Authors: Allie MacKay
“I wasn’t going to ask about the loch.” Margo lifted her chin, not backing down.
“Then Slioch?” Wee Hughie gestured grandly at the huge sandstone mountain on the far side of the loch.
“It’s quite a bastion and has many good yarns of its own. I know them all and will gladly—”
“I have a question about a Highland hero.” Margo rushed the words, feeling her face redden.
Wee Hughie beamed. “Ahhh ...” He hooked his thumbs in his kilt belt, swelling his chest. “Which one of my ancestors are you curious about? Robert Bruce, Alexander Stewart, the infamous Wolf of Badenoch, scorned for burning Elgin Cathedral? Or maybe Somerled or Angus Og? The last two heroes”—he spoke indulgently, as if she’d never heard of the great MacDonald Lords of the Isles—“might not be as commonly known in America, but I can—”
“I know who they were.” Margo felt heat spreading in her chest.
Wee Hughie looked bemused. “The wicked earls of Orkney?”
“I’d like to know about the Viking Slayer.” Margo held his gaze. “Magnus MacBride.”
“He’s not one of my ancestors.”
“But you’ve heard of him.”
“Everyone has.” Wee Hughie lifted a bottle of Highland Spring water from its holder by his seat and took a long sip. “Magnus MacBride is a legend. The man was a myth, fictionalized hundreds of years ago by Highland bards who were no doubt paid good silver to make their masters sound as if they were the notorious Viking Slayer.
“In truth”—he set down the water bottle—“Magnus MacBride never existed.”
“There are many who say there’s a kernel of fact in every tale.” Margo was stubborn.
“No’ in the stories about the Viking Slayer.” Wee Hughie narrowed his eyes. “I’m surprised you’ve heard of him. Most people outside the Highlands never have. He’s pretty obscure.”
“I saw a drawing of him in a book. The background”—Margo hesitated, summoning courage—“looked like some of the places we’ve passed today. I saw similarities when we drove along Loch Torridon.
“That’s what I wanted to know.” Margo spoke quickly. “If this area belonged to the territory he protected with his sword?”
Wee Hughie just looked at her.
“I have a feeling”—Margo didn’t care if he guessed it was a paranormal, woo-woo kind of sensation—“that he held influence in these parts.”
“Held sway, you mean?” Wee Hughie frowned. “It’s said he chased the Norsemen from this entire coast, aye.” He made the words sound sour, as if he didn’t like being forced to speak of any heroes except his own noble forebears. “Legend has him having rampaged against Vikings from Cape Wrath at mainland Scotland’s north-western tip clear down to Applecross, which lies south of Loch Torridon.”
“So I guessed right.” Margo felt her heart start to race.
Wee Hughie looked annoyed. “You were right”—he drew himself up to his full, impressive height of at least six feet four—“in that Magnus MacBride is legended to have scourged any Viking wishing to raid these coasts. But that doesn’t mean he lived.”
“Maybe not.” Margo couldn’t disagree more. “But he sure left a reputation, didn’t he?”
Wee Hughie harrumphed and—perhaps inspired by her mention of Vikings—launched into a dramatic spiel about an ill-starred love affair between a Norse prince and a local maid who lived on an island in the middle of Loch Maree. It was a sad tale of blood and heartbreak and Margo tried not to listen as Wee Hughie droned on, regaling the travelers with the young lovers’ tragic ending.
Instead, she kept her gaze pinned on the loch’s shining blue waters and made plans to slip away from the Old Harbour Inn in Gairloch that evening.
She meant to look for signs of Magnus MacBride, Viking Slayer.
She wasn’t sure she’d find anything monumental.
But the prickles at her nape told her the Gairloch Heritage Museum was a good place to start searching.
Chapter 8
Later that evening, Margo slipped out of Gairloch’s Old Harbour Inn. She crossed the little humpbacked bridge outside the hotel and then nipped across the road to the harbor. She walked briskly, making her escape. Heritage Tours expected their travelers to participate in the evening entertainments. Not attending was a breach of package-tourist etiquette.
Margo didn’t care.
She did feel a twinge of regret.
The Old Harbour Inn was swoon-worthy. She’d fallen in love the instant she’d stepped inside the centuries-old hotel. A onetime coaching inn and so atmospheric that it seemed scandalous for the dimly lit interior to be crammed with tourists in modern-day clothes.
The public rooms were long, dark, and low, with black ceiling rafters and natural stone walls. The wooden floor was spotlessly clean, but creaked delightfully. A huge fireplace stood at the end of the bar and—Margo’s pulse quickened—an authentic peat fire glowed in the grate, filling the air with earthy-rich sweetness. The pub also smelled faintly of fish-and-chips and ale and, best of all, the heady elixir of age.
The inn wore history well.
It was by far the best place they’d stopped on the tour.
Margo wouldn’t have minded hanging around for a while and maybe meeting an eligible local. The servers were young, kilted, and good-looking. If she was lucky, one of them might have a nice older brother or cousin who’d just happen to breeze in tonight.
Someone alive, real, and attainable, who’d sweep her off her feet with a dimpled smile and a genuine, knock-her-socks-off Highland burr.
She could go for falling in love and staying in Scotland. She even knew a few women who’d had such good fortune. Such things did happen.
But she knew her luck.
And the MacHaggis Ceilidh Group had already claimed the inn’s best corner—the one near the bar where the peat fire simmered in the hearth—and were already preparing for their performance of traditional music and dance. Posters cluttered the walls, announcing Wee Hughie as MC and praising the MacSkye Fiddle and Accordion Club, who’d join the MacHaggis folk singers and dancers to provide an unforgettable night of Highland hospitality and entertainment. Wee Hughie’s readings and a book signing would start the evening’s fun.
It was time for her to go.
She’d rather have sat alone in a dark corner of the pub, soaking in the atmosphere on a quiet evening, sipping a pint of real ale, and watching out for local cuties.
As things were ...
She kept walking along the waterfront and enjoyed watching the colorful fishing boats coming in on the tide. Low whitewashed cottages lined the road, and the air smelled of salt, pine, tar, and peat smoke.
She thrilled to breathe in great, greedy gulps of what she considered the
essence of the Highlands
.
She was sure anyone who could capture such a scent and market it to people like her would make a mint.
It was heaven on earth.
The gloaming, just as magical as she’d heard. It slid around her, a silken veil that turned Loch Gairloch into a mirror of smooth, molten bronze. Soft mist rolled down the hills, casting the seaside town in mysterious, dark blue shadows. And beyond the harbor—or so she’d been told by the people at the inn—a well-marked path would lead her to the crofting and fishing museum.
She still felt drawn there.
So she quickened her pace. But she hadn’t gone far when she heard a tread behind her and swung around to find Wee Hughie almost upon her. He was walking fast, his kilt swinging about his knees.
“Margo.” He caught up to her, slightly out of breath.
“Pearl saw you leave the inn.” He glanced down the quay to where the inn stood, well lit, against the dark curve of the hills. “Our entertainment starts soon. Did you forget the time?”
“Actually ...” Margo didn’t want to be rude. “I thought I’d walk for a bit.”
“It is a fine night.” Wee Hughie was looking at her strangely. “Though I’d feel bad to see you miss our ceilidh. We receive lots of e-mails from Americans who’ve been on tour with us and want to thank us for our Highland Night events.”
I’m not every American,
Margo almost blurted.
Instead, she looked out across the sea-loch, catching the flash of breakers out on the open sea.
Huge Atlantic rollers, long and white-crested, they crashed ceaselessly against the rocky cliffs, regardless of the century.
Margo blinked, swallowing the sudden thickness in her throat.
“I wanted to walk along the harbor because the Hebrides are out there.” She glanced at Wee Hughie, not expecting him to understand. No one would without intimate knowledge of her family history.
“My sister has strong ties to Barra.” She refused to
“My sister has strong ties to Barra.” She refused to speak of Mindy in the past tense, even though she hadn’t seen her in forever.
She knew Mindy was well and happy with her fourteenth-century MacNeil chieftain husband, Bran of Barra. They made their home on the Hebridean isle he called his own and that Margo wished had been on the tour.
If she’d had any doubts that her sister had time-traveled to happiness, an aged magnificently kilted Scotsman named Silvanus had appeared to her at Ye Olde Pagan Times and assured her that it was true.
Silvanus was a ghost.
And he’d proved that, too.
It wasn’t easy to deny such a thing when the ghost in question vanished right before your eyes.
But Margo knew most people were too closed-minded to believe in ghosts and time travel.
She did believe.
Sometimes she envied her sister that she’d been the one lucky enough to experience such a wonder.
She wasn’t jealous that Mindy’s late fiancé had left Mindy a genuine Scottish castle that had been transported stone by stone to Pennsylvania. Hunter MacNeil had been a first-class jerk and—in Margo’s view—he’d owed Mindy that much and more. But after inheriting such a legacy, Mindy hadn’t been able to keep or even sell the estate. She’d been forced into returning the castle to its original setting on Barra.
The rest was history.
And Mindy was on Barra still, living the high life as wife of a braw medieval chieftain who—Margo was sure—loved her sister fiercely.
Margo stepped closer to the edge of the quay, her gaze on the moored fishing boats. The wind was stronger and colder now, bringing the sharp tang of sea and shellfish. Barra surely smelled much the same. The thought made her throat thicken even more. Her eyes began to sting and she dashed a hand across her cheek, pretending to tuck her hair behind an ear. Her personal life was no one’s business.
But always, she missed Mindy.
So much.
That was why she rarely spoke of her. She didn’t even keep pictures of Mindy around her apartment at the Fieldstone House. Such memories were too painful, since she knew they’d never see each other again. But it helped to walk along this Scottish coast and know her sister was out there somewhere. Just in a different place and time.
Margo felt close to her here.
“I knew your name was familiar.” Wee Hughie smiled. “You must be Mindy Menlove’s sister. I should’ve noted the resemblance. I met Mindy when she was on Barra, overseeing the restoration of MacNeil Tower.”
Margo blinked. “Ahhh . . .”
No one had mentioned Mindy’s name to her in over a year. Her friends in New Hope knew better. Now this kilted Highlander spoke of her as if he’d just seen Mindy yesterday.
“You met her?” It was all she could say.
“I did.” Wee Hughie glanced at his wristwatch. “And I wish I didn’t have to get to the ceilidh.” He sounded regretful. “Your sister and I had lunch at a Barra pub called the Islesman’s Pride. I’d like to tell you of that meeting.”
“You took her out?” Margo couldn’t believe it.
“Nae.” Wee Hughie actually colored. “It was business.”
“Oh.” Margo was relieved.
“She was interested in the legend of the Heartbreaker, the fabled sword of Clan MacNeil. The sword has a fascinating history and, supposedly, a magical crystal pommel possessed of many powers.”
“Mindy never believed in such things.” Margo’s heart squeezed, remembering. Mindy had always rolled her eyes over anything paranormal.
“Perhaps not, but”—Wee Hughie’s voice took on an authoritative note—“Highland magic does exist. It’s been known to turn the staunchest skeptic into a believer.”
“I believe in such magic.”
“It is real.” Wee Hughie stood straighter. “The MacNeils’ Heartbreaker is a classic example. There are some who’ll tell you that the sword was powerful enough to shift time. And”—he eyed her speculatively—“to make a MacNeil chieftain aware of the woman destined to be his eternal mate. The crystal would then give off a brilliant blue light to alert the MacNeil that the woman of his heart was near and needed his championing.”
“Mindy needed a champion.” Margo’s vision started to blur again. “She’d been through some difficult times before her trip to Barra.”
Wee Hughie looked again toward the inn. “She’s well now?”
“Oh, yes.” Margo smiled, her heart filling. “She’s married and very happy.”
Wee Hughie lifted a brow. “In Pennsylvania?”
“Oh! Is that a seal between those boats?” Margo pointed at the water, tried to distract him. “I’m sure it was.”
The loch’s gleaming surface was just as empty as it’d been a moment before. But she wasn’t about to tell the Highland Storyweaver where Mindy had settled.
“Did you know”—Wee Hughie stared out across the dark water, seeming to look far beyond the sea-loch—“that on your sister’s last day on Barra, there were reports of an odd blue glow coming from within the little medieval chapel at MacNeil Tower?”
“No.” Margo adjusted her paisley shawl, fussing with its loose knot.
“There are good, salt-of-the-earth men who swear they saw that blue light.” Wee Hughie glanced at her, and then back to the horizon. “They worried that your sister was never seen to leave the wee isle where the castle stands.
“You do know MacNeil Tower is on a tiny island in Barra’s bay?” His voice betrayed him. Wee Hughie knew where Mindy was and, it would seem, how she’d landed there. “There were questions.”
“My sister is fine.” Margo spoke brightly.
“I’m sure she is.” Wee Hughie still didn’t look at her.
“The MacNeils are a good clan. They’re a proud and noble race who take care of their own.”