CHAPTER 1

“It’s like living inside a snow globe,” I said to Vicki MacBride over afternoon tea at the kitchen table in my toasty warm cottage. We watched snow fall through the white-framed windowpanes, coming down fast and furious, whirling and swirling before softly landing and then drifting high against the stonework with every gust of wind.

Vicki’s signature perfume with fragrances of rose and jasmine had accompanied her on the short walk from the main house to the cottage. So had her two white West Highland terriers, Pepper and Coco. The Westies were identical except for a small black mark on Pepper’s smooth little belly. At the moment the two were snuggled together in front of the wood-burning stove, the only source of heat in the cottage, but it had served me well so far, since the cottage was small and cozy, having been built to retain heat in the cold winter months.

“The snowiest beginning to the winter season in decades,” Vicki agreed, going on to explain. “We’re only a week into December, and already we have our first official weather bomb. The weather alert has been upgraded from yellow to amber until sometime later this evening. Thirty centimeters yesterday, another twenty today.”

That entire statement is Scottish Highlands speak, which I’m finally learning to translate after five-plus months in Glenkillen and some real concerted effort. Yellow means be aware. Amber, be prepared. And red, which we haven’t encountered yet and I hope we don’t, means better take action to protect yourself.

“Twelve inches of new snow already,” I said, after struggling to convert the weather report from centimeters into inches. I doubted I’d ever become proficient with the metric system. “That on top of another eight inches from the last ‘weather bomb.’”

At least we hadn’t experienced any blackouts. In case that happened, Vicki assured me that we were well prepared for a power outage. My cottage and the main house where she lives have trustworthy wood-burning stoves, and we’d stacked plenty of wood inside after the yellow alert had been issued. Vicki had also made sure we had a supply of lanterns and enough fuel to keep them burning if necessary.

I’ve come to learn that the Scots are a well-prepared and rugged bunch. They don’t let a few feet of snow concern them. My admiration for them and for their way of life has been growing daily.

The MacBride farm, where I’ve been residing since my arrival in Scotland, is on the outskirts of Glenkillen, an easy drive back and forth on a good day, which of course this wasn’t. Eventually, after many harrowing experiences, I’d grown accustomed to driving on the left. After doing so almost every single day, traveling to the local pub to work on a romance series I’m under contract to write, I found my confidence level was running pretty high. Or it had been, before all this snow began falling and making the only narrow, winding road that connects the farm to the village slippery and treacherous. I expected to have to negotiate under these conditions sometime in the near future, because, as I understood from Vicki, this weather was going to stick around for the long haul. The “long haul” for me being December twenty-second, when I was scheduled to depart.

Vicki dipped the last of a chocolate shortbread biscuit into her tea for the precise amount of time, an act I consider a fine art, which is totally lost on me. “Not so long that it falls into the cup,” she’s explained often. “Not so short that the flavor of the tea isn’t fused with the buttery treat.”

Vicki popped the perfectly dunked morsel into her mouth.

“I don’t want to go,” I said, using a spoon to fish for the piece of shortbread I’d dipped too long, my mood turning as downcast as my gaze.

“What? You’re joking, right? Most of the community would kill for an invitation to a private winter whisky tasting at Glenkillen Distillery!”

Vicki had misunderstood me.

Regarding the whisky tasting: I was really looking forward to tomorrow evening’s event. Especially since the invitation had been extended by Leith Cameron, local barley supplier to said distillery, professional fishing guide, and the man who comes to mind every time I need to write a scene involving a hot, sexy male protagonist. He also is a single dad, father to six-year-old daughter Fia, and on top of all that he also enjoys chumming around with his border collie buddy, Kelly. And sometimes me. He’s easygoing and self-confident with beautiful Scottish blue eyes and ginger highlights in his hair and a short beard he’s recently taken to wearing as the days become colder.

And that man can really wear a kilt!

White tie, the invitation had specified. The delivery had been formal, arriving in the mail earlier in the week with the inscription: Leith Cameron requests the pleasure of your company at a special winter whisky tasting on Saturday evening, December 8 at 7:00 p.m.

Of course, I’d responded as formally, on the advice of my current teatime partner, sending off a posted note with my acceptance. In Chicago, where I was born and raised, I would have picked up the phone. Or he would have. This was all so foreign to me. But who am I to criticize Scottish tradition?

I paused, a fresh shortbread hovering over my tea, to consider Leith’s attire for tomorrow’s event. A kilt, for certain, Vicki had informed me. But what should I wear? I hadn’t brought much with me, but I did have a simple black dress and a few pieces of jewelry that Vicki had thought would be perfect for the occasion. Simple, elegant, classic.

I couldn’t wait!

Which brought me back to Vicki’s misinterpretation of my remark about not wanting to go.

It had nothing to do with the whisky tasting. Far from it.

No, my comment had to do with the quickly approaching expiration of my tourist visa, the standard maximum of six months. Soon I’d be on the flight from Scotland back to Chicago. Ami Pederson, my best friend there, practically had to force me onto the plane for the flight over here, insisting that an extended visit to the Highlands would jump-start my imagination. And since the first book in the Scottish Highlands Desire Series needed to have an authentic setting, and since I’d never been to the Highlands . . .

“It’s only reasonable to actually go there for research,” she’d said, insisting that the village of Glenkillen was the perfect place to find inspiration. She’d done her own research to determine this. “It’s right on the North Sea. Perfect. And reasonable to spend time there,” she’d repeated.

Only I hadn’t been reasonable.

I’d resisted from the moment she’d suggested it, digging my heels in right up to the last hours before I was set to depart. I’d complained and explained and made excuses—too busy, too tired, too, too . . . everything. I’d continued with attempts to worm out of it while packing, continued to explain ad nauseam why I shouldn’t go, even as I checked in at the airport, whining, sniffling . . . but Ami had been more tenacious, refusing to capitulate. She’d driven me to the airport and followed me as far in as she could before security turned her back, waiting there until she was sure I had boarded.

Then I’d arrived—overwhelmed, jet-lagged, and culture shocked, especially by the Scots’ so-called English language.

And, in spite of myself, I had instantly fallen in love.

I adored every aspect of the Highlands. The glens, munros, and lochs. The lush vegetation. The hillsides covered with heather and flocks of grazing sheep. The picturesque harbor village of Glenkillen. And especially the Scots. They are witty, fun loving, fiercely independent, fiery, and bold. My kind of people, I had discovered to my astonishment.

With the Scottish surname of Elliott (originally spelled Eliott and perhaps any number of other ways), I was doomed from the start. “It’s in your blood,” Vicki had said, “whether you want it or not.”

She was referring to my Highland ancestry. The Elliott clan has a crest of its own—a hand couped at the wrist holding a cutlass. And a motto: Fortiter et Recte, which means “Boldly and Rightly.” The rich history on my paternal side might have intrigued me even more, if not for the fact that I’d disowned my father and anything having to do with him. The man disappeared when I was six years old, right after my mother had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. Shortly after, he’d flown to Scotland for his father’s funeral, and that was the last we ever saw of him.

What kind of person does a thing like that? No one I want to know, that’s for sure. He’d vanished without a trace, and to say I was remotely interested in that branch of the family tree would be an overstatement.

Or so I told myself.

But the fact that I knew the crest and motto spoke volumes. To be honest, an occasional flicker of curiosity does pop into my head, but I’m not about to act on it, now or ever. As they say, you can drag a horse to water, but you can’t make her drink.

Sometimes I think Ami did this on purpose—suggested the setting to get me involved with distant relatives.

But I’ve had over thirty years to build up walls of resentment and anger, and I’m not caving to mere curiosity. I owe my loyalty to the woman who birthed me, who lost her battle for life earlier this year.

Anyway, my time in Scotland has flown. I haven’t had a free moment to do any family research, even if I wanted to, what with writing Falling for You, book one in the Scottish Highlands Desire series; turning it in; and working on finishing the first draft of Hooked on You, book two.

Then there was the unexpected volunteer work.

This unusual opportunity had arisen out of the blue. Detective Inspector Kevin Jamieson had approached me with an offer to replace his special constable, Sean Stevens, who had been accepted into the Scottish Police College in Fife and had taken off for training in September, leaving Jamieson forced to find another.

“It would appear,” the inspector had said, “that I’m required tae have a volunteer special constable at all times, whether it agrees with me or not.”

“But I’m leaving in December,” I’d pointed out.

“Aye, we can cross that bridge when it’s upon us. Fer now, ye’re the likeliest tae get along with. At least in my mind.”

I’d agreed. The inspector and I were very much alike. Both of us are introverts. Neither of us is shy, but we need more personal space than some people do. He and I tend to work best alone and are more comfortable touching base occasionally rather than investigating while joined at the hip. Most importantly, we respect each other. I consider him shrewd, intelligent, tough, but sensitive when he needs to be. We are even both left-handed, if that means anything significant, which I suppose it doesn’t.

I’d accepted his offer without much thought as to the ramifications of the position as special constable. It was hard for me to believe that a country (or rather the entire United Kingdom) would allow untrained volunteers to run riot on the streets—wearing police uniforms (I’d been given a waiver on that requirement) and wielding all the power of real cops. I even carry pepper spray, which is considered illegal contraband, its possession a serious offense.

Unless one has a police warrant card.

Which I have.

I keep it close at all times.

It’s been interesting, mixing fictional romance stories with real-life crime drama.

Not that there’s been any police-type work in the village since the snow began to fly. Not even so much as a missing pet or a wayward teenager to track down and drag home. With the blanket of snow had come a perceptible quiet. It was a fine time to bake a batch of cookies, read a good book, or, in my case, write one.

I’ve enjoyed myself thoroughly, whether hiding away in one of the warrens at the Kilt & Thistle Pub in the center of the village. Or raising a dram or two there with Leith. Or stocking up on shortbreads from A Taste of Scotland. Or discussing a case with Inspector Jamieson. Or just walking the cobblestone streets of Glenkillen. I’ve savored every moment.

But in exactly two weeks, right before Christmas, the most magical time of the year to spend with friends and family, this will all come to an end. Vicki will drive me to Inverness. From there I’ll take a short flight to London and make a connection at Heathrow, leaving behind this amazing world I’ve discovered, to return to the drabness and loneliness of my old life.

At thirty-eight years old, I find myself virtually family-less with the loss of my mother. And as to friends? Well, other than Ami Pederson in Chicago, my friends are here in Scotland. A controlling husband, now thankfully an ex-husband, tends to put quite a damper on establishing and maintaining friendships. And after I’d extricated myself from that toxic relationship, I’d focused on caring for my mother up until her death, at which time I gave up the apartment I’d shared with her in those final days.

Vicki had suggested a simple solution. Why not fly back to the States every six months, then turn around and come back? Simple, maybe, but with the exorbitant cost of airline tickets, that idea wasn’t feasible. Ami had subsidized this trip and I really needed to pay her back with future royalties. Besides, the nomadic life isn’t for me. I need someplace to call home, even if it means establishing new roots in Chicago. Which, unfortunately, it does.

Vicki and I sat next to each other on a connecting flight out of London into Scotland when I first arrived and became fast friends when she offered me the use of the cottage on her property. We’ve already had a cry or two over what would soon be our mutual loss. But tears weren’t going to alter reality. Laws and regulations are too powerful to challenge. Time is against me. I have to go.

“How is Kirstine feeling?” I asked, putting my own problems aside, sure that I’d revisit them soon enough. “Is she any better?”

“Still in bed with a nasty cold,” Vicki said.

Vicki’s half sister manages the farm’s woolen shop, and Vicki teaches knitting classes as well as running a skein-of-the-month club. The shop is called Sheepish Expressions and is a favorite with tourists as well as locals, specializing in rainbow-colored skeins of yarn and exclusive Highland wools. Now, with Kirstine out of commission, my friend has taken over all aspects of the business.

If not for the snowstorm raging and the deserted main road, Vicki would be at the shop instead of sharing tea with me. I’ve seen little of her the past several days unless I stop in at Sheepish Expressions.

“Gritters will be out before too long,” Vicki said. At my blank expression, she added, “Salt trucks. You know, those big vehicles that spit salt out of the back ends.”

Oh.

My friend giggled, grinning from ear to ear. She loves to see me perplexed by the little idiosyncrasies and foreign terminology I encounter. Vicki has an advantage over me. She lived in California most of her life, but she’s Scot born and spent summers in the Highlands before deciding to move back here permanently in her forties. So she’s been a great interpreter.

But I suspect most of her current delight, what is really causing her lightheartedness, has to do with Sean Stevens, the special constable I replaced and my friend’s significant other.

He was scheduled to return later tonight from police college, his initial classroom coursework completed. Monday he would begin the next part of his training—following in the footsteps of a certain unwilling but resigned inspector.

“Well, I best get back to the shop,” Vicki said, rising and going about the task of wrapping up—boots, wool coat, scarf, mittens, and beanie hat, which she tied under her chin. “It’s unlikely that anyone will brave this weather. No one can possibly expect the shop to be open, but there’s plenty of other work to be done.”

I watched her pushing her way through the newly fallen wet snow with a Westie under each arm, since their short legs never would have made it through without her assistance.

My phone rang, turning my attention away from the winter wonderland outside my window.

“How ye be managin’ out there?” came the inspector’s voice. “Are ye good and buried?”

“Yes, but perfectly fine with that, thanks to a bin full of firewood and a shopping trip for supplies earlier. Vicki knows how to prepare.”

“She’s one o’ us, and we know how tae manage in adversity,” he said with a chuckle. “There haven’t been any major tailbacks, thanks tae the gritters that have been treating the roads. And don’t ye worry, it’ll be over in plenty o’ time fer yer big event tomorrow evening.”

“So the gossipmongers are hard at work.” Keeping anything quiet in Glenkillen was impossible. News spread almost before it happened.

“It’s out and aboot that ye were invited.”

“I have been wondering if it will have to be canceled.”

“Fer a few snowflakes? Hardly. What are ye intending tae wear?”

That was an odd question, especially coming from this particular man. Since when does he care about my attire? Since when did he even notice? Oh, wait, he was up to something, judging by the teasing tone. “Don’t even think it,” I shot back. “I’m not wearing a police uniform.”

That was worth another chuckle. “Ye’re on tae me as usual.”

“You’re an easy read,” I quipped, although that was far from the truth. Most of the time, he was completely unreadable. I suspected that the term “close to the chest” was coined after him.

“No drink drivin’,” he went on. “And no stirrin’ up trouble. Ye have an image tae uphold, Constable Elliott.”

“I promise to be on my best behavior,” I said, disconnecting soon after.

Inspector Jamieson’s personal life was an enigma to me. In some ways, I understood him. In others, he eluded me. In spite of time spent together sampling local fare and talking shop, I never felt that I had him completely pegged. Perhaps that was because of his skill in circumventing any mention of his life outside work.

All I knew for certain was that he was in his fifties, that his wife had died of cancer some years ago, that he’d never remarried nor did he have any interest in the advances of the local women, and that he lived at some remote hunting lodge away from the village.

I added a few more logs to the stove, after feeling a bit of a chill in the air, and used the fire iron to arrange the wood for best results. Then I sat down and picked up my knitting.

I’d only recently learned to knit and had insisted (against Vicki’s better advice to start with a simple scarf) on beginning this new adventure with December’s skein-of-the-month club kit, which consisted of the appropriate yarn and a pattern that Vicki had named Merry Mittens. Some of the members had already whipped out their mittens and were wearing them, while I’d barely begun the first mitten, thanks to the confusing abbreviations associated with the pattern as well as my fumbling fingers. But I loved the color combination—apple green, lime, and sunshine yellow.

At this rate, though, I’d finish by next December, but I was determined. I also lived in terror of dropping my first stitch. Because once that happened, the mittens were sure to be doomed.

Soon after, my phone rang again. This time it was Leith Cameron. After several comments back and forth about the storm and a few minutes spent on arrangements to pick me up tomorrow night, he said, “I’m looking forward tae the event.”

“So am I.”

“This special tasting is as exclusive as the Glenkillen Distillery’s fine whiskies. Bridie Dougal doesn’t invite just anybody tae her private gatherings, ye know?”

“I’m appropriately honored.”

From what I’d heard through the pub’s active rumor mill via Vicki, Bridie Dougal was a crusty old woman who’d run the family distillery with a firm hand after the death of her husband, finally turning it over to her son in the last year when her advanced age began to slow her down. These days, she was rarely seen in public but still had managed to arrange this special night of tasting, thanks to her personal companion, Henrietta McCloud.

When the invitation had arrived, I wasn’t at all surprised to discover that Leith’s name had been included on the exclusive guest list. The barley he grows on his farm next to the MacBrides’ is used for the production of the popular Scotch whisky produced at this particular local distillery. Not only that, his family had been key suppliers for generations.

So I was taken aback when he went on to say, “I’m still wondering how ye managed tae get invited. How do ye know Bridie Dougal?”

“I don’t understand,” I said, after a moment’s pause. “I don’t know her at all. You invited me.”

“I would have fer certain, if I’d been the one doin’ the inviting.”

We ended up comparing them. I read mine: “Leith Cameron requests the pleasure of your company at a special winter whisky tasting . . .”

“Ye’re not foolin’ with a poor Scot, are ye?” he teased.

“No. What does yours say?”

“Eden Elliott requests the pleasure of your company at a special winter whisky tasting on Saturday evening, December 8, at 7:00 pm . . .”

“But I sent a note to you accepting,” I sputtered, while my mind raced to figure out how this happened. “Didn’t you get it?”

“Sure, I did. I thought it was a wee bit strange, but ye’re from the States and they’re an odd lot.” Now I heard the amusement. He went on. “Henrietta musta been confused when she wrote them out. She’s come on pension age, not as young as she once was. Although anybody coulda made a mistake like this.”

A reasonable conclusion.

“If it was a mistake . . .” I began, feeling disappointment at the thought of missing out.

“Only a slight one,” he reassured me. “Henrietta hasn’t gone dotty. We both are invited, I’m sure o’ it.”

“We’re still on then?” I asked, hopeful.

“If ye’re game, so am I.”

“Great. I’m looking forward to my first whisky tasting.”

Besides, I wasn’t about to turn down an opportunity to get an eyeful of Leith Cameron in a kilt!