guest. He didn’t understand why the news had caused his pulse to spike. She was striking, of course, and rather abrasive, but there was something else too, hidden in her eyes...vulnerability, perhaps?
Suddenly Lily appeared through the door. ‘Are you all right, Cor?’
He shook himself and met her gaze. ‘I’m fine. Just tired from the drive, I suppose, and all that wedding chat... You weren’t wrong. It’s going to be quite a week.’
Lily patted his arm. ‘It’ll be fine. Once Dad’s home you can hide in his study, drink whisky and talk about estate business. Who was that on the telephone?’
‘It was Mary, from the shop. She was calling to say that the new incumbent is on her way up to the bothy.’
Lily frowned. ‘Damn your brother. The bothy and its guests are supposed to be his responsibility. He’s taking advantage, of course. Cormac’s coming home so I’ll go fishing and let him take over.’
‘Me?’
‘Would you mind?’ Lily shot him a sly smile. ‘It means you can escape the clutches of Bridezilla and her handmaidens and you can take the new quad bike. A ride up the hill will soon blow away the cobwebs.’ She opened the dresser drawer and handed him a stag’s horn key fob. ‘It doesn’t take long to do the show-around and go over a few safety points. By the time you get back we’ll be ready for pre-dinner drinks.’
Cormac pocketed the key. He could hardly refuse, since Sam was AOL, and hadn’t he just been thinking about getting out for a walk? If he could deal with the bothy business quickly he’d have time to go up to the ridge before dinner. It was his favourite place, and the perfect antidote to wedding fever.
He moved towards the door.
‘Hang on.’ Lily was leafing through a large blue book. ‘Our new artist is called Camilla O’Brien.’ She looked into his face and smiled. ‘What a lovely name. You never know, Cor, she might be young and pretty.’
With her puncture fixed, Milla left Ardoig. The directions she’d been sent were clear enough, and she soon found the gate to the rough road she was to follow. At first the track wound through deciduous woodland, but soon she was out of the trees and heading steeply upwards.
The ride became bumpier, banks of loose gravel and the occasional pothole suggesting that water gushed down here in torrents when the rain was heavy. In low gear, she pressed on, climbing higher and higher, an edginess about the unfamiliar route causing her to chew at her bottom lip.
She reminded herself that first journeys always felt strange. Once she knew the way it would feel different.
After jolting up the track for what seemed like an eternity, the terrain levelled and she found herself crossing wild heathland towards another short ascent. From the top, she caught her first glimpse of the bothy, nestling against a steep hill. She stopped the vehicle and gazed down on it in delight.
It reminded her of a gypsy caravan without wheels, except that it was much larger. It had a tin roof with a round chimney, and in front she could see a broad deck with what looked like a hammock suspended on a giant wooden frame. With a happy sigh she rolled on and completed the final bumping descent to her new home.
She killed the engine and burst from the cab. After the sheer magnificence of the view, and the pleasing architecture of the bothy itself, the first thing she noticed was the silence. It was almost deafening. For a moment she forgot the heartache that had brought her here and stepped onto the deck, stretched her arms wide and twirled a slow, happy circle. This place was perfect.
She tried the door, just in case, but it was locked, so she pressed her nose to the glass and peered inside. The décor was simple. Bleached wooden floors, a grey linen sofa softened by a moss-green mohair blanket draped over one of its arms. A small black stove squatted in the corner of the main living area, and if she squinted sideways and looked up she could see a narrow wooden staircase leading to the mezzanine sleeping area. It was achingly romantic.
She felt a familiar stab of anguish and turned away. On the hammock, she sank backwards, giving herself up to the gentle sway and creak of the canvas. She lifted her left hand, traced the outline of the absent ring with her right index finger.
She’d had her whole future mapped out before Dan had delivered his coup de grâce. She’d been planning their wedding when he’d flown over from Berlin to tell her that he’d fallen in love with Maria. He said it had just happened, that it wasn’t his fault. Then he’d gone back to Germany and she’d been left to cancel everything.
Phone calls to suppliers. Phone calls to her family in Ireland.
She knew her father had tried to sound disappointed for her sake, but she had been able to picture the relief on his face. He’d never liked Dan. Neither had her brothers. She’d never felt so alone in her life. How desperately she’d needed her mother then, but her mother wasn’t here any more, so she’d had to cope—whatever that meant.
She’d come to Strathburn to escape and to heal, to find some tiny piece of herself she could nurture back to life. If she could get back on track with her work, if she could properly lose herself in it, then maybe the world would start to make sense again.
The sound of an engine thrumming somewhere lower down the slope jerked her out of her melancholy. She levered herself off the hammock, crossed the deck and ran across the track to a vantage point overlooking the hill. Her eyes narrowed as she watched a vaguely familiar figure pounding a quad bike up the slope towards her, and then her breath caught in her throat as she realised, unequivocally, that the man riding towards her was the man who’d changed her wheel.
AS HE PULLED the quad onto the track Milla caught herself fidgeting with the hem of her vest and stilled her hands before he could notice. She didn’t understand why he made her nervous, other than that he seemed so...unreachable.
To make up for her prickly behaviour at the roadside, she’d smiled and given him a wave as he’d driven up the slope towards her, but he’d seemed intent on the business of navigating the quad through the heather and hadn’t noticed her, so she’d felt foolish and, inexplicably, a little hurt.
As she waited for him to park and switch off the engine she told herself she was being overly sensitive, too ready to find rejection where none was intended. She drew in a breath, resolving to be open and friendly.
‘Hello again.’ She took a step towards him. ‘We keep meeting in remote places. Should I be worried that you’re stalking me?’
He looked up, the ghost of a smile on his lips. ‘It’s purely coincidental, I promise. You must be Camilla O’Brien.’
‘Must I?’ She smiled. ‘My name’s Milla—Camilla’s a bit too “jolly hockey sticks” for my liking.’
She was gratified to see his cheeks creasing into a smile as he swung off the quad, but when he looked up again it had disappeared.
‘Okay, Milla. I’ve got your key.’
The smile he’d tried to conceal had transformed his face into something beautiful, and for some reason she wanted to see it again.
She
