Sisters of Colford Hall 01 - The Invasion of Falgannon Isle (12 page)

The Cat Dudley brushed against his legs, snapping the spell, leaving Desmond woozy and shaken. As his eyes followed the cat up the staircase, strangely curving around the outside of the castle and straight to the top, he noticed there was, indeed, a cottage on the roof!

Well, why not? Desmond shrugged. A house atop a castle went well with this dotty island.

As he ascended, he fought that pull, that slippage of time. Reaching the top he paused, agog at the full-size house on the far side of the flat roof. While his architectural curiosity wanted to examine this further, the woman with her back to him, staring out to the sea, drew his eyes.

Hed come to force B.A. to see he’d backed her into a corner. The will to conquer pulsed in his blood, fueled by the need to possess this castle and its lady.

She knew he was there. He saw the awareness in her posture. Ignoring him, she remained looking out at the misty horizon, compelling him to come to her.

Despite the day being unseasonably warm, the skies quickened to gray as though she had summoned a storm to match her mood. He’d never believed in ghosts, deja vu or witches casting spells, but standing atop Castle Falgannon he found all now in the realm of the possible. His breath held as she turned and fixed him with glowing amber eyes.

He said the first thing that popped into his mind. “What? No kitty door?”

Her eyes followed Dudley across the roof. He leapt up to a cottage window frame and pushed through a pane that had been turned into a cat entrance, barely squeezing his fat body through.

“But he’s not your cat,” Desmond mocked.

“Dudley’s no one’s cat,” B.A. replied, projecting a sense of serenity, as though she drew power from being on top of this castle. “Some things in life can’t be owned.”

He rotated to survey the lay of the land, admiring the clever positioning of the castle. Had he been an ancient warrior and planning a fortress, this spot is where he’d have placed it. Desmond stepped closer to where B.A. was using a crenellation to observe the churning sea.

“Some view. Why the house on top of the castle?”

“The Charter says the Lady of the Isle must be in residence of Castle Falgannon from the first of November until May Day of each year.”

“And why is that?”

“When Malcolm Canmore re-granted the charter, he added the stipulation the Lady of the Isle must live in residence for that period each year or the island reverts to the Scottish crown. Eventually, the castle needed work—no modern conveniences, floors rotting away and not enough money for repairs. In order to meet the requirement, Lady Cottage was built upon the roof.”

“I take it the castle itself is sound?”

“You couldn’t blow the bloody thing up. Scots build to last.”

He stepped to her other side, eyeing the ring of stones in the distance. “Falgannon has a stone circle.”

“Thirteen gneiss stones, standing a millennium before the first Sarsen was raised at Stonehenge.”

“May we go see them?”

She shook her head. “Another day. A storm’s coming.”

Desmond leaned close, invading her space, catching scent of her light perfume and the woman underneath. “So, you aren’t having your lads toss me off the isle?”

B.A. wasn’t certain how to answer. Too many factors were in the mix, and she hadn’t begun to sort them out. Preferring to work with facts, she needed to get a hold of Cian or her father about Desmond’s claim of owning part of the island. With the phone out a trunk call was impossible, which left her playing a waiting game.

In some ways she liked that the choice was beyond her control. He scared her. His presence caused her to feel so many things. Even so, she wanted him to stay. Silly, to want to trust a man with your body when signs pointed he wasn’t worthy of that faith. Desmond Mershan was one of those bad boys Anne Stuart wrote about, mamas rail against and daughters can little resist. Her whole life she’d been good. A good daughter, a good granddaughter and a good wife. At thirty-seven, a widow, the temptation of this wicked lad was too much to resist.

“Not today,” she replied. “The ferry doesn’t run until Thursday, and it’s too far for you to swim.”

His green eyes met hers. “I won’t be leaving Thursday either.”

She suppressed her smile. “You know, on my word the ferry stops. Should I want to stop you leaving, there’s no way off the isle.”

He looked amused. “Considering keeping me as a sex slave, BarbaraAnne?”

She shrugged. “That’s one possibility. My sister, Paganne, led an archeological team on Falgannon three years ago. They dug up seven corpses in our bog, ages ranging from eight hundred to one thousand years old. My ancestors sacrificed them to the auld gods come harvest. Theory is, they were mates to different Ladies of the Isle and for some reason were ritualistically put to death.”

“Not the green-eyed ones!” He laughed, shaking his head. “Lady, I’d love to have you backing me in the boardroom.”

“I’m not boardroom material. My life’s here, it’s where I belong,” she stated simply.

Desmond was rattled by her conviction. He considered the scope of his plans, the predicted impact on this island, and he was coming to see how it would affect this woman. Desmond had never known any sense of belonging. After his father’s suicide they had moved from place to place, never in one spot long enough to set roots. As he aged, he’d gone where jobs took him. Until he’d put his hand on the rail of this castle, no place before spoke to his mind, telling him this is where he wanted to be.

Wind kicked up, ruffling his hair as he surveyed the breathtaking, almost too perfect to be real vista. The need to possess this castle burned in his gut. A spanner in the works.

“Can we go inside the castle?” he requested, ignoring complications arising from his deep yearning.

“Let me fetch a torch. I’ll give you a tour of the areas we can go into.” B.A. entered into the cottage’s kitchen, pausing to give Kitty some crunchies.

Desmond followed, fascinated with the craft and beauty that comprised the cottage. And while the dwelling intrigued him, and he wished to examine it closely, he was more impatient to see the inside of the fortress.

She led him to the far end of the roof, to the entrance. “Careful, the steps are damp. We plan a roofed entrance over it to keep rain from doing more damage. Stay on the stairs. The flooring is mostly wood and unsound, but we can reach the ground floor and see the Great Hall. The stairs were designed so warriors descending could use their right hand—their sword hand—giving them the advantage whilst hampering invaders. Upper levels were living quarters, bedrooms, the solar—the family room by today’s standards.”

She rattled off details familiar to Desmond through his schooling on design. Of course, it was one matter to read facts on a page, another to walk through them and touch them. She was right. The castle was sound. Mortar needed repair and all wood would have to be replaced. It’d cost a king’s ransom, but to an architect it was just another challenge.

One that ignited his imagination, spellbound his soul.

“The Great Hall was the heart of the castle. The lord’s table would’ve been here.” Face alight, B.A. told of life in the huge hall. “Other trestle tables below the salt were taken down each night. They’d have sat around the fireplace, listening to the
seannachie
weave tales.”

Desmond couldn’t resist. “Tales of Maeve and Friseal?”

Warily, she nodded. “I’m sure that was recounted.”

He moved close and she veered away, staying out of reach. He liked stalking her. “Tell me, how many of these ladies found their green-eyed man?”

“Enough. On average one every hundred years.”

Every inch the predator, he enjoyed tracking her. “Why didn’t you marry a green-eyed man, BarbaraAnne?”

She remained frozen for several breaths, her eyes wide. Again, that strange pressure built within his chest, only this time he wasn’t drinking a soda.

Breaking the spell, she shined her electric torch into the fireplace. “The back slides to the side, opening to a tunnel. Logs were tossed onto the fire so no one would ever think to check there.”

Leaning over, he checked the hearth. “Does it still work?”

“Aye, the tunnel leads to a sea cave.” She watched as The Architect Desmond assessed the hall. “It dunna take a clairvoyant to see what’s running through your mind.”

He turned, locking stares with her. “You’d be surprised what runs through my mind.”

“Part of me is thrilled you view the castle as something other than a pile of rocks. Part fears you consider turning it into a high-priced resort.” She awaited his confirmation. When none came, she went on. “Sean left a trust for the island, enough money so I never worry. Along with Evian’s insurance, I seldom look at the bottom line in managing Falgannon.”

He saw hunger in her eyes. She wanted this castle brought back to life, the same passion that had flared in him the instant he put his hand on the railing.

She tugged her shawl tighter about her shoulders. “I approached Sean with plans to refurbish the castle as a family seat. I learned he held a deep resentment against the castle—maybe it represented a part of his wife he could never touch. Some inner demon drove him to claim Maeve and Falgannon, to show the world the poor islander made good. But in claiming her, he ran into The Curse. Maeve required a fortune to drag Falgannon into the twentieth century. She traded her chance at true love for the wealth Sean offered. He married the Lady of the Isle; she received the funds she needed to save the island. And in the end, neither was happy.”

Desmond had been enjoying a companionship with B.A., and he resented the intrusion of Montgomerie’s name. It soured his mood.

“You’re calculating the cost to restore the castle,” she stated.

Challenge was in his words. “If I am?”

“Examine your so-called deed—not I’m admitting it’s legit, mind. No matter what part of Falgannon Sean used for collateral, it dinna include the castle or the ring of stones.”

“The northern third—which also includes Rose Cottage, does it not?”

“The cottage’s on the north third, aye. But no matter, the charter says the castle and stone circle goes with the Lady—a non-breakable trust reaffirmed by Malcolm I in A.D. 945. There’s a provision for the tenants to claim their hereditary lands, if they choose, thus, a portion of the island is set aside in trust. The Lady of Falgannon retains ownership of the castle and the stone ring. As far as the area surrounding… try changing the land and watch me tie you up with Scottish Historical Trust for decades.”

Then she flashed him a sexy smile that spelled checkmate. Damnable woman!

So, why did excitement pump through his veins instead of anger?

Chapter 10

“You dunna understand.” Tending bar at The Green Man, B.A. filled orders for Gillis the Younger to bus to the tables. “Mershan claims Sean put the northern tip of the isle up for collateral, then defaulted on the loan.”

While The Hanged Man was a traditional pub where everyone gathered to talk, relax or have a good meal, three years ago she’d put in a second tavern: The Green Man. Designed for the younger set, the ambiance reflected that restless energy. “When I’m Gone” by 3 Doors Down blared from the speakers. In another room, two pool tables had games in progress, clacking balls audible as the song switched to Wolfstone’s “Ballavanich.” A third room was a dance floor, currently used only by B.A. to exercise in off-times when the pub was closed.

Michael the Fiddle paid little mind to her fussing about the invader trying to rob her of part of the isle. He was keeping an eye on Mandy Taggart, who shared after-dinner drinks with Brian the Horseman. The sexy American brunette had given no hints toward which, if any, of her three bachelors she might favor. Since Michael was one of the three she’d selected from the registry, he was antsy, distracted.

At the end of the bar, Willie clicked send on an e-mail to a Cassie Gates, who had contacted him through the Web site. Since Jock the Repair had got the telephone working, Willie was taking advantage of being online while it lasted. He also pretended to ignore B.A.

Ian drained his ale and scooted the glass toward her to refill. “I’m not driving, so hit me again, lass.”

“You’re driving your bicycle,” Michael the Fiddle reminded. “You pedaled that into the loch Friday two weeks ago due to too many
Wee Heavys?

“Eejits, stop with the bicycles and Web site.” B.A. passed Ian his ale and held up three fingers, harking that this was his third. “I couldn’t contact Cian the Brother about this supposed loan. Any of you ken about it?”

Michael shrugged. “You might try the duffers over at The Hanged Man, but when they have a captive audience, they milk it for its worth.”

“Kitty likes him, B.A.,” Ian pointed out, rotating on the stool to watch Desmond across the room at the table with the other Vikings.

B.A. raised up from putting ice in a glass for herself, studying Desmond feeding cheese chunks to the golden Dudley. The cat sat in a chair next to Mershan, eyes adoring as if the Lord of Catdom had descended to Earth. B.A.‘s heart squeezed at the sight.

“Vote’s out on the worth of Kitty’s endorsement. He’s never liked anyone, so we’ve no basis for comparison,” she pointed out.

“‘Tis true,” Michael murmured, watching Janet buzzing about the Vikings’ table. “Guess Janet’s opinion wouldn’t matter either, since she has a penchant for men with wavy black hair?”

B.A. knew damn well Michael gigged her with a gaff. The effect wasn’t lessened. “Janet can play with blond Vikings, but she’d better leave The Man Desmond alone,” she muttered so no one could hear. “Or I’ll sic the cat on her.”

“What’s that, B.A.?” Ian leaned on the oak bar. “Speak up, lass.” “Oh, put a sock in it.” She tossed a bar towel into his face.

Michael the Story lowered his voice so his comments didn’t carry to B.A. “The Viking prince’s eyes rarely lose sight of our lass.”

Willie nodded and glanced at B.A. “So far she hasn’t said a word about me spying last night. I’ve been keeping a low profile, only… I’m not about to let this wait any longer. Wish me luck, gents.” Turning the laptop around so she could see the pictures of a pretty girl with freckles, he said, “Could you be adding her to the list? An avid romance reader, she runs a secondhand bookstore in Richmond, Virginia—wherever that is—and is working on her first novel. Her dream is to live in Scotland. She picked me, B.A.—only me.”

“Smart lass, I’d say.” B.A. patted his arm. “I’ll move her to the top of the list and set up arrangements in the morn—provided MacGyver of the East’s patch holds.”

Michael the Story queried the other males, “We inviting the Viking horde to Thursday night poker?”

“Hey!” B.A. slammed her empty tray onto a stack. “You never let me play.”

“Nobody in their right mind plays poker with a Montgomerie.” Ian started to push his empty glass to B.A. for a refill, but she held up three fingers and waved them at him. He made a face, grumpy. “You’re a cruel woman, putting me on a limit for a month due to me driving me bicycle into the loch. I explained—a kelpie tried to steal me from the mortal world, B.A.”

“The waterwitch jumped up and wanted her wicked way with you? Sorry. A five for originality, a two for believability.” She set a lemon squash before him on a coaster. “How come the Vikings can come to poker night, but I’m barred.”

Phelan the Lobster reminded her unnecessarily, “They’re male. You aren’t. You ken Thursday night poker is males-only. Besides, no one with all his marbles plays poker with a Montgomerie—they bloody cheat.”

B.A. brightened, wearing a suddenly crafty expression. “You’re going to leave the yank lasses alone all evening?”

“Och, she has us by the short and curlies,” Michael the Story groaned, and the men at the bar crossed their legs. “The occasion not having arisen in the last six years, we hadn’t considered what to do with them on Thursday night.”

“Never mind. We lasses shall institute a ladies’ night. Maybe go for a swim at the springs under the moonlight.” She waggled her eyebrows in Groucho fashion. “Nekkid even.”

The men on the stools choked on their drinks.

“You’re funning, B.A.?” Ian managed to say.

She smirked and moved off to polish the bar.

Willie leaned to Michael the Fiddle. “You’re fidgety ‘cause Mandy Taggart, the pretty brunette from Oregon, is having drinks with Brian the Horseman. Ian and Brian… well-propertied, they are. Their stud breeds hunters that En-glanders and Irelanders both fight over. With coal black hair and ice blue eyes, they’re handsome devils. A lot to offer a lass. Feeling the pinch of competition, are you?”

Michael shrugged. “A wee bit, perhaps.”

Willie sighed. “My fae side says Miz Cassie Gates is the lass for me. So it’s more important than ever that B.A. falls for the Viking prince and lives happily ever after—so the rest of the bloody isle can do likewise.”

“Oh aye. But being contrary, she’s hiding behind the bar, pretending she has to work—an excuse to avoid Mershan. And he’s stubbornly sitting with his men, tracking her like a hawk.”

“Being a best-selling writer, I’m able to plot.” Willie nudged Michael with his elbow. “Get B.A. to dance with you. If the Viking prince sees our B.A. dancing with another man, it might provoke him to do something besides stare. At the same time, it’d showcase you in Mandy’s eyes. Women like men who can dance.”

Michael seemed skeptical. “You think?”

Willie nodded and took a swallow of ale. “Oh aye, remember in
Strictly Ballroom
when Paul Mercurio danced the rumba with Tara Morice behind the curtains? Even Morag and Oona declared it romantic. Strut your stuff—get back at those eejits for all the teasing you took for taking dance lessons with our B.A.”

“We’ve not danced together for years.”

“Like riding bikes. Round up our lass, I’ll dig out tunes.”

Cornering the bar, Willie pushed by B.A., Michael dogging his steps. When Michael untied the apron about her hips, B.A. looked startled.

“What are you doing, eejit?”

“Not me—
we
. Cannot recall what it’s called,
paso doble, rumba
…”

“You want to dance?” she gasped. “Och, I dunna think so—” The rest was cut off as he dragged her forward.

For some bloody reason, Michael had grabbed her hand and dragged her through the pub, along the aisle through the tables and down five steps to the dance floor. The far wall of the dining area was open so people at the tables could watch. B.A. felt on display.

With a wink, the Story hauled her into his arms. “Those lessons I took because you needed to learn and I put up with teasing from the lads? I’m calling in my marker.”

B.A. loved to dance, but she felt she had two left feet until they made their second pass of the floor. Then, each settling into their partner’s rhythm, they waltzed to Bryan Adams’s “Have You Ever Really Loved a Woman.” As they relaxed, their steps grew more playful.

“What caused the urge to play Ginger and Fred? Anything to do with Amanda Taggart?”

Michael shrugged. “Willie suggested lasses favor dancing.”

“Willie’s a right smart one.” She inclined her head in Mandy’s direction.

“Seems we have her attention.” He beamed.

“You should ask her to dance next.”

The arrogant grin fell off his face. “What if she dunna ken how?”

“Teach her,” B.A. said with a laugh.

She tripped over her foot as her eyes collided with Desmond’s. Even from across the room, his penetrating stare made it hard to remember
one-two-three, side-back-front
. Luckily, Michael was a familiar partner. She finished the dance without turning into a total klutz.

“B.A.,” Michael pointed out, “you never blushed for Evian. You do it a lot around the Viking. Whether he owns a chunk of the isle—or
thinks
he does—‘tis another reason to keep him about, eh?”

B.A. glanced at Desmond. “If I keep him around, I’m likely to get hurt.”

Michael paused at the steps to the dining area. “You might. You could also get lucky. Who kens? Maybe my gran and mum might return to the isle if you married a black-haired, green-eyed man. Now excuse me, I’m about to ask a pretty Yank to dance.”

She smiled, watching Michael ask and Amanda eagerly accept. Then Callum and Ian the Radio led Beth and Katie—the other two Americans—onto the floor as well. It was heartwarming to see her plan working.

Sucking up courage, she turned to face Desmond. Butterflies filled her stomach as he rose from his chair and offered it to her.

“Come to look in my eyes?” he asked. He picked up Dudley, then resettled with the cat on his lap. His beautiful hand stroked the cat’s back, sending shivers up B.A.‘s spine. Enchanted how the man and cat had bonded, she worked to ignore the fire he conjured in her-with that simple gesture. How she envied that cat.

“They need checking?”

“Most definitely.” Their pale green depths flickered with banked fire. “Fancy footwork out there,” he added.

“Thanks, it’s been a while since I danced with Michael.”

The two blond Vikings rose, pushing their chairs to the table. Wulf gave Desmond a two finger salute. “See you in the morning, boss.”

“Please, dunna leave on my account. I stopped by to—,” B.A. started to say.

“Look into Desmond’s eyes?” the second blond laughed, finishing her sentence. “We’re diving in the morning, so we require our beauty sleep. Good night, lovely lady.”

With a frown, she watched them go. Recalling Desmond had brought scuba gear, she asked, “You aren’t diving? It’s too soon after the cosh to your head. The water surrounding Falgannon is warm because of the Gulf Stream, but currents are swift, with strong riptides. It’s tricky.”

“I’m not diving. Wulf and Dennis are professionals, though, and they’ll enjoy the challenge” Desmond said.

Nervous, she used conversation to cover. “So… you’re getting an invite to Thursday poker night. My lads hope to fleece you and your men—delayed payback for Viking raids on our isle.”

“I take it this is a regular thing?”

“Males only, every Thursday—except the last one of the month.”

“The last Thursday?” he queried.

“That’s the lads’ long weekend in Ullapool.” She laughed. “As the Marys say—they go tomcatting from Thursday until Monday evening.”

Desmond chuckled. “Tomcatting? Quaint way of putting it. Curiosity, since your lads go
tomcatting,
can’t they find their own brides instead of you importing them?”

“They tried. For years. Most of them went to university on the mainland. I sent them to Colford Hall to stay. My father gave them jobs at Montgomerie Enterprises local offices so they’d have time and money. Some stayed as long as two years.” At a loss to explain, since he had already sneered at The Curse, B.A. equivocated: “They’re island-born. Maybe ‘tis hard for you to understand, but something about Falgannon roots deep into one’s soul. We’re never happy for long elsewhere. Most came back brokenhearted. A few did marry. They ended in divorce. As I said, we’ve a high divorce rate.” She fell silent.

They stayed a bit longer to watch the dancing, but then B.A. had to call it an evening. She needed to complete an order for supplies and cut checks since Angus the Ferry left at first light. Also, a new flood of e-mails awaited her.

As they strode from the pub, Wee Dougie’s scooter came roaring around the corner. This time Desmond pulled up without her warning. He looked down at the Cat Dudley, who stood waiting, indicating that this bizarre behavior was the norm even to him. “Doesn’t that delinquent have anything better to do than try and run people down?”

“He only tries to run down—”

“People he likes. I’m
not
flattered, B.A. Does he go to school?”

“The Marys instruct him, along with the few other children on the isle. Michael the Story teaches them history and lore.”

Desmond opened the car door for her, and again the cat jumped inside, hopping over the second bench to sit facing the back window. Desmond lifted a brow. “I see Kitty who’s not your kitty is ready to go home.”

“He’s following you, not me,” B.A. replied.

Desmond walked around and got into the driver’s seat. As he put his key into the Rover’s ignition, he paused. “Would you?”

The question flustered her. Being in the car with him had put her back into that breathless mode. There wasn’t enough air. Her heart hammered against her ribs. “Would I what?”

“Follow me?”

She thought of various quips, the old Rowan and Martin’s Laugh In, “Blow in my ear and I’ll follow you anywhere,” or in her thickest burr, “Lay on, Mac Duff.” The answer rising from her deepest need was, “To hell and back.” Her tongue remained glued to the roof of her mouth.

So much for being witty, BarbaraAnne,
Devil B.A. muttered in disgust.

She stared, trying to read Desmond’s countenance in the shadows. Her fae voice said for once his guard was down, and she’d miss an opportunity if she didn’t reply honestly.