Chapter 4 Robyn
ROBYN
The village of Ardnoch shared Boston’s pride for history, except the Scots’ history went even further back.
Otherwise, Ardnoch was unlike any place I’d ever visited.
For a start, it was tiny.
The nineteenth-century hotel and restaurant I was staying in sat on the square with a huge parking lot for visitors.
But from what I’d gathered during my wanderings around the place yesterday, the shops, restaurants, and bed-and-breakfasts were scattered throughout the village on quaint row streets.
The historical architecture and design of the village was beautiful.
Everything predated the mid-twentieth century, and dominating it all, not far from the Gloaming, sat a medieval cathedral.
I’d taken a ton of photos and spent the night uploading them to my laptop for a little editing before adding them to my Instagram.
Once I returned to Boston, I’d resume printing and selling.
Another reason I couldn’t stay in Ardnoch too long.
To my delight, I had just over fifty-thousand followers since my work started circulating the social media platform nine months ago.
It was great advertising for my online store, but once I uploaded the Ardnoch shots, customers would complain if I didn’t get them up on the store soon after.
Planning on losing myself at the beach for a few hours with my camera, I took Gordon’s advice and walked west down Castle Street (the main road off the square that led right out of Ardnoch toward Ardnoch Castle and Estate), an avenue of identical nineteenth-century, terraced houses with dormer windows.
Most of the homes had been converted into boutiques, cafés, and inns.
In among them was Morag’s, a small grocery store.
According to Gordon, Morag ran a sandwich counter where she sold delicious, fresh homemade sandwiches.
I was an early riser, so Morag’s had barely opened when I stepped inside.
Stands at the window displayed beach products, such as kids’ sand buckets and shovels.
Neat rows of shelves stocked with groceries were situated up front, and a refrigerator containing dairy products and a freezer with all manner of frozen foods lined the back walls.
A bright-faced, middle-aged woman with pink-rinsed hair stood behind a counter at the back of the shop. Inside the chilled case were fresh ingredients for custom sandwiches, along with preprepared ones.
“Morning,” she called to me.
“Good morning,” I replied, offering her a smile as I paused at the refrigerator for bottled water. My eyes flicked between her and the sandwiches as I approached her counter. “Wow, those look great.”
“Thank you. We have …” She rattled off the different fixings. I could listen to her talk all day. I’d noted the villagers spoke with a slightly more anglicized accent than Mac who was originally from Glasgow. The locals had more of a lilting brogue, like Adair’s.
When she finished, I asked, “Could you make me one? I’d just like a plain tuna and mayo with red onion.”
“No problem at all.” She moved around the mini deli section. “Any grand plans today? May I recommend places to visit?”
“I’m just heading to the beach.”
“Oh, we’re a good month or two away from good beach weather,” she warned. “The water is cold even in the summer.”
Grinning, I nodded. “I’ve been duly warned by Gordon.”
“You’re staying at the Gloaming. Very nice. Here long?”
“Probably not.”
She shot me a bemused look, presumably at my vague answer. “Well, it’s nice to have you here. I’m Morag Sutherland.”
“Like the area?” Ardnoch was in the county of Sutherland.
“Yes. My family has been here a long time. Dating as far back as the twelfth century. I’m distantly related to the current Earl of Sutherland. Distantly, mind you. Still …” She beamed proudly.
“That is very cool,” I replied sincerely. “Imagine knowing your family has been here as long as medieval times. I don’t know anything about my family before the twentieth century.”
“You should look into it. It’s fascinating stuff learning where you come from and who you’re related to.”
The shop door opened, and Morag peered past me.
She wrinkled her nose as if displeased by the newcomer.
At the sound of heavy footsteps walking toward us, I glanced over my shoulder.
A man almost as big as Mac, wearing a threadbare cable-knit sweater, worn jeans, and mud-splattered boots, came to a stop at my side.
He smelled of … well … animal. In all its forms.
I took in the grizzly, gray beard and deep wrinkles around his dark eyes. A wool hat covered his hair, but I estimated he was much older than Mac.
And a farmer, if the smell was anything to go by.
“Usual, Morag,” he demanded in a gruff, gravelly voice.
Morag gave him a pained smile. “The corned beef didn’t come in with my delivery, Collum. Is there anything else you’d like?” She gestured to the sandwich counter.
Collum glared at her in obvious annoyance and then down at the counter. “The ham instead.”
“With all the usual, though?”
He grunted.
Morag seemed to take that as a yes and then gave me an apologetic look. “Are you in a hurry, dear? It’s just Mr. McCulloch is our local farmer, and I usually have his sandwich ready so he can just collect it and go.”
“I can wait.”
She set aside the tuna-mayo mix and worked on the farmer’s sandwich.
There was a moment of awkward silence as we watched Morag.
Until the left side of my face tingled.
The farmer was staring at me.
I raised an eyebrow at him.
He stared impassively down at me and then looked at Morag. “Another one?”
She frowned and then glanced at me, her face clearing. “Oh, I don’t believe so. Just a tourist.”
“Robyn,” I offered. “My name is Robyn.” Staring up at McCulloch, I asked bluntly, “What do you mean by ‘another one’?”
Our eyes met. “So-called actor from that godforsaken club.”
Realizing he meant one of the Ardnoch members, I shook my head. “No, I’m not one of them. I’m a cop.” Or I was a cop. I needed to stop introducing myself as such. Habit.
The farmer studied me closely. “Aye, you don’t look like you stick poison in your face.”
I let out a confused snort. “What?”
He sighed, as though aggravated our conversation had gone on this long. “Sarah, my granddaughter, she says they all stick poison in their faces to smooth their wrinkles. In their lips to make them fuller.” He eyed me again. “Not that you need that.”
“No. I don’t need Botox in my lips.”
His brows drew together.
“That’s what you call the toxin. Or at least the treatment. Botox.”
“Fascinating.”
I couldn’t help a bark of laughter at his dry sarcasm.
“Really, Collum,” Morag tutted. “You could try to be a little more welcoming to our tourists.”
“Why?”
She flushed. “It’s … well, it’s the decent thing. The friendly thing.”
“Bullshit,” he muttered. “You’re all only nice to them because of the money. Well”—he cut me a sardonic look—“not Morag here. She actually likes people.”
His disbelieving tone made me laugh harder, and his eyes sparkled with amusement.
“Oh, you.” Morag tutted again, but a smile teased her lips as she wrapped up his sandwich. McCulloch gave her money, and Morag handed over his lunch. “Tell Sarah I was asking for her.”
He grunted again and turned to leave.
“It was nice to meet you,” I said.
McCulloch shot me a look of disbelief before glancing back at Morag. He gave a slight shake of his head but tipped his sandwich at me in acknowledgement before striding out.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Morag said, sounding surprised, “I think he thought it was nice meeting you too.”
I grinned. “He’s not the friendly sort, huh?”
“No. You got more conversation out of him than I have in the last ten years,” she cracked.
“I liked him.”
“You like cantankerous, do you?”
“I like honest.”
Morag smiled and returned to my sandwich. When it was done, she handed it over after accepting payment and said, “Have a nice day at the beach.”
I left Morag’s and walked east to the parking lot on the square across from the Gloaming.
I’d parked there, and I planned on driving a few minutes east to Ardnoch’s beautiful, golden sands.
It wasn’t a particularly sunny day. There was a chill in the late spring air, but the belly of the clouds weren’t dark enough to suggest coming rain.
Strolling down the quiet street toward the square, I noted a Range Rover drive past and watched it pull into the parking lot near my rental.
As I approached my car, the doors of the Rover opened, and a couple rounded the trunk to lace their hands together.
Surprise moved through me, and I’ll admit a little thrill.
It was Gabriella Ruiz and Sebastian Stone.
Stone was a three-time Oscar-winning actor, and Gabriella was his pop-star fiancée.
She was ten years his senior—he was thirty-five, she was forty-five—but she looked his age, if not younger.
And not because of Botox either. Good genes and a healthy lifestyle did that.
She was inspiring; he was beyond talented.
As a couple, they were constantly hounded by the press.
Again, I wondered how Adair kept the media away from Ardnoch.
Gabriella offered me a gorgeous grin, and I was proud of the friendly but cool smile I returned. I wasn’t the type to fangirl, but I was also extremely aware that the estate members loved Ardnoch because it offered them some normality.
Pulling open the door to my rental, I shot a look over my shoulder as the couple strolled hand in hand down Castle Street.
I shook my head in disbelief, smiling to myself.
Rock music was my thing, not pop, so seeing Gabriella wasn’t what it might be to some other folks, though I admired her obvious work ethic.
And I had to admit, Sebastian Stone was a great actor.
I’d just walked past them both.
So surreal.