“Twice an hour, more like,” Douglas said with a wink, opening the car door for us.
The drive north from Edinburgh was like entering a storybook. The landscape unfurled in rolling waves of green and purple, old stone walls cutting across hillsides like the stitches of time itself. Mist clung to the valleys, shrouding everything in an otherworldly haze.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmured, pressing my face to the window like a child.
“Wait until you see Eidheann,” Patrick said, squeezing my hand. “We’re almost there.”
We crested a hill, and suddenly it appeared through the mist—a castle rising from the landscape as if it had grown there, stone by stone. Not a cold ruin but a living, breathing structure, its gray walls softened by ivy, sprawling gardens stretching from its base toward a glittering loch.
Douglas turned onto a long gravel driveway lined with old oak trees. As we drew closer, I could make out turrets and towers, windows glinting in the afternoon sun, a massive wooden door set into an arched entryway.
The car crunched to a stop in a circular drive before the entrance. I stepped out, tilting my head back to take in the full height of the castle walls.
“It’s been in my family for four hundred years,” Patrick said, coming to stand beside me. He looked almost embarrassed.“A bit much, I know. Drafty in the winter, impossible to heat properly, but... it’s home.”
I was rendered speechless. This wasn’t just a home; it was history, generations of lives embedded in stone and mortar. And it was Patrick’s—this man who had walked into my life in a conference center in San Jose.
He took my hand, his expression suddenly serious. “Welcome to Eidheann, Theresa.”
The castle’s interior was full of contrasts—rustic walls housing modern comforts, centuries-old portraits hanging above sleek furniture, history and present-day coexisting in a wonderful balance.
Patrick led me through the great hall with its soaring ceiling and massive fireplace, through a formal dining room that could seat thirty, past a music room with a grand piano and tall windows overlooking the gardens. Each room told a story, revealed another layer of Patrick’s heritage.
“The library,” he announced, pushing open a set of heavy doors.
I gasped. Two stories of filled bookshelves lined the walls, accessible by a wrought iron spiral staircase and a gallery that ran around the room’s perimeter. Leather sofas and reading chairs were arranged before another fireplace, this one carved with the McCrae family crest—a stag’s head surrounded by leaves.
“This was always my favorite room,” Patrick said, running his hand along the spines of leather-bound volumes. “I used to hide in here for hours as a boy, reading everything I could get my hands on.”
I tried to imagine him as a child, curled in one of these massive chairs, lost in adventure stories while rain lashed the leaded windows. It was both easy and impossible to reconcile that boy with the confident man who now stood before me.
We continued through the castle, up narrow stone staircases to tower rooms with views that stretched for miles across the Highlands, down to the kitchens where Patrick introduced me to Mrs. Ferguson, the housekeeper who had known him since birth and treated him with the fond exasperation of a woman who had once changed his diapers.
“And you’ll be wanting tea in the Blue Room, I expect,” she said, eyeing me with undisguised curiosity. “I’ve put out some scones and sandwiches.”
“Wonderful, Mrs. Ferguson. Thank you.” Patrick smiled at her with genuine affection.
As we climbed back upstairs, I began to understand something fundamental about Patrick—this place, with its history and permanence, was a core part of who he was. It explained his steadiness, his responsibility, his connection to tradition. The castle wasn’t just a possession; it was an inheritance, a legacy, a trust.
The tour ended in Patrick’s study, a warm room paneled in dark wood, with a large desk positioned to look out over the loch. Unlike the more formal spaces, this room felt deeply personal. Photos crowded the shelves and desk—Patrick with his kids, a younger Patrick in graduation robes, and several of a pretty woman I assumed was Shannon.
One photo caught my eye—Patrick as a teenager, standing between a distinguished-looking couple. I picked it up, studying their faces for traces of the man I knew.
“My father’s nose,” Patrick said, coming to stand beside me. “My mother’s eyes.”
“When did they die?” I asked softly.
“Da first, when I was twenty-five. Lung cancer—both of them were heavy smokers. Mum followed eight years later. Same thing.” His voice was matter-of-fact, but I heard the old grief beneath it. “Shannon died less than a year after that.”
I set down his parents’ photo and picked up one of Shannon. She had been lovely—fair and delicate, with a gentle smile. “She was beautiful,” I said.
Patrick nodded, his expression soft with memory. “She was.” He took the photo from me and set it down, then cupped my face in his hands. “But now you’re here. With me.”
When he kissed me, I felt the weight of all those losses, all that grief, and the miracle that we had found each other despite it—or perhaps because of it.
Later, as the afternoon faded toward evening, we sat by the fire in his study, nursing glasses of whisky from the castle’s private cask. Patrick had grown quiet, his expression troubled as he stared into the flames.
“There’s something else,” he said finally. “About the castle.”
