1
Beth
I know where I am. I swear. I’m not lost, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Gulping, my eyes take in the highlands stretching before me, miles and miles of fields in all shades of green, shimmering like malachite. And behind them, mighty mountains that take the breath out of me.
This is Scotland.
Clearly I’m not in California anymore. Though to be honest, Scotland has never seemed that appealing to me. It’s my father’s motherland, a man I have never met and never had the chance to.
Two weeks ago, I got a letter from his lawyer, saying that he had passed but that he had left me his cottage. That was the first time I had felt any kind of emotion towards my father, a hint of gratitude that he at least had thought of his daughter before dying. And it didn’t take long before the waterworks started going.
I know he never cared about me that much, but I still wish that prior to dying he’d given me some sign that he loved me. Just something...a pinch.
Scanning around, I shield my face towards the weather with my hand. It has started to drizzle and I let out a sigh, looking at google maps. I’ve typed in the address so the cottage should be here somewhere. I should at least be able to see, but I don’t.
Groaning, I start walking in what I think is the right direction. What I need right now is to find my dad’s cottage, make myself a cup of tea and fall asleep in front of the fireplace.
The plane ride here was a mess with crazy turbulence that made me clutch the seats and I probably looked like a ghost in the face because the stewardess kept coming over to me, asking me if I was okay.
And then there was the train ride, up and down the rolling hills and a business men sitting next to me spilled hot coffee all over his shirt. And just like an overgrown kid, he started waving his hands around, barking at the driver who couldn’t even hear him to slow thefuckdown.
The only thing that made him stop was some guy with the thickest accent I’d ever heard who snarled at him to not use that kind of a language in front of a lady.
I assume with lady that he meant me and I was curious to get a look at him, but I was too busy wiping off coffee stains from my pants and when I looked up he was gone. Now those stains are getting washed off in the rain so I suppose that’s a plus at least. Huffing and puffing to myself, I keep walking against the gust, squinting as I search for my dad’s cottage.
But I don’t see anything and I look down on my phone, only to see that the battery is dead and I clench my jaw, roaring to the wind,
“Are you kidding me?”
“Who me?” a voice says behind me and I tense. “I don’t even know ya, lass.”
Whipping around, I inhale when I stare into a pair of eyes that are as black as a starless sky, belonging to a man with a short, black beard and hair the color of ink that’s slicked back from his face. He’s dressed in a black, t-shirt that’s tight over his muscles, black bands around his wrists, combat boots and a black, leather kilt.
I gape. His appearance is provocative, seductive but I can’t focus on that right now. Right now, all I can focus on is the dagger by his side and I let out a loud shriek.
Tensing, his hand goes to the dagger as if alarmed. “What’s the matter?”
Backing away from him, I shout, “Don’t come anywhere near me. Just stay away from me!”
“Don’t be afraid...” he begins in a patient tone but I don’t stay to hear the rest, turning around and I run for the hills, praying that he doesn’t come after me. If he does then I’m dead. American girl found dead on her first day in Scotland and I can’t let that happen, speeding up, only to trip and I let out yelp, falling almost flat faced.
Looking over my shoulder, I yank at my foot but it’s stuck in some kind of thin, leather that almost looks like a collar. I yank again, but it won’t budge and my adrenal glands go into overwork when the man starts coming closer towards me.
“Aaah...” I shriek, “stand back!”
“Bloody hell, I’m trying to help ya, lass,” he sneers, picking up his dagger and I stare at him with wide eyes but then he just cuts the leather open, freeing me. Looking at me with dark, velvety eyes he says, “Fox snare.” He grins. “Common around the highlands.”
Dashing I sit up, asking, “Is it common for highlander men to carry around daggers too?”
“Aye it is. Useful for self-protection and for saving damsels in distress.”
Crossing my arms, I mutter, “I was not in distress. I just got a little surprised that’s all.”
He gives me a condescending look before asking, “Yur an American?”
Nodding I say, “Half Scottish though. On my father’s side. I’m here because he left me his house.” Peering at him, I add, “Stirling Cottage, you know it?”
“Aye I ken where it is,” he says to my surprise, helping me up. “I’ll lead ya to it.”