MILLA SLID DOWN onto the decking with her mug in her hands. She’d hit another wall with her work and this time it was Cormac’s fault. How could she concentrate on anything after last night? How she’d craved the solitude of the bothy, but there was no peace here now. Only confusion and pain.
Why had she even asked him to stay and watch the lights with her? She had no answer, except that she’d enjoyed his company in the restaurant and then he’d become withdrawn. She’d seen that familiar pain in his eyes and she’d wanted to know more about him.
But she hadn’t intended to unravel him like a spool of thread.
When his eyes locked on hers it made her head spin. She’d wondered sometimes if he was drawn to her in some way too, but he’d taken her by surprise with his kiss, then surprised her again by backing off.
She sipped her coffee without tasting it. The way his mouth had felt on hers...the way he’d buried his hands in her hair... She could still feel the deep warmth of him, but she was a fool.
It’s not you. It’s me.
It was the oldest line in the book. He’d kissed her, then decided he didn’t want her. She put down her coffee. Another rejection... Perhaps she really was unlovable. And yet the way he’d looked at her, the way he’d pulled her against him... She’d thought she’d felt something real.
She wished she could talk to her mother. Colleen had understood people so well, seen things in them that Milla hadn’t. She wondered what her mother would advise her to do—and then she remembered how Colleen had said that you could only ever follow the road you were on in the best way you could.
It was how she’d accepted her illness, why she’d worn her bright scarves and carried on doing the things she loved until she hadn’t been able to do them any more.
Milla swiped at her cheeks with her hands and got to her feet. She would push through somehow. Prioritise work and forget everything else. Her ankle was improving—she was barely limping today. Perhaps she’d take her sketchbook and go out. Losing herself in the landscape would heal her spirit.
She was on her way inside when she heard the rumble of an engine. With a thumping heart she watched as a familiar vehicle appeared over the rise and descended towards the bothy. As it drew nearer she squinted at the windscreen, feeling both relief and disappointment when she saw Sam at the wheel.
He parked, jumped from the cab and hurried towards her. ‘Hi, Milla. How’s your foot?’
Sam was so easy to be around. She smiled. ‘Much better, thanks. I’m hardly limping today.’
‘That’s good.’ A sudden seriousness broke in his features. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’ve had a phone call at the house. Someone called Daniel Calder-Jones wants to speak to you—he says it’s urgent.’
She felt the colour draining from her face. ‘Daniel?’
Sam nodded. ‘Yes. I told him I’d come and fetch you. He wants you to call him straight back.’
She didn’t want to speak to Dan—urgent or not—but then she felt her heart stall. Had something happened at home? She dismissed the thought instantly. Her father would have called, or one of her brothers—they had the number for Calcarron House after all. No, Dan was calling about something else.
She felt a prickle of irritation. He’d probably lost the password for his online banking—in Dan’s world that would qualify as an emergency. But, whatever it was, if she went with Sam at least she’d be able to retrieve her own vehicle, which was still at the house. She only hoped she wouldn’t bump into Cormac.
She looked at Sam and frowned. ‘Okay...well, I suppose I’d better come with you.’
Cormac crouched down to check the connecting lugs on the last length of aluminium edging, then rose to his feet. The marquee company had done a good job, but his army training compelled him to check everything. He surveyed the gleaming parquet, scanning the surface for any gaps that might catch an unsuspecting stiletto heel, but it was perfect. Now he could move on to the exterior lighting. He needed to focus on his tasks and keep his thoughts tightly leashed. It was the only way he would get through the day.
Last night he’d lain awake for hours, then slept fitfully, his desert nightmares spiked with emerald skies and the taste of whiskey in her mouth. He should never have kissed her; he should never have allowed himself even to think of caring for her, but the worst of it was that she’d wanted him too.
He’d suddenly realised that he couldn’t let that happen—couldn’t let her develop feelings for him. He had nothing to give—and besides, he had every intention of going on tour again, and if was killed, like Duncan, then she’d be left alone, like Emma. He couldn’t do that to her. She’d already been through enough with Daniel.
The electrician was making his way across the lawn with a toolbox and nodded affably in Cormac’s direction as he passed. ‘We’ve got a nice dry day. If it holds, we’ll be rigged by late afternoon.’
Cormac nodded. ‘Great! I’m going to check the generator...’
His words trailed away at the sound of a fast-approaching vehicle and he watched as the Jeep barrelled into view and screeched to a halt at the main door. He was about to shout a reprimand when he realised that Sam was hurrying to the passenger side to open the door for someone, and when Milla eased herself down from the cab his heart stood still.
As if she could sense him she looked up, held his gaze, then turned away and followed Sam into the house.
Cormac’s heart was racing. What was she doing here? And why had she disappeared into the house in such a hurry?
As she’d gazed at him across the lawn he’d noticed the shadows under her eyes, the pallor of her skin. All his fault. He’d hurt her, and he couldn’t stand it.
He ran his hands through his hair and turned away from the house. He thought he’d patched up his armour and hardened his heart, but seeing her like this had thrown him into turmoil.
He closed his eyes, forced his breathing into a slower rhythm and started towards the generator shed. Then he stopped, turned, and strode back towards the house.
Milla stared at the number scrawled on the notepad. Whatever was going on, Dan was evidently still in Berlin. She glanced at the door. Sam had reassured her that she wouldn’t be disturbed, but she felt skittish. Seeing Cormac like that...and now calling Dan, not knowing what she was going to hear...
She took a deep breath and tapped out the number.
When he answered, his voice was low and smoky. ‘Milla, baby—why on earth have you buried yourself in the back of beyond? It’s taken me ages to track you down.’
He sounded all right—not injured or impaired. ‘What’s so urgent, Dan?’
‘Straight to the point, as always.’
She imagined him raking long fingers through his hair.
‘The truth is... I’ve been thinking things over and I realise I miss you. I miss you a lot.’
She hadn’t known what to expect, but it wasn’t this. ‘You miss me?’
‘I’m all over the place, Mills, and I can’t stop thinking about your beautiful face, the way you anchor me. My little rock...remember?’
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘What I remember is you throwing your “little rock” into the lake and letting it sink.’
‘I understand that you’re angry, but I’ll make it up to you.’
It was hard to keep her tone level. ‘What happened to Maria?’
There was a long silence. ‘She left.’
‘Ah! I suppose that happened when you told her how much you were missing me...?’
‘Don’t be like that.’
‘Like what? I’m just trying to get the facts straight, that’s all.’
‘Baby, please. I’m sorry. I made a massive mistake but I want to see you. I’ll come to Scotland—this weekend!’
She pictured his face. Blue eyes, dark lashes, the aquiline nose with its silver ring. She remembered the fizz of pure joy she’d felt when he proposed, the ring glittering on her finger, but suddenly she couldn’t remember why it had meant so much. Cormac’s face slipped into her thoughts. Her broken soldier. If he hadn’t bolted last night would she have rushed to call Dan back at all?
‘Please, Milla. Give me another chance.’
She was shaking her head slowly, even though she knew he couldn’t see. ‘There’d be no point.’
‘Why?’
‘There’d be no point because I don’t love you any more.’
‘You’re saying it’s too late?’ Even the tremor in his voice left her unaffected.
‘It is. Goodbye, Dan.’
Softly, she put down the receiver.
She leaned over the desk and cradled her head in her hands. She had no regrets about turning him down—quite the opposite. She had closure.
The sound of a footstep at the door startled her and she looked up sharply as Cormac came in. He froze, and for an endless moment their eyes locked. He was unshaven, tired around the eyes. She thought she heard him catch his breath.
‘I’m sorry—I didn’t know you were—’
Her heart was hammering against her ribcage and she prayed her voice wouldn’t tremble when she spoke. ‘Don’t worry. I was just leaving.’
She rose to her feet and took a step towards the door, but he was in the way and for some reason he wasn’t moving.
His eyes clouded. ‘I—Is everything okay...?’
She lifted her chin, tried to keep her tone cool and measured. ‘Everything is perfect, thank you—except you’re blocking the door.’
He opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, then closed it and stood back. As she walked past she caught the warm smell of him and it stirred the memory of his kiss, the delicious heat of his body crushed against hers. She felt light-headed. More than anything she wanted to turn around and demand an explanation, but instead she kept on walking and didn’t look back.
On a different day she would have noticed the play of dappled light under the trees that covered the track to Strathburn. She would have admired the lime-green stands of young ferns and the clusters of spikey sedge, but not today. Today a storm was gathering in her mind and Cormac was at its eye.
Before she’d gone to the house she’d resolved to put last night behind her, but seeing him, feeling the heat of him so close, had stirred up all that emotion again. He’d barely said a word, just dangled in the awkward silence with his unfathomable gaze.
Who was Cormac Buchanan, anyway? Just another incomprehensible male riding roughshod over her emotions?
She felt bruised. Blue and purple and red were the colours which exploded in her head as pain throbbed inside her, and on top a layer of festering, furious anger which felt like yellow or ochre.
At the bothy, she slammed out of the car and marched into the studio. She rammed her iPod onto the dock, setting the volume to max, then mixed the colours she could see in her head and set to work, recreating the landscape she’d sketched the day before.
She knew the shapes and shadows of those rocks and she worked into them the livid colours of her pain. At times she discarded her brushes and used her fingers to drag furious seams of colour across the canvas. She didn’t notice the time passing, or that she was thirsty. She didn’t notice her paint-spattered clothes. She was lost in her creation and she had no care for ever being found.
Cormac leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. He should have said something, but the right words wouldn’t come, and then she’d asked him to move away from the door and he’d had to let her go.
Her scent lingered in the air, dazing him, so that he couldn’t immediately remember why he’d come into the office—something to do with the hired generator.
He crossed to the desk and sank into the chair. He needed to concentrate. It was the hire agreement—there was something he wanted to check.
He reached for a stack of papers on the desk, then noticed the pad by the telephone. He picked it up. Daniel Calder-Jones and a number. Her ex-fiancé!
He had no claim on Milla, especially after last night, but that name drove a knife into his heart. She’d said it was over with Daniel, so why was she calling him?
He looked the note again, saw that it was Sam’s writing. Sam would know what was going on.
He found his brother in the marquee, frowning at the contents of a small box. ‘I think this order is wrong—Rosie’s going to have a fit.’
‘Is there a delivery note? I’ll call to sort out a replacement if it’s not right, so don’t panic.’
Sam grinned. ‘It’s not me who’ll be panicking.’ He squinted at the box. ‘I don’t even know what organza bags are.’
‘They’re gift bags—for favours.’ In spite of his dark mood, Sam’s quizzical gaze made him smile. He shrugged. ‘I had to fill over a hundred of them with whisky liqueurs on the morning of Duncan’s wedding—someone had forgotten to do it.’
He ran a hand along a horizontal support, pretending to check it for stability.
‘So, what was going on with Milla this morning?’
Sam lifted his eyebrows in a question.
‘You raced up to the house like you were on fire.’
‘Ah, that!’ He grinned. ‘I don’t know much. This guy Daniel—her ex-fiancé, apparently—called this morning and said he needed to speak to her urgently. I told him she was at the bothy and he asked me if I could fetch her. So I did.’
‘And?’
Sam had unearthed an invoice from inside the box and was scrutinising it. ‘And I left her in the office, so she could call him back, and that was it. I didn’t see her after that. She took her own car when she left.’ He looked up, a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. ‘Why are you so interested in Milla all of a sudden?’
‘I’m not interested in Milla—you caught my attention with your rally driver impression, that’s all.’ He motioned to the box in Sam’s hand. ‘Why don’t you give me that and I’ll go and check that they’ve sent us the right stuff?’
Cormac watched the electrician and his apprentice balancing on ladders, working their way across the marquee ceiling with a mesh of LED lights. It would be stunning when it was all done, but the rigging was laborious. He’d helped at first, but they were in a rhythm now, which meant he could escape for a while.
He ducked out of the marquee and followed a narrow path to the loch shore. At the water’s edge he crouched to pick up a handful of flat stones and skimmed them deftly across the dark shifting water. He counted the jumps and thought of Duncan, of long-ago summer days when they’d competed for the most bounces or the furthest throwing distance. They’d been friends for ever, and shared so much, but those days were gone now.
He turned to look at the hills. He couldn’t see the bothy from here, but knowing that Milla was there set his pulse racing. He shuddered as he recalled the cold light in her eyes, masking the hurt he knew she must be feeling. If only she knew that hurting her had been the last thing on his mind. Why had the right words eluded him?
He kicked a stone into the water. Daniel Calder-Jones. The very thought of the ex-fiancé turned him inside out and he didn’t even understand why. He’d only known Milla for a matter of days, but she was making him feel things he didn’t want to feel—couldn’t allow himself to feel.
He dropped to his haunches and trawled the beach for more flat stones. Would she listen if he tried to explain?
At the sound of his name being called he rose to his feet. He was needed, and for a moment he was thankful—working stopped him thinking. Anything was better than thinking.
A shock of silence filled the studio as the music stopped. Milla half stumbled backwards and gazed at the immense canvas glistening on the easel in front of her. She didn’t know what to make of it but somehow it didn’t matter. She let the brush slip from her fingers and fall to the floor.
In the kitchen, she filled a glass with water and drank, then filled the glass again. The clock on the wall told her it was after four and she could barely believe it; the day had passed in a blur.
She wandered outside and sat on the edge of the hammock. Had the mystical energy of Northern Lights triggered this out-of-body experience? She looked at her paint-caked fingers, her black-encrusted fingernails. Her jeans and tee shirt were no better. She rolled the glass slowly across her forehead, felt its cold, hard kiss on her skin.
No. It wasn’t the Aurora that had sent her spiralling into a dark rapture—she knew all too well what had fuelled the torrent of emotion she’d poured into her painting.
She looked across the hills and breathed in the sweet scent of the gorse. She’d promised herself a walk. It wasn’t too late. She’d clean up and go out. Her ears were ringing from the rock music she’d been playing and now she craved the wild peace of the great outdoors. She wanted to lose herself in a larger canvas, take time to rest and fall back into her own head.
The late afternoon was golden. Spider webs glistened against the purples and greens of the heathland and tiny moths with pearly wings flitted from the heather as she brushed past. It was peaceful. The steady clomp of her walking boots and the random calls of a lapwing were the only sounds disturbing the vast hum of emptiness.
At the foot of the path that Cormac had pointed out to her she paused, considering her ankle, then started to climb. When she crested the ridge and levered herself through the gap in the rocks she knew it had been worth the risk.
The light at this time of day drew texture from every craggy surface, from every blade of waving golden grass. Below, Loch Calcarron stretched through the valley like a dark blue ribbon, impenetrable and mysterious. She crossed the terrace of stones carefully, testing each foothold, until she found a broad flat boulder with a stone backrest.
Cormac’s favourite landscape stretched before her, wide and indifferent.
He’d been bemused at her fascination for the stones, but stones were like people in some ways. Touched by time, weathered by life. A smooth pebble could hide a diamond or be scarred with the dark fissures of emptiness. Cormac was a smooth pebble.
She pulled a sketchbook out of her bag and looked across the unfolding mountains and endless sky. She drew an idle line.
What was he hiding? She’d told herself she didn’t care, but she was lying to herself. There was something about him, an ache of sadness behind his eyes, which spoke to her heart, made her want to understand.
She shaped an arc with her pencil, shaded it softly.
He’d hurt her last night, and infuriated her this morning, but now, sitting here in his special place, she knew he hadn’t meant any of it.
She worked her pencil over the paper more quickly.
He’d taken her for dinner, kissed her in a way that had turned her inside out and then he’d abandoned her without explanation. Just thinking about it was stirring her up again because she couldn’t rationalise it.
She wasn’t good at uncertainty. She was a girl who circled landmarks on a road map so she knew she was travelling in the right direction. She sketched outlines before committing paint to canvas. She read instructions. She paid attention.
Until yesterday Cormac had kept his distance, yet her heart had dared to imagine a connection between them. Foolish heart.
She threw down her sketchbook and closed her eyes. The low sunshine spangled against her eyelids, the tiny explosions of red and silver filling her head. A pheasant squawked from somewhere down the hill, drummed its frantic wings in clumsy flight, and far, far away in the distance an engine throbbed faintly.