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  PRAISE FOR

  TO SCOTLAND WITH LOVE

  “A magnificent triple-hankie debut written straight from the heart, by turns tender, funny, heart-wrenching, and wise. Prepare to smile through your tears at this deft, brave, and deeply gratifying love story.”

  —Grace Burrowes, New York Times bestselling author of the Lonely Lords series and the Windham series

  “Griffin has quilted together a wonderful, heartwarming story that will convince you of the power of love.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Janet Chapman

  “Griffin’s style is as warm and comfortable as a cherished heirloom quilt.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Lori Wilde

  “A life-affirming story of love, loss, and redemption. Patience Griffin seamlessly pieces compelling characters, a spectacular setting, and a poignant romance into a story as warm and beautiful as an heirloom quilt. Both heartrending and heartwarming, To Scotland with Love is a must-read romance and so much more. The story will touch your soul with its depth, engage you with its cast of endearing characters, and delight you with touches of humor.”

  —Diane Kelly, author of the Tara Holloway series

  SIGNET ECLIPSE

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  Copyright © Patience Jackson, 2014

  “Not Goodbye” copyright © Lynne Arrol, 2013

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  ISBN 978-0-698-14516-0

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Praise

  Title page

  Copyright page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Pronunciation Guide

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Excerpt from Meet Me in Scotland

  In memory of . . . Peter Jackson, my brother, my friend. Janet Hosea Jackson, my aunt, my mentor. And to you . . . Mom, Dad, and the grandparents. Gone but never forgotten.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my husband, James, and my children, Cagney, Mitchell, and Jamie, for cheering me on and for unloading the dishes.

  Many thanks to my Critique-Mates—Kathleen Baldwin, Carole Fowkes, and Susan Anderson. Also to Gretchen Craig, Rae-Dawn Brightman, Wayne Hill, and Bill Payne. Thanks for being there along the journey.

  Much gratitude to Grace Burrowes, brilliant romance author . . . from stranger to friend. I promise to pay it forward.

  A special thank-you to Kevan Lyon, the best agent in the world. And to the wonderful Tracy Bernstein, my editor. There’s nothing like being understood.

  PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

  Aileen (AY-leen)

  Ailsa (AIL-sa)

  Bethia (BEA-thee-a)

  Buchanan (byoo-KAN-uhn)

  Cait (KATE)

  Caitriona (kah-TREE-na)

  Céilidh (KAY-lee)—a party/dance

  Deydie (DI-dee)

  Macleod (muh-KLOUD)

  Moira (MOY-ra)

  DEFINITIONS

  Gandiegow—squall

  Hogmanay—the Scottish celebration of the New Year

  Postie—postman

  Shrove Tuesday—the day preceding Ash Wednesday

  The Quilters of Gandiegow Creed: Our life is not measured by the quilts we create but by the number of quilts we give away.

  Chapter One

  Cait Macleod frowned as the taillights of her taxi sped off into the night. She was standing in a deserted parking lot on the northeast coast of Scotland in the middle of December. All alone. Not new for her, but it sucked all the same.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said to the now-long-gone cabbie. She kicked snow off her shoe. “I’ll be fine and dandy.”

  A fierce gust of wind caught her hair, reeling it around her head like tangled fishing line. The saying You can never go home again smacked her in the face as surely as the wind did. She gazed down at the scant glow of lights rising from the coastal village below and wondered if she was crazy to think she could recapture the happiness she’d once had here. Instead of coming home with her Scottish head held high, she was coming home in defeat.

  But there was no time to ponder what was or what might be again as a wintry chill settled into her feet. She grimaced down at her metallic Brian Atwood heels immersed in the snowy slush. Clearly, she hadn’t given enough thought to her wardrobe when she’d decided to escape her crappy life in Chicago.

  “This is one hell of a birthday,” she said into the wind. Thirty-one years today.

  She’d forgotten Gandiegow was a closed community—no cars past the parking lot, only walking paths. And here she stood with four hefty suitcases and only two arms to drag them into the village. She yanked two of her bags over to a tree to wait their turn. The other two, she rolled behind her as she awkwardly hobbled into the village, all the while cussing in Gaelic.

  Gandiegow had exactly sixty-three houses arcing around the coastline, with rocky bluffs boxing in the village. The way the town snugged up against the sea made it look like an extension of the ocean. But instead of ripples of water, there were houses. She’d been born in this village. She’d watched her mother bake bread in their wood-fired stove. Her father, when he’d cared about being a good da, had taught Cait how to fish just yards from their front steps. Her cantankerous grandmother still lived here in one of the little stone cottages.

  Cait sighed heavily at her predicament. How had it come to this? Her cheating husband, Tom, was dead. Her journalism career was nearly a corpse. And her hope for reviving her life was gasping for its last breath, too.

  She stopped, pulled out her map, and checked the location of her own newly bought bungalow.
It sat farthest away, next to the bluffs, isolated but for one other house next to hers. She’d purchased the cottage sight unseen, based on a few snapshots over the Internet.

  It was the craziest thing she’d ever done, selling everything and running away. But, she reminded herself, she wasn’t really running away; she was running home. Her father had been the one to uproot Cait in the first place. When she was thirteen, he’d dragged her and Mama halfway around the world.

  “God, I haven’t turned into my da, have I?” she said to the wind.

  No. Her rash move had affected no one but herself. It was Tom’s deceit, their marriage headed for divorce court, and then the dirt mounding over his grave that had brought Cait to the breaking point. She’d had to get out of Chicago and come home to Scotland. Maybe here she could pull herself together and eventually revive her writing career.

  She went back to slogging through the slush, not really thinking about the cold. The tension that had built up over the last few days was getting to her. Now it increased exponentially, making the knot at the back of her neck feel like a burning fist.

  Deydie. The only family Cait had left.

  Her gran would wring her neck for not letting her know she was coming. Cait had tried—sort of. Before the plane lifted off, she’d called, but Deydie hadn’t answered and there’d been no machine to take a message. What kind of granddaughter waits until the last second to let her gran know she’s coming? A stupid one?

  But dang it, Deydie wasn’t your typical gran. Cait loved her, but the old gal had issues. Crabby, in-your-face issues. During their last phone call, her gran had made it perfectly clear what she thought of Cait: a chip off the old block—specifically, her father’s worthless, good-for-nothing block. Cait knew there’d be hell to pay. She’d never given Deydie a good reason for staying away so long. But what could she have said? I can’t leave town because my husband screws around at every opportunity? Or, I lost myself along the way and did everything the cheating bastard told me to do? How ridiculous Cait felt. Especially now.

  What if her grandmother and the other townsfolk rejected her? Cait hadn’t visited even when she was an adult and had the means. In Gandiegow’s eyes, that was indefensible, regardless of Tom. Cait had slapped her kinsmen in the face, and they would surely repay her by showing her their backs. What would she do then?

  The gravel and slush gave way to a cobblestone walkway. Under other circumstances, Cait would’ve found the winding sidewalk charming, but right now it felt like the devil’s path. Her heels kept getting lodged in between the stones, and every few feet, the suitcase wheels got stuck, too. If she had to lug the baggage much farther, her arms were in serious danger of being ripped from their sockets.

  Six houses and two turns of the stone walk later, she found Cottage #13. Her heart stopped. There had to be a mistake. This couldn’t be the two-bedroom bungalow she’d seen online. That one had been a quaint, one-and-a-half-story, ivy-covered dream. This one was a black, smoky ruin.

  “It figures,” Cait groaned.

  Dangling sideways from a wrought-iron post hung the #13 sign. Judging by the look of the charred wood, a fire had claimed every bit of her new home. The only parts left were the chest-high stone wall surrounding the perimeter of the house and a smoke-stained chimney jutting out of the ashes.

  Her house was dead.

  It all made sense now. Death comes in threes. Wasn’t that the old saying?

  Well, the Christmas tree back in Chicago had knocked off first. It had turned into a skeleton and dropped pine needles all over the floor. Tom, her lying, cheating weasel-of-a-husband, went next. He’d had a heart attack while inserting his holiday sausage into his mistress. And now her new home was dead, too. A freaking funeral pyre.

  A shiver, which had nothing to do with Scotland’s frigid December weather, overtook her. “I’m such a fricking idiot.” Could life get any worse?

  A fat raindrop hit her head. Then another. Just like that, the heavens opened up and dropped a crapload of rain on her dumbass head. She looked up. “Thanks.”

  She dragged her bags to the house next door with the intent of using her neighbor’s phone. While stepping up on the porch, she formulated a few choice words for the online real estate agent—the big swindler!

  Before reaching for the knocker, Cait decided to first dislodge the rock from her shoe. But when she bent over, the door suddenly opened. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man come through and stop short. She felt pretty sure, even from that angle, he was giving her ass the once-over.

  She had every intention of giving him a piece of her mind—she didn’t allow men to ogle her like a rump roast—but when she stood and saw who was eyeing her . . .

  Omigod! Mr. Darcy. She nearly fell in the ice and mud.

  She couldn’t catch her breath. Graham Buchanan. It was Graham Buchanan in person. He was so outrageously handsome, he seemed to glow and shimmer, and she couldn’t take her eyes off him. More impressive than he’d ever been on the big screen or in a magazine spread. No glitz, no glamour, no hair gel. Not put together in any sense. And better, so much better—his collar-length brown hair tousled, his beard a two-day stubble, and he wore a Scottish warrior’s frown like a badge of honor. Sexy as hell.

  She had come to this house to ask for something, but for the luvagod, she couldn’t remember what. All she could do was stare at his broad chest and tall frame. She licked her lips. His spicy cologne drew her in.

  He took a step back, ready to slam the door in her face.

  “Wait,” she cried. She still needed a phone. And to smell him a second longer—a tantalizing mixture of ginger, cardamom, and nutmeg.

  “You’re with the press,” he accused.

  How did he know? Graham Buchanan must have a sixth sense.

  But right now, who cared? His Scottish burr rolled off his tongue like melted caramel. She wanted to lap him up. And the pheromones flying off him were so palpable, they had her wanting to drop to her knees and offer herself up as his love slave, his sex kitten, his everything.

  Get it together, Cait.

  She straightened herself up and took a deep breath, then lied as if her career depended on it. “I am not with the press.” Not anymore. Editing Chicago Fishermen’s Monthly didn’t count when it came to journalistic credits.

  She looked into his golden brown eyes. Being near him caused her heart to bang against her insides like a wild badger inside a metal drum. She closed her eyes, trying to center herself. It didn’t work. She felt like the envy of all ovulating women in the free world. It wasn’t every day she stood in the presence of the Sexiest Man Alive.

  It hit her then like a wrecking ball—oomph. The headline from People magazine in her carry-on bag—Graham Buchanan Gone Missing Again. According to People, no stone had gone unturned, yet she’d stumbled into him, now only three feet away. She’d found the lost actor. Cait Macleod had done it—found Graham Buchanan!

  Inside the cottage, another man’s voice rang out from behind Graham. “What is it?” He sounded a little perturbed.

  Graham’s eyebrows furrowed, distrust shrouding his features. “I’m not sure,” he called. Any second now he’d slam the door in her face.

  Cait stuck her hand in the jamb. “I need to use the phone.”

  “Then you’re not a journalist?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You look like one of those leeching paparazzi—”

  “Heavens, no. I—I—” Her brain faltered, and the stupidest answer came out. “I’m a quilter.”

  Graham jerked back. “You’re a what?” He closed the door a bit more.

  A small boy saved her. He came up behind Graham and grabbed his hand. The kid looked about six, with dark red hair, sad eyes, and an even sadder mouth. Graham put his arm protectively around him. “Go back to your da, Mattie.” Obediently, the boy turned and left.

  Graham watched him u
ntil he disappeared; then he gave her his full scrutiny again. “Usually, I’m right about these things. I can’t believe you’re not with the press.”

  “You’re wrong this time, buster.” Her Episcopal upbringing had her wanting to make the sign of the cross, a little protection against lying so fervently. And for calling the megastar buster. She gestured toward her misfortune. “That’s my house next door.” She took a couple of deep breaths, trying to regain her composure. “The one that looks like a campfire gone awry.” She made sure she looked him square in the face so he wouldn’t know she’d lied about her profession. What a bonus that he was so easy on the eyes.

  He leaned out and nodded toward her house. “She went up in flames day before yesterday.”

  Cait gazed over at her cremated house as well. “I knew it was too good to be true. I’m plagued with bad luck.”

  “Luck has nothing to do with it.” He shrugged. “Faulty wiring is what I hear.”

  “About that phone? My cell’s dead.” She wiped the rain from her eyes.

  He seemed to wake up to the fact that she was soaked. “Come in.” He still sounded leery, but stepped to the side and opened the door fully. “Duncan, you have company.”

  “What?” A young man appeared, the same height as Graham, so much like the actor it made Cait stare at both of them. Two things hit her at once.

  The man behind Graham was little Duncan MacKinnon, whom she’d once protected from a bully at Gandiegow’s one-room schoolhouse. Shoot, she’d babysat for him a time or two as well. Duncan would be, what, twenty-five or twenty-six by now?

  Second, and most unbelievably, Duncan MacKinnon was undoubtedly Graham Buchanan’s son. People insisted the star had no family. But the resemblance was just overwhelming. And the sad little boy—Graham’s grandson? She rubbed her temples. It was almost too much to take in.

  “Duncan, meet your new neighbor.” Graham looked at her quizzically. “Miss . . . ?”

  “Caitriona Macleod.”