In Bed with the Highlander. Ann Lethbridge

      The object floating above the mist in Moirag’s headlights might have been a UFO hovering over a landing pad, if it didn’t look quite so much like a castle. Chilly fingers walked down her back. Because it looked identical to something she’d seen as a child. Something creepy wobbling on the surface of a bowl of water held by Granny “the auld witch” McLellan as her mother had called her great grandma. Destiny put out in plain sight, the old girl had breathed staring into the water at the image of a medieval castle. As a child, she’d believed it. She’d even studied history at school at Granny’s suggestion.

      Not much call for history. Or superstitious rot as her mother had called Granny’s strange ideas. A degree in business had proved more useful. But history remained her passion.

      And what she was looking at in her headlights was definitely a castle, when there hadn’t been one marked on Google maps anywhere near the hotel she’d booked. Probably one of those private places where they paid to be blacked out from prying eyes. So where was her hotel? She had to be lost.

      Moirag geared down to a crawl and rubbed at the windscreen. Not fogged on the inside. She flicked the lever. The wipers did a quick one, two and park. Nope. Not misted on the other side of the glass. Definitely a pea-souper.

      A glance at the Sat Nav on the dash didn’t help, either. It remained stubbornly blank, having given up the ghost an hour ago. Must be out of range. The dark shape ahead of her solidified, its stone walls and crenellations looming out of the mist. There was a sign over a stone arched entrance in the outer wall. Hotel Glencovie. Really? The description on the internet hadn’t said a word about it being a castle and there had been no picture to clue her in.

      And this place looked more like the setting for a horror flick than your friendly B and B. The hairs on the back of her neck waved in a nonexistent breeze. A creepy sensation she didn’t appreciate with fog snaking over the road ready to swallow her and her car.

      She shivered. Enough. She’d so been looking forward to this little holiday. To exploring the local library and church, looking for family connections. The finishing touches to her surprise for her parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. The McLellan family tree went all the way back to seventeen hundred and ten. All it needed were a few details about her ancestor, the first, and apparently very naughty, Lady Moirag Breton.

      A quick glance in the rearview mirror revealed a blank wall of white. No going back to Glasgow tonight. She was here and that was that.

      The road took a twist right, and then left, and her lights picked out the jagged points of a raised portcullis. Water gleamed with an oily incandescence on her near side. Must be the moat. A little too close for comfort.

      Slowing to a crawl, she eased the car across the wooden slats of the drawbridge.

      The car did a rock and roll number over the cobblestones in the courtyard. Tarmac was invented by a Scot, but did anyone care about your springs? Nah. It was all about atmosphere. No doubt she’d be greeted by some old fogy in a kilt who had a Scottish accent as thick as a steak, only to discover the man came from Kent or York. That was how it was these days. She pulled up to the sign displaying the word Reception in Gothic lettering, popped the boot and opened her door.

      Five hours on a trip that should have taken three locked her knees when she pushed off the seat. Standing up, she rolled her shoulders to the tune of cracking vertebrae. Ah, that was better. A blinding beam of light hit her full in the face. She blinked madly. Oh, right. Sensor light. At least she’d be able to pick her way across the courtyard. The heels of her favorite shoes hated to be jammed between two blocks of stone on any day of the week.

      The thick oak plank door opened and...yeah. There he was. Knobby knees, hairy calves, a swath of green plaid and a foaming jabot. In her book, the only men who looked good in kilts were the guys in the Willy Lawson commercials.

      Although Alec had looked great in a kilt, the bastard. Another reason not to trust anything flauntingly Scottish. Thank God she’d discovered what a rat Alec was and dumped him before he completely cleaned out her bank account.

      “Good evening, Miss McLellan,” the ancient doorman wheezed. “I will lend you a hand, will I?”

      The soft burr of his voice stroked her ears. She hadn’t heard an accent like that since... God, she could barely remember. A real Highlander. Things were looking up. “Good evening. Don’t worry, I can manage.”

      “It is not a trouble.”

      “Thank you, but I prefer to carry my own stuff.” A top-of-the-line laptop required personal attention and she couldn’t think of asking such a doddery old chap to carry her suitcase. She never had learned how to pack light. She heaved her cases out of the boot.

      “I’ll be getting the door for you, then.”

      “Thank you.” She followed him in. He went behind the desk. Porter and receptionist, then. A one-man band. Perhaps because she had arrived so late. While he signed her in, she glanced around a reception area designed like a medieval hall right down to hammer beams arching overhead, the faded and tattered banners hanging from the walls and a couple of rusted suits of armor. Welcome to tacky touristy Scotland. It would be so nice if these places invested in some real antiques and gave them some loving care. Though, on closer inspection, the chain mail looked genuinely ancient.

      “Your room is on the second floor, Miss McLellan. Number two hundred and ten.”

      She let her gaze following his pointing figure to a set of spiral stairs winding around a column of smooth gray stone.

      Bloody hell. No lift.

      Those stairs weren’t new, either. They’d