Bran’s heart squeezed. He’d stolen his first kiss next to that bollard.
As if Saor read his mind, he planted his hands on his hips and laughed. “Scarce recognized it, I did. Stone’s gone shiny as a bairn’s behind. Belike centuries of MacNeils used it, wearing it smooth with their mooring lines.”
“And did you see the lass who told me about the stones?” Bran had to know. “She’s a fetching wench. Sun-bright hair cut close to her chin and deep blue eyes. She’s”—he tried not to grimace—“an American.”
Saor’s brows lifted, but he shook his head. “I saw nothing but piles o’ stanes. And”—he frowned—“the blackness of a pit.”
“A pit?” Bran blinked.
“Aye, so I said.” Saor’s eyes glinted in the darkness. “That’s why it took me so long. I manifested in the bottom of a great yawning void and thought I’d landed myself in the Dark One’s own torture chamber.
“I stood still for the longest time, no’ wanting to even sift myself away lest the stir in the air attract that one’s attention. But then”—his smile returned—“my eyes adjusted to the dimness and I saw where I was.”
“And where was that?”
“Deep inside the ruins of the ancient broch you built your stronghold upon.”
“What?” Bran’s jaw slipped.
Saor clapped him on the shoulder. “Dinnae tell me you’ve forgotten? At the time, you’d said that if the Auld Ones who stayed on Barra when these isles were young deemed this islet a good place for their broch, you’d call it a meet site for a MacNeil castle.”
“I ken what I said”—Bran’s insides were beginning to quiver—“but that broch was underground even in our day. Part of it was our foundation and basement, the rest filled in with earth and rubble.”
“Well, it’s not filled in now.”
“But, why . . .”
Bran let the words trail away, not wanting to make the connection dancing on the fringes of his mind. Doing so would see him even more bound to a certain bonnie American, and his sense of self-preservation warred against deepening any possible ties to her.
“I’ll tell you what I think.” The excitement in Saor’s voice showed he didn’t share Bran’s hesitation. “Having seen what I did, it’s clear that someone, perhaps this fetching wench of yours, hasn’t just returned your tower’s stones simply to toss them onto the ground.
“Whoe’er is responsible means to rebuild the castle. And they’ve already started by digging the old foundation.” He grinned again. “That was the pit I landed in. The old broch ruin, waiting to support your restored tower, just as it did in the past.”
Bran swallowed. He was certain Saor was right.
It was the last thing he’d expected.
And the very idea was making his eyes burn with a blinding, stinging saltiness that had nothing to do with the spray-filled air and everything to do with an American he’d now have to find at the soonest and tender his thanks.
His sense of chivalry demanded it.
As did his position as chief.
In truth, such an encounter might be quite pleasurable. Indeed, the notion was becoming more so the longer he thought about it.
Feeling better already, even buoyant, he grabbed Saor’s elbow and pulled him across the bailey to the tower. “Come, my friends—” He glanced over his shoulder at Gibbie, trotting faithfully behind them. “It would seem we have some celebrating to do!”
He didn’t mention that he hoped a full belly and a good night’s sleep thereafter would help him prepare for his meeting with Mindy.
His seduction of her.
The thought came from nowhere.
But as he threw open the tower door and stood back to let Saor and Gibbie enter his keep, he knew he liked the idea very much.
It could happen.
He glanced down at the Heartbreaker, this time eyeing the crystal pommel stone without dread. Until he remembered one disturbing detail that put a most troubling pall on his burst of high spirits and optimism.
For all her good deeds and beauty, the American had one serious flaw.
She’d claimed she detested Barra.
Dimensions away, but closer than Bran would have believed, three souls who did love Barra stood outside the imposing Oban Ferry Terminal and eyed the arriving passengers with growing trepidation. It wasn’t as if they had much experience with Caledonian MacBrayne—affectionately known as CalMac—and their business of ferrying good folk here and yon throughout the whole of the Western Isles.
Geordie, Roderick, and Silvanus—being of an age when said waters were plied only by sleek birlinns and galleys, those magnificent greyhounds of the seas—were more than willing to leave the business of transporting moderns to those more at ease with such bustle.
CalMac was doing fine so far as they could tell.
But it was late afternoon and Mindy Menlove was booked on the soon-to-be-departing ferry to Barra.
Alarmingly, she had yet to arrive.
And that did concern the Long Gallery Threesome. “I told you both we shouldn’t have let her from our sight.” Silvanus glared at the other two ghosts from beneath angry brows. “If you’ll recall”—he puffed his chest—“I wanted to hie myself into her car. Just to make certain she didn’t lose her way, mind!”
“You’re the one who needs to mind.” Geordie raised his walking stick and shook it at him. “Last time you planted yourself inside her automo-beel, back at the Folly, she nearly drove off the road and into the trees!”
“She wasn’t expecting me, was all.” Silvanus put back his shoulders. “This time I’m sure she would have appreciated my assistance.”
“Pah-phooey!” Geordie lowered his cane and leaned on it. “You were e’er one to do as you pleased, having no care for the rest o’ us.”
“Quit your bellyaching, both of you.” Roderick stepped between them. “ ’Tis keeping an eye on the crowd we need to be a-doing, not fussing amongst ourselves. If you keep at it, we may miss her when she arrives.”
“If she does,” huffed Silvanus.
“She will.” Roderick folded his arms, his sharp gaze on the endless stream of ferry passengers. “See all these busy folk, eager to visit our own fair Barra! Warms the cockles, it does, eh?
“So many souls come from near and far.” He preened a bit, smoothing his plaid. “The lass will be here soon, too. I feel it in my bones.”
“My bones say she’s turned tail and run off to her Haw-wah-ee.” Silvanus began strutting back and forth in front of the ferry terminal’s glass-doored entrance. “It’s rained since she’s been here and she’s made it plain what she thinks of cold and mist.”
“But this is Scottish mist!” Roderick made a lofty gesture that took in the waterfront and the great hills encircling the town.
Highland mist was everywhere, rolling gently down the braes and hovering above the choppy water in the bay. Billowing curtains of it, soft and gray, drifted along the road, taking the sharp edges off modern buildings and damping the noise from cars and hurrying people.
Roderick hadn’t seen such mist in years and the sight almost overwhelmed him.
He cleared his throat and dashed at his eyes. “Dinnae tell me the lass willnae be enchanted by our Hameland. I do believe she already is.”
Silvanus hooted.
Geordie shook his head. “Herself is lost, I say you.” He lifted his walking stick again, this time pointing at the town. “Or have neither of you noticed how many roads be blocked with ‘Men Working’ and ‘Diversion’ signs? I may no’ be an expert in modern times, but even I know that a soul can get confused right quick if the path a body means to follow suddenly ups and goes another way!”
Silvanus and Roderick exchanged glances.
“All these other tourists found their way here.” Silvanus slid a look at the growing crowd. “If she means to catch the ferry, she’ll be on it. Not”—he stuck out his chin—“that I believe she wishes to be here!”
“Hah!” Geordie st
ruck his most superior pose. “You’re both blind as bats! Yon folk aren’t tourists. They’re Highlanders and Islesmen, just like us. Several centuries removed, of course.”
“So they are.” Silvanus rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. “I wonder what they want on Barra.”
“And why shouldn’t they visit Barra?” Roderick shot him a dark look. “Can you name a fairer isle?”
“ ’Tis passing strange and you know it.” Silvanus glared at him. “Even in our day, the only folk who came to Barra were our own—”
“There she is!” Geordie pointed at a small blue car inching toward the ferry terminal.
Mindy could be seen at the wheel, her hands white-knuckled and her face grim.
Silvanus whirled on Roderick and Geordie. “I told you she’s miserable here. Just look at her!”
“She’s here. That’s all that matters.” Roderick stood straighter, smoothing his plaid. “There’s time aplenty for her to come around.”
“And you think our welcome-to-Barra greeting will impress her?” Silvanus didn’t bother to hide his skepticism.
“I thought it was a warning?” chimed Geordie.
“You’re both wrong.” Roderick cast a glance at the mist-hung bay, his heart already thundering with excitement. “What we are about to do is make a flourish.”
Silvanus rolled his eyes. “I say it’s a mistake.”
Roderick slung his arm around Geordie’s shoulders. “You’re outnumbered. Geordie sides with me.”
Silvanus glared at them both, not missing that Roderick’s foot was jammed hard on Geordie’s toes.
Pretending not to notice, he strode forward and slapped Roderick on the back, most vigorously. “Then let us be away to attend our surprise!”
But as they all three turned and headed down the road to the bay, kilts swinging, Silvanus vowed that when all was said and done, he’d make it up to the lass.
A flourish, indeed.
If she spotted them through the thickening mist, she might never be the same again. And it would all be their interfering fault.
Silvanus frowned. Aye, he’d have to do something good for her and he would.
Somehow, someday.
Chapter 8
It was by the skin of her teeth that Mindy made the Barra ferry. But now that she was on board—her rental car wedged in place between a battered van and an RV, both belonging to the other stragglers who’d arrived at the last minute—she found she couldn’t move.
Her hands clutched the steering wheel in a death grip and her knees shook so badly, she doubted her legs would ever support her again. At the very least, not until she recovered from her driving-around-Oban-and-trying-to-get-to-the-ferry panic and could breathe again.
It hadn’t even been that she hadn’t found the ferry.
She had.
She’d seen it from afar—after all, a giant black-and-white Caledonian MacBrayne ferry wasn’t easy to miss—but who would have guessed that every road leading to the ferry terminal would be barricaded and that the alternative—diverted-traffic—route would be a maze of one-way streets and confusion?
Spindle-thin one-way streets that seemed only to lead her farther away from the place she was trying so hard to reach.
It’d been a harrowing experience.
And it’d been made even worse by having to go through it while driving left.
She hated driving left.
The only thing she disliked more was making a spectacle of herself. And she was doing a fine job of that now. She didn’t need to look into the rearview mirror to know that her face was glowing tomato red or that her eyes glistened with unshed tears of frustration.
The glances the van and RV drivers and their passengers had given her as they’d hopped out of their vehicles and exited the ferry’s parking hold had been telling.
And if their looks weren’t enough, the stares of the black-and-yellow-jacketed ferry workers who’d waved her aboard said everything.
They thought she was mad.
And, Mindy admitted, she was beginning to believe that she was.
Why else would she be here?
She frowned and puffed her bangs off her forehead. It’d been a mistake to keep driving in circles when she realized how close she was to missing the ferry. What she should have done was seize the moment, view it as fate, and turn around to head back to Glasgow and the next available flight to Newark.
Or, for that matter, any US-bound plane she could catch.
Instead, she’d kept on, even stopping to ask directions from an old man walking a dog.
Unfortunately, he’d known exactly how she could reach the ferry.
And now . . .
Mindy took a deep breath. She wouldn’t have believed it possible, but the knocking in her knees was finally beginning to lessen. Grateful, she slid a glance at the three black-and-yellow-jacketed ferrymen, relieved to see that they had turned away and were no longer staring at her.
If she was quick, she could escape to the ship’s upper level.
She could stand at the rail and let the chill wind blast the heat out of her cheeks. Or, perhaps a better idea, she could lose herself in one of the lounges or claim a quiet spot in the cafeteria.
She just needed to slip out of the car and sprint up the stairs.
It was now or never.
But when she leaned down to grab her purse—it’d slid off the passenger seat—she bumped into something that set off the car alarm.
Bleep, bleep, bleeeep!
“Oh, no-o-o!” Her heart stopped.
The noise was deafening.
“Oh, God!” Frantic, she jerked back up and fiddled with the key. When it wouldn’t budge, she began pressing every button she could see until, at last, she jabbed something that stopped the bleeping.
“Having problems, lassie?” One of the workmen opened the car door, peering in at her.
“No, I . . .” She couldn’t finish. There was no point in lying when it was painfully obvious that she was about to expire from stress.
“Right, then.” The man stepped aside as she clambered out of the car. He glanced at his mates and then looked back at her, his weather-beaten face sympathetic. “You’ve got five full hours before we arrive in Barra. That should be long enough to get o’er whate’er it was that wasn’t bothering you.
“If I were you, I’d be for having a wee dram abovestairs.” He indicated the stairwell only a few yards behind him, smiling. “A good swig and you’ll be feeling better in no time.”
“I—I’ll do that, thank you.” Mindy forced a smile, knowing it was a shaky one.
It was the best she could do.
The man’s own smile was crooked, reminding her of Bran of Barra’s lopsided grin.
On the thought, her pulse skittered. Before she could flush any redder, she hitched her bag onto her shoulder and hastened to the steps, hurrying up them as fast as her wobbly legs would carry her.
She would have a dram.
In fact, she might even have two.
But when she finally located a lounge, it was to discover that the entire carpeted, large-windowed area was standing-room only. Men stood four deep at the bar and although there were quite a few sofas and little round tables, each one boasting at least four chairs, there wasn’t an empty seat anywhere to be seen.
The cafeteria was worse.
Even from the door, she could see that every table was occupied. And the line snaking past the serve-yourself buffet-style offerings looked so long she doubted she’d get through it before the ferry docked at Barra.
Mindy sighed.
Who would have guessed so many people would want to visit a tiny island in the Outer Hebrides?
You’d think they were giving away something.
Sure she didn’t want any of it, whatever it might be, she pulled a scarf out of her jacket pocket, tied it around her neck, and went in search of exit stairs to the outside promenades. It was clear that most of the passengers—Scots, not tourists, from the
looks of them—were more keen on staying inside than facing the cold wind on the decks.
And as she wasn’t feeling very sociable, that was where she supposed she should be.
So she elbowed her way through the ferry passengers thronging the corridors until she found the nearest exit to the outer decks. Escape in sight, she shot a last frown at the teeming ship’s lounge, then wrenched open the door and stepped out into icy, biting wind.
It was a grave mistake.
Not because the gusting wind threw freezing spray at her. Nor did it bother her that within two seconds of stepping outside, her eyes were tearing and her fingers felt like Popsicles.
What stopped her in her tracks—and stole her breath—was the shock of exhilaration.
It hit her full force.
And it was so unexpected, so unwelcome, that she could only lurch across the pitching, rolling deck, grab the rail, and look about her, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.
They hadn’t even left Oban Bay—fishing boats bobbed everywhere and she could still see the town and the headlights of cars moving along the coast roads—but already she felt a prickly kind of freedom that caught her totally unawares. Cold, windy, and gray, especially when wet, just wasn’t her idea of happiness.
And yet . . .
The choppy, whitecapped water, so roughened by the fast-moving current, and the many seabirds screeching and wheeling above, even the chilling rain driving into her face—it was all just so wild.
As if time as she knew it hadn’t yet happened.
And—she couldn’t believe the thought crossed her mind—as if the brash, modern world she knew and had always loved didn’t matter here.
The dark cliffs crowding the bay, swells surging against them, said as much. High above, a crescent moon was just beginning to cast its glimmer on the blue-black water, adding to the entrancement. It was a lonely, sea-washed world that wasn’t supposed to affect her.
She wasn’t her Scotophile sister.
The Hebrides, especially, should repel her.
Instead, her heart thundered and her grip on the rail turned white-knuckled. She sensed a strange power—a fierce, stark beauty—in the elements around her that left her feeling slightly faint.
Some Like It Kilted Page 14
