Whisky and Roses (Loch Morven #2)

Chapter 1 Tilda

TILDA

“Your dress, lassie!”

There’s an ominous clanking noise and my stomach drops. I hate boats, and I’m midway between land and sea on the metal exit ramp of the Maid of the Isles ferry in my dilapidated van.

I grab hold of Flora’s collar in panic. I knew I should have strapped a basset-hound-sized lifejacket on her.

A man appears, motioning for me to wind down the glass.

“What’s wrong?” The words come out as a squeak.

“You’ll be needing this wedding dress,” he says, brandishing a black plastic bag with a froth of cream lace spilling out of the top.

Heat floods my face, and right then a gust of wind blows the bag free, and it flies up into the air like a ragged kite.

Boat man is grinning now, with the dress flapping on its wooden hanger like a sail.

“It’s not—I mean I—”

But it’s too late. He’s opened the van’s side door and now he’s laying it over the chaotic jumble of my bags and boxes.

Someone behind me in the exit queue honks their horn.

“Hold your horses,” mutters the boatman, folding the hem over neatly and giving the dress a little pat. “There you go, lass. We found it next to the bin, of all places.”

I give an upward nod and a thin little smile, my jaw tight as I try to look suitably grateful.

I left it next to the bin. The bloody thing has been following me around in the back of the van for months.

I kept meaning to take it to a charity shop (I assume it’s not cursed, although I can’t be certain) but never got round to it.

Stuffing it between the table and the bin on the ferry wasn’t my brightest move, I guess.

“Have a good trip,” he calls, a grin flashing through his grizzled beard. I can still see him waving in the wing mirror as I pull away.

The pretty pastel houses of Benruar’s village gather round the harbour.

I swallow an unexpected lump in my throat, studiously avoiding looking in the direction of my dad’s cottage.

I can’t bring myself to go straight there, so I turn left and head out to the far side of the island, telling myself it’s so Flora can stretch her little legs.

I drive along the shore road with its freshly painted blue metal railings, past the hotel and the little fish and chip shop, the big house on the hill that looks out over the bay, and the tiny stone pier where people are sitting outside on wooden tables.

Sunlight dances through the haze of acid-green leaves emerging in the hedges.

Slowing at the crossroads, I spot wobbly-legged baby lambs skipping around the field.

The van groans as I change gear on the climb. Flora is sitting shotgun beside me, her long ears flapping in the breeze from her window. She fixes me with a reproachful stare.

“I know, I know,” I tell her. “You need a chance to stretch your legs.”

She heaves a very un-dog-like sigh and turns to look out of the window. Up and up we go, until the fields give way to the purple-hazed heather moorland and we crest the hill at last. My throat tightens and I blink hard.

I’ve been resolutely pragmatic about this whole trip.

It’s about closing doors, not opening them.

The last thing I need is to be getting over-sentimental.

I shake myself and start the descent, wending through narrow lanes flanked with tall, banked hedges, pausing to let a tractor pull out from a farm gate.

The driver studies me intently, as if he’s taking notes.

It’s been years, but somehow, I still remember the way.

Down the rutted track past the wooden stile, left at the sandy path, and there’s a spot big enough for a car to park next to a wooden barrier – new – and a sign with a lot of small print.

I’ll read it when I get back, but right now, Flora is desperate for a wee.

She lumbers out of the car and heads off in exploration mode – nose to the ground, tail in the air.

I follow behind, the sea breeze whipping my hair across my face, my gardener’s mind cataloguing the spring growth.

Sea campion nestled there among the rocks, clumps of thrift coming into pink flower while daisies dot the grass.

It must’ve been a mild spring here in Benruar.

We clamber over the rocks and down the secret path.

The tide’s halfway out and a black tangled line of seaweed trails out towards the rocks, strewn with driftwood, and cracked shells.

It reminds me of our last garden project down in Cornwall, and I feel a wave of something I can’t quite name. Regret? Resentment? I think it’s both.

I pick up a smooth stone and hurl it into the water where it disappears beneath the surface without making any impression.

I feel my phone go off. Poppy, reliable as ever – the calm to my chaos.

Just reminding you… you were going to tell me when you got there safely.

I grin at my best friend’s message. We both know she’s got my location, so she knows I’ve made it, but it’s nice to know someone has my back.

I am here safely. Look.

I take a selfie, my dark curls flying in a halo round my face and the white sand of the beach stretching out behind me.

I look like shit. I’ve got purple shadows under my eyes, and my skin looks greyish under the habitual gardener’s tan.

I try again, putting a hand to my forehead to pull my hair back from my face and pasting on a smile that doesn’t quite meet my eyes. That’ll do.

Gorgeous! Love you. I’ll call you later after bedtime x

Give the babies a kiss from me. Love you!

I keep it deliberately bright and breezy because what I want to say is, I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.

Again.

There’s not a soul for miles, and the air feels so fresh that it makes me strangely dizzy.

It’s like walking at the edge of the world.

Maybe, just maybe I’ve run far enough this time that everything will disappear.

All I can hear is the gentle rhythm of the waves and the sound of my boots on the sand as I follow Flora, who is trotting along with a determined cadence as if she’s on some sort of mission.

There’s a rocky outcrop which leads to the second, longer beach.

I remember getting caught there as the tide came in one summer, and Dad and I having to scramble back across the slippery rocks.

He made it feel like fun then. I was still young and innocent to the fact that his fun times were usually whisky soaked.

“Let’s keep this our secret, darling,” he’d said, scooping me up by the waist and lifting me down from a seaweed-coated rock. “Don’t want your mum thinking I nearly drowned you.”

The waves were crashing around us as we dashed to safety and back to the cottage for tinned soup and a game of chess by the fire.

But now the tide is going out, and there’s a wide strip of beach between the sea and the rocks. Flora dashes out of sight beyond the rocks and I stroll along, lost in thought, watching the way the sand moves under my feet. I turn to walk round the edge of the rocks and—

“Oof!” I crash into a solid wall of a man, my face pressing into the thick wool of his sweater as his arms catch a hold of me, steadying me. For a split second I catch the smell of woodsmoke, and underneath it some sort of expensive, subtle scent. As I step back, I look up, and up.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

He drops me as if I’m a red-hot coal and rears back, glaring at me with flint-dark eyes from underneath an untidy tangle of almost black hair. His brows are knitted together in a way which is extremely disapproving and – I cannot lie – extremely hot.

“I’m walking my dog,” I say, pointing in the direction of Flora, who has picked up speed and is lolloping along the sand in hot pursuit of something I can’t quite make out. “Obviously.”

He must be six five, a good foot taller than me, and as I look up at him, he squares his massive rugby-player shoulders and his face darkens. I am not in the mood for dealing with men who think they own the place, not even handsome, scowling ones.

“This beach is protected.” He raises an arm, pointing back the way we came. “Can’t you read? There’s a sign on the path. Your dog is about to create ecological havoc.”

“Ecological havoc?” I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting a smirk. Menacing and sanctimonious, not a combination I’ve experienced in the past.

I look over at Flora, gaily skipping along by the water’s edge, not doing any harm as far as I can see.

“For fuck’s sake,” he growls, “call her back before I go and get her.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

Basset hounds are stubborn by nature, but Flora ripped up the rule book. She lives life on her terms. If she’s on a mission to sniff something, nothing – not even a massive Scotsman – is going to get in her way.

“Call her back.” His tone is commanding.

“Fine,” I say, patting my pockets on the off-chance I’ve remembered the whistle that we used in puppy training classes to try and encourage her to listen, but of course I haven’t.

We’ve been staying in the city of Glasgow for a month, and she hasn’t been off the lead in that time.

Now we’re on a beach, and she’s got a taste of freedom, the chances of her coming back are slim to non-existent.

“Flora!” I will her to stop and turn around.

“Flora!” I repeat, trying to sound assertive. “Come on!”

“For fuck’s sake. If you can’t control your animal, you shouldn’t have it off the lead.”

I turn to look up at him again. Dark brown eyes with faint crinkles at the edges suggest that he does smile – sometimes – and a scar on one high cheekbone. He’s in dark jeans, a thick woollen sweater, and a thick waterproof coat that has a logo printed on the side of his arm.

“She’s normally fine.” I’m stalling here, hoping that Flora will turn of her own accord and head back our way.

“I find that very hard to believe,” he says, clipped. “Can’t you read?”

I straighten up to every last bit of my five feet five inches and put my hands on my hips.

“I can read, yes.” I remember the sign and curse myself. “Are you always this appallingly rude?”

“Only when I’m dealing with idiots.”

“There you are.” I brighten as Flora changes course like a cruise ship. “She’s coming now. Come on, Flora!” I wave my arms like I’m doing semaphore. Then I give him a haughty stare down my nose. “I’ll take my dog and leave you to your ecological havoc.”

“There wasn’t any havoc until you appeared,” he growls, taking a step towards me so the logo on his coat is in my eyeline.

I tip my head sideways and read out loud. “Marine Mammal Rescue?”

He grunts. “Precisely what I was trying to do until you and that hound turned up.”

I make a show of scanning the beach with my hand shading my eyes. “I can’t see any mammals.”

He narrows his eyes and looks at me as if I have one solitary brain cell. “Well, disregarding the fact that you, and your ridiculous looking dog, are both mammals, as am I – and that one might argue you are spectacularly unobservant – there is, in fact, a seal pup at the far edge of the beach.”

“A seal pup?” My hand flies to cover my mouth in horror.

He nods once. “And that—” He looks down at an unrepentant Flora, who has returned and is now sniffing hopefully at a piece of driftwood at my feet.

“Flora,” I say, helpfully.

One dark brow lifts, almost imperceptibly. “That hound,” he says, and I can hear his disdain, “could have caused it to panic and head for the water.”

“Isn’t that where seals are supposed to be?”

His eyes almost roll out of his head. “I suggest before you take” – he glares at Flora – “yourself or your dog anywhere else, you educate yourself.”

Chastened, I bend to clip Flora’s lead on, which has been hanging loosely in my hand.

“Bloody townies,” he mutters.

“I’m not a bloody townie,” I say, straightening up, “and there was no harm done.”

“As far as you know,” he says, and his gaze roves over me in a way that makes my toes curl inside my boots. For a second his eyes meet mine and then he looks away, rubbing a hand against the weeks’ worth of dark stubble on his jaw.

“I’ll leave you to it,” I say, and stump off back towards the car – it’s hard to march in a dignified manner when you’re walking on sand.

I sneak a glance back before we pass the rocky outcrop and cringe when I realise, he’s been watching me the whole time.

Something twists low in my stomach – a heat that has nothing to do with embarrassment, and everything to do with the way it felt with those dark eyes holding mine – and I tell myself firmly that it’s irritation.