Page 14 of A Memory Not Mine (Sanguis Amantium #1)

Chapter thirteen

Mira

I smelled wood smoke before I saw anything, felt the heat of a fire licking at the chill clinging to my skin.

My eyes were still out of focus, but shapes began to sharpen.

I was lying on a couch, and a man was crouched beside me, close—too close.

Behind him loomed a massive, shaggy gray beast of a dog, its eyes trained warily on me.

The firelight cast flickering shadows across the room, and in its glow, I could see the man’s face—he was staring at me with an intensity that hovered between amazement and confusion. Or maybe both.

Then it all came rushing back—the grave, the name on the headstone, the feeling of my fingers as I touched the inscription. And the darkness that swallowed me whole.

“Where am I? Who are you?” I sat up abruptly, the words spilling from my mouth like an accusation. My head whipped left, then right, as I tried to make sense of where I was.

“You are in my cottage,” the man stated, still at my side, his voice low and harsh.

The room was spare but comfortable—slate floors, thick stone walls, and heavy wood beams overhead.

The cottage was clearly old, but someone had taken care to modernize it just enough.

In one corner sat a tidy kitchen with an old Aga range and a deep porcelain farm sink beneath a window with a yellow casing, soft light cast from a single bulb suspended above it, the wiring exposed in neatly run metal conduit tracing the ceiling.

A small wooden dining table stood in the center of the room, and near the fireplace—where the low flames crackled softly—a couch, the one I had somehow ended up on.

Two well-worn upholstered chairs flanked a large hooked rug, their presence lending warmth to the otherwise utilitarian space.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Not again…” I muttered to myself, the frustration sharp in my voice as the reality sank in—there’d been a witness to my latest blackout.

My eyes darted toward the man still crouched near the fireplace, and a wave of mortification rose up.

This had to be the stone cottage I’d seen earlier, the one perched just above the point—the cheerful yellow door and window frames now a strange contrast to the awkwardness of the moment.

I caught the briefest flicker of wonder on the man’s face before it vanished, replaced by a hard-edged seriousness.

“I saw someone walking the graveyard with a flashlight while I was standing at the sink. We don’t get many visitors on this end of the island—especially not this time of year.

I watched ye kneel at the gravestone, then ye collapsed.

I ran down, found ye barely conscious, and carried ye back here. ”

He paused, still crouched by the couch, then added, “My name is Baird, and I believe that answers all yer questions.” His eyes narrowed slightly, but one brow lifted. “Now, if ye don’t mind, I’ve one of my own. Who might ye be?”

Transfixed by his steely gaze and the closeness of him, I still couldn’t quite read this man—or his intentions. I stammered, my voice faltering under the weight of uncertainty. “Um—Mirren—I mean Mira. People call me Mira…Mi ra Garvie.”

As if pushed by an unseen force, he rocked back on his heels and then sat down hard on the rug with an audible thud. For a moment, he looked stunned. Then the tight line of his jaw eased just slightly as he said quietly, “It’s a pleasure to meet ye, Mira Garvie.”

The massive dog, having apparently decided I was no longer a threat now that introductions were over, padded off to sprawl contentedly by the fire.

Baird stood and brought me a glass of water, then returned to the kitchen to retrieve what looked like a neglected tumbler of Scotch.

He downed it in one impressive single swallow—and if I didn’t know better, I might have thought he was bracing himself, looking for a bit of liquid courage.

“I’d offer ye something stronger,” he said, tipping his head toward the now-empty glass, “but seein’ as ye just fainted, might not be the best idea. Are ye ill?”

“Oh—no, I’m not ill. That just…happens sometimes. I’ll be fine, I promise.”I could tell I owed him some sort of explanation for what I was doing down by the graveyard, but I wasn’t sure where to start without sounding unhinged. So I stuck to the barest of details.

“My parents died this summer in a car accident,” I began, my voice a little steadier now.

“I found an old portrait miniature in my dad’s safe deposit box—of a woman named Agnes Garvie Campbell.

She’s some distant relative, I think. This probably sounds silly, but I feel like I need to know who she was.

That’s why I came…to the island. I’m not even sure if the Agnes buried out on the point is the same Agnes from the portrait, but…

I think she is. I don’t really know how to explain it. ”

I stopped there, afraid I’d say too much—visions, dreams, all the parts that would have him calling the authorities to report a lunatic loose on the island. The silence stretched just long enough to make me anxious, so I stood quickly, feigning sudden awareness of the time .

“I should really get back to the hotel,” I said, brushing imaginary dust from my coat as I stood and retrieved my cell phone that laid on the couch cushion. “And I’m sorry—for how I sounded when I woke up. Thank you again. For everything.”

“Are ya staying at the inn up in Lochranza then?” He asked, eyeing me warily.

“How did you guess?” I replied with an eye roll and a quick laugh, desperate to diffuse the thick tension hanging between us. There weren’t many hotels on the island, and mine was the only one within walking distance—hardly a deduction worthy of Sherlock Holmes.

“Would ye allow me to walk ye back to the inn?” he asked brusquely. “It will be dark soon, and seeing as how ye were unconscious not half an hour ago, I’d sleep better knowin’ you got back safe.”

The offer caught me off guard. I could’ve sworn he was about to shove me out the door. I should say no, shouldn’t I? I’d just spent half an hour alone in an isolated cottage with a total stranger. But if he meant to do me harm, he’d probably have done it already…right?

"Yes…I’d like that." I said hesitantly. He didn’t seem to want me around, but something about the man had piqued my curiosity, drawing me in.

I couldn’t explain it, but I knew I’d just crossed some invisible threshold, stepped onto a path that felt somehow destined.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, a quiet sense of peace settled into a small, aching corner of the void inside me.

He kept his gaze mostly on the road ahead as we walked, but I turned to study his face when I answered his questions—when I’d arrived in Scotland, where I lived, what I did for work.

The conversation flowed easily, and the pauses between questions felt like natural punctuation, not awkward silences.

He was a big man—at least six foot four, maybe taller, and somewhere in his late thirties or early forties.

Muscular in the way men who work outdoors tended to be, not sculpted like a bodybuilder, just solid and capable.

He had broad shoulders and a trim waist, and the pair of faded Levi’s he wore sat low on his hips.

Despite the damp chill in the air, his arms were bare, his upper body covered only by a dark blue cotton T-shirt.

His hair was brown, but in the evening light, I saw the faintest touch of red.

The five-o’clock shadow on his strong jaw added to the rugged picture.

His skin bore the signs of a life lived outdoors—creases across his forehead, fine lines around his eyes that deepened when he smiled, which didn’t seem to happen often.

His nose was slightly crooked, like it had been broken once and never quite healed right.

But all these imperfections worked together, giving his face a kind of worn, compelling beauty—something far more interesting than perfection.

And then, startling myself, I found myself wondering what it would be like to kiss him.

I was lost in that thought when he stopped suddenly and turned toward me. Only then did I realize we were already standing at the path that led up to the inn.

“So, Mira…when do you leave?” Baird asked.

“I’m planning to explore the island tomorrow, then head back to Edinburgh the morning after,” I said.

“You’re not going back to America, then?” he asked, trying—though not quite succeeding—to keep the dismay out of his voice.

“No…I’m here for at least another ten days,” I said, a little too quickly. “I’m taking a class at the Goldsmiths’ Guild that starts next week.” I wa sn’t sure why I felt the need to justify staying in Scotland, but something about the look in his eyes made me want to explain.

He stared at me for a few moments, and then his gaze drifted toward the sea, the fading light casting shadows across his face.

For a brief second, I could have sworn I saw something in his eyes—something like sadness, but it disappeared as quickly as it came.

When he turned back to face me, the casual lilt returned to his voice, though there was a quiet undercurrent to it.

“Well, enjoy your stay then…” he said, his words now seeming a little lighter, almost as if he was trying to brush away the moment that had passed between us.

I wasn’t sure what made me ask, but I wasn’t ready for him to walk away just yet. “I didn’t catch your last name,” I said, my voice a little softer now.

“Campbell… Baird Campbell,” he replied.

I frowned, glancing back in the direction we’d just come from. “Campbell?—like Agnes Garvie Campbell? Distant relation?”

Baird scoffed with a dramatic shake of his head.

“Nae. Me mam used to say ye can’t turn over a stone in this part of Scotland without finding at least two Campbells hidin’ beneath,” he said, abruptly dismissing any connection.

“Baird is another family name. My mother wanted everyone to know I was as much a Baird as I was a Campbell. The cottage belonged to my grandmother once. Locals call it Baird Cottage.”

I couldn’t help but narrow my eyes at him, trying to parse through the layers in his voice. Something about the way he dismissed the connection between the Campbells and Agnes Garvie Campbell didn’t sit right with me. It felt too easy, too quick to brush off.

“You don’t seem like the kind of man to forget his roots so easily,” I remarked, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

Baird shot me a sidelong glance, his expression unreadable. "Sometimes it's easier to leave things in the past," he muttered, more to himself than to me.

“Well, thank you again. I really appreciate everything you did for me tonight.”

With a small wave, I turned and walked up the six steps to the door of the inn.

As I grasped the door handle, I hesitated, pulled back to look at him by some unseen gravitational force.

I expected him to have walked off, but to my surprise, he was still standing exactly where I had left him—hands at his sides, staring directly at me.

I couldn’t quite read his expression—whether it was sadness or hope—but the soft sunlight, slanted low across the western horizon, washed his face in a warm, honeyed glow.

It was then that I finally noticed the color of his eyes… so green, they almost looked unreal.