Her Brooding Scottish Heir. Ella Hayes

of his family was going to be hard.

      Afghanistan had changed him. His friend’s death had changed him. He couldn’t seem to get past it and coming back was only going to feed the ache of his loss because his memories of Duncan were inextricably meshed with his memories of home.

      He couldn’t feel excited about the wedding, not even for his sister, and the thought of making small talk with two hundred guests on the wedding day itself was filling him with dread. There were expectations associated with being the Laird’s son and heir, and Cormac felt the weight of those expectations like a millstone around his neck.

      The only way he’d survive the coming week would be by keeping his head down. He imagined Rosie frowning at him for such morose thoughts, but as long as he kept them to himself and got on with things maybe he’d get through somehow, and manage not to upset anyone.

      Milla sat for a few moments and considered the hazel-eyed stranger who’d stopped to help her. How had he got under her skin so quickly? He’d made her nervous; she always ran off at the mouth when she was nervous. She plucked at a loose thread on the hem of her vest. She’d been defensive from the start—prickly and defensive—and it wasn’t her real nature at all.

      It was Dan’s fault. He was responsible for making her feel so hostile, so wary, so utterly diminished. If this was the legacy of love, she wanted no part of it ever again.

      She turned the key in the ignition, but instead of driving away she stared through the windscreen in a kind of trance. Such sad eyes... If only he’d smiled he’d have looked quite handsome. A bit of small talk would have made a difference, something other than the distinctly unimaginative ‘You’re Irish’.

      What was she supposed to do with that? She winced, remembering her reply. What had got into her? No wonder he’d focussed on changing the wheel.

      She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to shake the confusion out of her head. Maybe he’d have liked her better if she’d played the damsel in distress, but that wasn’t her style. She wasn’t interested in flattering any man’s vanity.

      She pulled away and quickly shifted through the gears. What did it matter if he liked her or not anyway? He was gone, and she needed to find the garage in Ardoig.

      When she reached the village it wasn’t difficult to spot the garage because, apart from a tiny supermarket and an ancient-looking hotel, that was all there was. A ruddy-faced man with a salt-and-pepper beard said he could fix the puncture while she waited, and since she needed to buy a few provisions anyway she ventured over to the shop.

      Inside, the air was rich with the mingling aromas of fresh bread, detergent and mothballs. She patrolled the narrow aisles, filling a basket with a few essentials, and was deliberating over the bread rolls when a woman came in.

      ‘Hello, Mary. That’s me in for my lottery ticket.’

      ‘Right you are, Sheila. Lucky Dip?’

      ‘Aye, go on, then. Did you see Cormac’s car go past? He’s back for the wedding anyway.’

      ‘Aye. He’ll be busy. Rosie’s got grand schemes, apparently.’

      Milla wondered if she should get some candles. There was electricity at the bothy, but it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared. She located tea lights and a box of matches, then approached the till and perused the magazine covers while the lottery ticket transaction was being concluded.

      The two women weren’t in a hurry, in fact, they didn’t seem to have noticed her.

      ‘Jessie says she thinks he’s still not right, you know. Such a shame.’

      Milla noticed a rack of Ordnance Survey maps and reached one down. With no phone signal where she was going, she wouldn’t be able to use an app when she was out walking. A map would be useful; she didn’t want to get lost.

      ‘Ach, well, he’ll have to move on sooner or later. You can’t carry that stuff around with you for ever... Sorry, love, I didnae see you there. I’ll be with you in a moment.’

      Milla smiled and switched her basket to the other hand.

      ‘Anyway, Rosie’s going to be a beautiful bride. She’s here already, with her bridesmaids. Lily says they’re making all the wedding favours themselves.’ The machine spat out a square of pink paper. ‘Okay, here’s your winning ticket.’

      Mary winked at her friend and Sheila chuckled.

      ‘Aye, that’d be right. See you later.’

      Sheila disappeared through the door with a backwards wave.

      Mary smiled. ‘Sorry for keeping you, dear.’ She scanned Milla’s items through the till, her fingers lingering on the map. ‘Are you a walker?’

      Milla smiled. ‘No, well, sort of... I’m an artist—’

      ‘Ah, you’ll be staying up at Strathburn, then?’

      Milla nodded. ‘I need peace and quiet to work on my exhibition folio.’

      Mary raised her eyebrows as she stowed Milla’s shopping into a bag. ‘Well, you might have picked the wrong week. There’s a wedding at the big house on Saturday, so we’re going to be mobbed. Do you know your way up to the bothy from here?’

      ‘A wedding—’ Milla swallowed the lump in her throat and managed a smile. ‘How lovely. I’ve got directions for Strathburn... Through the village, next right towards Calcarron, then left up a track...?’

      ‘Aye...up the track for about a mile and a half. If you like, I’ll phone the manager and tell him you’re on your way—then he can meet you there with the key.’

      She felt warmed by Mary’s kindness. This community spirit reminded her of her home in Ireland. ‘That’d be grand, thank you. I’m just getting a puncture fixed at the garage and then I’ll be on my way.’

      ‘Right you are. I’ll tell him. See you later.’

      At the gates to Calcarron House Cormac stopped and let the car idle. He closed his eyes, reminded himself that it was Rosie’s wedding—she was going to be the centre of attention. With a big wedding to gossip about, it should be easy for him to pass under the radar, but this was a small community.

      Everyone knew he was struggling to come to terms with Duncan’s death—even his mother had used the phrase ‘PTSD’ once—but he knew it wasn’t that. He’d simply been shredded by grief and he didn’t know how to put himself back together; he couldn’t make sense of the world any more, or understand his place within it.

      At the barracks it was easier—he was just another emotional casualty—but here he’d have to weather the curious looks, tactfully deflect the subtly loaded questions and, for Rosie’s sake, he’d have to pretend that he was absolutely fine.

      He drew a breath and slid the car through the gates.

      At the sight of the house he felt a momentary joy. He’d almost forgotten how much he loved Calcarron, with its turreted gables and mullioned windows, and as he lifted his bag from the back seat he smiled at the muffled swell of barking he could hear coming from inside. When the front door opened, the baying split the air and three ecstatic Labradors bounded towards him, followed by the slender figure of his mother.

      ‘Tyler, Mungo, Crash—Whoa, calm down!’

      The dogs tangled into his legs, butting their wet noses and tongues into his hands. He stroked their sleek black coats, rubbed the broad, noble heads, laughing in spite of himself at such uncomplicated affection.

      ‘Cormac!’ Lily Buchanan wrapped her arms around him, then stood back and studied his face. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. Everyone’s a little giddy and I’m going quite mad with it all. I could use an ally.’

      He gave her a knowing look. ‘It’s only Rosie’s wedding. It’ll be a walk in the park.’

      She grimaced as