Hopelessly Enchanted (Return to Culloden Moor #8)

Chapter 1

The gate hummed.

Forbes MacLeod paused with his hand on the iron latch, caught off guard by the sensation—a faint vibration in the air, like a tuning fork struck just below the range of hearing. The hairs on his arms prickled.

He’d spent his career weaving the inexplicable into his novels, always from a safe, narrative distance. This felt different. Personal. Like standing at the edge of something that might actually matter.

The two small children dueling with wooden swords on the front lawn, however, were an unexpected complication.

“Kinloch! Mind yer footwork!” A man emerged from the house, broad-shouldered and dark-haired, wearing jeans and flannel. “Ye’re dropping yer guard, lad.”

The older child adjusted his stance with trained precision. His opponent—a girl of maybe five—took immediate advantage and tagged his shoulder.

“Ha! Andrina wins!” She noticed Forbes. “Oh. Hullo. Are you the book man?”

“I suppose I am.”

The front door opened and a woman stepped out, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron. “Forbes MacLeod? I’m Lilith MacBean. We spoke on the phone.”

“Alan MacBean.” The man extended a calloused hand, meeting Forbes eye to eye—rare enough to be notable. “Welcome tae Salem. My wife and I have read all yer Highland mystery novels.”

Forbes shook the offered hand, noting details automatically. Alan’s grip was solid, his stance balanced, his gaze steady in a way that made Forbes wonder what the man had seen. Military, perhaps? His bearing suggested more than weekend reenactments. “I’m glad they found their audience.”

A crash from inside was followed by a girl’s exasperated voice: “Sinclair MacBean, what did you do?”

“Our oldest, Olivia,” Lilith said with unruffled composure. “She’s twelve. Sinclair is three and… creative.”

A small boy with curly hair burst through the door, latched onto Forbes’s leg, and looked up with bright eyes. “You smell like books. And old mountains.”

Forbes looked down at the small barnacle. “Do I now?”

“He’s… imaginative,” Olivia said, appearing behind her brother.

Forbes doubted that was the whole story but let it pass. He’d spent enough time researching Highland folklore to recognize when “imaginative” was code for something more.

“As I mentioned when I booked,” he said, gently detaching the child, “I’m hoping tae spend considerable time with yer historical collection. The intersection of Old-World beliefs and New World pragmatism—how Highland families maintained traditions while adapting tae New England life.”

Alan and Lilith exchanged a glance that carried an entire conversation.

“Well,” Lilith said carefully, “you’ve certainly come to the right place. Salem has always been… hospitable to unusual traditions.”

Forbes smiled. The warm chaos, the tantalizing secrets, the odd hum still vibrating beneath his awareness—this was shaping up to be exactly what he needed.

Movement caught the edge of his vision—someone approaching the gate.

Forbes turned, drawn by curiosity. A young woman was approaching, arms full of bundled herbs, honey-blonde hair escaping from a messy bun, and a distinctly harried expression on her pretty face.

She pushed through the gate, calling out, “Lilith, I’ve got the chamomile and lavender you wanted for—oh.” She stopped short when she noticed Forbes. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you had guests arriving.”

Lilith smiled. “Forbes MacLeod, meet Gwen Bishop. She runs the historical tours in town, and she’s also our supplier of specialty herbs. I gave her a plot in the back garden years ago—she grows the best lavender in Salem.”

“Forbes MacLeod?” The woman’s eyes widened, recognition lighting her face. “The Forbes MacLeod? Who wrote The Laird’s Daughter and Blood on the Heather?”

Forbes blinked. He was used to being recognized at literary events, but not by honey-haired herbalists in Salem gardens. “Aye, that’s me.”

“I’ve read everything you’ve written.” The words tumbled out, warm and genuine.

“Your portrayal of Highland clan dynamics is incredible—the way you weave the old traditions into the mystery plots without making them feel like set dressing. And your female characters actually have agency.” She caught herself, color rising in her cheeks.

“Sorry. I’m rambling. I just—I’m a bit of a fan. ”

She wasn’t impressed by his sales numbers or his awards. She’d actually read his work. Understood what he was trying to do.

“That’s verra kind of ye,” he said, and meant it—which was unusual enough to notice.

She beamed at him. Something in his chest knocked loose.

Then Sinclair darted between them, chasing what appeared to be absolutely nothing. Gwen stepped back to avoid him, the herbs shifting oddly in her arms—and her heel caught Kinloch’s abandoned wooden sword.

Forbes moved without thinking, catching her arm to steady her.

The world tilted.

Not the stumble. That tuning-fork sensation from the gate slammed back through him, ten times stronger, resonating in his bones like a bell that refused to stop ringing.

The herbs in Gwen’s arms shimmered—just for an instant, as if catching light that wasn’t there. The autumn air pulsed around them, thick and electric. Somewhere behind him, Forbes heard the porch light flicker twice.

He found himself looking into eyes that made him reassess his entire afternoon.

Unusual hazel—green with flecks of gold that caught the light like amber trapped in forest moss.

His writer’s eye catalogued details with fierce attention: the faint dusting of freckles across her nose, the herbs staining her fingers green, the exact honey shade of the hair escaping her bun.

Capable hands, with traces of soil beneath the nails.

The faint scent of lavender rising from her skin.

His hand remained on her arm longer than necessary. He knew it. She knew it. He didn’t care.

The warmth of her skin beneath his fingers felt like the most significant thing that had happened to him in years. He’d thought he was past this. The wanting. The inconvenient awareness of another person taking up space in his attention.

Apparently not.

Pay attention to this one, his instincts whispered. This one matters.

He should shut that thought down. He would shut it down.

Any moment now.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice carrying more warmth than he’d intended. More protectiveness than was appropriate for a stranger.

“Thank you.” Her voice was breathless, and Forbes watched her pulse flutter visibly at her throat. She was looking at him strangely—not with the casual assessment of a new acquaintance, but with genuine curiosity. As if she, too, felt the odd weight of the moment.

As if she felt the pull.

“I should watch where I’m going,” she added, but she didn’t step back immediately. Didn’t pull away from his touch.

Interesting.

“Perhaps we all should.”

They stood there for a heartbeat longer than necessary. The warmth of her arm beneath his fingers. The way her breathing had gone shallow. He noted that detail with the same attention he gave anything important—which was considerable.

The herbs shimmered again. Gwen glanced down at them, frowning slightly, as if they’d done something unexpected.

“Pretty,” Sinclair whispered from somewhere near Forbes’s knee. “The sparkly friends like her.”

No one acknowledged the comment. Forbes filed it away with everything else that didn’t quite add up.

Olivia’s voice cut through whatever was building between them.

“Gwen gives the best ghost tours in Salem. She knows all the real stories, not just the tourist ones.”

Ghost tours.

Forbes released Gwen’s arm with deliberate courtesy, his expression cooling by several degrees. Of course she gave ghost tours. Why wouldn’t Salem’s most intriguing woman also run precisely the sort of enterprise his publisher would tell him to avoid?

More than that—why wouldn’t the first woman in years to make him feel something be exactly the sort of person he couldn’t afford to get close to? Someone warm, genuine, unguarded. Someone who believed in folklore and magic and all the soft, unprovable things he kept at arm’s length.

The universe, apparently, had a vicious sense of humor.

He should say something kind. Something that kept the door open while he figured out what was happening. Something that matched the way she’d looked at him thirty seconds ago, like he was someone worth admiring.

Instead, he heard himself say, “How authentic.”

His tone was perfectly polite. Completely dismissive.

He watched hurt flicker across her expression, quickly mastered—and then recognition. As if she’d just filed him in a category she knew too well.

He didn’t flinch. But he wanted to.

Forbes did what he always did when something threatened his carefully maintained control: he retreated behind walls.

Words were efficient barriers. He’d learned to use them with precision—establishing distance before anyone could get close enough to matter.

The fact that using them on Gwen Bishop made him feel like he’d kicked a kitten? He’d live with that. Better she be disappointed now than get close enough to discover all the reasons she should be.

“Well, Salem’s history is Salem’s history.” Her voice had taken on a professional edge. “Some people prefer the documented facts, others enjoy the folklore. I try to provide both.”

“Of course.” The words came automatically, cool and measured. “There’s always a market for atmospheric entertainment.”

The light drained from her face.

He’d meant to establish distance. He’d succeeded. The warmth she’d shown him—the genuine enthusiasm about his books—shuttered behind careful professionalism.

He’d done that. On purpose.

His stomach turned.

“Well.” Her voice was steady, but he caught the slight tightness beneath. “I suppose there is.”

Gwen’s chin lifted—a small, proud gesture that Forbes found oddly compelling despite himself. She held his gaze steadily, and he had the distinct sensation of being weighed and found wanting.

Forbes MacLeod didn’t get found wanting. He was a bestselling author with awards and acclaim and more money than he knew what to do with.

And yet this herbalist was looking at him like he’d just failed some test he hadn’t known he was taking.

Fair enough. He had.

Even as she regarded him with that cool, professional veneer, Forbes could feel her attention like a focused beam—matching his own.

She was studying him too, he realized. Not with the dismissive irritation his words had earned, but with curiosity.

As if she were trying to reconcile the man who had caught her so gently with the one who had just insulted her work.

She wouldn’t like the answer. Both men were real. The careful one and the cruel one. The one who’d wanted to keep holding her and the one who’d pushed her away.

“Right then,” Alan said firmly, breaking the tension. “Let’s get ye settled, Mr. MacLeod. The historical collection is in our private library on the second floor, and I think ye’ll find it quite... illuminating.”

Forbes nodded, grateful for the escape. He needed distance before he did something foolish—like apologize. Or explain himself. Or ask her to tell him more about what she’d loved in his books. Or find out whether she always smelled like lavender or if that was just today.

Distance was good. Distance was safe. Distance was exactly what he needed.

As they moved toward the house, Forbes heard Gwen ask Lilith, “Is he always that charming?”

“Give him a chance,” Lilith replied quietly. “He’s probably just tired from traveling.”

Forbes’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t tired. He’d been perfectly clear about his professional standards.

The fact that Gwen Bishop happened to be attractive—more than attractive, if he were being honest—was irrelevant. More than that: the fact that she was the first woman in years to make him feel something was exactly why he’d needed to establish boundaries immediately.

Someone who believed in unprovable things. Someone who’d been excited to meet him. Who’d actually read his books.

Someone he’d disappointed deliberately.

He paused at the doorway anyway, unable to stop himself from glancing back.

Gwen stood in the garden with Lilith, hands moving expressively as she spoke. Even at this distance, he could see the passion in her gestures. The way she laughed at something Lilith said—genuine and unguarded—made his throat ache.

Everything he’d trained himself not to be. Everything he’d given up when he’d learned that letting people in only gave them power to hurt you.

His hand tingled where he’d touched her arm. Phantom warmth. Muscle memory of something that had lasted only seconds but felt like it mattered.

He forced himself to turn away and follow Alan inside.

He told himself he was relieved.