Euro Tripped

by Sally Bryan

  Euro Tripped

  Sally Bryan

  Euro Tripped

  Copyright © 2018 Sally Bryan. All rights reserved worldwide.

  No part of this publication may be replicated, redistributed, or given away in any form without the prior written consent of the author/publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance the characters may have to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Sally Bryan

  Warning: This book contains graphic language and sexual content.

  Contents

  Sign Up Page

  Prologue

  1. Dinan

  2. Bordeaux

  3. Carcassonne

  4. Catalonia

  5. Barcelona

  6. Andalusia

  7. Somewhere In Tuscany

  8. Algarve

  9. Lisbon

  10. Iberia

  11. Chianti

  12. Gibraltar

  13. Chianti 2

  Epilogue

  Sign Up Page

  Also By Sally Bryan

  Sign up for the Sally Bryan newsletter and receive a free copy of My Summer Romance.

  Be the first to find out when the next story is released. To sign up, simply fill out the form at the following link:

  Sally Bryan Newsletter

  Join My Facebook Page Here

  For my readers and fellow travellers.

  I hope you forgive my long absence. May this story stir fond memories of special places past.

  Prologue

  I’m glad you could make it. I know how busy you are but this couldn’t wait any longer.” He shook Gable’s hand, patting him on the shoulder also, about the most physical contact the two had exchanged since that first nervous handshake the day they met, which hardly served to diminish Gable’s trepidation, mixed with more than a little curiosity. “The drive was ok?”

  No threats as yet and Mr Argyle’s tone suggested that perhaps none would be forthcoming. Gable exhaled a long relieving sigh. “I enjoyed the trip, thanks.”

  “Relax. Perhaps you thought I might demand you stop seeing my daughter?” He smiled, still standing uncomfortably close.

  Gable tried to smile in return but he’d been so anxious about being asked, nay, commanded to make the trip north with only a few days’ notice he was sure it came out more as a squint. “Yes, well, no. I mean, not really. There’s no reason why you would have.” At least Gable didn’t think so but who could say? Right now, everything was so perfect that something was bound to go wrong somewhere and this was the most likely place for it. And after five years the request had been quite unusual.

  He prodded Gable in the rib. “Believe me, I’m not about to demand you stop seeing my daughter.”

  Gable emitted a high-pitched laugh, “well, that is good news,” and, not being able to wait any longer, was about to enquire upon the nature of this summons when Mr Argyle placed his arm around Gable’s shoulder and, skirting the edge of the pond, guided him across the lawn in the direction of the summerhouse. Nope, more painful small talk would be in order before getting to the matter of business, whatever that might be, and Gable didn’t wish to come across to the father of his beloved as being too socially inept because he wasn’t, apart from, that is, whenever he was in the company of Mr Argyle. “It’s a, um, beautiful garden you have, Mr Argyle, and the birds certainly seem to think so.”

  “Too many gulls, blackbirds and crows. They scare the real birds off. This way, Son, and you’d best get used to calling me Angus.” Somewhat mystifying, oh, how the questions were piling up. He pushed open the door to the summerhouse, a strange name, given it was barely south of Inverness. “Take a seat and relax, and I do mean relax. You drink whisky? You’d better not.” He said, with what looked like a smirk, so it was probably a joke. Regardless, he bounded towards a minibar in the corner as the planks beneath his feet shuddered, shaking the entire structure. Thank God Freya didn’t possess her father’s grace and elegance, or for that matter his warmth or looks, or anything much else. Come to think of it, were they even biologically related?

  The upholstery within the summerhouse clashed and stood out like blood on a bandage, a true man cave, and the stuffed stag head above the wood burner was in particularly bad taste, making Gable grimace before he softened his gaze in sympathy for the poor dead animal.

  “I see you’re admiring Old Wilcox there.” Mr Argyle strode back, bringing with him a decanter and two small glasses. He waited for the planks to settle before continuing. “Shot him myself with the Prince of Wales near Balmoral.” He rolled the r of the Queen’s Scottish home to an insane degree. It was a blessing Gable could even understand the man, just so long as his full and undivided concentration was given, because asking Mr Argyle to repeat himself was to risk death itself, a risk that was mitigated, mercifully, due to having spent rather a lot of time with his daughter, who happened to share the same almost unintelligible Scotts drawl. Except with her, it tended to be somewhat more appealing, even sexual, not quite the same with her father though, who now filled the glasses with the dark nectar. “This one’s from a small distillery on the Outer Hebrides. They make a nice whisky near a town called Portree, which is the Inner Hebrides if you know your geography. They boast it’s the most north-westerly Scotch in the world but this, what I’m holding here, is evidence to the contrary. It’s mild and smoky, a strange contradiction, and they make only a few barrels every year. Son, you’re about to try something truly special.”

  “Good. I mean, yes, I’d be happy to try some. And I’m privileged.” Gable had to lean uncomfortably forward to take the dram and he clinked glasses with Mr Argyle before sending the dark fluid home. It burned in the most appallingly wonderful way, as contradictory as the mild smokiness of it, and he suppressed the urge to clench a fist to his chest and cough. Must keep the side up for the English and besides, if a man’s dating the daughter of old Scottish nobility, he’d better learn to take his whisky because you can bloody well bet, there’s more on the way.

  Gable was suddenly aware he was being studied, like something of great value could be learned from how a man drank his whisky. Mr Argyle’s glass was still full, was being slowly turned by his long aged fingers and Gable experienced a sudden rush of panic - Was he not supposed to have knocked it back so readily? The silence persisted to the extent of discomfort. Finally, Gable drew breath and heaved. “And that was mild, you say?”

  Mr Argyle grinned. “Not partaken much in Scottish culture have you?”

  Unless your daughter counts, Gable almost said but thought better of it at the last moment. Instead, he shook his head and said, “no, well, not as much as I’d like.” Would that count against him?

  Gable thought about the long drive back down to Edinburgh and how relieving and pleasant it would be after this business was out the way. He’d take his time and enjoy it, knowing that what he’d been dreading the last few days was finally done with. He’d take the scenic route through the Cairngorms and maybe go on the lookout for golden eagles. And all the while, the love of his life would be awaiting his return in Edinburgh.

  Being sworn to secrecy by her father, Gable had told her that he was going home to visit his parents in Yorkshire. It was about the only lie he’d told her in five years and although, he assumed, it was for the greater good, he still felt bad about it. Freya would forgive him like he’d forgive her anything because they were in love and that was all that mattered.

  “You’re a good laddy.” Mr Argyle finally concluded and occupied the seat beside him, stretched out his legs and crossed one foot over the other. “She’s at least made a better choice than her sister and for that alone, I’ll drink.” And with that apparent compliment, he sent the liquid back, which touched him abou
t as much as expected.

  Freya’s sister had involved herself with a soldier whose regiment was based somewhere in England. Mr Argyle had taken issue, possibly due to the man’s low rank, low birth, low income or low IQ, it was all speculation. It hadn’t mattered in the end because he’d been posted, she’d followed and they’d married in Gibraltar and as a consequence, Lizzie had been disinherited.

  There was also Lachlan, the eldest sibling, and a wheelchair-bound paraplegic with severe learning difficulties and although he was loved and would be well taken care of, was unlikely to ever breed and therefore alternative considerations had to be made.

  These minor details left Freya the sole hope and heir to the Argyle estate, which likely explained why Gable had been scrutinised the way he had; family, background, career, hobbies (there was no time for any), drug use history (there was none), friends (he had some) and now this new one, how he handled his Scotch, everything but having a pair of Marigolds applied in ano est.

  No, Gable was about as safe a prospect for a son-in-law as any overprotective father, with a fortune to think about, could hope for, which was how he’d consoled himself about this visit - But all that was way off into the future.

  Not that the money wouldn’t be welcome. Aye, that was no word of a fib and anyone who said otherwise was a bloody liar. Though Gable hadn’t known about any of it when he fell in love with Freya, pretty much the moment he first met her, and she’d kept the specifics secret until almost two years into the relationship. That was when Gable had first come to Inverness for a nervy Christmas and been read the riot act in a basement filled with muskets and cavalry blades from the Napoleonic era. A memory of sorts. And not unreasonably, he’d expected something similar this day, hence his nerves. Instead, he was getting whisky, and not the mass-produced crap that barely deserved the right to be called Scotch, but apparently the good stuff, from a secretive distillery that was the most north-westerly in the world. It was probably the soldier who could be thanked for that, for lowering Mr Argyle’s expectations because Gable was about to become a mere doctor, and that, it seemed, was acceptable.

  Gable had tried extra hard not to alter his behaviour after being told about the Argyle wealth, insisting on going dutch as always and no vacations until after graduating from Edinburgh, as per the original plan. Indeed, he’d been scrutinising Freya for any signs of change in her, of superiority perhaps? But no, she continued being her usual single-minded, determined, almost serious to the point of being a robot self - She’d make a fine emergency doctor, for sure.

  But no. If anything the money was a hindrance because Gable now felt the overwhelming pressure to prove himself on his own terms, to make his own pile and accept no charity. That was the only way he could maintain his independence as a man and not be constantly reminded of who it was who held the bloody purse strings, even if Freya never made mention of it, Gable would still know it. Not that any of that mattered right now though because talk of marriage had not once been raised by either of them. And why would it? The timing was far from right. Not that Freya wouldn’t say yes because Gable believed that she most definitely would - All hypothetical though, of course.

  After five years of Medicine at the University of Edinburgh and prior to two years foundation training, followed by another six of specialism, now was the only convenient time to take a break because if it didn’t happen this summer, it never would and Gable had once been told there was more to life than study.

  “Mr Arg…um, Angus, why did you invite me here?” He finally found the resolve to ask, surprising himself. He’d be pouring himself a fresh dram next.

  At that, Mr Argyle leaned forwards and refilled both glasses. “Gable, you’ve been dating Freya for what, five years? Well, that’s quite long enough, my lad, and now it’s about time you stopped pissing about and married her.”

  Gable had been in the process of reaching forward to take the whisky but suddenly found his arm unable to progress to full extension. But he had to hand it to the father of his beloved, he didn’t ‘piss about’ much himself. In fact, Gable wasn’t completely certain he’d heard correctly and had to risk triggering his ire by asking the oaf to repeat himself.

  “You heard damn well what I said.” The skin at the bridge of his nose reddened a few shades. “Don’t think I’m not aware of what you and my daughter get up to in your wee student house. What are you? Did you think this would be allowed to continue indefinitely? You’re clearly quite fond of the girl, don’t think I haven’t noticed and I’ve seen the way she looks at you, the way she speaks about you. Well Laddy, when are you intending to stop wasting hers as well as my time and do the decent bloody thing?”

  Gable saw that his arm had somehow found its way back to his side and had to remind himself of what the year was (2017 at last check), all whilst Mr Argyle, as well as Wilcox, stared back most offputtingly. For some reason, Gable recalled that Christmas interrogation and how he’d had the fear of God instilled in him as an unknowing Freya played charades with her brother on the floor above. It had taken him three days to recover his sexual drive. “Mr, um, Angus, you do know we begin our residencies in October?”

  “Excuses! Of course, I bloody well know.” He leaned forward, causing an obscene creak of wicker, and came to within a nose of Gable’s face. “And after your two years, you’ll make the excuse you’re about to begin six bloody years of specialism, for treating junkies overdosing on skag and drunkards who get a glass bottle to the face on a Friday night. And after those six years, you’ll make the excuse you’re both only just starting as fully qualified hospital doctors and that now ain’t the right time to finally start acting like a man. By that time the stress of work will cause you to drift apart, that is if you even get to see much of each other, and then what if all that causes you to break up? You’ll be a thirty-one-year-old doctor in the prime of your life, pick of the women, but Freya? She’ll be a single, thirty-one-year-old woman with the best of her childbearing years behind her and all because you didn’t have the balls to do the decent thing when you were twenty-three.”

  Feeling more emboldened, Gable plunged forward for the dram, downed it in one then refilled the glass. “So, Angus, this is all really about grandchildren?”

  With an elaborate sweeping use of his hand, he waved about the vicinity, the summerhouse, the mansion, the moors and everything else. “Of course it bloody well is. Listen, she may believe she wants to become some doctor in a hospital but she’ll soon change her mind about that when she hits forty and has only money and apathy to show for it. You should see my sister and how miserable she is. Put it off, put it off and put it off and now she’s past it, no man wants her, not even with all her money and she’ll die alone and miserable. Aye, I can tell what you’re thinking, that it ain’t any of my business but you’ll understand someday when you have your own bairns.”

  Gable wasn’t quite sure how to respond to all that and worried he wasn’t doing a good enough job fighting his corner. Clearly, the subject had been on the mind of the father of his beloved for some time and had come into this bout well prepared, meanwhile, Gable’s primary preoccupation had been on bird spotting in the Cairngorms, putting him at somewhat of a disadvantage. He was tempted to advise the old man to seek reconciliation with Lizzie because, for all anyone knew, she may well already have dropped a grandchild or two, which would solve this whole dilemma. Though after only two drams, he was nowhere near inebriated enough for that. “And, um, what … what if I say no?” Which, he felt, was perfectly within his rights.

  Mr Argyle bared teeth. “We both know how fond she is of you but she ain’t her daft sister. She ain’t quite so enamoured as to give up her inheritance, like her daft sister.”

  Again, Gable was unsure how to respond. Was it the truth? He couldn’t be sure. He hoped not but what did hope have to do with anything? Freya’s inheritance, and it would be substantial, represented status and security and no woman would readily give that up. Except, of course, her daft siste
r, who Gable had never met and had no intention of ever so doing, and her father had already proven a man willing to do the unthinkable. But where Lizzie had been a young lovestruck girl, swept up in what must have seemed to Mr Argyle a bad idea, Freya was more logical and not prone to such short-term idiotic thinking. Freya always had the bigger picture in mind, she was training to be a doctor, after all, and it was quite possible that it might only take a few words from her father to persuade her that a hospital, in fact, employed many other doctors. And some of those doctors would be taller, more rugged without Gable’s receding jaw and possibly even more charismatic.

  To put it simply - Why risk it? Especially considering he was in love with Freya.

  But marriage? Gable had always considered himself in favour of it, his parents still being together presented him with a good model to follow. But to marry Freya now?

  The truth was, he couldn’t imagine life with any other woman. Freya was levelheaded and rational, which he’d noted was a rare thing amongst even the women who were studying medicine. That she was beyond intelligent could not be disputed and she challenged Gable in every way. For all her foibles, seriousness and dedication, she knew how to laugh, which was an important attribute. Best of all, even after five years, she still made Gable catch his breath and go fuzzy in the head. It was the way her lab coat rested over her arse and how that thick Scottish red mane flowed over it to contrast with the white. Her perfect proportions, elegant, feminine features and accent that always made Gable think she’d been a wild girl found roaming the Highlands with a pack of wolves - She wasn’t though, she’d assured him of that.