The smooth pebbles lining the path to her garden rolled and crunched under the dainty shoes that Medlock insisted she wear even when she gardened. A brisk wind brought roses to her cheeks and gently pulled tendrils of hair from the neat braid her darling Martha had so patiently redone. Aunt Lily's roses would be blooming, and the dogwood would need pruning, and the crocuses would need to be deadheaded and the soil turned; she only hoped that Dickon would be there to help her with the ever-growing list.

Slender white fingers grasped the latch of her garden door and pushed it open. She stepped inside and shut the door behind her, surveying the garden. Yes, there was all the work she had thought of, and more, but where was Dickon?

She spotted him, then, sleeping propped against the oak tree with his long legs stretched out before him. She smiled and removed her shoes and stockings, crossing the patch of lush grass to him. She knelt, spreading her skirts, fully intent on waking him, but something stayed the hand that strayed towards his shoulder, and she looked at his face, truly studying it for the first time.

It was a pleasant face, with round, rosy cheeks and an ever-smiling mouth. Even in his sleep, there was a faint curve to his lips that brought a smile to her face. Hidden beneath those damnably long lashes, she knew there were eyes the color and warmth of a summer sky. His dark hair had fallen across his smooth forehead, and she resisted an urge to push it back. She reconsidered. It was not a pleasant face; it was a beautiful face.

He stirred in his sleep; she pulled back quickly. Had he seen her watching him? The very thought brought a flush to her cheeks. No, he was sound asleep. She carefully eased back onto her knees and reached out to wake him. But he murmured something, still asleep, that she bent close to hear.

"Mary…" Heat flooded from her head to her toes. Was he dreaming about her? Why? Even for a moor boy, he was extraordinarily polite and well mannered, and would certainly not be thinking about her, the lady of the manor, in such a fashion. But for a moment, she wished he would.

And then she shook her head, banishing such thoughts. Even if she did feel so about him, it would be impossible. But still, they were of a courting age; he of seventeen years and she of fifteen. Courting! How could she even think of such a thing? He was just a moor peasant, and she was a highborn lady.

"Mary…" he murmured again, and she saw his eyes flutter open.

He looked up at her through blurry eyes, seeing her pale face framed by auburn curls; green eyes shining above blushing cheeks, and half dreaming, he reached up and touched her face. The shock of her tangibility awoke him, and he snatched his hand back and sat up quickly, avoiding her gaze.

"I'm sorry, Miss Mary, I dinna ken what I was thinkin'," he muttered.

"That's… that's alright, Dickon," she said, her voice shaking. "You were probably dreaming, and you didn't recognize me." She steadfastly refused to think that he might have been dreaming about her.

"Yes," he said, a bit wistfully. "I was dreamin'." He looked at her then with a tentative smile, to which she responded wholeheartedly. After all, he was her friend. And then everything was alright again.

They worked together quietly for the majority of the day, and then sometime after lunch she was standing on the stone bench pruning the rose bushes. He was kneeling about two feet away transplanting a tulip bulb when she moved just a bit and slipped. Faster than they both could remember, he launched from his knees and caught her with a muffled cry before she hit her head. They tumbled to the ground, arms and legs flailing and caught in copious women's clothing. She landed on her back, breathing heavily. He propped himself up on his elbow beside her and looked down at her.

"Are y'alright, Mary?" he asked her anxiously. She nodded.

"Just a little bruised and winded, Dickon. I'll just lay here a moment."

"Alright, Miss Mary," he said very quietly. And then he looked so indecisive, she wondered what he was thinking. Very gently, he reached over and caressed her cheek, brushing the dirt off and running his thumb tenderly over a small scratch from the thorns of the rosebush. She laid there, her stomach churning with nerves and desire. He traced her features with the touch of a butterfly's wing, her blush blooming in its path. And then, so slowly that she wasn't sure it was happening, he lowered his face to hers and kissed her.

It was a chaste kiss, a kiss so tender and gentle that her very core was shaken by the pure love it bespoke. She lay under him, reeling with emotions so varied and deep that she could not put a name to them. She slid her fingers into his hair, wrapping her slender arms around his neck, and clearly felt the shock that ran through his body as she responded to him.

"Mary," he whispered as he drew away, his innocent eyes wide with wonder. Now it was she that reached out to touch his face, unsure whether she was dreaming or awake.

"I…" she began to say, but he didn't let her finish the sentence and kissed her again. She closed her eyes as they broke apart.

"Mary," he said so softly that she wasn't sure if she'd heard it. "I love ye, Mary." And that brought her back to reality like a slap in the face. She sat up, turning away from him.

"But you can't, Dickon… you can't!" she said, not believing herself as she said it. Something tore within his breast, and he froze.

"What d'ye mean, Mary? D'ye not love me?" he whispered. He could not see the tear that slid down her cheek, and neither could he hear her answer.

"I don't know, Dickon," she breathed through her tears. And with that, she pushed herself to her feet and fled from the garden, leaving a grieving boy behind her.