The figure that had climbed into the driver’s seat flicked on the map-reading light. ‘Here, take this,’ the deep, Scottish accented male voice resonated through her. She looked up slightly to see a flask lid filled with steaming liquid. ‘C’mon Yorkshire lassie, drink it. You need to get warm. You could’ve caught your death out there.’
She finally spoke without looking at his face. ‘I don’t care.’ Her voice was frail and wavering.
‘Aye that’s as maybe but there are plenty thatdocare. Now drink.’
As instructed, Mallory took the cup and warily sipped at the contents. It was coffee but it had a kick that burned her throat and made her cough.
The voice spoke again. ‘You’re not a whiskey drinker I take it?’ He sounded familiar but she hadn’t even looked up.He could be some axe-wielding murderer,she thought. Then she reasoned,Okay maybe there aren’t that many axe-wielding murderers who rescue their victims from freezing beaches and then give them whiskey before they chop them into little bits.
She looked up to see who the Good Samaritan was and gasped. ‘You?’ was all she could muster.
He smiled. ‘Well, I was me last time I checked, but then again I have been known to have a grumpy-arsed side too.’ They sat in silence for a few moments. ‘I didn’t catch your name Yorkshire Lassie, but I’m Gregory. My friends call me Greg.’
‘So, you mostly get called Gregory then on account of having no friends?’ she replied snidely, immediately regretting her cruel comment.
He held his chest as if he had just been shot. ‘Ouch, I think I deserved that, eh?’ His eyes were warm. ‘So, are you goin’ to tell me your name, Miss Yorkshire Lassie?’ he asked.
She closed her eyes as the sting of tears began again. ‘Please don’t call me that.’
His voice softened. ‘Okay, so tell me your name then?’
‘Mallory,’ she informed him, wiping away tears with the back of her hand.
‘After the mountaineer, eh?’
She nodded; surprised that he didn’t need the explanation that most people did.
There was a long pause. ‘Didhecall you that?’ He rubbed his nose. ‘The name Miss Yorkshire Lassie, I mean.’
‘A version of it, I suppose… Miss Yorkshire… that’s what Sam called me.’ She smiled as she heard his voice in her head.
‘Ah, I see. Sorry. If I had a-known I would’ve called you something else.’
‘What would you have called me? You didn’t know my name anyway.’
‘ProbablyWee Crabbit Lassie.’ His mouth curled up at one side so she knew he was jesting.
Her eyes squinted at him suspiciously as she was fully aware that it was probably an insult. ‘And what does that mean?’
He grinned. ‘Ohhh… it means pretty and quiet.’
‘Itdoesnot! I know you’re being mean. Tell me the truth,’ she chastised.
‘You sure? Okay, you asked for it.Weeas in little andcrabbitas in bad-tempered.’ He visibly winced, as if he expected her to thump his arm.
‘Huh, you can talk!’
‘Aye, that’s true.’
*
Greg knew she was right. He hadn’t exactly made the best first impression to the village newcomer. He deserved all he got. He watched as she stared into the cup of steaming liquid and his heart ached. He understood her grief more than she could possibly know. He wanted to reach out and comfort her; tell her things would get easier. But what was the point? She clearly didn’t like him, so what would his words mean?
After a few moments, he dared to speak again. ‘You all right now?’ he asked his passenger.
She didn’t speak. She just shook her head slowly as the tears came again. She covered her face with one hand as her shoulders shuddered.
Greg removed the cup from her hand and he moved towards her, sliding an arm around her shoulders. ‘Hey, c’mon, shhhh. It gets easier, I promise you that.’
