by Ella Hayes
‘Cor, I really don’t want a lot of fuss made about my fall—I already feel like an idiot. Do we have to go this way, right in front of everyone?’
She’d called him Cor. It had tripped off her tongue so naturally that she hadn’t had time to stop herself. Had he noticed? Being held in his arms must have tricked her brain—it felt so comfortable after all—but she hadn’t meant to sound so familiar.
He stopped walking and they both looked across the lawn to where Lily was standing, her hand raised in a wave.
He shot her a glance. ‘Yes, we do, I’m afraid, because it looks like we’ve been spotted.’
* * *
‘There must be so much to do on a big estate like this, Alasdair—do you have any help?’
Cormac admired the way Milla was managing the conversation at dinner. Her endless questions about Calcarron were deflecting attention away from herself and away from Rosie’s wedding.
His father put down his knife and fork. ‘We do, Milla. We have a gamekeeper, and he has a couple of lads helping at busy times, but the family is very hands-on at Calcarron.’
He directed a pointed gaze at Cormac and Cormac looked down at his wine glass. He wished his father would let the subject go. He couldn’t so easily slip into rural life after Afghanistan. He was an engineer, not a fighter, but he had a score to settle for Duncan. He didn’t know exactly how he was going to settle it, but while this rage and grief was boiling inside him he couldn’t come back here.
‘Estate management is demanding in many ways. We’ve got a lot on right now, maintaining the moorland for grouse—we rely on income from shooting parties, you see.’
‘I thought moorland grew wild,’ Milla said. ‘How do you maintain it?’
‘We burn the heather from time to time—don’t we, Cor?’
Cormac swallowed a mouthful of red wine and put his glass down. ‘Yes.’ He looked at his father, then at Milla. ‘Grouse feed on new heather shoots, so we burn back the old so that new plants can grow.’
‘Those shooting parties must love staying here.’
At first Milla’s remark struck Cormac as ironic, given that she wanted to leave as soon as possible, and then he remembered that her reasons for wanting to go had nothing to do with the house itself.
He smiled. ‘Yes, they do. Staying at Calcarron is a big draw. The location is... Well, you’ve seen for yourself.’
As the conversation continued Cormac relaxed into his chair and watched Milla out of the corner of his eye. When he’d lifted her into his arms he’d only been thinking of getting her back to the house safely, but he could still feel her hair against his cheek, her body against his, and it felt like a sweet torment.
When he caught Rosie’s eye over the rim of his glass he recognised her knowing expression. She’d seen him watching Milla. He looked away quickly. Rosie could think what she liked. Milla was a lovely girl—and he wasn’t a monk—but if his sister was looking for a breakthrough in ‘project Cormac’ she’d be disappointed. He had no intention of letting Milla get close to him—he had nothing to offer except nightmares and bitterness and she deserved better than that.
He couldn’t stay at the table if Rosie was going to be watching him. He hated that kind of attention.
Murmuring something about making a start on laying the dance floor in the marquee, he ignored Lily’s protests and left the dining room.
CHAPTER FIVE
MILLA COULD TELL it was early by the quality of the silence. She yawned and rubbed her eyes. The palaver over her ankle and the verbal jousting during last night’s dinner had exhausted her emotional reserves. She wondered what was going on between Cormac and his father—what had sent Cormac from the table in such a hurry. After he’d gone she’d been drawn into a discussion about wedding flowers for the marquee, and had soon been forced to make her own excuses for leaving the table.
Gingerly she moved her injured foot under the duvet before swinging her legs out of bed and testing it on the floor. Happy that she could put some weight on it, she pulled on her robe and then, with the aid of the stick Sam had given her, made her way quietly down to the kitchen.
She’d just made a pot of tea when the door opened and Cormac came in.
‘Good morning.’
He looked fresh in his jeans and tee shirt. Caught in his steady gaze, she blushed. Her silk robe suddenly felt too loose and she tugged it around herself, knotting the belt firmly. ‘Oh, good morning. I—I wasn’t expecting to meet anyone...’
He glanced at her foot. ‘How’s the ankle?’
A trace of his scent reached her through the air and she remembered the day before, how it had felt to be held in his arms. ‘It’s a bit better, thanks. I managed the stairs, anyway.’
‘Well, don’t overdo it.’ He pulled out a chair and motioned for her to sit down. ‘You need to keep the weight off it.’
Milla lowered herself onto the chair and watched as he lifted two cups from the dresser. The skin at the back of his neck was golden, his hair neatly clipped. She wished she could stop noticing him in that way. It was unsettling—and pointless. After Dan, she wasn’t interested in falling for anyone else. She’d only find more rejection, more hurt. If she could just get away from Calcarron House and be on her own again, then everything would be all right.
He put a mug of tea in front of her. ‘I thought I’d make an early start; go up to the bothy to look at the water pipe, although I’m not sure when you’ll be able—’
Her pulse quickened—this was her ticket to freedom. ‘Please take me with you!’
His brow furrowed. ‘You’re in no state to go back—’
‘I’ll be fine. Really. I can’t stay here.’ It was hard to keep the emotion out of her voice. ‘You’ve all been so kind, but I need to be at the bothy—I need to be on my own. Can’t you understand? Even with my own room here I’m still in a house full of people—and there’s all this wedding stuff going on... I mean, your family doesn’t need to be worrying about me as well. Please, Cor...’
‘I don’t think—’
She clutched at desperate straws. ‘Just for this morning, then...like a trial period...while you fix the water. If I can’t manage I’ll be honest about it and I’ll come back, but, please, let me try.’
Cormac sighed and folded his arms. ‘All right, but I’m not taking your stuff back because I don’t think you’re ready to manage on your own. If you prove me wrong, then I’ll bring your bag up later. Deal?’
She resisted the urge to hobble across the room and hug him. ‘Deal. You’ve no idea how happy I am.’
His eyes held the suggestion of a smile. ‘If I were you I’d drink that tea quickly and get ready to go, because I’m certain that if anyone finds out what we’re planning there’ll be an uproar. I’ll fill some bottles of water to take with us.’
* * *
At Calcarron, she’d let Cormac help her into the Jeep, but at Strathburn she was determined to show her independence from the outset, and insisted on making her own way to the bothy door. Inside, she was instantly claimed by the sense of peace and belonging she’d felt when she’d first arrived, and she found herself smiling as she hobbled into the studio.
When Cormac came in a few moments later he had that strange, hazy look in his eyes which she found so disconcerting.
‘I’ve put the water bottles on the counter in the kitchen, in case you want to make coffee. I’ll be up the hill if you need me.’
She pushed the hair away from her face and smiled. ‘Thanks, but I’ll be doing my best not to need you—otherwise you’ll never believe that I can manage on my own.’
His eyes lingered on hers for a moment and then he smiled briefly. ‘Right, I’d better get on, then.’ He took a backward step, then turned and disappeared through the door.
She was relieved when he’d gone. Perhaps it was the light in the studio which mesmeri
sed her, giving his eyes that faraway look that turned her inside out.
She opened her folder of urban portraits and spread them out on the bench, but the images quickly blurred. She shook herself and picked up each photograph in turn. Was she imagining it, that feeling that maybe Cormac liked her? Or was it wishful thinking—a silly fantasy? She sighed. This was all Dan’s fault. He’d made her feel so unlovable that the idea of being liked by someone else—even Cormac—was compelling. That was it! That would explain all these feelings she was having.
She selected a photograph and put the others aside. Of course Cormac was very attractive and capable—and they both liked Monty Python—but he was also rather aloof. It had been quite easy to persuade him to bring her back to the bothy, so he obviously wasn’t that keen to have her around at the house.
As she set her pencils and paper out on the bench, she felt clearer in her head. She’d been imagining things about Cormac that weren’t real, all to boost her own bruised ego. Cormac had no interest in her and she had no interest in him. If she could convince him that she’d be perfectly fine at the bothy by herself she’d be free, and wouldn’t have to endure another family dinner filled with wedding talk.
Scudding grey-white clouds rolled across the blue sky as Cormac climbed upwards, following the pipe towards the water tank. He’d fix the water today, no matter how long it took, because then Milla would be able to stay at the bothy. It was what she wanted and it was what he wanted too.
An image filled his head—tousled hair framing her perfect face, the swell of her breasts against the blue silk robe as she’d cinched it around her slender waist. She was an unwelcome distraction and, no matter how high he built his fences, she kept finding a way over them.
The infinite depths of her eyes...the curve of her cheek...her mouth...her smile. He’d thought he was immune until yesterday, when he’d carried her back to the house. With her arms around his neck and her head against his she’d destroyed his barricade and planted a seed of longing which was now growing and twisting inside him like a vine.
He didn’t want to feel like this. Yearning for something he couldn’t have. It would be so easy to fall in love with Milla, but he couldn’t let it happen. She deserved a hero, and he was a mess. He couldn’t open up, he was cynical and moody, and he couldn’t sleep for the nightmares which made him judder and sweat.
At least she seemed oblivious to the effect she was having on him. Her ignorance was the only card he had left, and he had every intention of keeping it close to his chest.
He reached the tank and plunged his hand into the icy water to check the filter. Battling his attraction to Milla wasn’t the only thing he had on his mind. Last night his father had made an unsubtle allusion to family being ‘hands-on’ at Calcarron. There were new ideas for diversification on the estate, and of course he was interested, but he wasn’t ready to leave the army. He had to prove to himself that he could go back into the field, and until he’d done that he’d be no use to his father.
He found a tuft of sheep’s wool clogging the pipe near a joint halfway down the hill—it must have been sucked into the outlet through the damaged filter he’d found in the tank. He’d have to replace the filter with a new one, but for now, with the water flowing again, Milla would be able to stay on at Strathburn and that would make them both happy.
He’d go and tell her, then go back to Calcarron.
When he entered the bothy he was greeted by an intoxicating aroma of brewing coffee. ‘Hi! Milla?’
She appeared in the studio doorway wearing a vest top, her cardigan knotted loosely around her hips.
He ran a hand across his forehead and concentrated on her eyes. ‘The water’s fixed. If you think you’ll be okay, I’ll leave you to it.’
‘That’s fantastic news.’ She smiled hesitantly. ‘I made coffee. Would you like some?’ Strands of hair curled at the side of her neck where they’d broken free from her chignon and she pushed them away carelessly.
In his head he’d definitely been thinking no to coffee, but what came out of his mouth was, ‘Yes, coffee would be great!’
She limped over to the cafetière, poured two mugs and handed them to him. ‘Shall we go outside? It’s so warm in the studio that I could use some fresh air.’
She picked up a sketchbook from the counter and went ahead of him onto the deck. He watched her ribcage rise as she breathed in the cool air, saw tiny goosebumps springing to life on her smooth arms and wondered why he’d agreed to stay. He could be halfway back to Calcarron by now.
She parked herself on the edge of the hammock and took the mug he handed to her. An uneasy light played across her eyes and he turned away, concentrating on the view as he sipped his coffee. ‘So...how’s the work coming along?’
Her sigh was heavy. ‘To be honest, I’m having a bit of a meltdown.’
He shot her a curious glance. She’d seemed so confident about her work when she’d been talking about it at dinner.
‘You see, I... I lost my way for a while with the work I was doing, and my tutor suggested that I try something different.’ She sipped her coffee slowly. ‘At the time it seemed like good advice, but now I’m not so sure. I’m working on a series of urban portraits, but I’m struggling with it because in truth I’m a country girl. I’ve got this exhibition coming up, and the pressure of that is making things worse.’
Her confessional tone was snagging his curiosity, but he couldn’t allow himself to be interested.
He drained his mug. ‘I’m sorry about that. I’ll get out of your way and let you concentrate.’
‘No! Please wait.’
The catch in her voice pulled him up short.
‘I want to show you something—will you come and sit for a minute?’
He didn’t want to sit beside her, but she’d picked up her sketchpad and she was gazing at him with expectant eyes. He set down his mug and joined her on the hammock.
She opened the book to a view he recognised straight away: Calcarron House. Perfectly proportioned, perfectly situated, with the hills rising behind and above a spectacular sky pierced by a shaft of sunlight. It was a simple pencil sketch, but it took his breath away.
He lifted his eyes to hers. ‘This is wonderful, Milla. Stunning.’
She smiled. ‘Yesterday I made five sketches in two hours, and I never noticed the time passing because I loved what I was doing. When my tutor turned me towards portraiture it was because...’ She fell silent for a moment. ‘Anyway, he was wrong. I’m a landscape artist. It’s what I’ve always been. I need scenery and grand views, tones and textures.’ She pinned him with a wide green gaze. ‘The trouble is, I can’t get anywhere with a twisted ankle...’
Cormac felt something like the start-up lurch of a runaway train. Her hand was on his arm, lustrous eyes locked on his, and he knew he’d have to stamp on the brakes immediately.
He lifted her hand from his arm and rose to his feet. ‘No way! I’m not taking you on some crazy art safari. You can barely walk, and I’ve got a dance floor to lay in the marquee.’
‘Please, Cor. Just two hours of your time is all I’m asking. If you take me to some good places I’ll sketch quickly, and then I promise I’ll stay out of your way for the rest of my time here.’
He stared at her in disbelief. She was actually serious. ‘No! I don’t have the time and it’ll make your ankle worse.’
Her eyes held him fast. ‘It won’t—if you get me to the right spots I’ll hardly have to walk at all... What do I have to do to persuade you?’
‘You won’t persuade me.’
He watched as she fingered her sketchbook, then he saw a smile slowly lighting up her face.
‘You like this sketch of Calcarron House, don’t you? What about if I scale this up into a painting? You could keep it for yourself, or maybe Rosie would like it as a wedding present...’
A paintin
g of Calcarron House for Rosie would be the perfect wedding gift. There was no way he could refuse her now. She’d played the ace and won.
* * *
Milla gave in to the jolting motion of the four-by-four as they progressed along the track. Cormac seemed to know the depth of every rut, handling the vehicle with a skill that she felt sure her father would admire. His eyes were trained on the view ahead and there was something about the firmness of his jaw which betrayed—what? Irritation?
Not once had he looked at her, and she couldn’t blame him. She’d manipulated him shamelessly, but she’d had no choice. She hadn’t lied when she’d told him she was in a panic. The portraits weren’t working. She had to change course quickly if she had any hope of completing her exhibition pieces, and Cormac was the only one who could help her do it.
Secretly she studied his hands on the wheel. Tanned, capable hands, with neatly trimmed nails. The same hands that had gently examined her injuries before lifting her into strong arms.
His body against hers had felt hard and warm, the scent of his skin inexplicably intoxicating. She’d breathed him in as he walked, clenching her hands ever tighter to stop herself from sliding her fingers over the curve of his bicep and caressing the smooth skin at the back of his neck.
She lifted her eyes to his face. His lips were pressed together in concentration and she moistened her own, wondering for a moment how those lips would feel against hers. Gentle, tender, urgent, perhaps... The thought of it made her dizzy.
What was happening to her? In the studio she’d almost convinced herself that she had no interest in him, yet here she was again, fantasising. What was it about Cormac Buchanan that moved her? He’d never flirted with her—in fact he was locked down so tight she was surprised he could even breathe. Nonetheless, something about his proximity was making her insides churn, and as he brought the vehicle to a halt she reached for the door handle with relief.
In front of her stretched a vaguely familiar plateau dominated by five standing stones. The distant mountains had faded to a purple haze, and above them a multitude of dramatic cloud formations shifted through the sky. As the breeze whipped at her cheeks Milla could almost hear the chanting voices of an ancient ritual being carried on the wind and she felt her spirit reaching out.
