Little more was said for the rest of the way back, and when they arrived at the castle he said, ‘Thank you for showing me a piece of Skye.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Her voice was stilted.
‘I’m leaving in the morning. By rights, I should have been back in London already.’
Her treacherous heart stuttered. Despite him being about to turn her life upside down, there was a part of her that was dismayed at the news of his imminent departure.
‘It was nice seeing you again, Rocco.’ She actually meant it. Selling Coorie Castle didn’t make him a bad guy, and she could see why he’d want to sell up. Izzy was right; if the shoe was on the other foot and Giselle had suddenly inherited a substantial property inLondon, she’d have it on the market quicker than a heron snatching a fish out of the water.
It wasn’t his fault that selling the castle might have such a devastating effect on her, the other crafters and everyone else who worked there. And at least he was leaving with some appreciation of the island and the castle he was so keen to get rid of.
However, the thought gave her scant comfort.
Chapter 11
When Rocco opened the heavy drapes on Friday morning, the view made him pause. He was going to miss waking up to this. He was also going to miss having it as a backdrop to his laptop when he was working, although it did sometimes prove to be more of a distraction than he needed.
It was five thirty, and he wasn’t in the mood to do any work, despite knowing he should get a couple of hours in before the drive to Inverness airport. Instead, he decided to go for the run he’d been promising himself all week.
When he stepped outside, he took several deep breaths, stretching his calf and thigh muscles, then jumped up and down and jogged on the spot to warm up. As he did so, his gaze roamed over the craft centre, the woodland and the castle.
It still hadn’t totally sunk in that he was here because he owned it. To him, the feeling was more akin to being on holiday, as though he’d had a pleasant mid-week break. Rocco guessed he would look back on his time on Skye with a degree of surrealism. Heck, it didn’t feel realnow, when he was actually here!
He set off along the lane leading to the small beach and jetty but veered off down a dirt track before he reached the former boathouse. The track led to the village and he jogged down it at a comfortable pace, one he could keep up for an hour or so.
With his breathing deep and even, and his feet pounding out a regular rhythm, he soaked up the serenity of the morning. It felt strange not to run with buds in his ears, but birdsong was music enough, and it was rather liberating not to have his mobile with him.
It wasn’t long before the track ended and the rough ground under his feet changed to terraced pavement, but he kept on running, past the church where Mhairi was buried, past the little shop with the Post Office sign above it, past the pub where he assumed Giselle and the others would be gathering for a drink this evening. Then on past a guest house, a restaurant, a shop selling fishing tackle and a handful of pretty whitewashed cottages, until he’d left Duncoorie behind.
A stone bridge over a burbling stream marked the far end of the loch, where the sea was corralled by the land, and he crossed it, the narrow road leading upwards.
Soon he was on the opposite side of the loch to the castle, and the early morning sun was in his eyes and the wind was in his hair. Sweat trickled down his back and his chest, and his breathing became ragged as the gradient steepened. Below him lay the calm water, edged by dark rocks and framed by heather, low bushes and gorse. This side of the loch was wild and uninhabited, and the solitude was suddenly overwhelming.
Coming to an abrupt halt, he put his hands on his thighs above his knees and leant forward, gasping. The incline on the treadmill in the gym was no match for this hill, and it took him a moment or two to catch his breath.
When he straightened up, he was mesmerised by the view.
Duncoorie stretched along the loch on the opposite shore, the whitewashed buildings nestling in the hillside like pebbles in grass. And at the far end, on a rocky rise, sat the largest pebble of all – Coorie Castle.
It looked like part of the landscape, as though it had grown out of the rock, rather than being built on it, and although he knew it had changed significantly since its construction over eight hundred years ago, he could imagine the feelings of those medieval Scots when they saw it for the first time: awe, fear, envy. It had been a fortification built for defence and warfare, and still held some of that majesty in its high walls and square turrets. But now it was picturesque rather than brooding. And it washis.
Rocco sank into the springy heather, his behind on a tussock of soft grass, and gazed at it, drinking in every detail. He would never forget this magical sight.
Unwilling to return to the castle just yet, he sat there for a while, the sun on his face, and enjoyed the peace. It was quite freeing not to think about emails or meetings, schedules or reports, and he found his mind drifting as his gaze roamed over the distant village. Which house was Giselle’s, he wondered; he’d only been there once, and from where he was sitting it was hard to work out the route he’d taken to get to it.
Was she there, or on the beach? The distance was too great to tell if anyone was walking along the shoreline.
Then movement caught his eye, but it was much nearer, and it wasn’t a person.
Bounding through the tufts of heather, only twenty metres away, was a fox.
A russet-bodied, white-chested, bushy-tailedfox!
Rocco held his breath, willing the creature not to notice him, but when the fox turned its head, he realised the animal was well aware of his presence as it locked its pale amber eyes on his.
Unperturbed by the human’s nearness, the fox continued on its way, Rocco watching until it was out of sight.
‘Wow,’ he whispered, feeling privileged to have seen such a stunning animal so close.
