Page 41 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle (Coorie Castle Crafts #2)

January

The exhibition was called The Colours of Skye (the title shamelessly stolen from Mhairi) and Freya’s ceramics reflected the island’s vibrant hues.

Purple, salmon, pink, russet – the infinite shades of the sky, the loch, the mountains.

She’d tried her best, but despite the accolades tonight, she knew she hadn’t done them justice.

Hers were muted in comparison. As she kept telling everyone, you had to see Skye for yourself to appreciate it.

A middle-aged couple blocked her view, and she smiled politely at them.

‘Marvin and Patty Rokovitz,’ the woman said, holding out a hand with a diamond ring the size of a cherry tomato on her middle finger. It couldn’t possibly be real, could it? ‘We’re from Texas,’ she added.

‘Freya Sinclair, from Skye. Pleased to meet you.’

Mrs Rokovitz tinkled out a laugh. ‘We know who you are, dear. Isn’t this fabulous? You are so talented. I’ve already picked out the pieces I want.’

‘That’s very kind of you. And thank you so much for coming this evening,’ Freya replied.

‘Honey, I love your accent. I could listen to it all night. Marvin, we simply have to go to Scotland.’ She turned back to Freya. ‘I’ve got Scottish ancestors on my mother’s side.’

‘Then you should definitely come to Skye,’ Freya urged.

‘What month do you recommend?’

‘Any time of the year is great, but I love summer best.’

‘Summer it is, Marvin!’ She giggled loudly again, and Freya guessed the woman had availed herself of the single malt that was being served instead of the usual champagne.

There were also nibbles in the form of Scottish smoked salmon, haggis bites, Scotch eggs and shortbread, and bagpipe music played in the background.

Thankfully, Jocasta had taken Freya’s advice and hadn’t hired a piper otherwise no one would have been able to hear themselves think.

Freya caught sight of Jocasta Black chatting with a group of men in suits, and Jocasta smiled at her and inclined her head.

It was she who was responsible for Freya being here, and for the exhibition, and Freya was incredibly grateful.

Mind you, Freya had been persuaded to give a series of guest lectures in return, so Jocasta wasn’t hosting the exhibition entirely out of the goodness of her heart, and the Academy was also taking a generous commission on any sales.

‘Gorgeous dress,’ a woman in a short, red-checked skirt declared. ‘Is it authentic?’

Freya hedged. ‘It depends on what you mean by authentic.’

‘Is it real tartan?’

‘Yes, it is.’ The material had been woven in a mill in the Scottish Borders. It was called ‘Isle of Skye tartan’, and although it wasn’t associated with any clan, its soft purples and greens reflected the colours of the island. The fabric was heavy, and she was hot underneath its layers.

She searched the room again, looking for a tall man with golden hair. He, too, was wearing the Isle of Skye tartan, but considering his was a kilt, Freya assumed he wasn’t in danger of overheating.

Spying him lurking in a corner, she made her way towards him, keeping her head down and hoping not to be waylaid.

His eyes lit up when he saw her, a broad smile illuminating his face. ‘How are your tootsies? Hurting?’

She lifted the skirt of her long dress and showed him her boots. It had been his suggestion that she wore her Doc Martens tonight, since the length of the skirt meant they’d be hidden, and very grateful she was too.

‘Where’s Dad?’ she asked.

Mack pointed.

Vinnie was sitting on one of the few chairs in the room, a crowd of people around him like courtiers around a throne.

‘He’s been telling stories of the selkie folk to anyone who’ll listen,’ Mack said. ‘He’s so proud of you. So am I. You make a decent pot.’

‘Thanks,’ she said wryly.

‘I wouldn’t want you to get too big-headed. You might get ideas.’

‘Such as?’

‘Refusing to take a walk with me in Times Square.’ He held out his hand.

‘ Now? ’

‘Why not?’

‘What about Jocasta? She won’t be happy if I bugger off. And what about my dad? I can’t abandon him.’

‘I’m not suggesting we stay out all night – just for a minute, or two.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s snowing. I’ve been told there’s something magical about snow in Times Square.’

‘Just for a few minutes?’

‘A few minutes,’ he confirmed.

When they stepped outside, fat white flakes were drifting in the air, and Freya lifted her face to the sky, letting them fall onto her heated cheeks. She would soon become chilled, but for now she was enjoying the moment.

Mack was right, it was magical. She found it hard to believe she was actually here.

Far from Freya’s career being over, it was flourishing.

Not only that – her dad was doing OK, the progression of the disease slow (for now at least) and she was thrilled he was well enough to accompany her to New York.

He was thrilled too, and the delight in his eyes had brought tears to her own.

Then there was Mack: her rock, her soulmate, her heart.

And at this moment her rock was behaving like one, because he was sitting on the ground and—

No, not sitting . He was on one knee, and he’d managed to gather quite a crowd while she’d been gazing up at the snowflakes and the bright lights.

‘I was going to propose on Skye,’ he said, ‘but your dad told me I should do it here, in Times Square.’

‘Do you always do what my dad tells you to do?’

‘Only when it comes to you. He loves you. As do I. Freya Sinclair, will you do me the honour of being my wife?’

The ring he was offering her was purple, like the heather, an amethyst set in platinum, and to either side were small emeralds. Purple, green and white – the colours of Skye, the colours of the tartan she wore, and the colours of the very first bowl that she had made in the byre.

‘Yes, a thousand times yes!’ she cried, and when bagpipes began to play a familiar song, she joined in with the chorus, singing, ‘ Over the sea to Skye… ’

Skye was her home, her heart, her life. It was where she belonged – by the side of the man she loved.