When Harry had quizzed her about the familial row the following day, it had all tumbled out. At only eighteen, she had bowed to parental pressure and let Harry go. She had never been sure how much Harry had cared for her to begin with, but when he married six months later, it was obvious that his emotions had not gone as deep as her own.

The Ford Fiesta hit a pothole and jarred her painfully back to the present. They swept down a steep embankment and entered the village, taking the roundabout past a row of houses and a small pub that also served as a hotel.

Less than a minute later, Harry pulled into a small car park alongside a one-story stone building with a bright-red door. He set the brake and hopped out, letting the engine tick over.

“Be back in a jiff.” Harry slammed the car door and bounded up the steps.

Sammy sat up in the back seat and rubbed his eyes. “Are we there yet?” he asked, his voice husky from sleep.

“Almost. We’ve stopped at the estate agent’s office to pick up the key to your father’s cottage.”

“Oh.” Sammy yawned and looked about with more interest. “There’s a cracking stream. I hope we have one in our garden.”

Elise eyed the swift current with new eyes. For a child of Sammy’s ilk, a white-water river would spell disaster. Perhaps she should teach him about water horses or kelpies, as some called the shape-shifting spirits of aquatic legend that appeared as a tame pony beside a river. Once a person climbed onto its back, its sticky magical hide would not allow them to dismount. Elise highly suspected parents had dreamed up those kelpies to keep their children from playing too close to the shore.

The driver’s door opened, letting in a gust of cool air. Harry climbed back behind the wheel. “That didn’t take too long, did it?”

“Not at all. How far is your rental?” Elise asked.

Harry typed the address into the satnav. “The cottage is fairly close to your family’s estate.”

“That’s handy.”

“We’ll set you down at the castle and be on our way.”

“You live in a castle?” Sammy piped up from the backseat.

“Aye.” Elise nodded.

“You said that like Thierry,” Sammy told her confidingly.

“I suppose it’s because we’re both Scots.”

“But you don’t sound much like one,” Sammy argued almost accusingly.

Harry laughed, the strong column of his throat bobbing his Adam’s apple. “Buckle up, Sammy. I assure you, Lady Elise is a Scot and lives in a castle.” He reversed out of the car park, and soon they were on the road to Torwoodlee Castle.

“I don’t have much of an accent because I’ve lived in London for ages,” Elise said, taking pity on the boy.

“Oh.”

Her response appeared to dampen Sammy’s interest.