Never Forget Me

‘A coward, you mean?’

‘I meant nothing of the sort! I cannot believe there is a man in uniform who has not been afraid at some point. I merely meant...’

‘Forget it.’ Geraint pulled out a handkerchief from one of the capacious pockets of his tunic.

His expression was closed, unreadable. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you, or to imply...’

‘I said forget it.’ He closed his eyes, took several deep breaths before opening them again. ‘Let’s not talk about the war, Flora,’ he said in a gentler voice. ‘Let’s pretend it’s not happening, for just one day.’

Hurt. He was hurt, and he was hiding something. What had he said earlier? It’s complicated. Flora longed to ask him what, exactly, was so complicated, but he was so very determined that she should not know, and she could not bear the thought of him walking away from her. Not today. She shivered. ‘It’s getting cold, but I know a place nearby, a shepherds’ bothy, which has a fire.’

Chapter Seven (#ulink_dfc890ef-b75c-595c-9343-becb58be1277)

The bothy was a rough hut used by local shepherds to shelter from the weather. Pulling a box of lucifers from her coat pocket, Flora set light to the kindling, which was always left for the next occupant.

‘What a surprising wee lassie you are,’ Geraint said in a fair attempt at a Scots accent.

Relieved that his mood had lightened, Flora laughed. ‘I’m five foot eight. Not so wee, thank you very much, though beside you I feel like a skelf.’

‘You’ve lost me now.’

‘A skelf is a Scots word for splinter.’

‘Given that a splinter is something that gets under your skin, you might have a point, Miss Carmichael.’