A Scottish Highland Hideaway by Julie Shackman

Author:Julie Shackman [Shackman, Julie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780008614324
Publisher: One More Chapter

Chapter Fourteen

Sunday morning’s drive to Bannock House was actually very pleasant. There was a wintry breeze, signalling the definite arrival of December, but the coquettish sun persisted in flirting in and out of the stippled shreds of icy clouds.

Still, the secret I was keeping from Zach was very much on my mind. How long could I carry on like this? I didn’t want to lie to him or deceive him. It made me feel shabby. But, despite telling him I trusted him, how could I when it was his job to expose the truth?

I was even taking a risk driving back home. What if Zach was tailing me? It didn’t seem that likely, not after what had happened between us last night, but it wasn’t impossible. I checked my rear-view mirror but the coast was clear. It looked like I was the only car on the road.

I relaxed a little, though I was still struggling with a combination of guilt and longing. I wanted to be the person Zach thought I was. Despite my protestations that I’d never allow myself to fall for another man again, let alone trust one, here I was, doing it anyway.

When I stopped at some traffic lights, I studied my eyes in the little mirror on the back of the visor that I’d pulled down to protect against the bright flashes of occasional sunlight. My eyes were preoccupied and pale grey, like an unsettled loch on a winter’s day. Squirming nerves, like a basket of eels, slithered in my stomach.

As I left behind the main roads, the familiar scenery of the countryside emerged. In the distance, there was the faint, craggy hillside. the thrusting peaks of the roofs and the higgledy-piggledy shops. Everything looked festive, as though it had been sprinkled with glitter.

I passed the familiar spread of farmers’ fields on the left, with their shaggy, amber-haired Highland cattle and then turned right into the private road that led up to my family home. The trees on either side thrust their branches in dramatic, twisted curves, casting spidery shadows over the roof of my car. The Georgian wrought-iron gate with its fussy leaf carvings stared back at me as if to say, “Oh, long time, no see!”

I got out of the car and jabbed the security code into the panel that was wired into one of the gate posts. It still worked. It hadn’t been changed since I was last here over a year ago. My parents were rather lackadaisical about that sort of thing.

The gates glided open.

My tyres crunched over the driveway gravel, with its candy-pink chips, grumbling in consternation as I passed banks of rustling undergrowth.

It felt like I’d never left.

Bannock House glinted under the intermittent rays of the watery sun, its grey coade stone proud and resilient against the Scottish weather.

The house had two storeys and a taller central tower with numerous other turrets rising phoenix-like from its high walls. The entrance was imposing and consisted of a large oak door which was reached via a broad set of stone steps.

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