Two Kinds Of Truth(43)

“Yes, we’ll accept eighty pounds,” she says and goes over to the painting and takes it off the stand. Her nimble fingers are soon busy wrapping it up, as though it’s a priceless piece of art—which it is to me. And I just know how Keira will react the moment she claps eyes on it.

“Jamie, I simply can’t thank you enough for bringing me to this wonderful place,” I say as we walk back to the car. “The picture: it’s simply perfection.”

“I’m glad ye like it. The gallery is one of my favourite places,” he says.

“I can see why. I’ve never seen so much talent under one roof.”

“Aye. I’m proud to say the local artists around here are second to none.”

“I’d have never put you down as the arty type.”

“Haven’t ye seen the paintings in the Garden House?”

“Yes. The watercolours…they’re magnificent.”

“Aye, and they’re all originals, too.”

“You bought them? You’ve surprised me,” I admit.

Jamie shrugs. “Quite often, there’s more to a man than first meets the eye.”

We get back into the Range and travel the rest of the way listening to the radio. It’s a farming programme and they’re discussing which fertiliser to use on this year’s crops. I glance out of the window as the car weaves around tight bends and pushes its way over lush green hills. We hit the crest of one, and as we descend, the road dips and I catch a last glimpse of the sea. It sparkles and I let out a sigh. Outside it may be bracing, the sun often dull and the breeze cold, but there’s something special about this place, this haven.

We arrive back at Camburgh just as the radio presenter announces it’s time for Woman’s Hour. Jamie fiddles with the dials and Mr Blue Sky blares out. I clap my hands with glee.

“I love this song,” I say.

Jamie grins. “Och, so do I,” and we both sing along to it. As the orchestra reaches a crescendo, I put on my best interpretation of an operatic voice.

Jamie puts a hand over his ear and winces. “Guid God, woman, ye sound like you’re being strangled,” and we both burst out laughing. We head straight through the town centre, and Jamie pulls up outside a quaint little cottage.

“This is Rhona’s house,” he explains, and switches off the engine. He gets out and I follow him to the back of the Range Rover, where he pulls out the present we’ve brought especially for Findlay. He presses the box into my hands.

I turn to stare at the pretty whitewashed house with its pale blue door. There’s a wooden trellis attached to the wall from which a well-established climbing rose hangs. The flowers aren’t quite open, but there’s a splash of yellow at their tips.

Jamie opens the garden gate and stands aside to allow me to pass. I wait for him, and together, we walk up the path. I go up to the door and tap gently.

“Just a minute,” a soft voice calls out from within, then the door swings open and Rhona welcomes us with a warm smile.

“I hope we’re not intruding,” I say.

“Nah. Not at all. ’Tis lovely to see ye both,” and she stands aside. “Well, don’t just stand there; come on in.”

It’s like walking back in time. There’s a row of quaint little shelves filled with pre-war porcelain and colourful nick-knacks. I spot a couple of Scottie dog bookends and a figurine of a Royal Lothian soldier. There’s even a basket-hilted sword, a claymore and a silver dirk hanging on the wall. I brush my fingers across the dirk. Centuries ago, nearly all clansmen carried such weapons. I stare at its hilt; it’s cleverly carved with a curious interlaced design.

“It’s Celtic,” Jamie whispers in my ear, and his warm breath causes me to shiver.

“Yes, I thought as much,” I say.

We enter a small parlour. “Please, take a seat,” Rhona says. “Make yourselves at home.”

There isn’t much furniture. The cottage is tiny, just enough room to fit a single chair and a two-seater sofa. Both face the hearth. Rhona gestures for us to take the sofa and she takes the chair. I go to sit down but the sofa is barely big enough for two.

“Och, come sit here, next to me,” Jamie says, having already plonked himself down. I hesitate, but he grabs my hand and pulls me down beside him. I feel my cheeks burn at his close proximity and avert my eyes, over to where Rhona’s sitting.

Findlay is asleep in a beautiful hand-carved crib by her side. I watch him sleep. His red hair makes the sheet he’s lying on look pure white. He stirs and Rhona presses her hand to the crib and rocks him gently. He goes back to sleep and I feel a stab of disappointment.

“Gordy, have ye got that kettle on?” she yells, and I’m surprised to see Findlay doesn’t stir.

“Aye, I’m just doing it now, dear,” a voice bellows from an open doorway, and there’s the clunk of a switch and an array of creaking floorboards before Gordon appears from the galley kitchen to greet us.

Jamie stands and shakes his hand and I go to do the same, but Gordon wraps his arms around me and squeezes me into a bearhug. I’m taken aback and it must show on my face, for both Jamie and Rhona laugh out loud.

“Take it easy, young Gordon,” Jamie says. “Ye dinnae want to kill yir visitor just yet.”

Gordon chortles and releases me. I take a gulp of air. He’s definitely not the kind of guy to pick a fight with. Well over six-foot-tall and just as broad, he has a long ginger beard and mischievous blue eyes.