Page 83 of Journey to the Scottish Highlands

Chapter Seventeen

I was so frustrated with myself.

I should have been appreciating the strong, rugged scenery with Loch Crawe gliding past the driver side window like a shimmering, oval mirror. Trees were strung around it like jade jewels. Instead, my thoughts kept harking back to Evan.

The only hint now there had been two bombs was the outline of a sandpit in one of the nearby fields, which had several figures stationed around it, filling it in.

A few official-looking vehicles were stationed close by, but the traffic was moving both behind and in front of me, albeit a little more slowly than normal, directed by a couple of traffic police.

I pushed on.

Evan was fluttering at the corners of my mind again. Had I imagined there’d been a mutual feeling of attraction there?

I knew with flickers of embarrassment in my chest that I hadn’t imagined my attraction for him, despite the protestations I kept making.

I could deny it all I wanted and pretend that it hadn’t mattered, but it had.

Evan had managed to get under my skin.

I checked my rear-view mirror. The cars behind me were shining in the late afternoon sun, trailing behind each other like brightly coloured ants.

If I was being truthful, from the first moment I’d set eyes on him at the party lunch in his sharp suit and glittering cufflinks, he’d had an effect on me.

Maybe it was just some weird, temporary crush, I assured myself over and over as the shaggy Highland cattle and sloping mountains slithered past. I was grateful to him for stopping me making an utter tit of myself with Fox and losing my hospitality job. And yes, he was very, very handsome. But that was as far as it would go. A silly, momentary liking. He still had something going on with Sacha anyway, and no doubt he viewed me as an interfering busybody when it came to the tour.

I just wanted to get to my grandpa and Strath Ross so I could reset. And if Alison and Bennett did decide that my Florence tour suggestion was one they wanted to try, and I had to return to The Ramblings, then I could handle it. I could deal with Evan. I’d just have to throw all my energy into helping set up of the tour and remind myself why I was there. In the meantime, it was perfect timing for me to head home. It would allow me to clear my head and sort everything out.

It had been wonderful staying at The Ramblings. It was a charming, classy, stately home with mystery and history baked into every piece of stone, and Alison and Bennett were such a lovely, sweet couple.

Dane was … well, Dane. Charming and good-looking but self-absorbed. The way he’d acted when I left had thrown me, though. There had been a vulnerability there that I’d never seen before.

The only issue was Evan. No, he wasn’t an issue, I corrected myself as I negotiated the traffic along the country roads. Oh God. I was doing it again! Stop dwelling on him, Daisy!

I rubbed at my face with one hand before returning it to the steering wheel.

My thoughts crossed to Cayla next. If Alison and Bennett went with my tour idea, would Cayla even consider playing Florence?

I guided Marlene around a corner and took us down a sun-dusted road, banked on either side by fluttering hedgerows.

Cayla would be great. I knew she would. If she did accept the role, it would be such a boost to her confidence. Just what she needed. Not only that, but it would look great on her CV too for when she began applying to acting school.

But I knew I shouldn’t get too far ahead of myself. There was no guarantee the Lords would decide that my idea had legs. Maybe they’d consider it too gimmicky, or they wouldn’t feel comfortable about dragging up the past. But if they did decide to run with it, surely the tour would put some extra money in the estate coffers? Raise the profile of The Ramblings? Open it up to the possibility of staging corporate events? Weddings, perhaps?

More visions about the tour tripped through my head. I could see it now: Cayla dressed in a frilly apron with her hair in a bun at the nape of her neck, a grey dress skirting her ankles; dashing here and there in front of intrigued tourists and locals; showing how Florence lived and worked so hard, whist keeping her acting dreams close to her heart like a burning secret.

We could reenact the vase being stolen and poor Florence’s insistence she was innocent. We could show the aftermath of her having been blamed for the theft and how that impacted her.

It would capture moments in time and illustrate Florence’s past.

The Ramblings still possessed that old, worldly aura with its sweep of grand staircase, tiled great hall and watercolour paintings decorating its walls.

Still, I reminded myself, glancing in my rear-view mirror as I drove along, I mustn’t get too carried away. There was no guarantee Alison and Bennett would go with my tour idea anyway.

And even if they did, I’d still have to persuade Cayla to take the role of Florence.

I grimaced.

It sounded like even more of a monumental task the more I replayed everything over and over.