Page 16 of A Memory Not Mine (Sanguis Amantium #1)
Chapter fifteen
Mira
I stepped out of the inn that morning to an unexpected gift—blue skies, bright sunshine, and a warm breeze—unusual for the first week of November.
It felt like the island was urging me to make the most of my last full day on Arran.
I planned to cram in as much sightseeing as possible before heading back to Edinburgh tomorrow.
At the top of my list: Brodick Castle, a hike to the Blue Pools of Glen Rosa, and—if time allowed—a visit to the Machrie Moor Standing Stones and the Auchagallon Stone Circle cairn on the island’s wild west side.
As I wandered through the whimsical gardens on the castle’s south side, perfectly manicured even in the off-season, the recording went on to mention that the estate now hosts weddings, private parties, and corporate events in the summer months.
The gardens seemed spun from the breath of myths—where forest sprites might dart behind mossy stones and whisper through the fern-thick shade.
Sunlight trickled through ancient, towering conifers, their needles glistening with dew like a thousand eyes watching gently from above.
Winding paths curled like secrets, each plant or flower a potential crown for a shy woodland fae.
I paused by a painted arch doorway, carved into the base of a moss-covered tree, just the size for a forest sprite, and looked back toward the grand terrace, picturing it strung with fairy lights, the sound of a string quartet floating across the lawn.
What a magical place for a wedding, I thought. What a place to begin a story.
After I’d returned my headphones to the visitor’s center, I made my way down the road to the trailhead that led to the Blue Pools of Glen Rosa.
I parked my rental in the gravel lot just past the campground shown on the map, the lot completely empty except for a dark Range Rover SUV.
The pamphlet I picked up at the inn last night had promised “an easy two-mile trek” from the parking lot to the Blue Pools, and for once, the description was accurate.
The well-worn trail followed the course of the Glen Rosa water, a stream that meandered through the green valley separating the twin peaks of Cìr Mhòr and Goat Fell.
There were few trees in the wide, windswept glen, but the hillsides were still surprisingly lush for late autumn, cloaked in deep green grasses and stubborn ferns clinging to rocky outcrops.
The unseasonably warm day had me toying with the idea of taking a dip—if I found the pools empty, I just might. After crossing a wooden footbridge, the trail curved around a broad rock ledge, and then I saw it—my destination.
Above me, the valley opened up into a stone bowl, where a U-shaped ledge in the stream formed a tumbling waterfall, its clear waters spilling into a series of glassy wading pools below.
The smooth stones beneath the surface shimmered like silver coins, and the edges of the pools were softened by feathery ferns and tufts of moss.
It looked like something out of a fairy tale—untouched, hidden, sacred. This island was truly a magical place.
I hadn’t seen another soul on the trail, so I stripped without hesitation—boots kicked off one at a time, pullover and backpack already abandoned on a sun-warmed rock. I unbuttoned my jeans and shimmied out of them, left in just my bra and panties.
The water was glacial, but it shocked my skin in the best possible way, the kind of cold that made me feel alive and weightless all at once.
Goosebumps prickled over every inch of exposed flesh.
I waded into the largest pool, the one directly beneath the waterfall, and took a deep breath before plunging under the surface.
This was exactly what my soul had been aching for—to be immersed in the quiet solitude of a fairy pool, tucked away on an island off the Scottish coast. What began as a distraction had gently become something more: a reminder that wonder, mystery, and beauty still surrounded me, not just the ache of loneliness and the shadow of grief .
The world fell silent underwater, sound replaced by the rhythmic roar of the falls above. When I surfaced, I flung my head back to shake the water from my hair, the icy droplets flying like sparks.
And then I felt it—someone watching.
I opened my eyes.
Baird Campbell stood on a flat rock above the pool, arms crossed in front of his chest. Long, muscular legs braced his stance, his expression thunderous.
The late-morning sun threw him into sharp silhouette, his features obscured—yet the clenched jaw, narrowed eyes, and curled lip left no doubt: he was cross for some reason, and based on the way he was looking at me, it seemed I was the cause.
Maybe it was what I was wearing—or more to the point, what I wasn’t.
My black bra, with its mesh fabric soaked through and transparent, clung to me like a second skin—thin, revealing, and impossible to ignore.
But I stood my ground in the waist-deep water, unwilling to flinch or apologize for the moment he’d walked into.
“You’ve got a hell of a way of sneaking up on a person,” I said, voice steady despite my racing heart.
“What are ye doin’, Mira Garvie?”
His voice was stern, but the way he said my name made it sound like a prayer—or a curse.
Like no one else had ever said it properly until now.
There was something else too, buried under the gruffness—a flicker of amusement.
For the briefest second, the corner of his mouth twitched upward in a smirk he clearly didn’t want me to see.
This man was a contradiction. Stoic and unreadable one minute, slow-burning heat the next. I couldn’t figure out why he worked so hard to seem untouchable.
“Wild swimming,” I said, chin lifted in defiance. “That’s what they call it here, right? ”
“Is that so?” he replied, gaze flicking briefly to the waterline. “Shame ye forgot your swimsuit.”
He didn’t miss a beat.
“Sorry,” I said, not sounding sorry at all. “Didn’t pack one.”
And then all at once, a hundred pounds or so of shaggy gray beast launched off the waterfall from behind Baird and into the pool, cannonballing with a spectacular splash that drenched every inch of my exposed flesh.
I let out a shocked scream. The dog surfaced a few feet away, paddling confidently through the frigid water.
The dog swam up to me with a happy grunt, as if we were old friends reunited after years apart. She nosed my arm once, then promptly began circling like she meant to herd me toward shore.
“Oh, hello there! We didn’t get properly introduced last night,” I said, trying to stand my ground in the pool.
“This is Bunny. Say hello to Mira.”
“Is she an Irish Wolfhound?” I asked, eyeing the enormous dog and wondering if I’d ever seen one quite so large.
“Oof, how dare ye suggest such a thing!” Baird feigned outrage, clutching his chest theatrically. Then he laughed—a deep, unguarded sound—and added, “Nae, but you’re close. She’s a Scottish Deerhound. They look similar, but Deerhounds are a bit leaner- bodied.”
That laugh, and the way it transformed his face, unleashed a flurry of butterflies in my stomach.
“How old is she?” I asked, pressing on with my questions, hoping this lighter version of Baird might linger a little longer before retreating behind his usual reserve.
“I dinnae ken, five now, I think?” he said as he sat down on the edge of the rock ledge above me, deciding to stay for a moment and let Bunny have a swim, his long denim-clad legs dangling just inches above the water.
“She’s a good lass. A fine companion to me…
but she’s not much of a conversationalist.”
And he had a sense of humor too, it seemed.
Could Granny Margaret have been talking about Baird in her reading? He certainly had the green eyes.
"You are a puzzle to him, ye know," she’d said—and he’d looked thoroughly puzzled last night when I woke up on his couch and introduced myself.
And then there was the other thing she’d mentioned—that he carried a great sadness in his heart.
He wore that sadness like a second skin, visible to anyone who looked closely enough.
But I suspected that getting this mountain of a man to open up, to me or anyone else, would be next to impossible.
“Are ye cold yet? Yer lips are blue and purple, and despite the air temperature, I know for a fact the water is freezing,” he said as he stood up, a quick whistle to Bunny signaling it was time to go.
“Well, yes—now that you mention it—I am freezing. Can you grab the towel out of my backpack?” I asked as I waded toward the shore, Bunny trailing close behind, giving me a fresh shower when she shook off at the water’s edge.
Baird kept his eyes locked on mine when he met me at the shoreline and handed me the towel—an act that somehow felt more intimate, more disarming, than if his gaze had wandered over my half-naked body.
There was a quiet respect in the way he looked at me, but it only made me feel more exposed.
I wrapped the towel around myself, chilled more by the intensity in his eyes than by the air.
“What are you doing here?” I wondered aloud. “You weren’t…following me, were you?”
"Don’t flatter yerself, Mira Garvie." Baird huffed, irritation thick in his voice now, his mood darkening with the same ruthless unpredictability as the Scottish weather. He turned and pointed toward a herd of shaggy cattle grazing in the upper valley, beyond the waterfall. “They’re mine. I’ve a cow that’s due to calve soon—late in the season. I was checking on her.”
I tried to act unimpressed, but I felt myself soften a little at the way he said my name, even with his sharp tone, like it was something worth holding on his tongue.
“Are ye hungry after yer wild swimming? ” His tone mocked me as I pulled on my jeans, one leg in, hopping on one foot comically, trying to keep my balance.
“I could eat,” I said. “Why?” I asked, my head then stuck inside the pullover I hadn’t managed to get on quite yet, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Did ye park in the lot at the trailhead?” he asked, ignoring my question completely, glancing down the trail as I tugged on my socks and boots.
“I did.” I nodded.
“I’m parked there too. Ye can follow me. There’s a pub in Blackwaterfoot—fire in the hearth, proper food. Ye can warm up.”
He and Bunny headed off down the trail, as if the idea of my going to the pub with him was a foregone conclusion. I backtracked a few paces to grab my backpack and water bottle, then jogged to catch up.