Page 38 of Scotlander

To Willa, he finally said, ‘This is Orla’s operation. I’m just one of the worker bees.’

Willa gave him a right nod that suggested she didn’t entirely believe him, but he could feel the energy between them shift a little. Not exactly friendly, but the playing field had been evened.

They walked in silence towards the castle, each of them with an ear cocked for voices and, eventually, they heard them.

‘I think they’re away by the doocat.’

Willa shot him a questioning look.

‘The dovecote.’ He used the English pronunciation.

‘Nope.’ She shook her head. ‘Still don’t understand.’

He thought of how he’d explain it to his students, many of them lifelong city dwellers. ‘It’s like a hen house for pigeons and doves. Except . . . this one’s not got a roof. Or pigeons and doves.’

Willa smirked at him as if he’d said something funny, then let her smile drop away. ‘Will you come with me?’

‘Of course.’ He was surprised at the request, and even more surprised at his instinctive response. If she wanted him there, he’d be there. Even if it tore at the seams of painful memories he’d much rather keep shut tight.

Eyes focused on the pathways which were, unsurprisingly, covered in all sorts of bits and pieces, he guided her past the raised main doorway as the old ladder they’d once used to clamber up into the castle had long since rotted away. They picked their way round to the side where an open archway led through to what would have been the grand receiving room if it weren’t covered in ivy and growing trees in the centre of it, then the dining room, the breakfast room and, with a quick right turn through a dodgy archway, a shortcut through a back passageway led to the massively overgrown walled garden where, up a twisted stone staircase, standing in the remaining arc of the doocat, stood Gabe and Lachlan.

Chapter Fourteen

It wasn’t the view that took Willa’s breath away. Although it should have. Up here, high above the stables where she could easily see up and beyond the castle walls, was an enormous inlet – a loch maybe? – that spread all the way to the horizon.

Surrounding it were vast, sprawling fields that stretched to the water’s edge and up, deep into rugged hills that hinted at a dusting of snow. There were sheep in some, cows in others and arable crops – potatoes, maybe – covering acre upon acre of lush farmland. As the hills grew into mountains, they extended further and further north, gradually fading in detail like a Chinese ink painting. It was one of the most exquisite views she’d ever seen.

But the beauty didn’t break through the shock of what was in front of the view.

There, at the far end of the dovecote, Gabe and Lachlan were in a fierce clench. Clinging to each other as if they were long lost . . . well . . . definitely not brothers.

Blood roared through her ears. Little bright specks of light forced her to open and close her eyes as if she was one of those dolls who was tipped awake then not awake. Which, not being funny, was how she felt. Was this even real? Heartbeats ricocheted round her chest like a pinball intent on a high score. Throat. Chest. Gut. Each pulsing beat an assault on her ribcage. And yet . . . there was a part of her that wasn’t surprised at all. If anything, she was grossly disappointed with herself for not seeing it in advance.

This hadn’t been a set-up for her and Gabe. It had been a set-up for Gabe and Lachlan.

More than anything, Val had wanted Gabe to know he was, and always had been, loved. Val wasn’t here to do it any more, so she’d found someone who could do the job for her.

Willa had been brought along for moral support. Her usual role. Good ol’ reliable Wills. There with the box of tissues and comfort snacks when you needed her. She’d done it for Val countless times when work got too political (the world of dentistry was far more Machiavellian than one might think), or the strain of young motherhood took its toll or, on the very, very rare occasions when Diego did something to piss her off, Willa had, without fail, battled through traffic, pulled up at the house with pints of ice cream, drugstore facials and an endless stream of positive affirmations.

Her cheeks burnt with humiliation. How stupid to think this trip had been about her. It was akin to thinking a celeb’s smile when she walked in the room was full of genuine delight that she – Willa Jenkins – had finally arrived.

She swiped at her nose, her eyes stinging with shame and, yeah, even though she hadn’t been entirely sure what her feelings had been for Gabe, she’d admit it, betrayal.

She’d thought they were on this trip together. For one another. To bond over their mutual loss of her very best friend. But here she was, on her own again. It was the same old record, same old tune. Always the third wheel, never the bride.

Her chin began to wobble. She was a shitty country song.

How could Val have done this? Why had she done it? Willa had risked her job to come on this trip. Of all the things that had held her in LA when Val had died, her job had been it. It was all she’d had left. When she’d met Gabe and he’d been so warm and charming (eventually), then effortlessly swept away all of the obstacles between her and Scotland, she’d felt that zing of life again. That hint of possibility that there was something beyond the TiTs studio that could give her a sense of purpose. A reason to be happy.

Token spinster friend with a broken gaydar hadn’t really been the end game she’d been aiming for.

She turned to go before they saw her only to come nose to chest with a big, check-shirted wall of heather-and-hay-scented Finlay Jamieson.

She looked up into those storm-blue eyes of his and silently pleaded with him to let her pass. She felt an ugly cry brewing and didn’t have it in her to fight. When he didn’t budge, she hissed, ‘Move.’

‘No.’

Her cheeks flared with heat. ‘No is not a two-syllable word,’ she snipped, despite the fact every Scottish-soaked word that came out of Finn’s mouth felt like getting a bumper crop at a candy dispenser. ‘Shift yourself,’ she growled.