So, as always, she pressed a hand to her thin breast and called out the final words. “Honor to the Auld Gods! My thanks and blessed be!”
Once more, she glanced around hastily, scarce daring to breathe. The Ancient Ones were all-powerful and lightning jabs were only one way they could show their wrath against servants who vexed them.
But the night remained still.
Nothing moved except the whitecaps on the bay and the ever-present wind, just now tearing at the crone’s cloak and reminding her it was time to seek the warmth and cheer of her own merry hearth.
But before she left, she carefully picked her way back to the new seaward wall, just to see if her efforts had done any good.
She wasn’t disappointed.
The wall stood a good three feet taller than it had moments before.
“Eeeeeie—!” She broke off her gleeful cry, quickly summoning a humble smile. She also bobbed her head in one more demonstrative show of thanks.
Just in case the Ancient Ones were watching.
Then she turned and hobbled into the mist, vanishing before she cackled again.
It was enough reward that, come morning, the men of Barra would see the wall and congratulate themselves on a job well-done.
They deserved the glory.
Chapter 13
Nearly a week later, Mindy stood outside the Anchor, hardly believing she’d survived so long in such complete, if glorious, isolation. It also surprised her that the charm of drearily wet days hadn’t yet faded. Barra’s cold, blustery clime continued to invigorate her. Even more amazing, she wasn’t missing the noise and hectic pace of her usual life. Not that New Hope, Pennsylvania, was exactly a metropolis.
But compared with Barra—a truly edge-of-the-world place—everywhere else bustled.
Of course, the Hebridean House was still bursting at the seams. But the people crowding Barra’s largest and best hotel weren’t movers and shakers and walk-fast, look-no-one-in-the-eye city dwellers. They were just Scots hoping to be immortalized in a book.
Not that she’d seen any of them since her arrival.
Preferring not to brave the bay crossing in Jock MacGugan’s surprisingly tiny boat—at least, as long as the weather remained fierce and she’d seen firsthand how the wind buffeted his boat and how the teensy vessel plunged and rose on the bay’s huge, turbulent waves—she’d spent her time driving around Barra, exploring the island’s many beauty spots and archaeological sites.
The island was lovely.
And with everyone and their proverbial uncle on Wee Hughie MacSporran’s coattails and so many Barra men working on Bran’s tower, the village stayed pretty much empty.
So she’d remained alone.
And considering she’d needed days to recover from her mind-blowing orgasm-on-a-kilted-ghost’s-thigh encounter with Bran of Barra, the Anchor’s remoteness suited her fine.
She wasn’t comfortable admitting it, but Bran was one reason she’d been glad for the high wind and tossing, plunging seas. The stormy weather gave her a valid excuse to decline Jock’s repeated offers to ferry her out to the islet.
Bran would be there, she knew.
The excellent progress of the restoration would draw him. Jock and his men were clearly more skilled than they admitted. In a relatively short time, the curtain walls already stood solid and the keep itself could now be seen rising above them. The work was galloping along at an incredible pace.
But it wasn’t really the tower that concerned Mindy, not anymore.
It was Bran.
She missed him badly, ached to be in his arms again, burned for more of his kisses—and that terrified her. Just the thought of him filled her with both trepidation and excitement. Most of all, thinking of him sent ripples of longing all through her. She lifted a hand to her cheek, not surprised to find her skin hot.
Bran of Barra could make a stone blush.
She still couldn’t believe she’d had the best climax of her life against his leg. Nor had she forgotten what he’d said about the grandeur of his bedchamber. What he’d implied he—or, better said, they—would do there prickled her nerves and made her shiver.
She rubbed a hand across her forehead, feeling faint.
The man was lethal. And she definitely wasn’t ready to see him again.
But she couldn’t avoid him forever.
The bad-weather gods had turned their back on her and although the seemingly ever-present mist hung everywhere, it wasn’t raining. And the bay looked much less abysmal than it had all week. Not quite calm, but not threatening, either, the water slapping over the jetty stones was glassy black and the waves were nowhere near as high as they’d been.
It was, in fact, quite a fine day.
From across the bay came the sound of hammering and the steady buzz of saws, but the waterfront itself was quiet. The air smelled of woodsmoke and the sea. Colorful fishing boats, already returned with their early-morning catches, filled the harbor, bobbing peacefully at their moorings. She’d also seen a few seals rolling in the waves or clambering on the rocks that edged the quay.
Barra was showing its bonniest face.
And soon, she knew, Jock would come knocking on her door, wondering if today was the day she’d finally wish to see the islet.
Too bad he didn’t know seeing the islet would also take her straight into Bran of Barra’s arms. She was sure of that.
She was also starving.
A condition driven home by the cooking smells wafting to her on the wind. It was midday, after all, and she’d learned quickly that Barrachs supped at noon. And if she went by the tempting aroma of frying fish and sizzling bacon drifting her way from the whitewashed cottages lining the village road, every kitchen was a busy place just now.
Mindy’s mouth watered. Her stomach rumbled.
She bit her lip, glancing between the Anchor and the heart of the village, where she was sure she could grab a tasty pub lunch at the Islesman’s Pride.
She started walking down the road, not needing to consider long.
Food was an excellent alternative to making a fool of herself over a man—a ghost!—who, although he’d kissed her socks off and probably ruined her for life, had made it plain he viewed their kiss as a grievous mistake that shouldn’t have happened.
His Fourth of July sparkler sword proved it.
Destined to mate, he’d said.
It made Mindy’s heart ache to remember how he’d looked so deeply into her eyes when he’d explained why he believed his sword recognized her as his one true love. A shiver slid through her, and her pulse quickened. She could still feel his lips on her palm as he’d kissed her hand just before he’d vanished, leaving her alone and longing.
She shouldn’t think about it, but he’d done more than drop a kiss to her palm. He’d nipped the sensitive inside of her wrist with his teeth and then flicked the edge of her thumb with his tongue.
He’d made her tremble, her insides melt.
And now . . .
She blinked, refusing to let emotion sting and burn her eyes. Then she started to see that she’d already reached the pub. The tempting smell of food was even stronger here, but she was sure the Islesman’s Pride would be full of Jock’s workmen friends. So she straightened her back and took a deep breath before she opened the door and went inside the crowded pub.
The interior was low, narrow, and dark, and the heavy black beams running the length of the ceiling signaled that the pub was very old. From what she could tell through the haze of smoke and shadows, framed photographs of fishing boats covered the walls, along with a motley assortment of what appeared to be centuries-old fishing and crofting paraphernalia.
There were also a few hand-painted wooden signs in Gaelic that she couldn’t read and didn’t even want to try to pronounce.
Margo would say the pub reeked atmosphere and she would have to agree. But it was also jammed. Even more full than she’d imagined.
But she’d been noticed.
She could feel people sta
ring at her. And the last thing she wanted to do was offend the locals by popping into their pub and walking out a second later.
She especially didn’t want to appear rude in front of Jock’s friends.
But as soon as her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw that the Islesman’s Pride wasn’t filled with fishermen. The people sitting at tables and along the bar that looked like a sawed- in-half boat were people she recognized from the CalMac ferry.
She also knew the kilted man holding court at a table near the rear. If she had any doubts, the teetering pile of books at his elbow identified him.
He was Wee Hughie MacSporran.
And she’d walked into a book signing.
Mindy could’ve groaned.
The author looked right at her, gave a lofty nod. He clearly thought she’d come to tell him a tale for his next book. Or, worse, assumed she was there to buy a copy of the current one and get his autograph.
Mindy stood rooted to the spot, unable to move. Before she’d stepped inside the pub, she’d done her best to summon an open, friendly expression. And now she could feel her face freezing.
Could be she’d have to walk through life wearing an insipid smile.
At the thought, her sense of the ridiculous kicked in, and a laugh started bubbling up inside her. She pressed a hand to her chest and began inching backward to the door, her legs finally cooperating again. But before she could reach behind her and grasp the door latch, the author loomed in front of her, a book tucked beneath his arm.
“I’m the Highland Storyweaver,” he announced, waiting a beat for her reaction. “In addition to writing, I run Heritage Tours, guiding small groups on their own ancestral journeys through Scotland. I also specialize in individualized clan or Scottish historical research.
“Robert the Bruce was my great-great-grandfather, eighteen generations removed.”
Mindy’s eyes rounded. Her tongue seemed stuck to the roof of her mouth. It certainly refused to move. After all, what did you say to a man who claimed Scotland’s hero king was his granddaddy?
Equally annoying, she was getting a crick in her neck looking up at him.
He was quite tall.
And he seemed to swell his chest as he peered down at her. When she didn’t respond to his spiel, he cleared his throat. He somehow managed to make the noise sound affected, and when she heard it, Bran’s opinion of him flashed across her mind.
The bastard has more hot air in him than a peasant forced to exist on a diet o’ beans.
Mindy drew a tight breath and touched a finger to her lips, trying to hold back another burst of laughter. But as she looked up, it wasn’t easy.
The man really was preening.
As she stared, he smoothed the front of his tweed Argyll jacket. This time he wore the jacket, rather than slinging it artfully over one shoulder. He held out a copy of his book to her.
Hearthside Tales: A Highlander’s Look at Scottish Myth and Legend.
Mindy didn’t take it.
But good manners made her say, “Hi. Mindy Menlove.”
“Ahhh, the American.” He continued to proffer the book. “You’re quite the local hero. I was wondering when you’d come to a signing.”
“I’m here for lunch, actually.” Mindy glanced about, pretending to look for a seat.
What she wanted to do was get the blazes away from him.
“I heard they have really good food here.” She craned her neck to peer past him. “I’m thinking of fish-and-chips or maybe a steak and ale pie. Something rib-sticking, you know?”
Wee Hughie went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “I have copies of my other books back on the table if you’ve already read this one. They were”—he cleared his throat again—“all best sellers. The National Trust for Scotland carries them in their gift shops. Culloden can’t keep them in stock.”
“I’m not a reader.” Mindy loved books.
She also spotted an empty table against the wall and made to scoot past him. But before she did, she recalled Jock’s suspicions about the author being on Barra because of the MacNeils’ half-mythic sword.
It was a sword she now believed was Bran’s.
And that changed everything.
This time it was Mindy who cleared her throat. “Ehhh . . .” Her tongue played hooky again. She so hated doing this. Pompous people really grated on her nerves. But the lesser evil sometimes brought great rewards.
And Bran of Barra was worth the pain.
She’d been kidding herself to think she could ignore what was between them. She meant to go after him.
And if the Highland Storyweaver could help her . . .
So be it.
She looked up at the author, wishing he were a few inches shorter. “Can we talk?”
He took her elbow, gently moving her aside as a family with four children surged through the door. They headed straight for the back table where his books were stacked, waiting to be signed.
Mindy recognized the family from the Oban ferry.
Wee Hughie nodded a greeting to them, and then turned back to her. “As you’re not a reader, it doesn’t seem likely, but if you’re wanting to ask me how to get published, I do run online writing courses from my Web site.
“Here, I’ll give you my card.” He looked down, reaching to unclasp his sporran. “My rates are very reasonable. I only charge—”
“No.” Mindy shook her head. “I’m not a writer, either, and don’t want to be. I . . .” She took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “I want to talk to you about the Barra sword. The Heartbreaker—”
“You’ve heard of it?” His brows arced. “Not many people know the sword’s true name.”
Mindy’s heart almost stopped on his words.
They were confirmation that Bran’s sword was the fabled one.
But she didn’t want the Highland Storyweaver to know that, so she pretended her heart wasn’t beating as fast as it was, and lied. “Well,” she began, “I did live in the Folly, you know. That’s what the tower was called, back in the States. The name Heartbreaker was bandied about now and then, but no one really knew the legend of the sword.
“I was hoping you”—man, she hated this—“might be able to tell me?”
She wouldn’t believe it possible, but Wee Hughie’s chest puffed even more. “I’ve written a chapter about the sword for my next book, More Hearthside Tales: A Highlander’s Look at Clan Legend and Lore. If you’ll wait until after the last of my fans leave, I’ll tell you all I know.”
“That’d be wonderful. Thank you.” Mindy smiled, feeling like such a hypocrite.
She did want to hear the legend, but Wee Hughie was so oily, she feared she’d float like a duck after speaking with him.
So when he left her to return to his signing table, she did the only thing a girl in distress could do. She went straight to the bar and ordered the Hungry Islesman’s Steak and Ale Pie along with—she was so bad—a double side of the pub’s supposedly famous hand-cut chips.
French fries to Americans.
And a favorite comfort food to her.
Thus fortified, she knew she’d be able to stomach the author’s peacocking. And, she hoped, learn as much from him as possible.
She already knew the Heartbreaker was important.
Something told her it might be even more crucial than she realized.
Possibly even her ticket to Bran.
“The truth of the sword?”
Just saying the words sent a chill down Mindy’s spine. It was hours later—she couldn’t believe how many people had wanted a signed copy of Wee Hughie’s book—and she sat at a quiet corner table with the author, listening to him regale her with his knowledge of the Heartbreaker’s legend.
She was also trying not to feel so stuffed, having eaten every bite of her delicious Hungry Islesman’s Steak and Ale Pie and also the two sides of the specialty hand-cut chips.
For a potato zealot like her, it hadn’t been a breach of food etiquette to eat fries with a mea
t pie that was served with a mashed-potato crust.
It’d been a decadent indulgence.
The aroma of her meal still hung in the air above the table, especially the smell of the somewhat-greasy but scrumptious chips.
They’d been good greasy, and if she weren’t so reluctant to embarrass herself, she’d order a third portion. The lingering smell was making her mouth water again.
But she resisted and took another sip of her Hen’s Tooth ale. A stronger version of the highly rated Speckled Hen ale that the Highland Storyweaver was drinking, it was incredibly potent.
She’d opted for the double-barreled brew, thinking she might need its extra bang.
Now, having heard Wee Hughie’s account of the fabled MacNeil blade, she was glad she’d chosen so wisely. Unfortunately, the Hen’s Tooth ale was making it a tad difficult to concentrate on the author’s ramblings.
And for all his apparent wisdom, he was long-winded.
She blinked when a huge dog crawled out from beneath a nearby table and shook himself, before dutifully following his departing owners to the door. For a moment, she’d thought the beast was Gibbie.
Seeing that he wasn’t, she felt a pang of disappointment.
“So-o-o . . .” She set down her pint glass a bit too hastily and looked at the author. “You’re saying the shimmering blue light that comes out of the sword hilt’s crystal pommel stone is called the truth of the sword?”
Wee Hughie nodded. “That’s what my research indicates, aye.” He took a healthy pull of his own Speckled Hen ale. “The title does correspond with everything we know about the legendary blade and”—he leaned across the table, lowering his voice—“might even support popular belief about the origin of the sword’s powers.”
Mindy blinked. “I’m sorry. What did you say those powers were again?”
To her best recollection, he hadn’t yet said anything about mating.
And that was what she was most eager to hear.
Wee Hughie straightened, taking on an almost regal bearing. “Legend claims the sword has many powers. Sadly, only a few of the stories have been passed down through the centuries. Those we know of, we have thanks to Highland oral tradition. Among the most interesting tales is that the sword chose its master. Whenever the blade changed hands, the switch occurred because the Heartbreaker is said to have magically appeared in the new owner’s hand.
Some Like It Kilted Page 23
