‘What happened to the writing?’
He scrunched up his face. ‘Procrastination. I’ve got to a sticky part and I’m dancing round it before I go in for the kill.’
‘Sounds like you’re writing a murder, rather than history.’
Ross almost missed a step but not quite and Izzy smiled to herself as he said, ‘History is quite bloody, you know.’
She was now pretty sure he wasn’t writing a history book like he’d claimed – he’d made too many near slips when talking about the content – but if he didn’t want to tell her, she wasn’t going to pry.
‘Especially Scottish history,’ added Izzy. ‘Have you ever been to Culloden?’
‘Aye. Eerie place. Haunted by the ghosts of dead clansmen,’ said Ross, with a quick shudder. ‘A sad end to the clans.’
Izzy nodded. She knew her Scottish history, knew that the Jacobite rebellion, which had ended with the Battle of Culloden in 1746, had wiped out the Highland way of life and that the hereditary rights of the clans to govern their own estates had been lost in the following years.
They skirted the still waters of the loch, following the path down to the village, which cut through a small valley dotted on either side with native trees. Larch, Caledonian pine, birch, ash and oaks had all been battered by the wind into wizened bends and twists rather than the tall, straight pines of the forestry plantations that dotted so much of the Scottish landscape. Izzy loved the wildness of the gnarled shapes and the bent trunks trying to escape the prevailing wind. Here she felt a sense of freedom as the breeze whipped and pulled at their coats, making the needle-clad firs shimmer with life and vitality. Their strength in the face of the storms of nature always renewed her batteries, reminding her that there was more to life than the day-to-day, man-made rhythms.
‘It must be wonderful to live out here,’ said Ross, as they tramped through the crisp russet bracken, their feet bouncing on the springy, wiry heather and bilberry plants, and their breaths coming in quick, visible pants.
She paused and looked at the loch glimmering like molten silver and then back at the castle standing above the body of water, guarding and protecting the scene. ‘It is. Better than I expected. I thought it would be just me and Xanthe rattling around in a big, draughty old castle, feeling a bit out of place, but it feels like home already.’
‘You’re working miracles, that’s for sure. How long have you worked for her? And what’s your official title. Business manager? Housekeeper?’
Izzy stumbled and almost fell over, catching her foot in a rabbit hole.
‘Steady,’ he said, grasping her arm and pulling her upright.
‘Xanthe’s my…’ she began but the words fizzled out when she looked up and saw the strangest expression on his face.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked, sombre and quiet, his eyes searching her face almost as if he were looking for the answer to a completely different question.
Her heart hitched and she nodded, unable to tear her eyes away from his.
‘Yes,’ she whispered. He was going to kiss her. She breathed in, anticipating the feel of his lips and waiting for him to close the gap, her heart hammering in her chest.
The disappointment when he turned away and started walking again almost floored her. She stared at his back. Had she made a complete fool of herself, imagining something that wasn’t? A quick blush fired its way across her face. Taking a deep breath, she picked up her pace and caught up with him. They walked in silence for a few minutes and Izzy wondered what was going through his mind.
It was a relief when he finally said, ‘What was it you said you needed in the village?’
‘Sausages,’ she said. ‘And magazines.’ She realised she sounded like an idiot and quickly added, ‘I want some inspiration for Christmas recipes as I’ve got to cook four dinners, three lunches – and of course Christmas lunch – and they all need to be fancy. I’m slightly concerned by how demanding Mrs Carter-Jones is becoming. This morning she sent an email asking for confirmation that the towels will all be at least 600 gsm. I didn’t even know what “gsm” was until today.’ She was blathering now, anything to avoid not talking and things being uncomfortable.
By the time they arrived on the outskirts of the village, the conversation had thankfully levelled out again and Izzy was laughing at his description of some of his students.
‘I’m going to be about twenty minutes in the library. Shall I meet you here to walk back?’ asked Ross.
She stared at him. ‘Er, sure. Yes.’
She frowned at his back as he walked off. She couldn’t figure him out at all.
Hadn’t she learned her lesson with Philip? Hankering after a man who wasn’t interested was plain ridiculous and only led to heartache. Unfortunately, her heart didn’t seem to have read the memo.
‘Morning, Mrs McPherson,’ said Izzy, handing over the magazines she’d selected.
Mrs McPherson looked at each one carefully before scanning them. ‘Is that all you want?’
‘Er, at the moment, yes.’
‘I hear you’ve got guests coming. The boxer short man.’
