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Cover Design: LLewellen Designs

Chapter 1

She was lost.

And from the look of things, stuck on the shoulder of a single-track road deep in the Scottish countryside, it was doubtful another soul would be passing by soon. Unless sheep counted. There were plenty of those to go around, dotting the green hillside like hundreds of fluffy marshmallows under an ominous gray sky.

Lucy's stomach clenched into a hungry knot, a bag of marshmallows sounding pretty good right about then. With a wistful sigh, she returned her attention to the map. The last town was nearly five miles back.

Five. Long. Miles.

Perfect.

Once again, she'd allowed Riley to talk her into another wild scheme, and this time it had been covering for her cousin at work. What did Lucy know about travel writing? She'd never been beyond the Eastern seaboard—a failure in and of itself seeing as how she'd once planned to see the world.

"Damn it, Riley," she muttered, wondering how many times she'd said those words in relation to her cousin. Thousands, probably.

She knew it was wrong, but she couldn't help wishing Riley a likewise crappy day. A pimple on her perfect skin. Frizz erupting through her gorgeous hair. It was the least she deserved.

And while Lucy was at it, she might as well add the woman who'd met her at the airport to the growing list of offenders. The lovely Grace Lindsay who'd bought her lunch, taken her shopping for real Scottish clothes, and had rented Lucy her very own mini car for the trek to Balmorie Estate & Guest House.

"I put together the Lindsay and MacLaren Tartans," Grace had said beyond the changing room door during their shopping detour. "We'd be honored if you wear them."

Hurting someone's feelings and country pride was the last thing Lucy had wanted to do her first day in Scotland, so she walked out of the shop in blue and green checkered slacks criss-crossed with lines of black, yellow, and red, paired with a green, red, and blue sweater.

Grace Lindsay, with her cool Scottish accent, bright red hair, freckles, and faulty directions was the reason Lucy was currently dressed like Willy Wonka on the golf course. In the case of the matching plaid cap with the fuzzy red pompom on the top, which Grace had also bought for her, Lucy had shoved it into her backpack vowing silently that hell would freeze over before she'd wear it.

Could be worse.

It could always be worse. In fact, Lucy and 'could be worse' were intimately acquainted. Yet another often-used phrase in her life.

Resigned to the fact she'd have to leave her gas-deprived rental—whose gas gauge was obviously broken since it still indicated a full tank—and walk back to the last town, she grabbed her backpack off the passenger seat, praying that the remainder of her vacation would be just as she'd envisioned; peaceful and inspiring—the total opposite of the adventure Grammy Lin and her cousins envisioned with a string of hunky Scotsmen. It had been over a year since her last relationship. If there was a perfect time for a wild, irresponsible fling, it was now, or so they'd claimed, even going so far as to tuck several condoms into her carry-on bag.

Lucy didn't even want to think about the look on Reverend Atwater's face, the friendly missionary who sat next to her on the plane, when she'd pulled out a shiny foil-wrapped Mammoth Man while looking for her eye drops to which he'd asked hopefully, "Ooh, is that chocolate?"

Having to explain it wasn't exactly chocolate, she'd quietly searched her carry-on for more surprises, vowing to strangle both Gram, Kate, and Riley when she returned home. A fitting punishment, she decided, after discovering a handful of the shiny foil
chocolates
in her carry-on.

And not a single Median Man or Mini Man.

Mammoth Mans were a joke. If they were that desperate for her to find a man, they could have at least been realistic.

Lucy was surprised Kate hadn't tucked their treasured copy of Grammy Lin's
Highlander's Harlot
into her bag. Lucy still remembered the day they'd found 'Double H' on Gram's front porch swing and read it in the bedroom fort they'd made upstairs. And oh boy had it ever been enlightening. Scandalous, hysterical, amazing. She, Riley, and Kate had laughed so hard. They'd gone wide-eyed and quiet. Embarrassed and confused. Heartsick and hopeful for Alastair and Fiona.

Their love of heroes and all things Scottish had begun that day thanks to Gram's love of highland romances.

As she smiled at the memory, a splat of rain hit the tip of her nose.

No. No way.

Lucy tipped her head back and eyed the dark clouds gathering above her. Another raindrop smacked her forehead. This was
not
happening.

An ominous moment went by before the water-laden clouds gave way. In seconds she was drenched, her hair flattened against her head. Freaking perfect. A sharp laugh escaped her wet lips. Luck had never seen her through before. Why should it start now? The awful cap with the red pompom was still secure in her backpack. With a defeated sigh and a glare at the heavens, Lucy shoved it on her head and continued walking—no, slopping—down the muddy track.

Hell had officially frozen over.

Should her bad luck continue, at least the bright red beacon on her head would visible from the rescue plane.

Despite it being May, the rain was cold and it coated her clothes and skin until she felt like a walking icicle. Not a single car had come by. Or a tractor. Or a person. Not even a marshmallow.

Her gut clenched again with hunger. The thought of a warm meal, hot shower, and a soft bed was the only thing that kept one foot in front of the other. Just make it back to town. That's all she had to do. Five miles. Easy right?

After two steep hills Lucy started having second thoughts about it being easy.

As she crested a third breath-stealing hill, a deer leapt across the road. She stopped and watched its retreat, letting out a surprised oath at what she saw in the distance.

Talk about picture perfect.

A small L-shaped castle, with what looked like a Victorian-era addition complete with high peaks and Gothic windows, sat in the nicest spot tucked between the base of low hill and a long, thin loch. Tidy outbuildings surrounded the place and a well-tended lawn curved down to a tiny pebble beach.

Now this was what she'd come for.

A slow smile spread across her face. Scotland. Castles. Lochs. Yeah, life was definitely looking up. There were two cars in the driveway and a few dim lights in the windows. It looked to be a half-mile away or so. If she left the muddy track, made a shortcut over the pasture, through the woods, she figured she'd be there in no time. And it sure as hell was closer than five miles back to town...

Ian MacLaren stood in front of the parapet wall, the collar of his barn jacket turned up against the chilly mist of rain. To the west, a shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds, illuminating the wet, rolling landscape and making it glow. It was his favorite kind of sunset, just after the rain when the air went soft and hazy, the color of grass turned emerald, and the loch became a giant mirror, reflecting everything off its surface.

God, he'd missed this place.

He'd been here for six months now and it still struck him how much he'd missed it, how much memories of his summers here calmed his mind during some of the toughest times in his life. His grandfather had left it all to Ian and his two younger brothers. The house, the land. Everything was theirs.

From his vantage point four stories above the ground, he could see most of the estate stretched out before him. Sheep and cattle grazed peacefully, unaffected by the beauty around them. Tidy rental cottages dotted the landscape, stone built, and there for so long they seemed a natural part of the land. Ian had worked his ass off getting the first rental in livable shape. He had a dozen more to go and a thousand more things on a To Do list that seemed never ending.

His brothers, Devin and Jamie were finally here to help with some of the work, though Jamie would return to combat soon and Dev . . . well, Dev was dealing with a lot of shit. Last thing Ian wanted was to drag him into the additional stress of planning, organizing, permits, inspections... No, Devin was fine with a tool belt around his waist and a hammer in his hand.

Of course, if they sold the estate, they'd have millions. Ian could pay off the taxes and debts his grandfather had accumulated.

Too bad pounds and Euros didn't grow in the neglected fields or the towering pines.

With a heavy sigh, he dragged his fingers through his damp hair. The writer from New York would be arriving soon.

Everything had to be perfect.

He'd checked and double-checked. He couldn't remember how many times he'd walked through the guest suite. There were fresh flowers in a vase on the dresser, the four-poster bed's covers were without a single wrinkle, and the fireplace was clean and ready with wood.

A large part of achieving their goal depended on a stranger. A glowing article in America's largest travel magazine would be a great step in the right direction for Balmorie Estate and Guest House. He'd pulled some major strings to get the writer here. He had to make this work, had to start turning a profit at some point or he could kiss the land his family had owned for the last five hundred years goodbye.

Mrs. Riley Brooks of New York City was going to love it here.

Ian couldn't help but look at it from a military stand point. Brooks was a pivotal key in winning the Turn A Profit War. And hell if he was going to lose. He'd keep the land. For himself. For his brothers. God knew they needed the peace the land brought them, needed a place to plant their feet and battle the demons haunting them all.

The scent of Fran's cooking had wound its way through the house and out the open door. With one last look at the landscape, Ian went downstairs and into the kitchen.

"You're making me lose ten years off my life, Ian my lad, with all your pacing about," Fran said as he entered. "There's nothing more you can do."

He looked over her shoulder, breathing in deeply as she kneaded flour dough on a flat wooden board sprinkled with oatmeal. "Are those bannocks?"

"Of course. Now stop your fussing and go out for a walk. No sense fretting over something that's out of your hands."

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