by Ella Hayes
In the studio, when she’d tried to tell Cormac how she felt, he’d just made a lame joke about not proposing to her. When she’d tried again he’d simply shrugged it off, told her she wouldn’t notice anything once she was working.
Practically everything that came out of Cormac’s mouth felt like a polite brush-off. He was cool and measured in a way that she struggled to be.
She unzipped her holdall and pulled out a silky blouse. It was the only smart thing she’d brought, so it would have to do. In front of the bathroom mirror, she tidied her hair and splashed her face.
Dinner was going to be an ordeal. She would have to smile and show interest in Rosie’s perfect wedding, even though she was crumpling inside.
She drew in a deep breath and pinched her cheeks to draw up the colour. Her mother had used the same trick when she’d been pale and sick from the chemo but had wanted people to think she was fine; it had been a selfless masquerade to spare others the pain of observing her decline. Milla couldn’t pretend to have such a noble motivation, but if her mother had managed it, then so could she.
* * *
‘So, Milla, what kind of work do you do?’
She didn’t want to talk about her work, but the timing was perfect. Cormac’s question had cut across the conversation, interrupting Rosie, who had been trying to engage her in a discussion about trends in wedding décor.
She put down her soup spoon and blotted her mouth with her napkin. She didn’t know what to say; she couldn’t very well tell him that she’d lost her way, artistically, and was trying to make something of urban portraiture when her natural inclination was towards landscape.
She felt the colour creeping into her cheeks as all eyes at the table turned in her direction.
She smiled. ‘I’m basically a fine art person, but at the moment I’m experimenting with a few different things...’
Her pulse climbed as Cormac looked at her. ‘Different things? Like what?’
She broke away from his gaze and looked across the table at Sam. Cormac’s younger brother was twenty, gangly in the way that young men often were before they settled into their shape. His hair was lighter and redder than Cormac’s, his eyes blue and mischievous.
‘Mostly portraiture...’
Sam smiled sweetly. ‘I could model for you, if you like... I have very good cheekbones.’
‘Set in a very big head,’ Rosie added.
Milla laughed. ‘Thank you for the offer, Sam, but I’m working from photographs I took in London.’
‘Ah...so you’re painting yuppies, or guppies, or whatever they call themselves these days...’
Cormac’s father, Alasdair, had the same twinkle in his eye that she’d seen in Cormac’s once or twice.
She shook her head. ‘No. They’re not yuppie types...just faces, really...random faces I’m using.’
‘But you must have a thread...something which connects them...?’
Cormac’s voice pulled her back. He seemed relentless in his pursuit, his questions pinning her down, forcing her to find answers she didn’t have.
She remembered her tutor’s words about what he thought he’d seen in her photographs. ‘I suppose the theme would have something to do with loneliness...my faces are all sad faces.’
Did she see his eyes cloud for an instant? Whatever she saw there made her head spin, so that she had to look away again, but even as she caught Sam’s eye she could feel the latent heat of Cormac’s gaze on her skin.
Sam tore a piece from his bread roll and buttered it with gusto. ‘Why do artists never paint happy people? In every painting I can think of the faces run the whole gamut of emotions from slightly miffed to utterly miserable—no one smiles.’
‘Except for the Mona Lisa,’ said Lily.
Sam put down his knife. ‘That’s not a smile—it’s a grimace...’
Milla picked up her spoon. She was glad that the conversation was shifting focus. She needed to eat something, even if Cormac’s presence across the table was unsettling. If she glanced up he invariably glanced up too, so that their eyes locked, and then she would feel giddy and have to look away. She couldn’t tally the heat in his eyes with the coolness of his tone, or fathom his long silences along with his casual interjections whenever the conversation turned to wedding matters.
When Rosie started talking about the different-flavoured tiers she’d chosen for her wedding cake Milla found her thoughts drifting to the surprise cake she’d been planning for Dan. She’d seen the idea in a magazine and known he’d love it. A ‘Man Cake’, it had been called—a pork pie base layer, topped with a round of Stilton and decorated with fresh figs and grapes. It had been such a simple idea, but she’d been so excited about it and hadn’t been able to wait to see his face on the day.
Now she never would.
She looked down at her uneaten cheesecake just as Cormac suddenly put down his fork and spoon.
‘For goodness’ sake, Rosie, will you leave us some surprises? The way you’re going, we’ll have lived this day ten times over before it’s even arrived.’
As a hush descended over the table, Milla was gripped by a realisation and slowly lifted her eyes to his face. He’d been doing it for her—the interruptions and distractions. All through dinner, every time someone had started talking about the wedding, he’d tried to change the subject. He’d asked her a question about her work, or asked his father something about the estate.
She felt a rush of conflicting emotion. All this time she’d thought he was being heavy-handed, but he’d spent the entire evening trying to protect her from Rosie’s wedding.
He glanced at her, then turned back to his family and ran a hand through his hair. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie, I didn’t mean it to come out like that. It’s just—’
Milla watched Rosie blinking in faint bewilderment, and then, to her surprise, she saw the girl’s lips curve upwards into a smile.
‘Oh, my God, it’s actually happened...’
Sam looked at his sister with curious eyes. ‘What’s happened?’
Rosie shook her head and laughed. ‘I’ve turned into a Bridezilla.’
CHAPTER FOUR
THE CHURCH DOORS peeled back and she squeezed her father’s arm. He threw her a nervous smile.
‘Here we go, love. Hold on tight.’
She looked down at the bouquet in her hand, then lifted her eyes to take in the scene as they began their slow walk up the aisle. Faces turned towards them...she enjoyed their admiration, their happy smiles.
She looked ahead, tried to catch a glimpse of him. But the aisle was long and she couldn’t quite see.
A gentle rain started to fall, and she giggled as tiny water drops clung to her eyelashes and peppered the roses in her bouquet.
Then the rain fell harder, causing the posies on the pew ends to droop on their ribbons.
She looked down, saw that she was stepping through mud. It was ruining her bridal shoes, splattering the front of her dress.
Her father and the guests had disappeared, and she was trying to lift her dress clear of the mud. But it was too heavy and she could barely move.
She dropped her bouquet and she was crying, tugging at her dress, trying to walk. But she was stuck. She looked for the groom, but the minister was alone.
He walked towards her, shaking his head. ‘Why are you here...?’
Milla gasped and opened her eyes. Her heart was pounding in her throat and it took a few moments for her to realise that she’d been dreaming. The church, the rain, the mud, the absent bridegroom—none of it was real. She shuddered with relief and wiped her wet cheeks with her palms. At least Dan had broken up with her before things had gone that far. Perhaps, in a way, she’d been lucky.
The nightmare faded as she listened to the sounds of the unfamiliar house. Footsteps on the flagstones in the hall, a bump, a dog whining, and outside
the vibration of a lawnmower.
Her thoughts turned to the events of the previous evening. After everyone had stopped laughing at Rosie’s ‘Bridezilla’ revelation, she’d felt confused and awkward. She hadn’t wanted to meet Cormac’s eye again, and she’d had the feeling that he hadn’t wanted to look at her either.
Over coffee, she’d focused her attention on Sam, and when she’d glanced across the table again Cormac’s seat had been empty.
She thought about the bothy, how different she’d be feeling now if she’d woken up in that mezzanine room, with nothing but quiet for company. In this house she was a stranger, and facing the family at breakfast—especially Cormac—was the last thing she wanted to do.
* * *
The family always breakfasted in the kitchen, Lily had told her the previous night, and it was ad hoc, so she was to come down in her own time and help herself to whatever she wanted to eat.
Whilst Milla appreciated the informality, the thought of poking around in the kitchen, looking for coffee and cereal, was a little daunting, so she was relieved to find Lily sitting at the table with a newspaper when she pushed open the door.
‘Good morning, dear.’ Lily looked serene in a blue cashmere sweater. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Milla pushed the upsetting dream out of her head and smiled. ‘I was very comfortable.’
‘I’m glad. Can I get you some tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee would be great, thanks.’
Lily rose and poured a mug of coffee from a cafetière parked on the warming plate of the range. She set it down on the table and smiled. ‘I can’t believe how much work is involved in hosting a wedding. Every time I think it’s under control, I remember something else—in fact, I need to go and call the florist right now, so you’ll have to fend for yourself.’
She motioned to the stove.
‘There’s porridge, if you like, or cereal in the larder, or you can make toast if you want. Just dive in.’
She smiled, then disappeared through the door.
Milla tipped milk into her coffee, then sat down at the scrubbed pine table and wrapped her hands around the steaming mug. She could hear movement elsewhere in the house, but there was no sign of Cormac and she felt relieved. Last night it had seemed to her that he was going out of his way to shield her from Rosie’s wedding talk, but now she wondered if she’d been imagining it. Maybe it had been exactly as he’d said. He was simply tired of hearing about every detail and would rather enjoy the wedding day when it arrived.
In the cold light of day, she was forced to admit that that made more sense.
She sipped her coffee and looked around. A tall dresser was crammed with china while an assortment of well-used pots and pans dangled from a rack over the cooker. Nothing in the room matched, but everything fitted perfectly, and in spite of its large size it felt cosy and inviting—unlike Dan’s parents’ kitchen.
Dan’s family home in London might have slipped from the pages of an upmarket magazine: glass tables, pale carpets and carefully placed objets d’art. The kitchen had been white and minimalist, the sleek lines of its pristine counters interrupted only by an occasional mystifying gadget. By contrast, this kitchen felt inhabited. The wooden chopping boards stacked against the tiles were knife-scored, the calendar on the wall was inked and circled, and the storage tins on the counter were faded with use. This kitchen spoke of life and love.
There was something about it that reminded Milla of her mother and she felt a fresh wave of loss breaking over her heart.
When she heard approaching footsteps she thought Lily must be returning, but it was Cormac who came through the door—Cormac, whose presence caused her breath to catch and the colour to creep into her cheeks.
He’d obviously been out running. His grey tee shirt was patchy with sweat and his arms and legs were sheened with perspiration.
At the sight of her he stopped. ‘Oh, hello...’ He smiled slightly, his eyes wary. ‘I mean, good morning. Did you sleep well?’
‘Yes, I did...’ She caught herself noticing the smooth curve of his bicep and forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘Thank you for asking.’
At the sink, he filled a glass with water and drank it down, then swiped the moisture from his brow with the back of his hand. ‘Good.’ His eyes lingered on hers for a moment, then he turned away to refill his glass.
The hair at the back of his neck looked damp. She wondered if he could sense her eyes travelling over the curve of his shoulder blades and down his back to his narrow hips and muscular legs. When he turned around again she pretended she’d been occupied with the newspaper.
He sipped his water. ‘It was raining when I set out this morning...but it’s stopped now.’ He glanced at the newspaper. ‘It might even turn out fine, which’ll make things easier for putting up the marquee.’
Milla felt hope tingling in her veins. ‘You mean it might go quickly? That you might have time to—?’
‘Please, Milla—’ He frowned, and suddenly she felt she was being a nuisance. ‘What I said about the weather and the marquee... I wasn’t implying that I’d be able to...’ He sipped from his glass again and shrugged. ‘I was just trying to make conversation.’
She sighed under her breath. She hadn’t been trying to push him about fixing the water, but when he’d mentioned the marquee it had tipped her into her dark place, triggered a memory about her own marquee. That excruciating phone call she’d had to make cancelling the booking, and the ensuing discussion about how much of her deposit she could expect to get back.
She rose from the table and carried her empty mug to the sink. He stepped aside, the fresh scent of his skin lingering in the air and throwing her a little off-balance.
To avoid meeting his gaze she busied herself rinsing out her mug. ‘I wasn’t trying to pressurise you—it’s just that I’ve got to get my work finished for an exhibition and I’m already behind. I came to Scotland to get on with it, and this whole water thing has thrown a spanner in the works.’
She threw him a glance, detected a momentary softening of his expression.
‘I understand, but it’s only one day. It’ll pass, and before you know it you’ll be back at the bothy.’ He put his glass down. ‘I’m going to shower. If you need anything, just let us know.’
In the studio, Milla busied herself pulling materials out of the drawers she’d perused the day before. But even after she’d arranged paints and palettes on a bench, and pulled the easel into the best light near the window, she couldn’t shake off the restless disappointment she was feeling about the bothy.
This studio was a good space, and the Buchanan family had been nothing but hospitable, but she still felt intimidated by the grandness of Calcarron House and disconcerted by her feelings about Cormac.
In the kitchen she’d felt an awareness of him which had bordered on attraction and she couldn’t make sense of it. How could she be feeling such a thing when she was still bruised from her broken engagement and when Cormac himself was so unfathomable? The stilted way he spoke to her and the deliberate air of indifference he adopted whenever they were alone conflicted with what she thought she could see in his eyes, and the whole business was messing with her head.
She stared at the materials she’d laid out on the bench. If she could just lose herself in work, then she’d be able to push Cormac out of her thoughts. She pulled her cardigan tighter and reached for a sketchbook. Her folio of photographs was up at the bothy. Could she work from memory?
She’d just put pencil to paper when there was a knock on the door. When she opened it she found Sam in the hallway, clutching a huge basket of logs.
‘Hi, Milla! Cor asked me to bring you some logs for the fire. He said it was cold in here.’
Bemused, she stepped back to let him pass. ‘That’s very thoughtful of him—and kind of you to bring them. Thank you.’
> He hefted the basket over to the hearth and set it down. ‘Grandad always kept a fire burning in here—it doesn’t get any sun, you see, and... Well, the room’s been empty for a while.’ He looked momentarily wistful, then brightened. ‘Would you like me to light a fire for you now?’
‘That would be great—but only if you’ve got time. I know you’re busy today.’
Sam grinned. ‘It’s fine. Cor’s dealing with the marquee team. He’s in his element, ordering them about. It’s his thing, after all.’
Milla was curious. Cormac was an enigma to her—perhaps if she knew more about him it would help her deal with him.
She tried to sound casual. ‘His “thing”? What’s that, then? He told me he runs errands.’
Sam laughed roundly. ‘Cor’s got a dry sense of humour—I can just imagine him saying that!’ He struck a match and set it to the kindling in the hearth. ‘He’s a Troop Commander in the Royal Engineers.’
Suddenly everything fell into place—the purposeful stride, the tanned arms and close-cropped hair. His instruction about the tyre—‘Be sure to have that fixed.’ The conversation she’d overheard in the shop—‘I see Cormac’s back for the wedding, then.’
She felt a smile warming her lips. Cormac was, indeed, wryly humorous, and for some reason this insight into his character satisfied her.
‘So, where’s he based?’
‘He’s on leave at the moment, from Chatham Barracks, but before that he was in Afghanistan.’ A glimmer of discomfort coloured Sam’s eyes, as if he’d said too much.
She smiled. ‘Well, after Afghanistan I’m sure putting up a wedding marquee will be a walk in the park.’
Sam rose to his feet and grinned. ‘You’re joking, right? Rosie Buchanan is more exacting than the Commander-in-Chief himself.’
