Page 21 of Priceless (Return to Culloden Moor #7)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

B y nine o'clock sharp, Jacob was outside Bluebell House, leaning against his Land Rover, waiting patiently. His face lit up when I stepped out on the sidewalk. It was quite an ego rush. The only time I feel the same was when Peaches comes home to visit. In fact, I felt that way every time she walked in the door after playing with friends or after school. I couldn’t help it.

I'd barely taken a step before he was opening the wrong side/passenger door for me, flashing that smile that made it impossible not to smile back. “Mornin’.”

“Morning.”

I wore my boots and carried my heavy coat, sporting plenty of layers so I could shed or bundle up as needed. The cute tops I’d bought for the trip would probably never see the light of day until I was home again.

Jacob was wearing at least three layers that I could see, including a dark green hoodie that matched his eyes.

He climbed in and turned over the engine. "How was breakfast, then?"

"Amazing. I ate everything I could possibly fit." I patted my still-full stomach. "Though I have to admit, I was enjoying the blood pudding right up until someone told me what it was."

He chuckled. "Aye, that's the way of it. Best not to ask too many questions about traditional Scottish fare, especially if it tastes good."

The morning was crisp and clear as we drove southwest toward Loch Ness.

The countryside rolled by in shades of emerald and gold.

Jacob kept up a steady stream of stories—about the roads going off in all directions, the villages we passed, the ground soaked with as much history as rain.

I could listen to that man’s lilting, rumbling voice for days on end.

Paul had never been much of a talker, especially after Peaches was born.

Conversation had become purely functional—who was picking up groceries, what needed to be fixed in the house, what was planned for the next week.

We rarely spoke about things that interested us, usually because it wouldn’t appeal to the other one.

Jacob, on the other hand, seemed interested in anything I had to say. And we currently had something wonderful in common—an appreciation for his magical country.

We drove along the famous Loch Ness until we reached Urquhart Castle.

It was hard to believe it hadn’t been built as a movie set.

Hard to believe those stones had been placed 800 years ago.

At the same time, it seemed entirely plausible to me that there was a long-necked monster swimming out there, just below the surface of that long, dark body of water, made darker still by an overcast sky.

I was shocked to find myself on the side of believers, but how could I not? After all, I’d already had a ghost whispering in my ear, and plenty of witnesses who’d heard him do it! Ghosts, monsters, witches who could raise Highland warriors from the dead and bring them back to life.

Why not?

"Right then," Jacob said as we climbed the ruins. “Time for the obligatory monster hunt."

The winding paths were already full of tour groups and families.

The castle itself was so much larger once we got inside the walls, chuck full of staircases and chambers that still held their shapes.

Jacob knew all about the place’s history, of sieges and captures, of all those hands ownership passed to, or was stolen from, that I didn’t need to bother reading the plaques.

He explained the architecture and what the rooms were used for, like he grew up there.

At the highest point, we stood looking out over the loch, cameras and phones raised like offerings to the legendary creature below.

"See anything?" Jacob asked, squinting at the water.

"Aye,” I said, in a horrible imitation of his brogue. “Jacob MacKinney’s best man, second day on the job, doin’ his company proud."

We laughed, then went straight back to monster hunting.

After a few minutes, Jacob shook his head. "Ach, Nessie's probably havin’ a lie in, storin’ up for the weekend."

On our way back down, Jacob veered toward the massive stones beside an ancient catapult. "Now these," he said, rolling up his sleeves, "these are proper liftin’ stones."

"You wouldn’t dare.”

But he was already bending over one of the enormous round boulders, wrapping his arms around it with exaggerated effort. His face turned red as he strained against the stone, managing to shift it maybe an inch before a security guard came running.

"Oi! Ye there! Too old for that nonsense, aren't ye? Ye dinnae read the sign?"

Jacob straightened slowly, hands raised in surrender, looking properly chastened as the guard continued his lecture about respecting historical artifacts and setting a good example for the children.

"Sorry, sorry," Jacob mumbled, backing away from the stone. "Wasn't thinkin’."

As we walked back toward the car, I could see him trying not to sulk.

"Ye know," he said finally, "I lift barrels of whisky all the time that are at least half as heavy as that stone. Put ‘em right on my shoulder."

"I'm sure you do," I said, trying to keep the amusement out of my voice.

"I do! Proper heavy, they are. Ask anyone at the pub."

Still showing off, I realized. Even after being scolded like a schoolboy, he was still trying to impress me. It was endearing and ridiculous and completely charming all at once.

From Urquhart, we drove west to a place called Glen Affric. The landscape grew wilder and more dramatic with each mile. When we finally parked and began hiking up into the hills, I understood why Jacob had insisted we come.

"Most beautiful glen in Scotland," he said as we climbed, slightly breathless but still talking. "And considerin’ the competition, that's saying somethin’."

He wasn't exaggerating. From our viewpoint high above the valley floor, Glen Affric spread out like a painted canvas.

Ancient pines with long copper trunks dotted the landscape.

The River Affric was a ribbon of silver that wound through the bottom of the valley before disappearing into the loch.

The loch itself stretched away from us between mountains that looked like they went on forever.

More magic. And though I hadn’t seen much of the world at all, I had my own epiphany—I knew in my bones that there was nowhere else in the world that could rival this place.

The air smelled like flowers and grass and pine, earthy and clean.

Clouds moved across the peaks in a slow dance, casting shadows that chased patches of sunlight across the wild land of tan and green and purple.

In the distance, rain fell in gray sheets over one mountain while sunshine bathed the next in gold.

Jacob pointed out grouse that popped up and called out. He called the birds curlews, and when combined with the bleating of distant sheep, it all made a relaxing track of background music.

"My grandda used to bring me here to fish," Jacob said, settling beside me on a fallen log and pulling our picnic from his backpack. "Right down there in the river. Swore the trout were the size of salmon, and the salmon big as sharks."

"Were they?"

"Ach, no. Lucky if we caught anything longer than my hand. But by the time we got back to town, Grandda's stories had grown so big that even I believed them. And then I'd be telling the same tales to anyone who'd listen, making them bigger still."

He handed me a sandwich—thick bread, good cheese, apple chutney and ham. "Ye'll want to eat something," he said. "Trust me on this."

"I'm still full from breakfast."

"Aye, but our next stop is a distillery. Ye’ll not want an empty gullet then. Trust me.”

I trusted him, and I was glad I had.

The distillery was tucked into a valley about twenty minutes away, a collection of white buildings with distinctive pagoda roofs. Inside, the air was warm and rich with the smell of oak and fermenting grain.

"Jocko!" The tour guide, a woman with silver hair, wearing layers of mismatched shirts, greeted Jacob with a kiss on his cheek. "What brings ye here today?"

"Just showin’ off Scotland to a visitor," he said, and introduced me.

Though I felt like someone had just walked over my grave, I fumbled through the introduction and tried to sound coherent, but I was still stunned that she’d called Jacob Jocko. When she turned away to gather the rest of the tourists together, I had to speak up.

“She called you Jocko.” I watched his face closely, praying he could explain. It was just too much of a coincidence, wasn’t it? Jocko was the guy in my pocket.

Jacob laughed and shook his head. “I’m a regular customer, but they pair my face with the pub. My grandda before me. He was Jocko, as his own grandda before him was called Jocko. That’s how long we’ve been part of the trade.

“If the pub were called White Hart, she would have greeted me as White Hart. It might be a tradition known only to the liquor industry. I dinnae ken. But even my own team call me Jocko from time to time, though usually when speakin’ about me, not to me.”

"Is Jocko a common name in Scotland?"

"Jocko is a nickname for Jacob, which is the Scottish version of James. James was the name of many of our kings, so, in some stretches of history, a quarter of the male population have been named James. The followers of James Stuart and his son, Bonnie Prince Charlie, were called Jacobites. So aye, ye’ll find Jacobs and Jockos a bit thick on the ground. Have ye many Jocko’s in Denver?”

“No. No Jockos that I know.”

I took a deep breath to shake the odd feeling away, then forgot it altogether as we walked along through the process of making whisky—from malting floor to copper stills to aging warehouses—Jacob's knowledge and passion were obvious.

He knew the technical details, yes, but more than that, he understood whisky the way some people understand music or poetry.

The guide deferred to him several times, and I could see other visitors listening to his explanations as much as hers.

At the tasting, I was grateful I’d eaten that sandwich.

Even with food in my stomach, the whisky burned in my chest and made me a little light-headed.

Jacob's eyes lit up as he described each dram—the influence of different cask types, the regional characteristics, the subtle notes most people missed.

Watching him, I realized how much he loved this world he'd inherited. There was pride in his voice when he talked about his grandfather, about the pub, about carrying on traditions that stretched back generations.

Even though Paul had inherited his family’s business, he’d never talked about his work with anything approaching passion. Though, to be fair, he always showed appreciation for the lifestyle the laundry business afforded us.

There I went again, thinking about Paul. And worse, when was the last time I had a positive thought about him? When had I become so aggressively critical? Since I’d met Jacob? Or when I first started chatting with Jocko?

I had to stop comparing them. Two different men, two definitely different worlds. If Paul had experienced Scotland, maybe?—

Oh, who was I kidding? Paul would have been blind here.

But I wasn’t. And I was going to take a page out of Paul’s Standard Operating Procedure. I was going to stop looking back.

After we left the distillery, we headed for Eilean Donan Castle, something Jocko had suggested for my itinerary.

Jacob said it was the most photographed castle in the country, and when we came up on it, I laughed.

I guess I was expecting it to be some massive Disney Castle on a hill, but instead, it was a little bitty thing that sat on its own little island, not too far from the road.

The ground around it was sort of marshy, and the only way to get to it was a charming stone bridge with arches running beneath it.

"Picture time," Jacob announced, producing his phone from his pocket. "Cannae visit Scotland without getting’ this shot."

He handed me his phone, then, without giving me a chance to protest, he grabbed me by the waist and lifted me onto the little wall.

Thankfully, the rocks standing up along the length of the bridge were nicely rounded, instead of sharp like the ones that lined many local roads. So it wasn’t too uncomfortable.

Once I was stable, he took his phone and stepped back to take my picture. I made a dozen different faces while he clicked away. I kept expecting a security guard to come running, to bawl us out again for acting younger than we were. But no one cared.

He lifted me down—which embarrassed the crap out of me, until I realized I probably didn’t weigh too much more than a giant cask of whisky.

Then he held out his hand again, like he had when I’d tried to leave the pub that first day.

He was asking for my hand, yeah. But there was something in his eyes that took me right back to that first time.

He was asking for something. Trust? A blind commitment? Or just my hand.

He was definitely asking for more than just permission to hold my hand, but he wasn’t about to explain. So he wanted me to trust him too.

I narrowed my eyes and hesitated, teasing him. Forcing him to speak.

“Give me what I want, woman. Give me what I’m asking for.”

“You don’t just want my hand.”

“True,” he said. Then he let that one word linger, let it scare the crap out of me, while he stared into my eyes, barely smiling. “But I’ll settle for the hand…for the now.”

My hand decided for itself and reached for him before I told it to.

But this time, he didn’t make me close the distance all on my own.

As soon as I moved in his direction, he came for me, taking my hand and then some.

Swallowing up every inch between us until we stood flush against each other. The move literally stole my breath.

He lowered his head, but instead of kissing me, he pressed his head to the side of mine like he had before. “Before this day is out, Laira, ye will ask me to kiss ye. Do ye hear?”

He stayed there, waiting for my answer.

“I hear,” I said, so breathy I gave myself away, let him know exactly what effect he had on me.

He held there long enough to send a low laugh down my neck and into my blood stream, before turning away from me. But he still had my hand, so I was pulled along, hurrying to keep up while he tucked my hand around his arm and held on.

That’s how we toured that castle, what little of it they allowed us to see. Arm in arm, clinging to each other.

To be honest, I don’t remember anything about Eilean Donan Castle…except that bridge.