Page 10 of Loched in Love

A few minutes later and I’d put good money on my face being redder than a cochineal, the beetle whose shell is used to make red dyes in most parts of the world while Whitley chatters away about the castle and its guests.

I’d done extensive research on the topic during my second degree, studying how scientists could develop methods to create a molecular replica of the pigment without needing to kill the bug. And right now I feel very much like I did so long ago when trying to deliver my speech on how the beetles habitat has changed.

Scared shitless.

Only this time, I’m trying to research and compare different sediments, ones I know haven’t been ransacked with human pollution, so I can prove without a doubt that pollution is changing the migration habits of many insects, like my favorite beetle.

I just wanted to visit, take my sample, and be on my way, all while keeping my whole ass from going to jail.

But these people are nothing like my college professors.

Nerves wrack at my insides, and my palms quickly fill with sweat, my body’s response to trying to soothe itself.

After a short walk, we arrive at our destination. The parlor room is painted a cheery yellow color. The castle owner, his fiancée Aubrey, along with Whitley and Connor, the maître d’ of the castle, all sit listening as I try to explain why I trespassed in the first place.

Telling someone you trespassed onto their property to take samples of their moat water because of a strong fascination for bug life isn’t the easiest thing to do.

“So, you’re trying to save a bug?” Aubrey finally asks over her coffee mug.

So far, she’s been the one to ask any questions, and the rest of them seem content to let her do the talking.

She’s dressed the most casual of the bunch, wearing a simple sweater and leggings, while Vlad is in a shirt and vest and Connor is in a three-piece suit that looks expensive. It makes me feel strangely under dressed.

I worry at my napkin and pull it under the table to fiddle with as I nod in answer. I instantly like her, and send Whitley a warm look of thanks for giving me a rundown of who everyone is, especially when Aubrey seems genuinely intrigued instead of repulsed by the idea.

“Yeah, if I could get a sample of your culvert, it could tell me a lot about what an ideal and unpolluted habitat would look like,” I nod, and suddenly wish I had my phone to show her my notes. If I had them, maybe I wouldn’t be as nervous. “I don’t suppose anyone managed to find my phone?” I ask with a wince.

“Oh, I know where you dropped it, and could fetch it for you. If you’d want to come and show me these wee beetles you’re on about,” a gruff voice says at my back.

I turn in my chair and freeze, dropping my napkin to my lap when my gaze lands on the redheaded man standing by the door.

His blue eyes are crinkled at the edges, and the light from the nearby windows gilds the red of his hair and beard, making it look almost like fire as he moves further into the room.

He’s a few inches over six feet tall, wearing a gray t-shirt that outlines the breadth of his massive chest and a pair of jeans.

My gosh, he’s big.

My gaze fixates on the little red curls that push up from the v at the collar of his neck, and warmth spreads in my middle when our gaze clashes again.

Why does he seem oddly familiar?

“Elena was just telling us how she landed in the moat before you saved her. She was trying to take samples for her beetles,” Aubrey quickly summarizes.

“The pool boy,” I murmur, suddenly recalling how I recognize his face. He told me so last night, except this man is no boy. He looks more like a pool god.

Since I was little, I’ve shied away from most strenuous activity, only doing any when pushed by my brother after he decided to put the gym in town. I’ve always been more interested in mental pursuits, and this guy looks like he’s never missed a workout in his life.

“Lachlan Macbeth, at your service,” he says, with a nod of his long red hair.

The way he says the word service in the thick Scottish drawl he has sends shivers down my spine, and my cheeks quickly reheat for an entirely different reason.

My god, he’s beautiful.

“Not to interrupt, but you’re staying at Francesca’s inn in the village, right?” Connor asks, typing on his phone, his brows pinched.

“Yeah, I am. I’d planned on taking the early bus this morning to head to Budapest before heading on to the U.K,” I reply.

The maître d’ frowns. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The rains from last night have washed out some of the roads, making bus travel impossible.”