Page 24 of Scotlander

‘Are these the standing stones?’ Rosa clapped her hands in excitement.

‘Looks more like where you’re supposed to park.’

‘Where’s the castle?’

‘Are we going to get candles?’

‘Should we wake up Gabriel?’

‘The paramedic said he should rest.’

‘What if he misses out on something . . . like the redcoats attacking? It’d be a shame for him to die so quickly after arriving.’

‘No one’s going to attack us. This isn’t Jacobite paintball.’

Comments and questions streamed from the guests as Willa watched Finlay climb out of the jeep and come round the back to open the door for them.

One by one he offered his hand to them until, at last, it was Willa’s turn. She half expected him to about face and run away, but the opposite happened. His expression softened into a gentle smile. ‘I hope that wasn’t too bumpy a ride for you.’

‘It was fine.’ Her ass would be bruised for days. But she wasn’t going to tell him that.

Just as she began to make a show of wanting to climb down without his help, a surreal squawking noise broke through the evening hush. She grabbed his shoulder. ‘What was that?’

He grinned and put a finger to his lips. ‘Just wait.’

She froze in place, unable (unwilling?) to release her grip on Finlay’s rather impressive musculature, while she and the other guests tried to figure out what and where the sound came from. (Stockholm Syndrome, and so soon!)

And then, as if someone had retuned an enormous celestial radio, the moon appeared from behind the clouds and at last Willa identified the sound. It was bagpipes.

To her surprise, the music was beautiful. It was also loud. Physically saturating her nervous system. As she grew accustomed to the music and began to fall into the melody, she closed her eyes, allowing her cell structure to succumb to the tug of another time and place. A lifestyle that was simpler to navigate. One where life largely existed between the rising and setting of the sun. She felt stupidly drawn to it. Stupid because it was, effectively, the life she’d left behind in Oregon.

‘You alright, there?’

She opened her eyes to see Finlay sending her a questioning look. For a minute she forgot she hated him and, releasing her vice grip on his shoulder, put her hand in his extended one. As their palms touched, pure, electric heat poured through her as he helped her down from the jeep. How could it not? Everything about this moment – the moonlight, the music, the giddy freedom of not having to come up with three segments on Top Celeb Crop Tops and, of course, the divinely gorgeous (murdery) Catalogue Kilt Man – was magical.

For the first time in forever she ached for this vacation to be what it was promising: a journey to somewhere she didn’t have to check her socials every five seconds, her cell phone every three, or worry about her weight/hair/manicures, etc for the rest of the time.

With each step towards the earth, she felt closer to a place where she could simply be.

The air smelt of woodsmoke, herbs and rich, loamy earth. There was a spiky tang of mystery cloaked around them, and, despite the night sky, she could also hear the sound of birdsong echo through the air.

It really did remind her of home. But with bagpipes.

A wave of nostalgia for something she hadn’t realised she’d missed crashed into her like a truck.

Her response must’ve been physical because she felt Finlay’s hand tighten its grip on hers. Her eyes shot to his and he looked as if he was about to say something, but before he could, two large spotlights flared to life, illuminating a teenage girl playing the bagpipes. She was in full Scottish regalia. Kilt, knee-high socks, a black felt hat with a white feather standing proud, an array of brooches and criss-cross belts and an impressively furry sporran.

Willa watched the girl intently, rapt by her focus and very open pleasure at playing—

What was that song? She closed her eyes again. It was probably a hallucination, or an earthquake, but the music seemed to travel through the ground and vibrate through her feet, up her legs and into her spine, rising like mercury in a thermometer right up into her very jet-lagged brain until she knew exactly what the song was.

‘Amazing Grace’.

And how sweet it sounded. She would’ve never taken herself for a bagpipe fan, but maybe it was one of those right-place-right-time things. Only when she realised some of her fellow travellers were whispering and pointing did she take in the bigger picture.

The piper was standing in front of a huge, vegetation rich, stone ruin. She’d seen it before. In a pencilled outline on the brochure. All of which meant . . . this was Balcraigie Castle.

Pieces of a puzzle she hadn’t had time to put together over the past few days began to fall into place.