by Ella Hayes
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?
“I’m not much of a talker, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t listen or that I don’t notice things.”
“Such as?”
“The sky above us right now. You really should look up.”
Cormac was right. The lights were in full spate now—mesmerizing pulses of emerald green shimmering and weaving through the sky like spirits playing chase. Time stretched away silently as they watched nature’s extravagant spectacle, and for a moment, it felt to Milla that this heavenly light show was nature’s gift to them both. Something to lift them out of themselves, if only for a short time. “It’s beautiful, Cor, don’t you think?”
“Amazing.”
Something about the direction of his voice told her that he was no longer looking at the sky, and she turned to meet his gaze. The light shimmering from above threw luminous waves over his face so that she couldn’t read the expression in his eyes or gauge his thoughts. “You were talking about the lights, weren’t you?”
He hesitated briefly. “I was talking about the view.”
Dear Reader,
I can’t believe I’m writing this letter to introduce you to my debut novel for Harlequin. It’s testimony to the fact that dreams really do come true.
I’m here because I won a writing competition, so I will always be grateful to Milla and Cormac for capturing the judges’ hearts in that first chapter. Milla is inspired by a real person—an Irish art student—who I came across when she was modeling. I follow her blog, and it was her various residencies in the Outer Hebrides that gave me the idea that Milla should be an artist, seeking isolation in a remote Scottish bothy in order to heal her broken heart. I wanted Cormac to be more than the heir to Calcarron estate; I wanted him to be strong and physically capable, so giving him a career as a commander in the Royal Engineers ticked those boxes. His military life also gave me the perfect well from which to draw his traumatic backstory.
I love writing about Scotland and its people. I’ve tried to make my descriptive touches completely authentic, and while I use fragments of reality when I’m writing, I should point out that Calcarron Estate and its environs are completely fictitious.
I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed creating it.
Ella x
Her Brooding Scottish Heir
Ella Hayes
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, traveling with her camera, running and great coffee.
Her Brooding Scottish Heir
is Ella Hayes’s debut title for Harlequin!
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For Sophie
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EXCERPT FROM A DIAMOND FOR THE SINGLE MOM BY SUSAN MEIER
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?’
