Читать книгу Never Forget Me - Marguerite Kaye - Страница 15

Chapter Seven

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.’