“Ach, there’s no need to be thanking us.” He made a jerky gesture with his hand. “The grocer’s doesn’t open until ten and I’m thinking you didn’t know that, as tenant of the Anchor, you’re welcome to a full Scottish breakfast up at Hebridean House, or”—he glanced down the road, back toward the center of the village—“you can also eat at the Islesman’s Pride.
“They open early for breakfast, serving us at the fishing, mostly. Though”—he turned back to her, frowning—“sometimes the good folk at the Islesman forget we have an arrangement for our Anchor guests. So if you go there one morning, don’t let the rascals be for charging you.”
Mindy started to smile, but caught herself. “I won’t. Thanks for letting me know. And—”
She broke off, glancing over her shoulder to where her purse sat on the floor beside the sofa. “No one told me what I owe you for staying here. I can pay you now, if you like, or—”
“Ach, there’ll be none of that, nae.” The fisherman shook his head, looking embarrassed. “I should have known last night that you were the American lassie come bringing back the stones of our tower. You’ll not be finding a soul on Barra who’d charge you a night’s stay here. However long you remain with us. See you, we—”
“But that’s not right—”
“It was the taking away of our tower that wasn’t right.” He turned to stare out across the bay and Mindy saw that raindrops clung to his black curls and netted the shoulders of his oiled jacket. The droplets glistened in the dim morning light, somehow looking so right and fitting.
As if he were as one with the blustery morning, a part of it in a way few others could be.
Except, perhaps, true Barrachs.
The thought pinched something inside her, and for a moment, she felt as if she’d come very close to understanding the magic of Barra.
To her horror, a lump started forming in her throat and she inhaled deeply, hoping to dislodge it.
“What they did, those years ago, carrying away the castle, tore the heart out of this community.” Jock turned back to her, speaking as if it had happened yesterday. “We’re all right grateful to you. If you be needing anything, anything at all”—his deep voice went gruff—“my mobile number is on a notepad in the kitchen drawer.
“Or just ask after Jock.” He smiled, swiped a work-reddened hand across his cheek. “There’s only one Jock on this island and that’s me. I fish the herring, and just now I’m heading up work on thon castle restoration, so folk know where to find me.”
“You’re working on the tower?” Mindy was confused. “Are you with the Glasgow firm I hired? MacFadyen and Sons? The Building Gaels?”
She’d been assured they were the best and fastest.
And they weren’t local.
She knew that for a fact. It shamed her now to admit, but she’d specifically sought a restoration and building company that wouldn’t have any ties to Barra and the MacNeils.
She looked up at the fisherman. “I’m sorry. . . . I don’t understand. I—”
“Could be the men of Barra hold that we of these isles have enough Gaels what are skilled with a hammer and trowel.” Jock the fisherman- cum-landlord-cum- castle restorer straightened. Already a large man, his thick wool sweater and heavy, rain- misted jacket made him seem gargantuan.
The spark of pride in his snapping blue eyes—did all Scotsmen have blue ones?—made him the most beautiful man Mindy had ever seen.
With the exception of Bran of Barra, of course.
When she found her voice again, it hitched. “I know the MacFadyens were here. I wired them money so they could get started. And”—she glanced across the water to Bran’s islet, where in the dim morning light, in addition to piles of stone and some walls, she could also see some structures covered in tarpaulins and scaffolding—“it’s obvious they’ve been busy. You can see—”
“I see the work my men have been doing.” The fisherman followed her gaze. “All good Barrachs, every one,” he said, his back fiercely straight. “We’ll do as fine a job, working as steady and good, if not better than the Glasgow men. Sandy Budge, our joiner, who also looks after our banking for us, has the money you paid the Building Gaels. They returned it to the pence before they headed back to Glasgow.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will once you’ve been here a while.” Jock the fisherman set his woolly cap back on his head, pulling it down around his ears. “It’s right and fitting that we of Barra rebuild our tower. With Barra hands and no other.”
He gallantly pretended not to see Mindy’s astonishment. “When you’re ready to visit the site, let me know. I’m also the one who runs the boat out to the islet and back.”
Mindy hardly heard the part about the boat. “You mean you sent away the builders?” She had to know. “And they just left, like that?”
“Aye, well . . .” Jock scuffed his boot on the wet pavement. “They left, is all what matters.”
“But—”
The fisherman touched his cap and nodded. “I’ll be on my way, then.”
And before Mindy could blink, he’d turned and he was striding up the road. She frowned and set off after him, slipper-socks be damned—they were already soaked through, anyway—but before she’d gone three paces, a deep chuckle behind her halted her in her tracks.
“He’s a good man, Jock is,” Silvanus’s voice boomed at her shoulder. She’d recognize his baritone anywhere. “But dinnae think ’twas his efforts alone what rid us o’ the Weedgies.”
Mindy spun around, not surprised to find nothing but the Anchor’s empty door stoop.
“Weedgies are folk from Glasgow,” Silvanus intoned all the same. “And”—Mindy could just imagine him setting his hands on his hips and taking a deep, gloating breath—“if you dinnae ken, a flourish such as we gave you can also be used to scare the beards off some buggers what aren’t expecting to see a ghost galley come flying out o’ the mist at ’em!”
“You did that?” Mindy spoke to the cold air, not caring how silly it seemed.
“We did!” The proud gusto of Silvanus’s answer rewarded her.
Then he appeared before her, just long enough to sketch a jaunty bow and vanish again.
Mindy stared at the spot where he’d been, then looked again down the road to where she could still see Jock the fisherman walking away.
Then she leaned back against the wall of the Anchor, cold and wet though its stones were, and clutched a hand to her cheek. She could feel the flutter of her heart and—again, she shouldn’t be surprised—the hot, thick lump of emotion swelling once more in her throat.
She’d always heard that Scotland was a land of heroes.
Now she knew it was true.
Mindy felt her nerves quiver the instant she stepped over the Anchor’s threshold. Her cheeks warmed and tingles danced over her skin. She knew why when she saw that Jock’s box of groceries was no longer on the little wooden table beside the cottage door.
The table was empty.
And in the soft gray light of morning, she saw at once just where the breakfast goods had gone. They were lined neatly on the kitchen counter, the box sitting innocently on the cold stone flags of the floor.
Too bad she had a good idea how the foodstuffs made the move.
They’d had help of a supernatural nature.
And she highly doubted Silvanus had done the deed. He’d been too busy boasting about how he and his ancestral friends had used their flourishing skills to frighten the Building Gaels, chasing the MacFadyen work crew from Barra, straight back to their native Glasgow.
Nor could she see Roderick or Geordie sneaking into the cottage to carry her groceries.
Only a ghost wanting to get on her good side would do such a thing.
And that meant Bran.
She expected to see him leaning against the counter, with a wicked grin and twinkling eyes to let her know how pleased he was with his efforts to impress. But since she didn’t see him in the cottage,
perhaps he was more intent on teasing her and remaining invisible. Or—it was possible—he could be allowing her time to get decent before he put in an appearance.
She did look a fright.
Embarrassed, she swiped a hand over her rain-dampened hair, tugged off her sodden slipper-socks, then hurried into the bedroom to dress properly.
Unfortunately, the little room was even chillier than before. Somehow the window had come open and now the air wasn’t just cold, but wet and smelling of the sea. She could almost taste the tang of kelp and brine. And—she could hardly believe it—their raw, invigorating bite made her pulse jump.
She’d never liked the cold.
And wet cold—like the gray curtains of rain beginning to blow past her window—was the worst transgressor of chill, dark, and dreariness.
Scotland had a patent on such days.
Everyone knew it.
Yet now . . .
The place was suddenly full of heroes and a wet day in Barra looked inviting.
Mindy shivered and rubbed her arms.
Amazing, but looking out the window at the wild, blustery day almost had her agreeing with the anonymous soul who’d said that anyone who thought sunshine brought happiness had never danced in the rain.
Barra was making a rain dancer out of her.
If she added how badly she wished to see a ghost—a certain big, brawny ghost with a crooked nose and a smile like sin—she was sure she was on her way to the loony bin.
Something was seriously wrong with her.
But she’d worry about it after breakfast.
Anything but a stick-figure girl, she had a healthy appetite, and as her mother always said, the world looks rosier on a full stomach.
So she marched straight into the kitchen and tore immediately into Jock MacGugan’s wife’s cloth-wrapped packet of fresh-baked scones. To her delight, she discovered they weren’t just scones.
They were scones.
Huge, oven-warm, and light as air, they came in two kinds: cheesy scones, the likes of which she’d seen only once before, and apple cinnamon. Both smelled scrumptious, and, smeared thick with creamy Irish butter and homemade bramble jam, they tasted even better.
Mindy ate them all.
She was just licking the crumbs from her fingers when the air behind her stirred and she felt a soft kiss on the bared skin of her nape. She jumped, shocking pleasure ripping through her as the light brush of a beard tickled her neck. Then two large, strong hands gripped her arms, pulling her back against a well-muscled chest.
Bran of Barra’s deep voice teased her ear. “Hungry, were you?”
Without seeing his face, Mindy knew he was smiling. She did feel his plaid rub against her. Its heavy wool was warm and rough, smelling faintly of woodsmoke.
Her senses ran riot.
He chuckled and slid an arm around her waist, holding her close as he nipped gently down her neck. “I’m pleased to see you enjoying yourself, Mindy-lass.”
His amusement dashed cold water on the hot tingles racing through her.
“You said you wouldn’t kiss me!” She jerked free, spinning around to face him.
It was a mistake.
Full-bodied, real-looking, and sexy as ever, he had heat in his eyes that almost singed her. She tugged at her sweater, backing away until she bumped into the minuscule refrigerator.
“Och, lassie, you wound me.” He stayed where he was and clapped a hand to his chest, managing to look both guilty and devastatingly appealing. “Would you believe me if I told you that I just cannae help myself?
“Besides”—he reached out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her to him again—“I meant true kisses. Little nips along your neck don’t count.”
“Oh, yes, they do!”
He laughed. “You won’t say that after I’ve really kissed you.”
Mindy looked up at him, sure she couldn’t breathe. “As we’ve decided there won’t be any such kisses, that’s a moot point, isn’t it?”
She jutted her chin, knew she’d never looked haughtier.
Bran of Barra tweaked her nose. “I like a maid with spirit, so dinnae think you’re dissuading me.”
“I’m not a maid! I—” Mindy clamped her mouth shut, realizing too late how that sounded.
Sure enough, the blaze in his eyes turned to a slow, dangerous smolder. “That I know, sweetness,” he purred, his rich burr watering her knees. “But you may as well be—as you’ve ne’er been loved by a true Barra man!”
“Never been—” The scald on Mindy’s cheeks kept her from finishing.
He grinned.
“So it is, Mindy-lass.” He curled his hand around her neck, let his fingers toy with her hair. “There’s no point in no’ stating what’s true.”
“Ahhh . . .” Her objection trailed into nothingness when he tightened his fingers around her wrist and looked at her with such intensity that she could feel all the manliness and power inside him.
His strength—and the desire she could almost see beating through him—rocked her to the core, making her light-headed and dizzy.
She moistened her lips, her heart galloping.
“The truth, sweetness, is that neither one of us wants this. Yet”—he put a hand beneath her chin, lifting her face so that she was forced to look at him—“here we are.”
Mindy felt her jaw set. The blaze inside her was making her desperate. “Here we are what? Aren’t you always here? This is your Barra, isn’t it?”
“Mine, aye, though . . .” He paused, something indefinable flaring in his eyes. “No chief worthy of the title would deny that our holdings never belong to just one man. Why do you think thon fisherman and his friends willnae allow anyone but Barrachs to rebuild my tower?
“They won’t because it’s theirs, too.” His words, the passion in his voice, made Mindy’s breath catch. “That’s the way it was in my day and”—he paused, his pride almost a presence in the room—“I’m right pleased to see that hasn’t changed! We chieftains ensure that all is well, looking after our own and seeing to the right o’ things. But the land, Mindy-lass, the land belongs to us all.
“And you’re right. I am always here. But”—he smoothed his thumb over her jaw and she trembled beneath the caress—“I’m here, with my friends, in my own place and time. It isn’t my wont to visit Barra of the moderns.”
“But you’re here now.”
“Aye, that I am.”
“You seem to be here every time I turn around.”
“That, too.” He sounded very serious. “I’ll no’ be denying it.”
“Why are you, then?” Mindy knew she sounded breathless. The intensity of his gaze and the way his thumb kept circling over her cheek made normal speech impossible.
The man needed a license to wield such behavior!
And she was going to self-combust if he didn’t stop looking so deeply into her eyes.
“Ach, lass.” He shook his head slowly. “Surely you know I’m here because of you.”
“Me?” Mindy blinked, her heart stalling. “Not because of the tower?”
“The tower does interest me.” He grinned. “I willnae lie. But I could watch the work better from my islet than inside this wee bit cottage.”
Mindy glanced aside. “It really isn’t a good idea for you to be here.”
“To be sure.”
“Some would say it’s mad.”
“No doubt.” He slid his arms around her.
She found herself gripping his plaid. “Really crazy,” she argued, although the tingles racing through her said otherwise. She wanted him—hoped he’d at least kiss her—and the desire she felt building inside her was so against everything she believed in and had expected.
She’d had it with men—especially Scotsmen—and she certainly didn’t need to be dallying with a kilt-wearing, sword-carrying Highlander who didn’t even bother to deny he was seven hundred years young.
A ghost!
Yet, there she was, trembling with anticipation, bu
rning with a need she’d never felt for any man.
He was just looking at her, his arms holding her tight, and already she understood the cheesy phrase found so often in Scottish romance novels: that the hero’s lovemaking set the heather ablaze.
Or was it the hills?
Either way, she was on fire.
And Bran of Barra knew it.
Triumph flared in his eyes and he even looked about ready to whoop. When he tightened his arms around her and grinned, she could almost see the word conquest flashing in the air between them.
He lifted a hand to stroke her face in a rough, claiming gesture. “So you’re finally ready?”
Mindy swallowed.
Her mouth felt like sawdust.
“You needn’t tell me.” His voice deepened, his burr doing wicked things to her. “I can see it all o’er you. But I’ll keep my word that until you admit—”
“Admit what?”
“That you want this.” He took her chin in his hand and lowered his head to lightly flick her mouth with the tip of his tongue. “My kisses.”
“I don’t!” Mindy lied.
“I say you do,” he challenged her, looking down pointedly at how she’d splayed her hands across his plaid, even plunging the fingers of one hand inside his shirt.
She followed his gaze and flushed.
But she didn’t remove her hand.
She couldn’t. The warm strength of his powerfully muscled chest felt so good beneath her fingers, and the light scattering of crisp, ginger-colored hairs she’d discovered there positively intoxicated her. She kept running her fingers over them, unable to stop.
He had a warrior’s body.
Everything about him thrilled and excited her.
And—she could tell—he burned with wanting her.
She gulped. She was keenly aware of the thick, hard ridge of heat pressing against her hip. And it wasn’t the hilt of his sword. She’d glanced discreetly down to make sure. It was all him.
Pure Highland man, eager and ready.
“I . . . uh . . .” She bit her lip, knew she was lost.
Some Like It Kilted Page 20
