It must be a coincidence.
It couldn’t be Farlan—not her Farlan.
But apparently it was.
She glanced at Stephen’s back.
Her stomach knotted. If only she could just turn and run away, hide in the bothy on the estate, where she had always gone as a child to escape her parents’ incessant demands.
Or, better still, if she could just rewind, smile apologetically to the Drummonds and say, How kind, but unfortunately I have other plans.
But she could neither change her character nor turn back time, so she was just going to have to get through it.
Stephen opened the door, and as she followed him through her heart stopped and for a few agonising half-seconds she scanned the room.
But it was only Tom and Diane, turning to her and smiling.
She forced herself to walk forward as Tom held out his arms in welcome.
‘Good evening, Lady Antonia—or should I say fáilte?’
She smiled. Whatever her feelings about seeing Farlan again, Tom and Diane must not be made aware of them. Not when they clearly knew nothing about their past relationship.
But what about Farlan?
How was he going to react?
It was a question that had been playing on a loop inside her head. And she was still no closer to answering it.
‘Farlan will be down in a minute,’ Diane said, her face softening. ‘He only arrived in Scotland at lunchtime.’
‘Got his own private jet.’ Tom grinned. ‘And then he flew himself down in a helicopter. Landed right out back.’
She kept smiling somehow. ‘Really? That’s amazing.’
Tom handed her a glass of champagne. ‘To a Burns Night to remember. Slàinte mhath.’
She raised her glass mechanically, then took a deep drink.
Part of her couldn’t believe this was happening. She’d have sworn this house was the last place on earth Farlan would ever want to visit again. And she knew that because he’d told her.
Her heart felt like a crushing weight in her chest as she remembered that last terrible stilted telephone conversation.
Except the term ‘conversation’ implied an exchange of ideas and views, and she had been the only one doing the talking, trying to apologise, to explain, pleading with him to understand.
He hadn’t spoken until right at the end, when he’d told her that she was a fraud, a coward and a snob, and that she was less than nothing to him now.
His silent anger had hurt; the ice in his voice had hurt more.
But not as much as the one-note, accusatory disconnection tone when he’d hung up on her.
With an effort, she dragged her mind back into the present. ‘Slàinte mhath,’ she repeated.
Tom grinned. ‘I can’t tell you how happy it makes me, Lady Antonia, to finally say those words in the land of my forefathers and in your beautiful home.’
‘It’s your beautiful home tonight,’ Nia protested. ‘And please call me Nia. Being called Lady Antonia makes me feel like I’m about to open a fête.’
He roared with laughter. ‘Nia it is, then.’ He glanced at her glass. ‘Now, let me top you up—we’ve got some celebrating to do.’