Blood & Stone in Scotland (Glenhaven Castle Vampire #1)

1. Piper Monroe

Chapter one

Piper Monroe

I've made exactly three terrible financial decisions in my life.

Every one of them made me a fortune.

I buy interesting, unique properties. I restore them, live in them for a while and then sell them at a huge profit. Yes, I'm an adventurous property flipper.

The first property had been a condemned Victorian plantation in Savannah with a leaking roof, black mold in the pantry, and a raccoon living in the second-floor linen closet.

Everyone told me to run. I bought it, restored the wraparound porch and every lovely old room, smiled at the resident ghosts and sold the beauty eighteen months later.

I made enough money to stop pretending I liked working for other people.

My second project was an abandoned lighthouse on the coast of Maine, purchased during a breakup, which proved that heartbreak and online auctions should never be mixed without adult supervision.

It was an amazing property, though. A slightly insane and reclusive millionaire bought it from me and once again, I made a huge profit.

I enjoyed living in it but was ready for a change.

And so, my third project was an abandoned Spanish Revival citrus ranch just outside Ojai, California. Most people saw a collapsing roof, cracked stucco, dead fountains, and orchards that had gone completely wild. I saw possibility.

I bought the property for a fraction of its value because nobody wanted to spend time bringing it back to life. No one really saw what I saw.

For almost three years I lived there while I restored it.

I uncovered beautiful hand-painted tiles hidden beneath ugly replacements from the seventies, exposed original wood beams someone had boxed in decades earlier, rebuilt the courtyard fountain, and slowly coaxed the neglected orange and lemon trees back into producing fruit. I employed locals who knew citrus.

Every project has a personality. That ranch was sunshine and lavender, long evenings and the scent of citrus blossoms drifting through open windows.

Somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a construction site and started feeling like the heart of a little community.

Every Wednesday evening, I hosted free yoga classes beneath the orange trees.

Local artists began dropping by with coffee and stories.

Once the renovation was almost complete, I opened the house for an art exhibition featuring painters, photographers, and sculptors from around Ojai.

We raised thousands of dollars for the local arts council.

Watching people laugh, wander through the gardens, and fall in love with a place that had almost been forgotten became one of my favorite memories.

Eventually, a woman from Silicon Valley walked through the front gate, took one look at the courtyard, and quietly said, "I don't think I can leave. Name your price."

That sale gave me the biggest profit I've ever made.

For the first time in my career, I had enough money to stop thinking about what I could afford and start thinking about what I really wanted.

The funny thing is, as much as I loved that ranch, I never quite belonged there.

California is beautiful, but endless sunshine has never felt like home to me.

Give me fog rolling over old stone walls instead of palm trees.

Give me fireplaces instead of swimming pools.

Give me cool mornings, wool sweaters, and rain tapping against old windows.

I don't know why. I just know that's where my heart always seems to wander.

So when I started browsing for my next project, I found myself looking at obscure European property auctions. Which, in hindsight, turned out to be one of the best—or worst—ideas I've ever had.

--

After receiving an email about a castle at auction, I think, why not look at it just for fun?

As soon as I see the listing for Glenhaven Castle, perched on a lonely stretch of Scottish hillside like something out of a gothic fever dream, I do what any sensible woman would do.

I close my laptop.

Then open it again.

Beside me, Murphy lifts his golden head from the sofa cushion and gives me a solemn, judgmental stare only a Labrador retriever could manage.

"I know," I say quietly. "It's a castle."

Murphy blinks.

"In Scotland."

His tail thumps once.

"Don't encourage me."

The auction timer glows in the corner of the screen. Four minutes, twelve seconds to bid.

I lean closer.

Glenhaven Castle looks like trouble. Beautiful, delicious trouble. The kind with stone towers, arched windows, wind-carved walls, and enough mist around it to suggest either ancient romance or a plumbing problem. Probably both.

The listing describes it as structurally sound, historically significant, and in need of modernization and repairs.

I've been in real estate long enough to know what that means. Expensive. Drafty. Possibly haunted. Absolutely irresistible.

"No," I say firmly.

Murphy yawns.

Three minutes. I tap one finger against the edge of my laptop.

I had not planned to find another property this soon. The citrus ranch closed only recently. My accountant had used the words prudent, diversified, and please stop buying buildings with bats in them.

But Glenhaven Castle? It's amazing, not just dramatic.

There's a story there; I feel it even through the photographs.

The abandoned courtyard. The gardens and grounds.

The shuttered west wing. I'm certain there is a library with shelves climbing two stories high and a fireplace big enough to roast a medieval ox.

A castle like that doesn't just sit empty. A castle like that waits for the right person.

Two minutes.

"Someone is going to ruin it," I whisper. "They'll turn it into condos or some atrocious tourist retail place."

Murphy rests his chin on my knee.

I sigh. I can see it now. Someone will buy it, gut it, install glass staircases, chrome fixtures, and twelve identical luxury suites named after local wildflowers. Someone will paint ancient beams white and call it fresh.

A crime. A real estate crime, which is not technically punishable by law but absolutely should be.

Ninety seconds.

I click open the legal documents again. I'll have my attorney look at them if I win the auction bid and then find someone in Scotland to review it before I transfer funds.

But for now, the title appears clean. The reserve price is absurdly low.

And the auction house is legitimate. I've used them before, for the lighthouse purchase.

It feels … exciting.

The seller is listed as a private estate trust. No owner name and no family contact. No emotional farewell paragraph about generations of memories and the painful decision to part with a beloved ancestral home.

Just stone, acreage, contents included, sale "as is."

Thirty seconds.

My pulse kicks. "Oh, this is stupid. Can I really do this? Scotland?"

Murphy wags his tail.

"I've always wanted to visit."

Twenty seconds.

I take a breath and enter a bid. Not a reckless bid, but strategic. I've always been bold and not afraid of a potentially life-altering action.

Ten seconds.

My finger hovers over the trackpad.

"This is all your fault," I tell Murphy. He sneezes.

Seven seconds.

"Fine. Shared custody of the blame."

I click. And the screen freezes. For one horrifying second, nothing happens. Maybe I lost connection? Then the page refreshes.

Congratulations, Ms. Monroe.

You are the successful bidder for Glenhaven Castle.

I stare at the words, holding my breath. Murphy barks.

"Oh my God," I whisper. I stand up, because what else can I do?

I just bought a castle.

It's a Scottish castle I haven't seen in person, bought from an anonymous trust, based on suspiciously flattering photographs and a structural report that used the phrase minor roof complications three separate times.

I press both hands over my mouth and then start laughing. I continue laughing until Murphy jumps on the sofa, licks my face and barks again, offended that something exciting is happening without treats.

"I bought a castle, boy," I tell him again. He spins in a circle.

"Yes. I know. We're going to need warmer coats, sweaters and rain gear."

Suddenly my phone buzzes. I grab it, expecting a confirmation from the auction house. Instead, the email has no subject. No logo or signature. Only one line.

Do not arrive after sunset.