Page 73 of A Scottish Island Summer

Chapter Eighteen

Fear gave way to relief and then anger. I lowered my bag. ‘It’s you again. You’re the man who was hanging around outside Logan’s shop. What the hell do you think you’re doing? What do you want?’

He recoiled; shamefaced. ‘I’m sorry, Ms Freeman. I didn’t know what else to do.’

I glowered at him and pulled my coat tighter around myself. ‘How do you know my name?’

He hitched up his coat collar against the cold. ‘I saw a piece about you in the local paper.’ His voice sounded educated, his modulated English accent containing just the faintest trace of a Highland burr.

He scratched at his beard, as though unsure of what to do or say next. ‘I’ve seen you with that young man. Burns.’ He hesitated. ‘I need your help.’

The lights from The Gorse beckoned me in, but I couldn’t help but be intrigued.

‘What with?’ I eyed him. ‘Are you Campbell Adams?’ I demanded.

He looked pained and took his time answering. ‘Yes.’ Now it was his turn to deliver an odd look. ‘Do you know much about me?’

Wanting a moment to decide how much to tell him, I glanced around myself at the streetlamps glowing like orange fireflies in the dark. I could hear the murmuring of the water from Portree Harbour just down the way, but otherwise we were the only source of noise in the darkness. ‘Logan told me a bit about you,’ I hedged.

Campbell Adams serious, dark eyes glowed with understanding.

I let out a weary sigh. I was still festering with confusion and a mish-mash of emotions after leaving Logan’s flat the way I had. ‘What do you want to talk to me about, Mr Adams?’

‘Campbell,’ he murmured through his wild, black beard. ‘Please call me Campbell.’ He entreated with pleading eyes. ‘Is there somewhere we can go to talk?’

I was curious about what he wanted to tell me, but another part of me was crying out to just sink into a dismal sleep and forget about fleeing from Logan’s flat. Like a faulty film recording, my mind kept playing Logan’s wounded eyes over and over again. ‘What about?’ I asked, shaking off my regret.

He shoved his shaggy hair away from his brow. ‘Have you heard of the Skye Lovers’ Cross?’

‘Yes. Well, Logan’s told me about it.’

He nodded.

‘That’s if it exists, of course.’

He examined me.

‘I mean, there are some people round here who do believe it’s real, but others consider it just an urban myth. At least, that’s what Logan said,’ I added.

Campbell took hold of my elbow and steered me up the steps of The Gorse entrance.

‘Hey. Hold on a second. What do you think you’re doing?! You can’t come in here!’

Desperation clung to Campbell’s face. ‘Please, Ms Freeman. I won’t take up too much of your time. It’s important. I’m desperate. I just need someone to listen.’

I let out an irritated sigh. Then I noticed him shiver.

I peered through the inviting glass door of the guest house, seeing the little hall lamp that threw out a warm amber beacon, the writing bureau and the framed artwork that welcomed guests. I couldn’t leave him out here, looking like a despondent puppy. Good grief. Had I lost all leave of my senses? I rubbed my face. ‘Come on.’

I creaked open the entrance door and beckoned Campbell inside. The air was warm and languid and everything was bathed in a sleepy, inviting light, from the watercolours decorating the walls to the burgundy stair carpet.

I realised what I was doing and hesitated.

I didn’t know this man. In fact, I didn’t know anything about him, apart from what Logan had told me.

I flung a look at him over my shoulder and steered us towards the entrance to the breakfast room, which was already set up for the next morning. The snow-white tablecloths were pressed and elegantly draped in position; the cutlery sparkled and the crockery gleamed, even in the dim light.

I couldn’t leave the man cold and desperate outside on the street on his own, but I also couldn’t invite Campbell up to my room. I was sure he was perfectly harmless, but still…