Hidden Beyond the Brae: Lowlands Adventure Romance, #1

By Isabel Glover

Charlotte Miller, a fantasy author from New York City, attends an exclusive writer's retreat in Scotland. While she plans to spend her time writing the last novel of her series, she finds herself dealing with a traumatic secret that has changed her life. Terrified of being found out, she becomes drawn to one of the other authors as the retreat, Samuel Callister, a mysterious Scottish poet who has his own deadly secrets and lies. With their dark pasts, they find themselves intertwining their future, struggling to heal and find a place to feel safe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Isabel Glover
• Release date: Jan 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393228936

Book preview

Chapter 1 - Charlotte

So what do you plan on doing with this last book of the series?

This was not the first time Charlotte Miller’s agent had asked this question, though it would be the last. Charlotte had hoped pricey international phone calls would dissuade Penny from contacting her, though Penny seemed more concerned than Charlotte with the marketing and fan-base of the A Blossom of Spheres series. Penny was the agent though, not a writer. That was all Charlotte's job.

I’ll let you know first, of course. Charlotte looked out at the Scottish landscape strolling past the backseat window of the taxicab. The round black vehicle traveled away from urban buildings and industrial sites, running along green hills that dipped down below the road before scooping back up into the sky to touch the Carolina blue clouds. Sunlight punched through the fog in little spouts and trickles. Behind the worn stone walls of farms were fields of horses and sheep, grazing on the tall grass.

Have you done any preparation? Penny’s voice sounded strained, as if she was trying not to reprimand Charlotte, but wanted to stress how important this last book was.

You know my process, Charlotte said, keeping her eyes on the grey horizon of incoming rain.

Yes, fine. Penny’s grin could be heard. At least you won’t have any distractions. How’s pizza boy?

Charlotte felt the air in her lungs grow stale. She couldn’t suck in air; didn’t remember how as she remembered her boyfriend.

"John, Charlotte forced her own lips into a smile, glancing at the indifferent taxi driver, Is good. We had breakfast yesterday, then he went to work."

Working hard, Penny said sarcastically, Making pizza. Does he still believe his job is more important than yours, or has your bestsellers changed his mind?

Pen... Charlotte looked down at her shaking hand, and curled it into a fist.

I’m sorry! Penny continued, unapologetic. Did New York City need another pizza shop? What would happen if he decided to just trust you and your income?

Penny, come on. Charlotte’s chest was tight and her stomach began to tumble like a boulder down a hill.

I know I said I wouldn’t bring it up. Penny let a loud sigh that vibrated through the phone against Charlotte’s cheek. I just want you to focus on this retreat. Not many people get chosen, and you need to take advantage of this opportunity. Forget about the city. Forget about life at home, ‘kay?

If only it was that easy. Charlotte watched the green fields filter into a thin forest. Alright.

Meet any hot Scottish guys? Penny added quickly.

Charlotte thought about the tall man at the airport. He had dark wavy hair like the bottom of an ocean where no light touched. His skin was fair, much lighter than hers as her summer tan had not yet begun fading. His eyes had seemed bright, though Charlotte had not seen them well under the plaid cap he wore. From what she could tell, he was handsome, with a set jaw that held the lightest amount of stubble. The mental image was enough to clear her mind for a few seconds. Then the chaos of memories re-ensued and she shuddered.

I thought you told me to focus. Charlotte said to Penny, meaning for her words to be light but they came out harsh and cold.

Every writer has their thing, so I don’t care if your process is sex everynight or murder once a month. Don’t get writer's block and start that book. Penny’s choice of examples shut Charlotte up for the rest of the trip, thankful the cell signal dropped in the woods.

Her mind was not quiet, though, as she looked down at her thin hands. Unable to look at her own skin for long, she looked around the car, and down at the seat next to her. Her purse and two bags rested there, holding her clothes and laptop. She thought about how the white laptop case had looked exactly like a bag the Scottish man had been waiting for. And grabbed.

That was how Charlotte got a closer look at the man at the airport. She had grabbed his bag when he had grabbed hers. She opened it up, realizing how different it felt in weight. She had seen no laptop. Instead, there were documents neatly placed in manilla folders. Quickly, she had turned to look at the conveyor belt again but had been met with the steel gaze of that man. In his own hand was her bag.

Bit of a mix-up? The man spoke with a thick Scottish accent.

Yes. Charlotte tried not to be rude but wanted her bag back immediately, so dropped his bag on his feet and took hers from his grasp. Should start writing our names in big letters on the sides.

She turned and placed her bag on a chair, and inspected the contents inside. He hadn’t stolen any of her belongings.

Can you tell me which way—

When she looked back up, he was walking away. The only bag he held was the white one. She had stared after him, noticing his perfect posture; a sad demeanor.

The recent events of the last twenty-four hours faded from Charlotte’s thoughts as the taxicab slowed down a gravel driveway. At the end of the lane was a castle. The castle.

The red brick was the perfect balance of age and support. The spires daggered the sky, demanding respect and loyalty. Looking up at the intriguing stone structure, Charlotte wondered if this was the place where she could hide, or if this was a place that would break her. As she reached for the door handle of the taxicab, she wondered if she was already broken and if the castle could fix her. After what she had done, would the castle want to repair the cracks even if it held the power to heal.

Chapter 2 - Samuel

Where to, sir?

Far away as possible. Samuel Callister placed the package on his lap and glanced at the driver. Kirkland Mall, please.

Any baggage, sir? The driver glanced at the single white bag with little interest.

No. Samuel looked out the window at the airport travelers, going about their easy, relaxing lives. No baggage at all.

The taxi left the airport and went into the city. The short drive gave Samuel enough time to think about what just happened. A person intercepted the package.

Why did the organization have to pick a bag that could have easily been mixed up? Because it just did, and the entire plan may have just been foiled. The pretty blonde woman did not seem too interested in the documents when she rushed for her own belongings. This doesn’t mean she was acting and had already gotten the information she needed if she was undercover. From what Samuel could tell, the woman hadn’t held his bag for long, but he could never be too sure.

His other question: what was an American doing in Scotland? Well, that could easily be answered. She was a tourist. Solo traveler, from the looks of it. Compared to other backpackers, dressed in their sweat wicking camping clothes and frizzy, bandana-pinned hair, this woman did not look ready for a hike. The only thing that would benefit her in the Scotland terrain were her black boots, which were the dirtiest piece of her wardrobe. The rest of her looked warm enough to bar against the frigid climate of early autumn, though skinny jeans and a leather jacket, possibly pleather, were not meant for the outdoors.

When the woman had turned, Samuel had a difficult time speaking. A rare occasion. He didn’t really speak much to begin with, but he always had the ability. He saw the woman’s big blue eyes set in her tiny, narrow face. Her long wavy hair fell over her shoulders. And Samuel couldn’t help but wonder where he had seen her before. That’s when he wondered if she really was a spy, and they’d crossed paths in a different country during an old mission.

Is here alright? The driver’s voice pierced into Samuel’s thoughts.

Quite alright, thank you. Samuel stepped out of the car with the package. I’ll be gone for some time, so I’ll find another cab.

After paying the driver, Samuel turned toward the mall and headed through the large front sliding doors.

There were enough crowds to blend in, despite how tall Samuel was. He tugged his cap over his forehead, though it was already low enough to shadow his eyebrows. He looked for the food court on the map. There was a shop for burgers, one for ice cream, one for Chinese food, and one for Italian. Right in between the Chinese store and ice cream parlor, there was a jewelry store. Strange place to put a jewelry store in the food court rather than near it.

Samuel went up the escalator and to the food court. The jewelry store looked odd wedged between the food shops. The diamonds and sapphires glittered behind the spotless display cases, reflecting light off onto the ice cream parlor’s poster. Samuel didn’t know if the flashy display intentionally lit up the food shops, and noticed the lines of shoppers eager to buy orange chicken and chocolate chip cookie dough.

Inside the tiny department room of glamour and shine, a skinny, balding man stood behind the counter. He smiled up at Samuel, his eyes barely noticing the white bag. Samuel noticed the magnetic name tag hanging from the crisp-white button-up: James.

What can I help you with today? James asked, leaning against the counter in a classic businessman pose. Need a ring for your girl?

What girl? Samuel gave a professional smile at James. I have a delivery for Hilary.

To an ordinary person, James’ eyes would have appeared to stay the same size. Yet with Samuel’s expertise and line of duty, he noticed the micro-change when James’ eyelids opened large before settling back into an easy, confident expression.

Ah, yes. James nodded, continuing his grin and reaching for the bag. She only comes here on Thursdays during her lunch break. Take care.

Samuel handed the package over, and James retrieved the bag as if it was just another shipment of gems, knowing the contents were even more fragile. With a curt nod, Samuel turned and left the store. He smelled the burgers and chips from the American food chain, and his stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten breakfast. Couldn’t eat from the anxiety. He ignored the food chains lining the walls, and went back down and outside to grab another taxi.

Gowan Castle. Samuel told the driver.

Isn’t that where all the authors go? This driver was younger, and when he smiled at Samuel, he presented a few missing teeth.

Why, yes. Samuel grinned, showing his own full set of white teeth. I am a poet.

The taxi edged its way through parking lot traffic, but eventually found its way in the suburbs, then countryside. Samuel found himself slipping back into his thoughts, his hands now empty. He still felt the weight pressing down on his chest.

Samuel had read the documents. He knew what his supervisors were setting up and he knew it was important. This was his last mission, before he was allowed to leave and find a new job. A better job. An occupation that allowed him to carry on conversations with pretty blonde women at airports instead of suspecting them of deception. He wanted a job that didn’t have to do with murder.

In less than an hour, the taxi arrived at Samuel’s childhood home. The large red brick property grew dark as the sun was lowering past the woods and hills. The lights were on in most of the windows, reminding Samuel of old family gatherings and parties. It was a distant memory as there hadn’t been a gathering since he was a boy of single digits. Now, though, the organization is allowing the gatherings to begin again, though mostly for a cover up.

Thank you for the ride. Samuel told the driver before watching the taxi roll away on the gravel drive, back to the highways and cities and crowds. Then he turned around and went inside.

Samuel heard voices, and saw shadows agitating the glow, exhausting from the lights of the dining room on the first floor. He was tired and much needed to lay down in his guest room, though his uncle, Don, would not have it. Samuel needed to pretend to be a writer on this exclusive retreat, and needed to be socially active, even for a poet.

Entering the dining room, Samuel first noticed Don. His uncle looked strange, sitting in an argyle sweater, tweed pants, and shiny oxfords. Especially strange with the round wire-rimmed glasses as Don had better vision than Sam, who still didn’t need glasses. It was all part of the act.

The second thing Samuel noticed was the four guests, one of which held the bright blue eyes of the woman from the airport, staring back at him.

Chapter 3 - Ellen

Drinking that wine a little fast, eh?

The snarky words had come from the thin lips of the writer from London, who wore his button up too tight and his socks colorful and bright. Ellen Bouchard had not reached her level of success by listening to young entrepreneurial men. She did not plan on spending the second half of her life listening to anyone, really.

Ellen answered the man named George by sipping her second glass of wine, her eyes peering up at him with thick, dark eyelashes. Seemingly surprised at her boldness, he stared back with creases around his eyes, met with a small wrinkle at the corners of his lips. From what Ellen had seen of the men at the retreat so far, she was only interested in George.

The man in charge of the writer’s retreat, Don, did not seem interested at the slightest in Ellen. Usually an indifferent man would entice her, though there was an uneasy glint in the castle owner’s eye that gave her pause before thinking about undressing him. Despite the number of men Ellen had conquered, she still refused to be with mad ones. And Don produced that aura of craze, which many writers did so often.

The second guest was Edward, a sweet old man with graying hair and chubby, red cheeks. Even Ellen felt he was eras above her rather than just a few years older. His round belly stretched the buttons on his navy suit, and Ellen gambled that the ankles hidden under the pants were fat and bulged out from the dress shoes. No, sleeping with Edward would be wrong in many different ways, including the fact that Ellen was not attracted to him.

George would have to do. Ellen looked him over again through her half-empty wine glass, examining the way his image distorted through the clear cup.

We have enough wine, from what I’ve seen throughout the first floor. That was Charlotte, the girl from New York City.

She wasn’t a girl, really, as she had cycled through bachelors, graduate, and multiple bestselling books. Though Ellen peered down at the writer and couldn’t help but internally cringe at the wheat-colored hair and the eyes that took up half her face. And that voice, so cheery.

Yes, we have enough, Don said, leaning back in his chair. "For you all to enjoy yourselves tonight. Though tomorrow is when the work begins, so don’t get too pissed."

That means drunk. George directed at Charlotte, which made Ellen’s hands itch.

I know what it means. Charlotte gave a laugh, raising an eyebrow.

"So what are you working on, Char-lotte?" Ellen asked, unable to get rid of the harshness in her throat. Hopefully everyone thought she was being cute.

Last book of my series. Charlotte took a sip of ice water, and Ellen wondered why she wouldn’t touch the bottle of red.

Sci-fi, right? Edward asked, crumbs falling onto his chest from the bread he chewed. Ellen’s eyes locked on the microscopic bits of spit exploding from his mouth.

I have written some science fiction, Charlotte answered, Though this series is mainly fantasy.

The castle library has electronic versions of work from each one of you, Don said, Including the first two books with your series, Charlotte. It’s a chance for you all to work together between quiet hours, and to get to know each other better.

The front door of the castle creaked open, contrasting with the almost-inaudible scuffling of footsteps coming closer to the dining room. Through her fuzzy mind, Ellen saw one of the most handsome men glide into the room, taking the glow out of the candles as he appeared to be the light. It reminded her of Luke. Which soon reminded her of Billie.

The tall man appeared a bit older than George and perhaps the same age as Charlotte. Still, younger than Ellen. She hoped that didn’t matter, as she knew immediately that she wanted him.

Samuel! Don stood up, pushing his antique wooden chair back so he could step around the long table and clap the man on his shoulder. Welcome, finally! So sorry to hear about the delayed flight.

Ellen followed Samuel’s gaze, which led to Charlotte’s bug-eyed face. Of course. Ellen rolled her eyes, not able to help herself feel the broil in her chest.

This is the fifth author for the month. Don said, pulling a chair out from across Charlotte and next to Edward. Once everyone was seated, Don opened a new bottle of wine.

What do you write? Ellen asked.

Poetry. Samuel had a local accent, very similar to Don’s. The whole table waited for more from Samuel, and he glanced around with blue eyes. I usually write French poetry, that is where I just came from.

France? Charlotte asked.

Yes. Samuel’s eyes flickered across the table at her then quickly away.

Is it written in the language? George asked, and that was when Ellen noticed he placed his elbows on the table. Or is it villanovas?

Written in French. Samuel glanced at Don, his eyes lingering.

Anything you’d like to share? George asked, the question sounded like a challenge.

Do you? Samuel’s question sounded like a gunshot, the two small words a mace of thorns.

I can read my recently published novel, George suddenly placed a thick hardcover book on the table, making the plates and silverware shake with the impact, If you want.

Hey, Edward pointed to the book, grinning, Aren’t you the one who wrote a piece on the Oldcastle Revolt?

Yes, I am. George beamed, reminding Ellen of a boy who just presented a book report to his class.

Historical non-fiction? Charlotte finished her plate of food and was going for seconds, and Ellen wondered how Charlotte’s waistline was still small for her age. Never had children, Ellen thought, and felt phantom pains in her own uterus.

"Historical fiction. George told Charlotte, appearing genuinely shocked that someone in his universe doesn’t know who he is. You’ve never read my stuff?"

History isn’t for me. Charlotte raised an eyebrow at George, and Ellen couldn’t tell if Charlotte was flirting or jesting. "Haven’t you read my books? Oh, sorry, I forgot to pack them."

George’s face turned red, and Don and Edward chuckled. Ellen also noticed Samuel’s small smile, his face turned down toward his plate.

Didn’t expect this to be a competition. Edward patted his belly and leaned back in his chair, which creaked with every shift of weight. If the party does not mind, I will be turning in. The green peas and beef have made me sleepy.

Not the wine? Don’s comment received a few laughs. Sure, it’s late as it is.

Farewell, fellow friends for tonight. Edward waddled out of the room, and Ellen listened to him creek up the stairs.

What does Edward write? Samuel asked, looking at Don for an answer.

Oh, he writes essays on classical literature. Ellen jumped in, feeling the need to be heard. Teaches it at a few universities.

Which ones? Samuel asked.

Ellen was ecstatic that his eyes finally settled on her, and she smiled over her glass. St. Andrews, Glasgow... he used to teach up at Aberdeen.

I think he mentioned Oxford, too. Charlotte said.

I was going to mention that. Ellen spoke quickly, not taking her eyes off Samuel. I was only listing the Scottish ones.

You know, George said, My grandfather and my father went to Oxford. I was going to go, but I found Cambridge to be a better fit.

Uh huh. Don sounded as if the energy had been sucked out of his words, and he groaned. I believe it is time to let Joan, housekeeper, take care of the table, and for you all to get rest for tomorrow.

All hopes of being alone with Samuel died for Ellen when he left the room right after Don and Charlotte left. As George began making his way down the hallway, Ellen swayed after him. She noticed that she no longer cared about his bright green socks poking out from under his