Secret Things and Highland Flings. Tracy Corbett

you should follow your sister’s example and get married yourself.’

      He suppressed a shudder. ‘Not going to happen.’

      ‘Why ever not? A good-looking man like yourself shouldn’t have any trouble finding a lass.’

      Finding one? No problem. Holding on to them? Another matter entirely. Of course, it didn’t help that he rarely stayed in one place long. But all that was about to change.

      ‘I’m sure the right girl’s out there,’ Gilly said, tucking in the bedsheet. ‘Although she mightn’t be too impressed by a man pushing thirty and yet to secure a proper job.’

      And there it was, the scolding he’d been waiting for.

      He didn’t need Gilly to tell him he was a waste of space. He was painfully aware of his shortcomings.

      Emotionally, he still felt like an eighteen-year-old kid backpacking the world while scraping a living. Only he was twenty-nine now and still searching. For what, he wasn’t sure, but something was missing from his life, he knew that much. It was a sobering thought – one that depressed him – so he pushed the notion from his mind.

      ‘Still, you’re here now.’ Gilly handed Louisa a mug of tea. ‘It’s just a shame Lady Eleanor isn’t around to see it.’

      Actually, it was a blessing. His mother had been the main reason he’d left home aged eighteen. He couldn’t stand the hypocrisy. All his life his parents had banged on about ‘protocol’ and ‘tradition’ and the need for ‘honesty’. They’d beaten him down with draconian rules and restraints, expecting him to behave in a suitable way for someone in his ‘elevated’ position. And yet the whole time they’d been two-faced liars.

      He’d discovered this one night in 2007, when he’d stumbled across their illicit plan to falsify the provenance of a valuable painting. The painting was several hundred years old, but there was significant doubt surrounding its authenticity. So they’d created a set of false documents to make it look like it was an original work by renowned Renaissance artist Albrico Spinelli.

      Overhearing their conversation had been shocking and unbelievable. But the tipping point had come when he’d realised they’d managed to pass off one of his replica sketches as an original Albrico Spinelli, too. The sketch had sold ahead of the auction for several thousand pounds, creating a ‘buzz’ around the main painting and increasing its value.

      He hadn’t known which had angered him most: the fact that his mother’s art tutelage and insistence on using genuine sixteenth-century materials hadn’t been about showing an interest in developing her son’s talent but a way of making money, or because they’d gone behind his back and made him complicit in their crime. Suddenly, it all made sense. The reason his mother had made him paint replicas wasn’t for his own benefit but so his parents could flog them and improve the family’s finances.

      A huge argument had followed. His parents’ excuse? That it was a necessary evil to save Rubha Castle from financial ruin. They’d refused to apologise or admit any wrongdoing. Instead, they’d accused him of being selfish for not wanting to help the family. But how could he continue to paint when he knew his works were being created deliberately to defraud people? It wasn’t moral or right, not to mention a contradiction of their holier-than-thou principles. So any loyalty or admiration he might have felt for his parents’ so-called traditional family values had evaporated in that moment.

      He took a swig of tea and dunked a biscuit, something his mother would never have permitted. He no longer cared.

      He was by no means a saint. But even as a teenager he hadn’t been able to reconcile the knowledge that his parents were crooked. So he’d left home the moment he could, not returning for eleven years, even to attend their respective funerals.

      He ate another biscuit.

      The irony was that having fought so hard to lead his own life, ending up alone and abroad at eighteen had scuppered his dreams to become a renowned artist. Instead, he’d drifted from one country to another, fruit picking and bartending, ending up as the ‘drop-out’ his parents had predicted.

      But after years of being estranged, he’d decided it was time to stop punishing his siblings for something that wasn’t their fault. They didn’t know about their parents’ shameful secret, only their charitable work in the community. So they’d never understood why he’d left, or what had kept him away so long. And he still couldn’t tell them. He never would. He’d just have to hope that in time they’d forgive him.

      Louisa yelped, reminding him he was supposed to be playing nurse.

      ‘We need to elevate your foot,’ Gilly said, lifting Louisa’s booted leg with all the tenderness of a caber tosser.

      ‘I can manage, Gilly.’ The pain of a broken leg was clearly testing the bounds of his sister’s normal chirpy demeanour. ‘If you could pass me that pillow.’

      He intervened. It was the brotherly thing to do. He might fall short in all other areas as far as family duty were concerned, but protecting his sister from a well-meaning Gilly was at least within his capabilities. He grabbed the pillow before Gilly could inflict further damage and eased it under Louisa’s foot. She mouthed him a ‘thank you’.

      He touched her cheek, wondering how she’d managed to blossom into such a tender human being when their upbringing had been devoid of any real affection. Neither parent had been the warmest of people, but his mother’s cruel streak had been magnified by the untimely death of their father and the bitterness she held towards her only son. His siblings had taken the brunt of his mother’s meltdown, the knowledge of which only added to his guilt.

      Despite not being close to his parents, he still felt a loss. Loss for not having had an adult relationship with either of them. Loss at being separated from his siblings for so long and loss for carrying a grudge around for eleven years that had slowly eaten away at his belief in the ‘happy ever after’.

      He tucked his hands under Louisa’s arms and eased her upright.

      She kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ she whispered, tears pooling in her eyes.

      ‘Are you in pain?’

      She shook her head. ‘You still don’t get it, do you?’

      He frowned. ‘Get what?’

      He never did find out. His phone rang.

      He left Louisa in Gilly’s care, nicked another biscuit and ducked into the corridor to answer his phone. But when his older sister yelled, ‘Louisa’s had an accident?’ he knew his day wasn’t getting better any time soon.

      He leant against the stone wall and braced himself for a bollocking.

      ‘Why didn’t you call me?’

      Sophie sounded pissed off, which was par for the course. If Louisa were a margarita, bursting with colour and flavour, her life garnished with a paper umbrella and bright red cherry, Sophie was the ice in the glass. An antidote to joy.

      ‘How come I got to hear about it from Gilly?’

      ‘Sorry, Soph. There was no phone signal at the hospital.’

      ‘And you couldn’t have gone outside?’ Her voice rose another notch.

      ‘I didn’t want to leave her alone. She was upset.’

      ‘But you don’t mind upsetting me? Cheers, Olly. Some brother you are.’

      He let her rant; he deserved her wrath. And it wasn’t her fault she was bitter – it was the upshot of growing up in a loveless household.

      When he’d returned to the UK, Louisa had welcomed him with an open smile and unadulterated joy at having him home. In contrast, Sophie’s reaction had been to slap his face, call him a bastard and refuse to talk to him for two weeks. He supposed her yelling at him was progress. It was painful, but at least she was talking to him.

      ‘Selfish