Seaside Dreams on the Scottish Isle (Coorie Castle Crafts #3)

Prologue

Contrary to popular belief, Giselle was brave.

But it was a quiet, understated bravery, which was why it went largely unnoticed, sometimes even by her own sister.

In some ways it wasn’t surprising, since they were total opposites in personality (although not in looks, as they both had silvery blonde hair and pale skin, despite being non-identical twins), which was why Giselle had left Izzy and her friends in Milan and was currently on the train to Venice this morning.

It was late September, so the fierce heat of the summer had diminished somewhat. Apparently.

It still felt roasting to Giselle, who was more used to Scottish summers where anything above twenty degrees Celsius was considered a heatwave.

Despite the lightweight floaty dress and her long hair tied up off her neck, she was roasting, and when she got off the train at Stazione di Venezia Santa Lucia, a wall of heat hit her.

Since it wasn’t quite ten a.m., she feared it was going to be another hot day.

Giselle wanted to save her money for more important things, and there was so much to see that she didn’t think she’d manage everything in a day (or even a week), so she might have to stay overnight – assuming she could find somewhere that a) had vacancies and b) didn’t break the bank.

Izzy wouldn’t mind, and she wouldn’t miss her either.

Giselle had hardly seen her twin or the others since they’d arrived in Milan, and the reason for that was Fashion Week.

Unlike Giselle, they were doing a fashion degree and would start their second year at university shortly, so unless stick-thin people wearing weird clothes were involved, they weren’t interested.

Giselle, on the other hand, was desperate for the romance, history and culture of Venice, and she was perfectly happy to explore the city on her own.

It would have been nice to have had her twin with her, but they were two very different people, interested in different things, so she was used to going solo.

But that didn’t mean there wasn’t a strong bond between them, because there was.

So strong that when Giselle had fallen while climbing over the garden fence when she was seven and had broken her arm, Izzy had been the one crying with pain!

Having spent several weeks planning this trip, Giselle had a list of must-sees, and a secondary list of like-to-sees.

She was pretty sure she’d not make it halfway through the first one.

Never mind; she fully intended to come back again one day when she’d saved up enough money and had decided what she wanted to do with her life – because, unlike Izzy, Giselle didn’t have a clue.

She did have one thing in common with her sister, though – they were both creative.

But whereas Izzy had settled on fashion, Giselle flitted from one pursuit to another.

She had yet to find her niche, because she was currently a jack of all trades but a master of none.

Painting, sewing, embroidery, decoupage, weaving…

she’d tried loads and really enjoyed them, but she wished she had an interest as consuming as Izzy’s.

And if she could combine that with nature and wild places, she’d be in her element. It was a big ask!

Giselle breathed deeply, inhaling sun-warmed air, redolent with the scent of brine, coffee and perfume, along with a waft of mouthwatering pastry.

There was also a scent she recognised as damp stone.

After visiting numerous old castles in her homeland, it was an aroma she was familiar with, and she happily set off to explore the city.

By mid-afternoon, Giselle was hot, tired, thirsty, hungry and kind of lost. She’d bought a St Mark’s Square Museums ticket which had allowed her to visit the Doge’s Palace, the Museo Correr and a couple of others, and by the time she’d emerged, blinking, into the bright sunlight, she’d felt an urge to see some of the less popular areas of the city.

After wandering along narrow streets that opened into surprising squares and bridges arching over canals, it hadn’t taken long before she’d become hopelessly lost. But she felt as though she was beginning to discover the real Venice, since there were fewer tourists around.

The tall narrow streets were like deep ravines with high canyon walls, gated doorways, shuttered windows, smooth-worn cobbles, tiny shops and white, cloth-draped tables outside aromatic restaurants.

Giselle halted and stared upwards at the sliver of cerulean sky visible between the tall buildings. A woman leaning over a Juliet balcony caught her eye, and she wondered what it might be like to live in an apartment here.

Engrossed in her thoughts, she stepped back, still gazing upwards, and promptly banged into a table, sending it and its contents flying.

‘Oh, gosh, sorry, so sorry!’ she cried, frantically trying to think what ‘sorry’ was in Italian, closely followed by Oh, my God he’s hot, when she spied the man who’d been sitting at the table she’d upended.

She hurried to right the table, but the guy beat her to it, just as a waiter emerged from the restaurant, tutting.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she repeated, surveying the damage with dismay. Broken glass was strewn over the cobbles, along with several pieces of cutlery and a menu.

‘No worries.’ The guy had an English accent, she noticed with relief.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said to the waiter, who crossly shooed away her attempts to clear up the mess she’d made.

Giselle straightened and turned to the man whose drink she’d annihilated. ‘What were you drinking? Can I get you another? And I’ll need to pay for the damage.’

He shrugged. ‘No need. It was only water.’

Water wasn’t free. It wouldn’t have been the stuff out of the tap. ‘I insist,’ she said, reaching down the front of her sundress for a ten-euro note. Hopefully that would cover it, but this was Venice, so… ‘Will this be enough, do you think?’

‘You’re going to need another one of those,’ he said, and with a resigned sigh she withdrew another note and held it out.

‘Maybe one more?’

Her mouth dropped open. ‘Thirty euros for a glass of water? You’ve got to be kidding me!’

‘I am. I just wanted to see you rooting around down the front of your dress.’

‘Oh!’

He was laughing at her, but in a nice way, and he was hot.

Like, the centre of the sun hot. Dark, almost-black, curling hair, tousled and sexy as hell; grey eyes, a deeper shade than her own; square jaw, patrician nose and a hint of a beard.

He wore beads around his wrist, a silver chain around his neck which disappeared beneath a scruffy, tie-dye T-shirt in shades of grey and black, a loose linen-type jacket and black jeans.

Could he be a model? An actor? He looked like one. He had a little dip at the base of his throat, and she could see his collarbones under the T-shirt, along with a hint of muscled shoulders and chest.

If she hadn’t heard his English accent, she would have assumed him to be Italian. He still could be. A bilingual one. A hot, sexy bilingual Italian, who was staring at her with appreciation in his gorgeous eyes.

Giselle wasn’t often moved by male beauty, but she was earth-quaked by this specimen.

While she’d been drooling, the waiter had whisked the fallen cutlery away and was now sweeping up the glass shards using a pan and a long-handled brush.

Abruptly, she realised she was still holding the euro notes, and she closed her fist, crumpling them in her hand.

‘Do you usually keep your money down there?’ the guy asked.

Giselle’s already warm face flamed. ‘Sometimes.’

‘Join me for a drink.’ It wasn’t an invitation; it was more of a command.

‘Why?’ Her tone was suspicious.

‘Because you look hot and bothered.’

Nuh-uh, he was the hot one. ‘I’ve got a drink, thanks,’ she said. Letting her long hair fall forward to cover her face, she rooted in her bag and brought out the bottle of water with a flourish. There was only a mere thimbleful left in the bottom.

Feeling even more embarrassed, she peered at him through a veil of silver strands, wondering just how red her face was.

The guy pulled out a chair and lifted an eyebrow.

Giselle melted. Oh crumbs, he could do the one-eyebrow thing. There was no hope for her. She was lost.

She sank onto the seat.

He smiled, a slow curve of his lips, and signalled to the waiter, who had reappeared with fresh cutlery and glasses.

‘Wine? My name’s Rocco, by the way.’

‘Giselle. Er, just water please.’

‘Make that two.’

The waiter nodded and handed them a menu each. Giselle only took a quick glance at it, but it was enough to tell her she could barely afford the water. Anyway, she still had half a sandwich left, although it had lost its appeal a couple of hours ago.

‘Hungry?’ Rocco asked.

Rocco… Was that an Italian name? ‘Not really.’

‘Do you mind if I order some food?’

‘This is your table, not mine.’ She was acutely aware she was gate-crashing his meal.

He said something to the waiter. She caught one word: bruschette.

‘Are you Italian?’ she asked.

‘My grandmother was. I’m only a quarter Italian.’

‘Do you live here?’

‘No, London. Holland Park. You’re Scottish, I take it?’

‘What gave it away?’ she joked, beginning to relax. ‘I live in East Kilbride. Near Glasgow,’ she added, in case he’d never heard of the place. ‘Are you here on holiday?’

‘Gap year. Or should I say, a gap six months. I’ve got a job lined up for January.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Asset management.’

Giselle made a face.

‘It probably is as boring as it sounds,’ he said. ‘What about you?’

‘Holiday. I’m here with my sister and her friends from uni. Well, not here, exactly – they’re in Milan. Fashion Week. Venice didn’t appeal to them.’

‘But it does to you?’

‘Definitely. It’s so romantic.’

‘I suppose it is. So, you’re in Venice on your own?’

‘Yes.’ She stared at him defiantly, daring him to make a comment, like that’s brave of you.