Page 83 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle

Oh, God, that felt so good, and she leant into him. ‘I think so.’

‘You haven’t twisted your ankle or anything?’

She was so tempted to say yes. ‘No, I’m fine.’

He released her, and she breathed out slowly, her body tingling. She was left with the impression of arms of steel, a solid, muscular chest, and a woody cologne filling her nostrils.

Reluctantly, she resumed walking, aware that there was still some way to go and that her heel was already rubbing. She’d have to ask him for a plaster soon.

What was it she’d been thinking that had made her stumble? Oh, yes: Mack, the castle, him seeing her with Hadrian, two glasses of whisky, and ‘Angie’ playing at full volume… She was joining the dots, but the picture didn’t make sense.

‘Ouch!’ Stopping abruptly, she grabbed hold of his arm for balance and reached down, easing off her shoe. A blister the size of a dinner plate had formed on her heel.Sod it.

‘I’m going to need a plaster,’ she said.

He peered at her foot. ‘More than one.’ He took the plasters out of his pocket while she wobbled precariously on one foot. ‘It’ll be easier if you sit down,’ he suggested.

She lowered herself onto the verge, thinking it was lucky the grass was dry, and grabbed her ankle, trying to get a better look at the offending heel.

‘Let me.’ Mack sat beside her and took her foot in his hands.

Freya let out a squeak.

‘Did that hurt?’

‘Ticklish,’ she managed. But it wasn’t ticklish she felt, it was lust. His touch was soft, almost a caress, and it sent shock waves through her.

He tightened his grip, his hold not as gentle but equally as erotic. ‘Is that better?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I think two should do it.’

She watched him peel the backing off the plasters, and almost squeaked again when he stroked them gently into place.

‘How is your other foot looking?’ he asked.

‘Fine, I think.’

‘Let’s make sure. Take your shoe off.’

Freya did as he instructed.

‘Hmm, I think we’d better put a plaster on this one as well.’

Having him fondle her other foot was almost too much, but she kept as still as she could while he ministered to her, and when he finished and stood up, she exhaled slowly.

Stress. That was it – stress. There was no other explanation. And maybe the whisky. Except… she’d never got drunk on a single glass before. She was a Scot, for goodness’ sake – she’d grown up with the stuff.

Mack held out his hand. She took it and he hauled her to her feet.

Upright once more and with her shoes on, she wondered whether she’d had some kind of episode, because a reaction like that to something as unglamorous as having a blister tended to wasn’t normal. Maybe she was having a breakdown. Or maybe she simply needed a slice of toast, a cup of tea and an early night.

Freya tried her best not to limp, but it was hard not to. Even with the plasters, both heels were sore and getting worse. Damn these blasted shoes. She didn’t even like them much. In fact, when she got home, the first thing she was going to do was put them in the bin. If her dad still had an open fire in the sitting room, she would have burnt them.

‘We’ll cut through the castle grounds,’ Mack suggested. ‘It’ll be quicker than taking the road. It’ll be rougher underfoot, though. Unless… You could wait at the castle, and I’ll run to yours and fetch you some proper shoes?’

‘Ones I can actually walk in, you mean?’

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