Wild Scottish Beauty

Book 5: The Enchanted Highlands

by Tricia O'Malley

Genres: Fantasy Romance; Witches

Synopsis

“She was sunshine to my storm clouds, and I wondered how the two could ever coexist.”

A chance job offer in Scotland gives Willow Barlowe an excuse to escape the predictable life her overly controlling brother, Miles, wants for her. Excited to start fresh as a fashion intern for the local kiltmaker, Willow lands in small town Loren Brae brimming with sunshine and hope.

Until she discovers that her new boss is none other than Ramsay McMillan, her brother’s best friend, and the grumpiest man this side of the Atlantic. Never mind the ghost Highland coo that haunts the castle, nor the supposedly bewitched waters of Loch Mirren, Willow refuses to work under Ramsay’s watchful eyes, certain he’s reporting back to her brother.

Ramsay Kilts is home to one of the last remaining traditional kiltmakers in Scotland, Ramsay McMillan. Loyalty, continuity, and tradition are important to Ramsay–as is his privacy. After a family betrayal, Ramsay keeps his walls up, running a veritable kilt empire with as minimum fuss as he can. Enter Willow Barlowe–his new intern, good friend’s little sister, and a veritable thorn in his side.

If the thorn is made of sunshine and sparkles that is.

As the two clash, Ramsay must decide if loyalty is really more important than love?

 

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Release date: May 2, 2024

Publisher: Lovewrite Publishing

Print pages: 302

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

 

Willow

---

Iwasn’t doing it just for the wine.

Okay, so maybe that played a small part in my decision to accept an internship at a Milan fashion house, but only, like, ten percent. Fifteen, tops. The rest was rooted firmly in my need to get away from a failed business venture that doubled as a bad breakup.

If you’re going to fail, you might as well do it catastrophically. At least you’ll be the best at something.

I laughed, amazed that my innate optimism could somehow turn even my most recent dumpster fire of a life into a positive thing. But maybe it was. If my boyfriend hadn’t stolen all the money I’d invested in our fashion line—along with the heart of the very first employee we’d hired—well, I wouldn’t be able to take this internship in Milan, would I? Instead, I’d still be stuck in a closet of a studio, desperately working on designs, sucking down instant ramen from the bodega next to the artist warehouse in Brooklyn, and dreaming of being able to afford a one-bedroom apartment someday.

Moving to Brooklyn from the Midwest had been like jumping into an icy lake in the dead of winter where at first, you’re so shocked it hurts, and then you’re so busy frantically kicking your legs to survive that you just grow numb to it all. I was in the numb stage—perhaps too numb—after my boyfriend had charmingly talked me out of all my savings and taken off with our new seamstress.

Now, as I stared at the snow gusting across the frozen tundra of my father’s backyard in Minnesota, I dreamed of warm Italian nights, good food, and learning at the helm of a larger fashion house. Maybe I just needed to set aside the dream of starting my own line for a while, get more experience, and see where it took me. It was standard operating procedure for me, really, to dive in headfirst, which was also what had landed me in my most recent pickle. Ah, well. Live and learn.

Some would say I needed to learn faster.

“Hey, Threads. You doing okay?”

I turned to see my father hovering in the living room doorway, two glasses of red wine in his hands, a concerned look on his face. He’d started calling me Threads when I became obsessed with fashion after we’d gone on a trip to Chicago and a woman dressed in high, high heels, a leopard-print dress, and screaming red lipstick had enraptured seven-year-old me. Upon return, I’d thrown myself into playing dress up with a vengeance, demanding trips to the store for more material, and had become the clothing designer for my dolls.

My father says my mother would have been proud.

It’s hard to know, really, as she died four years after I was born. It had been just my dad, and my older brother, Miles, and me for years now, a small team unit. Miles fancied himself the captain of our team, and if I didn’t love him so much, his overbearing nature would be enough for me to hem all his pants too short.

“Actually, I am.” I beamed at him and accepted the glass he offered me, leaning up to kiss his cheek. He smelled like Old Spice and cedar, likely having come in from his workshop where he built custom cabinetry, and the scent was as familiar to me as the feel of a sewing machine under my hands. “I just got a new opportunity, and I think

I’m going to take it.”

“New opportunity?” I glanced up to see my brother, my complete opposite, standing in the doorway. Tall, wickedly handsome, and dressed in what I referred to as Minnesota chic—Carhartt chinos, a flannel, and a Twins baseball cap—Miles was confident in a way that I aspired to be some day. He’d always been so certain of his path in life, and doors had just opened for him. Whereas for me, even though I knew what I wanted to do, it seemed like I had to lose my life savings, slam into a few walls, fall into the bushes, climb a hedge, trip on a boobytrap, and tumble down a hill before I made any headway in life.

Which was fine. It was totally fine.

“Yes.” I beamed. We settled into the living room, Miles stretching out in a lounge chair, feet crossed, fingers steepled at his chest as he regarded me. My dad sat with me on the couch, curiosity in his warm brown eyes.

“Tell us, Threads. You look excited.”

“I just got accepted for an internship at Dolce and Gabbana in Milan!” I squealed, doing a little happy dance in my seat.

“Italy?”

“Internship?”

They both spoke at once, and I sipped my wine, anticipating their reactions. Dad would be upset that I was leaving again. Miles was going to lose his mind when he heard it was an unpaid internship. There was a meager stipend for living expenses, but based on apartment prices in Milan, I knew it would be much like trying to find a place to live in New York.

“Is this paid?” Miles asked, his eyes narrowing, confirming my suspicions.

“There’s a living stipend,” I assured him quickly, taking a gulp of my wine.

“A stipend? What about an actual wage?” Miles shifted, leaning forward into his interrogation position.

“Yes, well, that’s the goal, isn’t it? You have to work up to that.”

“Willow, what are you even doing? You just lost everything that you’ve worked for. Now you’re going to run off to Italy with no money and no promise of an actual job? This is idiotic, even for you.”

I flinched, stung by his words.

“That’s enough, Miles. Let’s just talk this through, and we’ll figure something out. 

Your sister has every right to chase her dream,” my father said, always the voice of reason, and I calmed down.

“For how long though? The fashion industry is notoriously difficult, and she’s too nice. New York already chewed her up and spat her out, so what do you think Milan’s going to do? There’s a language barrier, she has no money, and we don’t know anyone there who can help her.”

“Come with me then,” I purred at him, and Miles rolled his eyes in response.

“Unlike you, I have gainful employment. Here. Where you should stay as well and start looking into other career options. Maybe you can go into something fashion adjacent, I don’t know … merchandising or marketing and branding. Something like that. This is getting ridiculous, Willow. How often do we have to bail you out?”

“Excuse me? There’s only been like⁠—”

“Three times now,” Miles said.

“Oh, come on, you can hardly call the first two instances bailing me out. This was the worst of them, wasn’t it?” I rolled my eyes. Annoyance bloomed. Miles dearly loved holding up my failures for me as reminders that I should be heading in the direction he wanted, which appeared to be firmly settled into Minnesota forever, where he could ensure my safety.

A few years older than me, losing Mom made Miles overly controlling of those he loved, as though if he could keep a constant eye on them then he could ensure their safety. I tried to remember that when he was annoying the shit out of me, like now, but it wasn’t always easy. My temper heated.

“Miles, back off. Her Scottish is heating up.”

It was rare for me to get well and truly angry, but when I did, look out. My mother was Scottish, and my father always said she and I shared the same temperament. Calm, even keeled, until pushed too far. It was true, too. I could feel the anger boiling.

“Let me read this offer.”

Standing up, I grabbed my laptop and opened the email with the offer and handed it to Miles before returning to the couch. I was far too angry to engage verbally right now.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Threads? What opportunities will come from something like this?” My dad reached out and squeezed my arm, concern in his eyes. How can he not know how interning for Dolce and Gabbana could influence my future so positively?

“It’s a foot in the door. If I’m lucky, I might be able to work my way up to in-house designer, maybe contributing ideas that get used in collections, that kind of thing. If anything, it will look great on my résumé. It’s an internationally successful, upmarket brand, somewhat exclusive, and I might get a recommendation out of it too. It’s a step forward, albeit a small one, since I won’t be designing my own label, but I guess that’s just how the industry works. I think I’ll always be fighting for opportunities.”

“And is that what you want?”

“I mean …” I tapped my fingernail, painted in Chanel Ballerina, against my wine glass. “I don’t think I’m in a position to say no to opportunities.”

“One hundred euro a month is hardly a living stipend.” Miles handed my closed laptop back to me, and I glared at him.

“I’ll get a second job. Like everyone else in the world who has to make ends meet.”

“I can help⁠—”

“No, Dad. No. I can do this. Trust me, it’s going to be great.” I drained my wine, picked up my laptop, and stood. “Now, I need to research flights and look at housing options. I love you both. Thank you for caring, but this is what I want to do.”

With that, I left the living room and climbed the stairs to my childhood bedroom, which my father had left exactly as I loved—colorful, chock-full of art, and stacked with books on fashion. Flopping onto the bed, I stared at the ceiling, my heart hammering in my chest. It wasn’t like their concerns were unfounded. It was just that they were people who wanted every T crossed and every I dotted before they took a risk. I was a touch more haphazard with my approach to life.

Opening my laptop, my emails flashed on the screen at the same time my phone rang.

An international number?

“Hello?”

“Hi, I am looking for Willow Barlowe?”

“Yup, that’s me.” The woman had an American accent, but her number certainly wasn’t local. “And who is this?”

“My name is Sophie, and I run MacAlpine Castle in Scotland.”

Scotland. A ripple

of recognition went through me, as it always did when speaking of my mother’s homeland. We’d spent many a summer there, my father leaving us with our mother’s family, and it was a country I loved dearly.

“MacAlpine … is that in Loren Brae?”

“It is! That’s awesome you know it.”

“My mother grew up nearby, so I’ve visited a few times over the years.”

“Did she? Even better.”

My email pinged on my open laptop, and I automatically went to silence the sound, but my eyes caught on the subject line. It was a reply to my internship offer.

Except I hadn’t replied yet.

Sophie’s words faded into the background as I clicked the email open, my stomach plummeting as I read the words.

Thank you for your reply. We’ve offered the position to the next intern on the list.

Tears flooded my eyes as I saw the reply that my brother must have written, declining the offer on my behalf. What the hell?

“Willow?”

“Oh, shoot. Sorry. The line must have broken up for a moment. Can you repeat that?” Dashing the back of my hand against my cheeks, I slammed the laptop shut, trying to tamp down my fury. I wanted to run downstairs and kick my brother in the crotch for interfering in my life. Again.

“Of course. I’m calling because we have a unique opportunity to offer you at MacAlpine Castle. Our castle is rich in history, and we’re working on increasing the tourism to the area. We have a gift shop that really could use some help. Apparel is our largest seller, but frankly, our designs aren’t that great. We’d like to offer you an opportunity to come work with our kiltmaker to design an exclusive line of merchandise for our visitors.”

“Wait, you’re offering me a job?” My brain was sluggish to catch up to her words.

“Absolutely. Full-time, with accommodation at the castle.”

“I could live in a castle?” I sucked in a breath, shock propelling me to standing. “In Scotland?”

“Aye, lassie.” Sophie’s laugh rang through the phone. “Sorry, I tried, but my Scottish accent still isn’t great.”

“Why me? How did you even find me?”

“Your website! You had some great tartan pieces in your last line, and your background says you have ties to Scotland. If you’re interested, I can email you the offer.”

“Oh, I’m interested. Very interested.”

“Great, I’ll ping it over now. Do you want me to stay on the phone while you review

 it?”

“Please.” If this was as good an opportunity as I hoped it might be, I wanted this signed, sealed, and delivered before Miles could get his grubby mitts on it. I scanned the exceedingly generous offer, my mouth dropping open at the salary, and the list of perks that came with it. “How did you end up in Scotland? You sound American.”

“Oh, I am.” Sophie laughed again. “It’s a long story. I’m from California, and while I dearly miss the sunshine, Scotland has my heart now. Basically, I inherited the castle, and now I’m determined to bring tourists back to Loren Brae.”

“Sophie, you know what?” Nerves hummed, causing me to pace my room. There was a shiver of recognition—a knowing of sorts—that had come to me at key points in my life. I listened to that instinct now. “I’d love to come work for you. This sounds fantastic.”

“It is. Trust me, you won’t be disappointed. If you send me the dates you can come, I’ll arrange your flights.”

“You don’t need me to book them?” I asked, incredulousness filling my voice. Sophie laughed again.

“No, Willow. We’ll handle that. You’re part of the team now.”

At that, my heart sighed, happy that I had a place to go. I don’t have to give up my dream. I needed to pack. And then, only when I was at the airport, would I tell my brother where I was really going.

Nobody was going to take my chance away from me again.

 

Chapter 2

 

Ramsay

---

“Three. Solid. Corner pocket.” I leaned over the pool table and neatly pocketed the ball, while Munroe groaned, and Lachlan chuckled.

“I told you to watch out for him, Munroe.” Lachlan, manager of MacAlpine Castle and childhood friend of mine, beamed at Munroe’s annoyed expression.

“The lad’s lost his touch now that he’s on the way down the aisle,” I said, poking Munroe’s buttons.

“You’re not wrong. Who knew planning a wedding would be so involved? I just want to throw money at it and tell Lia to do whatever she wants so long as she shows up at the aisle on the appointed day. Her mother …” Munroe shook his head, real fear entering his eyes, and he swallowed. “I thought the Scots were bad, but an Italian mother-in-law? Man, when she’s not mothering me to death, she’s ordering me around like a drill sergeant.”

“Och, lad, you love every moment of it,” Lachlan said, topping up our glasses with a fine Islay single malt.

“Coming from the Ice Queen, can you blame me?” Munroe lifted his glass in thanks.

“The Ice Queen?” I asked, rounding the table and lining up another shot.

We were in the games room at MacAlpine Castle, a fire crackling to ward off the mid-winter chill, the promise of a home-cooked meal luring me from my shop. Hilda, the castle caretaker, and substitute mum for those who needed some extra nurturing, had badgered me into coming up for the night on the pretext that Lachlan needed more time with his friends. I suspected it was more that Hilda needed to make sure I was well fed, and frankly, why would I turn down the offer of a free meal? One less task for me to take care of, as more often than not, I’d defer to eating cold beans out of a can along with a loaf of sourdough or a meat pie in my workshop. Nutritious, filling, and requiring little effort on my part, the latter being the most important. If I could cut out one less decision in my day-to-day, I was happy to do so.

“Munroe’s mum might as well be an ice queen for all the emotion she shows,” Lachlan explained. “Could cut coal into diamonds on her frigid face.”

“Family can be tough,” I said. I would know, better than most. I pocketed another ball, to Munroe’s deep annoyance.

“Ramsay can commiserate with you on that part,” Lachlan said, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. He looked at ease here, man of the manor so to speak, and it fit. Even so, I’d never known him to treat anyone differently based on their bank balance or where they’d come from. Not that that ever stopped me from poking him when I thought his upper-class upbringing was showing.

“Aye, can you then? It’s a bitch, isn’t it?” Munroe slid me a glance.

“I don’t dwell on it.” I shrugged one shoulder and pointed my cue at another pocket. Bending, I lined up the shot. “Nothing can be changed, so why fuss over it?”

“Is it your parents? Or other family?” Munroe asked as I was about to take my shot and I glared at him. Raising his hands in apology, he stepped out of my sight line, and I took my turn, missing by a small miscalculation. Annoyed, I looked at Lachlan who grinned.

“This is how people make friends, Ramsay. We share about our lives with each other."

Whereas Lachlan and I had known each other since childhood, Munroe was a newer acquaintance, having only passed through Loren Brae during the summers when I was working every hour of the day to help my family make ends meet.

“Should we paint each other’s nails and talk about boys too?” I asked, not remotely interested in discussing my messed-up family dynamics.

“Oh, Matthew would be pissed if you do that without him.” Sophie, Lachlan’s partner, trailed into the room with a tray full of snacks in her arms. A stunning woman, with ample curves, an American cheerfulness that I often found daunting, and whip-smart mind, I liked her for Lachlan. And they clearly liked each other, as their eyes heated when they met across the room. “You know how much fun he had the last time you helped him on Tinder when he was here over Christmas.”

“He has poor taste in men.” Lachlan sniffed.

Sophie threw her head back and laughed.

“As I’ve been telling him for a while now. At least you managed to snag him a good date for his holiday.”

“Of course I did. I have great taste.” Lachlan winked at Sophie as she put the tray down on a side table. Turning, she clapped her hands together and zeroed in on me. Oh shite. I knew that look in her eye.

“No,” I said, turning away from her to watch Munroe take his shot.

“But you don’t even know what I’m going to ask yet.” It came out as a whine, and I couldn’t be sure, as I wasn’t looking at her, but there may have been a foot stomp as well.

“Still, no.”

“What if I was going to ask you if you wanted a million pounds?”

“Don’t need it.”

“Everybody needs a million pounds.”

“Nope. My needs are met.” I rounded the table, thinking about my next move.

“You could donate the money to a charity of your choice. Think how much they’d love you.”

“I already donate to charities.”

“A million pounds though?”

At that, I lifted my head and sighed.

“Are you actually offering

 me a million pounds, Sophie?”

Sophie screwed up her face and sighed, her shoulders slumping.

“No. But …”

“Then, no, my charity of choice is not going to be upset about a fictional amount of money that they’ve lost out on.”

“I suggest you just get to the point, darling, before Munroe wins this game. You’re distracting Ramsay.”

“Please, distract away, Sophie. I haven’t won a game yet today and money is on the table.” Munroe, owner of Common Gin and likely able to buy all of us several times over, grinned at Sophie.

“If I must.” Sophie sidled closer, her eyes huge as she planted herself in front of me. Sighing, I straightened, holding my pool cue, and looked down at her. She fluttered her eyelashes. Despite my annoyance, my lips quirked.

“What do you want?” I asked, knowing she wouldn’t leave until she said her piece.

“Have I told you how much I love your shop? The kilts you make are …” Sophie leaned in, widening her eyes, and stage whispered, “better than cheese.”

I looked to Lachlan in disbelief. “Is that meant to be a compliment?”

“The highest form of flattery, no doubt.”

“Is it a kilt you’re wanting for Lachlan then, lass? I’ve no trouble making one for a friend,” I said, the tension easing from my shoulders. That was an easy enough wish to fulfill.

“Oh, well, now that you mention it, I wouldn’t mind getting him a new one.”

“I have plenty of kilts, Sophie,” Lachlan said.

“But we ripped that one when we were out by the stables the other day …”

I snorted and Munroe coughed, covering a laugh.

“Must not have been a Ramsay kilt then. Ours are made of the highest quality. Meant to last through battle, lass.”

“Oh …” Sophie’s lips rounded as her eyes went to Lachlan. “Through battle, you say?”

“Darling, I don’t want Ramsay to skewer you with a pool cue.” Sophie shook her

head, returning to her attempt to charm me into whatever it was that she wanted.

Which she would likely get because from what I’d learned so far, Sophie was an incredibly determined woman. She’d inherited MacAlpine Castle a little under a year ago, and in that time, she’d managed to not only neatly step into the role of owner, but she’d done innumerable good deeds for Loren Brae and a cracking marketing campaign to draw new tourists to the castle. She also managed to put up with Lachlan, and he’d never been happier, so that was extra points in my book for the lovely American who now danced around whatever she was trying to wheedle out of me.

“I do love a good skewering,” I said.

“Oh right, okay, soooooo, I couldn’t help but notice how busy your shop is, yet you don’t have any help.”

“No.” The last thing I needed was someone in my shop chattering at me all day long.

“You can’t keep doing business the way you are. I heard you turned the sign to closed for a parking lot full of customers.”

“And?”

“Ramsay! That’s a horrible business decision.”

“Those same customers came back the next day, didn’t they?”

“What are you? Playing hard to get with your kilts?”

“It’s a VIP experience.” I bent and took the shot, since it seemed Sophie wasn’t leaving anytime soon. Munroe swore under his breath as I pocketed the ball and straightened.

“It’s bad for business. If you had an intern, you’d be able to work on the kilts and they could handle the customer service. Just think … you wouldn’t have to talk to people anymore.”

That had me pausing. I tilted my head as I considered it.

“See? Wouldn’t that be nice? They could handle the phone calls, do intake forms, chat people up about what they want, and you’d only have to come out for measurements or whatever step of the process that you need to be there for.”

“It sounds like you’re implying that I’m not good at customer service, hen.”

“Um.” Sophie’s eyes darted to Lachlan’s, and she grit her teeth through a pained smile. “I wouldn’t say it’s your strong suit.”

“You just haven’t been around when I turn it on.” Pausing, I leaned over Sophie, putting one arm on the pool table behind her, and gave her a heavy-lidded look. Lowering my voice to a rasp, I moved a wee bit closer. “Is it a kilt you’re interested in, darling? I’ve got some of the

best fabrics in the world. Soft as silk against your naked skin.”

“Oh.” Sophie’s eyes widened and she fanned her face. “Matthew would faint.”

“That’s enough of that.” Lachlan hooked an arm through Sophie’s, pulling her away from me and shooting me a death glare. I bit back a smile, amused at Sophie’s response, hoping I’d thrown her off track.

“I think you need a new kilt,” Sophie said to Lachlan, dazed, and I chuckled, turning back to the pool table. Taking my shot, I won the game, causing Munroe to curse again as he handed me the winnings.

“I’m up next.” Lachlan stepped forward and put twenty quid on the table.

“Fine by me. I enjoy taking your money, you posh bastard,” I said, dropping twenty over his.

“Posh? Like Posh Spice?” Sophie asked, twirling a lock of her strawberry-blond hair around her finger, derailed from her mission. Munroe laughed, sidling over to the table to examine the snacks Sophie had brought in.

“Exactly like Posh Spice. High-maintenance yet oddly loveable.” Munroe gestured with a small mince pie in his hand.

“I am not high-maintenance,” Lachlan protested, furrowing his brows.

We all went silent, Sophie included, and Lachlan’s mouth dropped open. Whirling on Sophie, he put a hand on his hip, the very picture of an angry diva. “You think I’m high-maintenance?”

“Of course not, baby. You’re just temperamental.” Sophie patted his chest.

“Temperamental? Was I the one stomping my foot a moment ago when she didn’t get what she came in here for? ...