Her Brooding Scottish Heir

A kiss under the northern lights...

Can it lead to forever?

A cottage in the Scottish Highlands seems like the perfect retreat for artist Milla O’Brien. Only, running from the memories of her broken engagement, she arrives during a lavish wedding on the estate! Milla finds a kindred spirit in the bride’s brother, brooding heir Cormac Buchanan. Happily-ever-afters seem as painful for the ex-soldier as they are for her. Could they heal each other’s hearts?

After ten years as a television camerawoman, ELLA HAYES started her own photography business so that she could work around the demands of her young family. As an award-winning wedding photographer she’s documented hundreds of love stories in beautiful locations, both at home and abroad. She lives in central Scotland with her husband and two grown-up sons. She loves reading, travelling with her camera, running and great coffee.

Her Brooding Scottish Heir

is Ella Hayes’s debut title

Look out for more books from Ella Hayes

Coming soon

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Her Brooding Scottish Heir

Ella Hayes

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09059-9

HER BROODING SCOTTISH HEIR

© 2018 Ella Hayes

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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For Sophie

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

MILLA O’BRIEN GLANCED at the map open on the passenger seat. She’d circled landmarks with a pink highlighter so she’d be able to track her progress north, and now that she’d passed the last pink circle—a stone bridge over sparkling amber water—she knew that she was only fifteen miles from the Calcarron Estate. In front of her the narrow road snaked through the glen, a grey ribbon rippling through a perfect wilderness.

It was a wilderness she longed for. London held too many memories, too much heartbreak. It was impossible to work there now. She needed a clean slate. These two weeks of perfect isolation at Strathburn Bothy would give her some time to heal; give her a chance to get back on track with her portfolio. Her postgraduate art exhibition was six weeks away and she was seriously behind schedule.

The road ahead straightened and she accelerated, stretching her eyes to the immensity of the landscape. The glinting May sunshine lured subtle hues from the surly mountains while the wind played with tufts of yellow grass on the lower slopes. The beauty and freedom of the scene bolstered her spirits—and then suddenly the steering wheel shifted in her hands as the four-by-four lurched to the right.

The ominous clopping sound coming from the back told her all she needed to know. She stopped and pulled on the handbrake. Perfect. Miles from anywhere and she’d got a puncture.

She jumped down from the driver’s seat and inspected the deflated rear tyre. At least she wasn’t completely clueless. A mechanic father and three petrol-head brothers had given her a working knowledge of car maintenance, if only by osmosis.

She found the jack and wheel brace behind the driver’s seat, then hefted the spare wheel off the back. She knew about loosening the nuts on the flat wheel before jacking up the car, so she slotted the wheel spanner over a nut and worked her weight against it.

It wouldn’t give.

She tried again, to no avail, so she stood on the spanner and bounced up and down, but it still wouldn’t budge. She tried a different nut, then each nut in turn. The damned things were immovable.

Confounded, she plonked herself down on the rear bumper to catch her breath. She’d have to call for help, assuming she could even get a signal.

She’d just retrieved her phone from the door pocket when the distant sound of an approaching car caught her attention. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she watched as a silver sports car flew down the straight towards her. The car slowed as it drew nearer, and then it pulled over.

Milla felt her heart begin to thump. It was an isolated spot and she was a girl on her own. She glanced at her phone—no signal.

The car door swung open and she stepped back as a pair of light hazel eyes pinned her with an appraising stare. The driver didn’t smile. Instead, he looked at her as if she was an irritating problem he’d have to solve, but his gaze held no threat. He’d clearly stopped to help her, even if he intended to do so with very little grace.

He slid out of his seat and walked towards her, his eyes darting to the flat tyre and abandoned wheel brace. ‘You look like you know what you’re doing, and I’m not trying to step on your toes, but I thought I should stop to see if you need any help.’

He might be in his late twenties, but he seemed to lack the exuberance of youth. Milla couldn’t decide if he was bad-tempered or desperately sad.

She motioned to the wheel. ‘I do know what I’m doing, but I can’t actually do it. Those damn air ratchets over-tighten the nuts so you need superhuman strength to loosen them. And there’s no leverage on that short wheel brace, so, yes, please, I do need some help, if you don’t mind.’

His eyes seemed to register faint amusement, but before she could be sure he was striding towards the listing vehicle. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and crouched down to the wheel. He slotted the wheel spanner over the lowest nut and pushed his weight against it.

His brown hair was close-cropped, and his muscular forearms were tanned, but Milla sensed that it was colour earned from outdoor work. He looked like an outdoor type, strong and capable. When he glanced up at her she felt herself unravelling just a little bit.

‘They are tight—’

‘Just like I said they were.’ The words flew from her mouth before she could stop them. She was horrified. What had got into her?

He pushed harder and the spanner shifted. He worked the nut loose and moved on to the next one. When he spoke again, he didn’t look up. ‘You’re Irish.’

‘You’re observant.’

Why couldn’t she couldn’t switch off this compulsion to goad him? She felt a frown creasing her forehead. Maybe she’d turned into one of those women who blame all men for the transgressions of one. She sighed. If he’d smiled, introduced himself, acted like a normal person, maybe she’d be acting differently too.

When he’d loosened all the nuts he reached for the jack. ‘Would you like me to finish the job?’

She couldn’t fathom his thoughts. His eyes were filled only with the question he’d asked and yet her heart was racing. She didn’t trust herself to speak again so she just smiled and nodded.

With practised expertise he changed the wheel, lowered the jack and tightened the nuts. ‘I’ll put the flat wheel in the back. There’s a mechanic in Ardoig who’ll fix it for you.’

She opened the rear door and he thumped the wheel down. If he’d noticed her easel and canvases he chose not to comment. He pushed the door closed and turned to face her. ‘Be sure to have that fixed.’

‘Yes, sir.’

She saw his eyes cloud and instantly regretted her teasing. She attempted to warm him with a smile.

‘Seriously, thanks very much. It was lucky for me that you were passing.’ She shrugged. ‘There’s no signal here so I couldn’t have called for help. You’ve saved me a very long walk and at least three fingernails.’

He placed the wheel brace into her hands, the ghost of a smile on his lips. ‘It was lucky. I very rarely come this way.’

He nodded slightly, then turned back to his car. In a moment he’d started the engine and disappeared, leaving Milla in a cloud of dust.

As he accelerated away Cormac Buchanan let his eyes linger on the girl in his rear-view mirror. When he couldn’t see her any more he conjured the memory of her dancing green eyes as she’d teased him. Perhaps he’d deserved it. Five years in the Royal Engineers, ordering the sappers about, had undoubtedly affected his manner. Still, she hadn’t been fazed and he admired her spirit.

A rare light-heartedness seized him as he took the next bend. Who was he trying to fool? It wasn’t only her spirit he’d admired. He’d also admired her smile, her milky skin and the blonde hair tumbling out of the clip she’d been wearing.

Even if he hadn’t seen the easel and canvases in the back of her vehicle he’d have guessed that she was some kind of artist. Those tight-fitting red jeans tucked into green Doc Marten boots, the ripped denim waistcoat over a battered vest and the studs climbing halfway up her left ear had spoken of an expressive personality. He imagined that her painting would be bold, a little edgy, and there’d be a small quirk in it somewhere, something to remind the viewer not to take it all too seriously.

What was he doing? Ten minutes with the pretty Irish artist and she’d got him painting his own scenarios. He needed to focus on the road and get to Calcarron before his sister, Rosie, had another pre-wedding meltdown.

It was only a week until Rosie’s big day, and he’d already had his fill of emails about the endless list of things she needed him to do. An interior designer by profession, Rosie had big plans for her wedding at the family home. She’d reasoned that since her guests were travelling such a long way, she wanted to create something spectacular for them.

His own view was that the wedding itself should be the main attraction, but he knew from experience that once Rosie had made up her mind about something the best policy was to fall in with her. She’d asked him to oversee the positioning and erection of the marquee, the dance floor and the miles of suspended lighting she wanted in the trees and along the pathways. There were umpteen jobs to do, all of which, she had flattered him by saying, required military precision.

He stopped for a ewe that had wandered onto the road with her twin lambs. She regarded him with a wary maternal eye then moved on, the lambs tripping after her on spindly legs. He sighed. He would do anything for Rosie, but being back at Calcarron under the watchful eye 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 he picked up his bag and threw an arm around her shoulders.

‘“A walk in the park” is not the expression I would have chosen, but anyway, let’s go inside. Rosie and the girls are dying to see you, and I warn you, she’s got a wedding spreadsheet on her laptop.’

In the drawing room Rosie and her three bridesmaids were discussing the décor for the marquee. With the introductions over, Cormac sank into an armchair and listened half-heartedly. He loved this room, with its high ceilings and overstuffed sofas, its shelves lined with books and family photos in silver frames. Over the fireplace hung an oil painting of a magnificent stag; perhaps it wasn’t quite as fine as Landseer’s Monarch of the Glen but he admired it even so. Like everything else at Calcarron, it was freighted with a lifetime’s worth of memories.

In spite of his misgivings, it felt good to be back. The estate was in his blood and would belong to him one day—sooner rather than later if his father had anything to do with it. He wanted to go for a walk, get acclimatised after his long drive, but it wouldn’t be polite to disappear so soon after arriving.

‘Cor!’

He heard his name and looked up.

‘So, while you do all the outside stuff,’ Rosie was saying, ‘we’re going to do all the finishing touches—it’s a woodland theme, with foraged greenery, and we’re using jam jars with strips of tartan ribbon and hessian to make tea light holders for the tables...’

Cormac felt his attention wandering. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Rosie to have her dream wedding—he was here to help after all—he just couldn’t get excited about woodland themes and tea lights while people were dying in wars.

Rosie was trying to create a Scottish themed wedding. Wasn’t the place itself enough? Why did she want to underline everything with tartan? Perhaps his mother had been right—they were all giddy with wedding planning. The sooner he could get on with his list of outside jobs the better. He certainly wouldn’t be able to fake interest in this kind of minutiae for a whole week.

He wondered how his brother, Sam, was coping with it all. Happy-go-lucky Sam, who was notably absent. Perhaps that was the trick.

Lily swung through the door with a loaded tea tray and Cormac got up to carry it for her. As he set the tray down on the coffee table Rosie caught his eye, sprang to her feet and pulled him into a hug.

‘Thanks for coming to help with the wedding. I really appreciate it.’ She leaned in to his ear and whispered. ‘I’m so preoccupied—I haven’t even asked you how you are.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘We’ll chat later, okay?’

With the tea poured, Cormac lifted a cup from the tray and retreated to the relative seclusion of the bay window, where he gazed out over the view he loved.

The well-tended garden descended gently to the edges of the loch. Loch Calcarron was the jewel in the crown of the family estate, flanked by steeply climbing slopes with purple mountains beyond.

‘Where’s Sam?’ he asked.

Rosie was handing round shortbread. ‘He was up at the bothy this morning, getting things ready for the artist who’s arriving today, and then he went fishing. Can you see his boat out there?’

At the mention of a new artist at the bothy Cormac felt a rush of something indefinable attached to a memory of teasing green eyes.

He forced himself to focus on the expanse of loch in front of him. ‘I can’t see his boat. Maybe he capsized...’ As he suspected, no one was listening to him.

He heard one of the girls ask what a bothy was, and Lily’s voice rising in explanation.

‘Traditional bothies are small stone structures where walkers can shelter or stay overnight, but what we have is an artist’s bothy. Rosie’s grandfather was a keen amateur artist. When artists’ bothies started springing up in remote places he thought it was a wonderful idea. Calcarron Estate is large. We have plenty of space. So he said we should build one too—let artists come to enjoy all the things we take for granted. We hired an architect to design something practical and comfortable and we located it right up in the hills. Splendid isolation and all that. It’s very popular.’

Rosie interjected. ‘It’s a large wooden hut basically, but a contemporary design. There’s a deck in front, overlooking the hills, and this year Sam’s installed one of those big hammocks, so guests can chill out with the amazing view, or even watch the stars at night. The living space is bright and airy because of the picture windows, and we designed the studio with opaque roof panels, so it’s got perfect light for working. There’s a cute wood stove, which keeps the place cosy when it’s cold, but my very favourite part is the mezzanine bedroom—it’s so romantic. I did the interior design—I can show you some photogra—’

Lily held up her hand. ‘Is that the telephone...?’

Cormac seized the opportunity. ‘I’ll go.’

His mother’s voice faded as he escaped to the kitchen and hooked the receiver off the phone on the wall. ‘Buchanan.’

‘Is that you, Sam?’ The female voice sounded hesitant.

‘No, it’s Cormac—’

‘Cormac! It’s Mary Frazer, from the shop in Ardoig. How are you?’

He wasn’t good at small talk, but since the local shop was Gossip Central it was imperative that he sounded politely upbeat. ‘Ah, hello, Mary. I’m fine, thanks. What can I do for you?’

‘I’ve had your bothy guest in the shop just now and I said I’d call to let you know she’s on her way, so you can meet her there with the key. Sam usually—’

‘Thanks, Mary. I’ll send him.’

‘Well, you might wait a while, mind. She said she was having a wheel fixed, or something, before she comes up...’

Cormac felt his heart tightening in his chest and he swallowed hard. ‘Okay, thanks for letting us know. Bye for now.’

He didn’t mean to hurry Mary off the phone, but he had the impression she’d have talked on and on and he simply couldn’t. He leaned against the wall and tipped back his head. So the artist with the puncture was their new bothy 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.