And we all know they weren’t what you’d call fashion-forward . . .
“You were too busy taking a photograph . . . of the hills?” The expression he’s wearing is one I haven’t seen on him before. Is that caution I’m looking at? “Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you, but I just saw Hugh. He thought you could do with a hand.”
I don’t think Hugh was in any mood to think of anyone or anything when he left me, but it would be petty of me to say so. He could probably do with a little time alone to process, the poor little guy.
“Thank you.” Maybe I shouldn’t be speaking to him at all, given what happened last time we were alone, but I can’t seem to bring myself to be angry. “I was taking a photograph of the hills, thinking how beautiful they are when the weather is like this.”
“Beinn a' Bhathaich Àrd.”
“Gesundheit,” I answer with a quizzical smile.
“It’s what the big one, the mountain is called.” His smile spreads through my insides like that wee nip of whisky. “It’s not the most impressive mountain in the Highlands, but it’s beautiful nonetheless.”
But he’s not looking at the mountain now. He seems to catch himself then, bending to gather the picnic detritus.
“Let me help.” I reach for the cricket bat as he slides it deftly under his arm.
“You can get the bottle, if you want.” He means the empty champagne bottle. “I see Griffin must’ve talked McCain in loaning him the key to the cellar.”
“If he shouldn’t have—”
He shakes his head and the topic away. “Did you have a pleasant afternoon?” he asks, his tone uncharacteristically mild. “Is something funny?”
“No, nothing.” I duck my head, hiding my lingering smile. For some reason, I feel like skipping. Maybe just because he’s here. Or maybe because of the way he’s behaving, like he’s making some concession. Or trying to, at least.
I know it’s ridiculous. Except for the bit about him trying. Because Lord knows the man is trying.
“Yes, I had a very pleasant afternoon, thank you. Although it did turn a little disastrous toward the end.”
“How so?”
“Hugh didn’t tell you?” My gaze slices his way. “You haven’t seen Griffin?”
“No?” The way his brows twitch together suggests he’s telling the truth. Plus, I guess Hugh wasn’t exactly chatty Cathy when he left, and Griffin is probably still rolled in a ball somewhere.
“Well, I’ll just let them tell you all about it.”
“Was the photograph for your Instagram page?” he asks, directing the conversation back to me. “Isla says you have quite the following.”
I find myself immediately on the defence. “I haven’t posted anything about the castle. Nothing to link me to being here.”
“That’s not why I’m asking, Holland. It’s true I don’t relish the idea of finding my face on your Instagram page, but—you’re laughing again. You don’t think I’m photogenic enough?”
“No, that’s not it.” I try to fight my amusement, thinking about the one photograph of him I did take back in London. Where this madness began. It seems like a lifetime ago. “I promise, I haven’t posted any photographs of you. Or your family.”
“An interesting distinction,” he murmurs. “Posted versus taken.”
“Huh. So you do know social media.” If my words sound arch in their delivery . . . well, good.
“I’m not a relic.” His mouth quirks, his gaze slicing my way at the same moment as a huge drop of rain splats against his cheek. He lifts one laden arm, wiping the tiny stream of water away with the back of his wrist as he glances up at the sky. “We’d better make a run for it,” he says, his eyes widening in surprise. “It’s about to really come down.”
“But—” That’s as far as I get before a crack of thunder sounds and the heavens open, rain beginning to lash down. I squeal a little as the raindrops the size of golf balls begin to hammer my head. I begin to jog after Alexander.
So much for him doing the gentlemanly thing.
“I told you we were about to get a soaking.” His eyes dance as he glances over his shoulder at me. “Come on, this way!”
While never the best thing to run in, my flip-flops are more flip-flaps at this point, the moisture making it increasingly difficult to get any traction. I kick them off, grabbing them up from the ground and dash after Alexander. Sweeping the fallen wet strands of my hair, I watch as he cuts across the grass, heading to what looks like an abandoned building built from grey stone and kind of ramshackle from this vantage point.
“Oh, my!” I’m breathless and shivering as I step between a row of columns that support a rickety-looking roof. “How is the rain so cold? It had to be nearly eighty degrees out this afternoon.”