Happy Release Day!
Under Loch and Key is the latest paranormal romance by Lana Ferguson!
Get your copy today!
About the Book
Keyanna “Key” MacKay is used to secrets. Raised by a single father who never divulged his past, it’s only after his death that she finds herself thrust into the world he’d always refused to speak of. With just a childhood bedtime story about a monster that saved her father’s life and the name of her estranged grandmother to go off of, Key has no idea what she’ll find in Scotland. But repeating her father’s mistakes and being rescued by a gorgeous, angry Scotsman—who thinks she’s an idiot—is definitely the last thing she expects.
Lachlan Greer has his own secrets to keep, especially from the bonnie lass he pulls to safety from the slippery shore—a lass with captivating eyes and the last name he’s been taught not to trust. He’s looking for answers as well, and Key’s presence on the grounds they both now occupy presents a real problem. It’s even more troublesome when he gets a front row seat to the lukewarm welcome Key receives from her family; the strange powers she begins to develop; and the fierce determination she brings to every obstacle in her path. Things he shouldn’t care about, and someone he definitely doesn’t find wildly attractive.
When their secrets collide, it becomes clear that Lachlan could hold the answers Keyanna is after—and that she might also be the key to uncovering his. Up against time, mystery, and a centuries old curse, they’ll quickly discover that magic might not only be in fairy tales, and that love can be a real loch-mess.
Excerpt
1
Keyanna
I never imagined that my death would come by way of a sheep avalanche, but as I watch the tumbling mass of floof barreling down the hill toward the stretch of road I am currently stalled on-it occurs to me that it would at least be a memorable way to go."Christ."
I scramble to get the door of my ancient rental open-the door being on the wrong side, relatively, I might add, which means it's in direct line of impact for the bleating army currently rushing toward me. I manage to snatch my backpack and duck out of the car and half stumble to a safer area, but the sheep, being less murderous than I'd come to believe, actually start to slow as they spill around the aged blue sedan, voicing their irritation of the impediment it makes by loudly trilling more of the hellishly loud bahs.
"Oi!" a voice calls from up the hill. "You all right, lass?"
I bring a hand over my eyes to peer up into the sun, noticing a man with graying hair waving down at me. "Fine," I call back. "They're not carnivorous, are they?"
"Not last I checked," he chuckles, trotting down the hillside. He notices my car in the midst of the sheep-sea, quirking a brow. "Car troubles?"
"I told the woman at the rental place I wasn't good with a stick shift, but apparently, it was all they had left."
"You an American?" He doesn't ask it like it's something to be offended by, but he does sound perplexed. "You're a right ways from the tourist spots, aren't you?"
"Oh, I'm here for . . ." I trail off, deciding it's probably a bad idea to vomit my entire complicated pilgrimage to a veritable stranger. "I'm here to visit family."
His eyes crinkle at the corners, a bright, expressive blue among the weathered lines of his face making him seem genuinely interested. "Is that right? And who might you belong to? I know everyone around these parts."
I hesitate, again considering the ramifications of telling a stranger about my spur-of-the-moment reunion with my estranged family before they know about it. In the end, I reason that, if nothing else, there's a good chance I will reach my grandmother's house before this man can wade out of his pile of sheep.
"The MacKays," I tell him. "Rhona MacKay?"
"Oh, aye, aye, I know Rhona! Is she your granny, then? Would that make Duncan your da?" He squints as if trying to make the connection. "You've got the look of him. Didn't know he had any weans when he ran off to America."
I try to process all of this; I am deciding to take his stream of consciousness as overt friendliness and not some backhanded comment on my father's complicated history with his family. He must notice my stunned expression, though, because he waves a hand back and forth.
"Listen to me, babbling on. Sorry. Don't get many newcomers in Greerloch." He wipes his hand on the front of his worn flannel shirt, extending it after. "Hamish Campbell. I live over the hill there with this lot." He nods back toward the still-bleating horde. "Pleased to meet you."
I take his hand, still reeling from the influx of conversation. People don't just chat like this back in New York. "I'm . . . Key. Key MacKay. Well, Keyanna, actually, but everyone calls me Key."
"Key," he echoes. "I like it. You remind me of Rhona now that I've had a proper look at you. You've got the eyes."
I don't exactly know how to feel about looking like a woman who hasn't wanted anything to do with me for my entire twenty-seven years, but I manage a tight smile regardless. "How nice."
He frowns at his brood, looking sympathetic. "I gather you'd like to be on your way, aye? Your granny is probably expecting you."
I don't correct him, giving a noncommittal shrug instead.
"Might take me a wee bit to get the herd to move along, but I can take a look at your car if you like? I'm right handy when I aim to be."
"That would be amazing actually," I sigh in relief. "If it's really no trouble?"
"No trouble at all." He waves me off. "You just wait right there, and I will have you right as rain within the hour."
I glance across the rolling hills and lush green that spill all around us, biting my lip as I pull out my phone. "You don't happen to know how far"-I squint at the notes on my screen-"Scall-an-jull Cove is, would you?"
Mr. Campbell laughs. "I grant ya, that's a hard one. It's Skallangal Cove, love." He says it like: scall-an-gale, which sounds much nicer than my butchered attempt. "You're after Nessie, then, aye?"
"I . . . what?"
Another chuckle. "They don't call it 'cove of the fear' for nothing. I've chased many a wean from that cove. Rocks are too rough there, you see? S'not safe."
"Oh, it was just a place my dad mentioned . . ."
"Oh, aye, I reckon he did. Duncan always claimed he saw the beast. Swore on it, if you got him good and steamin'."
"Steaming?"
"That's drunk to you, hen."
Hen?
Probably be here all day if I stop him for a slang lesson every time it comes up.
"You saw my dad drunk?"
"A time or two. Before he took off." Mr. Campbell scratches at his jaw. "I was sad to see him go. How's the auld boy getting along, then? He not come with you?"
I feel a twinge of pain in my chest; even after six months, it still hurts to think he can't be here with me. "He . . . passed," I tell him. "In the spring."
"Ah, lass." Hamish sighs, looking truly grieved by the news. "I am sorry to hear that. He was a good man, your da. Can I ask how he went?"
"Pneumonia," I explain. "He was diagnosed with Alzheimer's a few years ago, and he just sort of . . . degenerated. He came down with pneumonia after a bad winter, and he-" I have to clear my throat, feeling it grow thicker. "He didn't recover."
"Oh, hen." Hamish's blue eyes glitter with genuine emotion, which only worsens the pressure I'm feeling in my chest. Hamish reaches into his jacket pocket to retrieve a handkerchief, rubbing at his nose briefly before stowing it away. "I'm sorry, love. And your mum? We all heard the stories about how Duncan ran off with a wily American-is she not here with you?"
He's determined to pick at all my scabs today, isn't he?
"My mother died giving birth to me," I manage stiffly.
Hamish blows out a breath. "Aye, I've really stepped innit, haven't I? Forgive me for being a nosy bastard." He shakes his head, clearing his throat as he gestures to my car. "How's about I get to work on this, then? There's some lovely views from the hill there"-he points across the lush green expanse stretching beyond the little knoll his sheep are currently crowding-"and your cove is nigh a mile"-he turns his finger in the other direction-"that way." He winks. "If you're brave enough, mind you."
I chuckle softly. "I'm not afraid."
"Well, mind the rocks, would you? It really is unsafe. Keep to the shore, aye?"
"I will," I assure him. "And thank you for your help."
He waves me off. "Think nothing of it. We're a close-knit group here in Greerloch, and you're family apparently! Don't you worry, I'll have this fixed up in no time."
He turns to shoo away one of the bleating fluff-monsters currently nibbling at his coat hem, pushing his way through the masses toward my poor, pathetic rental car. I watch him for a moment, wondering if it's actually wise to leave my car with some stranger, but honestly, what choice do I have? It's not like I can fix it myself, and my only other alternative is to lock myself inside and hope someone else comes along. I let my eyes sweep across the sprawling, endless green of the landscape, not seeing any signs of life outside of Hamish and his horde.
I guess that's what the rental insurance is for.
I turn toward the direction he pointed out, which leads to the massive hill that supposedly hides the way to Skallangal Cove, thinking that now is just as good a time as any. I hoist my backpack up higher onto my shoulders-taking a deep breath and letting it out as I turn toward the hill.
Onwards and upwards, I guess.
I doubt Hamish’s “nigh a mile” more and more as I trek across the grass; the hill itself was a feat, less of a “hill” up close and more of a small mountain, really. My thighs burn with effort as I walk, and I’m sure my watch is probably organizing me a pizza party for the overabundance of steps I’m getting in today. But when I finally see the glittering surface of the loch come into view, the sun shining on the small waves and making them sparkle, I think maybe it was worth all the steps.
Ever since I set foot in Scotland, I can't seem to get over how beautiful it is. The land itself seems to be alive all around me-almost as if I can feel the hum of life in the air and beneath my feet. The colors feel more vibrant, the sights and sounds more lovely, and I can see it, I think. Feel it, even. Why my father was so wistful when he spoke of his homeland.
There are signs as I get closer-the standard "Keep Out" and "Danger" posted along the barely there path that leads onto the rocky shore-but given that there isn't a single soul for miles, it would seem, I think I'm probably fine to explore a little. I mean, who's going to tell me I can't? Hamish's sheep?
There are a good number of large rocks jutting up at the water's edge, giving the shore a craggy effect that I can definitely see being a problem for kids wanting to adventure onto them. For a moment, I can only stare at the quiet, rolling water that gently ebbs back and forth against the shore, struck with a sudden memory that isn't mine-one that feels like mine for as many times as I've heard my dad recount it.
He was just there. Just beyond the shore. I'd slipped on the rocks, see? I thought I'd drown . . . but he saved me. Me! Of all people . . .
As a kid, the story of my dad's salvation at the hands of some mythical beast had been thrilling. I remember late nights of begging him to hear it "just one more time"-anything to avoid bedtime. Sometimes, I can still hear his voice, soft and comforting, as he lulled me to sleep. Still feel his fingers on my brow, pushing my curls away from my face as my eyes drifted shut.
In the end, his stories were all he had.
I drop my backpack onto the ground and start to dig through it, my hands shaking a little as I pull out the black capsule.
"Hey, Dad," I mutter, rubbing my thumbs across the sleek curve of the urn. "Look where we are." I straighten, holding it close to my chest as I turn back to the water. "I brought you back," I say to the air. "Just like I said I would."
A deep ache settles in my chest and lower in my stomach; I thought I would find more peace here, knowing I was giving him the send-off he wanted. I can't even be sure if this is what he actually wanted or if it was just more ramblings brought on by the slow loss of his mind, but it feels right, I think. Sure, he never spoke of his family, or of his life here beyond silly childhood stories-but I could tell he missed it. There was a sadness in his voice sometimes that I could hear no matter how hard he tried to hide it.
I realize after a few minutes that I'm just standing here, that I'm stalling, really. It's silly; I quit my job, flew across the ocean, practically uprooted my entire life just to come here, and now that I'm here . . . I'm not sure if I can do it.
The wind picks up, whipping my sun-blazed curls around my face, and I tell myself that it's just the brightness out here that's making my eyes water. I can do this, damnit.
I turn to try and scope out a good place; I've never spread someone's ashes before, obviously, but it doesn't feel very special to just walk up to the shoreline and dump my dad out onto the algae. Surely there has to be a better way.
With that in mind, I start pacing along the edge of the water, nearing the expanse of jutting rocks that the signs and Hamish and probably God at this point have warned me about. There's a relatively flat one only a few steps out, just a short climb and a few hops away from shore. Surely I can manage that. I'm not a kid, after all.
I hold my dad tighter as I carefully step out onto the raised stone that leads toward the larger flat rock, hovering with one foot still on the shore as I test my balance. My sneakers aren't the best choice for this, and I'm wishing now that I'd read a few more travel blogs about dressing for Scotland. Not, I think, that any of them would have accounted for rock climbing on the coast of Loch Ness. I curl my fingers to grip my dad's urn as I blow out a breath, readying to step farther onto the rocks and finish this so I can head off to meet the family. Something else I'm not sure I'm looking forward to.
I move to take another step, feeling the soles of my shoes slip against the wet surface as my balance suddenly becomes off-kilter. A surge of panic jolts through me as I start to fall backward-but I'm snatched away before that happens.
"Hey!"
Something thick winds around my waist, hauling me backward, using enough power that I nearly stumble as I'm forced back to both feet on the shore. The thick something-an arm, I realize-lingers for only a moment before releasing me, and I whirl around with hot anger flooding my cheeks as I prepare to tell off whoever interfered.
And then, funnily enough, I seem to forget how to use words.
Excerpted from Under Loch and Key by Lana Ferguson. Copyright © 2024 by Lana Ferguson. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Keyanna
I never imagined that my death would come by way of a sheep avalanche, but as I watch the tumbling mass of floof barreling down the hill toward the stretch of road I am currently stalled on-it occurs to me that it would at least be a memorable way to go."Christ."
I scramble to get the door of my ancient rental open-the door being on the wrong side, relatively, I might add, which means it's in direct line of impact for the bleating army currently rushing toward me. I manage to snatch my backpack and duck out of the car and half stumble to a safer area, but the sheep, being less murderous than I'd come to believe, actually start to slow as they spill around the aged blue sedan, voicing their irritation of the impediment it makes by loudly trilling more of the hellishly loud bahs.
"Oi!" a voice calls from up the hill. "You all right, lass?"
I bring a hand over my eyes to peer up into the sun, noticing a man with graying hair waving down at me. "Fine," I call back. "They're not carnivorous, are they?"
"Not last I checked," he chuckles, trotting down the hillside. He notices my car in the midst of the sheep-sea, quirking a brow. "Car troubles?"
"I told the woman at the rental place I wasn't good with a stick shift, but apparently, it was all they had left."
"You an American?" He doesn't ask it like it's something to be offended by, but he does sound perplexed. "You're a right ways from the tourist spots, aren't you?"
"Oh, I'm here for . . ." I trail off, deciding it's probably a bad idea to vomit my entire complicated pilgrimage to a veritable stranger. "I'm here to visit family."
His eyes crinkle at the corners, a bright, expressive blue among the weathered lines of his face making him seem genuinely interested. "Is that right? And who might you belong to? I know everyone around these parts."
I hesitate, again considering the ramifications of telling a stranger about my spur-of-the-moment reunion with my estranged family before they know about it. In the end, I reason that, if nothing else, there's a good chance I will reach my grandmother's house before this man can wade out of his pile of sheep.
"The MacKays," I tell him. "Rhona MacKay?"
"Oh, aye, aye, I know Rhona! Is she your granny, then? Would that make Duncan your da?" He squints as if trying to make the connection. "You've got the look of him. Didn't know he had any weans when he ran off to America."
I try to process all of this; I am deciding to take his stream of consciousness as overt friendliness and not some backhanded comment on my father's complicated history with his family. He must notice my stunned expression, though, because he waves a hand back and forth.
"Listen to me, babbling on. Sorry. Don't get many newcomers in Greerloch." He wipes his hand on the front of his worn flannel shirt, extending it after. "Hamish Campbell. I live over the hill there with this lot." He nods back toward the still-bleating horde. "Pleased to meet you."
I take his hand, still reeling from the influx of conversation. People don't just chat like this back in New York. "I'm . . . Key. Key MacKay. Well, Keyanna, actually, but everyone calls me Key."
"Key," he echoes. "I like it. You remind me of Rhona now that I've had a proper look at you. You've got the eyes."
I don't exactly know how to feel about looking like a woman who hasn't wanted anything to do with me for my entire twenty-seven years, but I manage a tight smile regardless. "How nice."
He frowns at his brood, looking sympathetic. "I gather you'd like to be on your way, aye? Your granny is probably expecting you."
I don't correct him, giving a noncommittal shrug instead.
"Might take me a wee bit to get the herd to move along, but I can take a look at your car if you like? I'm right handy when I aim to be."
"That would be amazing actually," I sigh in relief. "If it's really no trouble?"
"No trouble at all." He waves me off. "You just wait right there, and I will have you right as rain within the hour."
I glance across the rolling hills and lush green that spill all around us, biting my lip as I pull out my phone. "You don't happen to know how far"-I squint at the notes on my screen-"Scall-an-jull Cove is, would you?"
Mr. Campbell laughs. "I grant ya, that's a hard one. It's Skallangal Cove, love." He says it like: scall-an-gale, which sounds much nicer than my butchered attempt. "You're after Nessie, then, aye?"
"I . . . what?"
Another chuckle. "They don't call it 'cove of the fear' for nothing. I've chased many a wean from that cove. Rocks are too rough there, you see? S'not safe."
"Oh, it was just a place my dad mentioned . . ."
"Oh, aye, I reckon he did. Duncan always claimed he saw the beast. Swore on it, if you got him good and steamin'."
"Steaming?"
"That's drunk to you, hen."
Hen?
Probably be here all day if I stop him for a slang lesson every time it comes up.
"You saw my dad drunk?"
"A time or two. Before he took off." Mr. Campbell scratches at his jaw. "I was sad to see him go. How's the auld boy getting along, then? He not come with you?"
I feel a twinge of pain in my chest; even after six months, it still hurts to think he can't be here with me. "He . . . passed," I tell him. "In the spring."
"Ah, lass." Hamish sighs, looking truly grieved by the news. "I am sorry to hear that. He was a good man, your da. Can I ask how he went?"
"Pneumonia," I explain. "He was diagnosed with Alzheimer's a few years ago, and he just sort of . . . degenerated. He came down with pneumonia after a bad winter, and he-" I have to clear my throat, feeling it grow thicker. "He didn't recover."
"Oh, hen." Hamish's blue eyes glitter with genuine emotion, which only worsens the pressure I'm feeling in my chest. Hamish reaches into his jacket pocket to retrieve a handkerchief, rubbing at his nose briefly before stowing it away. "I'm sorry, love. And your mum? We all heard the stories about how Duncan ran off with a wily American-is she not here with you?"
He's determined to pick at all my scabs today, isn't he?
"My mother died giving birth to me," I manage stiffly.
Hamish blows out a breath. "Aye, I've really stepped innit, haven't I? Forgive me for being a nosy bastard." He shakes his head, clearing his throat as he gestures to my car. "How's about I get to work on this, then? There's some lovely views from the hill there"-he points across the lush green expanse stretching beyond the little knoll his sheep are currently crowding-"and your cove is nigh a mile"-he turns his finger in the other direction-"that way." He winks. "If you're brave enough, mind you."
I chuckle softly. "I'm not afraid."
"Well, mind the rocks, would you? It really is unsafe. Keep to the shore, aye?"
"I will," I assure him. "And thank you for your help."
He waves me off. "Think nothing of it. We're a close-knit group here in Greerloch, and you're family apparently! Don't you worry, I'll have this fixed up in no time."
He turns to shoo away one of the bleating fluff-monsters currently nibbling at his coat hem, pushing his way through the masses toward my poor, pathetic rental car. I watch him for a moment, wondering if it's actually wise to leave my car with some stranger, but honestly, what choice do I have? It's not like I can fix it myself, and my only other alternative is to lock myself inside and hope someone else comes along. I let my eyes sweep across the sprawling, endless green of the landscape, not seeing any signs of life outside of Hamish and his horde.
I guess that's what the rental insurance is for.
I turn toward the direction he pointed out, which leads to the massive hill that supposedly hides the way to Skallangal Cove, thinking that now is just as good a time as any. I hoist my backpack up higher onto my shoulders-taking a deep breath and letting it out as I turn toward the hill.
Onwards and upwards, I guess.
I doubt Hamish’s “nigh a mile” more and more as I trek across the grass; the hill itself was a feat, less of a “hill” up close and more of a small mountain, really. My thighs burn with effort as I walk, and I’m sure my watch is probably organizing me a pizza party for the overabundance of steps I’m getting in today. But when I finally see the glittering surface of the loch come into view, the sun shining on the small waves and making them sparkle, I think maybe it was worth all the steps.
Ever since I set foot in Scotland, I can't seem to get over how beautiful it is. The land itself seems to be alive all around me-almost as if I can feel the hum of life in the air and beneath my feet. The colors feel more vibrant, the sights and sounds more lovely, and I can see it, I think. Feel it, even. Why my father was so wistful when he spoke of his homeland.
There are signs as I get closer-the standard "Keep Out" and "Danger" posted along the barely there path that leads onto the rocky shore-but given that there isn't a single soul for miles, it would seem, I think I'm probably fine to explore a little. I mean, who's going to tell me I can't? Hamish's sheep?
There are a good number of large rocks jutting up at the water's edge, giving the shore a craggy effect that I can definitely see being a problem for kids wanting to adventure onto them. For a moment, I can only stare at the quiet, rolling water that gently ebbs back and forth against the shore, struck with a sudden memory that isn't mine-one that feels like mine for as many times as I've heard my dad recount it.
He was just there. Just beyond the shore. I'd slipped on the rocks, see? I thought I'd drown . . . but he saved me. Me! Of all people . . .
As a kid, the story of my dad's salvation at the hands of some mythical beast had been thrilling. I remember late nights of begging him to hear it "just one more time"-anything to avoid bedtime. Sometimes, I can still hear his voice, soft and comforting, as he lulled me to sleep. Still feel his fingers on my brow, pushing my curls away from my face as my eyes drifted shut.
In the end, his stories were all he had.
I drop my backpack onto the ground and start to dig through it, my hands shaking a little as I pull out the black capsule.
"Hey, Dad," I mutter, rubbing my thumbs across the sleek curve of the urn. "Look where we are." I straighten, holding it close to my chest as I turn back to the water. "I brought you back," I say to the air. "Just like I said I would."
A deep ache settles in my chest and lower in my stomach; I thought I would find more peace here, knowing I was giving him the send-off he wanted. I can't even be sure if this is what he actually wanted or if it was just more ramblings brought on by the slow loss of his mind, but it feels right, I think. Sure, he never spoke of his family, or of his life here beyond silly childhood stories-but I could tell he missed it. There was a sadness in his voice sometimes that I could hear no matter how hard he tried to hide it.
I realize after a few minutes that I'm just standing here, that I'm stalling, really. It's silly; I quit my job, flew across the ocean, practically uprooted my entire life just to come here, and now that I'm here . . . I'm not sure if I can do it.
The wind picks up, whipping my sun-blazed curls around my face, and I tell myself that it's just the brightness out here that's making my eyes water. I can do this, damnit.
I turn to try and scope out a good place; I've never spread someone's ashes before, obviously, but it doesn't feel very special to just walk up to the shoreline and dump my dad out onto the algae. Surely there has to be a better way.
With that in mind, I start pacing along the edge of the water, nearing the expanse of jutting rocks that the signs and Hamish and probably God at this point have warned me about. There's a relatively flat one only a few steps out, just a short climb and a few hops away from shore. Surely I can manage that. I'm not a kid, after all.
I hold my dad tighter as I carefully step out onto the raised stone that leads toward the larger flat rock, hovering with one foot still on the shore as I test my balance. My sneakers aren't the best choice for this, and I'm wishing now that I'd read a few more travel blogs about dressing for Scotland. Not, I think, that any of them would have accounted for rock climbing on the coast of Loch Ness. I curl my fingers to grip my dad's urn as I blow out a breath, readying to step farther onto the rocks and finish this so I can head off to meet the family. Something else I'm not sure I'm looking forward to.
I move to take another step, feeling the soles of my shoes slip against the wet surface as my balance suddenly becomes off-kilter. A surge of panic jolts through me as I start to fall backward-but I'm snatched away before that happens.
"Hey!"
Something thick winds around my waist, hauling me backward, using enough power that I nearly stumble as I'm forced back to both feet on the shore. The thick something-an arm, I realize-lingers for only a moment before releasing me, and I whirl around with hot anger flooding my cheeks as I prepare to tell off whoever interfered.
And then, funnily enough, I seem to forget how to use words.
Excerpted from Under Loch and Key by Lana Ferguson. Copyright © 2024 by Lana Ferguson. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Purchase Links
About the Author
Lana Ferguson is a sex-positive nerd whose works never shy from spice or sass. A faded Fabio book cover found its way into her hands at fifteen, and she’s never been the same since. When she isn’t writing, you can find her randomly singing show tunes, arguing over which Batman is superior, and subjecting her friends to the extended editions of The Lord of the Rings. Lana lives mostly in her own head but can sometimes be found chasing her corgi through the coppice of the great American outdoors. Learn more at lanaferguson.com
No comments:
Post a Comment