Chapter 21 Tilda
TILDA
Inside the kitchen is dim and warm, the low light of the lamps on the bookshelves creating puddles of light.
The dogs greet us with delighted wagging tails and Finn opens the door, letting them run outside for an evening pee and a sniff around the courtyard.
I stand in the kitchen, not quite sure what to do with myself.
Finn comes back and the dogs settle down on their bed by the Aga. His heavy boots strike the flagstones as he paces back and forth along the length of the big kitchen table.
“Well,” I say, my voice sounding loud in the quiet. “That was… educational.”
He huffs a laugh and turns to the shelf, getting two glasses and a familiar, solid bottle. I look at him with my brows raised in query.
“I have waited all night for a drink. You can join me if you like.” He puts the glasses down on the table and presses his hands down flat on either side of them. “Or not. I still don’t quite get your drinking-not-drinking policy.”
“It’s complicated,” I admit. I rub my nose while I think. “I-I don’t want to make bad choices.”
His brow lifts a fraction further and he tips his head slightly.
“My life has been a series of bad choices. I really don’t need alcohol to help.”
“Fair.”
I watch as he works the cork loose and places it down on the table, lifting the glass and pouring in a measure of the whisky with slow, deliberate movements.
Everything that Finn Kinnaird does is considered.
I press my thighs together under the table as a jolt of desire shocks me, and I have to look away before I give myself away completely.
“Go on then.”
He looks up at me from his study of the glass, head tipped slightly and one brow lifted, as if he can’t quite believe what I’m saying.
I nod once.
“I can’t guarantee I’ll like it,” I say, the words coming out in a rush. “But I’d like to try.”
I’m not sure I’m talking about the whisky at this point. His mouth twitches almost imperceptibly, and he sweeps the room with his eyes, as if making a decision on the spot. His big hands are spread on the table, arms locked as he looks over at me.
“We can do better than this.”
He motions to the muddle of Georgia’s papers and the jumble of things leftover on the long wooden table. “Come on.”
The dogs wag lazily, not moving from their beds as I stand up and glance in their direction before heading across the kitchen to join Finn.
He holds the door open, standing aside to let me step ahead of him through the doorway that leads down towards the sitting room. He flicks on a lamp by the leather sofa and puts the bottle and the glasses down on a table beside it.
“It’s such a pretty room,” I babble as he bends to put a match to the fire. The light flares, illuminating his face and emphasising the line of his cheekbones above the dark scruff of his beard.
I sit down on the sofa, not quite sure what to do with my legs. I try crossing them over then kick my shoes off and curl them underneath me, picking up a sagging velvet cushion.
I tuck the cushion under my chin and watch as he unbuckles the heavy leather sporran, tossing it onto the table between us and the fire as he settles on the far side of the sofa, kilt jacket gone, and his shirt sleeves rolled up.
He leans forward to pour a measure of whisky into my glass and I try not to notice the broad planes of his muscled back under the crisp white of his shirt, but I can’t quite pull my gaze away.
He stretches over, placing the glass in front of me on the table.
“I can’t promise I’m going to like it,” I repeat, a little bit too fast. I reach for the glass and my fingers brush against his.
“I don’t need you to make any promises.” A corner of his mouth lifts slightly and he shifts on the sofa, moving closer as he watches me pick up the glass. He lifts his too, touching the rim against mine with a quiet chink of crystal on crystal.
The glass is heavier than I expected, and I draw it towards my nose, catching the all too familiar whisky smell. But then I close my eyes for a second and for some reason a picture of a wild garden comes into my mind.
“Sharp fruit?” I open my eyes. “I can smell vanilla and crab apples.”
“Go on.” His dark eyes hold mine as I take another tentative sniff.
“Bread. I suppose that makes some sort of sense?”
“You’re a natural.”
I swirl the glass, watching the liquid cling to the sides.
“You can drink it as well,” he says, dry as ever.
I take a sip and heat rolls over my tongue. It’s the taste of the peat smoke I recognise from outside, and somehow the soft heather honey we have on our toast in the morning by the Aga.
“Oh,” I say, my lips parting as I pull in a breath to try and cool the fire in my mouth.
“Good or bad ‘oh’?”
“It’s complicated.” I set the glass down on the table and bite my lower lip, thinking.
He gives a brief laugh. “Pleased to hear it. I don’t work the hours I do to make something simplistic.”
“Unlike Glen Mhor?”
He leans back, one arm against the back of the sofa. “Exactly. Unlike Glen Mhor.”
I take another tentative sip.
“It’s growing on me.”
He raises his eyes heavenwards and shakes his head, laughing. “You’re a tough crowd.”
“I’m not the only one.”
Finn groans. “Tonight wasn’t exactly an unmitigated success. What did you think of the place?”
He eyes me steadily as I cup my glass and gaze at the flames, thinking.
“I can see what they’re trying to do,” I say, trying to be diplomatic.
“They’re trying to impress shareholders.” He takes a sip of his whisky and reaches forward, taking the bottle in one big hand.
“And you’re not.”
“In theory, I can please myself.”
“In reality?”
“I’ve got to keep this place afloat. I made a promise, and I don’t break promises.” He looks down into the dregs of his drink. “And the island’s been good to me. I owe it to them to give something back.”
“I think they appreciate it.”
“I think some of them do.” He shrugs one shoulder. “I’m not a crowd pleaser. I won’t jump through the hoops Jennifer wants. I’m like this,” he says, lifting the bottle of whisky to make his point.
“Complicated?” I tuck the cushion closer and look at him, wondering if I’ve crossed a line.
He surprises me with a smile. “Complicated.”
“I think I like complicated more than I thought,” I say without realising what I’m saying. “I meant the whisky,” I add quickly. I can feel my cheeks going pink but luckily, it’s too dark in the room for him to notice.
The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile this time, but his eyes catch mine.
“Will seemed very interested in you,” he says, his voice unexpectedly rough.
“He wasn’t interested, he was poaching.” I take another mouthful of whisky and swallow, feeling it burn down my throat.
He shifts in the chair, and I look down at the rough fabric of the kilt, which I’d almost forgotten about. Now I’m trying not to think about whether he’s wearing anything underneath it, but this is Finn we’re talking about. He’s a stickler for precision. I think that probably answers my question.
The fire snaps and the logs settle against the glass. I stare at the flames, my skin feeling hot all over despite the cool of the evening.
“And would you want to be poached?” Finn’s voice is casual.
“No.” I turn back to look at him, putting the cushion to one side and turning my knees so they’re angled towards him. “I want this place to get the contract.”
“Because it’ll look good on your CV?”
“It makes no difference to me.” I raise a shoulder.
“Charming.” He hovers the bottle over my glass, his brows a question.
I nod my response. “I don’t mean it like that. But ‘renovation and restoration of Benruar Distillery gardens’ looks good whether it has the cherry on the cake of winning the tourist office contract or not. I want us to win because it makes a difference.”
“Us.”
I bite my lip again and look back at him, realising what I’ve said.
“You’re not making this easy, Tilda,” he says after a long moment.
“What?”
“You looked good tonight. Bonny, Malcolm would say.” His tone is almost wry.
My heart starts banging against my ribs.
“Thanks.” I shift on the chair, smoothing out the black fabric of my dress. “I’m not really a dress sort of girl, but—”
“I prefer you in your dungarees, with mud on your boots, and hair in your eyes, Chaos,” Finn says, his gaze unflinching as he looks at me. “But nonetheless, you were by far the best-looking thing in the room tonight.”
“Chaos?” I take a too-big mouthful of whisky and swallow it back, blinking hard because I think my lungs might explode from the fireball that’s burning in my chest. “Is that your name for me?”
His mouth twists. “I think it suits you.”
“Careful,” I say, “that almost sounded like a compliment.”
“I was trying for flirting,” Finn admits, catching a strand of my hair and fingering it. “But I’m better at—”
He leaves the words unsaid, and I shift towards him as he studies me. The air changes and I can smell the clean cotton of his shirt and the cedarwood of his soap. He’s looking at me like he’s been holding back for weeks. Like every careful, measured moment has cost him something.
“Tilda.” My name sounds rough on his lips.
I shift closer still, closing the distance between us. His hand comes up slowly, his fingertips tracing my jaw, thumb grazing the line of my throat. I shiver under his touch, and his eyes darken further.
“Tell me no,” he says quietly. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
Instead, I reach up, my hand curling into the back of his dark hair, my bare arm pressed against the fabric of his shirt. He’s solid with muscle, his skin hot under my touch.
“Please,” I say, my mouth almost on his. “Don’t stop.”
The sound he makes is almost a growl. His splays against the base of my throat and I can feel my pulse hammering under his palm. For a heartbeat neither of us moves, and then his mouth crashes against mine.