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The Brodie charm was as much legend as fact, just like much of Scotland’s history. Auld Michael, Elias’s many-times great grandfather, had toddled off to the Napoleonic wars for nearly a decade, and had come home to his lady with a barony in hand. Brenna Brodie had apparently required some charming before she welcomed her soldier back to the castle—stories abounded about their reunion—but Michael had managed to win the fair lady’s heart and many children had resulted.

Some years later, Queen Victoria had taken a shine to her Highland neighbor, deeming Michael the dearest old flirt ever to strut about in a kilt. His strutting had seen the family title elevated to an earldom, and exporting Aberdeen Angus breeding bulls had similarly elevated the family’s fortunes.

Zebedee Brodie had certainly commanded a great deal of genuine charm. By comparison, Elias rated his own appeal of the counterfeit variety. He was a pleasant escort, he looked good in a kilt, he wasn’t difficult to get out of that kilt.

Not much of a resume for a man who’d celebrated his thirtieth birthday.

Sitting on Violet’s steps, watching the sun set, fatigue had hit Elias like a gale-force wind. Fatigue of the body, for he’d gone short of sleep in recent weeks dealing with Zebedee’s estate; fatigue of the nerves, because flying did that to him; and fatigue of the spirit.

And now he found himself in a woman’s kitchen, anticipating—of all things—a home cooked meal.

“Just set the glasses in the sink,” Violet said, putting the strawberries in the fridge. “Unless you’d like more lemonade?”

The lemonade had been ambrosial—cold, sweet, tart, fresh. Elias could not recall having had better.

“Water is probably a good idea,” he said. “Flying can result in dehydration.” Also in death. He filled his glass at the sink, drank it down, then refilled the glass. “I would not have known this was a log cabin from the outside.”

Violet’s farmhouse had a sort of pioneer chic. The walls of her living room were the exposed interior of a log cabin, while the kitchen appeared to be a later addition. Her furniture was pine, possibly handmade. Sturdy and unassuming, but comfortable-looking. Pillows, quilts, afghans, dried flowers… a woodstove that looked more functional than high-tech.

Not at all like the baronial opulence of the castle’s lodge, but inviting in its way.

“Most of the old farmhouses in this valley are log cabins,” she said, “but the log structure is hidden under drywall and siding. Some are ‘out and up’ stone houses—take the rocks out of the field and use them to put up the walls. If you look around, you’ll see that on many farm properties, there’s still a tiny homestead cottage.”

Violet was at ease in her kitchen, opening cupboards; getting down bowls, measuring cups, ingredients; and making a domestic racket that soothed the part of Elias’s soul that had never wanted to leave Scotland again.

She ran the hot water, testing its temperature with her fingers, then filling a measuring cup—non-metric units—and adding a teaspoon of sugar.

Elias propped a shoulder against a doorjamb because the lady hadn’t invited him to take a seat. “What’s a homestead cottage?”

“Look out that window,” Violet said, dumping a floury mixture into a glass bowl. “That log-cabin-type shed is where people lived the first winter they settled here. They’d get it built over the summer, or cut the wood one year, come back and build the cabin the next. They’d have shelter for winter and a dwelling on the property for homesteading purposes, and then they’d build a proper house as time allowed.”

Violet was making bread. Elias had seen his aunts and cousins make enough bread to know the rhythm and sequence of the task. Never before had he found the activity of much interest, but he liked watching Violet Hughes in her kitchen.

She was competent, efficient, and… feminine. Her hair was bound in a braided bun that held itself together through invisible means, but this late in the day, entropy had made progress over order. Wisps of auburn hair brushed against her nape—a tender, vulnerable spot, and kissable too.

“Can I do something to help?” Elias’s aunts had smacked some manners into him, when they’d had the chance, and having a task would help keep him awake.

“Wash your hands. Then you can start on the salad. Bathroom’s down the hallway to your right.”

How to ask. Elias had come here in search of a shower, then ended up sprawled on the porch steps. He’d been felled by jet-lag, the delight of sitting in sight of the mountains and fields, and the pleasure of listening to a woman wax eloquent about eggplant—whatever that was.

He remained in the doorway, not sure how to ask for the use of the facilities, knowing he had clean clothes in his backpack.

Violet pulled a small step-stool over to the counter and stood on it to knead the dough. “Better leverage this way,” she said. “Conserves energy.”

Elias snagged his backpack and headed down the hallway rather than let it appear he’d spent two hours with Violet, and listened to her pour out her agrarian heart just so he could have access to hot running water.

Maybe Bonnie had simply wanted the office to herself. 

Max gave up on casually introducing himself to the Brodie heir—or whatever minion the estate had sent to look over the Hedstrom property—when darkness encroached, and not a light went on in the house. He’d tried knocking on the front door, then the back door—Damson Valley was rural—and even poking around the dusty, cobwebby barn.

No sign of life save for a fat orange cat that had hissed and arched its back while following Max all over the property. Damned feline was probably spying for Violet Hughes, a porcupine of a female who’d spent too much time riding her tractor in the summer sun. Three years ago, she’d stopped one of Max’s projects north of town—ten miles from her farm—and Max had spent the next twelve months freezing his balls off on a job out in Garrett—godforsaken snow capital of the Appalachians—County.

The Hedstrom property by contrast, was beautiful. The land rolled just enough to create a sense of cul-de-sacs and neighborhoods, the class four rural stream would make a couple of nice water features. Jogging trails nearly laid themselves out, and never had a parcel of land begged so eloquently for development.

Max drove back to town at the hour when deer in their red summer coats foraged at the edges of hay fields, and bats swooped across a darkening sky. Damson Valley was only half-civilized by his standards. Needed a decent grocery store so people didn’t have to drive into town for a loaf of bread. A  gas station or two would help, maybe a liquor store, and a smattering of—

The phone rang, so Max punched the controls for hands-free discussion, but too late realized who was calling.

“It’s Saturday night,” Pete Sutherland said. “Why isn’t a good looking young guy like you out painting the town red?”
“It’s early,” Max replied, putting a smile he did not feel into the words. Then too, young was a relative term. “What can I do for you, Pete?” Besides make the man several million dollars Pete would do nothing to earn.   

“I have some news. Don’t know if it’s good news or bad news.”

Peter Sutherland had been born in West Stump, New York, a municipality so small, it was technically a hamlet rather than a town. At some point, Pete had decided that his station in life required a Southern accent, though Max had been unable to divine exactly how this linguistic transformation had occurred—sometime after Pete had acquired a degree in business from Dartmouth (no mention of honors), and before acquiring the first of several Mrs. Sutherlands.

“I’m always happy to listen to news,” Max said as a rabbit darted across the road. Another rabbit followed immediately, necessitating a sudden application of the brakes.

Spring in the countryside. Love made everybody stupid, and rabbits probably weren’t that bright to begin with.    

“I can’t tell you how I came by this particular information,” Pete said, his tone conspiratorial. “Not a word to anybody, Max. I mean it.”

“I can keep my mouth shut.” Max could also put up with all this posturing and self-importance because Pete was chair of the New Horizons board of directors. Max found the projects, and Pete decided whether to spend money on them.

“This is entirely on the DL, Max. I mean not a peep to your honey.”

Whatever a honey was. “Not a syllable.” Max didn’t roll his eyes, because Pete was canny as hell, like an old dog. In possession of all his teeth and not to be underestimated no matter how much he napped or how often he farted. Pete had lately decided that New Horizons was ready to take on bigger, more prestigious projects, to “step up and be counted.”

In a half-crap economy, with regulatory lunacy running rampant on even the smallest zoning boards, and banks more neurotic than ever.

“As long as I have your word,” Pete said. “I have contacts in the UK, and they tell me old Zebedee Brodie has gone to his reward. He owned a sizeable parcel out in Damson Valley. I believe I’ve mentioned it to you more than once.”

Well, no. Max had mentioned the Hedstrom Farm to Pete more than once, but the fine art of sucking up required a flexible grasp of the truth.

“One of the largest intact parcels in the county,” Max said. “I forget the name of the place. Most of it’s under leased cultivation.”

Five hundred and twenty-three acres in hay and crops, about another 150 in woods, the rest in pasture, right of way, water features, lanes and residential ground. Max had checked his files before leaving town. 

“The Hedley Farm,” Pete said. “I want that parcel, Max, and here’s the thing. Zeb’s nephew is a useless sort, old European money. Likes to drive fast cars and run around with models and actresses. He’ll be coming through to look at the property, and we are just the outfit to tell him what to do with it. A genuine Scottish earl doesn’t need a pesky, run-down farm creating tax liabilities when he could be shagging some super model. You get my drift?”

“Sure, Pete. Do the guy a favor, take the farm off his hands.” Insult him for the company he keeps and the tradition he represents, underestimate his business acumen though his people have likely been handling fortunes for centuries, and if the poor bastard does part with the farm, pretend the deal would never have gone through but for Pete Sutherland’s finessing behind the scenes.

“You got it,” Pete said. “Take the farm off his hands. Money’s not a problem. These European snobs are a bunch of lazy, pansy-assed, greedy bastards who depend on flunkies to keep their heads above water. We’ll be Elias Brodie’s flunky, and even name the damned development after him. The Earl’s Acres—has a nice ring to it, dontcha think?”

No, Max did not think. A bunch of overworked, middle-class families should not plunk down their life savings and go into decades of debt to move into a development named for foreign aristocracy.

“This earl might want to keep the land in cultivation, Pete. Zeb Brodie was adamantly against selling that farm.” Selling it to Pete Sutherland and his gang of rogue trust fund babies, anyway.

The lights of the town—also named Damson Valley—appeared as Max crested Holbeck Hill—Holstein Hill, in the parlance of the local youth. The Lutheran Church steeple was illuminated against the night sky, a picturesque white square spire that marked the center of town. Damson Valley had a number of other churches, and the river winding through town had green space on either bank. Festivals abounded, as did farmers markets, municipal concerts, and craft shows.

The schools were good, and the cost of living reasonable. The valley was screaming for development, if only the damned farmers would turn loose of a few acres.

“Now, Max, you just didn’t know how to approach Zebedee Brodie,” Pete said, for maybe the hundredth time. “My wife is Scottish, and once a Scot gets his back up, there’s no reasoning with ’em. You have to make them think everything is their idea, and that they’re getting away with something. They like their whisky too.”

Max liked whisky, and he’d give the present Mrs. Sutherland credit for tenacity. Her predecessors had all lasted about five years. She’d passed the ten year mark with no sign of turning loose of Pete or his money—even if she did have to make him think every worthy idea was his.

“So what do you want me to do, Pete?”

“When this guy shows up, you be hospitable, drop some numbers on him, and for God’s sake keep him away from that Hughes woman. Why the hell you haven’t gotten into her knickers yet is beyond me. She looks like she might clean up half decent. If Fiona wasn’t the kind to take exception—”

Now there was a cheering prospect—Violet Hughes eviscerating Pete Sutherland for his sexist, condescending, suicidal pandering.

“Violet Hughes will be too busy working her farm to bother with visiting dignitaries. If we’re lucky, nobody will list the place, and the title will be flipped before Ms. Hughes can scrape the manure off her paddock boots.”

Though when confronting a zoning board, Violet Hughes generally wore a stunning smile, and left the boots in her pick-up.

“Just get me that parcel, Max. July is coming, and I don’t see much else out there that fits what New Horizons needs. Fiona’s calling me. We’ll talk more later.”

Max disconnected, mildly comforted to think that Fiona Sutherland had Pete’s balls in a vise. Violet Hughes was a problem though. When Max had tried to be cordial—without even knowing much about her—she’d laughed in his face and climbed right back on her tractor.

That, of course, had nothing to do with why he’d be happy to see her farm foreclosed on. A guy could dream, after all.

Violet was strongly temped to barricade Elias Brodie in the woodshed, where nosy developers couldn’t wave their check books under his handsome Scottish nose. Maxwell Maitland was nothing if not persistent, and he had the damnedest habit of turning up exactly where Violet least wanted to see him. Had Elias not wandered across the road, Maitland would doubtless have already started whispering in his ear.

Children, Max would say, should be raised in the bucolic splendor of Damson Valley, safe from city crime and crowding… as if the people buying McMansions in Maitland’s developments would otherwise have been crowded into rat-infested slums?

“Has that batch of dough offended you?” Elias asked, hanging his backpack on the coatrack near the back door. “I don’t know when I’ve seen yeast, flour, and water endure such a pummeling.”

“And sugar,” Violet said, folding the dough over one last time. “Bread won’t rise without a little sugar. Are those your play clothes?”

Gone was the three-piece hand-tailored suit, and in its place Elias wore jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt. Wore them scandalously well.

“I always pack clean clothes and basic necessities in my carry on, because there are two varieties of luggage.”

His uncle had said the same thing. “Carry-on and lost,” Violet concluded. “I don’t get away from here much, but when I go see my mom I never check a bag.”

A farm was a jealous mistress, and Violet paid for spending even a few days off the property.

“You assigned me to making the salad,” Elias said. “I’m guessing that means tearing up the lettuce?”

Well, no. Violet typically chopped the lettuce with any handy knife, because what mattered a few brown edges on the leftovers?

She gestured toward a sealed bag of organic greens. “Tear away, it’s already washed.”

Elias had damp-combed his hair back, setting off his profile more cleanly. The resemblance to Zebedee was clearer, in the angle of his jaw, high cheekbones, and defined brows. Zeb had been a fierce, merry old man.

If the fate of the lettuce was any indication, Elias had a start on the fierce part, though Violet didn’t see much evidence of the merriment.   

“Tomatoes are in the fridge,” she said, sprinkling flour over a portion of the kitchen counter. “I like black olives, but toss in whatever appeals to you. A hard-boiled egg or two will add some protein.”

This was more fuss than Violet would have gone to normally—a grilled cheese sandwich or a cheese omelet would have sufficed—but she wanted time to study Elias, and to interrogate him.

Kinda mean to interrogate a guy on the verge of exhaustion though. Kinda sneaky.

“How do you feel about peppers?” Elias asked, extracting a fine red bell from the crisper and tossing it into the air. He caught it and set it on the counter, along with the tomatoes, half a green pepper, and a package of mushrooms.

“Bell peppers have nearly twice the vitamin C of oranges,” Violet replied, “and they’re full of carotenoids and other anti-oxidants.” A good dose of vitamins E and A, plenty of phytonutrients, and some fiber too.

“More to the point, they’re pretty, and they taste good.”

Was he joking? Flirting?

Violet got out the rolling pin and began flattening the dough. “So get chopping, Elias. We’re burning daylight and I still have night chores to do. There’s a bottle of White Zin behind the milk.”

He zipped the lettuce bag closed and stashed it in the fridge. “What are night chores?”

“Make sure the buildings are secure—one possum loose in the feed room can wreck your whole month—close up the chicken coop, make sure I didn’t leave the keys in the tractor.” Take a minute to stare at the stars and say a prayer the farm would still be hers by the end of the season.

Why did nobody warn a gal that a man who knew how to conduct himself around fresh veggies was a sexy creature?

“You’re the bailiff of an agricultural castle.” Elias passed over a slice of crisp red pepper. “I need a bailiff for my castle. For the right person, it’s a fine occupation.”

The pepper was perfectly ripe, nearly sweet. “You own a castle?”

“I inherited the family seat, though parts of it are more ruin than dwelling. The property includes a lodge that’s quite commodious, but the castle itself is badly in need of repairs. Stone masons don’t come cheap. Enough?” he asked, holding out the salad bowl.

He was so casual about owning a castle. “Enough peppers. Don’t spare the olives. Monounsaturated fat and vitamin E are good for you.”

A silence rose, punctuated by the chirping of crickets and a dog barking down the valley. The oven beeped, apparently having reached a temperature of 350 degrees.

“A glass of wine is usually a fine idea, too,” Elias said.

“Cork screw is in the drawer below the microwave.” Violet busied herself brushing the dough with olive oil, then sprinkling on shredded cheese—cheddar, mozzarella, parmesan, and asiago because support your local dairy farm—and chopped ham. “It needs something.”

Elias paused in the middle of wrapping a towel around the wine bottle and peered at the dough.

“Capers?”

Capers? Violet grabbed a handful of the undressed salad—greens, olives, peppers, mushrooms, some chopped egg—and sprinkled the whole over the ham and cheese.

“Excellent choice,” Elias said. “Salad Nicoise, American style.”

Violet finished with oregano and freshly ground black pepper, while Elias opened the wine. He looked sexy doing that too—arm muscles bunching and flexing, easing the cork from the bottle.

Good God, she needed to get off the property for something besides the weekly run to the feed store and the supermarket. Violet got down two jelly glasses, the closest she could come to the crystal Elias was probably used to.

“What do you plan to do with the property you’ve inherited, Elias?”

He poured two servings, passed one to Violet, and touched his glass to hers. “I’m not sure. Here’s to journeys safely concluded.”

Not a bad toast. Violet tipped up her glass. “To journeys safely concluded.”

“Why don’t we tend to those chores you mentioned while our dinner is baking?”

He was dodging her question, and that was a relief. If Elias intended to sell his property, he could convey that tragedy as well after dinner as before.

Violet rolled up the ham and cheese loaf, put it in the oven, and set the timer for twenty-five minutes, while Elias scraped the salad mess into the compost bucket and scrubbed off the counter. He had a natural sense of work flow in a kitchen, or maybe he was just hungry.

“We can eat on the back porch,” Violet said. “No point cleaning off the table.”

The back porch had no view of Elias’s farmhouse, so if Max Maitland was still cruising the neighborhood, Violet could at least have one more meal in peace.

“You should post your property,” Violet suggested as she led Elias out the back door and across the yard. “Your house has been unoccupied for too long, and we have bored teenagers in Damson Valley the same as anywhere else.” They also had nosy developers who weren’t above doing some informal perc testing without an owner’s permission.

“Bored, horny teenagers? I don’t begrudge them a peaceful place to kiss and cuddle.”

The night was lovely—cool, starry, a half-moon casting enough light to navigate by. A good night for kissing and cuddling, as it happened.

“What about teenagers who need a place to smoke dope and toss around a few burning matches? A place to get drunk and turn up destructive?”

“Has somebody vandalized your property, Violet?” Elias’s question was quiet, but not casual. Somebody by the name of Max Maitland was trying to vandalize her livelihood, her dreams, her future and also—very likely—her property.

“A few months ago someone set fire to my wood pile. The homestead cottage could have caught fire, and who knows what else might have gone up in smoke.  I’m on the board of directors for one of the farmers markets, and I should have been at a meeting that morning.”

Elias stopped half way across the back yard. In the dark, Violet caught the scent of the lavender soap she kept in the powder room. He’d washed up then, not merely washed his hands.

“You were home?” Elias asked.

“I had a miserable cold. I’d cleaned out a loafing shed for Hiram Inskip two days before—his farm is down the road about a mile—and that meant hours on the tractor in stinky weather. I was home working on my taxes when I smelled the smoke.” How symbolic was that?

“In the middle of a school day?”

“Yes.” Which only suggested more strongly that Max Maitland had been behind the maliciousness.

“Let’s check on your chickens,” Elias said, as the lone dog began barking again. “In Scotland, we have a right to roam. Anybody’s welcome to wander anywhere as long as they do so responsibly. You’d better explain this posting business to me.”

He laid a companionable arm across Violet’s shoulders, and began walking with her toward the looming shadow of her barn. His gesture was mere friendliness, nothing presuming about it. Violet chattered happily about Rhode Island Reds, Appenzellers, and Hamburgs, all the while battling the urge to turn that casual arm around her shoulders into an embrace between two people who were closer to strangers than friends.

Violet had bent over to put the loaf into the oven and Elias had had to look away. She had a lovely shape, and he had a farm to sell. He’d sat with Violet on her porch, and looked out across pastures and fields that were his—his—and he was planning to part with them before he’d even walked their bounds.

The notion rankled. The idea that somebody had set a fire on a property owned by a lone woman rankled even more. Old-fashioned of him, but he came from an old-fashioned lineage.

“Posting your land,” Violet said, “means anybody on your farm without your permission can be charged with trespassing.”

Beneath his arm, Violet’s shoulders were slender, though her gait as she moved through the darkness was confident. Elias endured a wayward urge to slow her down, to make her stop, stand still, and simply admire the stars.

Sleep deprivation and homesickness were making him daft.

Floodlights came on as they approached the barn, and Elias dropped his arm. “How old is this barn?”

“The property dates from the 1830s, and the barn’s foundation probably goes back almost that far. No telling how many times it’s been re-sided, and when my father was a boy, they were still cutting saplings on the mountain each spring to use for the floors of the hay mows.”

What Elias knew about hay wasn’t half what he knew about whisky. “Better air circulation?”

“And better circulation of the air means less chance of spontaneous combustion if the hay isn’t properly cured before it’s baled.”

Violet had a routine, checking locks, gates, and water buckets. Her livestock included a herd of fat, fluffy sheep, one fawn-gray burro who roomed with the sheep, and chickens.

“You count your chickens?” And did Violet wander around out here in the dark night after night? Winters in this part of the United States could be fierce, and the summers didn’t exactly recommend the place either.

“Have to count them,” Violet said. “They’re supposed to come home to roost each night, but chickens can be contrary. We have foxes here, loose dogs, bobcats, the occasional cougar, and I’m convinced coyotes have moved into the valley.”

Violet could count and converse at the same time—at least when the topic was farming.

“I thought coyotes were creatures of the western prairies?”

“There’s an established coyote population in every one of the lower forty-eight states. Around here, we have coyotes and some hybrids that have wolf and dog DNA. We’re missing Brunhilda.”

The prodigal pullet merited some concern, based on Violet’s tone. “Does she often evade curfew?”

“She’s shy,” Violet said, scanning the barnyard. “The other girls are mean to her, but she’s a sweet little lady, and she’s—there you are.”

Violet marched across the barnyard and retrieved a large red chicken from beneath an empty feed trough. The trough was a single tree trunk about thirty feet long, carved out to resemble a rough, rectangular canoe. 

“Time for nighty-night,” Violet said, carrying Brunhilda into the end of the barn that served as the chicken dormitory. The hen made bird-purring noises, and got a good-night hug before being deposited on a straw-lined shelf.

Lucky bird, to be the object of Violet Hughes’s affection.

Elias issued a stern warning to his imagination—Violet Hughes did not need him tucking her in—but who knew a woman cradling a chicken could look both fierce and adorable?

“Are your chores complete for the evening?” Elias asked as the chickens were secured for the night. The evening air smelled different near the barn—earthier, more grain and livestock, not simply cut grass and countryside.

Still fresh, still peaceful.

“I might do a night check,” Violet said. “The shearer has yet to come through, and as the temperatures go up, the sheep drink more. It’s cool enough tonight they should manage.”

The relentlessness of the responsibility she bore reminded Elias of Zebedee, who’d never complained about being head of the family. Cousins, nieces, nephews, in-laws… they hadn’t hesitated to turn to Zeb for help, and Zeb had come through for them. After a time, he’d begun to delegate family matters to Elias, and of family matters, there had never been a shortage.

Which had left the castle in disgraceful condition.

“How about you bring the wine and we can start on the salad?” Violet said as they approached the house. “By the time the table’s set, the bread should be done.”

Full of plans, she was, while Elias’s mind had slowed down to the point of merely registering impressions. Violet’s hair was coming undone, for example. The end of her braid had escaped from her bun.

“You are a natural caretaker,” he said, one of those thoughts that came out of his mouth without benefit of review by his brain. “Don’t you get lonely here, Violet?”

“You work hard enough, you don’t have time for loneliness,” she said, tromping up the porch steps. “This is the busiest time of year, the time when you do the next necessary thing no matter what, because it could rain—or stop raining—next week. The tractor and baler can go on the fritz when you need them most. The sheep will get out right before the shearer comes, and they’ll head straight for the damned burdock patch.”

Oh, so busy, and yet, she was lonely. Elias knew this the same way he knew he was lonely, but had remained blissfully ignorant of his own affliction until that moment.

“The jet lag is threatening to drop me in my tracks,” he said. “Let’s eat, and you can tell me how you came up with the name Brunhilda for a shy hen.”

Tomorrow was Sunday, though for Violet, it would be a day on the tractor. She’d cut her first fields of hay on Thursday, and once the dew evaporated in the morning, she’d rake what she’d mowed. If the weather remained fair and dry, she could bale her first crop on Monday afternoon, and then—only then—breathe an enormous sigh of relief.

Until the second cutting later in the summer required the same combination of meteorological good luck, backbreaking hard work, and reliably functioning equipment.

Having Elias Brodie for a dinner companion was tiring, but also a comfort. On her own property, Violet was safe, of course, but having Elias at her side made the final chores more of an evening stroll.

The hens had liked him, always an encouraging sign.

“Our timing is good,” Violet said, because the oven clock showed the bread would be done in about five minutes.

“The scent of cooking bread is… How can I be homesick when I can smell fresh bread?” Elias replied.

“You’re homesick?”

“The Scots have a propensity for homesickness. Makes for some excellent weepy ballads. In my lifetime, most of the castle my family considers home hasn’t been habitable, but after I turned eleven, that pile of rocks up the hill from the lodge was what gave me a sense of home.”

That, and the feel of Zebedee Brodie’s welcoming hug. Maybe Elias hadn’t the Brodie charm in any great quantity, but he did have an affectionate nature. If the epidemic of weddings among his cousins was any indication, that was a family trait too.

“Grab the wine,” Violet said, drawing a pair of salad tongs from a drawer. “I’ll get the silverware, and we can put the hurt to the chow.”

Her idea of “putting the hurt to the chow” was a quiet meal on the back porch. The fresh salad and ham-and-cheese bread was as good as anything Elias had enjoyed at five-star restaurants, and the white zin, while humble, nevertheless added the mellow glow of the grape to the end of the day. Violet served a vanilla mousse with fresh strawberries for dessert, the perfect complement to an informal meal.

Elias set aside a glazed bowl that had held a quantity of dessert.

“Thank you for a delightful meal, Violet Hughes. I will do my part with the dishes, and then take myself across the road. You’ve made a stranger feel very welcome. Perhaps you’re part Scottish.”

She was a redhead, and the Scots were the most redheaded nation on earth.

His hostess ate the last bite of strawberries and cream, then scraped an additional half a spoonful from the serving bowl. Violet was not shy about satisfying her appetite, and Elias had learned to appreciate a woman who enjoyed a good meal.

“I’m mostly Irish,” she said, “with the occasional German gene for extra stubbornness. My great-grandmother was the wild child from a fine, upstanding Mennonite family that’s still farming closer to the Pennsylvania line. You don’t have to hang around to do dishes. I’ll wrap you up some leftovers, and you can be on your way. If you like, I can pick up some no trespassing signs the next time I’m in town.”

Guarding his farm mattered to her, but then, she might have lost her buildings to arson.

“I doubt I’ll be here long enough to find any miscreants on my property, Violet.” That needed to be said, because the part of Elias that had noticed Violet’s fine shape, that had presumed to put an arm around her shoulders, had also noticed how attractive her hands were.

Those hands would feel lovely stroking over Elias’s bare back. Instincts honed in the company of women from Rome, to Budapest, to Copenhagen, to Edinburgh told Elias that Violet was speculating about his wares too.

Some things were the same, regardless of the continent a man found himself on.

“You have a castle to fix up,” Violet said, rising. “Having a castle must be like owning a farm. The damned place never gives you a moment’s rest, but you love it. You love what it stands for, and that means it owns you, owns your heart, owns everything you have to give.”

Her summary wasn’t far off, but it wasn’t a happy recitation either.

Elias piled the plates and salad bowl in a stack and followed Violet into the kitchen. “I wish I could show you my castle when it’s been put to rights. We use the great hall for weddings and the occasional ceilidh now—the main structure is sound—but the wiring and piping, the interior finish, need updating. The fireplace in the great hall is 27 feet across—takes up the entire north wall and provides radiant heat for the laird’s chamber above it.”

“Sounds like the renovations will cost a fortune.” Violet took the plates from him, and stacked them in the sink.

“While I’m here, one of my cousins back home has started gathering bids from the trades. The project will take years, but I refuse to leave that mess for another Brodie heir to deal with.”

Violet turned on the tap. “That was my father and our barn. Had to have the whole thing repointed and parged, replaced the siding, all the hardware. That man loved his barn. Said a barn was like a church.”

Elias reached around her and shut off the water, then turned her by the shoulders, and put his arms about her. He’d been honest—he was just passing through. If they spent the night together, the encounter would be casual, sweet, enjoyable, and a nice memory—a very nice memory.

He had many such memories, he suspected Violet had all too few.

She took her time making up her mind, which suited Elias just fine. For a moment, she simply stood in his embrace, her arms at her sides. A gentleman never rushed a lady, and he never coerced her decision.

“You’re leaving in a few days,” she said, dropping her forehead to his chest.

Elias got his fingers into what remained of her bun, and massaged the muscles above her nape. She was fit, trim, and too tense for a woman who’d just shared a moonlit meal on a fine evening.

“I’ll leave in a few weeks at most. I have matters at home to attend to. You can send me on my way, Violet. In fact, you probably should.”

Her arms stole about his waist. “Why send you on your way? Are you trouble?”

“I’m a good time, I suppose, nothing more—also nothing less.”

She relaxed against him, though Elias could still feel her mental gears whirring. “I haven’t had a good time since Hector was a pup. I’m not that kind of woman.”

Oh, that was just societal judgment, foolishness, and fatigue talking, also a lack of confidence Elias found intolerable in a woman as competent and passionate as Violet Hughes.

No sense arguing gender politics though.

He gathered her close and kissed her.