Her Brooding Scottish Heir

by Ella Hayes

  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?’

  Perhaps she hadn’t heard him, or perhaps she chose not to answer. He watched her as she poked around in the lower drawer. A cluster of fine blonde strands nestled in the soft nape of her neck and he moistened his lips. Perhaps she’d been let down or stood up at the altar, or something like that. It was probable that the jerk who’d messed her about wasn’t even worthy to kiss the ground she walked on, but Milla’s history was none of his business.

  As if she could feel his eyes on her, she closed the drawer and stood up. ‘I’m sorry for moaning. I really hope that your sister has a lovely wedding. But the thought of trying to work in a house with all that going on—honestly, it fills me with dread.’

  ‘Dread? That’s a strong emotion...’ He wished he could see inside her head, see what she was thinking. It was hard to know what to say.

  His eyes travelled around the room and came to rest on his grandfather’s easel.

  He tried to sound conciliatory. ‘If you’re anything like my grandfather, once you’re working you won’t even know what day of the week it is...’

  Something in her expression chased his smile away. H
e couldn’t make her out, and suddenly he wondered why he was even trying.

  He glanced at his watch. ‘We should go down.’ He walked to the door and held it open for her. ‘I’m sure you’ll feel better about staying here once you’ve met everyone.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She walked past him, then stopped at the bedroom door. ‘I’m sorry—that sounded so rude.’ She lifted her eyes to his. ‘I’m grateful, of course, it’s just...’

  ‘Just that you’re not big on the whole wedding thing—I get it.’

  She nodded. ‘I... I need a moment to freshen up, if that’s okay, and then I’ll be down.’

  ‘Of course. Take as long as you need.’

  As she closed the door behind her he blew out a long breath. He’d known breaking the news about the water would be difficult, but he hadn’t bargained for this aversion she seemed to have for weddings.

  He knew that such a reaction could only have its roots in some deep hurt. Hadn’t he been filled with hate for the snipers who’d killed Duncan? A hate that had burned in his heart for so long that sometimes he could taste its ash in his mouth. He pictured Milla’s eyes, that fleeting vulnerability, the small tremble in her chin, and he wondered who could have wounded her so badly.

  He shook himself and started along the corridor towards the stairs. He couldn’t indulge his curiosity about Milla O’Brien. Being curious about anyone was dangerous. It opened doors to other feelings, might lead to entanglements and confusion, and he had enough confusion in his head already.

  If she was averse to ‘the whole wedding thing’, then he’d try his best to steer the dinner conversation into safer territory. People generally enjoyed talking about their passions, so he’d ask her about her work and her inspirations... It was the only thing he could do.

  * * *

  Milla sank onto the ottoman and stared at the view of darkening hills through the window. She couldn’t believe how her plans had been upended. The water problem had been a major blow, but now she would have to endure dinner with Cormac’s family, where the main topic of conversation was bound to be Rosie’s ‘big production’ of a wedding.