Christmas At Pemberley: And the Bride Wore Prada

‘…need to leave soon!’ Gemma hissed. ‘If we’re to be married in Northton Grange in less than two weeks, I’ve got to be on hand to supervise. Otherwise, God knows what kind of wedding décor hell we’ll walk into.’

‘But we can’t possibly leave yet ‒ there’s still masses of snow on the ground,’ he hedged.

‘The main roads are clear. You’re not trying to postpone our wedding again,’ Gemma accused him, ‘are you?’

And as Dom assured her that no, he most definitely wasn’t, Helen took out her mobile and dashed off a quick email to Tom to update him on the rock star’s wedding plans.

When she was sure Gemma and Dominic were gone, she went downstairs and let herself out the front door. She was halfway down the drive when she saw a truck, its bed loaded with wood, and heard someone call her name. Colm.

‘Miss Thomas,’ he said as he rolled the window down. ‘What brings you out of doors today?’

‘I felt like a bit of fresh air. And it’s so lovely here – the scenery’s breathtaking.’

‘Oh, aye,’ he agreed. ‘You’ll get no argument from me there.’

‘Well, that’s a first.’ The words escaped Helen’s mouth before she could stop them. She bit her lip and waited for his smile to be replaced with its customary scowl.

But he only shrugged. ‘I have my moments.’ He glanced at her. ‘I’m on my way to the castle to unload some firewood. If you wait a few minutes, I’ll come back and take you for a look round the property – well, as much of it as I can show you with the snow still blocking some of our private roads.’

Helen eyed him in surprise. ‘I’d like that,’ she replied. ‘Shall I meet you in front of the house in ten minutes?’

‘Aye. I’ll see you then.’ He nodded, put the truck back in gear, and drove off towards the castle.

‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ Helen muttered. ‘The man can not only talk in complete sentences, he can smile, too.’

And although she’d detected a trace of whisky on his breath, she chose to ignore it.

If it took a ‘wee dram’ to make Colm MacKenzie more sociable, and if a bit of whisky took away the scowl from his face, then she was all for it.

Chapter 20 (#ulink_abe24bd7-6fdc-55c1-b0f1-173c4d769f47)

Helen was just coming back up the drive after a brief walk when Colm drew the truck to a stop in front of the main entrance.

‘Are you ready for the grand tour?’ Colm called out as he leant out the window.

‘I am. And I hope you’ve got the heater going. It’s bloody freezing out here!’

He reached over and threw the door open, and Helen climbed, shivering, inside the truck cab. She was doing up her seat belt when Colm turned to her and held out a flask. ‘Have some. It’s whisky.’

She hesitated. ‘I shouldn’t...’

‘Go on,’ he invited. ‘It’ll warm you up.’ He lifted his brow. ‘Think of it as a before-dinner drink. If you were in the drawing room with the Campbells right now, I guarantee you’d be having a glass.’

That decided her, and she took the flask from him, tilted her head back, and took a swig.

Colm put the truck in gear and with a lurch, they were off. ‘I’ll show you the distillery first,’ he called out over the noise of the engine. ‘It’s what keeps the castle going.’

‘Whisky,’ Helen observed dryly, ‘is the lifeblood of the Campbells.’

‘Aye, and good stuff Draemar whisky is, too.’ He grinned and glanced at the flask. ‘You’re drinking it now.’

‘It’s very good,’ she agreed. ‘I don’t usually care much for the stuff, but this...well, I could learn to like it. A lot.’ She glanced at him. ‘What about you, Colm? Are you a whisky connoisseur?’

‘Hardly. I’m not much of a drinker, normally. But I do know good whisky from bad.’

‘You wouldn’t be much of a Scotsman if you didn’t.’

He laughed. ‘No, I suppose not.’ Returning his attention to the truck, he navigated down the sloping, snow-packed road that led to the Campbell distillery.

Like the castle, the building was made of stone and mortar and looked both impressive and invincible. Several dozen vehicles filled a nearby car park.

‘How many people does the distillery employ?’ Helen asked.

‘Eighty, at last count. Most are from the village.’

‘I see. So the Campbell family’s whisky makes for a booming local economy,’ she observed.

‘Aye, it keeps the village going. If the distillery ever went out, so would Loch Draemar.’ He threw the truck in reverse and headed back up the hill. ‘So tell me, Helen Thomas ‒ how’s that news story of yours getting on?’

She stared at him. Did Colm suspect that she was investigating Andrew’s death, that she was investigating him?

‘You know,’ he prodded as he saw her blank look, ‘the scoop you were after, the scoop on Dominic and Gemma’s secret wedding.’

‘Oh...yes.’ She managed a brief smile. ‘There’s nothing much going on at the moment, only Gemma driving us all mad with the wedding preparations, leaving stacks of bridal magazines everywhere, and subjecting everyone to shouty phone calls to caterers and florists and dressmakers—’

There was a quick flash of brown as a deer darted out of the surrounding woods and bounded in front of the truck. With a curse Colm wrenched the steering wheel hard to the right to avoid hitting the creature, and slammed on the brakes.

Helen, thrown hard against him, began to tremble. ‘Oh God,’ she breathed, ‘oh God...’

‘Are you all right?’ Colm asked as he turned to her. His face was ashen; fear tightened his throat. ‘Are you hurt?’

She straightened and managed to shake her head. ‘No. No, I’m fine.’

‘Sorry about that. I never saw the bastard coming. Damn, that’s your bag landed on the floor. I’ll get it.’

He reached down to retrieve it. A photograph and keys lay on the floorboard as well. ‘Here,’ Colm said, and glanced at the picture of a dark-haired man just before he handed it over with the keys. ‘Who’s this? Is he the bloke you were talking to on the phone the other day?’

She snatched it away. ‘None of your business,’ she snapped.

Colm’s jaw tightened and the closed expression settled back on his face. ‘Right, then. That’s me put in my place.’

For a moment there was silence, with only the ticking of the engine and the sound of Helen’s ragged breathing to mar the quiet.

‘He was my husband,’ she said finally. She gazed down at the photograph in her hands, and her expression was empty. ‘David. We were married for three years. We met at university – he was studying law, I was studying journalism. I loved him. Even though he drove me mad with his refusal to put his dirty clothes in the laundry hamper, and even though he took perverse pleasure in tracking mud across my newly cleaned kitchen floor, I...loved him.’

Colm was silent, his hand resting on the gearshift, waiting.

‘He often worked long hours – he was a solicitor for a big firm in Canary Wharf. He’d bring home Chinese, or curry, and we’d sit on the floor in front of the coffee table and watch telly. He tried to teach me to use chopsticks. But I never could manage them properly.’