by Ella Hayes
A knock on the door shocked her to silence and she turned away quickly to wipe the tears from her eyes. He ran a hand through his hair, drew in a ragged breath. He’d hurt her, and she’d hurt him right back. This was exactly the wrong moment for an interruption.
He checked to see that she’d composed herself, then reached for the handle.
‘Here you are!’ Sam grinned at Milla. ‘Wow! You look gorgeous.’ He stepped forward and kissed her on both cheeks.
She seemed to melt into Sam’s embrace, then stood away, a dazzling smile on her lips. ‘And you look very handsome.’
Cormac felt a muscle twitch in his jaw and rubbed at it in irritation. ‘Sam, can you give us a minute, please?’
‘Sure. But you’re wanted downstairs. I was sent to fetch you.’
‘I’ll be right down.’
He looked at Milla and she returned his gaze with an unfamiliar glint of calculation. Then she stepped forward and slid her arm through Sam’s.
‘It’s fine. I think we’re done here anyway, and after such a kind invitation to the party I certainly don’t want to keep everyone waiting. Shall we go?’
* * *
Milla was smiling but her heart was breaking. She didn’t understand what was going on in Cormac’s head and she didn’t understand herself either. What had possessed her to take Sam’s arm? She’d been about to run away and now she was walking down the stairs to a party she had no wish to attend.
For an instant the thought of torturing Cormac with her presence for the rest of the evening had seemed like fitting payback for the hurt he’d caused, but she was already regretting it. She’d always heard that revenge was a dish best served cold, and now she knew it was true.
This morning at the loch he’d turned her inside out with his kiss. That had been real. Not this. Why had he changed? The words that had just fallen from his mouth sounded like the lines from some corny movie. She could have handled the truth—whatever it was—but he’d delivered his speech and then tossed her aside, just like Dan had.
She felt the tears gathering again and forced them back. Crying wouldn’t solve anything; she had to think straight.
In the grand hall a waiter handed them crystal flutes of champagne, then Sam disappeared through the crowd of guests to greet an aunt and uncle. Milla could feel Cormac behind her as she entered the large drawing room. It had been transformed for the party, with tall candelabras and exquisite floral arrangements. From the far end of the room, she could hear a violin playing Vivaldi, but the music gave her no comfort.
She took a mouthful of champagne, and then another, feeling its cold fizz quickly dulling the edges of her pain. At her side, Cormac seemed to be locked into a brooding silence, and she wondered what she should do. Cut loose at the earliest opportunity or take him aside, try to make him explain...?
She looked at him briefly. Maybe she should back off altogether. He’d hurt her twice in as many days and she wasn’t sure she could stand any more heartache, or any more uncertainty. She was a girl who circled maps, a girl who wanted to know where she was going, and he seemed so lost that he couldn’t even find a map.
When curious eyes turned towards them, he shifted restlessly. ‘I need to mingle and you’re going to have to come with me.’
He guided her into the room, stopping only to hand her a fresh glass from a passing tray. There followed a succession of formal introductions to his family, the groom’s family, and a select group of friends. She noticed that he introduced her as a talented artist—an effective way of diverting the conversation into art and away from any enquiries about their relationship.
She found that by concentrating on everyone else she could almost forget about Cormac, so she sipped her champagne and chatted with the guests. Somehow she remembered their names and managed to look interested in everything they said. She felt warmth and admiration in their eyes—and then she realised that, far from forgetting about Cormac, she had designed her every move to draw his attention, his admiration.
When he steered her into a quiet spot near the fireplace she thought he was going to tell her he was sorry for what he’d said upstairs, but instead he whispered, ‘Why didn’t you just leave, Milla?’
His words stung, and she understood finally that there was no point in trying to win his admiration. He didn’t want her. She felt a sob building in her chest and choked it back. She’d leave first thing in the morning, but if she had to go she’d make sure she took her dignity with her.
She lifted her chin and met his gaze. ‘I’m not sure. I was thinking of leaving, but then I changed my mind. I suppose I’m rather flaky—you know, unreliable... But I’m sure you understand that better than anyone.’
She felt the biting whiplash of her own sarcasm and couldn’t meet his eye again. When she saw Rosie beckoning her over she was relieved.
She imagined his eyes burning into her back as she made her way across the room in her borrowed dress and shoes. When she’d been getting ready for the party she’d been excited to see his reaction. How deflated she’d felt when he’d gazed at her from the landing. The entire evening had been a miserable charade and now he’d driven her to this bitter mudslinging when the truth was that she didn’t want to hurt him at all. She was in love with him.
Suddenly she tripped over her own thought...
He’d driven her to mud-slinging.
Seized by a moment of clarity, she looked back and found herself staring straight into his eyes. In the split-second before his gaze hardened she saw everything.
‘I’m not what you need, Milla. I don’t want you to care about me because I’ll only let you down, like I let Duncan down.’
He’d said those words to her yesterday, before the storm broke. That was the truth. He wasn’t rejecting her—he was driving her away for some other reason.
As she turned away from his gaze she was overtaken with compassion for the man she loved. It wasn’t about herself any more. If she could work out why he was pushing her away, then maybe she could help him.
When she reached Rosie’s side, the girl leaned into her ear. ‘Cormac can’t take his eyes off you. I knew he’d love it if you came tonight.’ She smiled and motioned to a dark-haired young man with intense blue eyes. ‘Now, I’d like to introduce you to Fraser’s friend Connor. Not only is he one of the groomsmen, he also writes for the Art Review.’
* * *
Cormac glanced at his watch. How much longer would he have to endure this torture? He’d done the rounds, made polite conversation with Fraser’s family, and now he’d been drawn into a group discussing the demerits of a proposed wind farm. As the heir to Calcarron it was his duty to mingle, but he was finding it increasingly difficult to focus.
He sipped his drink without tasting it and watched Milla out of the corner of his eye. He was fully aware that he’d driven her to staging this ridiculous side-show. That she would put him through this was a measure of how much he’d hurt her, and the pain of that knowledge was tearing him apart. The dress, her hair—she’d taken so much trouble for him and he hadn’t even kissed her cheek.
Clearly Rosie had introduced Milla to Connor Lawson because of his connections with the Art Review, but it was hard to watch Connor wielding his exaggerated charm—all that leaning in, the meaty hand pawing at her arm.
Milla looked as if she was concentrating hard on what he was telling her—maybe a little too hard. Could she feel his eyes on her from across the room? He could see that little crease she got between her eyes when she was paying attention. He’d kissed her there this morning, when she’d been trying to show him a shading technique.
His heart buckled in his chest. Why was he tormenting himself like this? He shifted his gaze and Rosie caught his eye. She started making her way towards him, but he couldn’t cope with his sister right now. He excused himself politely, put down his glass and strode out of the room.
&nb
sp; Outside, the light was fading. Bats darted through the gloaming, feeding on midges and clumsy moths. He loosened his tie and walked across the lawn towards the loch. At the end of the short jetty where the skiff was moored he sat down and kicked his legs over the side. He felt the soft breeze against his face, heard the slop of water against the boat and wondered how he was going to get through the next twenty-four hours.
‘Cormac!’
Milla’s voice shocked him to his feet and turned his mouth to dust. He watched dumbly as she slipped off her shoes, bent to pick them up and walked slowly along the jetty towards him. He noticed the breeze rippling the soft folds of her dress around her bare legs as she moved and for a moment he was lost.
She stopped in front of him and lifted her eyes to his face. She held his gaze for a few moments then moistened her lips. ‘It’s been a strange week, don’t you think?’
He nodded slowly, not daring to speak. He could see the glimmer of tears at the corners of her eyes, but there was no tremble in her voice, no bitterness.
She gestured to the marquee on the lawn behind them. ‘It’s going to be a beautiful wedding tomorrow. I hope you all have a wonderful day.’
He felt a twist of anguish and let his gaze fall to her feet, smooth and pale on the wooden boards.
She stepped around him and sat down at the edge of the jetty, hugging her knees. ‘Will you sit with me for a while?’ He didn’t know what she was trying to do, but for some reason he couldn’t walk away. He dropped down beside her and looked across the water. He could feel her eyes on his face, gently watchful.
‘How are you feeling about tomorrow?’
Finally he found his voice. He lifted an eyebrow and attempted a smile. ‘I’m confident that the marquee won’t fall down, that the lighting will look awesome, and I’m pretty sure that there’ll be enough champagne.’
‘I wasn’t talking about that.’
He pressed his lips into a line and gazed across the water. ‘What, then?’
‘I was talking about Emma. You dropped the coffee mugs when Rosie read out that acceptance card.’
So she’d noticed after all. It was no surprise. He’d felt her eyes on him in the kitchen but he hadn’t trusted himself to look at her, and he couldn’t look at her now. He didn’t want to talk about this.
He made a move to get up and felt her hand on his arm.
‘Please stay, Cor. Rosie’s been telling me how you shut yourself down every time anyone tries to talk to you about Duncan, but you’ve got to get past it. It wasn’t your fault—can’t you see that? Emma doesn’t blame you for what happened, so you’ve got to stop blaming yourself.’
He hadn’t expected her to talk like this. He’d been expecting another bitter admonishment, and now the concern in her voice was tearing him apart.
He dropped his head into his hands. ‘I can’t.’
His head was filled with noise and blur. He could hear the whine of gunfire, see Duncan being ripped off the bridge in a splatter of blood. He was crawling through the sand, calling Duncan’s name, sobbing, praying under his breath, heart hammering, bowels struggling. Then he found him. But it wasn’t Duncan any more. Just a glistening mess of flesh and splintered bone. There’d been an endless, ludicrous moment of denial and then the dark drop of realisation, retching through a howl of pain.
He swallowed hard, watched the ebbing and bobbing of the waves on the water. ‘No one understands. The last time my family saw Duncan it was here, before we went to Afghanistan. We were all here together that weekend—Duncan and Emma, Rosie and Fraser, Sam.’
He felt the ghost of a smile forming on his lips.
‘We were fooling around on that skiff—pushing each other into the loch, having fun. We lit a fire over there on the beach—Sam toasted marshmallows and we had a few drinks. Happy memories.’
He turned to face her.
‘Maybe it’s easier if your last memory of someone is a happy one, but I don’t have that. When I close my eyes I see things I don’t want to see, and I remember that it should have been me on that bridge.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I used to go and see Emma and the baby, but the way she’d look at me sometimes... I couldn’t stand it. If guilt is dragging me down then I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is and I can’t do anything about it.’
‘So you’re going to spend your whole life in mourning? You think Duncan would want that? Do you think that’s what Emma wants?’
He stared at the water.
‘You can hide behind your silence if you like, but while you’re clinging to your grief you need to know that your family is grieving as well.’
He heard a catch in her voice and looked up.
‘They lost you that day too, and they want you back.’ Her eyes were glistening. ‘I know how hard it is to see someone you love die, but I think it’s even harder to watch a person you love dying because they’ve forgotten how to live.’
She wiped her tears away with slender fingers.
‘Emma’s coming to the wedding and I think you’re scared. I don’t know anything about her, but I think that if she’s brave enough to face the world again then she’ll be happy to think that you can do the same.’
He wished she would stop talking. Her words were turning him inside out, stealing the air from his lungs. A swell of tears filled his eyes, but he couldn’t make his lips form the words he wanted to say.
She held his gaze for a few moments, then rose to her feet, shoes dangling in her hands. ‘I love you, Cor, but I’m leaving in the morning because I can’t compete with Duncan’s memory and it’s hurting me too much to try.’
He heard the soft pad of her feet on the wooden boards behind him, then her faltering step. He twisted round to look at her as the scent of her perfume reached him on the breeze.
‘I finished Rosie’s painting this afternoon. I’ll leave it in the bothy for you. It’ll be dry by tomorrow. Goodbye, Cormac.’
She turned away and walked to the end of the jetty, then disappeared into the gloom.
* * *
After she’d gone he watched the last silver glow receding behind the mountains. She’d come out here asking nothing for herself. Interceding on behalf of his family, trying to help him see sense—and she was right about everything.
He closed his eyes, forced himself to picture Duncan’s face at the campfire, laughing and cursing as a toasted marshmallow slid off the skewer and exploded in his lap. Running and jumping off the jetty—always trying to go faster and further than anyone else. If there was a way forward it had to be through remembering the good times, and there’d been so many good times.
His brain fumbled as Milla’s face shimmered into his thoughts. He’d known her for a matter of days, and already there was so much good.
He pictured her teasing eyes by the roadside, her delight when she’d stepped into the bothy for the first time, the feel of her hair against his cheek as he’d carried her along the path, the crazy safari they’d taken so she could draw, the way she’d tried to hide behind the menu in the restaurant, the way she’d kissed him under the Northern Lights, the way she’d listened when he told her about Duncan, the way she’d dried his body after the rain.
The way she’d drawn his face—captured the sadness in his eyes.
He’d been an idiot. If he’d explained why the news that Emma was coming to the wedding had thrown him into a flat spin she would have understood. Instead he’d tried to shut her out, but she’d come here to talk to him anyway.
A spark of hope flickered to fullness in his heart and suddenly he wondered why he was still sitting there.
He jumped to his feet and strode down the jetty onto the lawn. She’d said she was leaving tomorrow, which meant she was still here tonight.
He broke into a run.
* * *
In her room, Milla clicked on a low light, then took off R
osie’s dress and slipped it onto a hanger. She paired the shoes and parked them under the bedroom chair. She pulled on her robe and sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for her tears to come.
She’d known Cormac was lying about why he didn’t want her to come to the wedding, and as Connor had droned on and on in the drawing room she’d worked it all out.
The words he’d spoken that morning had come back to her: ‘I don’t want us to be the centre of attention.’
She’d realised that his guilt about Duncan would never have permitted him to look happy in front of Emma, to have someone with him at the wedding. If he was alone he could be respectfully unobtrusive. He’d sacrificed Milla on the altar of his guilt—given her up for Emma’s sake.
She shivered and pulled her robe tighter. He’d tried to hide behind clichés—he’d called himself a screw-up. The sad truth was that he was right—but not in the way he’d meant.
When she’d finally extricated herself from Connor Rosie had taken her aside and told her how worried she was about Cormac, how desperately she wanted her brother back. At that moment she’d decided to go and find him. His perspective was skewed, and unless that changed he would never heal, never be able to love someone.
She’d tried so hard to get through to him, but she’d failed.
Tomorrow she’d leave early, get her things from the bothy and go back to London. She’d never cope with seeing him again because he hadn’t put out a hand to stop her. He’d let her walk away.
She felt a tear rolling down her cheek and wiped it away with the back of her hand. She loved him. She loved this place. It would be hard to go.