Sisters of Colford Hall 01 - The Invasion of Falgannon Isle (2 page)

Ah yes, it seemed the Vikings had landed. The two taller men were stereotypical Norsemen. With long white-blond hair and a rugged face that’d see women fall at his feet, the first towered over everyone. A ruddy cast touched the complexion of the second, with waves of straw-blond hair framing his handsome face. His blue eyes flashed in mirth as he spotted Janet staring at them in the same manner The Escape Artists would a steak.

Their virile perfection left B.A. unmoved. She judged both as healthy males, but no more emotionally involving than Campbell Grant’s blue-ribbon bull.

It was the third man—the one with the raven-black hair—who drew her eyes. If a Viking, he had Black-Irish blood in him coming through a female stolen in a long-ago raid. Both blonds stepped to either side of the aisle to let him pass, a gesture of deference. Almost a head taller, they were physically dominating, but
he
was the power. B.A. sensed this clearly as if both men had gone down on one knee in obeisance. With a panther’s grace he strode to the counter, then bent to set a Louis Vuitton duffle on the floor. B.A.‘s breathing clutched, and she girded herself to confront the invader. Dizziness buzzed in her blood.

Then he rose up, meeting her stare… and everything stilled.

Not a blue of any shade, his eyes were pale green—warlock eyes capable of freezing a person with the arch of one black brow. Lifting her chin, B.A. fought a frisson as his gaze locked on her. Aware of the moggie pussyfooting on the countertop, the newcomer ran his hand along its spine.

The gesture triggered images within B.A. of that hand upon her body, stroking with the same sensual magic. A premonition? She blinked, loath to recognize the prospect.

She was right—he was a bloody warlock!

The Cat Dudley arched under the man’s hand, turned and head-butted his elbow for more pets.
Turncoat,
B.A. thought.

Security came in the fact the stranger looked nothing like Evian, B.A. assured herself as she appraised him. Quite healthy, no middle-age paunch hid under the expensive silk shirt and black leather jacket. Though probably in his early forties, most would judge him a decade younger. The lines bracketing his mouth gave him away, hinting at someone who’d lived longer and seen disappointments that had hardened him.

Long black lashes were unblinking over penetrating eyes. A feral stillness about him re-conjured the image of a panther—so beautiful, so compelling. B.A. itched to reach out and stroke him as he did the cat. Self-preservation stayed her hand, fearful he’d strike in a wink.

Outside of his wavy blue-black hair, little about the invader evoked the memory of Evian. Her tension should ease, seeing this man didn’t resemble her dead husband; once more she was safe, buffeted by the cocoon the island provided. She didn’t have to feel, wouldn’t risk her soul. How could any man reach through the wall she’d built for protection?

Yet, inexplicably, alarmingly, this man did. He unnerved her, put her on the defensive. An air of mystery, and calculation, swirled in those jade eyes. B.A.‘s fae sense whispered a warning that his coming to the isle had something to do with her—he’d change her world if she permitted it.

Din from the crowd abated as they watched the invader and “their B.A.” locked in a staring contest. It bordered on droll for neither of them to break the ice and speak first, but strangely, she held back, waiting… watching.

His right brow arched, conceding this round. “I’m searching for B.A. Montgomerie. Is he about?” Lilt of the Irish touched that deep melodic voice, sending shivers up her spine.

Twitters rippled through the crowd over his error. A tattle-tale, Wee Gordie opened his mouth to correct the man, but Callum grabbed the child’s shoulder and placed a hand over his gub to silence the jabber-box.

The Viking leader turned to each side, looking at the grinning villagers—again, that cold air of assessment. Returning to B.A., his gaze narrowed on her, shocking her to discover those ice-green eyes were capable of heat. They raked slowly over her face, the gold hair fanning about her shoulders, down to her breasts and then lower in a scorching fire before traveling back to lock stares with her. His appraisal finished, he watched her as if he knew things about her, secrets, things she loathed to admit, that he
dared
her to admit. Those well-formed lips parted in feline appreciation, pantherlike arrogance, as if he’d put his mark on her.

The impact of this man hit her senses hard. Her traitorous body roared to life. Her breasts heavy, their tips sensitive—without glancing down she knew the thin silk of her gold blouse outlined the crowns of her betraying nipples. Lifting her chin, she tugged her shawl about her as a blanket of armor.

“What might you wish with B.A. Montgomerie?” she inquired.

“Business. My commitment was originally with Sean Montgomerie, but my solicitor wired of his passing in May. I must instead deal with his heir, B.A. Montgomerie. Wonder if you’d give me his directions?”

Go out the door, turn right and keep walking in a straight line
is what she chafed to reply, meaning he’d walk into the bay. Then she wouldn’t have to deal with the panic he provoked within her. Forcing a smile, she struggled to ignore those challenging eyes.

“I’m B.A. Montgomerie.”

He arched a brow. “B.A. Montgomerie is a woman?”

Wee Gordie escaped Callum’s constraint and blurted from a safe distance, “Aye, she’s the Lady of the Isle like her
seanamhair
Maeve was.”

“Lady of the Isle? Is that similar to Lady of the Lake?” A smile twitched at the corner of his made-for-sin mouth. “Then you and I have matters to sort out.”

“And you are?” she queried.

He tilted his head, vouchsafing her another point. “Desmond Mershan. You’re expecting me?” He held out his hand.

B.A. stared at those long, magician’s fingers as if they were cobras. His polished manner triggered warning bells within her, cautioning that Desmond Mershan lied through those pearly white teeth—predator’s teeth. He’d known precisely who she was. This man wasn’t stupid. Incisive, shrewd intelligence radiated from those pale eyes. He wouldn’t have come to Falgannon without knowing every detail about the isle, and about B.A. Montgomerie. He’d strangely played out this charade. Lying. Why?

B.A. attempted to shake that impression, but it lingered.

“You presumed wrong.”

Impatience flared in his expression, yet even that struck B.A. as having a thespian air. “Details were fixed at the first of the year with Sean Montgomerie, owner of the isle—”

“I’m owner,” she interrupted. “Have been for twenty years.”

The golden moggie Dudley stood and put his paws on Mershan’s chest, meowing for attention. The man shifted to evade the pesky feline, then finally gave in and scratched its chin. “Affectionate animal.”

That drew guffaws from the crowd, prompting Callum to grumble, “Despite the wee beastie from hell greeting you as a long-lost friend, look up ‘cantankerous’ in a dictionary, you’ll see a picture of The Cat Dudley for illustration.”

Blinking innocently, the cat bumped the invader, reminding him to keep his fingers moving. B.A. rolled her eyes in disbelief when he then rumbled as though Mershan were 100 percent catnip.

“As I was saying, my arrangements were with—”

“I own Falgannon, not my grandfather. I’ve never heard of you or any arrangements.”

Gently pushing away the persistent cat, Desmond smiled. “I’m exhausted. So are my companions. If you’d point us to lodgings, we’ll sort this out—say, over supper?”

The piercing gaze traced over her with blistering sexual fire. Confident of acquiescence, he reclaimed the expensive duffle.

So, the warlock was being charming? B.A. almost huffed. Supper? Those soporific eyes promised a meal, a bedtime story and breakfast! “No one lands on my isle without written permission. I’ve no idea what you—”

Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out an envelope and sighed. “Permission to land, Lady of the Isle. While you get up to speed, I’d appreciate a meal and a bath.”

“Read it, B.A.,” Wee Gordie urged, only to be hushed by several islanders.

B.A. no more wished to accept it than she had to shake his hand. Her grandmother Maeve had taught her to be wary of a warlock, distrustful of accepting anything from him. More important, never to pass him any object he requested—especially salt. You’d give away a part of yourself, empowering his control over you. B.A. had never met anyone who qualified as a warlock, but she’d bet Maeve’s silver torque she was staring one in the face now.

Watching the envelope dropped to the counter, it took all her concentration to maintain her calm facade. Nerves raw after years of maintaining a buffer between herself and the world, this man broke down her barriers and sent her emotions careening like balls in a pinball machine. The pale eyes were mocking; he was aware of her fear. Worse, B.A. saw that it pleased him.

“If you’ll point my companions and me in the right direction?”

“It’s directions you need?” Devilment twitched at the corner of her mouth. “Start up Harbour Hill, turn right and follow the cobbled road. It takes you where you need to go.”

He tilted his head in thanks, and a sexy smile tugged at his mouth. That mouth conjured images of long, deep kisses. “I’ll see you later?”

Sooner than you think,
B.A. vowed silently, ignoring what that smile did to her heart.

If he attached significance to the snickers when he passed, he gave no indication. The three Vikings started up the hill road, the silly Escape Artists falling in, barking and bounding after them, followed by the
putt-putt-putt
of Wee Dougie’s scooter.

B.A. rushed to the porch to watch. With athletic strides, the three men passed the postcard-perfect businesses and homes. The cobbled road circled the isle’s southern tip, with a neat row of two-story stone buildings lining the inner curve. Doors kept opening as Falgannonians came to eyeball the Vikings and their bizarre entourage. The group vanished around the bend.

Hurrying inside, B.A. went to see what the envelope held. Closest, Michael peered as if it’d pop open and a jack-in-the-box would spring forth. B.A. joined him in glaring at the envelope. She needed a long stick to touch it, to make certain it was safe, maybe just to whack it a few times in order to be sure.

Sharing her sentiment, Michael snagged a pencil and poked it.

B.A.‘s mouth flattened in a frown as she snatched it away and lifted the flap. While her eyes scanned the photocopies inside, her shawl snaked down one shoulder.

Eyes alight, Callum leaned on the counter. “Interesting bloke, eh, B.A.?”

“As interesting as a panther on a leash. I should count my fingers to see if any are missing.”

“Oh aye, it’s easy to discern how
uninteresting
you found this Desmond feller.” Seeing the silk clad breast proclaiming

her arousal, Callum and Michael exchanged knowing male glances then burst into laughter.

Adjusting her shawl, B.A. stuck her tongue out at them. She couldn’t even summon a scathing retort, too distracted by studying the copies of letters between her grandfather and Desmond Mershan.

Robbie the Butcher rushed in. “A wicked lass you are, B.A., sending them to trod the town circle. Another five minutes they’ll be returning. Quick, what’s it say?”

“Arrangements Sean set up last winter. The Vikings are to survey the land on the eastern slope.” She rattled the pages in the air. “Nothing was in the investment portfolio given to me upon Sean’s death. While I gave leave to invest the island’s money, I dunna believe he’d undertake anything of this magnitude without my permission.”

The shop bells
ting-a-linged,
causing B.A. to glance up as Willie the Writer hurried inside. A beloved islander, he churned out best-selling cowboy romances set in the U.S. West under the penname Willa Macgregor. A hoot, since the farthest west he’d ever been was Belfast.

“A naughty lass you are, B.A. Villagers are rushing to see the excitement. Expect tempers when they discover it’s only a wee Viking invasion and not the Yank lasses come,” he cautioned.

The racket of Wee Dougie’s scooter grew audible in the distance as the crowd rounded the far bend, giving B.A. little time to gather her wits. She needed to ring her brother, the family solicitor; he’d know if this was legit or Desmond Mershan was a snake-oil salesman.

She reached for the wall phone, only Callum, Michael and Willie cried in unison, “Blower’s down.”

“Fuuu… dge.” She questioned, “Where’s Jock the Repair, MacGyver of the East? With the matchmaking project, we need to be online 24/7, not seven hours out of twenty-four.”

“He’s fixing Davey the Weaver’s washer-machine,” Callum answered. “B.A., since we’re discussing our sorry state of communications—the Yank lasses won’t believe we only have five phones on the whole bloody isle. Any chance of dragging the island into this millennium? Poor sweet things will probably faint when you say no cell phones.”

“B.A., this Desmond feller won’t appreciate being sent on a tour of our downtown business district.” Robbie asked, “Who were you going to ring, lass?”

“My brother the solicitor. Moot now. These papers appear to be a contract between Mershan and The Montgomerie.”

“Contract?” several echoed.

“If it’s not a scam, my grandfather sought to turn us into an exclusive tourist spot. Mershan’s here to judge if it’s feasible to place a hotel on the isle’s eastern tip.”

The irksome
putt-putt-putt
of Wee Dougie’s scooter increased.

“Look, it’s like a bloody May Day parade,” Robbie called from the porch.

B.A. came over to the window, watching Mershan and his Viking bodyguards stalk back down Harbour Road in determined strides, The Escape Artists rollicking about them. In the lead, strutting proudly, was The Cat Dudley, and yes, a large portion of the isle’s populace was now in tow. Eleven were on bicycles, while Ian and Brian Fraser rode horses. Wee Dougie, on that blasted scooter, trailed after the islanders afoot, staying out of reach of everyone.

“The invaders approach,” B.A. muttered drolly. She stood tapping the envelope against her chin while the din outside increased.