by Ella Hayes
CHAPTER NINE
THE FIRST THING he noticed was the stab of sunshine slicing through the mezzanine. The second thing he noticed was the sound of Milla’s gentle breathing. He turned over and lost himself in the view. She looked like an angel, with a golden tangle of hair spilling across the pillow and around her face. Momentarily her lips moved, as if in prayer, and he felt a strange wave of euphoria building in his chest. She sighed softly and reached a hand to his shoulder, then fell back into her dreams.
Her hand felt warm, and he remembered the way she’d touched him just hours ago, her slow kisses trailing down his abdomen. He felt a flicker of desire and closed his eyes. Was this happiness really his to own?
He moved a lock of hair away from her face and wondered if she’d soothed his spirit as well as his body and his heart. The nightmares hadn’t come. For the first time in months he hadn’t woken up in a pool of Duncan’s blood, screaming his fury into the darkening desert sky.
He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Was Emma managing to move on with her life now? Was she coping?
He felt ashamed. If he’d been in touch more often he’d know how she was, but lately he’d kept his distance. He’d tried to be there for her, but Duncan had died on his watch and he saw it in her eyes every time she looked at him. He was so tired of the guilt. It was always simmering, ready to break the surface and throw him into turmoil. Seeing Emma’s pain had simply become unbearable.
He glanced at the bedside clock. No one would ask him about his overnight absence, but he would limit the damage if he could slip into the house before anyone was awake.
As if she could sense his intention, Milla’s fingers flexed on his shoulder and she opened sleepy eyes.
‘Don’t go.’
He shifted closer and pulled her into his arms. ‘I don’t want to, but I’ve got to get back.’
She pressed her lips to his neck. ‘Will I see you later?’
He buried his lips into her hair. ‘Wild horses wouldn’t stop me.’
She pulled away and touched his mouth. ‘This is new...’
He laughed. ‘What?’
She traced the outline of his lips with her finger. ‘This smile.’ She eyed him mischievously. ‘You should wear it more often. It suits you.’
* * *
‘You’re up early!’ Rosie plonked herself down at the kitchen table and pulled her hair into an elastic band.
Cormac sighed. He’d been hoping for some time alone. He lifted a second mug off the dresser. ‘So are you. Do you want coffee?’
She nodded, pulling and pushing at her hairstyle. ‘I’m too wired to sleep. There seems to be so much to do and I keep thinking I’ve forgotten something.’
He shook his head. ‘The only thing that really matters is that Fraser pitches up—preferably on time. Everything else is decoration.’ He poured coffee into their mugs and added milk.
Rosie lifted an eyebrow. ‘You’d better watch your step—telling a designer that “everything else is decoration” is like waving a red rag at a bull... By the way, you’re humming.’
He felt a little ripple of shock. He hadn’t noticed himself humming. ‘Sorry.’
She sighed. ‘I haven’t heard you hum in a long time.’
He handed her a mug. ‘I’m limbering up for the hymns. Consider it a wedding gift—the gift of not embarrassing your sister with bad singing on her wedding day: priceless.’
She sipped her coffee and eyed him quizzically. ‘Ah—humour. Humming and humour. You remind me of a brother I had once...’
There was something unsettling about her expression. Was the change in him so obvious? He’d barely had time to get used to the idea of Milla himself, without being forensically examined by Rosie, but he could see the cogs in her brain turning and he grew wary.
‘You haven’t had dinner with us for two nights in a row...’
His unease intensified.
‘You were wearing those clothes yesterday...’
She was scrutinising his face now, and he knew that she wasn’t going to let it go.
‘You haven’t shaved this morning—’
‘Rosie, would you just stop, please? I don’t want—’
She put her mug down and pinned him with a wide blue stare. ‘It’s Milla, isn’t it?’
* * *
Milla set down her brush and stood back. This new painting was as dramatic as the last one, but her motivating passion and inspiration came from a different place. It was an abstract work of jutting rocks in a stormy landscape, a brilliant sliver of light dissecting the inky clouds, trailing skeins of silver across the heavy sky. It represented her feelings for Cormac, and already she could feel its power.
She smiled to herself. She couldn’t stop smiling this morning. Cormac had found a home in her heart and nothing had ever felt so perfect. A fizzing happiness tingled in her veins every time she thought of him.
She traced a finger over her lower lip, remembering the warmth of his mouth on her neck, the delicious shock of his skin against hers, the long, slow kisses that had turned her inside out. The way his body had fitted to hers, the way he’d taken his time and loved her so completely, until she was aching from the sweetness of it. The way that she had seen forever in his eyes.
Afterwards, he’d wrapped her in his arms and they’d talked into the night.
She’d told him more about Colleen’s influence on her decision to become an artist, about the galleries they’d visited together even when Colleen had been dying. She’d cried a little when she’d told him how much she still missed her, and she’d laughed a little remembering her father’s efforts to step into her mother’s shoes. His woeful attempts at plaiting her hair for school, how he’d tried to make her favourite apple dumplings the way her mother had.
Cormac had told her about the work he’d been doing all over the world: sinking boreholes to supply clean water for communities in Sierra Leone, stabilising buildings in war-torn cities, setting things to rights wherever and whenever he could. He’d said he still had nightmares about the attack in the desert, but he hadn’t talked more about Duncan and she hadn’t pushed him—he would tell her in his own time.
She shook herself back to the moment. She’d promised Cormac a picture of Calcarron for Rosie’s wedding present and she intended to keep her word, but she’d need to look at the scene again, make notes for colours, maybe take some photos on her phone.
She felt her mouth quirking into little smile. And if she bumped into Cormac while she was there then so much the better—their lovemaking had intensified her feelings for him and she was missing him already.
* * *
This morning the village sparkled, washed clean by the storm. Lingering puddles reflected the cobalt sky while petunias glistened in saturated hanging baskets. A man was sweeping the pavement outside the hotel. A postman clicked through a gate with a bag hanging off his shoulder.
As she drove along the main street these small scenes of village life warmed Milla’s soul. On these streets there was a sense of quiet indifference to the outside world. Perhaps it was simple geography—London stood in awe of its own landmarks, but here everything was humbled by the landscape.
Today she felt no trepidation as she drove through the gates to Calcarron House. She was happy to be there. And as the big house came into view she was struck with how resplendent it looked in the slanting sunshine. Two new planters had been installed on either side of the grand entrance: twin box trees clipped into tidy spirals, their precision carelessly ignored by the scrambling clematis which flexed its milky petals against the mellow stone.
She parked and jumped down from the driver’s seat. Looking across the lawn to the huge marquee, it dawned on her just how magnificent Rosie’s wedding was going to be. Blinded by her own antipathy, she hadn’t paid attention before, but now she could see the true scale of the wedding being organised her
e, could feel the buzz of excitement in the air, and to her astonishment she realised that her negative feelings had disappeared.
She was even contemplating a closer inspection of the marquee when a pair of hands covered her eyes. She squealed in fright, then laughed as Cormac spun her round.
‘This is a nice surprise! What are you doing here?’
His smile was the smile from the photograph, and as she looked at him she felt a surge of happiness. ‘I promised you a painting for Rosie, so I thought I’d better get on with it—there’s not much time.’
His eyes filled with concern. ‘But what about your own work? I wasn’t going to hold you to a pledge made under desperate circumstances.’
The way he was looking at her made her wish that they weren’t standing in plain view of the house. ‘I knew you’d say that, but I want to do it, Cor—for you.’
He glanced at the marquee. ‘I could spare half an hour—do you want me to carry your sketchbook?’
She felt her lips curving into a smile. ‘That would be great—because, as you know, it’s rather heavy.’
He leaned into the vehicle, pulled out her bag and threw it over his shoulder. ‘Okay, then, let’s get out of here.’
They walked towards the loch, then took the path that wound its way through the trees. When they were hidden from view he dropped the bag and pulled her into his arms.
‘You wouldn’t believe how much I’ve missed you.’
He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb and then his mouth was on hers, warm and urgent. He kissed her until her insides were churning, then released her breathlessly.
She slipped her hands to his face, drank in the light in his eyes. ‘I would, because I’ve missed you too.’
He sighed and pressed his forehead to hers. ‘I should warn you—Rosie guessed where I was last night.’
Her stomach knotted. She hadn’t given a thought to his family or how they might react. She suddenly wished she hadn’t told Sam that she’d been engaged—she hadn’t told Sam the whole story and a broken engagement could make her seem flaky.
‘And—?’
He released her and stepped back, his eyes serious. ‘You have to understand that my family see me as some kind of invalid. They want me to be healed, so they’re grateful for any small miracles.’
‘Is that what they think I am? It sounds like a lot to live up to.’
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her hair. ‘Don’t worry. Rosie’s under strict instructions not to make anything of it. I don’t want us to be the centre of attention.’
She lifted her face to look at him. ‘There’s a big wedding going on—Rosie’s going to be the centre of attention. No one’s going to take any notice of us.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ He picked up her bag and took her hand. ‘Come on. I can’t stay away too long. Deliveries are coming in thick and fast and I’m on inventory duty.’
* * *
Milla sat on the boulder she’d used before and pulled the sketchpad onto her knee. She had the bones of Rosie’s painting in her head, but she needed to pin down colour and tone.
She was sketching outlines and making notes when she became aware of Cormac’s gaze. She looked up. He was sitting a short distance away, throwing little stones into the water, but his eyes were trained on her.
She tried to ignore the tiny throb of longing she could feel in her veins. ‘I can’t work if you stare at me like that.’
‘I can’t help it.’ He got to his feet and came to stand behind her. ‘I want to see what you’re doing.’
She tipped her head back to look at him. ‘It’s mostly outlines and notes about colour—it’s not that interesting.’
He leaned over, grazed her forehead with his lips, then straddled the boulder behind her. His voice was a low murmur in her ear. ‘I think it’s very interesting.’
She felt his arms around her waist hugging her closer. She could feel the warmth of his chest against her back.
She feigned irritation. ‘I won’t be able to concentrate if you’re sitting behind me.’
He ran his hands slowly down her arms and covered her hands with his. ‘Show me how you draw. I see you doing that thing with the pencil where you hold it up and squint and I don’t know what you’re doing.’
The feel of his body was distracting, and she fought the urge to turn and pull his mouth to hers. ‘All right. If I show you one thing will you let me get on with the rest?’
He brushed warm lips against her ear. ‘Maybe...’
‘Okay. We’ll need a new page.’
She was turning the page when a sudden gust of wind whipped back several pages at once, revealing a half-finished pencil portrait.
He leaned across her shoulder and reached for the book. ‘It’s me...’
She stared at the drawing, as astonished as he was, and then she remembered. Yesterday, at the ridge, she’d been thinking about him, doodling with her pencil. She hadn’t even been conscious of what she’d been drawing, just like that first time.
She tilted her head to one side, trying to decide if it was good or not. ‘Don’t let it go to your head...’
‘You told me you don’t like doing portraits.’
She twisted around to look at him, felt the heat of his slow-burn stare. ‘That’s right. I must have been very distracted.’
He lifted a hand to her face and brushed her lips with his. ‘Are you distracted now?’
She felt her lips curving into a smile. ‘Not yet, but I have a feeling that’s about to change...’
* * *
At the edge of the treeline, Cormac pulled her into his arms for a last kiss. The thought of her going back to the bothy was suddenly unbearable. ‘Will you come in for coffee before you go?’
‘I shouldn’t. I need to get this painting done—otherwise it’ll still be wet when you give it to the happy couple.’
He buried his lips into her hair. ‘They won’t be opening any presents until they come back from honeymoon—you’ve got time for coffee. The bottom line is, I don’t want you to go.’
He felt her face nuzzling into his neck. ‘I don’t want to go either, so I guess that’s a yes to coffee.’
It was immediately obvious to Cormac that Rosie had told his mother. Lily was arranging flowers in a vase at the kitchen table and had carefully avoided meeting his eye when they’d come in. Instead, she was directing her full attention to Milla, asking about her ankle and how things were going with her painting.
He watched from the sidelines, preoccupied with his own thoughts. He knew he was falling for Milla, but he didn’t feel ready to share it—it seemed pre-emptive. At the same time, he couldn’t really blame Rosie for betraying his confidence. His family had been concerned about him ever since Duncan had died. Milla was the miracle they’d been waiting for—she was his proof of life.
‘I’m getting into my stride now and I’m enjoying it,’ Milla was saying. ‘The studio at the bothy is wonderful—such a lovely space.’
He watched his mother poke a stout fern into the vase behind a bright orange daisy.
‘Well, that’s good to hear.’ She looked up at Milla and smiled. ‘It’s so nice to see you here again...’
He could see that Milla was finally catching on, picking up the subtext in Lily’s gently enquiring tone. He intervened quickly. ‘Milla was sketching down by the loch. I asked her in for coffee before she goes back to Strathburn.’
Lily met his gaze for the first time. ‘I see.’
‘They’re lovely flowers.’ Milla was trying to change the subject.
‘The wedding florist had some extras. I thought they’d look nice in the hall—a splash of colour for our guests.’ Lily lifted the vase off the table. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’
As soon as she’d gone Milla rushed to his side. ‘Does she know?’
‘Yes. I’ll have to remember to thank Rosie for her discretion.’
Milla’s eyes widened. ‘She probably didn’t mean—Are you okay?’
He nodded and reached for her hand, chafing her fingers gently in his. He wondered, after all, if it would be easier to go with the flow than to hide in the shadows.
He was still thinking about it when the door swung open and his mother came back in. He released Milla’s hand instantly, but saw the tell-tale creases forming in Lily’s cheeks as, with brisk movements, she started clearing the table of debris from her flower arranging.
‘Do you know, I’ve just been wondering...?’ She looked up, a smile finally breaking across her features. ‘Milla, would you like to come to the wedding tomorrow?’
He hadn’t seen it coming, and it was obvious that Milla hadn’t either; words were pouring from her mouth in a rapid stream.
‘Oh, no... I couldn’t possibly... I mean, it’s very kind of you to invite me, but I have a lot to do and—’
‘You should come.’
The sound of his own voice shocked him. He felt two pairs of eyes swivel in his direction. He glanced at Lily. She’d blindsided him with her well-meaning gesture, forced him out of the shadows, but maybe it was okay.
He looked into Milla’s face. ‘I can guarantee that it’ll be a great wedding.’
He watched her brow wrinkling in a question. ‘I—Do you want me to come?’
He wanted to pull her close and kiss her, but instead he nodded. ‘Yes, I do.’
Her eyes misted over, then she broke away from his gaze and turned to Lily. ‘I’m flattered to be asked, and actually I would love to come, but there’s a tiny problem. I’ve got nothing to wear that’s suitable for a wedding. I mean, walking boots just won’t cut it, will they?’
* * *
The issue of what to wear would be resolved easily, Lily declared, courtesy of Rosie’s overflowing wardrobe.
‘You’re a similar size. I’m sure we’ll find something beautiful. What’s your shoe size?’
