Snowed In with the Scot

By Hannah Morse

Scottish sculptor Broc Muir is right where he wants to be on Christmas Eve, alone in a remote Highlands castle with his current project. There are no decorations, no holiday music, and while a blizzard is bearing down on him and his only clean outfit is his kilt, he can grumble all he wants since nobody’s around to hear him.

Dawson Clark is back on Earth after more than a year in the close confines of the International Space Station. He loves Christmas but wants to spend it away from the demands of a hectic family, so accepts an offer to stay in a Scottish castle. With a van full of decorations, he pulls up to an ancient edifice just as a storm starts, only to find the castle already has a very handsome occupant.

The two men are stranded together. Can the magic of Christmas help two very different people find in each other what they need the most?

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: Jan 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685500276

Book preview

Chapter 1

Snow fluttered down, coating everything with a pristine blanket of white.

Broc glared up at the magical, delicate flakes floating through the evening sky and flipped off the heavens with both hands.

Fuck you, you bloody bastard, he growled. Sure, it was Christmas Eve and if there was ever a time for cold and snow this was it, but the old castle he was a caretaker for was huge and drafty. He’d had no idea when he’d taken the job back in the very long-ago days of summer that he’d be freezing his balls off most of the blasted time.

Lack of insulation had to be the reason his ancestors had given up living in them in the first place. The shite Wi-Fi and lack of close takeaway were other good reasons not to be way out in the middle of sodding nowhere in the Scottish Highlands. Broc would commit murder for a decent curry.

He hefted an armload of firewood from the pile and headed for the door he’d left propped open on the side of one of the towers. He’d already made nine other trips as the clouds had gathered, and he should be set for a few days if the blizzard the weatherman kept predicting finally arrived. He also had a couple of space heaters, but he kept those in his bedroom so he wouldn’t freeze in his sleep.

The long night stretched ahead of him. He’d call his mum, throw something from the freezer into the microwave, and then head back into his studio to literally chip away at the marble block from which a statue had begun to emerge. Having plenty of time to work on the commission was why he’d taken the job in the first place. Broc was an introvert at the best of times, and he’d gotten downright surly as he’d stalled out on the statue. After making sure his mum would be spending the holidays with her sister, along with his cousins and their broods, he’d packed his hatchback full of supplies and hied off to the magnificent and remote Abhainn Castle, so named for the river that merrily ran over rocks beside it. The river was wide and deep enough that it wasn’t easy to cross, and the castle had once guarded the only ford for miles.

Now it was owned by some wealthy American who never had time to visit, but wanted the place kept relatively maintained and guarded, so here Broc was, doing his best to convince nine-hundred-year-old stones to stay piled one atop another and the 1950s wiring to not go up in smoke.

He added his load of chopped wood to the huge pile beside the stone fireplace. It had a flue, also added in 1950. With a log chucked on the coals the room was cheery enough. He was on the fourth floor of the one stone tower, the rest of the keep a silent dark hulk. The caretaker’s quarters was the only place with working plumbing and electricity most of the time, and he appreciated that he wasn’t huddled in some hut.

The lines of the old place’s roof would look right cheery with stands of brightly colored lights, but he’d never so much as bothered with having a Christmas tree. His mum, bless her, had worked hard to make ends meet and to make sure Broc was put through art school, but it’d left precious little time for frivolities like decorating. He’d always understood, even as a child. As an adult, he knew all the beautiful pageantry in the world couldn’t cover ugliness.

The payment he’d receive for the commission, a monstrously huge statue meant to stand in a public garden but thankfully not due until spring, would be enough to buy his mum the posh flat she deserved.

He chose a beef stroganoff from the ancient old fridge that wheezed in the tiny kitchen. With it warming in the microwave, Broc took a carton of eggnog from the fridge. It was the kind without any booze in it, since he still had work to do.

The horse had emerged from the white block easily enough, and he was busily detailing the feathering on the horse’s legs now, but the rider remained a mystery, still trapped in the stone. Broc had once thought to make the rider look like his ex-boyfriend, but Gordon had turned out to be a rank cheating bastard.

You’re a much better roommate, Broc told the tattered, one-eyed old cat that had trotted to the room. She’d come with the castle, and more or less responded to being called ‘Cat’ so he’d thought that a good enough name. Cat liked to sleep on the pillow next to him and she’d listen to him talk while he carved in exchange for the occasional bit of tuna or cream. Want some eggnog? he asked, shaking