3. Piper Arrives in Scotland
Chapter three
Piper Arrives in Scotland
I always believe the journey to a new project is part of the renovation. And part of the adventure.
By the time I cross the Scottish border in a rented dark-green SUV with an overpacked suitcase, three paint sample books, Pinterest boards, a toolbox, and a seventy-pound Labrador occupying most of the back seat, I've already fallen a little bit in love with the country.
Rolling green hills give way to purple heather. The sky changes constantly.
Stone cottages sit beside narrow roads that seem entirely unconcerned with modern automobiles.
Ancient churches appear without warning, their graveyards older than the United States.
Murphy spends most of the drive with his nose pressed to the window, offering occasional commentary whenever sheep wander too close to the road. His tail thumps against the seat.
"I don't think you can herd them from the car."
The sat-nav announces another turn in a cheerful English voice that has clearly never attempted to navigate a Scottish Highlands road.
The lanes narrow. The villages shrink. My cell signal gives up on life.
Perfect.
An hour later, I stop in a village not far from the castle. It's no bigger than a few winding streets gathered around a stone square. There's a bakery, a butcher, a tiny grocer, and a pub with flower boxes overflowing beneath its windows.
I park outside the bakery. The bell above the door chimes as I enter. I inhale the scent of warm bread. Butter. Coffee. Heaven with pastries.
An elderly woman behind the counter looks up and smiles.
"Good afternoon," I say.
"You're not from around here, lass."
"No," I say, laughing. "Is it that obvious?"
"The accent."
I order coffee and two meat pies I'm assured are "proper food for the road," which sounds both comforting and vaguely threatening. The woman wraps them carefully.
"Passing through?"
"Actually…" I smile. "I just bought Glenhaven Castle."
I'm met with silence. Not a loud silence. Worse. A careful silence.
The woman stops folding the paper.
A man stirring sugar into his tea looks up.
Someone near the window lowers his newspaper by exactly two inches.
I feel every eye in the bakery settle on me.
"Oh," the woman finally says. "You've bought Glenhaven Castle? It was for sale?"
"I have."
Another pause. "I never heard a word about it being for sale. Well, congratulations." It does not sound like congratulations.
I laugh anyway because apparently that's my primary survival response.
"It's a little crazy, right? Buying an old castle."
The older man near the window clears his throat. "Very."
"You've been inside the Castle?"
"Aye, once."
"It's beautiful. At least in the pictures."
His gaze drops to his tea. "It used to be."
Something cold brushes the back of my neck. Before I can ask what that means, the woman hands over the paper bag.
"You'll be wanting to get there before dark, lassie."
My smile fades a little.
"That's what someone else said."
The woman's eyes sharpen.
"Someone?"
"I got an email after I bought the castle."
"What did it say?"
"Do not arrive after sunset."
The entire bakery becomes so quiet I can hear the old clock ticking above the doorway. Then the woman forces a smile.
"Well." That is apparently the whole explanation. "You'd best be on your way, then." No one speaks as I leave.
Back in the SUV, Murphy accepts half a meat pie as compensation for not being allowed inside.
"That," I say, starting the engine, "was very weird."
Murphy swallows the evidence and looks extremely pleased with himself.
Twenty minutes later, the road curves through ancient pines before climbing steadily into the hills. Fog drifts between the trees, soft and silver. The sky lowers. The air changes.
And then I see it.
Glenhaven Castle stands alone against the gray Scottish sky.
It's larger than the photographs. Far larger. More beautiful.
Four towers. Massive stone walls weathered by centuries of wind. Tall leaded windows catching the last dull gleam of afternoon. Ivy. Gardens lining the drive and vast grounds. The long gravel drive curves toward an arched entrance flanked by weathered statues whose faces have surrendered to time.
I pull the SUV to a stop and just look. For once in my life, I do not immediately talk.
The castle rises from the hillside like it was carved out of storm clouds and stubbornness.
It's beautiful, yes, but not in the polished way of luxury brochures and wedding venues.
It's wounded. Proud. Ancient. Honorable. Waiting.
My fingers tighten on the steering wheel.
"Oh, you poor gorgeous thing."
I exhale, already seeing the scaffolding, the restored windows, the gardens cleared, the library cleaned, the old stone warmed with light again. "We're in trouble."
Murphy barks once.
I follow the gravel driveway toward the entrance and stop.
I notice the cool Highland air when I climb out of the car. It smells of damp earth, pine, moss and distant rain. I fish out the keys that were sent to me.
Suddenly I notice that smoke curls faintly from one of the chimneys. I stop.
"Wait. Smoke?"
Murphy leaps from the back seat before I can grab his leash.
"Murphy!"
He charges across the gravel, ears flying, then halts halfway to the entrance. Not barking or growling. Just staring.
That is not normal.
Murphy greets strangers as if every human being has been placed on earth specifically to compliment him. The fact that he has gone still makes my pulse give one hard kick.
I follow his gaze.
The front door opens. Not with a haunted-house groan. Not with theatrical drama. It simply opens, heavy and silent.
A man steps outside.
Tall.
Impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit despite standing in the middle of the Scottish Highlands as if this is perfectly reasonable behavior. Pale, as I would suppose a northern climate would favor.
Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Perfect posture. He looks about my age. Has the kind of face that belongs in oil paintings or on magazine covers and looks like gorgeous, expensive trouble.
He descends the stone steps with unhurried confidence, as if he has all the time in the world and I am merely the latest unusual weather pattern to arrive at Glenhaven Castle.
Now Murphy trots straight to him. My dog sits neatly at the man's polished shoes and wags his tail.
The gorgeous man looks down. For one second, something almost like surprise softens his expression. Then he bends and scratches Murphy behind the ear with the ease of someone who knows exactly where dogs prefer to be adored.
"I see you've already made an ally," I call.
The man lifts his gaze to mine.
Gray, almost silver, eyes. Eyes that seem to notice everything and reveal absolutely nothing.
"I've always found dogs to be excellent judges of character."
His voice is warm, cultured, and faintly Scottish beneath layers of old-world polish.
I walk toward him, suddenly aware of my muddy boots, wind-tangled hair, and the fact that I dripped coffee on my sleeve while driving.
"Piper Monroe," I say, calling out. "New owner."
For the first time, his composure shifts. He stiffens. There's a tightening around the eyes.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Piper Monroe," I repeat. "I bought Glenhaven Castle."
He looks past me to the SUV, the luggage, the boxes, the paint samples visible through the back window.
Then back to me.
"I see." The way he says it suggests he sees far more than I do. "That presents something of a difficulty."
I laugh because surely this is some very British way of saying welcome.
"Well, old buildings are basically difficulties with roofs. I'm used to it."
His expression does not change.
"I'm afraid I was referring to your ownership."
"My ownership is actually the least difficult part. I have paperwork. I bought it at auction last week. It's all legal."
"I see."
That catches me off guard. Most people begin with disbelief, move on to horror, and finish with a lecture on structural debt.
"You don't believe me?"
"No. I believe you believe yourself."
"That's not the same thing."
"No," he says gently. "It is not."
I fold my arms. "Okay. I'm guessing you're the caretaker of this fine castle? Maybe you didn't get the memo."
"No."
"The estate manager?"
"No."
"The groundskeeper, then? The auction house said it was unoccupied."
A faint crease appears between his brows, as if I have insulted not only him but centuries of horticulture.
"No."
"Solicitor?"
"No."
"Very handsome squatter, then?"
His eyes sharpen. My mouth immediately regrets my personality. Murphy wags harder. The man's lips curve, just barely.
"No, not a squatter either."
"Then just who are you?"
He is silent for a beat too long. Not because he doesn't know. Because he's choosing which truth to give me.
At last, he says, "I suppose the simplest answer is that I am the occupant."
"The occupant?"
"Yes."
"As in … you live here?"
"I do."
"In the castle that I bought. That I own?"
"That appears to be the difficulty."
I stare at him. He looks calm. Too calm. Murphy looks delighted. The castle looms behind him like it has been waiting all day to see how this goes.
"The difficulty will be yours, sir. I'm the owner."
He says nothing as Murphy wags his tail.
"Okay," I say slowly. "How long have you lived here?"
His gaze holds mine.
"A very long time."
"Define very."
He glances toward the fading light, then back at me.
"Long enough for this to be quite inconvenient."
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
"You're serious."
"Frequently."
"Do you have a name, Mr. Illegal Occupant?"
He inclines his head with maddening grace.
"Lord Tristan Sinclair."
Of course. Of course, the ridiculously beautiful man refusing to leave my castle is a lord.
"Lord Sinclair," I repeat.
"Tristan will do."
"Will it?"
"It may be less cumbersome."
"I don't know. I kind of enjoy cumbersome."
This time, he almost smiles as he stares at me.
The wind slips between us, cold and damp, lifting a strand of hair against my cheek. His gaze follows the movement, and for one strange second the space between us changes. He inhales deeply as if taking in the scent of the evening.
The air seems charged. Then Murphy sneezes on his shoe.
The spell breaks.
I clear my throat. "Well, Lord Tristan Sinclair, I've traveled a long way.
It's been a long day, I legally own this property, and my dog has apparently sneezed on your shoes.
So I think the least we can do is go inside and discuss why you're standing in my driveway looking like a tax deduction with cheekbones. "
He blinks. Once. Slowly. Then he steps aside and gestures toward the open door.
"By all means, Miss Monroe."
I start up the steps. Behind me, he adds quietly, "And for what it is worth…"
His eyes move briefly to the sinking sun. Then back to me.
"You were wise to arrive before dark."