Sisters of Colford Hall 01 - The Invasion of Falgannon Isle (20 page)

“Ouch!” Desmond growled, “Guess who.”

B.A. looked down to see an annoyed Dudley snapping his tail. “He’s impatient,” she remarked.

“Kill Kitty.” Desmond made a swipe to grab him, but the cat crammed his pudgy body back through the cat door.

B.A. spun and ducked under Des’s arm, pushing the door open. “We need a fire, to get out of these wet clothes and into a hot shower.”

“Mmm, good clean fun. I’m game.”

“You light the fire, I’ll feed the bottomless pit.” B.A. sauntered into the kitchen.

Desmond dropped to the arm of the sofa, watching her walk away, barely remembering to breathe. B.A. looked damn fine in those clothes plastered to her by the rain. She switched on the radio, Cutting Crew filling the air, and her hips swung to the music as she opened a can for Dudley.

Desmond was content to sit there like a sap and soak up the images and essences that were B.A., only when the singer hit the lyrics of how it “Must have been some kind of a kiss” and he “should’ve walked away,” the blood left his brain. It was that damn specter of conscience rising again.

Yeah, he should’ve walked away from B.A. It would’ve been best. She was a warm, loving, honest woman. Not once had she spoken to him about Evian. There was no need. He’d seen her at the Colford graveyard as she touched the bronze plaque in memory of Deshaunt. He’d witnessed the pain, the agony, the guilt as sobs wracked her whole body, her soul.

And he was a bastard for planning to take so much from her. Soon would put her world at risk. She didn’t deserve what he was going to do to her, to her island.

The song changed to the dreamy “I Want to Know What Love Is” by Foreigner. The words flooded through him, hitting him with a power as no song had ever done, the lyrics speaking to every need within him, possessing him. Like a sleepwalker, his steps carried him to the kitchen. The few feet seemed miles down a darkened tunnel. The light at the end was B.A. Walking away from her was
never
an option.

She raised up, surprise spreading over her face as she assessed the dark mood etched upon his countenance. She opened her mouth to speak, but he took hold of her wrist and pulled her to him. He kissed her. Searing heat replaced the cool of their rain-soaked clothes. He kissed her hard, not playfully. His kisses spoke of the emptiness inside him, of the soul-deep hunger and how only she could vanquish it.

The ravenous beast had slipped its leash. No pulling back. There was no tenderness in him, no gentleman to apologize as he captured her other wrist and backed her to the refrigerator, pinning her against it. Holding her hands at the side of her head, he ground his pelvis against hers, feeling her arch like a cat, seeking even more.

Flashing a feral smile, he released her wrists. Hands sliding down her body to her firm rear, he jerked her up and against him. Taking a step, he balanced her on the counter, leaving her legs dangling over. Her arms encircled his neck and held on.

He fisted his hand in her damp hair and forced her head back, their eyes locking, as if the final shard of civilized man sought to glean if this dark side of his nature terrified her. Sensing he needed reassurance, she locked her legs about his hips and dragged him to her, rocking against his groin, clearly relishing the delicious friction. Her hands fumbled with the zipper of his jacket and pushed it off his shoulders.

He kissed the strong column of her neck, fed on the radiance that was her, absorbed her fae essence that branded his soul. His left hand palmed her breast, squeezing, feeling the pebbled nipple. He struggled to undo the buttons on her sweater, but heard them popping and ricochetting against the opposite wall as he shoved open the front, baring her breasts to the coolness of the house.

Pausing a moment, he drank in the beauty of her body, her niched areolas. Her chest rose and fell in short breaths, telling him her arousal matched his. She was with him all the way. So in tune, whether in gentleness or raw animalistic passion, they fed off the mood of each other.

Soul mates.

Crashing overhead thunder rattled the whole house. In the same instant, the lightbulbs in the kitchen and living room exploded. B.A. jumped. Her hand accidentally caught the cord of the radio draped down the side of the refrigerator and yanked it from the wall. Left in the dimness, in the heavy silence, their labored breaths were clear.

Sliding her long skirt up her damp legs, his thumbs drew slow circles on the soft skin of her inner thighs, rising close to where she most wanted his touch. He felt her shudder. Her hips flexed, inching nearer to his thumbs. Lightly, he dragged the back of his knuckle over that sensitized pearl at the apex of her female core. B.A. nearly bucked off the counter.

When his other hand stroked her firm derriere and felt she wore a thong, he nearly came undone. He should’ve slid it down, taking time to draw out the anticipation, pushing her to the point she’d beg for him to take her, but the beast wanted no part of prolonged foreplay. He ripped it, making a vague mental note to order her a dozen—two dozen—from Victoria’s Secret when they came up for air.

Leaning into her, he took the tip of her tight breast into his mouth, sucking hard. He’d mark her, likely mark her many more times before this madness spent itself. The civilized side of him might flinch at the animalistic treatment of a woman who deserved moonlight and roses, merited reverence. But the beast took and took.

Her head lolled back as his teeth raked her sensitive nipple. He watched her ride the hard crest of the pain-pleasure threshold, her lids half lowered. Yanking her to the counter edge, he spread her thighs wide.

Fumbling with the drawstring of his sweatpants, he drew in the scent of her arousal, the female fragrance clouding his brain to the point of insanity. He jerked her forward, impaling her on his hard length of flesh. For a brief moment, shaking, he held still, savoring the sweet sensation of being inside B.A.‘s hot slick body.

Of coming home.

Then the beast howled. He withdrew and then slammed into her again and again. Still, it wasn’t enough. Wrapping his arms around her hips, he lifted and swung her up against the blank wall on the other side of the refrigerator, pinned her there. His hips flexed over and over, riding her hard, pushing her higher.

“Show me,” he half growled, half begged as he pounded into her.

Desmond wanted this agony, this ecstasy, this dark glory to last forever, but her body tightened in a hard spasm as she climaxed with a near crushing force. Her internal muscles clenched around him, dragging him with her into the swirling maelstrom. He could no more hold back than not draw his next breath. His body exploded, pounding in his blood to where he nearly lost consciousness. Holding on to B.A. like a lifeline.

Drowsing, B.A. rested on her side on the sofa, staring into the peat fire. His radiant warmth surrounding her, Desmond spooned against her back, his beautiful arm draped over her waist as his hand palmed the curve of her stomach. He was so quiet. So peaceful.

She ran her fingers over the back of his hand, contemplating how violently he’d made love to her. Being TM—typically male—
he’d
likely refer to it as having sex. Or something even a bit more graphic. Men! She smiled. Desmond would shy away from saying “made love,” the L-word a bete noire.

Only, the two words he’d uttered during the throes of passion spoke volumes.
Show me.
The part demand, part plea stemmed from the song that had been playing just before the light bulbs exploded. He wanted to know what love was, and he wanted her to show him.

Show me.
Those two words told her everything she needed about Desmond Mershan.

Chapter 17

Parking her bicycle at the path leading to the castle, B.A. glanced up at the gray stone fortress. Hearing the hammers and saws, she smiled. With All Hallows’ Eve nearing, it wouldn’t be long until she was officially in residence at Lady Cottage. Anticipation hummed in the nippy autumn air. The future was a vague, scary mix of dreams, hopes and a touch of fear, for she couldn’t imagine living there alone now that Desmond had come into her life. Instead of existing day-by-day, for the first time in years she looked forward to Halloween and beyond to Christmas and New Year’s.

The past few weeks had settled into a comfortable pattern as autumn’s colors kissed the landscape. Desmond took to working on Lady Cottage with her lads. Passion lit his eyes when he worked with wood, his hands almost making love to the grain, sculpting elaborate designs in the molding with the router. B.A. noted admiration in her lads’ eyes as they watched him, knew it forged another link in their friendship. Before lunch he’d carry his sketchpad outside to draw the castle’s exterior.

At first he sketched the fortress as it looked now. However, his series of intricate drawings had evolved into how it would’ve appeared in its prime. The details were beyond talent and imagination, yet she held back asking Desmond where he got his inspiration.

Wulf and Dennis broke the news they were becoming residents of Falgannon. Desmond’s reaction was hard to read. He seemed surprised, but she couldn’t judge if he was against the idea or not. After they’d informed him of their intentions, they moved their belongings into the lighthouse, the first step to planting roots.

Wulf called his sisters to inform them they were moving to the island come spring after graduating university. He reported they weren’t happy about moving to “the ends of the earth,” until he mentioned there were over two-hundred single males to torment. Ingrid, Astrid and Raghild would visit over Christmas holidays, so in five weeks Falgannon would experience its second Viking invasion. At dawn Wulf went out with Phelan the Lobster to check the lobster traps. Afternoons were spent working on the old bulldozer, figuring with Falgannon’s imminent housing boom it’d come in handy.

Willie was delighted to have another writer on the isle. They’d taken the ferry to shop for beds suitable for tall men and picked up a wonderful desk and tables at a small antique shop on Lewis. Willie offered to help Dennis critique his novels, but B.A. feared Willie might have Dennis penning lusty Viking tales under the name of Denise Dalen before he was done.

In her quieter moments, niggling doubts about what had really brought Desmond and his men to the isle rose in her mind. She figured it little mattered. They didn’t stand a chance against her nutty islanders, The Cat Dudley and her. The three Outlanders fit so perfectly into the rhythm of Falgannon. They belonged. Oona had even screened Dennis and Wulf navy sweatshirts with
BORN AGAIN FALGANNONIANS
in red plaid across the chest.

If only Desmond would make the same commitment to the isle.

She sneaked up behind him, trying to be quiet so she could watch him sketch. He was an amazing artist. There was little doubt he was a brilliant architect, but she thought his true talent lay in his art. The man was an undiscovered genius with a number-two pencil and art-gum eraser.

Secretly, she’d showed Oona his sketches. Her friend agreed the drawings were incredible, suggesting they could be produced in lithographs and sold—for a hefty price. B.A. debated how to approach Desmond about selling his works through Oona’s gallery. Woman’s intuition told her Desmond likely discounted his talent and wouldn’t take her seriously.

Covering his eyes with her hands, she whispered against his ear, “Guess who.”

He paused from sketching, wiggling the pencil back and forth rapidly between his fingers. “What do I get if I’m right?”

“A hot date with the lass of your dreams?”

“What if I’m wrong?”

“Hmm… you have to wear a kilt on All Hallows’ Eve,” she teased.

His chest rumbled with laughter. “No choice, Ms. Montgomerie.”

She kissed him on the neck. “Not going to discuss the kilt?”

He set the sketchpad on edge against the chair and pulled her onto his lap. Rickety, the folding chair protested the extra weight. “You could ply me with feminine wiles. I love to be plied.”

“I think you love Tarn the Baker’s scones more,” she pouted.

He rolled his eyes as if considering. “Um… a toss-up. Maybe to score points with me, you could learn to make them.”

“Dream on, Mershan. Why bother when Tarn is a genius with the shortening? Of course, there’s an alternative.”

“Something wicked, I hope.” He nuzzled her neck. “Do tell, I am all ears.”

She wiggled her bottom against his lap. “Not quite
all
ears.”

“B.A.!” Willie called as Cassie Yates and he pedaled down the hill on bikes.

“Company.” Desmond groaned, dropping his head against the soft curve of her shoulder.

“Hush, Cassie’s going to be my first success story,” B.A. proudly pronounced.

“A bit premature isn’t it? She only came on Monday.”

“A TM response,” she sniffed.

“TM? I could be wrong, but figure that isn’t praise.”

She nodded. “TM—typically male. Men are quick to doubt love at first sight. I’ve a feeling Willie and Cassie will be the first of my matchmaking efforts to tie the knot.”

Desmond scowled. “Ever wonder where the expression ‘tie the knot’ comes from?”

“Pre-Christian marriages, part of the pagan ceremony. The bride gave a piece of her clothing and the man added his. They tied them into a knot, meaning the two were bound together as long as the knot remained. Part of handfasting rites. On a year and a day, if there wasn’t a child and either party decided to end the marriage they untied the knot, releasing them from their bond.”

Desmond started to joke, saying she tied him in knots, but then he stopped, got a far-off look, like he was having a vision.

“Des, are you all right?” B.A. called.

He came back to himself, blinking, then smiled. “Just famished. I need food, woman.”

B.A. was disturbed by Desmond’s odd behavior but distracted by Willie and Cassie running toward them, holding hands, their faces were happy and shining with love. It warmed her heart, gave her hope. She’d set up the Bachelor Registry and Web site out of guilt, feeling she’d let her lads down. To see it working made her want to cry.

“TF, ” Desmond breathed against her cheek. “Women get teary when romance blooms.”

B.A. elbowed him. “Hallo, you two. Enjoy the tour of the isle, Cassie?”

“She loves the isle, B.A. “Willie exclaimed with a breathlessness that had nothing to do with pedaling about the island.

Cassie spun in a circle. “My fondest wish has been granted. The island’s picture perfect. It must’ve cost your grandfather a fortune to modernize it.”

B.A. noticed Desmond turn his head away, his expression hardening as if he tried to hide his reaction from her. It gave B.A. pause, but once again Cassie reclaimed her attention.

“Willie showed me the wind machines on the drop-off of the mountain—so clever. You get power from them, yet they don’t intrude on the isle’s beauty hidden there. And the lighthouse is an artist’s dream. I wish I were a painter. But the castle…
it
takes my breath away. Shame it hasn’t been restored.”

“It’s my fondest hope, but beyond my means.”

Cassie continued, “It’s a shame. You and your husband would be the perfect lord and lady for the castle.”

“Oh, I’m not her husband,” Desmond corrected, a wicked dimple appearing at the corner of his mouth. “I’m her green-eyed man. The Lady of Falgannon always—well, occasionally—has a green-eyed man. Sort of her own personal sex slave.”

“Sex slave!That’s it!” B.A. elbowed him, setting the chair to wobbling. “I’m tossing Tam’s scones into the
cuan
”

“A
cuan
is a bay,” Willie explained.

Cassie hugged his arm. “Willie can teach me Gaelic. I’ve always wanted to learn.”

“I can sing in Gaelic.” Desmond rubbed his hand up and down B.A.‘s spine, making her shiver.

“B.A., may I take Cassie into the castle?” Willie requested.

“Careful going down the steps, and stay in the areas that have stone flooring.”

“This’ll help me with my book. It’s set on an island off the coast of Scotland. Fate, don’t you think? If you don’t mind, I want to use you and your husband as models for my heroine and hero. You’re so beautiful, so perfect for the medieval period. Maybe I can get Oona could do a bookcover with you as models.” A shadow crossed her face. “That’s okay, isn’t it? I’m sorry. This is so exciting!”

Desmond fought a queer feeling creeping up his spine when Cassie brought up the medieval period. To cover, he resorted to teasing, “I’m not sure I’d make a fit medieval hero. I’m much too modern. I like modern conveniences, like electricity and toilet paper.”

Cassie giggled. “Writers skip over the toilet paper problem. But you’d be a dashing hero. In mail and a surcoat, with a plaid across your chest—a red tartan, I think. It’d go so well with your black hair. I see it in my mind. The cover would be super!”

Desmond flinched at her mention of the tartan, thinking of the visions he’d been having of himself and B.A. in medieval times. Three-fourths of the plaids in Scotland were red and black.

“Do you know the history of the castle?” Cassie asked, then rolled her eyes. “Silly me, of course you do. Could you tell me if there were any great battles fought here? Maybe some warrior came to claim an earlier Lady of Falgannon?”

The perplexing sensation spread in Desmond, provoking him to run his mouth. “Nah, only Vikings invaded this isle.”

B.A. eyed him. “Ignore, Des, he’s light-headed from the lack of food.”

Desmond attempted to turn the topic, panicked to hear B.A. speak. Somehow, he knew what she would say. “I’m in a Dudley faint. Speaking of which, where is Kitty? You starving him, too?”

“Thursday is lunch with the Marys. They make hash.” B.A. tilted her head, clearly puzzled at his clownish behavior. “We’re going to have lunch, would you two like to join us?”

Willie shook his head. “We picnicked outside the cave. I’ll take Cassie on a tour of the castle while you feed our Desmond. You can tell her about The Sinclair coming to claim our Deporadh later.”

Desmond stiffened. It burned to breathe. Something snapped. Desmond feared it was his sanity, until the chair gave way under B.A.‘s and his weight, tumbling them onto the ground. He lay there, a slat of the chair jabbing him in the hip, barely able to draw air. Yep, someday soon, loving B.A. would see him in the hospital.

Loving B.A.
The words echoed in his mind, their enormity more than he could accept.

Ian and Brian cantered up on their horses, The Escape Artists yapping around the mares’ hooves. One hound ran to Desmond and licked his face.

“Uck! Dog PVC, as Angus would say.” Desmond groaned as B.A. rolled off him.

“Och, she’s wallowing that poor man around again.” Ian spotted Willie practically dragging the Yates girl to the castle. “B.A., I’ll have you know, I bathed this morn.”

“Your hygiene isn’t the concern. He’s fearful you might turn Cassie’s eye,” B.A. pointed out. “He’s not risking prolonged exposure to the Fraser twins’ virile beauty.”

Brian laughed, jumped down and offered Desmond a hand. “B.A., you ought to take better care of your man.”

Desmond pulled a face. “She won’t feed me either.”

“I’ll feed you—a knuckle sandwich.” She began running her hands over his body to see if he broke anything. When she made a swipe along his zipper, he jumped.

“Damn, woman, show a little modesty!”

“I just making sure nothing vital was bent or broken.” She batted her eyes innocently. “Des is making noise because he dinna want to hear about Deporadh Mackenzie and Iain Sinclair.”

Ian carried the basket and blanket from the bike. “Willie should write
that
as one of his romance tales. Better than them yippee kiye, lust-in-the-dust Westerns. I’d read that one.”

“Why does our Desmond not wish to hear about Deporadh and her green-eyed man?” Brian helped his twin spread the blanket.

“A Sinclair man coming to claim a Mackenzie woman rattles him a bit, does it not,
Sin?
” B.A. replied.

Desmond ignored her, picking up his sketchbook to close it. His eyes lingered on the image of the man and woman half-drawn on the stairs of the castle. He flipped the cover down, hiding the drawing.

B.A. opened her hamper and took out four glasses—lucky she’d brought extra, as the twins weren’t showing any signs of leaving. “Falgannon’s own,” she announced, pouring the wine.

“B.A., you’re the only one who likes that dark purple grapeade.”

“So, why does the story of Iain Sinclair and Deporadh Mackenzie alarm our Desmond?” Brian prodded.

“Desmond’s middle name”—B.A. lifted her glass in salute—“is Sinclair.”