Читать книгу Her Brooding Scottish Heir - Ella Hayes - Страница 11

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.