Her Brooding Scottish Heir. Ella Hayes
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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