Danger on the Loch, page 1
Cover image: Dominating the fog © stock_colors, courtesy of istockphotography.com
Cover design by Natalie Brown
Cover design copyright © 2021 by Covenant Communications, Inc.
Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.
American Fork, Utah
Copyright © 2021 by Paige Edwards
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect
the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.
First Printing: April 2021
ISBN: 978-1-52441-522-8
For
Ladd Edwards—you are my rock.
And for Traci Abramson and Ellie Whitney.
Praise for Paige Edwards
“Danger on the Loch grips your attention with its mix of romance and mystery to which any reader regardless of age can relate in terms of identity, family, and relationships. Castle Rannoch is a brilliant setting that breathes with a life of its own. With its stone walls, secret passages, and staircases, it exudes an air of mystery and foreboding that you want to unravel. Paige Edwards has created a mystery case worthy of someone like Sherlock Holmes to crack. The estate is a character in itself made only more haunting by the diverse characters within it. As part of the Pressley-Coombes Series, Danger on the Loch meets reader expectations in terms of offering high-tension suspense and feel-good romance.”
—Vincent Dublado, Readers’ Favorite
“Filled with vivid description, unique characters, and page-turning tension, Danger on the Loch is a perfect blend of suspense and romance. Paige Edwards’s new release will thrill her many fans and garner her countless more.”
—Sian Ann Bessey, award-winning author of An Uncommon Earl
“In Danger on the Loch, Paige Edwards has done a masterful job combining contemporary mystery and suspense with the United Kingdom’s high society. DNA results, an unexpected meeting between father and daughter, and a blossoming romance are only a small piece of a story set in vividly-described Scotland. With stolen bank transfers, a possible traitor within the household, and a potential terrorist attack looming, expect to lose some sleep while racing to find out if James and Paisley will be able to survive long enough to find their happily ever after.
Paige Edwards just keeps getting better. Danger on the Loch is her best work yet.”
—Traci Hunter Abramson, award-winning author of the Guardian series
“Paige Edwards delivers again. This book is the whole package: page-turning suspense, heart pounding romance, and an ending so satisfying you’ll give an audible sigh as you read the last page.”
—Heidi Kimball, author of Where the Stars Meet the Sea
“Edwards knows precisely how to blend suspense, romance, and depth of feeling in such a thrilling manner it will leave readers anxious for more.”
—Esther Hatch, author of A Proper Charade
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Dave Woodruff for his banking expertise. To Traci Hunter Abramson and Ellie Whitney for their encouragement during this last year when I wrestled for every word. For my critique group, Traci, Ellie, and Kyla—you ladies are such amazing writers. It’s an honor to be a member of this group.
To my children, Angela, David & Carrie, and Ashley & Shawn. A mother couldn’t ask for better children. To my mother- and father-in-law, Eddie and Katharine Edwards, for their constant love, support, and encouragement. And to the seventeen grands that call me Bock Bock: Connor, Nathanael, Hiram, Evie, Braden, Crew, Mariah, Cohen, Brighton, Jasmin, Zoey, Peyton, Emma, Hayden, Olive, James, and Finn.
To my editor, Ashley Gebert, who is always professional, makes my manuscripts shine, and is just a delightful human being. To Natalie Brown for the gorgeous cover that so perfectly captures both elements of this story, and to Amy Parker, my publicist and marketing guru extraordinaire. Your energy should be bottled and sold. To all the rest of the Covenant family, thank you for your dedication to clean and wholesome entertainment. I love you guys.
Most especially to my sweetheart, Ladd, who encourages and supports me on this crazy writing adventure, tromps the UK with me on a regular basis, and enjoys medieval castles almost as much as I do.
Lastly, I am forever thankful to my Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. How I love them. They have encircled me in times of trial and raised me up on eagles’ wings.
Scottish Vocabulary
4x4—SUV
Aye—Yes
Ah dinnae ken—I don’t know
Awa’ an bile yer heid—A term of exclamation if someone is doing something stupid and it’s annoying to you
Bairn—Baby, or child
Bonnet—Hood of car
Boot—Car trunk
Burn—Stream
Cannae—Cannot
Ghillie brogues—Scottish dancing shoes
Hairy sporran—Part of male Scottish Highland dress; is a pouch that performs the same function as pockets on the pocketless kilt. Made of leather or fur
Highlands—Mountainous part of Scotland, north of Glasgow
Hillwalking—Americans’ hike, New Zealanders’ tromp, the British hillwalk
Ken—Know
Kissing gate—A type of gate that allows people, but not livestock, to pass through
Lad—Boy
Lass—Girl
Layby—An area at the side of a road where vehicles may pull off and stop
Lead—Leash
Loch—Lake
Mist—Fog
Munro—Mountain
Munro bagging—The activity of climbing all the listed Munros over 3,000 ft.
Och—Used to express surprise, or to emphasize agreement or disagreement with what has just been said
Primogeniture—The right of succession belonging to the firstborn child by which the whole real estate of an intestate is passed to the eldest son
Prince Charlie Jacket—A formal black-tie Highland dress jacket
Save your breath to cool your porridge—Look after your own affairs
Sgian-dubh—A short knife worn in the male stockings of traditional Scottish Highland dress
Scottish reel—Scottish country dances
Sett (Tartan)—The pattern of a tartan
Tae—To
Tartan—Plaid
Torch—Flashlight
Verges—Side shoulder of the road
Verra—Very
Wee—Small, little, young
Prologue
Sir Edmund Dalrymple, lead in Scotland’s World Finance Bank investigation, tromped the overgrown path edging Loch Morar while his eyes scanned the empty shoreline for a good place to set up his fishing pole.
A sharp wind from the north stung his eyes, and he paused to readjust his scarf. The forested hills on both sides of the vast body of water showed tinges of scarlet and gold. This would likely be his last fishing expedition before winter descended on the Highlands.
Setting off again, he passed a dilapidated croft whose roof had gone, and only broken granite walls remained. Pebbles rattled on the path. Edmund turned sharply to discover the cause, but an empty trail stretched through the thicket of trees. Attributing the noise to the overpopulation of red deer that roamed the area, he moved on.
He had taken a much-needed break from the bank investigation and had driven to Mallaig to clear the cobwebs from his brain. The deeper he dug into the WFB inquest, the more he unearthed. Alarming discrepancies in account finances had come to light, reaching far beyond UK shores. He had an appointment with the First Minister of Scotland on Monday to report his findings.
After sighting a clearing along the shore, Edmund pushed through the undergrowth of saplings to reach the rocky scree beside the water’s edge. Anticipation hummed through him as he set down his creel and tackle to bait his hook. He had every intention of catching his limit before he went home. The idea of frying fish for supper made his mouth water.
Another rattle of loose stones, this time much closer, accompanied by the ring of nailed boots on rock. Hair rose on Edmund’s arms. He leaned to set down his pole. Before he could, a sting in his neck, like the jab of a needle, came from behind. Images blurred and spun. He flung out his arms to keep his balance, but his knees buckled, and his heart stopped before he hit the rocks.
Chapter 1
The bus doors whooshed open, and Paisley Clark clattered down the steps to the brick sidewalk. With a clang of gears and a puff of exhaust, the public transit vehicle lumbered toward its next stop, leaving her in the heart of the small riverfront city of Fredericksburg, Virginia.
Paisley slung her camera bag over her shoulder and started down the tree-lined street toward the restaurant where she worked. Gold and orange leaves fluttered in the late afternoon breeze and gathered in piles against the wrought-iron fence surrounding St. George’s Episcopal Church and cemetery.
She slowed her steps and gazed up at the tall pointed steeple that
Adjusting the aperture, Paisley then focused on the spire in an attempt to capture the glint of sunlight on the tip of the steeple. Not liking the angle, she backed into the road, her eyes set solely on her optical viewfinder.
A horn blared. Tires squealed. And a midsize SUV stopped five feet to her left.
The driver lowered his window. “Get out of the way, lady.”
“Sorry.” Paisley’s face burned. She regained the curb and cringed when the driver shook his head at her and swerved back into traffic.
As she packed her camera away, her hand brushed against the small outdated model at the bottom of her bag. Without conscious thought, her fingers ran over the etched words on the housing, a message her father had sent to her so long ago . . . the only proof of his existence and love.
Paisley had quickly learned at a young age that the topic of her father was strictly taboo. Mom had refused to speak his name and had changed her and Paisley’s surnames when Paisley was too young to remember her original one.
On her eighth birthday, a package had arrived by private courier. Since it was addressed to Paisley, she had opened it before her mother returned from work. Inside was a camera with a flash attachment and several lenses. There was no return address—not even a card.
Paisley was enchanted with her gift.
When her mother had arrived home from work and saw the present, she had been furious and had threatened to toss it out. Paisley had cried buckets and begged to keep the camera. Reluctantly, her mother had acquiesced.
Paisley found the message scratched into the plastic housing: To Paisley. Love, Dad. Some internal sensor had kept her from telling her mother about the message. Even at such a young age, Paisley had realized her mother had known the sender’s identity, and that was what had precipitated Mom’s fury.
Paisley had long since advanced to more sophisticated cameras, but that 35mm remained her most cherished possession.
By the time she reached middle school, Paisley had scoured her townhouse from basement to attic for a picture, a note, a name—anything associated with her father’s identity. But not one shred of evidence had survived her parents’ divorce.
Her mother had obliterated him from their lives.
The mystery of her father’s identity had preyed on Paisley all her life. Who was he? And if her father loved her, why had he abandoned her?
Those questions and others had driven her to take a DNA test in the hope of connecting with someone in her father’s family—someone who could give her the answers she sought.
Just this morning, the DNA bank had sent her a possible parental connection. Since Mom insisted DNA collecting was a scam to compile personal information, the DNA relationship could only be her father’s. Paisley had opened the email with bated breath.
Cameron Douglas. Her father’s name was Cameron Douglas, and he was from Scotland. That wasn’t altogether surprising. Her DNA results had come back as 87 percent Scots, 8 percent Norwegian, and 5 percent Irish.
Her father had kept his family tree private. After a quick Google search of all Cameron Douglases in Scotland, she had given up. There were too many results to guess which one he was.
Rounding the corner, Paisley passed the rickety picnic table beside the graveled lot behind the restaurant where she and her coworkers took breaks. Her musings had occupied her all the way to the work.
Since the DNA site had linked her to her father, she had waited—vacillating between a desire to contact him and fear of what would happen if she did.
***
Paisley paused in the act of gathering the entrées off the restaurant’s stainless-steel counter to double-check the meal tickets.
“Get a move on, Paisley,” the sous-chef hollered above the clatter of crockery and sizzling steak.
She hoisted the tray of main courses onto her shoulder and straightened to her full five-foot-one height, then started for the dual swinging door, her four-inch heels clicking on the tile floor. If her photography business took off again, maybe she could drop a few shifts and get her own place—again.
As she entered the main dining room, her eyes drifted to the entrance, where a pair of newcomers conversed with the hostess. The tray of entrées wobbled in Paisley’s hands. What was James Pressley-Coombes doing back in Virginia?
The soft glow from the wall sconces highlighted James’s strong jaw and cheekbones as he and his companion followed the hostess to a linen-covered table. Paisley continued to her assigned area and set out her orders. “Here you go,” she said.
Her eyes drifted across the room to James. He took a seat with his back to her, but she had a clear view of his date. Paisley started in surprise. Sidney Colby had pursued James since she and Paisley were freshmen in high school and he a celebrated senior.
She tore her eyes away from the couple and moved on to the next table in her section.
“Could I interest you in some coffee or dessert?” Paisley asked a young married pair.
“We’d like to split a banana pudding.” The pretty blonde smiled up at Paisley, and the air around her fairly sparkled.
“Are you here for a special occasion?” Paisley glanced back and forth between the two. They hadn’t ordered from the exclusive wine menu, yet they seemed in jubilant spirits. The blonde glanced at her partner, a short man with glasses and a besotted smile, as though asking for permission. He nodded slightly.
“We just found out we’re expecting,” the blonde said.
“Congratulations.” Paisley’s smile shone on both of them. “That’s definitely something to celebrate.”
“Thank you,” the blonde said.
Straightening, Paisley wrote down their dessert choice and moved to her next table with only the smallest glance in James’s direction. He raised a hand in greeting and mouthed something to her, but Paisley couldn’t make it out.
Sidney tapped James on the shoulder to regain his attention, then flipped her hair several times. The woman was about as subtle as the rumble of a Mack truck’s Jake brake. Paisley tossed James a brief smile to acknowledge his greeting on her way to the manager’s office and rapped on the wood frame surrounding the door.
“Yes?” came the muffled response.
She poked her head inside the small office. “We’ve got a newly expecting couple at table fourteen. They’re here to celebrate.”
“Let me guess; you want their dessert on the house?” Her manager, a tall beanpole of a man, glanced up from his computer screen.
“They’re so cute. C’mon. It’s their first baby.”
“Paisley, do you know how many free desserts I give out every time you’re on shift?”
“It’s just pudding. You aren’t giving away the Taj Mahal. Besides, you know it’s good PR.” Paisley batted her eyes.
“Fine. But you take care of it. I’m up to my ears in food orders.” He turned back to his calculations, then asked offhandedly, “By the way, have you figured out if you’re going to reach out to your dad or not?”
“No.”
“No, you aren’t, or no, you haven’t figured it out yet?” He glanced up from his computer screen again. “You’re chasing a pipe dream if you do. A loser like that has nothing to offer. People make their own happiness, Paisley.”
“Thanks for the pudding and the free advice.” Her manager was entitled to his own opinion, but Paisley had no intention of labeling her father until she had all the facts.
She hustled to the kitchen. Typically, the manager presented on-the-house desserts, but Paisley didn’t mind taking on that duty. Grabbing a ticket, she put her manager’s name on it and snagged a banana pudding and two spoons off the dessert counter.
“I’ve got an on-the-house pudding,” she called to the pastry chef. Crossing the tiled floor, Paisley placed her shoulder against the swinging door, backed out, pivoted on her heel, and rammed into a hard chest.
“Oomph.”
Paisley made a wild grab as the pudding dish flew into the air and spilled yellow goop down the front of her uniform. Luckily, she caught the bowl before it hit the floor and shattered.
