CHAPTER ONE
West
I wasn’t exactly sure how I’d managed to convince myself that a winter vacation in Scotland was going to cure my impending burnout, and now, as I faced the wall of icy rain that stood between my rental cottage and the local pub, I questioned my impulsive decision. On average, California saw around two hundred and eighty days of sunshine. Any of which I could have used to disconnect from the all-consuming demands of a tenure-track professorship, budget cuts, and students with dwindling attention spans. Instead, my colleague, Matthew, had convinced me that a trip to Loren Brae to visit his best friend Sophie—and to enjoy the winter book festival—was exactly what I needed.
Books, I liked.
Christmas? I could give or take.
Biting rain and a damp that permeated the marrow of my bones? Yeah, I could leave that. The wind shifted, spraying my glasses with a fine mist of rain, and I sighed as I pulled them off and wiped the lenses with my pocket square. Futile gesture, I supposed, if I planned to trudge to the pub for my supper. The Airbnb description had insisted that the cottage was only a short walk into the village of Loren Brae, but I was just now realizing that my definition of a short walk varied significantly from a Scottish one. Perhaps this was simply a case of “lost in translation,” however, by my calculations, I’d have at least a thirty-minute walk into the small village that hugged the banks of Loch Mirren. On a cheerful spring day, which is when the pictures of the online rental listing had likely been taken, I’m sure it was a lovely jaunt. Now, however, I was seriously considering going to sleep without my supper.
The taxi driver who delivered me from the airport had informed me that he lived two villages over and was going home for the night for a birthday party and there would be nobody else on duty. Which meant, I could walk, go to sleep and ignore my hunger pains, or … my eyes landed on a bicycle tucked under a small lean-to on the side of the cottage. That’s right. I’d forgotten the cottage came with a bike. Whether I walked or biked, there was no avoiding getting wet. However, with the bike I might be able to get through the worst of it quickly.
Ducking back inside the cottage, I went to find my rain jacket. While the location of the cottage might have been a touch misrepresented, the description of the house itself had been spot on. A quaint one-bedroom with stone walls, wood beams crossing the ceiling, and a rustic stone fireplace—the cottage ranked high on the scale for coziness. I certainly wouldn’t be giving the outdoor wood-burning hot tub a spin, despite the enthusiastic reviews left in the guest book, and shivered just thinking about having to run outside in the rain to start a fire.
A serviceable bath and a simple bedroom were tucked off the main room of the cottage, and the kitchen was well outfitted for cooking. Frankly, anything away from my roommates was a joy for me. I’d first started sharing a small house by campus with two other professors when I’d taken my job. Rent was high in California, and at the time, it had made sense. What I hadn’t planned for was my two roommates falling in love and having such a tumultuous relationship that I felt like I was a guest star on a reality show. If it wasn’t screaming arguments and slamming doors, it was X-rated kisses and unavoidable, over-the-top displays of cringeworthy affection that made me start to wonder if I really was being filmed. And not for the kind of film that aired on Lifetime. At this point, it was a toss-up whether they were going to ask me to referee a fight or join their couple, and I, for one, wasn’t interested in either of those positions. Luckily, I’d finally found a new place to live and by the time I returned home from Scotland, I’d be just weeks away from accepting the keys to my new rental.
In the meantime, an ocean seemed the perfect space between me and my roomies, and just the thought of not having to deal with their problems over dinner tonight was enough motivation to lace up my waterproof hiking boots, add a nubby wool sweater, and zip into my rain jacket. Once outside, I ducked under the overhang and examined the bike. Glancing to the street, slick with icy rain that stopped just short of turning to snow, I eyed the tires of the bike dubiously. In my head, the bike had seemed a better solution than trudging through the downpour. You’re a literature professor from California who is not known for his coordination. Biking in the sleet is probably not in your wheelhouse. Though it pained me to admit it, my thirst for life won out over the annoyance of wet clothes. Returning to the cottage, I snagged the umbrella tucked in a stand next to the door and resigned myself for a soggy walk into town.
The night was quiet in the way of Mother Nature making herself known during a storm. Though it wasn’t quite the stillness of a forest after freshly fallen snow, not much warred with the whistle of wind bustling across the frothy waters of Loch Mirren. I was looking forward to seeing the loch in the daylight tomorrow, but for now I contented myself with admiring how the rain dotted the reflection of the village lights on the water’s dark surface. It reminded me of a Matisse painting, with thousands of raindrops combining to create a picturesque reflection of Loren Brae. A gust of wind blasted me, carrying with it a salty spray of water from the loch, and a shiver danced down my back.
It felt like I was being watched.
Turning, I squinted through the rain, but nothing appeared in the shadows behind me. The light from my cabin door stood out like a beacon in the darkness. Or was it a warning? I’d read enough novels to wonder if I was the intrepid hero already making mistakes on his journey.
“Listen, West. There’s more to Loren Brae than you could ever imagine. Honestly, you’ll be fascinated, what with the abundant myths and legends surrounding the village. Some … still around today.”
Matthew’s words echoed in my mind as I bent my head to the pavement, pulling the umbrella lower as the rain intensified. Quickening my steps, I virtually ran toward town, the sturdy soles of my boots keeping me safe from falling. I wasn’t sure if I was running to get out of the rain, or from the hint of something watching me in the darkness, but by the time I’d arrived at the door of the pub, I was panting with exertion.
And a little bit of excitement.
I felt like a kid who’d worked himself up when having to run down into a dark basement to grab something from the storage for his parents. With an overactive imagination, it was easy to convince myself that monsters lurked in dark corners, and with Matthew’s warning dancing in my head, I was half-certain that Loren Brae really was haunted.
Pulling open the door to the pub, appropriately named The Tipsy Thistle, conversation boomed around me, and a spicy garlic scent enticed my already growling stomach. Shaking off my umbrella in the front hallway, I placed it in one of the several stands near the door and took off my jacket to hang on a coat rack. I cleaned my glasses with my pocket square, ran a hand through my damp hair, and ducked through the low doorway that led to the main pub.
“Perfect. There’s the drookit lad we need.”
I raised an eyebrow as the entire pub turned to look at me, and despite my confidence in standing in front of a group of silent people, I glanced over my shoulder to make sure the man behind the bar was indeed addressing me.
“Hello?” I asked, and then unable to stop myself, I added, “Is it me you’re looking for?”
A slim woman with a short crop of dark curls snickered at the bar and turned to the bartender.
“That should do it. We’ve enough now to crack on. Let me just tell Maisie—”
“Tell Maisie what?”
I turned and blinked at a woman who stepped into the pub from one of the many doorways leading from the main room. Upon closer inspection, the pub itself seemed to be a hodgepodge collection of rooms and snugs pieced together to create a cozy space. A fire roared in a large fireplace along one thick stone wall, and warm lights made the wood of the circular bar gleam a honey gold. But it wasn’t the bar that caught my attention, oh no. It was this woman who stared at me, a cranky expression on her stunning face.
She reminded me of the flame that danced in the fire. Energy seemed to crackle around her, her blue eyes were sharp, and she tossed her mane of dark curls over a shoulder. Even though she didn’t step forward, it was as though I wanted to draw closer to her, some sort of magnetic force pulling me in, and she turned an assessing look upon me.
“We’ve found the fourth for our team.” The bartender nodded at me.
“What do you know about trivia?” the prickly goddess asked, interrogating me.
“I know that it derives from the word trivial, which was introduced in the English language around the fifteenth century. As for the game, it was popularized by university students in the sixties,” I recited precisely, amusement dancing through me as the woman’s eyes narrowed even further. I couldn’t quite tell if she approved of me, or my answer, but nevertheless, I was intrigued.
The bartender let out a low whistle, as a clamor went up around the pub.
“We’ll take the lad. Go on then, Graham. Switch him out with Jacob then,” a man seated at a table by the fire called.
“I saw him first.” The bartender patted the bar in front of an open seat. “Come, my new best friend. Join us.”
Crossing the room, I took the offered seat, as an argument broke out behind me.
“His name’s not on the card. You have to sign up in advance for quiz night.”
“It’s hardly our fault that Sophie took ill, is it?” the woman sitting next to me argued.
“Sophie?” I piped in, nodding my thanks as the bartender slid me a menu. “Is that Matthew’s friend, Sophie? At the castle?”
“Ah, you’re Matthew’s friend. I hear he’ll be joining us for Christmas.” The woman with the short curls and warm eyes offered me a hand. “I’m Agnes. You’ve arrived just in time for our bi-monthly quiz night.”
“I suppose you’ll do.” The other woman, with all the equanimity of an enraged hedgehog, sniffed and took the other seat next to me. “I’m Maisie, cousin to Agnes, and in town to help her with the Christmas Book Festival.”
“I’m Weston Smith, but you can call me West.” I smiled as the woman raised an eyebrow at me. Prickly. I warmed to her suspicious nature.
“And I’m Graham, owner of this lovely establishment, and if it’s food you’re wanting, I’ll be taking your order as the cook will want to play too.”
“What? No sexy lean-in?” Agnes rolled her eyes at Graham. “No deepening of your voice? No wink or sexual innuendo? We’re in modern times. Shouldn’t all customers get the same treatment?”
“Och, the lass has the right of it,” Graham readily agreed and to my surprise, he leaned over and rested his arms on the bar, fixing me with a heavy look. Deepening his brogue, he winked at me. “All right then, lad … how can I whet your appetite?”
“Should I find this hot? I shouldn’t find this hot, right?” Agnes demanded.
“Oh, it’s hot,” Maisie agreed, fanning her face. I couldn’t help but grin in Graham’s direction.
“Much to my great sadness, I, alas, do not play for your team.” I sighed and shook my head, as though despondent, and Graham chuckled.
“Nor I yours, but this snow queen over here likes to skewer me with her icicles, don’t you, lass?” Graham leveled a look at Agnes, who wore an expression torn between annoyance and amusement.
“Queen is a title that I’ll happily accept if it means you’ll bow to me,” Agnes said, baring her teeth at Graham.
“Och, I’ll happily get on my knees for you, darling, if you’ll be allowing it.”
“Bloody hell. Even I’m not that desperate.”
“You’ve been a bit tetchy these days, Agnes. Might do you some good,” Graham said, as easily as if he was suggesting that Agnes go for a massage, and Agnes bristled next to me.
“I’ll take a bowl of the vegetable soup and the mac and cheese,” I interjected, before flames could explode from these two. Were they scorned lovers? “And a pint of the Brewdog Stout.”
A warm chuckle from Maisie had my skin tingling, awareness rippling through me, and I turned from where Agnes and Graham seemed on the verge of battle. Or foreplay. It was hard to tell, really.
“So, Maisie, cousin to Agnes, where is home if not here?” I asked, noting how her spiky dark lashes highlighted the brilliant blue of her eyes.
“A few villages up the way.” Maisie waved a hand in the air, the highlands lilting in her voice, and shifted in her seat to lean closer to me. “Have you ever been to a quiz night before?”
“A few,” I admitted, accepting the pint that Graham slid my way.
“Where?” Maisie demanded.
“In California.”
“Well, Cali, there are rules here.” Maisie glowered at me as though California was a lawless land where trivia nights were run with reckless abandon and a survival of the fittest mentality. My overactive imagination could just see Maisie swaggering down an empty street with a pack of trivia cards at her belt and a mean look in her eye.
“Duly noted,” I said, tapping a finger to my forehead in a mock salute. I was rewarded with another narrowed look, and I was feeling suddenly and positively cheerful despite the fact that I was sitting in sodden jeans.
“Rules are meant to be followed.” Maisie ticked the rules off on her finger as she listed them. “No phones. No asking other teams for help. No using the bathroom unless it is between rounds.”
“I’m guessing you like to win?” I asked, amused at the seriousness of her tone.
“She hasn’t lost a quiz night in three years.” Agnes nudged an elbow companionably into my arm. “It’s why the lads were trying to disqualify her for adding you to the team. She isn’t allowed to come to every match or nobody else would ever get a chance to win. It chuffs her off, but her winning streak was getting out of hand.”
“Clarty bastards,” Maisie muttered, and I grinned into my pint.
Already, I could see why Matthew was so taken with Loren Brae. They were honest yet fun. Intense yet solicitous. Ruthless yet benign. No, it would be tough to get lonely here. So different to my “normal” life.
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