Chapter 19
The text said:
Wish I could see you later, but Beverly… :(
If Giselle could have afforded to replace her phone, she would have thrown it at the damned wall.
Anger was still at the forefront of her mind, but desolation was hot on its heels.
She was frantically trying to stoke the fires of her temper to keep the deluge of her grief at bay, but she could already feel heartache lapping at her feet, and if she let it in, she feared she might drown.
Instead of throwing the phone, she placed it firmly screen-side down on the workbench.
Then picked it up again and turned it off, before returning to the Highland cow she was working on.
Anything with a shaggy ginger and brown cow on it did well in the gift shop, and they rarely took her long to do.
However, she’d been working on this one since before Avril had arrived with the news that Rocco was a sneaky, two-timing ratbag, and she hadn’t managed to do much more on it.
Horns. It needed horns. And a nose. Maybe even a hint of a black eye peeping out from behind a shaggy fringe.
Giselle opened the drawer of white sea glass and sifted through some of the longer pieces, searching for two of a similar length and colour. Of course, they weren’t bright white: they were milky shades of bone, stone, linen and alabaster.
She’d already arranged the cow’s hair, using various shades of brown, which was one of the most common colours. It came mostly from old beer and whisky bottles, and in terms of findability was abundant on Scottish beaches, compared to the rarer colours such as teal and amethyst.
What was Rocco doing now, she wondered, as she searched through the drawer for a second time, without really noticing what was in it. Getting ready for dinner? And would that involve some more shower sex? Her stomach churned at the thought, and she felt sick. Physically sick and heart sick.
She only had herself to blame; she should never have become involved with him again. They were from different worlds, and she’d known it couldn’t last. What she hadn’t known was that she would fall in love with him.
‘Stupid,’ she muttered, picking up a fragment of sea glass at random, then putting it back again immediately.
It was no good; she couldn’t concentrate. She had to get out of here, get as far away from the castle as she could.
Grabbing her phone and her bag, she locked the studio and headed out, determined to go home and expunge all trace of Rocco from the bothy. And if that meant burning the bedsheets, then that’s what she’d do.
In the end, she didn’t burn them – she washed them. Twice. But although the scent of him had gone, replaced by lavender and patchouli, she could still feel his hands on her body, his breath on her face, and he was hiding behind her eyes every time she closed them.
Ridding Rocco Moore from her heart and her mind was going to be considerably harder than a rinse and spin.
‘It’s very old fashioned,’ had been Beverly’s reaction when Rocco had shown her into the suite in the turret.
‘I thought that was its charm,’ he retorted when she repeated the comment again, this time for Claire’s benefit.
They were having dinner in the dining room and Claire’s face was wooden, her lips pressed into a straight line.
‘How is your room?’ he asked her, sounding like a concierge.
‘Fine.’
‘Shall we order?’ He flicked open the napkin and draped it across his lap. ‘I expect you’re hungry after such a long journey. You really needn’t have come all this way, either of you.’
Beverly’s gaze was piercing. ‘I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.’
‘What fuss? There isn’t any fuss.’
‘There’s something, otherwise you’d be home. Is there a problem?’
‘No.’
‘Have you spoken to Jermyns yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘What’s the holdup? I thought you wanted to get rid of this place ASAP?’
‘It’s got to go through probate first.’
‘And that’s where I come in,’ Claire interjected smoothly. ‘Beverly thought my expertise would come in handy. After all, figures are my speciality. I’ll take a look at the books for you.’
‘I already have.’
‘A proper look. I’m a qualified accountant, remember?’
‘I haven’t forgotten.’ Rocco couldn’t work out why he was being so reticent. Claire was the ideal person to go over the accounts and prepare a valuation for probate. He was planning on using her anyway, so…
‘That’s settled,’ Beverly announced, even though it wasn’t. ‘She can help you sort this out. How long do you think it’ll take, Claire?’
Claire lifted a shoulder in a delicate shrug. ‘It depends how much progress Rocco has made. A day, two at the most if things get complicated.’
Beverly pursed her lips. ‘Let’s say one.’ She turned to Rocco. ‘We’ll spend tomorrow going over the Oaklands contract while Claire does what she needs to do. We can all travel back together on Wednesday.’
Rocco was aghast, but he concealed it, merely showing mild surprise.
Claire showed no surprise at all. She was obviously already aware of the travel arrangements, and he realised he was being tag teamed. Rocco wasn’t ready to leave his castle yet. He wasn’t ready to leave Giselle. And he was beginning to wonder whether he ever would be.
Rocco climbed into his car and rested his head wearily on the back of
the seat. He was bushed. It was ten to eleven, and only now had his
mother called it a day. After a dinner he’d had no appetite for, she’d
insisted on catching up on work since she’d ‘wasted a whole day’ getting
to Duncoorie and would be wasting another day travelling home.
At one point, she’d mentioned a small airfield in Broadford, until Rocco had pointed out that it was no longer in use except for the air ambulance.
It had been one of the things he’d checked out when he’d first discovered he owned a castle on Skye.
Or, to be more precise, Nora had checked it out for him when he’d asked her to find the quickest way to the island.
Finally, Beverly had retired to bed, and although Claire had suggested a nightcap in the lounge, Rocco had feigned tiredness. It wasn’t a lie. He was tired. But he also wanted to see Giselle.
He’d sent her several messages, but except for the first, which she’d read but hadn’t replied to, none of the others had even been delivered and his calls were going to voicemail. He was beginning to get worried.
Driving up to the bothy was the only thing he could think of doing, so despite it being late, that’s what he did.
The little cottage was in darkness when he got there and there was no answer to his knock. He even tried the door handle on the off chance she’d left it unlocked.
She hadn’t.
Feeling like a criminal, he peered through the window but couldn’t see a great deal. He certainly couldn’t see her.
Rocco walked back to the car and stood for a moment without getting in, tapping his fingers on the roof. He was tempted to call Cal and ask him if he knew where she might be, but he didn’t. Cal managed the estate; he didn’t manage the crafters’ social lives.
Should he wait, he wondered, then decided against it. He’d return to the castle and check whether she was in her studio.
To his intense disappointment, she wasn’t. Not knowing where to look next, he walked down the lane to the loch.
The water was a black stain beyond the paler sliver of beach and the neat oblong of the former boathouse. Feeling for the key in his pocket, Rocco took it out, unlocked the door and went inside.
When he’d been shown around the estate on the day of Mhairi’s funeral, he’d taken little notice of the boathouse, apart from acknowledging its existence, but now he was curious.
A tiny entrance hall had three doors: one led to a double bedroom, behind an opposite door was a bathroom, but the door directly ahead showed him an open-plan kitchen, living and dining room, with a large picture window overlooking the loch.
He had a feeling that come morning, the view would be stupendous.
The boathouse was a proper home, albeit small, and if he’d realised it was this nice, he might have moved into it, rather than stay in Mhairi’s suite in the castle.
It was considerably more private, he realised, as his thoughts turned to Giselle.
But possibly not private enough. It was too close to the castle, for one thing; and for another, Cal’s cottage was only a short distance away.
Rocco had flung a few things into his overnight bag, which took him all of thirty seconds to unpack, and he’d also brought his laptop with him, so he set that down on a low table near the picture window. If he was awake early enough, he’d get some work done, which would please Beverly.
After he’d changed into a baggy pair of PJ bottoms and completed his ablutions, he plugged his phone in to charge and checked his messages. Still nothing from Giselle, and neither had she read his latest messages.
His disappointment was acute. Despite having only seen her this afternoon, he found himself missing her badly.
Not good, considering.
Unsettled, Rocco went to bed.
Two hours later, he got up again, having not slept a wink. He should have got up before now, but he’d lain there, tossing and turning, and living in hope. Finally admitting defeat, he padded into the living area and eyed the kettle longingly. If only he’d thought to bring a teabag or two with him.
Settling for a glass of tap water, he switched on a lamp, opened his laptop, and guessed he’d either get a chunk of work done or bore himself to sleep.
However, he did neither, although more working than sleeping took place, but only marginally, as he found his thoughts wandering.