He grinned and busied himself making them a burrow. He draped the oilskin tarp just below the edge of the gully, so that the wind might sail above it and not disturb them. He secured it with rocks. On his knees, he took out the packets in the hole in the ground, inventorying them. Then he set up the blanket just beyond the hold on a smooth bit of ground that was likely why this place had been chosen as a secret rendezvous spot.
“It’s quite a climb for an assignation, don’t you think?” Eleanor asked.
He looked at her with an inscrutable look on his face. “Some people would do anything for love. Even hike the tallest mountain.”
She didn’t know if she should feel chastened or honored. Was he referring to him climbing the mountain, or accusing her of not believing in love because she did climb the mountain? Should she be bold and challenge him, or meekly look away, which was her instinct?
Tristan busied himself with uncorking the unlabeled bottle. “Whisky,” he said, and took a sip. His eyebrows went up in appreciation. “Good whisky.” He eyed her, sitting perfectly still, and came over with the bottle. “Take a big drink. You need it for the pain.”
Eleanor didn’t like that he knew she was hurting. She was accustomed to being able to explain herself, make what she wanted to show visible, and hide everything else. How dare Tristan see every bit of her? It made her feel positively nude. Still, she accepted the bottle and took a drink, as instructed.
It burned fire on the way down, made her think of the campfire at Berringbone, and grass, and the top of a crème brulee she’d had once at her father’s birthday celebration. And then she coughed. And every spasm of her chest sent pain shooting down to her toes and up to her skull.
“Careful. Maybe not so big of a dram all at once.” Tristan took the bottle and went back to his position on the blanket, unwrapping the other packets.
The whisky continued to burn, and it made her flushed and lightheaded. A pleasant diversion from her foot. It made her bold. “And what would you do for love, Tristan?”
He was halfway to finding the contents of the wax paper packet when her question landed, and he froze in response. Was he going to run away this time too? Just as he had after he’d kissed her in the woods at Berringbone?
“I don’t know,” Tristan said, diving back into his inventorying. He unwrapped the first parcel, the stench of molded-over cheese unmistakable. “I think this has been here for quite some time.”
Eleanor nodded. Yes, let’s talk about cheese when she’d just asked him about love. Why should she have expected any different? She stood and hobbled over, not bothering to hide her injury. “I’m very cold.”
Tristan nodded, a frown creasing his forehead. “That and your foot should be addressed. Let’s get the outwear off, and maybe we can hang it to dry?”
Eleanor nodded, shedding both her big mittens and the gloves underneath. She worked at the toggles at her woolen greatcoat. Tristan took them from her as if he were a footman or a valet. While she slowly sunk to the ground, the agony of her boot throbbing against her leg, Tristan hung her wet coat and long woolen scarf along the rocks, ostensibly drying them, but also creating an insulated space.
“Too bad we don’t have our climbing rope. The things I could do with that and our coats to make a wind shield.” Eleanor pointed up-gully, where the wind still found them.
Tristan made another unreadable expression and sat down, unlacing his boots at the edge of the blanket. “Let’s keep the blanket as dry as possible, shall we?”
Eleanor winced, her muddy wet boots dirtying the corner. Once Tristan had his boots off and stowed to the side, he sat looking at her with an intensity she didn’t understand.
“Eleanor.”
She looked around, trying to understand the context of his blinding attention. “Tristan.”
“I need to look at your foot. Or your leg. Wherever you have injured yourself.”
She was already shaking her head in the negative. “Absolutely not. Unnecessary at best.”
He placed his hand on her right knee, the pain of even the gentle touch enough to make her want to cry out. “Eleanor.”
There was no way she could walk on it anymore. No way to get out of here. He might as well look. “Do you know anything about injuries? Are you staying in Edinburgh to get your medical degree unbeknownst to the rest of us?”
He gave her a look of bemused patience. “I only want to play doctor with you.”
Oh, she hated him right in that moment, making her blush. “Fine.” She bent forward to take off her left boot, which was no trouble, with crusts of icy snow stuck in the rivets for her shoelaces. Then she bent towards the right one and pain burst out. When she opened her eyes, Tristan was looking at her with a cold assessment. This was not the flirtatious man who was playing doctor.
He handed her the whisky bottle. “Drink up, lassie.”
“That was, unquestionably, the worst Scottish accent I’ve ever heard.” Eleanor still uncorked the whisky.
“But you took the bottle, so that’s all I care about. I’ll take off your boot, you keep at the bottle.”
Eleanor winced before he even touched her, knowing that this removal would be excruciating. Tilting the bottle back, she rested her head against the outcropping of rocks. To her surprise, Tristan didn’t pull against her boot. Instead, he unlaced the entire boot, the laces making a whirring sound and ending with a thwack as the waxed ends hit the metal grommets. So far, no pain, and that was something.
With the boot unlaced, Tristan peeled the tongue back, making as much room as possible. He looked up at her. “How’s the whisky?”
