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.’
‘Well, I suppose getting married is a big thing.’ Milla tried to meet Sam’s gaze squarely. ‘She wants everything to be perfect—I can understand that.’
When Sam had gone, Milla returned to her sketchbook, but her thoughts quickly wandered. Cormac had sent Sam with firewood so that she wouldn’t be cold—he must have come in earlier to check the temperature in the room. She supposed checking such things was par for the course in a house used for hospitality; it didn’t mean he’d been thinking about her in any special way.
She picked up her pencil, gazed at it blankly, then threw it down. The room was cool—no wonder she couldn’t concentrate. She’d have to wait for it to warm up.
To fill time, she crossed to the bookcase and inspected a collection of photos in silver frames. They were mostly family pictures, and photos of shooting parties, but there was one in particular that caught her eye and she lifted it into the light to look more closely.
Taken in the desert, it was a photograph of Cormac and a friend in fatigues—arms slung around each other’s shoulders, all sunshine and wide smiles. She gazed at Cormac’s face, marvelling that he could own such a smile. Certainly she’d never seen it.
She put the frame back and rubbed at her arms. She hadn’t been surprised to discover that he was in the military. He had the honed physique and powerful air of the ultra-fit. Sam had sounded awkward about Afghanistan, though, and it sparked a memory of what she’d overheard in the village shop—something about Cormac ‘not being right’.
Mary had said something else too... ‘He’ll have to let it go sooner or later...you can’t carry that stuff around with you for ever.’
Milla’s heart stalled. Something bad must have happened—something that burdened him with the weight of sadness she’d seen in his eyes when he’d stopped to help her on the road.
She felt a strange shifting sensation beneath her feet. Standing in front of the fire he’d arranged for her, all of her preconceptions about Cormac started to shuffle like a deck of cards. She’d been gazing through the lens of her own sadness for so long that it had made her blind. Cormac was adept at maintaining a polite distance, but for the first time since she’d met him she began to realise that, just like her, he might have reasons for being the way he appeared to be.
‘Milla’s cute.’
The memory of Milla pretending to read the upside-down newspaper on the kitchen table made Cormac want to laugh, but the impulse drained away when he remembered how unsure of himself he felt in her company, how guarded he had to be. Even the simplest conversation felt like a minefield; he never knew where it was safe to tread.
He slotted the leg beam into the base plate of the marquee and tried to sound ambivalent. ‘She’s temperamental, is what you mean.’
Sam shook his head. ‘Not at all. She’s lovely.’
Cormac looked up, saw his brother’s eyes gleaming with a familiar devilment.
‘Maybe she just prefers me to you.’
He remembered Milla chatting to Sam at the dinner table the night before, their effortless amiability. ‘That’s highly likely.’
‘She seemed quite touched that you’d sent me up with logs for the fire, though.’ Sam’s gaze was loaded. ‘She said to thank you.’
He knew what Sam was driving at and he felt his patience wearing thin. ‘The room needed an airing, that’s all. Look, I think the guys need some help over there.’
Sam sighed. ‘Righto. I’ll see you in a bit.’
Cormac watched Sam’s back as he walked away. His brother was only trying to nudge him into the light. It was what they all tried to do, every time he was here. They wanted him to draw a line under what had happened and move on, but he couldn’t turn off his grief with a switch.
That was why he didn’t come back to Calcarron very often. He knew his family was concerned about him, but he couldn’t bear the weight of their subtle scrutiny, turning him over, looking for signs that he was on the mend. He wouldn’t mend, and he wished they’d accept it the way he’d accepted it.
Seeing his best friend cut down right in front of him was an image he couldn’t shake off, but he’d had to hold it together that day for the sake of his men. He’d stowed his anguish and followed procedure, got them to safety, brought Duncan’s body home.
He’d devised a strategy for coping. The trick was to keep the world at arm’s length, to stay locked down tight and not let anyone in.
That was why Milla unsettled him. Whatever hurt she’d suffered that made her so touchy about weddings had stirred his protective instincts. The pain she’d tried to hide had diverted his attention from his own burdens and moved him to help her. After his outburst at dinner, the look in her eye had told him that she knew what he’d been doing. For the first time since Duncan’s death he’d been blown wide open, and he’d had to escape. He hadn’t been able to bear to meet her eye again for fear that next time she’d see right through him.
He picked up another cross-brace, grateful for the physical work. Concentrating on one task after another would stop him thinking. Thinking only tied him in knots. Afghanistan, pressure from his father about taking over at Calcarron and now, quite unexpectedly, Milla O’Brien. Better to focus on constructing the marquee. Much safer.
Milla’s pencil rasped across the sketchpad, the lines and arcs forming a cheekbone, an eye socket, a nose. A sudden dog’s bark startled her, and her pencil threw out a jagged line. She sighed, blew a strand of hair off her face and worked an eraser over the paper.
Since Sam had brought the firewood no one had disturbed her, but she could feel a restless energy thrumming through the walls of the great house, and the random yells, clangs and barking from outside were distracting. If she’d been at the bothy...
But why even think about that? She was a guest at Calcarron House and, as such, she felt like a fish out of water.
She threw down her sketchpad and walked to the window. Cormac had been right—the day was turning out to be fine. Perhaps a walk would help, and when she got back she’d make a cup of tea and bring it up. Two small acts of independence, but absolutely necessary if she was going to survive until tomorrow.
Grabbing a jacket from her room, she crept along the corridor and padded quietly down the grand staircase. From a room off the main hall she could hear Lily on the telephone, and from a room close by the sound of confident female voices—Rosie and her bridesmaids. When she heard footsteps on the move she hurried through the main door. She didn’t want to bump into anyone.
Outside, a faint warmth teased the sweet fragrance of damp grass into the air. If the clouds lifted it would be a lovely day. Self-consciously, she picked her way along a path leading from the house across the wide lawn. Some distance away, the marquee team were assembling the vast metal frame, but she kept her eyes forward, trying not to think about the traditional canvas marquee she’d chosen for her own wedding.
The dogs ran across the lawn to greet her, then trailed along beside her as she left the garden and joined a track leading into the stretch of woodland that ran alongside the loch. As she walked through green shade, breathing in the soft air, she felt the tension sliding from her shoulders.
She watched the dogs snuffling through tall ferns and bramble thickets, felt the first rays of sunshine filtering through the clouds and for the first time since she’d arrived felt happy. She walked on, enjoying the rhythm of her own stride and the sound of birds in the trees.
When the path merged with the loch shore at a small, stony beach the dogs ran into the water and stumbled about in the shallows with wagging tails and dripping tongues.
Milla made her way over the stones to a large boulder, where she could sit and take in the view. From here, looking back, she could see how grand Calcarron House really was. The prospect of owning it one day should make Cormac happy, yet he seemed not to be, and she wondered why.
A sudden shaft of sunlight split the clouds over the loch and she shook Cormac out of her head. She had enough problems of her own—not least of which was recording this spectacular fusion of light and landscape before the breeze lifted the cloud away. She patted her pockets and felt a glow of satisfaction. It was a useful habit she’d cultivated, to keep a small sketchbook and pencil in every jacket she owned.
She flipped to a new page and started to sketch the house, the loch and the mountains in all that glorious light.
By the time she’d finished the dogs were dozing in the shade. She hadn’t been inclined to rush back because she’d been enjoying the sound of the water and the sight of the shifting skies, but now she was stiff from sitting and hungry too. She pocketed her sketchbook and eased herself off the rock, planting her feet on a stable boulder beneath.
Alerted by her movement, the dogs scrambled up and bounded across to see her, tails wagging with excitement.
‘Steady on, you silly creatures, you’re going to—’
But it was too late. Their clamouring bodies were knocking her off balance. Her left foot slipped into the water and then she was falling sideways, barely having time to cry out in pain before she landed on the stones.
The marquee was up and the jubilant crew had downed tools to go for a tea break. Cormac was about to follow them inside when he caught sight of the dogs, trotting across the lawn towards him. He frowned and looked past them to the edge of the grounds, where the path disappeared into the woods. He’d seen Milla heading that way a couple of hours ago, with the dogs in tow, but there was no sign of her following them back.
When Tyler arrived at his side he rubbed the broad black head, but the dog pulled away and nosed his hand, whining softly. Cormac dropped to his knees and fondled the dog’s ears.
‘What is it, boy? Where’s Milla? Did you leave her behind?’
Tyler pawed his arm and whined again.
Once more Cormac looked across the lawn towards the trees, searching for Milla’s bright red jacket, but there was no sign of her. He rose to his feet and sighed. She was probably just dawdling, but the dog was acting strangely—strangely enough for his sense of duty to kick in. He’d go and check to see if she was coming. If he saw her, he could always retreat, then she’d never know he’d been looking for her.
With the dogs at his heels he struck out across the lawn. He moved quickly along the track, scanning from left to right, but there was no sign of her. He tried to calculate how far she could have walked in a couple of hours, and was resigning himself to a long search when suddenly he caught a flash of red on the path up ahead.
He stopped, shrank back, then slipped off the path into the cover of the trees. He felt ridiculous, creeping about like this, but he didn’t want her to misconstrue his intentions. The dogs had come back without her, which was obviously a cause for concern. He told himself that anyone would be doing what he was doing—checking to make sure that a guest was all right. He was concerned for her wellbeing, nothing more.
He moved through the trees until he could see her more clearly. At first he thought she was sitting on a fallen log for a rest, but as he drew nearer he saw that her head and left hand were bloodied.
‘Milla!’
Without thinking, he broke cover and ran through the trees towards her. At the sound of his voice, she looked up with visible relief.
He reached her side, his heart pounding. ‘Are you okay? What happened?’
‘I slipped on the rocks near the edge of the loch.’ She smiled weakly. ‘I’m mighty glad to see you.’
He reached his fingers to her head. ‘May I?’
She moistened her lips and nodded. With a gentle finger he lifted the hair away from her forehead. There was a bruise, but the skin wasn’t broken. The smears of blood must have come from her hand. He opened her palm and examined the cut.
‘It probably stings, but it’s nothing much.’
She winced. ‘I know—“’tis but a scratch.”’
Before he could stop himself he was smiling. ‘“’Tis but a flesh wound.”’
She laughed softly. ‘You like Monty Python too.’
There was a gentle light in her eyes as she looked at him, a warmth in her voice that he hadn’t noticed before. He felt an explicable desire to touch her face, tuck the stray lock of hair behind her ear—the ear with those tiny studs which seemed to him like an insult to perfection.
He caught himself drifting and quickly rose to his feet. ‘Come on. We should go and clean up that cut.’
She shook her head slowly. ‘I can’t walk very well.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When I fell I wrenched my ankle. That’s the real problem. I’ve been hobbling down this path for ages, but I had to stop and rest because it hurt.’
Finally everything made sense. No wonder she’d looked so relieved when he’d arrived.
He drew in a breath. ‘Put your arms around my neck.’
‘You’re going to carry me?’
‘Well, I’m not calling the air ambulance. I can carry you, but you need to hold on.’
‘Okay.’
Her tone was reluctant, but he felt her arms sliding around his neck and he swung her up. She wasn’t heavy and settled naturally against him, as if she belonged there.
He adjusted his hold slightly. ‘How’s that?’
Her voice was husky. ‘It’s okay.’
Their faces were inches apart and for a moment he felt his senses swim. He forced himself to look ahead and start walking. He felt her grip tighten around his shoulders, noticed that her delicate fingers were curled into fists. Bemused, he focused on the dogs and the ruts in the track.
‘It’s a good thing that you were passing by...’
Her tone was casual, but he could read her intent. She was letting him know that she knew he’d come looking for her. He wondered how she always managed to lay him bare.
‘The dogs came back without you.’
‘I didn’t think anyone had noticed me leaving.’
He squinted at her. ‘You walked across the lawn in a bright red jacket.’
‘Ah! Of course.’
He walked on through the trees, his powerful strides taking them upwards as the path diverted around a rocky outcrop. He felt her eyes on his face.
‘You’re strong. Do you work at it?’
He stepped over an exposed tree root. He couldn’t very well dodge her question when she was fused closer to him than his own shadow. ‘I have to be fit...for my job.’
‘Oh, right—Sam mentioned it. You’re in the Army—a captain or something.’
‘Troop Commander—I’m in the Engineers.’ He wondered what else Sam had told her.
‘Well, it’s lucky for me that you’re so—Can I rest my head against you? It’s kind of hard, holding it away.’
She didn’t wait for him to answer but dropped her head against his. Her hair felt soft on his cheek, the clean scent of it filling his nostrils while her breath warmed his neck. He didn’t want to like it so much and lifted his head a little higher, ordering himself to ignore the sensory overload that was Milla O’Brien.
He felt her cheeks lifting into a smile. ‘I might have guessed you were a commander.’
‘Why?’
‘When you ordered me to get my wheel fixed you were kind of bossy.’
He tried to stop the smile twitching at the edges of his lips. ‘It’s important to have a working spare.’
‘I know that. My father’s a motor mechanic.’
He laughed. ‘No surprise there.’
‘How so?’
‘Not many girls I know can talk so knowledgeably about air ratchets.’
As she dropped her head against his and gave herself up to the rhythm of his stride Milla gritted her teeth against the pain in her ankle. Such a silly accident, getting tangled up with the dogs and losing her footing.
After the fall, when she’d tried to get up and realised what she’d done, she’d felt crushed—and not only because of the pain. She knew that Cormac’s family would never let her move to the bothy if she couldn’t walk, and the thought of staying at Calcarron House for even longer filled her with dismay.
If only she’d stayed in the studio instead of venturing out she wouldn’t be in this hopeless situation.
The movement of Cormac’s body against hers was playing havoc with her senses. The smell of his skin...the warm shift of his muscles as he held her. She had a curious urge to touch him, so she clenched her hands into fists so that she couldn’t—not even by accident. But there was something else bothering her as well.
When she’d heard his call, seen him running towards her, she’d felt strangely elated that he’d come to find her. The look she’d seen on his face... There’d been something intense about that moment, and when he’d lifted her into his arms she’d felt a deep contentment. Had Dan ever made her feel like that? She couldn’t seem to remember.
To interrupt her chaotic thoughts, she said, ‘Thanks for sending up the firewood.’
He glanced at her, then looked ahead. ‘It was nothing. The studio was cold—it’s not been used since my grandfather passed...’
His voice trailed away and Milla reflected on the hollow months after her mother’s death. The half-finished painting on the easel that they couldn’t bear to move; the floral wellingtons in the hall, gradually filling with spiders’ webs.
She pushed the memories away. ‘Lily was showing me some of your grandfather’s work. He was talented.’
Cormac’s voice faltered. ‘He never thought so, but he loved painting.’
They were coming out of the trees now, and the dogs scampered ahead towards the terrace where Cormac’s family appeared to be having afternoon tea. Seized by a sudden fear, Milla jerked her head away from his shoulder.
‘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.