‘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 ofthe seat. He was bushed. It was ten to eleven, and only now had hismother called it a day. After a dinner he’d had no appetite for, she’dinsisted on catching up on work since she’d ‘wasted a whole day’ gettingto 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,Norahad 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. Hewastired. 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 seeher.
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.
After he’d read the same report three times and had taken none of it in, he gave up, closing his laptop and switching off the lamp. Was there any point in going back to bed since he was wide awake? He thought not. But he couldn’t just sit there and stare into space. He wasn’t made for idleness. He had to be doing something. Or – looking at it from a different perspective – did he feel that heshouldbe doing something? That by doing nothing, he was wasting valuable time? That was the problem with living life in the fast lane: it wasn’t easy to slow down.
He’d slowed down in Duncoorie, though. Which was why Beverly was here. She clearly felt he was skiving off and not pulling his weight. Or did she sense something was amiss?
