A shaky laugh escapes me as I look at him through my long lashes. “That sounds like something out of a Scottish legend. What’s next? We sail into Loch Ness under a full moon and get transported back in time?”
“Would that be such a bad thing?”
“Maybe not,” I confess, letting the warmth from his hand seep into my bones, “As long as you promise to rescue me from any medieval dragons.”
“And only if ye promise to save me from heartsick spirits,” he counters.
“Deal.” My smile lingers as I take in the vast expanse before us, and then, with courage as fresh and invigorating as Highland air, I turn back towards Cal.
“I want more lessons—everything about sailing—and this place.”
“Everything?” His eyebrow lifts teasingly even though his grip on the tiller remains steady and firm.
“Everything,” I echo, feeling the last remnants of my old self slip away with the tide.
As we continue sailing, with the wind weaving tales into my hair and the wild waters of Moray Firth beneath us, I realize that I’ve discovered more than just inspiration for my next novel. I’ve stumbled upon a legend of my own—one where the heroine learns that sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is let go of the shore and trust in the magic of new beginnings.
Chapter Fourteen
Cal’s hand guides me,feather-light against the small of my back, as we push through the pub door, which protests with an adorably creaky groan. Inside, laughter and music are already in full swing, a lively symphony of sound filling the room. The rhythmic beats of contemporary Scottish rock spill from the speakers, weaving seamlessly with cheerful banter and hearty chuckles.
As I walk deeper inside, an unexpected spectacle greets me: a merry mob of colorful neckties dangles from wooden rafters like streamers at an unplanned party. My brain races to make sense of this peculiar interior design choice. Could it be some eccentric tradition instigated by Cal’s brother, the proud pub owner?
Does he surprise his patrons by snipping off their ties as souvenirs, brandishing scissors like a fashion-conscious buccaneer? Or perhaps it’s an initiation rite unique to Aven Valley—you’re not a townie until you’ve been ‘de-tied.’ I imagine startled business people clutching their naked collars while their ties perform aerial stunts overhead, and I can’t help but suppress a giggle.
The noise level makes it impossible to ask Cal about it now. Besides, he’s too busy navigating me further into this lively labyrinth.
“Welcome to The Tipsy Trow,” he bellows over the din, his smile brimming with mischief. “Best whisky and craic in all the Highlands!”
I raise an eyebrow at him, my voice teasingly doubtful. “Are you trying to get me tipsy, Mr. MacDowell?”
His response is a cheeky grin; his bright eyes twinkle with playful intent. “Well, Amelia,” he retorts smoothly, “your cottage is just a hiccup away. So why not?”
As we navigate the sea of tables, fragments of conversations reach my ears: ghostly pipers haunting castle battlements and heated debates over clan warrior prowess. Suddenly, a booming voice slices through the clamor.
“Cal! Who’s this bonnie lass on yer arm?”
I swivel towards a burly, chestnut-and-copper-haired man sporting a beard that would make any lumberjack green with envy. It’s Cal’s brother Cameron, if I had to guess.
“This is bestselling novelist Amelia Sutherland from Canada,” Cal introduces me with flourish. “Mills, meet my brother Cam: pub owner extraordinaire and chief pot-stirrer.”
“Delighted,” I reply, extending my hand for what I expect will be a firm handshake. Instead, Cam dips into an exaggerated bow over it.
“Och! The pleasure’s all mine. A real live author in my humble pub! I must be dreamin’!” He clutches his chest dramatically, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Been a while since my last book,” I admit. “Here to soak up some inspiration.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place!” Cam assures me. “We’ve got more legends and lore than all of Scotland’s castles combined. Stick with us, lass, and you’ll have a bestseller in no time.”
“Allow me to introduce ye to the gang,” Cal interjects, steering me towards a table of ruddy-faced locals nursing their pints. “If there’s a story about these parts, they know it. Meet Mac, Moira, Hamish, and Sharon…”
I instantly recognize Hamish as the cabbie who had driven me to Brady’s from the airport and let out an involuntary snort of laughter.
“Well, look who we have here, the Canadian lass,” he beams. “I see ye’ve traded in your heels. Wise move.” As Hamish extends his hand, gripping mine in an unexpectedly firm yet tender handshake, a surge of warmth cascades through me.
My heart clenches as memories flood back—the sting of Brady’s deceit and the hollow echo of betrayal—yet Hamish’s authenticity seeps through my defenses. I hold onto the moment, allowing his genuine kindness to dissolve my lingering discomfort and remind me that not everyone is cut from the same duplicitous cloth. In this unexpected connection, I find solace and an opportunity to shift my focus toward the positive.
As more handshakes are swapped and “nice to meet ye’s” echo around me, I’m struck by the genuine warmth and camaraderie radiating from this group. These are my people. They’re raconteurs, keepers of legends and enchantment. With this spirited bunch for company, I can feel an unforgettable evening starting to take shape.
