Her Brooding Scottish Heir

by Ella Hayes

  ‘Don’t be like that.’

  ‘Like what? I’m just trying to get the facts straight, that’s all.’

  ‘Baby, please. I’m sorry. I made a massive mistake but I want to see you. I’ll come to Scotland—this weekend!’

  She pictured his face. Blue eyes, dark lashes, the aquiline nose with its silver ring. She remembered the fizz of pure joy she’d felt when he proposed, the ring glittering on her finger, but suddenly she couldn’t remember why it had meant so much. Cormac’s face slipped into her thoughts. Her broken soldier. If he hadn’t bolted last night would she have rushed to call Dan back at all?

  ‘Please, Milla. Give me another chance.’

  She was shaking her head slowly, even though she knew he couldn’t see. ‘There’d be no point.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’d be no point because I don’t love you any more.’

  ‘You’re saying it’s too late?’ Even the tremor in his voice left her unaffected.

  ‘It is. Goodbye, Dan.’

  Softly, she put down the receiver.

  She leaned over the desk and cradled her head in her hands. She had no regrets about turning him down—quite the opposite. She had closure.

  The sound of a footstep at the door startled her and she looked up sharply as Cormac came in. He froze, and for an endless moment their eyes locked. He was unshaven, tired around the eyes. She thought she heard him catch his breath.

  ‘I’m sorry—I didn’t know you were—’

  Her heart was hammering against her ribcage and she prayed her voice wouldn’t tremble when she spoke. ‘Don’t worry. I was just leaving.’

  She rose to her feet and took a step towards the door, but he was in the way and for some reason he wasn’t moving.

  His eyes clouded. ‘I—Is everything okay...?’

  She lifted her chin, tried to keep her tone cool and measured. ‘Everything is perfect, thank you—except you’re blocking the door.’

  He opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, then closed it and stood back. As she walked past she caught the warm smell of him and it stirred the memory of his kiss, the delicious heat of his body crushed against hers. She felt light-headed. More than anything she wanted to turn around and demand an explanation, but instead she kept on walking and didn’t look back.

  * * *

  On a different day she would have noticed the play of dappled light under the trees that covered the track to Strathburn. She would have admired the lime-green stands of young ferns and the clusters of spikey sedge, but not today. Today a storm was gathering in her mind and Cormac was at its eye.

  Before she’d gone to the house she’d resolved to put last night behind her, but seeing him, feeling the heat of him so close, had stirred up all that emotion again. He’d barely said a word, just dangled in the awkward silence with his unfathomable gaze.

  Who was Cormac Buchanan, anyway? Just another incomprehensible male riding roughshod over her emotions?

  She felt bruised. Blue and purple and red were the colours which exploded in her head as pain throbbed inside her, and on top a layer of festering, furious anger which felt like yellow or ochre.

  At the bothy, she slammed out of the car and marched into the studio. She rammed her iPod onto the dock, setting the volume to max, then mixed the colours she could see in her head and set to work, recreating the landscape she’d sketched the day before.

  She knew the shapes and shadows of those rocks and she worked into them the livid colours of her pain. At times she discarded her brushes and used her fingers to drag furious seams of colour across the canvas. She didn’t notice the time passing, or that she was thirsty. She didn’t notice her paint-spattered clothes. She was lost in her creation and she had no care for ever being found.

  * * *

  Cormac leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. He should have said something, but the right words wouldn’t come, and then she’d asked him to move away from the door and he’d had to let her go.

  Her scent lingered in the air, dazing him, so that he couldn’t immediately remember why he’d come into the office—something to do with the hired generator.

  He crossed to the desk and sank into the chair. He needed to concentrate. It was the hire agreement—there was something he wanted to check.

  He reached for a stack of papers on the desk, then noticed the pad by the telephone. He picked it up. Daniel Calder-Jones and a number. Her ex-fiancé!

  He had no claim on Milla, especially after last night, but that name drove a knife into his heart. She’d said it was over with Daniel, so why was she calling him?

  He looked the note again, saw that it was Sam’s writing. Sam would know what was going on.

  He found his brother in the marquee, frowning at the contents of a small box. ‘I think this order is wrong—Rosie’s going to have a fit.’

  ‘Is there a delivery note? I’ll call to sort out a replacement if it’s not right, so don’t panic.’

  Sam grinned. ‘It’s not me who’ll be panicking.’ He squinted at the box. ‘I don’t even know what organza bags are.’

  ‘They’re gift bags—for favours.’ In spite of his dark mood, Sam’s quizzical gaze made him smile. He shrugged. ‘I had to fill over a hundred of them with whisky liqueurs on the morning of Duncan’s wedding—someone had forgotten to do it.’

  He ran a hand along a horizontal support, pretending to check it for stability.

  ‘So, what was going on with Milla this morning?’

  Sam lifted his eyebrows in a question.

  ‘You raced up to the house like you were on fire.’

  ‘Ah, that!’ He grinned. ‘I don’t know much. This guy Daniel—her ex-fiancé, apparently—called this morning and said he needed to speak to her urgently. I told him she was at the bothy and he asked me if I could fetch her. So I did.’

  ‘And?’

  Sam had unearthed an invoice from inside the box and was scrutinising it. ‘And I left her in the office, so she could call him back, and that was it. I didn’t see her after that. She took her own car when she left.’ He looked up, a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. ‘Why are you so interested in Milla all of a sudden?’

  ‘I’m not interested in Milla—you caught my attention with your rally driver impression, that’s all.’ He motioned to the box in Sam’s hand. ‘Why don’t you give me that and I’ll go and check that they’ve sent us the right stuff?’

  Cormac watched the electrician and his apprentice balancing on ladders, working their way across the marquee ceiling with a mesh of LED lights. It would be stunning when it was all done, but the rigging was laborious. He’d helped at first, but they were in a rhythm now, which meant he could escape for a while.

  He ducked out of the marquee and followed a narrow path to the loch shore. At the water’s edge he crouched to pick up a handful of flat stones and skimmed them deftly across the dark shifting water. He counted the jumps and thought of Duncan, of long-ago summer days when they’d competed for the most bounces or the furthest throwing distance. They’d been friends for ever, and shared so much, but those days were gone now.

  He turned to look at the hills. He couldn’t see the bothy from here, but knowing that Milla was there set his pulse racing. He shuddered as he recalled the cold light in her eyes, masking the hurt he knew she must be feeling. If only she knew that hurting her had been the last thing on his mind. Why had the right words eluded him?

  He kicked a stone into the water. Daniel Calder-Jones. The very thought of the ex-fiancé turned him inside out and he didn’t even understand why. He’d only known Milla for a matter of days, but she was making him feel things he didn’t want to feel—couldn’t allow himself to feel.

  He dropped to his haunches and trawled the beach for more flat stones. Would she listen if he tried to explain?

  At the soun
d of his name being called he rose to his feet. He was needed, and for a moment he was thankful—working stopped him thinking. Anything was better than thinking.

  * * *

  A shock of silence filled the studio as the music stopped. Milla half stumbled backwards and gazed at the immense canvas glistening on the easel in front of her. She didn’t know what to make of it but somehow it didn’t matter. She let the brush slip from her fingers and fall to the floor.

  In the kitchen, she filled a glass with water and drank, then filled the glass again. The clock on the wall told her it was after four and she could barely believe it; the day had passed in a blur.

  She wandered outside and sat on the edge of the hammock. Had the mystical energy of Northern Lights triggered this out-of-body experience? She looked at her paint-caked fingers, her black-encrusted fingernails. Her jeans and tee shirt were no better. She rolled the glass slowly across her forehead, felt its cold, hard kiss on her skin.

  No. It wasn’t the Aurora that had sent her spiralling into a dark rapture—she knew all too well what had fuelled the torrent of emotion she’d poured into her painting.

  She looked across the hills and breathed in the sweet scent of the gorse. She’d promised herself a walk. It wasn’t too late. She’d clean up and go out. Her ears were ringing from the rock music she’d been playing and now she craved the wild peace of the great outdoors. She wanted to lose herself in a larger canvas, take time to rest and fall back into her own head.

  The late afternoon was golden. Spider webs glistened against the purples and greens of the heathland and tiny moths with pearly wings flitted from the heather as she brushed past. It was peaceful. The steady clomp of her walking boots and the random calls of a lapwing were the only sounds disturbing the vast hum of emptiness.

  At the foot of the path that Cormac had pointed out to her she paused, considering her ankle, then started to climb. When she crested the ridge and levered herself through the gap in the rocks she knew it had been worth the risk.

  The light at this time of day drew texture from every craggy surface, from every blade of waving golden grass. Below, Loch Calcarron stretched through the valley like a dark blue ribbon, impenetrable and mysterious. She crossed the terrace of stones carefully, testing each foothold, until she found a broad flat boulder with a stone backrest.

  Cormac’s favourite landscape stretched before her, wide and indifferent.

  He’d been bemused at her fascination for the stones, but stones were like people in some ways. Touched by time, weathered by life. A smooth pebble could hide a diamond or be scarred with the dark fissures of emptiness. Cormac was a smooth pebble.

  She pulled a sketchbook out of her bag and looked across the unfolding mountains and endless sky. She drew an idle line.

  What was he hiding? She’d told herself she didn’t care, but she was lying to herself. There was something about him, an ache of sadness behind his eyes, which spoke to her heart, made her want to understand.

  She shaped an arc with her pencil, shaded it softly.

  He’d hurt her last night, and infuriated her this morning, but now, sitting here in his special place, she knew he hadn’t meant any of it.

  She worked her pencil over the paper more quickly.

  He’d taken her for dinner, kissed her in a way that had turned her inside out and then he’d abandoned her without explanation. Just thinking about it was stirring her up again because she couldn’t rationalise it.

  She wasn’t good at uncertainty. She was a girl who circled landmarks on a road map so she knew she was travelling in the right direction. She sketched outlines before committing paint to canvas. She read instructions. She paid attention.

  Until yesterday Cormac had kept his distance, yet her heart had dared to imagine a connection between them. Foolish heart.

  She threw down her sketchbook and closed her eyes. The low sunshine spangled against her eyelids, the tiny explosions of red and silver filling her head. A pheasant squawked from somewhere down the hill, drummed its frantic wings in clumsy flight, and far, far away in the distance an engine throbbed faintly.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CORMAC SECURED THE last string of bulbs to a hook embedded in a tree limb and jumped down from the ladder. He’d spent the whole afternoon weaving lights through the trees to create the ultimate romantic backdrop for Rosie’s evening wedding reception. It had been a painstaking process, but to his dismay, the work had not absorbed him.

  With every wire he’d untangled and laid straight his insides had twisted into tighter knots and the hollow ache in his heart had grown stronger. How was it possible that he was missing someone he barely knew? Missing her sweet smile and mischievous eyes, missing the way her brow wrinkled when she frowned, missing her scent and the soft sound of her sigh.

  ‘A kiss like that could never be a mistake, Cormac.’

  Her words had stopped him in his tracks because he’d felt it too—the undeniable chemistry between them. It had taken a massive effort of will for him to drive away, but staying had not been an option. At least that was what he’d thought last night. But now he was in torment.

  In the office, her eyes had flayed him where he’d stood, rendered him helpless. Stupidly dumb. He knew she’d been hiding behind that hard shell. It was her best defence and he understood that better than anyone—because he did the same thing all the time.

  He looked across the lawn to the marquee. There was a radio playing, a tune rising above the sound of creaking ladders as the electricians finished the interior lighting. They didn’t need him; it would be the perfect time to slip away quietly.

  He didn’t know exactly what he’d say to her, but suddenly the only thing he wanted to do was see her.

  The sinking sun warmed his back as he hammered the quad bike up the slope. He remembered bringing her the bothy key that first afternoon. She’d been standing on the rise, a graceful silhouette, watching his approach with interest. She’d waved, but he hadn’t waved back. He’d been nervous, wary of the casual temerity she’d displayed at the roadside, afraid that with a single kick of her boot she would turn him over like a pebble on the beach.

  He looked upwards now, but the vantage point was deserted.

  At the bothy he got off the quad and strode over the deck. A cloak of stillness hung around the building and for a moment he hesitated, before tapping on the door. He glanced across the track. Her vehicle was parked in its spot, so she must be here. He knocked again, more loudly but still there was no sound from inside. He tried the door. It was unlocked.

  ‘Milla?’

  He stepped inside and called again.

  ‘Milla!’

  Perhaps she was too absorbed to hear him. Cautiously, he walked to the studio door and pushed it open.

  For a moment he stared at the huge painting in shock—it was a staggering landscape, but it was no pastoral idyll. Yesterday she’d told him that her final artwork would be done in oils, but he’d had no idea how complete a transformation it would be.

  The work in front of him was like a battle scene, ominous and strangely visceral. Perhaps it was because of the paint, still wet in patches, its thick seams of red and gold glistening like open wounds.

  He tore his eyes away and looked around the silent studio. The palette she’d been using was parked on the bench whilst a paintbrush, clotted with colour, lay abandoned on the floor.

  He stepped outside and onto the deck in a kind of daze. Milla’s painting had affected him deeply. It was raw and angry—a vivid reminder of the pain he tried to bury but couldn’t. He paced the boards, tormented by a confusion of images he couldn’t bear to see, until the piercing cry of a bird brought him back into the moment.

  He sat down on the edge of the hammock and lifted his face to the breeze. A hare lolloped across the track, then paused, regarding him with its steady, amber eye. As he gazed at it he remembered watchi
ng Milla walk into the house that morning; walking without a limp. If her foot was better and she’d gone for a walk he knew exactly where she’d be.

  He rose to his feet, strode to the quad and started the engine.

  * * *

  He stepped through the gap in the rocks and looked along the ridge. She was there, exactly where he’d thought she’d be, leaning against a boulder, her sketchbook by her side. She was wearing combat pants and a tee shirt, but she didn’t look tough. She looked sweet and slightly vulnerable.

  ‘Milla!’

  The sound of her name blew back at him on the breeze and disappeared over the heather. She didn’t move. Her eyes were closed—maybe she was sleeping.

  He made his way across the rocks towards her and called again, softly. ‘Milla...’

  With a startled jerk she turned in his direction and scrambled to her feet. The breeze lifted loose strands of hair around her face and she pushed them away, then fixed him with a cool green gaze.

  ‘I’m sorry if I frightened you... I thought I’d find you here.’

  She pushed her hands into her pockets. ‘So you’re a detective now? What do you want, Cormac?’

  He’d expected this. The cool edge in her voice, the defensive glint in her eye.

  ‘I—I want to say sorry about last night.’ He moistened his lips hesitantly. ‘I want you to give me a chance to explain—’

  She turned away. ‘There’s no need. You kissed me—you changed your mind. There’s nothing to explain. I’d like you to go now.’

  He gritted his teeth; this was all his fault and he had to put it right. He laid a gentle hand on her arm. Her skin was pale and smooth beneath his fingers.

  ‘Milla, look at me, please.’

  Slowly she turned and lifted glistening eyes to his.

  ‘Don’t cry.’ He chased her tears away with a thumb. ‘You’re so wrong. I didn’t kiss you and change my mind. I kissed you and nearly lost my mind...’