The only flowers I’ve ever gotten were from Poppa after a school play. Roses.Of course.Get it? A rose for Rose.”
“You’re lovelier than any rose.” The compliment rolls from him so easily, and yet it doesn’t feel like a line. It came out like it’s simply the truth as he sees it.
It’s too overwhelming to consider what other truths might be looming inside him.
His eyes have caught mine and hold me transfixed, as if their silvery-blue color were comprised of actual metal, some fantastical lodestone with the power to draw me in and hold me close.
It’s too intense. I don’t know how to act or what to say. So I bring the conversation back to the thing that’s been nagging me since last night. “Do you really think Hamish will be cool about the whole dance thing?”
