them.
‘Thank you,’ she said. That was all, but it spoke volumes, and he dredged up a smile.
‘My pleasure,’ he told her, wishing that it wasn’t a lie, that every interaction between them, no matter how brief or businesslike, didn’t seem to be flaying him alive. ‘I’ve put you in the room you had before. You always used to sit there in the window and look out at the sea. I thought you might like it.’
Maisie felt a chill run over her. She’d wept so many tears in that room, and it was on the tip of her tongue to ask for another, any one, it didn’t matter which, just not that room, but then she stopped herself and nodded. She had to get over this silliness. They had a wedding to plan, and she couldn’t allow herself to keep harking back to the past.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and followed him up the magnificent old stone staircase to the landing above. He fell into step beside her, hanging back as they reached the room, and she wondered if he could hear her heart pounding with dread.
The door was standing open, and she went in and stopped in her tracks.
It was different. Lovely. The colours were soft and tranquil, muted blues and greens, pale cream, a touch of rose here and there to lift it. A great black iron bed was heaped with pillows and cushions and dressed with a pretty tartan throw so soft she wanted to bury her face in it and sigh with delight.
When had it been changed? And why? Not for her, of course. It would be a favourite guest room, with that gorgeous view out over the sea to the islands, and she realised in surprise it now had its own bathroom off it, in the little room that had been Jenni’s nursery.
Progress, she thought in astonishment.
‘It looks … ‘
‘Different?’ he murmured, and she turned and met his eyes.
‘Yes.’ Very different from the room she’d been installed in after Jenni had been born. That had been cold and forbidding, but this …
She ran her hand over the throw, fingering its softness. ‘This is lovely.’
‘It’s a pastel version of the Mackenzie tartan,’ he told her. ‘Jenni’s idea. There’s one in every room—mohair, to keep out the cold.’
‘It’s warm in here, though.’
‘Well, it is April. The heating works better now, but the wind still sneaks in in January.’
His smile was fleeting, and made her heart ache. She’d loved him so much …
‘And an en suite bathroom. That’s a bit luxurious,’ she said, turning away as if to study it, just to get away from those piercing eyes.
‘It was twenty years ago, Maisie,’ he reminded her gently, as if she needed reminding. ‘Things have changed. All sorts of things.’
Him? She said nothing, and after a moment she heard a quiet sigh. ‘I’ll see you downstairs. Come and find me when you’re done—I’ll be in my study.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Bottom of the stairs, turn left, follow the corridor round and it’s at the back, by the gun court. Just yell, I’ll find you.’
He went out, leaving her alone, and she closed her eyes and thought longingly of the bed. It looked so inviting. So soft and warm and welcoming. And she was shattered.
Later, she told herself. Shower first, then lunch, then talk to Jenni—and maybe later, before dinner, she’d snatch five minutes.
Anyway, her luggage was on the bed, waiting, and she’d have to deal with it before she could lie down.
‘Shower,’ she told herself sternly, and unzipping her case she pulled out her wash bag and headed for the bathroom.
She didn’t dawdle. Lunch was calling her, and she was more than ready for it by the time she’d tamed her hair, pulled on some clean clothes and tracked Rob down in his study overlooking the sea.
He was deep in thought, staring out of the window, feet propped up on his desk and his brow furrowed when she went in. He dropped his feet to the floor and swung round, greeting her with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Lovely, thank you. Much better,’ she said with real gratitude, and he got to his feet and ushered her through to the drawing room where his mother, Jenni and Alec were waiting.
He’d gone into the study deliberately, she realised then, to wait for her so she didn’t have to come in here alone and face them all. She could have laughed at that. If only he’d realised that he, of all of them, was the biggest stumbling block.
‘I’ll tell Mrs McCrae we’re all ready,’ he said, and left her with Jenni, striding down the corridor away from the scent of soap and shampoo and something else he recognised from long ago. Something that dragged him right back to the beginning, to the times when she would come to him smelling like that and he’d take her in his arms and hold her close and breath in the scent of her.
He went down to the kitchen, wishing he could escape, go out onto the hills where the fresh air could drive the scent from his nostrils and bring him peace. But he couldn’t, because he had things to do, things that only he could do. His daughter was getting married, and he had to hold it together until then. And dragging Maisie into his arms and breathing her in wasn’t an option, either.
‘We’re all here now,’ he said to Mrs McCrae. ‘Can I give you a hand?’
‘Aye, that would be kind, Robert. You can stir this while I put the bread out.’ And having trapped him so easily, in a trap he’d walked into with his eyes wide open, she then started on him in her oh, so unsubtle way.
‘She’s looking tired.’
‘She is tired. She’s been travelling all night. She looks better now she’s had a shower and changed into fresh clothes.’
‘She’d look better still if she’d come home and let me feed her up a bit,’ she said, wielding the bread knife like a weapon. ‘Poor wee thing.’
‘I’m sure Maisie’s perfectly capable of feeding herself,’ he said firmly, drawing the pot off the heat and closing the lid of the range. ‘And she has a home in Cambridge,’ he added, reminding himself as much as Mrs McCrae as he glanced at the bare table. He frowned. ‘Where are we eating?’
‘In the dining room,’ she said, her eyes flashing with indignation. ‘Robbie, she’s come back, wherever you say her home might be! She can’t be eating in the kitchen—not today.’
He opened his mouth to argue, shut it again and sighed softly in resignation. ‘I’ll carry this,’ he said, and followed her up the stairs.
‘Here we are, hen,’ she said, setting the bread down on the table as Maisie sat down. ‘And mind you eat plenty!’
She did. She was still starving, the half-eaten pastry just a memory now, and she had two bowls of the delicious hearty soup, a good chunk of cheese and two slices of the soft, warm oat bread that was Mrs McCrae’s forte. And while she ate, Jenni took the opportunity
