Chapter 13 Tilda
TILDA
I stand by the doorway watching as Finn puts my bag down on the bed. I don’t know what I expected from a spare bedroom in Benruar, but it’s not this.
There’s an old-fashioned metal radiator warming the room.
The walls are covered with pale cream paper, sprigged with roses.
A basket of logs sits neatly by the hearth, and there are heavy tartan curtains hanging at the windows.
The wooden bed is layered with the kind of thick tartan wool blankets that press you into sleep.
“Make yourself at home,” he says gruffly.
He kneels and a moment later his face is illuminated by the flare of a match as he lights the fire that’s set into the grate.
I stand there, my mouth trying to form words of protest. The room is warm enough, and I don’t want him going to any trouble, but the fire looks so pretty and inviting.
There’s something disarming about seeing him like this.
He straightens and brushes his palms together.
“Thanks,” I manage.
“Bathroom’s next door,” he says. His arm brushes against mine as he passes through the doorway.
And then he’s gone, leaving me standing in the middle of this unexpectedly cosy little room, not quite sure what to do with myself.
I pull my things out of the bag. I’ve thrown in an assortment of clothes and fish out a pair of jeans, a grey sweater, and some underwear. Something inside me fizzes uncomfortably at the thought of stripping off here.
The bathroom is huge. An enormous old-fashioned bath on metal legs stands in one corner with a shower overhead. There’s a stack of towels folded on a rack in the cupboard, and I take one out, shaking it before I hang it on the radiator to warm while the water runs.
The mirror fogs instantly and I step into the bath, pulling the curtain around me on its metal rail. The stream of water does nothing to wash away the pulse that’s thrumming under my skin, and I reach for the bar of soap, turning it in my hands as the hot needles of water warm my skin.
It feels strangely intimate to be here, in his house, naked. I look down and realise my nipples have pebbled stiff. I run a hand across my breast, goosebumps rising on my skin despite the heat of the water as I trail my fingers down my stomach and pull in an unsteady breath.
I duck my head fully under the stream, screwing my eyes tightly closed. The last thing I need to be thinking about right now is Finn Kinnaird – not while I’m naked, not while I know that right now, he’s probably standing under another shower, somewhere else in this house.
For god’s sake, Tilda, I tell myself.
It’s been too long, that’s all. Things between Jack hadn’t been good for eighteen months. That doesn’t mean I get to fantasise about my dick of a boss, or his—
No. I definitely do not want to be thinking about dicks in any shape or form. I reach for the razor I packed, and then defiantly throw it across the room. I am not shaving anything, because there is no part of me that is hoping anything might happen.
It’s a shame that my body hasn’t got the memo.
I towel my hair dry, untangling my curls with my fingers because I’ve forgotten a hairbrush, and swipe the mirror clean.
My cheeks are flushed a hectic pink, which I tell myself is down to the too-hot bath. I take a deep breath and make a face at my reflection.
By the time I’m dressed and head downstairs, I’ve pasted on what I hope is a look of composure. I’m in a pair of old jeans and a slightly shrunken sweater – the first things I grabbed when I ran upstairs to pack.
Flora lifts her head from the prime position she’s taken in front of the Aga, the spaniels curled up on either side of her as if she’s part of the furniture.
The kitchen is warm, and there’s a delicious smell of garlic and warmed olive oil coming from a heavy pan on the side of the stove.
Finn emerges from a doorway with a packet of something in his hand and I startle in surprise.
He’s barefoot in a pair of faded jeans which are ripped at the knee.
The soft grey T-shirt he’s wearing strains over his massive biceps, honed by years of carrying sacks of barley and lifting barrels.
And he looks… relaxed. His hair is still damp and tousled, hanging in an untidy tangle over his forehead.
His eyes track over me, my dark curls are still drying, and I’m conscious the sweater I’m wearing is clinging.
I tug at the hem and shift from one foot to the other.
Something shifts in his expression and he looks away, his jaw tightening.
“Carbonara.” His voice is rougher that it was upstairs, and he clears his throat. Then he shoots me a thunderous look. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”
I laugh. “No. Definitely not.”
“Glad to hear it.” He rips open the pack and tips tiny studs of pancetta into the pan, shifting it to one side so it’s off the heat. The smell fills the room and my stomach growls.
“Sit.” He motions to the table. Somehow it feels different here than it does in the daytime – the lights are low, and the place feels cosy and intimate.
I take a seat at the big wooden table and watch as he cracks eggs and grates pecorino cheese, all without talking, a frown of concentration on his face. He grinds in some black pepper and pauses to think, then adds a little more.
“You take the same approach to cooking as you do to making whisky.”
He nods briefly. “If you’re going to do something—”
“—do it properly.” I finish his sentence, thinking of my dad. He raises a brow in surprise.
“Drink?” He turns to the shelf and returns with a bottle of red wine. I shake my head out of habit.
“I don’t really—”
“Oh.” He puts the bottle down on the table. I catch the fresh soap scent from his skin. “Do you mind if I—”
I tuck a strand of hair back behind my hears. “No, of course not. It’s not something I do much, because of—” I stop there, feeling strangely disloyal to my dad. I don’t know why. It’s not that I’m teetotal, but… I don’t drink unless I feel safe around people.
“Very wise.” He twists the corkscrew in his big hands and pops the bottle open, fetching a heavy glass, and pouring a neat measure of red. “Can I get you a drink of something else? Georgia made some elderflower stuff last autumn and it’s actually quite decent.”
“Thank you.” He heads to the fridge and pours me a glass of a pale straw-coloured liquid, topping it up with some sparkling water before passing it across the table. His fingers brush mine and I pull in a sharp breath, freezing before I force myself to reach for my fork.
“Slaìnte,” he says, tipping his glass in my direction.
We eat at the scrubbed wooden table which is big enough to seat eight people comfortably.
Somehow, though, the space between us seems narrow.
The carbonara is silken and rich. Not the sort of thing you expect to be eating across the table from your employer when the rain is hammering on the windows and the room is uncomfortably silent.
“This is lovely,” I say, trying to keep my voice bright and casual. My fork scrapes the plate and I wince.
Finn looks at the pasta coiled on his fork with an appraising frown. “Slightly too much pecorino.”
I watch as he lifts it to his mouth. “The one and only time I tried to make carbonara it ended up like scrambled egg pasta.”
He looks at me and one brow quirks upward, but he doesn’t say anything in response.
Jess gets up and sneaks under the table, a hopeful head popping up in-between my knees.
I reach down and stroke the top of her silky black head, shifting in my chair to make room for her.
My knee brushes against Finn’s under the table.
The contact is brief, but I feel it like a spark under my skin.
We both go still. I can feel the solid warmth of his leg against mine and for a second neither of us moves.
“Sorry,” I murmur, starting to pull back. He shifts away.
“It’s fine,” he says, and then clears his throat.
The clock on the wall chimes the hour.
“So,” I say because someone has to break the silence. “Seal rescuer, whisky distiller, pasta chef, and Lord. D’you have any other labels I should be aware of?”
He laughs once. “No, I think that probably covers it.” He takes a sip of wine and contemplates me from over the rim of his glass, his fingers dwarfing the bowl. “Black sheep,” he adds after a moment.
I sit up, intrigued. “How so?”
He gives the ghost of a shrug. “It’s complicated.”
I put my fork down and rest my chin on my hand, leaning forward, looking back at him in the low light. His eyes drop briefly to where my sweater has shifted at the neckline, and then back to my face. He lifts the wine glass to his lips, his gaze holding mine as he drains it before he speaks.
“Not easy being the middle of three brothers, when one of them is due to inherit half of Scotland. There are… expectations.”
“And you didn’t fulfil them?”
He laughs. “I didn’t give them a chance. I voted with my feet and left Loch Morven when I was eighteen.”
“For university?”
He reaches for the bottle, tipping another measure of wine into his glass. “No, for Benruar. This island was my education.”
“And you’ve been here ever since?” He seems too big to have been here all this time or the island too small to contain him.
He studies the glass. “No, I’ve been… here and there. Spent some time in New York and went to Australia and worked for a year in the outback.”
That figures. “I can see you in a cowboy hat. And your brothers?”
“Rory took on the mantle of duke when he died,” he says, pausing.
“Your father?”
He nods once and looks away. I lean forward to encourage him to carry on.
“Loch Morven’s a bit of a poisoned chalice, but he’s steering the ship his own way now with the help of his wife. I don’t know how she puts up with him.” He laughs again and shakes his head. “Edie’s gold. He’s lucky to have found her.”
“And your younger brother?” I steeple my fingers and rest my chin on their points, listening.