Chapter 28

A fun thing about me that I learn on this trip: I really, really hate shooting.

Alex kept his promise—we’re not shooting any living creatures, thank god, but we are shooting clay pigeons, and it turns out it’s not just the killing that bugs me about shooting.

It’s the noise.

When I shriek for the third time as my gun goes off, Gilly, my shooting partner for this outing, gives me a look.

“Every time?” he asks, and I scowl, adjusting my cap lower on my head. Oh yes, I have a cap. I have a whole outfit made out of tweed, and there are sturdy boots and leather gloves, and honestly, if anyone takes a picture of me like this, I am going to die.

“Sorry, I’m not used to gunfire going off right by my head,” I tell him, and Gilly looks at me, puzzled.

“But you’re American,” he says, and then, before I can reply, he shouts, “Pull!”

A clay pigeon soars through the air.

Gilly pulls the trigger and the pigeon shatters.

I shriek.

Sighing, Gilly lowers the gun, fixing me with his dark eyes. “Lady Daze,” he says, “why don’t you go see if there’s something to drink back at the cars?”

I can’t blame him for wanting to get rid of me, but I stick my tongue out at him anyway before gratefully skedaddling over to the cars. There are a bunch of them, old Land Rovers, some jeeps, all of which have seen better days. It must be more of that thing Miles told me about, posh people not needing to show off all the time.

Walking around to the back of the jeep that I know has the drinks and snacks, I kick a loose clod of dirt and grass with the toe of my boot. It’s a beautiful day, clouds racing across the sky, and the air smells sweet and smoky. It’s also warm enough that I don’t really need my jacket, and I shuck it as I round the back of the jeep.

And come face-to-face with Flora and Miles.

They’re not standing particularly close or anything, and they seem to just be making small talk as Flora pours lemonade out of a thermos and Miles unwraps a sandwich. She’s laughing at something he’s said, but when she sees me, her smile fades, her movements suddenly becoming a little stiff and jerky.

She and Tamsin hadn’t said anything to me the night of the ball. They’d seen me, Tamsin jerking to look over her shoulder, her eyes wide, her lips swollen, and I’d muttered apologies, backing out into the hallway so quickly I’d almost tripped over my dress. Flora had only narrowed her eyes at me.

I didn’t see her at all yesterday, and now I try to act as nonchalant as possible as I pick up one of the other thermoses from the back of the jeep.

“Having fun?” Flora asks me. She’s also dressed in tweed, but she’s taken off her jacket, too. Her dark golden hair is held back in a low ponytail, aviator sunglasses covering her eyes. Miles has a similar look, although he’s also got a cap kind of like mine. They look . . . right standing there together. Flora is clearly not interested in him at the moment, but it’s just another reminder that they all inhabit this same world, all travel in an orbit that I can barely understand on a good day.

Then Flora surprises me by saying, “Help me carry these things out to everyone, would you, Daisy?”

Like her mom, Flora has enough authority that you just kind of do what she says without really thinking about it. I scoop up an extra thermos and a stack of little china plates while Flora gathers a handful of wrapped sandwiches and a couple of glasses, tucking the stems between her fingers.

We’re about halfway between the cars and the shooting when she says, “You didn’t tell anyone.”

It’s not a question, but I answer it like it is. “No, of course not.”

Stopping, Flora turns to look at me, but I can’t see her eyes, only my face reflected twice in those giant mirrored aviators.

“Why not?” she asks. “I was a total bitch to you, and you could’ve run off to tell everyone. Mummy, Seb. The press.” She lifts one shoulder. “It’s what I would’ve done.”

“You’re a princess,” I tell her. “It was to be expected.”

That makes her smile, or at least sort of smile. One corner of her mouth lifts, revealing her perfect teeth for just a second.

“It’s not all that serious, me and Tam,” she tells me. “Just a bit of fun, but given Mummy’s current obsession with locking in a bride for Seb, it’s really best if no one finds out about us.”

I nod, squinting as the clouds move overhead and a shaft of sunlight falls right where we’re standing. “So it’s that, then,” I say. “It’s Tamsin specifically, and not that you like girls, that would upset your mom?”

Sighing, Flora turns to walk back down the hill toward all the gunfire. “Oh, she’s not thrilled about that.”

I frown and walk a little faster to keep up with her. “But it’s the twenty-first century,” I say, and she stops, laughing as she nods down at all the boys in their tweed, guns at the ready.

“Darling,” she drawls, “does anything about this look like the twenty-first century to you?”

“Fair enough,” I reply. “This is a bit BBC miniseries.”

Flora laughs then, and for the first time, I see that there might actually be a cool person beneath the whole haughty princess thing. Is anyone in this family what they seem like?

I follow her to the little table set up right behind everyone, putting down the plate and thermos, and I’m about to turn away when she catches my arm and says, “Daisy.”

When I face her, she slides her sunglasses up. Even though we’re all outside today, no photographers in sight, her makeup is perfect, hazel eyes lined with gray, lashes thick and black. “Thank you,” she says, and then rolls her eyes at herself.

“I can’t remember the last time I said that and meant it,” she adds. “But I mean it. I appreciate you keeping this between us.”

I smile and give her arm the most awkward pat known to man. “No problem. I’m just glad you don’t hate me because of Miles.”

Those pretty lashes flutter. “Miles?” she says, and then she gives one of those perfect, trilling laughs again. “Oh, no, I didn’t like you because of the entire situation.” She waves a hand over me, and I wonder if she means the American thing, Ellie, or my general me-ness.

“But now I see that you’re nothing like what the papers made you out to be. If you were after Seb or fame or anything like that, surely you’d try harder.”

“Thank you?” I reply. “I think?”

Shrugging, Flora dusts off her hands and looks over the table before reaching for a bottle of champagne and pouring herself a glass. It’s only around ten in the morning, so I pass when she offers me a flute, too.

There’s another boom from all the guns, more clay pigeons raining down, and while I don’t shriek, I do jump hard enough that Flora looks over at me, startled.

“I’m just gonna . . . not . . . be here,” I say awkwardly, jerking my thumb back toward the row of jeeps up the hill, and Flora nods.

“Toodles!” she says with a little wave of her fingers.

I wave back, but I cannot bring myself to say “Toodles.” I don’t even like thinking it, to be honest.

When I get back to the jeeps, Miles is the only one there, leaning against the side of one, biting into a sandwich. I perch myself on top of the folded-down tailgate of the jeep and pick up another thermos, turning it in my hands.

“Why aren’t you shooting?” I ask him, and he shrugs, folding his sandwich back up in wax paper.

“Not one of my favorite activities,” he says. He puts the sandwich down, then shoves his hands in his pockets, and for a second, I think we’re just going to sit there in total silence until we actually die of the awkwardness.

“Flora’s not giving you a hard time, is she?” Miles asks, pulling me out of my thoughts. I turn to see Flora at the bottom of the hill, joking with Gilly, and lift one shoulder.

“I think we might actually be becoming friends? Or at least not enemies.”

Miles makes a little noise in the back of his throat and takes off his cap for a second to scrub a hand over his hair. “She’s not so bad, Flo,” he says. “Or at least not as bad as she’d like people to think.”

I look back at him, wanting to ask about her, about them, but before I can, Miles nods at one of the jeeps. “Do you wanna go for a drive?” he asks, and I blink at him.

“With you?”

His lips quirk. “Unless you’d prefer the company of one of the sheep.”

That makes me smile in spite of myself.

And then he adds, “Hopefully there will be a good story in the papers about us sneaking off on this shooting trip. Glynnis will be thrilled.”

Oh, right. We’re spending time together because of how it looks, not because we actually want to.

I think of the other night at the ball, that weird little moment that passed between us, and then I grind that thought to dust under my mental boot.

“Good plan,” I tell him, hopping off the tailgate. “Let’s go be illicit.”

I don’t know if anyone sees us leave, and as we drive away, it occurs to me that I probably should’ve told Ellie we were going. But by the time I think of that, the jeep is already rattling over the hills, the wind blowing hard enough in the open top that we can’t talk.

The Highlands spread out before us, rolling fields, snow-capped hills, and I take a deep breath, grinning at the sheer prettiness of it all. It’s wide open in a way that makes me want to . . . I don’t know, run around with my arms thrown out or something.

The jeep slows as we approach a fence, and I look at Miles, curious.

He smiles back at me, then nods at the gate.

The jeep rumbles to a halt, and I can’t stop the sound of delight and surprise that escapes me. It’s embarrassingly close to a squeal.

But there, at the fence, is a shaggy red cow, his massive horns curling up from his head, long hair covering his eyes, and he is the actual cutest.

I hop out of the jeep, approaching the fence carefully, but the cow only munches on grass, clearly not that concerned with me.

“Ellie said you still hadn’t seen one,” Miles calls, and I turn to smile over my shoulder at him. “I hadn’t,” I say, and I reach out—very cautiously, those are some massive horns—and give the cow a little pat on his head, that long reddish hair rough under my fingertips.

“Hit all the Scottish high notes now?” Miles asks, and I head back to the jeep, dusting my hands off on the back of my pants.

“Just about,” I say. “Fancy cows, shooting, wearing plaid, doing folk dances, seeing lots of kilts . . .”

He’s still sitting in the driver’s seat (and I’m never going to get used to the whole “sitting on the wrong side of the car” thing), smiling at me, and it occurs to me that this—taking me to see a cow, which, okay, not exactly the most romantic of gestures, but still—has nothing to do with papers or tabloid stories. It was just . . . a nice thing to do.

For me.

Which is so bizarre I don’t want to think about it too much, lest my head explode.

“Thank you,” I say, getting back in the jeep. “I know it must physically pain you to do a nice thing for me, so I appreciate your sacrifice.”

He gives a little cough, covering his mouth with his fist and widening his eyes. “Oh god, I think the damage has already been done.”

Rolling my eyes, I shove at his arm, muttering, “Shut up,” but I’m smiling.

Just a little.

Miles starts the jeep, and we drive away from the fence, the clouds thicker now, the wind a little chillier as we drive down the bumpy ground. I think we’re heading back to the house, but Miles makes a turn down a rutted path, the jeep climbing down into a shallow valley, hills rising up around us. A few thin waterfalls trickle down the rocks, and it’s so beautiful that once again I wish I had a camera.

And then I wonder if Miles purposely drove this way to show me something pretty, and that thought is so confusing that I tuck my hair behind my ears and yell over the wind and the engine noise, “So what was the deal with you and Flora?”

Miles doesn’t say anything, but I see his hands tighten on the steering wheel for just a second.

“Me and Flo?” he calls back at last, and I pull a strand of hair out of my mouth, jolting as the jeep hits a particularly big rut.

“That’s what I said!” I yell, and he frowns, deep lines appearing on either side of his mouth.

But before he can answer me, there’s a sudden pop, and the jeep swerves to the right, making me give a startled cry, my hand flailing out to grab the little handle by my door.

Miles manages to bring the jeep to a stop, putting it in park with a shaky sigh. “Flat tire,” he mutters, but I think he’s a little relieved that he didn’t have to answer my question.

Honestly, I’m a little relieved. I shouldn’t have even asked him. What did it matter what had happened between Flora and Miles? He wasn’t my actual boyfriend, and I’d be gone in a few weeks anyway.

No, this flat tire was clearly a blessing from above, sent to save me from making a mistake. “Thanks,” I say in a low voice, shooting a finger gun at the thick clouds above us.

Which was apparently the wrong move because about two seconds later, the entire sky opens up.