Her Brooding Scottish Heir
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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