Brimming over with annoyance, mostly with herself, Frida stepped around Callum and stalked over to the plum tree. Without pausing to think, she climbed the ladder, relieved to disappear into the laden branches and hide her flaming cheeks.
God’s bones.She didn’t have a basket.
So be it. She would gather the plums into a fold of her cloak.
Frida worked steadily, stripping the nearest branches and placing the plump purple fruit carefully into her cloak. Noises below indicated that Callum had also returned to the task in hand.
Good.
They would work, not talk.
She would just have to be careful never to talk to him alone again.
All too quickly, the plums threatened to spill out of her hastily-fashioned receptacle. Frida began to lower herself down the ladder, moving slowly so as not to drop any. She had taken less than two steps when the ladder moved beneath her, tipping her further into the tree. She cried out, half in alarm and half in frustration, as the plums scattered.
“What is it?”
This was the last thing she needed; to look a further fool in front of him.
“’Tis nothing. I will right myself in a moment.”
But as her injured foot searched for the next rung, the ladder lurched again and this time Frida could not prevent her fall. She scarcely had chance to scream as sharp branches whipped pasther face and a rush of air lifted her skirts. She braced herself for impact, but instead found strong arms closing around her.
Then Callum cried out as his feet slipped beneath him and they both landed on the soft grass; Frida’s face falling against the soft linen of his tunic.
His heart beat directly in her ear. Her breath mingled with his. She inhaled his scent of horses and leather. Long moments passed.
“Are you hurt?” His voice was gravelly.
“Nay.” She raised her head so that it hovered over his. “Are you?”
“Nay.” His eyes looked directly into hers.
As her panic subsided, Frida became aware of the hard muscles of his chest. His face was an open book. His lips inches away.
She could kiss him. If she wanted to.
She didn’t want to. It was a preposterous idea.
She tried to push herself up, but found her skirts tangled in his long legs.
“Wait,” he cautioned, twisting beneath her in an effort to free them both. Every inch of her lower body seemed welded with his and time stretched painfully before he finally rose to his feet and extended a hand to help her up.
Frida contemplated ignoring the hand, but she was shaken and could not deny a pain in her left arm.
“Youarehurt,” Callum exclaimed as she came to stand beside him.
“It is but a scratch,” she replied automatically, although red blood dripped from her elbow.
Callum closed long fingers about her wrist, sending tremors through her as he examined the wound. “’Tis a deep cut. It must be tended to.”
“I can do it.” She wrestled with the desire the leave her wrist where it was. The better part of her knew she should pull away.
“You are a healer?”
“I have some training.” She must do something to alleviate this tension—thisconnection—between them. Her breath was coming so quickly it was as if she had run across the fields. “It is for that very reason that we are blessed with my brother Jonah’s presence,” she blundered.
Callum’s eyebrows raised a notch higher. “He is also hurt?”
