Page 82 of A Shore Thing

She was beginning the awkward rotation that would allow her to drop to the ground, when staccato barking shattered the peace, sinister as gunfire.

She clutched the tree, every muscle gone rigid. Her heart seemed to rise into her throat.

Griffith turned.

“Ahoy!” He was grinning, grinning as slavering death hurled itself forward.

She shut her eyes, heard the thumps of a tussle. Panting filled her ears. She could almost smell the hot stench, wafting up to her in gusts.

“Good day to you too, mate.”

There was a high-pitched whine. Griffith laughed.

He was safe.

She was safe.

She couldn’t catch her breath. She let her forehead rest on rough bark, felt little particles shower her eyelids.

“Penny,” called Griffith. “You’re not stuck? Do you need a hand?”

“No,” she croaked.

“Stop gathering munitions and come down.”

Certainly, she answered. Be right there.

Her lips didn’t move. She didn’t move. The panting sounded unbearably loud. The next bark made her shoulders jump.

“I’ll come up.” Griffith spoke in a changed voice. “Do you mind?”

Those new noises—he was hoisting himself. She opened her eyes as he reached for a handhold above her head, sidling around her, larger fragments of bark showering them both. She flicked repeatedly at her eyes, and her hair. A hectic gesture that exacerbated the disorder of her thoughts. Where was her hat? She hadn’t noticed that her hatpins had come loose.

“Truce,” said Griffith. He’d settled himself on a long limb, legs dangling, one wrist resting casually on an upper branch. “Hold your acorns. I only want to talk.”

Her stalled blood began to pump. She didn’t look down. Death still bounded around the tree. She looked at Griffith, the play of light and shadow on his face.

“It’s more comfortable over here.” He shrugged his broad shoulders, the carelessness of the invitation belied by the glow in his eyes.

She edged out of the cramped fork and crawled onto the limb, then clasped the upper branch, turning so she sat as he did. Her right foot tingled. She’d had it jammed sideways so long it had gone to sleep. Griffith slid closer.

“You’re afraid of dogs,” he said, disarmingly direct.

A ray of sun lit his tousled hair and gilded his cheekbone. Now she suffered from a new form of breathlessness. His beauty almost hurt.

“I’m afraid of snakes,” he offered. “I really am. I break out in a sweat.” He frowned. “Sorry. That must seem trite in comparison.”

His ruefulness moved her even more than the admission itself.

“Adders are common in Cornwall,” she whispered.

He laughed. “That’s not very comforting.”

Indeed, it wasn’t. Her ears flamed.

“James could tell you.” She cleared her throat. “I’m clumsy with such things. Compliments. Words of comfort.” Thankfully, her throat closed completely before she could add an explanation, embarrassing in its implied self-pity.

She’d heard little of that type of speech to date.