Chapter One
There were a few things that Laird Julian McGregor had been raised to hold true to his soul: one, love and honor your mother, two, treasure the memory of your dearly departed father, and three—and sometimes Julian thought this was the most important thing—never trust a Campbell.
His mother’s ancestors had died because of them, so it was a blood oath.
None of these were hard things to hold on to.
Especially the third part, as throughout Scotland, there was a hatred for the Campbell clan.
Given their treachery in the Massacre of Glencoe, over a hundred years ago, it was understood that only a fool would trust that particular family.
Thankfully, only a small branch remained in Fife, comprising an elderly married couple who had no children.
The rest of the Campbell culprits were over a hundred miles away.
Now that Julian was seventeen years old, he had his own plans for the land that abutted his estate and took great pleasure in riding along the outer parts to examine and study the terrain.
As the laird, he had a responsibility to this beautiful home he was lucky enough to inherit, and ensuring there was no Campbell near would not only be a sacred duty—it would also be a pleasure.
The only real problem was he had never met a Campbell.
None were at his private Edinburgh school, and the duke’s heir was ten years his senior.
Still, he comforted himself that he would manage to oust the ones local to him, and that would have to suffice.
“How are you?” A small, freckled girl stuck her head out of the bothy he was riding toward and made his loyal horse rear up. After steadying Galahad, Julian leapt down from his horse and turned in frustration to the inquisitive little questioner.
Only to stop dead in tracks.
When she’d first stuck her head out of the bothy’s narrow door, all he’d seen were the freckles and the strange brown wrapper she’d placed around her head.
But it had been yanked away, to reveal a cascade of golden-red hair that bounced around her shoulders becomingly.
The freckles, rather than unpleasant little brown dots, instead seemed to dance over her face as if placed there by a fairy.
She had the widest, darkest brown eyes imaginable, the same hue as chocolate.
It was hard to judge her age, and she was nothing like the shy, retreating girls he’d seen before—a fraction of him wondered if she might be a fairy, or some Celtic creature.
And then she smiled broadly at him and Julian felt sure she was human because of how she was making him feel.
Blushing, Julian swallowed and straightened his spine, readying himself to say something.
Probably to tell her off—after all, whilst bothies might be placed throughout Scotland for anyone’s convenience, especially if you were a wearily traveler, it was bad form to leap out and startle horses. It was a lesson she should know.
“I’m Romola.” She bobbed a curtsy at him. “I’ve never been in Fife before. My father sent me here.”
“Fife is the best place on earth,” Julian said confidently. “I’m Julian.” Something stopped him saying his title. He was not certain why that might be, but he rather liked the idea of Romola knowing him for himself and not for his title.
“Why, have you seen every other place?”
Her question rattled him. Julian was used to believing he knew best. And if not him, well then, his tutors, his father’s diary, or his saintly mother.
“No,” he admitted grudgingly, “but I have read about other places, and I’ve been to London.”
“My favorite book is Gulliver’s Travels. I think I should like to sail away, to faraway lands.” She sat down on the little bench that was placed next to the bothy. “I want to run along a sandy beach, for as long as I can, until I simply fall down from exhaustion. Oh, and eat ices at Gunter’s.”
She was an oddity, but he liked her nonetheless and wanted to do all those things with her.
“Why, there’s Kingsbarns Beach just seven miles away,” he said, pointing vaguely in the right direction of a lovely, sandy beach he’d played on as a child many times. “If you’ve a horse or a carriage…”
He paused, suddenly aware that she might be the child of a servant and not have access to either. Based on the quality of her clothes, however, she seemed to dress as befitted a young, affluent lady—but that did not explain the lack of companion or her frank manners.
“I will add it to my list.” She drew out a leather-bound book and started scribbling away. “As someone who knows the area, perhaps you can advise me further on what I must see and do. You could be my guide.”
There was one thing that Julian did like to do, and that was dispense knowledge, so he sank onto the seat next to Romola and started explaining why Fife was the finest place on earth.
To his surprise, she made very little effort to appease his ego or flatter him.
Instead, she kept challenging him or querying his assertions.
It was most provoking, and yet he did not leave.
“You should read more,” she said as she pocketed her notebook. “There are a lot of writers who you haven’t heard of, but they are very good.”
“I like Scottish writers,” Julian said, already feeling like he was a fool next to this wiser, younger girl. They had eaten their way through her food whilst they discussed the sights of Fife, the distance to Edinburgh, and the contents of her picnic basket. “Walter Scott is—”
“Poetry is difficult on occasion.” She tended to do this, to cut him off, and Julian was starting to get used to it. It meant he had to be quick, and sharp, and make points that engaged her. He liked the challenge.
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
Romola chewed thoughtfully on her apple as if truly considering her answer, and not merely thinking of something he would want to hear. “It is personal—it touches your heart.”
She reached out with her free hand and placed it on Julian’s chest, over his shirt and loosened cravat.
Sensation and awareness pounded through him at having a girl so close, having a girl with such chocolate-brown eyes watching him and listening to him.
“So, sharing poetry is never something that should be done lightly.”
Unable to help himself, Julian decided to ask the question that had been bothering him for the last twenty minutes. “I want to see you again.” But it did not come out as question, more of a command.
Romola frowned at the impertinence of the request, and then he was relieved when she nodded. “Yes, very well, but you will need to take me to Kingsbarns Beach.”
“Can you ride?” It would not be hard to take an additional horse from his stables, although a few of the grooms might query it or raise it to his mother when she returned.
“Of course. I will borrow my aunt’s horse,” she said. With that, she got to her feet and snatched up her basket. “I will see you back here tomorrow, then, at ten o’clock?”
Julian was nodding and agreeing as Romola cut away, striding through the high-reaching grass, on a track that would lead her through the Campbell estate.
For a moment Julian went to warn her, but then one look at his pocket watch told him he was already late, and he threw himself on Galahad and rode back to the Byre at a gallop.
*
The next six weeks of the summer passed in a golden-flecked haze of beach trips, and long walks, and exciting arguments about philosophy, poetry, and novels.
Julian could count on his hand how often he’d managed to steal a touch of Romola.
He’d held her fingertips when she peeled her gloves off to sink into the sandy cove of Kingsbarns.
He’d held her waist once to help her into the saddle of her mare.
And one time walking through the small, quaint market town of St. Andrews, he’d taken her elbow to lead her into a bookshop.
Most of the time, though, they’d tried to stay up in the hills or near the lochs.
“My cousins will go to London one day,” she remarked idly as they lay by the bank of Birnie Loch and sunned themselves in the hazy light.
Her dress was spread out, and the neat, sprigged muslin was a little damp and kept drawing Julian’s attention, despite his best intentions.
After over a month in her company, he could no longer understand how he ever thought her strange or little—she was a blazing cracker of a girl, and no one else made him feel as alive as Romola did.
“It is where I will go to study,” he said.
All of his line, his father, his grandfather, going back a hundred years, had been sent to London for their education.
In fact, a lot of his lineage might have been proud to be Scottish, but still saw some appeal in at least visiting England.
“I like to think of myself as a sort of spy, going south and seeing how they interact and treat a Scottish laird.” He had told her his title after a few weeks together, and nothing in her manner toward him had altered, other than the occasional teasing comment, which Julian now enjoyed.
“I am sure you will win over hearts and some fair, bonny maid, or lady,” Romola said, her normally bright tone a little dimmed. “Perhaps we will see each other when we are there. You as a grand laird and me as a…” She trailed off and sat up abruptly. “When do you expect your mother back?”