Page 5 of Wild Scottish Love
Kitchen Witch. The words sent a shiver across my skin, and excitement bloomed inside me like dough rising. I smiled at my father.
“If that’s the case, maybe some of her magick passed through to me.”
“I don’t doubt it. I don’t know why I haven’t thought much of this before, but it makes sense. You’re magic in the kitchen.”
“I love you, Dad.” He’d always been my biggest supporter, well both my parents had, and his quiet pride in my accomplishments had propelled me to take risks. “Do you really think I should go to Scotland?” I still couldn’t quite wrap my head around the fact that my family might already have a connection with this same castle in Scotland. It almost seemed like this might be meant to be.
“Only if you want to do this. But if you do, I wouldn’t recommend you be walking in there questioning everyone in that town, either. Watch. Listen. Learn. You may be surprised.”
“Dad…are you honestly saying that you believe in…what? Magick? Witches?” While the idea of Kitchen Witches existing appealed to me, I had a hard time believing it was real.
“Of course I do. There’s more to this world than we know. Remember, our roots run deep in Scotland. Many of these stories that seem like fairy tales to you spring from kernels of truth. I want to prepare you, but not scare you, if you get what I’m saying.”
“This might be one of the strangest conversations we’ve ever had.” I shook my head at him, though my interest was piqued. “Magick. Legends. Myths. Is that really what you want me walking into?”
“I wouldn’t send you if you weren’t capable of handling yourself, you know that.” It was the quiet vote of confidence in his voice that sealed the deal for me. I wasn’t sure what to make of the mystical aspect of it all, but I had to admit, it didn’t sound boring. And even I could see that I’d gotten stuck in a bit of a rut. What better way to shake things up than to travel to a magick village in Scotland and cook at a castle? Frankly, I didn’t have any other offers on the table at the moment, and I wasn’t sure that I could handle starting at the bottom at a different restaurant in Boston. Not when Suzette’s had been an extension of my very soul. No, I needed a change.
“Mia cara.” My mom opened the door, coming out onto the porch, her hand cupped around something. “I’ve kept this for you.”
“What is it?” I put out my hand and she dropped a chain with a gold heart locket on it into my palm. Holding it up, I smiled at the thistle that was etched onto the front. Inside, she’d cut two tiny photos of the family and pasted them into both sides. I immediately understood what she was telling me.
“Family is in the heart.” My mother squeezed my shoulder before returning inside to yell at the boys.
“Looks like you’re going to my homeland.” My father reached over and tapped his beer bottle against my wine glass. “Slàinte mhath.”
CHAPTERTHREE
Munroe
“No proper lad drinks gin.”
I watched Graham, my oldest friend and the owner of a popular pub, the Tipsy Thistle, stroll to the tee. We’d stolen a morning away from work, meeting at a golf course halfway between our respective homes, and I held on to hope that the rain would hold off until we finished our round.
“My sales sheets read differently,” I said. Lachlan, manager of MacAlpine Castle, and the third in our group this morning, laughed behind me. Common Gin, the company I’d birthed in my apartment during my university days, had expanded to several locations and was becoming a hit across the UK. I had bet on gin, pivoting away from my family’s interests in whisky, mainly because gin took far less time to distill, package, and bring to market than specialty aged whisky. While it might hold less panache and prestige than an aged Macallan, gin was a festive and approachable liquor with no barriers to entry. I appreciated the lack of gatekeeping—as, unlike whisky, nobody was forced to sit through a lecture on the historical significance of a batch of gin prior to enjoying their cocktail. Maybe it made me a man of the people, or maybe I’d just done it to thumb my nose at my parents, but either way, Common Gin was now one of the most profitable distilleries in Scotland.
“That’s women buying it,” Graham said. We quieted as he took his shot, and he hissed out a breath when the ball hooked and flew off the course.
“Aye, that’s the truth of it. Surely you aren’t implying that you prefer to engage in a business thatdoesn’tattract women?” I asked as I hefted my club in my hand.
“Och, he’s got you there, Graham. It’s not like you’ve opened a pub just to blether on with your mates all day. It’s the lasses that keep it fresh for you,” Lachlan said.
“The Tipsy Thistle is an institution in Loren Brae, one which I’m honored to keep afloat even in these dire times.” Graham paused.
“And…” Lachlan prodded.
“Och, fine, I enjoy a bonnie lass here and there, don’t I then?” Graham laughed, and they fell silent as I hit my ball in a clean line down the fairway.
“I’ve never liked you,” Graham muttered when I turned, beaming.
“What’s this about dire times?” I asked, concern for my friend overtaking our banter. “Is the pub not doing well?”
“Nothing’s doing all that well in Loren Brae at the moment,” Lachlan said as he took his turn at the tee. Once more we quieted as we waited for him to take his shot, and I cast my mind back to the last time I’d been to Loren Brae. It had to have been at least five years since I’d visited, as the demands of my business had kept me in other areas of Scotland and abroad. But now, after I’d recently finished outfitting a new warehouse, I was on the hunt for new distillery locations. It was one of the reasons I’d called Lachlan and Graham to meet today. I had a mind to propose a distillery location in lovely Loren Brae, situated on the bonnie banks of Loch Mirren with MacAlpine Castle as a tourist draw. I didn’t like to just build distilleries and close them off to the people. Instead, my distilleries were destinations in their own right with tasting rooms, themed events, and cafes. The distillery in Edinburgh even housed a nightclub. I’d found that people enjoyed being part of the process when it came to buying Common Gin, and I couldn’t keep my homemade gin infusion kits in stock. My father had laughed at me, pointing out that I was losing customers by teaching them to produce their own flavoured gins, but I had learned that brand loyalty went a long way in this industry.
“What’s wrong? Is Loren Brae struggling?” I raised an eyebrow when my two friends exchanged a look but didn’t say anything. We shouldered our bags and moved onto the fairway, and I waited for them to speak. It was Lachlan who cleared his throat and finally broke the silence when we reached his ball.
“It’s the Kelpies.”
Dread filled me. The Kelpies had long been a myth that had clung to the misty shores of Loch Mirren, whispered tales of ancient water beasts working fear into the hearts of young children. Periodically, the myth surfaced through the years, casting a stain across Loren Brae that kept people away.