A kiss under the northern lights...

Can it lead to forever?

A cottage in the Scottish Highlands seems like the perfect retreat for artist Milla O’Brien. Only, running from the memories of her broken engagement, she arrives during a lavish wedding on the estate! Milla finds a kindred spirit in the bride’s brother, brooding heir Cormac Buchanan. Happily-ever-afters seem as painful for the ex-soldier as they are for her. Could they heal each other’s hearts?

After ten years as a television camerawoman, ELLA HAYES started her own photography business so that she could work around the demands of her young family. As an award-winning wedding photographer she’s documented hundreds of love stories in beautiful locations, both at home and abroad. She lives in central Scotland with her husband and two grown-up sons. She loves reading, travelling with her camera, running and great coffee.

Her Brooding Scottish Heir

is Ella Hayes’s debut title

Look out for more books from Ella Hayes

Coming soon

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Her Brooding Scottish Heir

Ella Hayes

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09059-9

HER BROODING SCOTTISH HEIR

© 2018 Ella Hayes

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Sophie

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

MILLA O’BRIEN GLANCED at the map open on the passenger seat. She’d circled landmarks with a pink highlighter so she’d be able to track her progress north, and now that she’d passed the last pink circle—a stone bridge over sparkling amber water—she knew that she was only fifteen miles from the Calcarron Estate. In front of her the narrow road snaked through the glen, a grey ribbon rippling through a perfect wilderness.

It was a wilderness she longed for. London held too many memories, too much heartbreak. It was impossible to work there now. She needed a clean slate. These two weeks of perfect isolation at Strathburn Bothy would give her some time to heal; give her a chance to get back on track with her portfolio. Her postgraduate art exhibition was six weeks away and she was seriously behind schedule.

The road ahead straightened and she accelerated, stretching her eyes to the immensity of the landscape. The glinting May sunshine lured subtle hues from the surly mountains while the wind played with tufts of yellow grass on the lower slopes. The beauty and freedom of the scene bolstered her spirits—and then suddenly the steering wheel shifted in her hands as the four-by-four lurched to the right.

The ominous clopping sound coming from the back told her all she needed to know. She stopped and pulled on the handbrake. Perfect. Miles from anywhere and she’d got a puncture.

She jumped down from the driver’s seat and inspected the deflated rear tyre. At least she wasn’t completely clueless. A mechanic father and three petrol-head brothers had given her a working knowledge of car maintenance, if only by osmosis.

She found the jack and wheel brace behind the driver’s seat, then hefted the spare wheel off the back. She knew about loosening the nuts on the flat wheel before jacking up the car, so she slotted the wheel spanner over a nut and worked her weight against it.

It wouldn’t give.

She tried again, to no avail, so she stood on the spanner and bounced up and down, but it still wouldn’t budge. She tried a different nut, then each nut in turn. The damned things were immovable.

Confounded, she plonked herself down on the rear bumper to catch her breath. She’d have to call for help, assuming she could even get a signal.

She’d just retrieved her phone from the door pocket when the distant sound of an approaching car caught her attention. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she watched as a silver sports car flew down the straight towards her. The car slowed as it drew nearer, and then it pulled over.

Milla felt her heart begin to thump. It was an isolated spot and she was a girl on her own. She glanced at her phone—no signal.

The car door swung open and she stepped back as a pair of light hazel eyes pinned her with an appraising stare. The driver didn’t smile. Instead, he looked at her as if she was an irritating problem he’d have to solve, but his gaze held no threat. He’d clearly stopped to help her, even if he intended to do so with very little grace.

He slid out of his seat and walked towards her, his eyes darting to the flat tyre and abandoned wheel brace. ‘You look like you know what you’re doing, and I’m not trying to step on your toes, but I thought I should stop to see if you need any help.’

He might be in his late twenties, but he seemed to lack the exuberance of youth. Milla couldn’t decide if he was bad-tempered or desperately sad.

She motioned to the wheel. ‘I do know what I’m doing, but I can’t actually do it. Those damn air ratchets over-tighten the nuts so you need superhuman strength to loosen them. And there’s no leverage on that short wheel brace, so, yes, please, I do need some help, if you don’t mind.’

His eyes seemed to register faint amusement, but before she could be sure he was striding towards the listing vehicle. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and crouched down to the wheel. He slotted the wheel spanner over the lowest nut and pushed his weight against it.

His brown hair was close-cropped, and his muscular forearms were tanned, but Milla sensed that it was colour earned from outdoor work. He looked like an outdoor type, strong and capable. When he glanced up at her she felt herself unravelling just a little bit.

‘They are tight—’

‘Just like I said they were.’ The words flew from her mouth before she could stop them. She was horrified. What had got into her?

He pushed harder and the spanner shifted. He worked the nut loose and moved on to the next one. When he spoke again, he didn’t look up. ‘You’re Irish.’

‘You’re observant.’

Why couldn’t she couldn’t switch off this compulsion to goad him? She felt a frown creasing her forehead. Maybe she’d turned into one of those women who blame all men for the transgressions of one. She sighed. If he’d smiled, introduced himself, acted like a normal person, maybe she’d be acting differently too.

When he’d loosened all the nuts he reached for the jack. ‘Would you like me to finish the job?’

She couldn’t fathom his thoughts. His eyes were filled only with the question he’d asked and yet her heart was racing. She didn’t trust herself to speak again so she just smiled and nodded.

With practised expertise he changed the wheel, lowered the jack and tightened the nuts. ‘I’ll put the flat wheel in the back. There’s a mechanic in Ardoig who’ll fix it for you.’

She opened the rear door and he thumped the wheel down. If he’d noticed her easel and canvases he chose not to comment. He pushed the door closed and turned to face her. ‘Be sure to have that fixed.’

‘Yes, sir.’

She saw his eyes cloud and instantly regretted her teasing. She attempted to warm him with a smile.

‘Seriously, thanks very much. It was lucky for me that you were passing.’ She shrugged. ‘There’s no signal here so I couldn’t have called for help. You’ve saved me a very long walk and at least three fingernails.’

He placed the wheel brace into her hands, the ghost of a smile on his lips. ‘It was lucky. I very rarely come this way.’

He nodded slightly, then turned back to his car. In a moment he’d started the engine and disappeared, leaving Milla in a cloud of dust.

As he accelerated away Cormac Buchanan let his eyes linger on the girl in his rear-view mirror. When he couldn’t see her any more he conjured the memory of her dancing green eyes as she’d teased him. Perhaps he’d deserved it. Five years in the Royal Engineers, ordering the sappers about, had undoubtedly affected his manner. Still, she hadn’t been fazed and he admired her spirit.

A rare light-heartedness seized him as he took the next bend. Who was he trying to fool? It wasn’t only her spirit he’d admired. He’d also admired her smile, her milky skin and the blonde hair tumbling out of the clip she’d been wearing.

Even if he hadn’t seen the easel and canvases in the back of her vehicle he’d have guessed that she was some kind of artist. Those tight-fitting red jeans tucked into green Doc Marten boots, the ripped denim waistcoat over a battered vest and the studs climbing halfway up her left ear had spoken of an expressive personality. He imagined that her painting would be bold, a little edgy, and there’d be a small quirk in it somewhere, something to remind the viewer not to take it all too seriously.

What was he doing? Ten minutes with the pretty Irish artist and she’d got him painting his own scenarios. He needed to focus on the road and get to Calcarron before his sister, Rosie, had another pre-wedding meltdown.

It was only a week until Rosie’s big day, and he’d already had his fill of emails about the endless list of things she needed him to do. An interior designer by profession, Rosie had big plans for her wedding at the family home. She’d reasoned that since her guests were travelling such a long way, she wanted to create something spectacular for them.

His own view was that the wedding itself should be the main attraction, but he knew from experience that once Rosie had made up her mind about something the best policy was to fall in with her. She’d asked him to oversee the positioning and erection of the marquee, the dance floor and the miles of suspended lighting she wanted in the trees and along the pathways. There were umpteen jobs to do, all of which, she had flattered him by saying, required military precision.

He stopped for a ewe that had wandered onto the road with her twin lambs. She regarded him with a wary maternal eye then moved on, the lambs tripping after her on spindly legs. He sighed. He would do anything for Rosie, but being back at Calcarron under the watchful eye of his family was going to be hard.

Afghanistan had changed him. His friend’s death had changed him. He couldn’t seem to get past it and coming back was only going to feed the ache of his loss because his memories of Duncan were inextricably meshed with his memories of home.

He couldn’t feel excited about the wedding, not even for his sister, and the thought of making small talk with two hundred guests on the wedding day itself was filling him with dread. There were expectations associated with being the Laird’s son and heir, and Cormac felt the weight of those expectations like a millstone around his neck.

The only way he’d survive the coming week would be by keeping his head down. He imagined Rosie frowning at him for such morose thoughts, but as long as he kept them to himself and got on with things maybe he’d get through somehow, and manage not to upset anyone.

Milla sat for a few moments and considered the hazel-eyed stranger who’d stopped to help her. How had he got under her skin so quickly? He’d made her nervous; she always ran off at the mouth when she was nervous. She plucked at a loose thread on the hem of her vest. She’d been defensive from the start—prickly and defensive—and it wasn’t her real nature at all.

It was Dan’s fault. He was responsible for making her feel so hostile, so wary, so utterly diminished. If this was the legacy of love, she wanted no part of it ever again.

She turned the key in the ignition, but instead of driving away she stared through the windscreen in a kind of trance. Such sad eyes... If only he’d smiled he’d have looked quite handsome. A bit of small talk would have made a difference, something other than the distinctly unimaginative ‘You’re Irish’.

What was she supposed to do with that? She winced, remembering her reply. What had got into her? No wonder he’d focussed on changing the wheel.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to shake the confusion out of her head. Maybe he’d have liked her better if she’d played the damsel in distress, but that wasn’t her style. She wasn’t interested in flattering any man’s vanity.

She pulled away and quickly shifted through the gears. What did it matter if he liked her or not anyway? He was gone, and she needed to find the garage in Ardoig.

When she reached the village it wasn’t difficult to spot the garage because, apart from a tiny supermarket and an ancient-looking hotel, that was all there was. A ruddy-faced man with a salt-and-pepper beard said he could fix the puncture while she waited, and since she needed to buy a few provisions anyway she ventured over to the shop.

Inside, the air was rich with the mingling aromas of fresh bread, detergent and mothballs. She patrolled the narrow aisles, filling a basket with a few essentials, and was deliberating over the bread rolls when a woman came in.

‘Hello, Mary. That’s me in for my lottery ticket.’

‘Right you are, Sheila. Lucky Dip?’

‘Aye, go on, then. Did you see Cormac’s car go past? He’s back for the wedding anyway.’

‘Aye. He’ll be busy. Rosie’s got grand schemes, apparently.’

Milla wondered if she should get some candles. There was electricity at the bothy, but it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared. She located tea lights and a box of matches, then approached the till and perused the magazine covers while the lottery ticket transaction was being concluded.

The two women weren’t in a hurry, in fact, they didn’t seem to have noticed her.

‘Jessie says she thinks he’s still not right, you know. Such a shame.’

Milla noticed a rack of Ordnance Survey maps and reached one down. With no phone signal where she was going, she wouldn’t be able to use an app when she was out walking. A map would be useful; she didn’t want to get lost.

‘Ach, well, he’ll have to move on sooner or later. You can’t carry that stuff around with you for ever... Sorry, love, I didnae see you there. I’ll be with you in a moment.’

Milla smiled and switched her basket to the other hand.

‘Anyway, Rosie’s going to be a beautiful bride. She’s here already, with her bridesmaids. Lily says they’re making all the wedding favours themselves.’ The machine spat out a square of pink paper. ‘Okay, here’s your winning ticket.’

Mary winked at her friend and Sheila chuckled.

‘Aye, that’d be right. See you later.’

Sheila disappeared through the door with a backwards wave.

Mary smiled. ‘Sorry for keeping you, dear.’ She scanned Milla’s items through the till, her fingers lingering on the map. ‘Are you a walker?’

Milla smiled. ‘No, well, sort of... I’m an artist—’

‘Ah, you’ll be staying up at Strathburn, then?’

Milla nodded. ‘I need peace and quiet to work on my exhibition folio.’

Mary raised her eyebrows as she stowed Milla’s shopping into a bag. ‘Well, you might have picked the wrong week. There’s a wedding at the big house on Saturday, so we’re going to be mobbed. Do you know your way up to the bothy from here?’

‘A wedding—’ Milla swallowed the lump in her throat and managed a smile. ‘How lovely. I’ve got directions for Strathburn... Through the village, next right towards Calcarron, then left up a track...?’

‘Aye...up the track for about a mile and a half. If you like, I’ll phone the manager and tell him you’re on your way—then he can meet you there with the key.’

She felt warmed by Mary’s kindness. This community spirit reminded her of her home in Ireland. ‘That’d be grand, thank you. I’m just getting a puncture fixed at the garage and then I’ll be on my way.’

‘Right you are. I’ll tell him. See you later.’

At the gates to Calcarron House Cormac stopped and let the car idle. He closed his eyes, reminded himself that it was Rosie’s wedding—she was going to be the centre of attention. With a big wedding to gossip about, it should be easy for him to pass under the radar, but this was a small community.

Everyone knew he was struggling to come to terms with Duncan’s death—even his mother had used the phrase ‘PTSD’ once—but he knew it wasn’t that. He’d simply been shredded by grief and he didn’t know how to put himself back together; he couldn’t make sense of the world any more, or understand his place within it.

At the barracks it was easier—he was just another emotional casualty—but here he’d have to weather the curious looks, tactfully deflect the subtly loaded questions and, for Rosie’s sake, he’d have to pretend that he was absolutely fine.

He drew a breath and slid the car through the gates.

At the sight of the house he felt a momentary joy. He’d almost forgotten how much he loved Calcarron, with its turreted gables and mullioned windows, and as he lifted his bag from the back seat he smiled at the muffled swell of barking he could hear coming from inside. When the front door opened, the baying split the air and three ecstatic Labradors bounded towards him, followed by the slender figure of his mother.

‘Tyler, Mungo, Crash—Whoa, calm down!’

The dogs tangled into his legs, butting their wet noses and tongues into his hands. He stroked their sleek black coats, rubbed the broad, noble heads, laughing in spite of himself at such uncomplicated affection.

‘Cormac!’ Lily Buchanan wrapped her arms around him, then stood back and studied his face. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. Everyone’s a little giddy and I’m going quite mad with it all. I could use an ally.’

He gave her a knowing look. ‘It’s only Rosie’s wedding. It’ll be a walk in the park.’

She grimaced as he picked up his bag and threw an arm around her shoulders.

‘“A walk in the park” is not the expression I would have chosen, but anyway, let’s go inside. Rosie and the girls are dying to see you, and I warn you, she’s got a wedding spreadsheet on her laptop.’

In the drawing room Rosie and her three bridesmaids were discussing the décor for the marquee. With the introductions over, Cormac sank into an armchair and listened half-heartedly. He loved this room, with its high ceilings and overstuffed sofas, its shelves lined with books and family photos in silver frames. Over the fireplace hung an oil painting of a magnificent stag; perhaps it wasn’t quite as fine as Landseer’s Monarch of the Glen but he admired it even so. Like everything else at Calcarron, it was freighted with a lifetime’s worth of memories.

In spite of his misgivings, it felt good to be back. The estate was in his blood and would belong to him one day—sooner rather than later if his father had anything to do with it. He wanted to go for a walk, get acclimatised after his long drive, but it wouldn’t be polite to disappear so soon after arriving.

‘Cor!’

He heard his name and looked up.

‘So, while you do all the outside stuff,’ Rosie was saying, ‘we’re going to do all the finishing touches—it’s a woodland theme, with foraged greenery, and we’re using jam jars with strips of tartan ribbon and hessian to make tea light holders for the tables...’

Cormac felt his attention wandering. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Rosie to have her dream wedding—he was here to help after all—he just couldn’t get excited about woodland themes and tea lights while people were dying in wars.

Rosie was trying to create a Scottish themed wedding. Wasn’t the place itself enough? Why did she want to underline everything with tartan? Perhaps his mother had been right—they were all giddy with wedding planning. The sooner he could get on with his list of outside jobs the better. He certainly wouldn’t be able to fake interest in this kind of minutiae for a whole week.

He wondered how his brother, Sam, was coping with it all. Happy-go-lucky Sam, who was notably absent. Perhaps that was the trick.

Lily swung through the door with a loaded tea tray and Cormac got up to carry it for her. As he set the tray down on the coffee table Rosie caught his eye, sprang to her feet and pulled him into a hug.

‘Thanks for coming to help with the wedding. I really appreciate it.’ She leaned in to his ear and whispered. ‘I’m so preoccupied—I haven’t even asked you how you are.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘We’ll chat later, okay?’

With the tea poured, Cormac lifted a cup from the tray and retreated to the relative seclusion of the bay window, where he gazed out over the view he loved.

The well-tended garden descended gently to the edges of the loch. Loch Calcarron was the jewel in the crown of the family estate, flanked by steeply climbing slopes with purple mountains beyond.

‘Where’s Sam?’ he asked.

Rosie was handing round shortbread. ‘He was up at the bothy this morning, getting things ready for the artist who’s arriving today, and then he went fishing. Can you see his boat out there?’

At the mention of a new artist at the bothy Cormac felt a rush of something indefinable attached to a memory of teasing green eyes.

He forced himself to focus on the expanse of loch in front of him. ‘I can’t see his boat. Maybe he capsized...’ As he suspected, no one was listening to him.

He heard one of the girls ask what a bothy was, and Lily’s voice rising in explanation.

‘Traditional bothies are small stone structures where walkers can shelter or stay overnight, but what we have is an artist’s bothy. Rosie’s grandfather was a keen amateur artist. When artists’ bothies started springing up in remote places he thought it was a wonderful idea. Calcarron Estate is large. We have plenty of space. So he said we should build one too—let artists come to enjoy all the things we take for granted. We hired an architect to design something practical and comfortable and we located it right up in the hills. Splendid isolation and all that. It’s very popular.’

Rosie interjected. ‘It’s a large wooden hut basically, but a contemporary design. There’s a deck in front, overlooking the hills, and this year Sam’s installed one of those big hammocks, so guests can chill out with the amazing view, or even watch the stars at night. The living space is bright and airy because of the picture windows, and we designed the studio with opaque roof panels, so it’s got perfect light for working. There’s a cute wood stove, which keeps the place cosy when it’s cold, but my very favourite part is the mezzanine bedroom—it’s so romantic. I did the interior design—I can show you some photogra—’

Lily held up her hand. ‘Is that the telephone...?’

Cormac seized the opportunity. ‘I’ll go.’

His mother’s voice faded as he escaped to the kitchen and hooked the receiver off the phone on the wall. ‘Buchanan.’

‘Is that you, Sam?’ The female voice sounded hesitant.

‘No, it’s Cormac—’

‘Cormac! It’s Mary Frazer, from the shop in Ardoig. How are you?’

He wasn’t good at small talk, but since the local shop was Gossip Central it was imperative that he sounded politely upbeat. ‘Ah, hello, Mary. I’m fine, thanks. What can I do for you?’

‘I’ve had your bothy guest in the shop just now and I said I’d call to let you know she’s on her way, so you can meet her there with the key. Sam usually—’

‘Thanks, Mary. I’ll send him.’

‘Well, you might wait a while, mind. She said she was having a wheel fixed, or something, before she comes up...’

Cormac felt his heart tightening in his chest and he swallowed hard. ‘Okay, thanks for letting us know. Bye for now.’

He didn’t mean to hurry Mary off the phone, but he had the impression she’d have talked on and on and he simply couldn’t. He leaned against the wall and tipped back his head. So the artist with the puncture was their new bothy guest. He didn’t understand why the news had caused his pulse to spike. She was striking, of course, and rather abrasive, but there was something else too, hidden in her eyes...vulnerability, perhaps?

Suddenly Lily appeared through the door. ‘Are you all right, Cor?’

He shook himself and met her gaze. ‘I’m fine. Just tired from the drive, I suppose, and all that wedding chat... You weren’t wrong. It’s going to be quite a week.’

Lily patted his arm. ‘It’ll be fine. Once Dad’s home you can hide in his study, drink whisky and talk about estate business. Who was that on the telephone?’

‘It was Mary, from the shop. She was calling to say that the new incumbent is on her way up to the bothy.’

Lily frowned. ‘Damn your brother. The bothy and its guests are supposed to be his responsibility. He’s taking advantage, of course. Cormac’s coming home so I’ll go fishing and let him take over.’

‘Me?’

‘Would you mind?’ Lily shot him a sly smile. ‘It means you can escape the clutches of Bridezilla and her handmaidens and you can take the new quad bike. A ride up the hill will soon blow away the cobwebs.’ She opened the dresser drawer and handed him a stag’s horn key fob. ‘It doesn’t take long to do the show-around and go over a few safety points. By the time you get back we’ll be ready for pre-dinner drinks.’

Cormac pocketed the key. He could hardly refuse, since Sam was AOL, and hadn’t he just been thinking about getting out for a walk? If he could deal with the bothy business quickly he’d have time to go up to the ridge before dinner. It was his favourite place, and the perfect antidote to wedding fever.

He moved towards the door.

‘Hang on.’ Lily was leafing through a large blue book. ‘Our new artist is called Camilla O’Brien.’ She looked into his face and smiled. ‘What a lovely name. You never know, Cor, she might be young and pretty.’

With her puncture fixed, Milla left Ardoig. The directions she’d been sent were clear enough, and she soon found the gate to the rough road she was to follow. At first the track wound through deciduous woodland, but soon she was out of the trees and heading steeply upwards.

The ride became bumpier, banks of loose gravel and the occasional pothole suggesting that water gushed down here in torrents when the rain was heavy. In low gear, she pressed on, climbing higher and higher, an edginess about the unfamiliar route causing her to chew at her bottom lip.

She reminded herself that first journeys always felt strange. Once she knew the way it would feel different.

After jolting up the track for what seemed like an eternity, the terrain levelled and she found herself crossing wild heathland towards another short ascent. From the top, she caught her first glimpse of the bothy, nestling against a steep hill. She stopped the vehicle and gazed down on it in delight.

It reminded her of a gypsy caravan without wheels, except that it was much larger. It had a tin roof with a round chimney, and in front she could see a broad deck with what looked like a hammock suspended on a giant wooden frame. With a happy sigh she rolled on and completed the final bumping descent to her new home.

She killed the engine and burst from the cab. After the sheer magnificence of the view, and the pleasing architecture of the bothy itself, the first thing she noticed was the silence. It was almost deafening. For a moment she forgot the heartache that had brought her here and stepped onto the deck, stretched her arms wide and twirled a slow, happy circle. This place was perfect.

She tried the door, just in case, but it was locked, so she pressed her nose to the glass and peered inside. The décor was simple. Bleached wooden floors, a grey linen sofa softened by a moss-green mohair blanket draped over one of its arms. A small black stove squatted in the corner of the main living area, and if she squinted sideways and looked up she could see a narrow wooden staircase leading to the mezzanine sleeping area. It was achingly romantic.

She felt a familiar stab of anguish and turned away. On the hammock, she sank backwards, giving herself up to the gentle sway and creak of the canvas. She lifted her left hand, traced the outline of the absent ring with her right index finger.

She’d had her whole future mapped out before Dan had delivered his coup de grâce. She’d been planning their wedding when he’d flown over from Berlin to tell her that he’d fallen in love with Maria. He said it had just happened, that it wasn’t his fault. Then he’d gone back to Germany and she’d been left to cancel everything.

Phone calls to suppliers. Phone calls to her family in Ireland.

She knew her father had tried to sound disappointed for her sake, but she had been able to picture the relief on his face. He’d never liked Dan. Neither had her brothers. She’d never felt so alone in her life. How desperately she’d needed her mother then, but her mother wasn’t here any more, so she’d had to cope—whatever that meant.

She’d come to Strathburn to escape and to heal, to find some tiny piece of herself she could nurture back to life. If she could get back on track with her work, if she could properly lose herself in it, then maybe the world would start to make sense again.

The sound of an engine thrumming somewhere lower down the slope jerked her out of her melancholy. She levered herself off the hammock, crossed the deck and ran across the track to a vantage point overlooking the hill. Her eyes narrowed as she watched a vaguely familiar figure pounding a quad bike up the slope towards her, and then her breath caught in her throat as she realised, unequivocally, that the man riding towards her was the man who’d changed her wheel.

CHAPTER TWO

AS HE PULLED the quad onto the track Milla caught herself fidgeting with the hem of her vest and stilled her hands before he could notice. She didn’t understand why he made her nervous, other than that he seemed so...unreachable.

To make up for her prickly behaviour at the roadside, she’d smiled and given him a wave as he’d driven up the slope towards her, but he’d seemed intent on the business of navigating the quad through the heather and hadn’t noticed her, so she’d felt foolish and, inexplicably, a little hurt.

As she waited for him to park and switch off the engine she told herself she was being overly sensitive, too ready to find rejection where none was intended. She drew in a breath, resolving to be open and friendly.

‘Hello again.’ She took a step towards him. ‘We keep meeting in remote places. Should I be worried that you’re stalking me?’

He looked up, the ghost of a smile on his lips. ‘It’s purely coincidental, I promise. You must be Camilla O’Brien.’

‘Must I?’ She smiled. ‘My name’s Milla—Camilla’s a bit too “jolly hockey sticks” for my liking.’

She was gratified to see his cheeks creasing into a smile as he swung off the quad, but when he looked up again it had disappeared.

‘Okay, Milla. I’ve got your key.’

The smile he’d tried to conceal had transformed his face into something beautiful, and for some reason she wanted to see it again.

She looked at him expectantly, and when he met her gaze blankly she lifted her eyebrows. ‘Do you also have a name?’

He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. ‘I’m sorry—it’s been a long day.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Cormac Buchanan.’

‘It’s nice to meet you, Cormac—officially this time.’ She stretched her hand to his.

For a dizzy moment she lost herself in the golden light of his irises. She felt the warm dryness of his palm against hers, a pinprick of static. She released his hand quickly.

‘Buchanan? You’re the owner of the estate?’

He shook his head. ‘One day, maybe. For now I’m running errands.’

She couldn’t resist a little mischief. ‘Well, I suppose it’s like any job. You have to start at the bottom and work up.’

A smile seemed to tug at the corners of his mouth and then it faded away. She felt her brow wrinkling. Did Cormac Buchanan not have a sense of humour? Maybe she was being too familiar, overstepping some invisible mark unique to estate owners. She couldn’t work out what she was doing wrong.

She was about to ask him if she could just have the key, when she saw his gaze shifting to the four-by-four.

‘I see you got your wheel fixed.’

‘Yes, the man at the garage was able to do it right away.’

‘That’s good.’ He glanced at her and reached into his pocket. ‘Right. I’ll open up and help you in with your stuff, then I’ll show you the ropes.’

He pulled out a key and motioned for her to walk with him to the bothy door.

Milla frowned as she fell in beside him. She could never have accused Cormac Buchanan of being impolite, but she had the distinct feeling that he was keeping her at arm’s length, and for some reason it felt like a personal slight.

She caught herself shifting into that defensive gear which seemed to have become her default setting since Dan had dropped his bombshell, and she only just managed to keep a sliver of sarcasm out of her voice. ‘Thanks, but I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.’

He unlocked the bothy door and stood back for her to enter. ‘It’s no trouble at all. It’s why I’m here.’

Milla stepped past him into the bothy and instantly her mood lifted. The interior space felt warm and comfortable and completely connected to the outside. It wasn’t just that the floor-to-ceiling windows let the outside in; the colours and textures of the interior had also clearly been chosen to echo the view.

This sanctuary was to be her home for the next two weeks and already she felt its gentle embrace soothing her shrunken soul.

For a moment she dropped her guard and turned around, smiling. ‘It’s stunning. Absolutely perfect. It’s been so well done—I can’t believe it—these colours and the textures—it’s just... Wow!’

His expression softened, and for a moment he looked hesitant. ‘My sister’s an interior designer. She’s good. She did the whole place—natural materials to blend with the setting.’

There was obvious pride in his voice. It was clear that his sister meant a lot to him and the small revelation made him seem more approachable.

Milla’s eyes followed his as they roamed around the room.

‘This is the main living area, obviously. Have you used a wood burner before?’

‘Yes, I have. We had one at home.’

She turned and crossed to the compact stove with its gleaming glass door. It looked state-of-the-art, not like her family’s old stove. She tried the handle, pulling it open while he continued speaking.

‘There’s a log store against the outside wall of the bothy, and it’s well stocked, so if you feel cold just set a fire. You’ll find firelighters and matches in that metal box on the hearth. It doesn’t take long to heat the whole place.’

Without the distraction of his face, she tuned in to the husky timbre of his voice and found a gentleness in it which took her by surprise. She closed the stove and stood up.

‘As you can see, the kitchen’s over there—it’s well equipped as far as it goes. There’s all the usual stuff. The plates and cups are in the cupboards over the counter. I’m afraid there isn’t a dishwasher—’

His earnest tone made her laugh. ‘I don’t mind washing dishes—but there won’t be many. I don’t really cook much when I’m working. I tend to forget and then I’ll eat a whole stupid box of cornflakes or something.’

Did she imagine amusement in his eyes or was it disdain? She looked away quickly, flushing with embarrassment. What had possessed her to come out with that anyway? Nerves, most probably—that must be it—from the way he seemed to take up all the space in the room just by standing there.

‘The bathroom’s down that short corridor. It’s a shower, not a bath, but you probably guessed that already, and the bedroom’s up there...’

She looked up to the mezzanine, then turned to meet his gaze. ‘I know—’ She was blushing again. ‘What I mean is that I saw it through the window before you arrived.’ Why did his eyes unsettle her so much?

She forced herself to look away, to find a distraction.

‘What a great idea to frame an Ordnance Survey map! I just bought one in the shop. If only I’d known there was one on the wall—’

She heard him clear his throat. ‘The studio’s through the door under the stairs, if you want to have a look. I’ll start bringing in your things.’

He nodded briefly, then disappeared through the door.

Milla squeezed her eyes shut and blew out a long breath. She knew she’d been talking nonsense about the map, but she’d only been trying to fill the silence between them, and now, yet again, she was sparring with herself, trying to convince herself that he hadn’t interrupted her to cause offence. It was understandable that he’d want to unload her vehicle and finish showing her ‘the ropes’, as he’d put it, but his cool detachment had hurt her all the same. He might be a laird-in-waiting, or whatever it was called, but he really needed to work on his social skills.

She forced Cormac Buchanan out of her head and focused on her surroundings. In the kitchen a wide timber plank had been repurposed as a counter, and she trailed her fingers along it, letting its smoothness steady her until she suddenly remembered that she was supposed to be looking at the studio.

When she pushed open the door she gasped. The studio was bigger than she’d imagined—as large again as the main living area. Daylight flooded in through the opaque roof panels and the resulting light had a luminous quality which was perfect.

When Cormac appeared with her easel and an armful of blank canvases, she couldn’t contain her enthusiasm. ‘I love this space. The light’s exquisite.’

He propped the easel and canvases against the wall and turned around. ‘Yes. It’s been well thought out.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Most of your stuff’s in now. I put your holdall upstairs. There’s just a couple of boxes left to bring.’

For a moment, he held her in his gaze, and she felt a strange shifting sensation beneath her feet, and then he was gone. She wondered if he’d been about to say something, then decided it was probably her overactive imagination. He wasn’t much for talking.

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and looked around again. Such lovely light, such tranquillity. She felt a smile lifting the corners of her mouth. She didn’t know if it was inspiration she was feeling, or simple happiness at being in such a wonderful place, but suddenly all she wanted was to be alone, to settle herself in and make the bothy feel like her own.

If she could wrap things up with Cormac quickly, she could start enjoying the solitude she’d come here for.

She was stowing milk and yoghurts in the tiny fridge when she heard him set down the last two boxes.

‘That’s everything. Before I go, I need to take you through one or two things...’

She wondered how she could tell him that she needed to be on her own. Would he understand that she was tired from her journey? Would he understand that his cool manner was making her feel even more inconsequential than she felt already?

She took a deep breath and stood up. ‘Look, I appreciate your time and everything, but I’m happy to take it from here. I’m sure you must have other more important things...’

He recoiled slightly. ‘I need to go through some safety—’

‘No, honestly. It’s fine. There’s a book here.’ She picked up the welcome pack she’d found near the kettle, holding it up for him to see. ‘Look—Strathburn Bothy: Essential Information—I’ll see if there’s anything about safety.’

She flicked through the pages with a pounding heart. She could feel the weight of his stare, sense some indefinable emotion, but there was no going back now. She wasn’t trying to challenge him; she just wanted to be at peace in her own space.

She found the page and opened it out to show him. ‘It’s all here, see: Safety Procedures. I’m sure it’s got everything I need to know.’ She looked into his face, noted the bruised look in his eyes and relented a little. ‘Look, I promise I’ll read it, okay? You can test me on it if it makes you feel better.’

She noticed the tiny flinch of a muscle in his jaw as he stepped towards her and handed her the key. ‘As long as you read it, then—it is important. I hope you have a good stay, Milla.’

He held her gaze for moment, then nodded briefly and strode out of the door.

She sagged against the counter with relief. She could tell from his eyes that she’d offended him somehow, but when she replayed their conversation in her head, she couldn’t see how. She’d been perfectly polite. In fact, she’d been exactly like him.

She looked down at her hands, saw that her fingers were trembling. When had dealing with men become so difficult? There always seemed to be an emotional price to pay.

She picked up the kettle, jiggled off the lid and reached for the tap. This break at Strathburn was exactly what she needed. Until she could cope with herself again she had no hope of dealing with anyone else.

Cormac jumped onto the quad, but didn’t start the engine. Instead, he let his eyes travel over the landscape while he tried to pinpoint exactly how a simple mission to show someone around what was essentially a hut could have failed so miserably. She’d sent him packing, and even now the memory of those challenging eyes was making him wince.

He couldn’t work her out. She was either teasing him or scowling at him, so he had no idea which way to jump. She was perplexing, but at the same time, she was refreshingly forthright. The memory of her mischievous smile, that defiant little tilt of her chin as she’d corrected him about her name, forced a brief smile onto his own lips.

He pictured the curve of her cheek, those tiny freckles on her nose. The way the sun’s slanting rays had made her eyes shine. How delighted she’d been with the bothy—as if he’d opened a door for her straight into happiness. When she’d crouched to look at the wood burner he’d caught himself crossing a line—admiring the way her jeans moulded to her slender thighs, the way her waist nipped in, the rise of her breasts beneath the vest and waistcoat.

It had been a long time since he’d noticed anyone—really noticed anyone—and it felt like a little wrench inside. He was so used to the huge pain of losing his friend that most of the time he was numb, but this girl, the way she’d looked in the soft light of the studio, with her hair falling around her face and those eyes holding him... It had felt as if she could see right inside him, and he’d wanted to say something, but he hadn’t because he hadn’t known what it was he wanted to say.

Through the trees at the bottom of the hill, he could see the turreted gables of Calcarron House and he imagined his father in the study, pouring a dram to welcome him home. In the drawing room the girls would be sipping tall gin and tonics, with thick slices of lemon, and his mother would be checking her watch, wondering where he was.

He turned the key in the ignition. They were waiting for him, but he couldn’t go back right away. He wanted to go to the ridge, spend time with his memories...

‘Cor—mac!’

He heard his name being called and turned to see Milla running along the track towards him. He killed the engine, tried to read her expression as she drew near.

She slowed, then stopped, her voice a little breathless from running. ‘I’m so glad I caught you...!’ She was twisting delicate fingers into the hem of her vest. ‘There’s no water coming out of the tap. I was going to make a cup of tea, but there’s nothing. And no water from the bathroom taps either. Do you think you can fix it?’

He saw a glimmer of fragility in her eyes and sighed. ‘Honestly—I don’t know.’ He swung off the quad and tried to sound optimistic. ‘I’ll take a look and see what I can do.’

She looked grateful and he hoped her gratitude would be justified. In the Royal Engineers, water systems had been his speciality. He was adept at sinking boreholes and building waste water treatment systems, but he’d found that nothing could be trickier than tracing a fault in a domestic water system—especially this kind of system. He certainly wasn’t going to tell her that amphibians were a regular cause of blockages.

Inside the bothy, she hung back, shrugged an apology. ‘I’d offer you a cup of tea, but...’

Her incessant mischief amused him, but he couldn’t let it show. Since Duncan died, fun had become a luxury he couldn’t afford, so he just nodded and went to check the filters.

Sam changed the filters regularly, so it was no surprise to find that they were clean, but the water level in the canisters was low, which meant that the problem had to be somewhere between the tank and the bothy.

The tank was located up the hill and the pipe to the bothy was partially buried. It might take hours to find the problem, and with evening already advancing there were literally not enough hours left in the day. It would have to wait until tomorrow.

There was no question of letting Milla stay in the bothy without a water supply. She’d have to spend the night at Calcarron. It was the only solution he could offer.

‘You mean I’ll have to stay at Calcarron House?’

The disappointment he’d seen in her eyes haunted him as he nosed the quad down the hillside through clumps of flowering heather. He realised that staying at the house wasn’t exactly what she’d planned, but her reaction had seemed disproportionate to the inconvenience. Shooting parties paid a fortune to stay at Calcarron; surely she could try to view the experience in a more favourable light. It would only be for one night after all.

Yet when he thought about it now he realised that there had been something desperate in the way she’d overruled him about the safety thing. She’d hurried him out of the bothy and he’d assumed that it was because she didn’t want him around. But now he wondered if there was more to it than that. Perhaps Milla O’Brien wanted time away from the world.

If that was the case then coming to Calcarron would feel like an ordeal, not a pleasure. In some respects it was exactly how he felt himself.

He’d reached the old drover’s trail that led across the moors and stopped as a memory seized him. Two carefree boys, racing each other along the track, off to see the standing stones, or to scramble up to the ridge to make dens...

It was a lifetime ago. He could still feel his friend’s presence everywhere, but the images in his mind were smeared with blood now, blurred into memories of dust and death. It wasn’t that Duncan was haunting him. He was haunted by the guilt of living—because it should have been him who died, not Duncan.

Even this warm breath of late sun on his face and the sensation of wind in his hair felt too much like living, felt like a betrayal of his friend. What unknowable shift in the cosmos had carved out their fates that day? Why had he been spared? He’d often wondered about that, but his thoughts always tangled into knots.

Losing Duncan had stripped the joy from his life. Sometimes he tried to find solace in the thought that maybe fate had a higher purpose for him, but he didn’t feel special enough for such grand designs. If he took the opposite view, and believed that every hand he was dealt, good or bad, was completely random, then it seemed that there wasn’t much point to anything, and that scared him even more.

He hadn’t expected fate to deal him a wild card like Milla O’Brien. She unsettled him, and fascinated him, but it was a dangerous fascination.

After tomorrow, she wouldn’t be his problem any more. He had a busy week ahead and it was going to be hard enough to stay sane without those tantalising green eyes stripping away the veneer he’d so carefully applied since Afghanistan.

He accelerated along the track towards home. He knew his father wanted to talk to him about estate business, or rather, the business of him taking over the estate, but he wasn’t ready for that conversation. As the eldest son, his taking over at Calcarron had always been circled on his life map, but he’d never dreamed that that day might come so soon.

He loved this place, and he loved the prospect of being its caretaker sometime in the future, but not yet. He’d built a different life, a life he loved, and leaving it now—especially now—would feel like admitting defeat. It would feel like running away.

He let out the throttle and pushed on faster. Whatever happened, he had to keep his head and stand his ground. If he could make it through the week he’d go back and ask to be reassessed for active duty. The desk job was bleeding him dry. He needed to get back out in the field. He needed to do something that would actually make a difference.

‘You mean I’ll have to stay at Calcarron House?’

Milla was overwhelmed with disappointment and she hadn’t been able to hide it. He’d rescued her at the roadside, so she’d assumed he’d be able to rescue the water situation, but he had been adamant that fixing it would be a long process, although he’d been determinedly vague about the particularities, which had needled her.

‘But I don’t understand how water can suddenly just stop coming through a pipe...’

He’d shifted on his feet. ‘I’m sorry, Milla. I know it’s inconvenient, but there’s nothing I can do until tomorrow.’ He’d thrown her an awkward smile. ‘The house isn’t all that bad, and at least you won’t have to make your own dinner... There’s even a studio you can use—’ he’d run a hand through his hair ‘—if you want to work this evening, that is.’

She’d wondered why there was a studio at the house, but she had been too nettled to ask him about it. It had been all she could do to keep her emotions under control.

Cormac had looked genuinely apologetic, and she didn’t want to be difficult, but going to stay at the big house was the last thing she wanted to do. She’d have to talk to strangers, and be polite and enthusiastic, and the prospect of such an evening sent her spirits crashing. All the little joys she’d been anticipating about her first night at the bothy were collapsing around her like pillars of salt.

When he’d said he’d go on ahead to make sure there was a room ready for her she’d been relieved. She needed some time alone to adjust to this new set of circumstances.

As the sound of the quad receded she climbed the stairs to the mezzanine. Cormac had put her holdall at the foot of the bed, and she toyed with the zip. There didn’t seem much point in unpacking it now. She sat down on the mattress, then fell backwards and stared at the ceiling.

If only she didn’t have to go. This room was a cosy nest and she wanted to hide herself here and never leave. She closed her eyes, then turned over and curled herself into a ball. ‘This is all your fault, Dan. Every single bit of it.’

Dan had been in his final year when she’d arrived at St Martin’s to start her foundation course. He was a big personality—wild, mercurial—and she’d been surprised that he’d even noticed her. She’d felt unequal to him in every way, but when he’d kissed her that first time, whispered that she was his rock, his port in a storm, she’d felt needed in a way that answered some longing deep within herself.

Her father and her brothers had said he was fake. They’d teased her about his ‘Mockney’ accent, laughed at the way he knotted his hair into a bun, and they didn’t get the ink on his arms or the ring through his nose.

Milla had forced herself to ignore them. She had a small tattoo of a stag inked onto her own ankle, and a row of piercings made in her left ear, but deep down she’d hated it that her family wouldn’t buy in to her dream of a life with Daniel Calder-Jones.

She felt sure that her mother would have appreciated Dan’s talent, because Colleen O’Brien had been a teacher and an accomplished artist in her own right. It was through her mother that Milla had learned the language and love of art, discovering a passion which ran through her own veins too.

After her mother’s cancer diagnosis they had still visited galleries together, Colleen’s bald scalp defiantly wrapped in a brightly coloured scarf. How she missed her... Milla felt the familiar tears sliding down her face and let them come.

Dan had relished her family’s disapproval—it had been another layer of drama to fuel his creativity. He was adept at harnessing the ebb and flow of his own life and using it to inspire his art—so good at it, in fact, that he had been offered a residency in Berlin.

Absorbed with her own postgraduate project, Milla had encouraged him to go. She’d thought Berlin, with its vibrant and exciting art scene, would inspire him, and the international experience and contacts would be good for his career.

The night before he’d left, he’d taken her for dinner at their favourite restaurant and proposed. She’d gazed at him, open-mouthed, while everyone in the restaurant had stilled in anticipation. The thing was, Dan didn’t believe in marriage. He’d always said that, and yet there he’d been, gazing at her, waiting for an answer. She’d spluttered a tearful ‘yes’ and to rapturous applause he’d popped a dazzling diamond ring onto her finger.

She’d been so happy. Finally she’d known where the relationship was going—now her family would have to believe that Daniel Calder-Jones really loved her.

He’d been eager to set a date, so they’d agreed on September—he’d be back by then, and she’d have finished her project. It hadn’t left much time to plan a wedding, but she’d thrown herself into it.

She’d found the ideal venue for the country wedding she’d dreamed of—a marquee with pretty bunting. She’d organised a whisky bar for Dan, and trestle tables, wild flowers and traditional music. She had even found the perfect dress—vintage silk and lace with tiny pearls. She’d cried in the bridal boutique because Colleen hadn’t been there to tell her how beautiful she looked.

Everything had been falling into place. And then, three months ago, Dan had flown home unexpectedly to tell her that he’d fallen in love with a German artist called Maria.

Milla had been devastated. To have won his commitment only to lose it again had been too much to bear. She’d stopped eating, stopped sleeping, stopped working.

When her tutor had called her in for a talk she’d ended up crying on his shoulder. He’d advised her to take up photography. He’d suggested taking pictures of anything that caught her eye, for whatever reason. It had been good advice. Instead of trying to create images, she’d spent her days looking for ready-made scenes.

When she’d collated her photographs she had seen a pattern. Pictures of back streets, a single figure in a doorway, a soulful face staring from the window of a café, a couple perched on a broad step, their heads turned in opposite directions...

‘You’re attracted to loneliness,’ her tutor had remarked. ‘Your images remind me of Edward Hopper’s stuff. You should use them to take your work in a new direction.’

And then he’d handed her a brochure.

‘A change of scene might help you get back on track. I’ve stayed at Strathburn Bothy myself. Peace. Isolation. No phone signal, no internet, no distractions. It might be just what you need.’

She sat up and wiped her cheeks with her hands. She looked around the mezzanine bedroom which she was yet to claim as her own. Peace. Isolation... No distractions.

There would be no isolation at Calcarron House, and probably no peace either. As for distractions...

Cormac’s eyes stirred in her memory and she pushed the image out of her head. She would try to make the best of it; it was only one night. Tomorrow she’d be back in this room, and her healing process could really begin.

CHAPTER THREE

MILLA CONTEMPLATED THE large stone pillars which flanked the entrance to Calcarron House. She told herself she had no reason to feel nervous; it wasn’t her fault that she was imposing on the hospitality of the Buchanan family. It was their bothy, after all, their water pipe malfunction. They should be the ones feeling awkward, not her.

She conjured a memory of her mother smiling. ‘Go on with you, now, Milla. You’ll be fine.’ Then she threw the four-by-four into gear and drove through the gates onto the long, tree-lined driveway.

On either side giant rhododendron bushes brandished dense clusters of pink and purple flowers, while rabbits scattered in a flash of white tails. After a bend, the driveway emerged from the trees and the house came into view.

Set in substantial grounds of neatly mown grass and flowering shrubs, Calcarron House was an imposing grey stone mansion, its twin turrets reminding Milla of a fairy tale castle in a book she’d owned as a child. Elegant mullioned windows overlooked the gardens towards the loch, and in front, on the wide sweep of immaculate paving, she could see Cormac’s silver sports car parked next to a row of four-by-fours.

The house was undeniably grand, and despite her determination not to feel intimidated she felt the butterflies in her stomach start to dance.

With care, she pulled up next to Cormac’s car and turned off the engine. She’d barely drawn a breath when she saw him walking towards her. He must have been waiting, looking out for her arrival. The butterflies in her stomach doubled their hectic fluttering.

He opened her door. ‘Welcome to Calcarron House.’ His smile was hesitant. ‘Are you all right with dogs?’

‘That depends on the dogs...’ In spite of her nerves, she felt a small smile creeping onto her lips. ‘If the dogs are all right with me, then I’ll be all right with them.’

She saw his mouth twist in amusement, then he motioned to the house. ‘In that case, please go on in. My mother’s waiting for you. I’ll bring your bag.’

In the grand entrance hall she was greeted by three excited Labradors and, behind them, an attractive middle-aged lady with a smile and an outstretched hand.

‘Milla, I’m Lily Buchanan. I’m so pleased to meet you and I’m very sorry about the water situation at the bothy. Such a terrible nuisance.’

The light hazel eyes were Cormac’s, but in Lily’s face they were softened with warmth and gentle empathy. Milla liked her immediately.

‘Hello, Mrs Buchanan. It’s good to meet you too—and thank you for having me.’

Lily smiled. ‘But of course! You’re our guest, whether you’re staying at the bothy or not... And, please, do call me Lily. Now, come, I’ll show you to your room. It’s right next to Cormac’s grandfather’s old studio, so if you’re in the habit of working through the night, then carry on. You must do as you please.’

Lily led the way through the flagged hall to a wide oak-panelled staircase, clad in plush blue carpet. The walls above the panelling were hung with traditional landscapes, and some bolder, brighter pieces which caught her eye, but she couldn’t stop to look properly because Lily was hastening on, leading her across a sweep of landing and along another corridor.

Finally, she stopped and opened a door. ‘Here we are! I hope you like it.’

The room was spacious, and smelled of new fabric and fresh paint. The colour scheme of lilac, heather, moss and peat reminded Milla of a Scottish moorland, and she took delight in the muted tones and welcoming warmth of the textures. The large bed was made up with crisp white bedlinen and a large woollen throw. Mahogany tables gleamed on either side of the bed while a wide matching wardrobe hugged a wall. At the foot of the bed a large leather ottoman glowed in burnished tones, and near the window a wing-backed chair was positioned to take advantage of the view across the hills.

It was a beautiful room and Milla felt a sudden pang of guilt for being so disappointed at the prospect of staying here. She smiled at Lily. ‘It’s lovely.’

Lily gazed around the room approvingly. ‘My daughter Rosie is an interior designer. She’s gradually updating all the rooms in the house.’

‘Cormac told me she did the bothy too. She’s got a good eye.’

‘She inherited her artistic talent from her grandfather.’ For a moment Lily looked wistful. ‘Those are his paintings on the wall.’

Milla stepped closer to look. ‘I saw similar paintings in the hall. They’re wonderful. I thought they might even be Jolomo’s work. I love the bright colours.’

A brief tap on the door signalled Cormac’s arrival. Something about the way he moved drew Milla’s eye as he crossed the room and parked her holdall on the ottoman, and she only came back to herself when Lily twitched an imaginary wrinkle out of the curtain.

‘Of course you’ll be joining us for dinner, won’t you, Milla? It will be lovely to have a new face at the table and some fresh conversation. You’ll be a nice distraction from all this wedding business—’

‘Wedding business?’ Lily’s words had pulled her up short, but then in a rush she remembered what Mary had said in the shop: ‘There’s a wedding at the big house on Saturday so we’re going to be mobbed.’

Milla’s throat tightened as everything fell into place. Rosie the interior designer was the same Rosie who had been described as making wedding favours with her bridesmaids, the same Rosie who was getting married on Saturday.

Milla tried to swallow. Not only was she staying in a grand house with a family she didn’t know but, to add to her discomfort, this was a family in the throes of wedding fever.

She forced herself to smile warmly. ‘Oh! How lovely! Who—?’

‘Rosie—she’s getting married here on Saturday, and to say that it’s going to be a big production would be putting it mildly.’ Lily exchanged a knowing glance with Cormac. ‘Anyway, we’ll be serving dinner in fifteen minutes. Cor—could you show Milla the studio before you come down?’ She smiled at Milla. ‘Then take a few moments to freshen up, if you like. The en suite bathroom is through that door over there.’

Cormac wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light, or a trick of his imagination, but Milla’s face seemed paler than before, her eyes a deeper green, like the green of shady water. She looked preoccupied. She seemed barely interested in the tour of his grandfather’s studio and yet again he felt at a loss for what to say.

He tugged open a shallow drawer in a wide unit and lifted out a sheaf of paper. ‘There’s heavyweight paper in here...spare sketchbooks...’ He rummaged around a bit. ‘All kinds of stuff in these drawers—you’ll know better than me what it’s for...’

‘Thanks...’ She glanced at the paper. ‘I’ll take a look if I decide to...to sketch something, but probably I won’t be drawing anything.’ She shrugged. ‘I mean, there won’t be much time for drawing because I’ll be going back to the bothy first thing in the morning, when you’ve sorted out the water.’

He pushed the drawer shut and turned away. He didn’t know what had darkened her mood, but he sensed a deep discontent within her which was going to make his next job more difficult. He’d felt sure that the news he had to relay would have been better coming from his mother, but Lily had reasoned that since Milla was already acquainted with him, he should be the one to tell her about the marquee.

He forced a neutral expression onto his face and turned around. ‘Look, Milla, I’m sorry but I’m afraid there’s going to be a bit of a delay with the water.’

He saw a flash of desperation colour her eyes, then watched as her gaze hardened. ‘What do you mean, “a bit of a delay”? Why?’

‘The marquee company called. Apparently they’ve been asked to supply five huge tents for a rock festival in Inverness. They can only do that if they bring Rosie’s marquee a day early, so it’s coming tomorrow morning and I’ll have to stay here until it’s rigged.’

She took a step towards him. ‘But...but if the marquee company are doing the rigging, why do you have to be here?’

He tried to soften his expression. ‘Because it’s what I came back for—to oversee the exterior operations. The marquee, the generators, the lighting. I’ve got to make sure everything dovetails, that all Rosie’s designs come to life. She’s counting on me.’

‘And where does that leave me? Who do I count on?’

The vehemence in her voice surprised him, but it didn’t change anything. ‘In normal circumstances I’d be prioritising the water at the bothy, but it’s just bad luck, Milla. I’m really sorry, but there’s nothing we can do except offer you the very best hospitality we can whilst you’re here, including the use of this studio and any materials that you need. It’s only a day.’ He looked around at the room his grandfather had loved. ‘I don’t see what’s so terrible about being here.’

She tilted her chin, fixing lustrous eyes on his. ‘I never said it was terrible; it’s just not what I was expecting. I thought I was going to be at Strathburn on my own, working, and instead I’m here, caught on the fringes of—’

He saw that chink of vulnerability in her eyes and he couldn’t help his curiosity. ‘On the fringes of what...?’

Her fingers drifted to the hem of her tee shirt, then she thrust them into the pockets of her jeans. ‘Of a wedding, was what I was going to say...’ Her gaze fell to the floor. ‘I’m just not big on the whole wedding thing, okay?’

‘I’ll try not to propose, then...’

She jerked up her head and frowned. ‘Was that meant to be funny?’

He shrugged. He wasn’t quite sure what had made him say it. It certainly sounded like the kind of dry humour he’d used to be famous for. There had been a time when he could crack up his whole team with a well-timed one-liner, and he’d made Duncan laugh all the time. Maybe he had been trying to make her smile, because her smile was so much better than her frown.

She sighed and turned her attention to the wide unit, pulling open the drawers in turn. ‘All that fuss and bother...endless planning and dreaming...and after all that it might rain on your wedding day, or maybe the groom might not even show up. I mean, what’s it all about?’

It seemed to Cormac that she might be talking about herself. Involuntarily, his eyes darted to her left hand. ‘I’m assuming that’s a rhetorical question?’

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