Chapter One
Lucy groaned as the carriage hit another rut in the road. A carriage—the old man at the train station had called it a brougham—with a horse. She’d never seen one, much less been in one, before today. She also hadn’t truly been away from home before either, but this trip to Scotland to visit Aileen had been one new experience after another from the moment she stepped off the airplane. This unconventional road trip at two in the morning to get to her friend’s family home was just another one of them.
“American?”
Startled by the deep voice echoing to her in the small, cold space, she glanced away from the window and into the depths of the carriage where the moon’s glow couldn’t reach.
The man sitting across from her was hidden by the heavy shadows. Two hours ago, when she’d stepped up into the coach at the station in Crianlarich, he had already been on board with the lamp doused. He hadn’t responded to her small-voiced hello or the few attempts she’d made at friendly conversation. In fact, he hadn’t said a word in the two hours they’d been travelling together. Until now.
“I’m sorry?”
“Ye’re an American?”
“Ah, no.” She shook her head. “Canadian.”
“I suppose that would explain the subtle distinction in the accent.”
The distinction would have been a lot more obvious if she still spoke with her Maritimes accent, but fifteen years in Ontario had mostly taken care of that. She wanted to say that her accent was nothing compared to his thick Scottish brogue, but of course, that would have been ignorant so she kept her mouth shut.
Lucy suddenly wished she had the guts to turn on the overhead lamp and flood the vehicle with reassuring light, but she rarely had the guts to do anything—this impulsive trip being her one exception. Besides, something about the stranger’s deep voice stilled her hand. She had the ridiculously morbid thought that if she gazed upon his face she might not live through the night.
“I’m Lucy Cavanaugh.” Believing herself very brave indeed, she extended her hand in the space between their seats. “What’s your name?”
She was certain he was going to go back to giving her the silent treatment, but he finally answered, although he didn’t lean forward to shake her hand. “Dougald Merrick.”
“Um, nice to meet you,” she muttered, dropping her arm after an awkward pause.
“What brings you so far from home all by yerself, Lucy?”
Wary about revealing her destination to a stranger, Lucy hesitated. She was probably overreacting by imagining that she’d unwittingly climbed into a four-wheeled version of the boat of Charon with a serial killer, but she nevertheless felt intimidated by this man’s overwhelming dark presence. In fact, everything about this trip made her nervous, and even though she was no doubt perfectly safe, it was probably best that she didn’t tell him too much.
“Just visiting some friends.” She stared into the shadows, her voice turning sharp and guarded. “They’re expecting me tonight.”
Dougald chuckled, a deep bass rumbling from the darkness, raising goose bumps on her skin half from jitters and half out of an absurd compulsion to lean forward and search the shadows for the face that belonged to such a mysterious, powerful voice. She tried to ignore the impulse, torn between the contradiction of fear and temptation.
“Dinna worry, lass,” he said. “I have no intention of draggin’ ye from the carriage and out into the woods. Ye’ll reach yer friends safely.”
Lucy let out a long sigh and a breathy little laugh, embarrassed that she’d been so transparent about her misgivings. “Sorry. I know I’m overreacting. I think it’s the time of night.” She spared another quick glance out the window. The darkness was so complete she shivered.
“Witching hour of the winter solstice,” he murmured in a low voice.
She turned back to him. “That sounds ominous.”
“Many cultures
Lucy groaned as the carriage hit another rut in the road. A carriage—the old man at the train station had called it a brougham—with a horse. She’d never seen one, much less been in one, before today. She also hadn’t truly been away from home before either, but this trip to Scotland to visit Aileen had been one new experience after another from the moment she stepped off the airplane. This unconventional road trip at two in the morning to get to her friend’s family home was just another one of them.
“American?”
Startled by the deep voice echoing to her in the small, cold space, she glanced away from the window and into the depths of the carriage where the moon’s glow couldn’t reach.
The man sitting across from her was hidden by the heavy shadows. Two hours ago, when she’d stepped up into the coach at the station in Crianlarich, he had already been on board with the lamp doused. He hadn’t responded to her small-voiced hello or the few attempts she’d made at friendly conversation. In fact, he hadn’t said a word in the two hours they’d been travelling together. Until now.
“I’m sorry?”
“Ye’re an American?”
“Ah, no.” She shook her head. “Canadian.”
“I suppose that would explain the subtle distinction in the accent.”
The distinction would have been a lot more obvious if she still spoke with her Maritimes accent, but fifteen years in Ontario had mostly taken care of that. She wanted to say that her accent was nothing compared to his thick Scottish brogue, but of course, that would have been ignorant so she kept her mouth shut.
Lucy suddenly wished she had the guts to turn on the overhead lamp and flood the vehicle with reassuring light, but she rarely had the guts to do anything—this impulsive trip being her one exception. Besides, something about the stranger’s deep voice stilled her hand. She had the ridiculously morbid thought that if she gazed upon his face she might not live through the night.
“I’m Lucy Cavanaugh.” Believing herself very brave indeed, she extended her hand in the space between their seats. “What’s your name?”
She was certain he was going to go back to giving her the silent treatment, but he finally answered, although he didn’t lean forward to shake her hand. “Dougald Merrick.”
“Um, nice to meet you,” she muttered, dropping her arm after an awkward pause.
“What brings you so far from home all by yerself, Lucy?”
Wary about revealing her destination to a stranger, Lucy hesitated. She was probably overreacting by imagining that she’d unwittingly climbed into a four-wheeled version of the boat of Charon with a serial killer, but she nevertheless felt intimidated by this man’s overwhelming dark presence. In fact, everything about this trip made her nervous, and even though she was no doubt perfectly safe, it was probably best that she didn’t tell him too much.
“Just visiting some friends.” She stared into the shadows, her voice turning sharp and guarded. “They’re expecting me tonight.”
Dougald chuckled, a deep bass rumbling from the darkness, raising goose bumps on her skin half from jitters and half out of an absurd compulsion to lean forward and search the shadows for the face that belonged to such a mysterious, powerful voice. She tried to ignore the impulse, torn between the contradiction of fear and temptation.
“Dinna worry, lass,” he said. “I have no intention of draggin’ ye from the carriage and out into the woods. Ye’ll reach yer friends safely.”
Lucy let out a long sigh and a breathy little laugh, embarrassed that she’d been so transparent about her misgivings. “Sorry. I know I’m overreacting. I think it’s the time of night.” She spared another quick glance out the window. The darkness was so complete she shivered.
“Witching hour of the winter solstice,” he murmured in a low voice.
She turned back to him. “That sounds ominous.”
“Many cultures
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