Authors: Allie MacKay
“We all pitched in to write it.” Ardelle spoke briskly.
Marta dabbed a tissue to her nose while blinking eyes that swam with brightness. “We sat down last night and tried to remember all the things you most wanted to see and experience in Scotland.”
“We left out the ‘tang of cold brine’ and haggis.” Patience drew herself up, smoothing the pink and orange swirled folds of her caftan. “And you know”—she pinned Margo with a stare—“once such a blessing spell is cast, only a fool would rebuke it.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Margo kept her hand tight against her breast.
Her friends’ words said it all.
And she
was
tempted.
Never had she come so close to ignoring everything she believed in. She’d sooner burn in hell than be beholden to anyone. And—she couldn’t deny it—her pride wouldn’t let her accept charity. She believed in working for everything she had, and if she couldn’t afford certain luxuries, she’d rather do without.
But such sharp longing pierced her that she could hardly breathe.
“It doesn’t matter.” She put down the card, her denial breaking her heart. “I know you mean well and I love you for it. But I still can’t take the money. My own hundred dollars will have to do. That’s a lot of raffle tickets and—”
“There will be thousands of visitors at the Scottish Festival.” Ardelle frowned at her. “They’ll all be buying tickets.”
“Which”—Margo stood straighter—“is another reason I shouldn’t snare more than a hundred chances to win. The other people will be just as keen to—” Marta snorted. “Name one person who loves Scotland more than you do.”
Margo couldn’t.
Dina Greed came to mind. But her passion for the Highlands came when
Braveheart
hit the movie theaters. Margo had been born loving Scotland.
“It still wouldn’t be fair.” Her principles made her argue.
“Hah!” Patience came around the counter and laid her arm across Margo’s shoulders. “Have you forgotten everything I’ve taught you? There could be ten, even twenty thousand visitors to the festival and the winner would still be the person meant to win.”
“Then snapping up two hundred and fifty additional
“Then snapping up two hundred and fifty additional chances won’t make a difference.” Margo wriggled free. “You’d be wasting good money.”
“We’d be investing in your energy.” Patience tutted.
“You’d have confidence knowing you’d bought so many tickets. That boost would go out into the cosmos, increasing your chances of winning.” Margo bit her lip. She knew Patience was right.
So she used her strongest objection. “It’s still a lot of money.”
“Oh, sure.” Patience waved a dismissive hand.
Then she turned away, looking to Marta. “Madame Zelda”—she used Marta’s tarot-reading name—“how much money have you brought the shop with your weekly readings from clients who live at the Fieldstone House?”
Marta smiled. “Thousands of dollars, I’m sure.
Maybe more, as old Mrs. Beechwood comes twice a week, sometimes more. She doesn’t lift a finger without first stopping in for a consultation.”
“And I wonder where the Fieldstone House residents heard that you’re so good at reading the tarot.” Patience rubbed her chin, feigning ignorance.
Margo felt her face warming. She did praise Marta’s skills to everyone she met, especially her neighbors at the Fieldstone House.
“I see you know where those clients come from.” Patience surely saw Margo’s flush. Not finished, she glanced at Ardelle. “And you, dear”—her voice boomed—“didn’t you tell me a while back that you heard Margo suggest to an Aging Gracefully customer that we carry an excellent blend of moon-grass tea?”
“The woman had a bad cough.” Margo recalled the day at Ardelle’s vintage-clothing shop. Silverweed, called
moon grass
at Ye Olde Pagan Times, did soothe aching throats. “I couldn’t help but offer a tip.
The woman was popping industrial-strength lozenges that weren’t helping her at all.”
“And now that woman, Octavia Figg, orders our moon-grass tea by the case. She’s been doing so for over six months, claiming the tea also calms her nerves. I could take a Caribbean cruise on the money she brings the shop.” Patience smiled triumphantly, her point made.
Marta and Ardelle grinned like fools.
Margo knew she’d lost.
There wasn’t any point in further argument.
She was going to purchase 350 of Donald McVittie’s raffle tickets.
Centuries away, in a distant place even Donald McVittie had never been, Magnus came instantly awake and frowned into the shadows of his bedchamber. He thought about punching his pillow, rolling over, and returning to sleep. But his entire body tingled with a warrior’s knowing and he was on his feet, reaching for his sword with the speed and agility his enemies knew to dread.
For weeks he’d been waiting, trying to guess where his foes would next strike. But no matter how well he’d come to understand the Northmen, or how often he stared out across the sea, his gaze on the horizon, he couldn’t guess where or when the Vikings’ long, lean dragon ships would glide out of the mist and then gain speed, their oars flashing like demon wings as they raced to the shore, eager to raid, plunder, and kill innocents.
Now he knew what to do.
He’d draw the Vikings ashore and slaughter them when they landed.
Even if only a handful of their loathsome, beast-headed ships fell for his ploy, the lesson he meant to give them would teach them fear.
At the least, it would warn them to stay away from his shores.
There were two things Vikings dreaded. One was losing men. Not because they feared death. As long as they died well, clutching a sword or battle-ax, Odin’s feast hall awaited them and they went there gladly. But for the living, a reduced number of warriors meant a weakened fighting force. Replacing lost men was difficult when the raiders roamed so far from their own northern shores.
Magnus buckled on his sword, a slow smile curving his lips. He was good at whittling down the number of fighters in a Viking war band.
He took equal pleasure in diminishing the crew on a Norse longboat. After all, every oarsman could wield an ax or a sword as wickedly as his oars bit the waves. And—Magnus tied back his hair with a leather band—soon he’d treat his foes to their other great dread, a burned ship.
More than one, if the gods were kind.
Somewhere a cock crowed, and Magnus glanced at his shuttered window. The barest hint of gray was just beginning to edge the fading blackness. And—he snatched his plaid off a chair—a light drizzle was falling. He could also hear the sea foaming on the rocks beneath his castle walls.
Soon, he would lay his trap for an unsuspecting Viking fleet.
Bloodlust stirring, he threw open the lid of the strongbox at the foot of his bed and looked down at the glittering sea of silver and gold arm rings that filled the chest. He might have to secure a second coffer.
He hoped so, fervently. But this morn, he simply grabbed a handful of the shining bands and slid them onto his arms.
He was ready.
With luck, he’d soon have reason to undo the leather string binding his hair. He’d smile then and shake his head, letting the strands swing free around his shoulders so that his foes would see his loose hair and know at once that he’d come to kill them.
And after he’d sated himself on vengeance, he’d make another visit to Orosius.
The sea vixen might not be of his world, but he was certain she was close.
So near he could taste her.
Chapter 6
Magnus MacBride, Viking Slayer.
Help me win. . . .
Margo repeated the silent words like a chant, letting them fill her mind and—she hoped—sending a heartfelt message into the cosmos.
It was the morning of the Bucks County Scottish Festival and, quite possibly, the most important day of her life. The only moment that could surpass today would be when her Atlantic-crossing plane landed at Glasgow International Airport, bringing her to the land of her dreams.
If she won Donald McVittie’s raffle drawing.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone crowding the parklike grounds of the Cabbage Rose Gift Emporium and Tea Room shared her sentiments. Celtic festivals did tend to draw people who claimed to love Scotland. Margo could spot such folk at a hundred paces. Their eyes shone with the same sense of wonder she always felt when she walked around the fairgrounds and immersed herself in so much Highland culture and atmosphere.
It was tartan triumph, alive and breathing.
What Scotophile could resist such a perfect blend of bagpipes, haggis, and plaid?
No one that Margo could see. Everyone milled about in awe, their hearts soaring and passions roused. A group of middle-aged couples near the duck pond behind the tea room even wore matching sweatshirts that read
The Home Glen Is Calling Us
.
Margo had no doubt that each one of them wanted to win the seven-day guided coach tour of Scotland.
As, she was sure, did everyone else enjoying the brisk autumn day.
And that knowledge was killing her.
When a large, forceful-looking woman barged past her wearing a huge pin proclaiming in rhinestones that she loved the
Auld Hameland
, Margo didn’t perish.
But she did get a queasy feeling in her stomach. The woman had a determined air about her and she was heading straight for the Cabbage Rose’s plaid-decorated auditorium, where Donald’s drawing would soon take place.
The woman was competition.
Margo bit her lip as her rival for the trip marched across the grass. Tweedy and with her iron gray hair perfectly coiffed, she looked as if she could afford well over three hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of raffle tickets. Though—one could hope—if that was true, she could probably also purchase her own air ticket to Scotland. Perhaps even a private kilt-wearing chauffeur once she arrived there. So maybe she hadn’t dropped as many raffle tickets into Donald’s tartan-wrapped drawing box as Margo had done.
Margo fervently wished the gorgon bought only one chance at the Heritage Tour.
Just then, pipes skirled and drums rolled from the far side of the duck pond. The stirring tones came from a meadow near the edge of woods that were appropriately draped in fine, drifting mist. The parade ground where, Margo knew, the local piping-band competition was gearing up. As so often, “Scotland the Brave” seemed to be the tune of choice. Margo’s heart began thumping, her breath catching with all the fierce longing she felt for her beloved Highlands.
And they
were
hers.
No one loved Scotland more.
Who else would spend hours printing his or her name, address, and phone number on the backs of 350 raffle tickets?
Donald McVittie hadn’t wanted to spoil the moment with everyone in the audience scrambling to check raffle numbers, so he’d insisted that people write their personal information on the tickets in block letters.
Margo’s hand still ached.
She suspected her fingers might be permanently She suspected her fingers might be permanently cramped.
But just now the screaming pipes were calling her, so she started forward before she could check herself.
She never missed the piping drills. Only this year she’d vowed to stick close to Donald McVittie’s A Dash o’ Plaid booth. She hoped her hovering presence—and her silent prayers to Magnus MacBride, Highlander of her dreams—might somehow deter other Scotland zealots from purchasing raffle tickets.
So she quickly turned back to Donald’s stall, hoping she looked suitably formidable.
A Dash o’ Plaid appeared annoyingly inviting.
Donald had left earlier, claiming he was needed in the auditorium, where preparations were under way for the Scottish luncheon buffet and the festival highlight, the drawing of the grand-prize trip to Scotland. But Donald’s son, Donald Junior, bustled about the tartan-hung booth, encouraging passersby to stop, blether, and—Margo could throttle him—pick up tickets for the raffle.
“Wee Hughie MacSporran, famous Highland author and historian, will be guiding the tour.” Donald Junior’s voice boomed from the other side of the stall as he beamed at two twentysomething girls wearing too much makeup and plaid rayon fanny packs. “He’s known as the Highland Storyweaver and is also the founder and owner of Heritage Tours. He’s quite an authority on Scottish history and—”
“Does he wear a kilt?” One of the girls popped her gum.
Her friend giggled. “I’m more interested in what’s under his kilt.”
“Is that him?” The gum popper snatched a book off the display table.
“Royal Roots: A Highlander’s Guide
to Discovering Illustrious Forebears,”
she read the title aloud, peering at the large, rosy-cheeked Scotsman on the cover. He was kilted, but he looked more like a pudgy teddy bear than a wild and rugged Highlander.
“He isn’t too sexy.” The girl slapped down the book.
“Any man in a kilt is hot.” The giggler picked up another MacSporran title,
Hearthside Tales: A
Highlander’s Look at Scottish Myth and Legend
. She eyed the author’s photo critically. “He’s at least six foot four.” She glanced at her friend. “I like big men. I wouldn’t mind tooling around the heather with him.”
“Who says he’s big where it counts?” Her friend popped another gum bubble.
Ever a diplomat, Donald Junior ignored the girls’ comments and launched into a spiel about how Wee Hughie MacSporran was directly descended from Robert the Bruce and that the author was at the festival, come all the way from Scotland to draw the grand-prize winner.
The news drew a bored sigh from the gum popper.
But the other girl nearly swooned. Squealing, she danced a little jig.
“You’ve sold me,” she gushed, swelling her breasts.
“I’ll take twenty tickets.”
Margo stiffened.
She’d die if one of those girls won the trip.
Death by Highland envy.
There were surely worse ways to go. But she’d rather go to Scotland.
Trying not to show her annoyance, she reached to examine a tartan sash. Lovely in rich shades of dark green and blue and just enough threads of black and pink to make it special, the sash had caught her eye the instant she’d arrived at the A Dash o’ Plaid booth.