Chapter One

March (a few months later)

The radio newscaster’s voice held a hint of disbelief.

"...a startling event. It seems the newly discovered, priceless Rock Of Ages, which had been on display at the Edinburgh Museum of Antiquities for several months, has been stolen. Police and museum officials were reluctant to release details of their investigation for fear of alerting the robbers. The public’s patience and understanding is requested. That part of the exhibit will remain closed until the mystery is solved and Scotland’s newest, or is that the oldest symbol of Celto-Christianity is back again in safe keeping. And now for the football scores."

"I don’t understand it." Amelia was aghast as she silenced the radio with the push of one elegant finger. "Who would steal it? What right do they have? It’s unacceptable."

Megan realized her jaw had been hanging open throughout the broadcast. She now snapped it shut. "Terrible. And it was so well-guarded." She recalled the fire in the eyes of the burly guard when Amelia had innocently and unintentionally set off the alarm in the museum.

"And you were angry with me for buying that replica," stated Amelia somewhat triumphantly. "I’m very glad now that I did."

Megan accepted the wave of fatigue that now flooded over her. This was a subject she and Amelia had discussed many times. She rubbed her forehead with her fingertips and sighed. The ledgers and pile of receipts she had been studying blurred in front of her aching eyes.

Amelia became defensive. "Don’t sigh like that. I hate it. I do wish you’d return to your true self. I don’t much like the withdrawn, miserable person you’ve become. I miss the brave, cheerful girl you used to be before."

Megan cut her off. "Amelia, I love you dearly, but how many times do I have to tell you? I don’t want to discuss what happened in Glasgow. It’s deeply personal. And it’s ancient history." She paused for effect. "As for you buying the rock—we can’t be throwing money around. The holiday in Edinburgh was super and worth every penny, but how you can justify paying one hundred and twenty pounds for a replica of some relic, however beautiful! Honestly! And where is it anyway, this purchase of yours?"

"Oh, I haven’t unpacked it yet. I’m thinking where best to put it. Tell me the truth, darling, are things really that bad? So bad that I can’t buy a souvenir or two?"

Megan turned to challenge her godmother who hovered anxiously at her shoulder, and was struck as usual by Amelia’s smooth pink cheeks and beautifully tinted auburn coif. Although not related at all, Megan had always thought they could have been sisters with their hazel eyes and similar hair color—sisters twenty-five years apart.

"I’m sorry to say it is getting quite bad. We don’t have the luxury of tossing money around, not paying attention to where the money’s going." Megan rose to refill her teacup and that of Amelia. "When I became your partner last year you made it clear that part of my job would be to keep the books straight. The hotel books and your personal accounts. We’ve been fortunate with those new American tours bringing us all kinds of business. The Monk’s Hood will survive for a while yet. Please promise you’ll not make any more spontaneous purchases until we talk it over."

Amelia’s back straightened visibly. "I don’t think I like the idea of having to report to you before I buy a box of chocolates."

"That’s not what I’m getting at!"

"Or some new underwear."

At the sound of a man clearing his throat, Megan swung around and found herself glaring into a pair of intense blue eyes. Framed by long, dark lashes, they seemed out of place in the unshaven and grey face. His bone structure reminded her of a granite crag—strong and immovable without a stick or two of dynamite. She had the strangest fleeting notion that he was pleased to see her, which was nothing short of bizarre as she was positive they’d never met.

"I’m sorry," he said, the moment gone. "This seems to be a bad time. I’d like to check in. There’s nobody at the front."

Startled at being interrupted in the middle of a heated discussion, Megan’s bluntness rose of its own accord. "You look positively green. Just off the ferry?"

His shoulders sagged. "It’s that obvious?"

"Don’t mind her," said Amelia with an annoyed glare in Megan’s direction. "She’s in a bit of a mood. Normally, she’s a real treasure. Or she used to be."

"Ben Scofield." He extended his hand for Amelia to shake.

"Amelia Paddington. Pleased to meet you. Now, why don’t we just go to the front desk and get you all sorted out. And perhaps a cup of something hot, to take out the chill and settle your stomach."

Ben Scofield smiled down on her godmother and even from where she stood; Megan could feel the gratitude and genuine warmth in that smile. She wasn’t at all surprised when Amelia leaned slightly into him. Her godmother always had a soft spot for tall, dark and handsome men finding great enjoyment in pampering them, catering to them, and spending too much cash in the process.

"Are you going to be on Arran long?" Megan asked gently, hoping to undo any damage caused by her initial assessment of his appearance.

He replied carefully, "As long as I have to be."

Megan hung back while Amelia began ushering Ben Scofield out of the room.

"Please, call me Amelia. You’re not an American? We’ve had a few around this autumn and you don’t have the same accent."

Ben sidestepped the question. "The sea was incredibly choppy today."

"Let’s hope it settles a bit before my new chef arrives this afternoon," Amelia continued. "Meanwhile, I’ll have some tea sent up for you. And you’re not Australian or South African?"

"No, ma’am. Now, please may I have my key?" he asked in a bemused tone. "I need to wash up. Thank you."

His footsteps echoed down the short hallway and up the stairs. Megan slumped back into her chair. The whole interchange between herself and the newest guest had started on the wrong foot. But he had taken her by surprise, sticking his head in like he had. Oh, well, she really didn’t have time to waste worrying, and she decided she’d had enough of numbers for a while. She tidied Amelia’s receipts and slipped them into the desk drawer. She should get back to writing her article for Tours and Travels. The deadline was fast approaching and as it was her very first assignment for the London magazine, she didn’t wish to appear incompetent. Being competent brought her satisfaction. At least that hadn’t changed over the years.

As she sharpened her pencil in the electric sharpener, to be ready for the next time she needed it, her memory of her doomed seven-year relationship, with its belittling, controlling attitudes forced its way to the fore. Megan could still hear the hurtful phrases about her being "pityingly provincial and over-careful", "too set in her ways to enjoy the world", "a goody-goody." The words had grown over time into razor-sharp barbs designed to slice through her self-esteem and to prod her into many arguments.

Despite everything, she’d believed herself in love, until the ultimate betrayal forced her to face the truth. An emotional wreck, she’d gathered enough strength to pack up her belongings, sell the flat in Glasgow which she’d never truly liked, and move to her home on Arran.

She realized it had been almost one year ago that she’d received the timely offer from Amelia to be her partner. Coming back to Whiting Bay had proven good medicine. And Megan had been much too busy settling into the hotel business to fret overlong. The damage to her personality however, as Amelia had reminded her again today, seemed insurmountable, and she didn’t know what to do about it.

Shaking off her sadness and slipping on her anorak, Megan left through the back door of The Monk’s Hood and headed up the road to her cottage. She never tired of the walk. She loved the way her home, whitewashed and grey roofed, surrounded by a low brick wall, perched on the sloping hillside above Whiting Bay. And could there possibly be a better view anywhere in the world than the one from her gate? The curving shore, distant hills, the expanse of the powerful sea, and looming omniscient—the Holy Isle—blue, grey, green, mysterious. She would never leave Arran again. Never!

But today she frowned as she opened her front door. Amelia had generously given her the down payment on the cottage in lieu of a thirtieth birthday gift. Since then, not a day had gone by without Megan being silently thankful for Amelia’s generosity. Despising her hypocrisy, Megan vowed to find exactly the right way to help Amelia curtail her spending.

A few minutes later, Megan sat in front of her computer, putting the finishing touches on the pages she had written earlier about ancient holy treasures.

She hoped her work flowed and showed style. She was pleased she had taken her time, collecting all the facts, double checking the information. The trip to the museum in Edinburgh had proven invaluable, providing much-needed pictures and background on the artifacts in her article. It was mind-boggling to think of how long people had lived in Scotland and in particular on Arran. The archeological evidence of forgotten wealth dazzled her. And Amelia had been so taken with the recently unearthed Rock Of Ages, she’d had to spend a hundred and twenty pounds on silver and gold plated copy. Megan reached into her envelope of slides, chose the one she wanted and held it up to the light—The Rock Of Ages nestled on a bed of purple velvet. The orb was beautiful and she could almost understand why someone would steal it and why Amelia could be justified in wanting a copy. But a hundred and twenty pounds?

Megan scrolled to the beginning of her article once more in order to search for errors she may have overlooked previously. Just as she raised her index finger with a flourish to press "save", the computer monitor started to fizzle and zap! Gone! Panic seized her but she willed herself to take a deep breath. Large white letters appeared on the black screen. ‘READ/WRITE ERROR’. Talking gently to herself as if she were some terrified child, she turned off the hard drive and then flicked it on again. She prayed that whatever had happened would only be a minor glitch that her article would miraculously reappear. The next message of ‘CANNOT READ BOOT SECTOR’ made her scalp sweat.

There was only one thing to do. Find Gordon Aird! She reached for the old black telephone and dialed his number. The answering machine clicked in after only two rings. Of course, Gordon wouldn’t be home. She remembered he always took a walk just before noon. But where? There were so many places he could go! Think rationally, she urged herself; he’s never missed his midday pint.

Back down the road she went, nodding marginally friendly greetings to her neighbors, avoiding all attempts at conversation, keeping her head down. She hated being distant. But she simply didn’t feel like chitchatting. What a day this was turning out to be! This complication with the computer, the unprofessional comment regarding Ben Scofield’s face, Amelia’s insane compulsion to throw money away.

She bumped suddenly against a man’s muscular arm.

"I’m sorry," he said. "Oh, it’s you. Hello again."

Ben Scofield stood before her, apologizing for the minor collision that was obviously her fault. Megan found herself drawn to his rugged good looks. She hated that cliché but couldn’t think of another more suitable phrase. His dark brown hair was combed back—freshly shampooed. His cheeks were newly shaved. His lips curved in the hint of a small smile and readied to widen with the least provocation. He smelled of soap and a tantalizing aftershave.

She started to mutter her excuses for her words in Amelia’s office and ended with, "We go out of our way to be hospitable to our visitors. If there’s anything I can do...?"

"Okay then," he said with a teasing glint in those superb eyes. "If you want to make amends, could you please tell me where I can find a house to rent? Or better yet, take me to see some available real estate."

"Not at the moment."

His face fell. "That’s fine. Sorry to have bothered you." And he strode off, up the hill, past Megan’s cottage, towards Kildonan.

Exasperated, Megan bit down on her bottom lip. No doubt, after two chance meetings during which she was snippy and distant, he thought her rude and bad-tempered. But he could have waited to hear her explanation. That she was preoccupied temporarily with computer troubles. She hadn’t said she wouldn’t help him. She just couldn’t at that moment. He shouldn’t be so impatient and quick to judge.

She stomped towards The Monk’s Hood, more unreasonably angry with herself than she could ever recall. She had to agree with Amelia. The old Megan had been a much better person.

***

Amelia met her in the hotel foyer.

"Did you see Ben? He just left," she said, gently. "I think you came across a bit heavy-handed earlier, darling."

Megan muttered under her breath. "Well, it’s a good job you weren’t witness to our meeting two minutes ago." She opened the study door and picked up a calendar from the desk. "Didn’t you say that new chef was arriving today?"

"Francois should be arriving on the two o’clock ferry." Amelia grabbed her hands in excitement. "I can’t wait. Did I tell you he worked in Paris?"

Megan smiled indulgently. "Many times."

Amelia examined her cuticles. "Look at these nails! I need a manicure. I want to be at my best with so many handsome men descending on us."

Megan put the calendar down. "The island is loaded with handsome men. Anyway, Ben Scofield won’t be staying with us long. He’s looking for a house to rent."

Amelia threw her an exasperated look. "Honestly, Megan. You really have to try to be a bit more charming to our newest guest. It’s not his fault you’re mad at me all the time."

"I’m not!" Megan felt instantly remorseful in using a hard tone with her godmother who’d been nothing but considerate and loving. "And I don’t think I’m the reason Ben Scofield wants to rent something. He looks the type who’d want a bit of privacy." She escaped into the lounge before a reply was possible.

When she entered, she smiled at a few of the Whiting Bay locals and was ecstatic to see Gordon Aird sitting at the bar with the chief of the local constabulary, Sergeant Colin Spence. If the color red-orange could be personified, it would be in the form of Gordon Aird with his red hair and eyebrows, ruddy complexion, red tartan cap and scarf.

Beside him, fine-boned and grey-haired Colin looked positively pale and wraithlike. But Megan knew his exterior to be deceiving. Sergeant Spence had an iron constitution and a mind like a steel trap. She nodded a welcome at Colin and leaned close to Gordon.

"Can you please go round later and have a look at my computer? The house is open. I’ve got a deadline and I’m probably going to have to work all night." She explained what had happened.

"Sure thing, lass," he said, beaming with pleasure when she finished. "I’m glad somebody appreciates the true genius of a retired schoolteacher."

"Oh, go on." She nudged him playfully. "There’s nobody understands modern technology like you. You know fine most people with computers on this island would be lost without you even though you’ve only been here a few weeks."

Gordon nodded. "I’ll go right after I finish this pint."

"The pint’s on me," she said. "Just a wee thank you."

***

At the prescribed hour, Megan parked as close to the dock at Brodick as she could. Realizing she had no idea what the new chef looked like, she hurriedly searched the back seat of the car for her large notebook. She tore out a page and wrote ‘Francois’ in big, bold letters, and made her way to join the crowd waiting for the ferry.

Before long, a man carrying only a small suitcase, pointed at the sign.

"I’m Francois Armand. Who are you?"

"Megan Cameron. Amelia’s partner."

She waved her hand in the direction of the Volvo and glared at the bunch of giggling girls who had followed a grinning Francois off the ferry. His long, blonde hair had been securely tied into a ponytail. A diamond stud glittered from one earlobe. Of slight build and medium height, his most redeeming features, as far as Megan was concerned, lay in his youthful face and deep brown eyes. She figured him to be in his late twenties and prayed he could cook. It would have been just like Amelia to hire him strictly on his appearance. Megan wished she hadn’t been on the mainland during his interview on Arran.

"It’s very kind of you to meet me," Francois was saying as they got in the car. "Most places I’ve been I’ve had to find the hotel on my own."

"Arran’s not that big. I’m sure you would’ve found it easily enough." She put on her most hospitable smile. There would be no accusations of rudeness this time.

He grinned again, his whole face crinkling in the process. "It’s still very kind of you."

She pulled away from the curb and headed the car out of Brodick. Francois asked her a great many questions during the short drive to The Monk’s Hood. Megan found his interest in the island endearing and tried her best to answer him fully. But she had questions of her own. Such as could a highly-respected chef, used to the glamour and fast pace of Paris be this excited about living on a small Scottish island?

"I’m so happy to be here," he said, as if sensing her unease.

"We’ll see how happy you are after the first dinner shift," she answered, still smiling.

"Oh, I think I can rustle up a pretty mean fish and chips or pie with peas as required." The dark eyes fairly danced in his crinkle-grin face. "But seriously, I hope to be able to try some of my own unique dishes. I’ve been told my Salmon Wellington is quite good. And if you like desserts, my speciality is chocolate torte."

Megan swallowed the saliva gathering in her mouth. "Were you born in Paris?"

"Mon dieu, non," he said, lapsing into a limping English. "I come from Mon’real but ‘ave spent ah lot of time in Toronto, New York. So, I ‘ave no accent." And he let loose with a long string of sensual-sounding phrases.

Megan laughed as she brought the Volvo to a halt in the parking lot. She was beginning to understand why the girls had been trailing him at the dock. He could be very good for business—with or without his fake accent. And, she decided, he certainly was charming, easy to get along with and funny.

Ben Scofield’s deep blue eyes and determined jaw slid unbidden into her mind. Was he charming and funny? Did it matter that she likely wouldn’t find out? One thing she knew, he would tower like some dark mountain over the delicate young man getting out of her car.

"Wow! What a view!" Francois exclaimed, alternately taking deep breaths and gushing with admiration for the scenery as well as for The Monk’s Hood. Megan understood. She always enjoyed returning to The Monk’s Hood. The two-storied stone structure with its green shutters and trim, ivy coated walls and curved heavy oak door gave the impression of solidity and warm comfort. Francois appreciation continued as they walked through the lobby. He stopped at every painting or old framed photograph. His eyes bulged in childlike wonder at the two medieval tapestries behind the reception desk. And he ran his fingers almost lovingly along the dark wainscoting as Megan proudly led him into Amelia’s pink and cream office with its Moroccan carpet and antique furniture.

Amelia stood by the window. Megan noticed she had donned her best navy dress and had draped around her neck the double strand of pearls given to her by her late husband. Megan also noticed a fleeting yet uncharacteristic look of strained control on her godmother’s face and a nervous tremor in the naturally soft voice.

"Welcome, Francois," Amelia said, indicating for him to have a seat on the couch. She turned to Megan. "Gordon phoned. He wants you up at your house—immediately!"

"Oh, no!" wailed Megan. She wanted to stay, to find out why Amelia was so tense, and to see how her godmother would relax in Francois’ company as she herself had done. "I hope there’s nothing too seriously wrong with my computer. You’ll have to excuse me, Francois. I must run. See you later."

Francois rose from the couch with fluid grace and reached for her fingers. "Enchanté. Until we meet again." He brought his lips lightly down onto the back of her hand before returning to his seat.

Megan glanced at her godmother but Amelia’s guarded expression was fixed on Francois. Unable to think of a reason for this unusual and reserved behavior, Megan bid them both a quiet goodbye and left.

***

Megan paused at her gate to gaze at the Holy Isle before heading into the house. Her mind whirled around the Rock Of Ages and how it was proven to have a center of granite found on that mysterious island. She was mulling over the potential history that must encircle such an object when she walked into her kitchen. Her greeting of Gordon died mid-sentence for although he sat in front of the computer, he was not alone. Ben Scofield leaned over his shoulder, pointing at the screen.

"What are you doing here?" she asked without thinking.

"Ah, Miss Cameron," Ben replied, stranding tall. "Good to see you again."

Gordon Aird came to his defense. "Now, don’t get upset, lass. We met on the road and had a bit of a talk. Thought I’d make him welcome by asking him to come with me here. I swear I kept a sharp lookout that he didn’t steal the silverware. Turns out he’s a computer genius. I figured maybe we could learn something from each other."

"Yes, maybe you could." Ben laughed and the deep rumble trapped itself in her brain—that and the way he filled her cottage with his presence and his voice.

His intense scrutiny unexpectedly pleased and yet annoyed her. It was as though he was appraising her, accepting and then rejecting her; drawing her in and yet pushing her away at the same time. She dismissed this idea as nonsense. She hesitated because was afraid of what Gordon might have to tell her.

"There’s no need to be scared, lass," Gordon said. "Come over here and see. I...we’ve managed to retrieve your article. As much as was saved in your timed back up. There might be some missing. Would you like me to explain how we did it?"

Megan came to stand behind Gordon. "Perhaps another day. I don’t know how to thank you. Both of you."

Gordon stood up and knotted his red scarf tightly around his neck. "My work here is done for today. Ben knows a ton of stuff about the Internet. You should consider getting hooked up. It’s not that expensive and you could do a lot of research from the comfort of your own home. He’s willing to stay and talk to you about it."

Megan felt herself blush. She wasn’t at all sure she would be able to speak to him without putting her foot in her mouth—again!

"I’m sure Ben has a lot to do."

"Nothing that can’t wait," Ben replied. "It won’t take much of your time. Gordon says you’ve got some kind of deadline."

Gordon Aird was halfway out the door. "Aye, she has a deadline. So don’t you be turning her head too much. And Megan, I’ll enjoy that pint you promised me later. Bye." And with that he left.

"If you were on-line," Ben informed her, "you could send your article off to your publisher within minutes of finishing it. No trip to the post-office, no postage costs, no mail delays."

She held up her hands. "Stop! You don’t happen to work for one of those server companies, do you?"

"Nothing that normal. Sit down and we’ll make sure your article is intact."

Megan slid into the chair. Ben crouched by her side as he waited for her to check through her article.

"I’d really prefer if you didn’t read over my shoulder," she said, careful not to sound rude.

He pulled away and sat almost facing her on the chair next to her desk. This made Megan even more uncomfortable.

"Fascinating title," he said. "You must’ve done loads of research. We modern people really have no appreciation for the wealth and technological status of the ancient world. We figure we invented everything in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries."

Not sure she wanted to witness him assessing her again, she intentionally remained focused on the screen. "Why are you on Arran? Business or pleasure?"

"I’ve never been here before," he answered, neatly sidestepping yet another pointed question. "Sure is lovely. It’s been a while since I have been so attracted to ... to a new place. Is your work in one piece?"

"Looks pretty much all there. Thanks to Gordon and you."

Despite her attempts to remain glued to her article, her eyes gravitated towards his. There was no animosity, no sarcasm in his expression. Only friendly curiosity and honest interest. She had the insane thought that he somehow knew more about her than she did about him. When his mouth curved invitingly, her thoughts skittered to what it would feel like to kiss him. A ridiculous rebound reaction, she thought. I’m getting pathetic.

"About finding a house to rent," he said, his eyes holding hers with a slight twinkle. "Are there any nearby that are reasonably priced and not too big? There’s only me."

"I know of one or two that are on the smaller side." Now that she’d made eye contact she found it hard to stop. "Actually, there’s my parents’ cottage at Lochranza. They’re away. I’m sure we could work out a reasonable rate."

He leaned closer. "Lochranza! That’s on the north of the island, isn’t it? There’s a castle and a ferry landing, if I remember the travel brochures correctly."

Megan’s pulse quickened at the way in which he drew his long fingers across his mouth as he thought out loud. And her heart, much to her amazement, started pounding in her breast, when he asked, "Will you take me to see it? It might be the perfect place for me."

She gulped. "Certainly. And, just to be sure, I’ll find out about the other houses. It’s the least I can do to repay you."

"What? I don’t get a free drink?" He pretended to be hurt but his blue eyes sparkled with humour.

At her chuckle, the lightness in his eyes was replaced by what Megan could only describe as a smouldering approval, another cliché she’d despised—until that moment. Now, it sent arrows of heat deep inside her. When, she asked herself, had she experienced anything remotely as powerful as this reaction to a stranger? The room spun, but then she blinked and he was once more the same granite-faced man she’d first encountered in Amelia’s office.

"I’d better get going," he said, rising abruptly and throwing his jacket over his shoulder.

Unable to think of what else to do, and worried that she had somehow offended him again; she followed him to the door and opened it. From habit, she held out her hand and said in parting, "Thank you again. Have a nice evening."

His fingers as they wrapped around her own were warm and strong.

"That’s a good article," he said. "You did an excellent job."

Shocked, the newfound warmth instantly chilling beneath the layers of her insecurities, she withdrew her hand. "You read it? Don’t you know writers hate other people reading their unpublished work without permission?"

"You’ll just have to accept my apology," he stated flatly. "It was right under my nose. Goodbye. No doubt I’ll see you later at the hotel."

Megan watched as Ben made his way to The Monk’s Hood, nodding at anyone he chanced to meet. Did they, she wondered, feel his ripples of power as she did?

Ben Scofield, she rationalized, was an attractive man. But she’d had enough of attractive men, and had barely survived the Glasgow encounter. She wasn’t in the market for another, thank you very much! But Ben’s beautifully shaped hand as it had slipped into hers—.

She shook her head. She seemed to be sensitive to romantic drivel lately. And life, she knew only too well, was far from romantic.