Chapter 20 Tilda
TILDA
I’m halfway down the stairs when I hear his voice in the hallway below, low and clipped as he talks to Malcolm.
I pause on the landing, smoothing down the front of my dress.
The wrinkles have dropped out with the steam of the shower, and I’d forgotten how much I love the thick black velvet, which manages to cling in all the right places, and skim past the wrong ones.
I hook a finger under the neckline and adjust it, my hand pausing for a minute on my breast as I pull in a breath, letting my thumb trail downwards.
Living under the same roof as Finn has been… challenging.
And then I realise the conversation has stopped.
I look down to find him staring up at me, his expression unreadable. His dark eyes track slowly from my face down to my heels and back up again, lingering on my hand. I drop it to my side, feeling my cheeks go scarlet.
“Ready?” Georgia calls from the kitchen, breaking the spell. Finn clears his throat and turns back to Malcolm, who is frowning at his phone in the shadows of the hallway.
“Yes,” he says, turning away. “Let’s get this shitshow over with.”
But when I get to the bottom step, he’s still there, close enough that I can catch the familiar citrus scent of his soap. His gaze drops to mine for a second and I look up at him through my lashes, swallowing hard.
“You look—” He stops midsentence. “We should go.”
Outside, the big Defender is waiting, the seats covered with thick tartan blankets. I climb into the back seat, the fabric of my dress riding up slightly as I slide across. When I glance up, Finn’s watching in the rearview mirror. Our eyes meet and hold, and heat rises up my neck.
He looks away first, his jaw tight. I cup my neck and rub it for a second before Malcolm settles in beside me, breaking the moment.
Arran, who helps with the malting, climbs in the other side.
I’m squeezed between them, hyper-aware of every bump in the road, and Finn’s face reflected in the glass in front of me.
The road to Glen Mhor takes us to the southern tip of the island.
There’s a slight giddy feeling, like we’re going on a school trip.
Georgia’s up front next to Finn, who is a glowering mountain in his formal Highland dress.
The dark jacket stretches across his shoulders, and – cleaned up with his beard neatly trimmed – he looks even more handsome than he did the other day when he tried it on in the kitchen.
This is Finn Kinnaird as a laird, descendant of centuries of Highland chiefs. Commanding. Untamed.
I bite the inside of my cheek in an attempt to make myself focus on the task at hand – which is showing up and making a good impression – but I can’t lie, it’s not exactly easy.
“I can’t even anaesthetise myself with alcohol,” he grumbles as we slow up.
I peer forward through the windscreen to see what’s ahead of us and spot a sleek dark blue Porsche.
“A taste of what to expect,” he says, turning to look at me over his shoulder for a fleeting moment. In the dim light of the car his face is all shadows and angles, the dark beard emphasising the strong line of his jaw.
“Eyes on the road, please,” Georgia says, like a chirpy driving instructor. His mouth twitches but does as he’s told. A moment later we swing left into a tarmacked driveway.
“We’re in enemy territory now,” mutters Malcolm. “Watch yer backs.”
I lean forward, taking the whole thing in.
The drive is lined with trees lit from below, so their young leaves have taken on a golden glow. Every so often there’s a banner on a polished pole, with the words GLEN MHOR – INNOVATION IN HERITAGE printed in gold on tasteful dark blue backgrounds.
Finn tuts under his breath as we crawl forward behind the Porsche, and a young man in a dark coat with his hair slicked back waves us into the raked gravel car park.
Malcolm winds the window down and gives the boy a wave.
“You’ll be cold out here tonight, Callum.”
The boy looks up and recognises Malcolm, coming right up to the window with a broad grin on his face.
“I’m warmed up by the tips all the rich ones are leaving me, so they get a good parking spot by the door.” He puts a finger to the side of his nose. “Don’t tell anyone. Glen Mhor are only paying me minimum wage.”
Finn gives a rumble of laughter. “We won’t say a word.”
“And does your Uncle Malcolm get special treatment or do I have to put my hand in my pocket?”
Callum grins back and tips his head towards a space between two shiny black Range Rovers. “Stick it in there.”
My stomach is knotted as we climb out. Finn comes round to my side of the Land Rover and opens the door. Malcolm jumps out, spritely despite his age. And then Finn’s hand extends – an offer, not a demand – so I take it.
His palm is warm, rough, and solid. He helps me down from the high seat, his other hand settling briefly at my waist to steady me on the gravel in my heels. The touch sears through the fabric of my dress.
“Alright?” His voice is low, meant only for me.
I nod, not trusting my voice. His hand lingers at my waist for a beat, and then he releases me and steps back, yet, I have to resist the urge to pull him back.
Ahead of us the glass cube of the visitor centre gleams in the twilight. It looks like an architect’s model come to life which, of course, is exactly what it is. Coppery light spills from behind the panes where the stills shine like huge sculptures.
There are two members of staff on the door, iPads in hand, their smiles polished and practised.
“Welcome to Glen Mhor,” one trills brightly. “If you can show your ID, please.”
Finn stands on the threshold, his bulk casting a huge shadow down the pale footpath. I fish around in my handbag, trying to find my purse.
“What kind of ID?” says Finn, frowning.
“Do you have an invitation?” says the other, looking slightly doubtful. Finn stares down at him from his full six foot five height, his dark eyes narrowed under thick brows.
“An invitation?” He gestures to his tartan regalia. “Do you think I’m dressed up like this for the sake of it?”
Under the bright lights of the entrance, I see him properly in his Highland dress.
The formal jacket fits like it was made for him – which of course, it probably was.
The kilt sits perfectly at his waist, the pleats falling just right.
There’s a sgian-dubh tucked into his sock, a flash of silver against the dark fabric.
He looks like he’s stepped out of another century, like he could lead a charge across a battlefield or claim a castle with nothing but his bare hands.
I peer beyond him, looking inside. Every other man around – in their too-short kilts, or their expensive suits and polished shoes – look like they’re playing dress up.
Finn looks like he was born to this.
My mouth goes dry.
“Ah, there you are,” says an unmistakable voice. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Just checking credentials,” peeps the first staff member, holding up the iPad as if it were a shield.
Jennifer – clad in a purple taffeta dress that makes her look like a Quality Street chocolate – gives a little trill of laughter.
“Oh, don’t you worry about that. This,” she says, managing to look all of us up and down simultaneously with a curl to her nostril that suggests we’ve been found wanting, “this is the Benruar lot.”
“Oh,” says the second person, looking none the wiser.
“Students from the mainland,” Jennifer explains, bustling us into the main entrance of the visitor centre. “They’re here on work experience. Obviously, they haven’t heard of you.”
“Obviously.” Georgia mouths at me, her eyes wide.
This is going to be a very long night.
Someone appears and takes my coat out of my hands like an invisible butler. The room is humming with a low buzz of chatter and the clink of glasses somewhere nearby. There’s a faint scent of polished wood and expensive aftershave.
I thought I was prepared, I’d scrolled through Glen Mhor’s social media feeds often enough, but nothing online captured the sheer gloss of the whole place.
Nothing is out of place. Every surface gleams. There’s not a speck of dust anywhere and comparing Benruar to this place is like comparing one of the hairy Shetland ponies in Kate’s stable yard to a sleek, muscled Derby-winning thoroughbred.
The foyer rises to a peaked atrium, all glass and steel, with a feature wall of copper panels which gleam like the stills themselves.
Spotlights hit them with perfect symmetry.
Underneath there’s a heritage installation – black and white photographs of crofters, blown up and mounted against tartan backdrops, interspersed with information panels in a neat serif font.
It looks authentic and old-school, until you notice the Glen Mhor branding stamped carefully at the bottom of each frame.
To the left there’s a tasting bar glittering under the lights – backlit shelves of amber liquid in staggered heights, each bottle lined up with military precision. It’s a million miles from the cosy, scruffy tasting room. Even after our paint job, this place makes it look like a hovel.
Over in the distance, I spot the door that leads through to the shop, and a crate of fluffy Highland cows by the door, each with a tartan bow tied around its neck.
I peer more closely, and spot shelves of tartan cushions and rows of scented candles.
It’s lucky that Finn’s gazing sullenly into the middle distance, because I think the sight of it all might cause him to spontaneously combust.
Jennifer bustles off, leaving us standing in the middle of the room like a misplaced school group. All around us are little groups of well-dressed people, chatting and laughing, and looking far more at home than we do. Malcolm tugs at the belt around his waist.
“This kilt’s no’ getting any bigger,” he grumbles.
“You look amazing, though,” says Georgia. She flashes a fearless smile and grabs a passing waiter. “Can we—”