Chapter 1
The Border Between England and Scotland
Winter, 1820
With the fat snowflakes fast falling, Miss Lucy LeBeau—owner of The Spotted Elk inn—stared out the small, frosted, deep-set windows at the cobblestone courtyard.
The thick, heavy clouds and scent of snow portended a storm to come, and a crowded night for the tavern.
In fact, if the Scottish snow continued at its current rate, there wouldn’t be a spare seat in the taproom, nor, the good Lord willing, an empty room at the inn.
A storm couldn’t come at a more opportune time. The costs to run and maintain her parents’ beloved establishment, coupled with the unsteady numbers of patrons, threatened her livelihood and that of her Aunt Nettie and Uncle Tasgall.
When struggles are greatest and life seems most impossible, take heart in knowing wonderment awaits. Just as fate intends.That was what her Papa always promised. He’d spoken with such confidence, and Lucy spent years believing it.
Certainly, since his passing two years earlier, nothing went The Spotted Elk’s way or, more accurately,Lucy’sway.
And yet, as business-saving snowflakes floated past, it wasn’t that pledge of her Papa ringing in her ears, but the other. The one that whispered around in her mind wheneverhewas near.
Someday, my Lucy-lass, a big, braw Scot will come through those front doors of The Spotted Elk, and nothing will ever be the same…
It was him, Mr. Campbell Smith, now traversing the worn, rounded river cobbles.
He’d walked through the front doors of The Spotted Elk years earlier. Tall, blond, and attired in the finest quality woolgarments, finer than any of Lucy’s regular patrons, or, for that matter, any that passing gentlemen had ever donned.
And yet she hadn’t fallen in love with him for his braw good looks—though he was plenty bonny. Nor the generous coin he unfailingly gave, monies enough to pay a sennight of tavern expenses. It’d been how kind he was to Lucy, Aunt Nettie, and Uncle Tasgall, and her late da. And the smile he unfailingly wore. And the wave he gave to passersby.
And the fact he knew her name.
Not: Lucy.Everyonecalled her Lucy or lass.
Mr. Smith did not.
Whenever he spent the night, ordered a tankard and meal, or was just passing by, it was always…
“Miss LeBeau!” he called. “Good day to you!”
Too smitten to be embarrassed, Lucy waved the rag in her hand and then swiftly reached for the latches.
The rusty latches.
Cursing quietly to herself, she fought with metal as old as the 300-year-old establishment itself.
Her already nub of a nail snapped. Pain shot along her finger.
But then her efforts were rewarded.
Click.
A fresh blast of snow and wind hit Lucy’s face, and the sharp sting of winter briefly sucked the air from her lungs.
Neither her earlier pain, nor the sudden cold against her skin, could she feel. Not as long as he was near.
Cupping her hands around her mouth, Lucy called out, “Hello, Mr. Smith! It is a joy to see you.”
Nettie’s low, pained groan sounded over Lucy’s shoulder. “Try and sound less eager, will you, lass?” she whispered.
Mr. Smith doffed his hat and waved. “It is always a pleasure seeing you!”
