Sisters of Colford Hall 01 - The Invasion of Falgannon Isle (21 page)

Chapter 18

B.A. wiped down the oak bar in The Green Man while observing Morag push a glass in front of Wulf. The woman ordered, “Drink this one.”

“No!” Wulf snarled, then turned back to B.A. and asked for the eleventh time, “You didn’t answer me. Are any of your sisters available?”

B.A. took a sip of Pepsi, pretending to ponder his question. “Available for what?”

“To marry.”

“Outside of my twin Britt, none of the sisters seems to fall for blonds. And after meeting Lucien Delacroix, the director who drove a stake through my sister’s heart, I suppose there might be a good reason for that aversion.”

“You said your sister is acting again?” Wulf grinned, held up his hands before his chest and bounced imaginary boobs. “Great actress. I want a big, buxom wife. You’d suit me fine, but Desmond wouldn’t like me to court you. He goes jungle cat on me whenever I mention your name. Growwwl.”

He burped and then giggled. A seven-foot giggling Viking was a sight, B.A. thought.

“If you call one of my sisters buxom, they’ll deck you,” B.A. warned. “Come to think of it,
I
might deck you. Males and females have a different connotation of that word.”

“Gor, this batch of the goop dinna work either, Morag.” Michael the Fiddle sniggered.

In fact, all the men along the bar—except Dennis and Wulf—were having a fine time. They’d gotten the Vikings foxed again at Thursday night poker, and twenty-four hours later the two were still drunk. It stymied Morag. Her magical antidote no longer worked on the Norsemen, and actually seemed to keep them inebriated despite adjustments in her formula.

“How many does that make?” Ian the Radio queried, looking squeamish. “Don’t blaw in here, Wulf. It’ll resemble Steve McQueen’s
The Blob
.”

Shoving his glass to B.A. for a refill, Jock the Repair mused, That film’s black-and-white. I was never certain what color the blob was. Could’ve been green.”

Morag put glass number seven before Wulf, determination clear in the set of her jaw. Her goop had never failed before. The Norwegian rolled his eyes as she edged the glass closer.

Sipping some cola, B.A. wondered how long it’d be before her lads were taking bets on whether Morag or Wulf won this Battle of the Goop.

“B.A., you have plenty of sisters. Surely, you can spare one,” Wulf said, continuing on his bride quest.

“I have six.” She ticked them off. “Catlyn is getting married in a week. Britt is dealing with the big love of her life again, so dunna need any complications. LynneAnne lives in New York in a tiny apartment—which rules out keeping a pet Viking. Asha dislikes big men
and
blonds—and if you call
her
buxom, you’re dead meat. Raven would only like you if you posed nude for her paintings. You might interest Paganne, but you’d have to dress up in the horned Viking hat, chain mail and spend four hours discussing the merits and flaws of
The 13th Warrior
.”

Janet the Red pinched B.A. and muttered lowly”No sisters for Wulf.”

“Oh?” B.A. turned and lifted her brows.

“Angus wants to quit Falgannon, divorce me and to go back to that woman he still visits in Ullapool. We talked last night and decided it’s time to stop pretending. I thank him for getting me out of that nowhere village in Ireland, but he’s too nice a man to not be happy. He thinks if you break The Curse maybe he and his lady love can be happy on the mainland. His cousin Jamie wants to take over Ferry. So—no sisters for my Viking.”

B.A.‘s eyes flicked to the door, watching for it to open. Desmond had gone off on a
males-only
errand with Callum, Brian, Ian, Willie and Michael the Story. Her female curiosity itched to know why.

“B.A., how come you chucked those three parachutists off the isle yesterday?” Tarn the Baker pointed at the wee heavy sign, signaling he wanted an ale. “They were female and had already imported themselves. Less work for you, I’m thinking.”

“She dinna like that one smooching our Desmond,” Phelan goaded.

B.A. rolled her eyes. “Those parachuting ladies are the latest trouble from the Web site. I hadn’t counted on a down side of this project. Those women had more money than sense. They hired a small plane to fly over Falgannon to get a jump—no pun intended—on the competition.”

“Och, admit it. You’re ticked that one ran up to our Desmond and kissed him on the mouth, leaving smears of her dark red lipstick, and claimed him as hers.”

“I dinna like that they cheated and ignored my rules. Besides, they weren’t interested in living on the isle, they only wanted boy toys.”

“Maybe you should’ve asked us if we wanted to be toys,” Innis huffed. “How did you get rid of them?”

“Told them we dinna have indoor loos. They ran screaming to the ferry.”

Dennis lifted his head from the bar as Morag pushed a glass of green slime nearer him. He turned a similar shade, then groaned, “
Jeg tror jeg ma spy
.”

Jock leaned forward, observing Dennis’s face. His eyes shifted to B.A.“ls that Viking for, he’s going to blaw?”

Wulf grumped. “No, it only means he
thinks
he’s going to throw up.”

Dennis made a mad dash to the bathroom.

“Guess he decided.” Jock eyed Wulf. “Five-to-two says our Wulf lasts an hour.”

“Done!” Innis slapped the counter.

Setting down a tray of dirty glasses, Janet chimed in with a saucy come-hither challenge, “Three-to-one our Wulf dunna blaw a’tall.”

“You can’t bet, Janet the Red. Males only.”

“Thursday night poker is your male bastion, not betting. Stop putting
male only
on everything or B.A. and I are going to organize Women’s Lib and protest. Aren’t we, B.A.?”

“They only have males-only rules everywhere because it’s been six years since they’ve had other females to deal with,” B.A. pointed out.

“Dunna remind us, lass,” Innis and Robbie groaned, the last two to receive divorce papers served through the mail.

Phelan waggled his eyebrows at Janet. “B.A.‘s always corrupting us with items of Yank pop culture. Maybe it’s finally time for the Women’s Movement to hit the isle.”

At the end of the bar, Davey the Weaver stood up on the rungs of his bar stool. “Now hear this! Now hear this! Women’s Lib has arrived on Falgannon.”

“Going to burn your brassieres, Janet?” another man called from one of the tables.

“I’m betting Wulf has a strong Viking turn. Any of you brave lads putting your pounds where your mouth is?” Her impudent smile had them all lining up.

B.A. shook her head, then glanced toward the door. She missed Desmond. Her lads had borrowed him an hour ago, with promises to return him unharmed. Curiosity was killing her. If they brought him back painted blue, she was going to be brassed off. Worse, she hoped they hadn’t taken it into their pea-brains to have a brotherly what-are-your-intentions-toward-our-B.A. natter.

Looking at the clock, she muttered, “I’ll wrap them up with Jock’s duct tape and pull it off slowly if that’s the case.”

Desmond crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter in the tailor’s shop, glaring at Callum, the two Frasers, Willie, Michael the Story and Cam the Tailor. Bolts of rich tartans filled the store, along with other materials and items falling under the label of “notions.” Cam custom-made clothing, specializing in kilts. The work was exquisite and B.A. said he commanded a hefty price in the Falgannon online catalog.

Crossing his legs at the ankles, Desmond replied, “Does ‘No way; Jose,’ ring a bell?”

Cam looked perplexed. “Who’s Jose? Have the Spaniards invaded?”

They started in again with arguments, but Desmond just lifted his brows. Dudley jumped up on the counter and draped himself over Des’s right shoulder for support.

“Takes a real man to wear a kilt. B.A. would think you braw in one,” Cam assured.

“Braw? Thought that meant puke,” Desmond pretended.

“Blaw
is puke. Braw means muckle fine. ‘Tis a compliment,” Ian translated.

Desmond leaned near Dudley and muttered, “Even when they translate they wander off into Scots lingo.”

“Our B.A. thinks a man in a kilt is verra sexy,” Willie pressed.

Desmond yawned. “B.A. thinks I’m dead sexy in pants.”

“We install B.A. in the cottage on the castle next week,” Michael informed him—as if that made a difference.

“I see no connection between her moving into Lady Cottage and me wearing a skirt.”

“It’s a big ceremony. Starts out at noon. B.A. and her guard ride around the isle on horseback, visiting the crofts and marking her boundaries,” Michael explained.

“What boundaries? She owns the whole bloody isle.” His smile turned feline. “Minus my third, of course.”

Ian eyed him. “Jury’s still out on that.”

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law. Besides, Dudley votes with me.”

“Stop changing the subject.” Michael shook a finger at Desmond, but Dudley leaned forward as if to bite it so he backed up. “Bloody attack cat. At dusk B.A. and her van approach the castle—”

“Van?” Desmond yawned again, having stayed up late last night playing poker. He smiled at the memory. This time he’d mercilessly cleaned the pockets of B.A.‘s lads. “I thought she was on horseback.”

“Aye, she is. Van—medieval term for vanguard, her personal escort.”

Desmond tugged on Dudley’s paw. “They’ve gone medieval on me, Dudmeister.”

Michael ignored Desmond trying to derail the conversation. “Her captain helps her off the horse, then the Ancients present her with the pennant for the Lady of the Isle. The captain follows behind, carrying the Falgannon Sword. They’re piped up the long steps to the roof. B.A. attaches the flag to the pole, signifying the Lady is officially in residence. Then she goes inside Lady Cottage, where the captain gives her the sword and she places it in the holder over the fireplace.”

Desmond tilted his head in ennui. “Sounds interesting, but I’ve heard no reason for me to shiver-me-timbers in a skirt.”

“Kilt,
laddie! We figured you’d be B.A.‘s captain this year,” Brian stated.

“Not if it entails me—”

“Wearing a skirt.” They tossed up their hands in frustration.

“Especially if you expect me to ride a bloody horse!”

Ian winked at his twin. “Fair enough. Desmond passes on the honor. We can get someone else to heft B.A. up and down on the horse. Maybe since the Vikings are now Falgannonians, one of them would do the honors.”

Desmond arched a brow at Ian, who signaled his brother with a thumbs-up.

Brian continued the attack. “I’m sure our Wulf will be happy to do it. When I left The Green Man, he was badgering B.A. if any of her sisters a available.”

“A braw lad such as him won’t have trouble turning a lady’s head,” Michael concurred with a smile.

“Any of you ever stick your hand in a beehive?” Desmond knew they were prodding him, but it was working. “I’ll play B.A.‘s captain, but
no
kilt.”

“It’s tradition,” Cam insisted.

Desmond shrugged. “Start a new one.
No kilt.
I’m not riding a horse in a skirt. I’m not bloody Mel Gibson.”

Willie, staring at Desmond’s boots, tilted his head. “Maybe… I have a solution. Remember my cover for
Flame’s Burning Dark Passion?
They had my hero in leather pants.”

Desmond warned, “As long as it doesn’t involve me wearing a skirt—”

“You’d be in pants,” Willie said. “To quote B.A. when she goes Yank on us: ‘Chill.’” He gathered three bolts—a tartan, one of black leather and one of white linen, then placed them all on the counter next to Desmond. “See, gents, a superior mind always prevails.”

Desmond frowned at the red-and-black tartan, knowing without asking it was Sinclair plaid, the same pattern as he’d seen in his… whatever they were. He
hated
using the word “vision.” He didn’t have visions. But damn if he knew what else to call them. Maybe he’d done more damage than he thought when he’d cracked his skull. If they kept haunting him, he’d zip over to the mainland and have his head x-rayed.

“Careful patting yourself on the back, Willie, lest you get a cramp,” Tarn advised. “Impress us with your bloody brilliance, Writerman.”

“B.A. shall adore this and Desmond, and his no-kilt rule, will be satisfied. Let me unfurl this against his legs. See? Leather pants, poet’s shirt and a plaid across his chest. We need a big fancy brooch to hold the tartan.”

“Patrick the Jeweler finished some new Penannular brooches.“Tam caught the concept and unrolled the tartan. He draped it across Desmond’s chest and shoulder, displacing Dudley. “Sort of neo-Scot pirate. Damn fine idea—one of your bookcovers come to life.”

“Leather pants?” Desmond queried, feeling as if everything had spun out of his control. Though it was an improvement over a kilt.

“Think of B.A.‘s expression when she sees you.”

“Oh, aye.” Cam pulled out his tape measure and ran it along Desmond’s inseam.

Desmond eyed him, trying not to be goosey. “Watch it there, how do I know you haven’t been hanging around Oona and Morag?”

“Hold still, lad, and we’ll sort you out.” Cam continued measuring.

Ian beamed. “Desmond will start a new fashion trend on the isle.”

“Damn sight warmer than having your arse flapping in the wind.” Desmond patted Kitty. “What’s your opinion, bud? Will B.A. think I’m dead sexy in leather pants?”

“Meow!”

“My thought, too.” Desmond winked at the beast.

He opened his mouth to say, “What a man wouldn’t do for a woman he lo—” but caught himself before the dreaded L-word popped out. He’d almost admitted he was in love with B.A., but feared the power it placed in her hands.

Yet no matter how he might avoid the word, he suspected he already knew there was no evading the fact. He was in love with BarbaraAnne Montgomerie.

Watching the group surrounding Wulf, B.A. dried the tray and placed it back in the stack. Only five minutes to go before Jock’s hour bet was up, and her lads were keeping a close eye on him.

Jock slid the newest glass of Morag’s goop closer to Wulfgar. “Come on, try Morag’s latest batch.”

Wulf turned a shade of gray-green.

“You dirty cheat!” Janet tossed a bar towel in Jock’s face.