Though the yard was tiny, it was overgrown like Sleeping Beauty’s castle after a hundred-year nap. Thistle, of course, tall and wild. Harebell, flame flower, and several other plants I didn’t recognize.
I had studied and made notes for weeks before this trip. The truth was, I might easily have spent my life a perpetual student if money had been no object. Research was my passion, and I could think of nothing more exciting than cataloging all the flora and fauna I was likely to encounter on this trip.
Even with my bent toward economy, the dwelling in front of me seemed dismal and far from what I had expected. Its age was indeterminate, but, as far as I could tell, surely dated back to the early twentieth century. The single-story, whitewashed structure was in dire need of a good external cleaning. The slate roof was missing pieces here and there.
The windows seemed sad, as if they looked outward all day and never found anything of note to entertain. Perhaps this was the first test of my resolve. Daydreams were not the stuff of reality. I had come to Scotland on a budget. Where I laid my head at night was far less important than the many wonders I was going to experience during the light of day.
I trudged up the short stone pathway and knocked on the door. The woman who answered reminded me of the crone in The Princess Bride. Petite and stooped, she kept one hand on the doorframe as if for support. Her curly hair, more white than gray, stood out around her head like a halo.
“Ken I help ye?” she asked, her gaze suspicious.
“I’m Hayley Smith. I’ve rented a room here.”
The old woman’s face cleared. “Aye. So ye have. I’m Annis Pottinger. Come along in, then.”
She led me back through a house straight out of a novel. Piles of magazines and newspapers were stacked high in every available corner. Though the home seemed to have plenty of windows, the rooms were dimly lit, perhaps because of the overgrowth outside the cottage.
The smell of cooked cabbage lingered in the air. In the tiny living room, a news program—framed in a television set circa 1960—flickered silently. Had I stepped through some kind of time warp?
Already rethinking how I could adjust my finances to stay in a more traditional hotel, I followed my hostess, my imagination running rampant. But when she opened a door at the end of the hall and indicated for me to precede her, I breathed a sigh of relief.
It was clear that care had been taken to make this guest room habitable for an outsider. Everything was scrupulously clean, and any signs of clutter had been whisked away. The bed was a narrow double. A solid navy duvet covered the mattress. Matching curtains at the two windows framed a limited view. Unless someone came to trim the foliage, I wouldn’t have to worry about privacy. Though this was no castle—there was nary a moat or a handsome prince in sight—I felt the knot of uncertainty inside my chest loosen. I could see myself staying here for a month. Particularly since the price was ridiculously reasonable.
A much-welcome addendum to the modest bedroom was the en suite bath. Though the sink and tub were ancient and there was no shower or electrical outlets, again I found everything to be clean and perfectly adequate for a single person traveling on her own.
My hostess remained silent during my survey. I turned to find her watching me, head cocked, as if trying to decipher my entire personality in a single long glance.
I gave her a reassuring smile. “This is lovely. Thank you for having me. Are there other guests here tonight?”
Mrs. Pottinger shook her head. “I’ve only the one room. Ye’re it, lass.”
Feeling self-conscious and more than a little unsettled, I reached into my carryall and counted out the appropriate number of pounds. In the negotiations we had conducted online, Mrs. Pottinger had asked to be paid in cash one week at a time. The room was reserved for me the entire month, but I could cancel the later weeks as long as I gave her three days’ notice.
Now that I was here, I couldn’t imagine this woman finding her way around the Internet or even knowing how to operate a computer. Perhaps she had a friend or relative who helped her.
I handed over the money.
She rifled through the stack of bills, counting it quickly, and then stashed the notes in the pocket of her faded floral housedress. The baggy cotton garment she wore was lavender with a print of tiny white daisies.
“I have rules,” she said, her tone stern as she handed over my key. “No gentleman visitors. I expect ye to be in the house by ten P.M. No exceptions. If ye’d like a bannock and a wee bit of chicken for a lunch on the go, you can ask in advance and I’ll provide it for a small fee.”
“That would be very helpful,” I said, already wondering how I would arrange dinners. Drumnadrochit, at least the little I had seen of it, didn’t seem overrun with eating establishments.
Mrs. Pottinger nodded, as if finally satisfied that our relationship was going to survive the first hour. “Make yourself at home. Get settled in. I’d not suggest a nap, though. Ye’ll do better with the time difference if you don’t.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
Her eyes crinkled into a smile. “Fáilte. Welcome to Scotland, Hayley Smith.”
As the door closer behind her, I flopped down onto the bed, experiencing an undeniable sense of anticlimax. I was here. The first legs of the trip were behind me. Now all I had to do was to map out the next four weeks.
The opportunities were endless. Fortunately, I was a planner. After relaxing and staring at a water spot on the ceiling for half an hour, I dug out my colored highlighters and my map. I had brought no fewer than four maps with me, all serving various purposes.
My favorite of the lot was a map of the Great Glen Way, a long distance walking trail running from Fort William, southwest of my current location, up to Inverness at the northeast end. I was not particularly athletic, so I had no plans to traverse the entire seventy-nine miles. But I thought it would be fun to walk at least portions of the trail.
Before doing that, though, I was determined to familiarize myself with the village and its people. If I planned to use Drumnadrochit as a home base, it made sense to know everything that was available. Brochures were fine, but nothing could substitute for the value of on-the-ground reconnaissance.
I’d already ascertained that in addition to the Great Glen Way, there were numerous, less official paths to explore. And somewhere in the village, there was a tiny operation that would ferry tourists to the other side of the loch.
I was most eager to avail myself of that second option. Something inside me longed to get off the beaten path…to stumble over adventure in remote places…to feel the sun on my face and hear the ancient song of Gaelic priestesses in my soul.
Chapter 4
The water was cold.
That was my first thought as I plunged headfirst into Loch Ness. One moment I’d been squatting on a boulder, peering into the peat-stained depths. The next, a squirrel darted out of a crevice and ran over the toe of my sneaker. I shrieked. The squirrel squawked.
I lost my balance and pitched forward.
Frantically, I flailed my arms. There was no gentle bank where I had been exploring. Nothing but a steep, sharp drop-off between safety on dry land and potential drowning.
I wasn’t going to die. That was ridiculous. I’d only been in Scotland seventy-two hours. My adventure had barely begun.
Still, I was desperately regretting my choice not to take swim lessons in elementary school. My mother had pushed and prodded, but I had resisted. This current misstep on my part was going to prompt a miserable case of I-told-you-so. Assuming I survived.
Gasping for air, I pushed my head above the surface and took a breath. The welcome oxygen was accompanied by a mouthful of water. Choking and spitting, the horrid truth began to dawn on me. This might be the end.
I wanted to cry or scream or even bargain with God, but I was too busy kicking my legs and trying to reach for a bottom that wasn’t there. The only thing my thrashing about had accomplished
was to move me even farther from shore.
“Help!” I cried. The water closed over my head. For a moment, eyes wide open, I was part of the shimmery lake itself. My lungs were on fire, and my heart beat loudly inside my head. But I gazed in awe at the way sunlight painted underwater pictures. So beautiful…
My vision started to gray at the edges. Suddenly, a strong arm swept around me, anchoring beneath my breasts and dragging me toward the surface.
“Hang on, lass. I’ve got ye.”
The masculine voice barely penetrated the fog in my brain. But the firm command in the syllables gave me permission to let go and give up the struggle. I was no clinging vine on dry land. But here and now, I was deeply grateful to be saved.
Though it was quite easy to tumble off a boulder, getting back up was no simple feat. I kept my eyes closed as my mysterious rescuer half-lifted, half-thrust me up onto the rocks before joining me.
Nausea filled my belly and hot tears burned my eyes. I had almost died. The notion bounced around inside my head. Never one to be a drama queen, my current situation was embarrassing in the extreme. Without warning, I rolled to my knees and emptied the water from my stomach, retching and crying, as miserable as I had ever been in my life.
“Easy there. You’re okay.” The man gathered me close, both of us dripping wet. He patted my back. “You had a scare. But it’s over.”
Though the sun beamed down on us, I began to shiver and couldn’t stop. My lips felt numb. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “Thank you.”
Noting my physical distress, he muttered in some odd language that sounded like Gaelic. Before I could say or do anything else, he stood with me in his arms and began to stride toward the small copse of birch trees to our left. “We need to dry you out,” he said gruffly.
I’m five and a half feet tall…neither thin nor heavy. The stranger carried me as if I weighed no more than a child. My head lolled against his shoulder. I suppose I was in shock. Trying to gather my thoughts was like chasing dandelion seeds dancing in the wind.
He could be a sociopath…a serial killer…an ax murderer. But even with my mental faculties compromised, I was aware enough to know it made no sense for the man to rescue me and then do away with me.
Satisfied by that line of reasoning, I closed my eyes again.
Then it hit me. Could this possibly be the beginning of my romantic Scottish adventure? Was this very moment the romantic encounter about which McKenzie and Willow and I had fantasized?
I decided to relax and let nature—or a brawny Scottish male—take its course.
It was strangely pleasant to be carried. As a teacher of eight-year-olds, I’m called upon to be a caretaker, a surrogate mother, a guardian of the weak and helpless. At this moment, with my head aching and bones trembling, I savored the sensation of being on the other side of the equation.
“What’s your name?” I asked drowsily.
“Angus.”
Ah…a Scotsman. Of course. And why wouldn’t he be? If his accent hadn’t given him away, the name surely would have. It was as authentic as the haggis I had barely managed to taste.
Suddenly, he stopped. We had popped out of the trees and back into full sunlight. Our destination was a low, rounded structure made of raw stone and topped with a thick thatched roof. I recognized it immediately as a crofter’s cottage.
Back in Georgia, McKenzie had ordered dozens of tourist brochures prior to our trip, and in one of them we had read about the Museum of Island Life on the Isle of Skye. The small building in front of me was identical to one I had seen in a photograph, down to the pair of four-paned windows flanking a sturdy wooden door.
I knew crofting—the term for small-scale tenant farming—was still common in the Highlands, but this particular structure surely dated back to the eighteenth century. Most crofts nowadays would have a more modern home for the farmer and his family. Was my rescuer the crofter in residence here? And if so, why was his dwelling so old?
Angus lifted the latch, bent his head, and carried me over the threshold. The interior of the cottage was dimly lit and carried a not-unpleasant odor of smoke and roasting meat. My host set me gently in a chair.
“Be still a moment,” he said. “I’ll get the fire goin’.”
I huddled in my sodden clothes and watched as he lit a match and held it against a small pile of kindling. Soon a flame danced, giving the illusion of warmth if not yet the reality.
Angus turned and studied me. Now that I was no longer in imminent danger of expiring before my time, I took a breath and sized him up as well. In the confines of the cottage, he loomed as a giant, his stature exaggerated in the shadow he cast on the far wall.
His shoulders were broad, his hips narrow. He wore black athletic pants and black leather shoes to match. His soft white cotton shirt hung open, giving me my first real glimpse of a chest that was hard and smoothly muscled.
I gulped inwardly, suddenly revisiting the ax murderer scenario.
Angus motioned toward the far corner of the room. “Behind that screen you’ll find a wash basin. Take off your clothes and toss them over to me. I’ll spread them outside. Today they’ll be dry in no time. Yesterday you wouldn’t ha’e been so lucky.”
Listening to him talk was like pouring warm syrup from a silver spoon. The syllables were all in the right order, but the way he said them made my heart clench. This was why I had come to Scotland. In this man’s bones resided the DNA of fierce clansmen. Rough and brave souls dedicated to a Highlander’s notion of freedom and justice.
Again, I thanked him, receiving only a brief nod of his head in return. On shaky legs I made my way behind the screen to find the promised amenities. A coarse but clean hand towel, a bar of plain soap, and a chipped white enamel pitcher and basin decorated with what had once been cheerful red trim.
Though I felt vulnerable in the extreme despite the relative privacy of my shelter, I stripped down to my underpants and draped everything else over the top edge of the wood. Moments later, a large hand scooped up my clothing.
“You can wrap up in this,” Angus said. “I’ll be back shortly.”
The item he offered was neither shirt nor robe but instead a length of well-washed cloth, the woven pattern a mix of navy blue with lavender and a tiny red stripe. I was accustomed to wool that was scratchy and rough. This piece had been laundered so many times the tartan fabric soothed my damp skin. I was cocooned in warmth and a scent I couldn’t readily identify.
In a fanciful mood, I might have suspected the pleasant smell held echoes of heather, but as I had read that the lovely plant had little actual aroma, perhaps all my twitchy nose noted was the use of commonplace detergent.
I stepped out from behind the screen just as Angus re-entered the cottage. Framed in the low doorway, he seemed a creature of myth, though I knew him to be flesh and blood. He raked a hand through his hair as he shut the door.
“Sit down,” he said, the two words low but authoritative. “You look as if ye might keel over.”
Through an archway opposite me it was clear that the cottage had at least one other room. But Angus was not offering a tour. I perched on my original seat—a wooden chair of no great aesthetic charm.
The fact that this most basic of dwellings had no mirrors comforted me. My hair was plastered to my head, and though I wasn’t much for make-up, I no doubt had mascara running down my cheeks.
This was not at all how I had envisioned meeting my sexy Scotsman.…
Chapter 5
My host moved to the hearth to tend the fire again, crouching in such a way that his pants pulled tight across a fabulous butt. World class. I licked my lips. It had been way too long since I’d had a real date. Longer still since I’d dabbled in the erotic arts.
In my case, erotic was probably a misnomer. Much like my work environment, my sex life was rated G. The most exciting thing I’d done with a man in recent memory was to attend a Brad Paisley concert with my second cousin, Edward. Hi
s girlfriend had come down with the stomach flu at the last minute, and Edward hadn’t wanted to miss out on the evening.
So now here I was. Thirty-two years old and barely fluent in the language of love. But I was a fast learner. If immersion therapy was the most effective method of linguistic fluency, I was ready to immerse the heck out of myself in the arms of this silent, intriguing stranger.
“What’s your last name?” I asked, trying to start a conversation.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Munro. Angus Munro.”
For a moment, it seemed as if he waited for me to respond. His gaze was wary. Did he think I would make fun of his oh-so-very-Scottish name? Not likely. My knees already trembled from the sound of his voice offering his identity to me.
I cleared my throat. “Hello, Angus Munro. Thank you for saving me.”
He shrugged. “It was no great effort. You’re a wee thing. Perhaps you could return the favor of an introduction. What shall I call you?”
I still reeled from the idea of being described as a wee thing. Not that the description wasn’t flattering. I suppose for a man of Angus’s physical attributes, any woman of normal size would seem small in comparison.
“Hayley Smith,” I said.
“And where do ye hail from, Ms. Hayley Smith?”
“Georgia. Atlanta, to be exact.”
“Ah…” He nodded his head. “That explains the accent.”
I wanted to point out that he was the one with the accent, but even I could see the flaw with that line of reasoning. “Have you been there? To Georgia, I mean.”
The conversation was not exactly scintillating.
Angus nodded, the fire painting shadows on his sharp cheekbones and warrior’s profile. “Once,” he said. “I remember everything in Atlanta being named peach this or that. I thought it a beautiful place, but I couldna’ abide the heat.”
“Those of us who live there would agree with you.”
Hot for the Scot Page 2