Some Like It Kilted

by Some Like It Kilted (lit)

  “Always”—he smiled—“at a most propitious moment, of course.”

  “Of course.” Mindy eyed her half- full glass of Hen’s Tooth, but resisted.

  She didn’t have any qualms about prodding Wee Hughie. “Didn’t you say something about women and the sword?”

  “There’s quite a bit of lore concerning women and the Heartbreaker.” Wee Hughie sat back. He inhaled deeply and then released a gusty breath. “Some historians have claimed that, at times, a woman’s distress could unleash the pommel crystal’s magic.

  “It’s believed these were women of MacNeil blood. Or they were females who were somehow bound to a MacNeil man, most often a chieftain.”

  He looked at Mindy as if expecting some response, so she nodded.

  Apparently appeased, he continued. “Whoever the woman might be, the pommel stone’s blue light—the truth of the sword—always sought and revealed the MacNeil male destined to champion her.”

  “Was he also destined to mate with her?” Mindy couldn’t resist.

  The Highland Storyweaver didn’t miss a beat. “Who knows? In olden times, men who championed a particular maid often did wed her.”

  “I meant, were they fated to be together?” She was so pathetic.

  Wee Hughie didn’t appear at all put out. “I’d think so. Certainly the myth and lore surrounding the sword are indicative of such unions. Any pairing born of the blade might as well have been carved in stone.”

  Mindy tucked her hair behind one ear. Her heart was beginning to skitter. “Is that what you meant when you said the title the truth of the sword supports the stories about the source of the sword’s powers?

  “Because”—she sought the right words—“the sword brings together men and women destined for each other?”

  “Not exactly.” He dashed her hopes. “Though you could certainly put it that way.”

  Mindy brightened.

  He fell silent for a moment as the kitchen door opened near them and a man hastened past, carrying a huge tray filled with steaming plates of fish-and-chips. Mindy looked after him, half afraid her stomach would rumble again.

  Everything smelled so delicious.

  Wee Hughie gripped the table edge and leaned forward, reclaiming her attention. “What I meant”—he sounded self-important—“was what no one but myself has yet managed to put together, the significance behind the sword’s various monikers and the true origin of its power.”

  “I’m all ears.” Mindy was.

  Wee Hughie slid a glance at the neighboring tables. “Remember I told you that the sword’s crystal pommel stone was believed to be enchanted?” He looked pleased when she nodded. “Well”—he drew a breath—“as I said, legend holds that the gemstone was formed by the tears of a MacNeil ancestress who lost her love in an ancient battle.”

  He paused, waiting as the proprietor hurried past their table again, this time returning to the kitchen with an empty tray.

  As soon as the door swung shut behind him, Wee Hughie pinned her with his blue gaze. “The wording truth of the sword doesn’t just refer to the blade’s magical blue light. I believe the term was chosen because Veleda, the storied ancestress, was one of the Vala.”

  “The Vala?”

  “They were a race of half-mythic Norse prophetesses. Sometimes called Norns, their gift of divination was incredibly powerful. They were highly revered, their foretelling never doubted.”

  Mindy could feel her eyes rounding. “Are you saying the MacNeils are descended from Norse gods?”

  Wee Hughie flicked a bead of condensation off his pint glass. “They could well be.” He looked up. “After all, the Norse did rule the Hebrides for four hundred years. I’m only stating the history as I’ve researched it.

  “No one today can say for sure if Veleda was one of the Vala. But she was Viking. And she did lose her MacNeil husband in a ferocious sea battle.”

  He smiled and flattened his hands on the table. “Those are the facts, indisputable. If Veleda was a Vala, then the powers ascribed to the Heartbreaker would have been formidable. I’d even say that those known to us are just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.”

  “Wow.” Mindy couldn’t help herself.

  “Exactly.” The Highland Storyweaver sounded pleased.

  Mindy couldn’t fault him. He’d told quite a tale.

  “Do you think the sword is around here somewhere?” She had to ask.

  Wee Hughie reached for his pint glass, draining it. “If it is, someone would surely have found it by now. Such artifacts can bring a generous finder’s fee, not to mention fame if, as with the Heartbreaker, such a treasure is legendary.

  “Then there are those who sell such relics on the black market.” The distaste in his voice negated any remaining suspicion that he might be a sword thief. “They turn an even greater profit.

  “So, nae, I don’t believe the sword is here. Though”—he considered—“it could well be somewhere in the stones you brought over from the States. If it is, I hope it’s never found.”

  Mindy lifted a brow, curious. “I would have thought you’d like to see it.”

  “Ah, well . . .” He leaned back, his gingery hair glinting in the light of a wall lantern. “Of course, I’d be keen to have a look. But the risk of having the sword exploited wouldn’t be worth it. I enjoy writing about such treasures and their history. I’d hate to see the Heartbreaker paraded about like a circus piece.”

  “I doubt there’s any danger of that.” Mindy broke down and took a small sip of her Hen’s Tooth ale. “If it’s not here anywhere, I’m sure it wasn’t at the Folly. The American MacNeils would have displayed it if it was.”

  She was positive of that.

  She didn’t mention that the sword was depicted on the two portraits of Bran that had hung in the castle. She couldn’t recall any of the other portrait ancestrals wearing the Heartbreaker, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t been in their possession.

  Wee Hughie waved his empty pint glass at her. “Another ale?”

  “No.” Mindy hadn’t been able to finish the first.

  She glanced toward the front of the pub, to the one window, which revealed that the afternoon outside was beginning to look seriously cold and gray again. “I should be getting on my way soon.”

  “One question first, if you don’t mind?” The author sat forward. “Have you thought about what you’ll do with the MacNeil Tower when the work is finished?” He, too, cast a glance at the pub window. “They’re making amazing progress. Those in the know on Barra are betting it’ll be habitable very soon, perhaps within days.”

  “Could be.” Mindy wouldn’t be surprised.

  She’d never seen a building go up so fast, much less a medieval castle.

  “But . . .” She tapped her chin, thinking about his question.

  The answer came quickly.

  “I’ll have it turned into a Gaelic heritage center.” She glanced at one of the hand-painted Gaelic signs on the wall. “Jock MacGugan and his men refused payment for their work, so that money remains untouched. There’s more than enough to fund such a—”

  Loud whoops and foot stomping from the front of the pub interrupted her.

  Wee Hughie didn’t seem to notice.

  Mindy’s heart hit her ribs.

  Almost afraid to look, she peered again through the shadows, toward the pub entrance. Sure enough, the Long Gallery Threesome occupied the table beside the door. Grinning like fools, they were staring right at her, brimming ale mugs raised in the air as they cheered.

  “Heigh-ho!” Geordie leapt up and swung his walking stick in a fast circle around his head.

  Silvanus glared at him and grabbed Geordie’s kilt, pulling him back into his seat. But when he released Geordie and looked back at Mindy, he was beaming again. He dragged his sleeve over his whiskery cheek, the brightness in his eyes making her breath catch.

  The ghost had tears in his eyes!

  “Oh, God!” Mindy’s own eyes blurred.

&nb
sp; “Are you okay?” Wee Hughie reached across the table, grabbing her arm. “Can I fetch you some water?”

  Mindy blinked. “No, I’m fine. I just—” She looked again at the table by the door, but the family with four children that she’d seen before sat there now.

  The three ghosties were gone.

  Mindy’s heart squeezed all the same. “I swallowed wrong,” she lied, picking up a napkin to dash at her eyes.

  “You’re sure?” The author looked concerned.

  “Yes, but I need to get going now.” She stood, collecting her jacket and bag. “Thank you so much for sharing your tales with me.”

  She meant that.

  Wee Hughie unfolded his tall form from his chair. “It was my pleasure. And I think you’re doing a wonderful thing, turning the castle into a Gaelic cultural center.” He spoke as if he were the prince of the Gaels, his usual loftiness slipping back over him.

  “Too many of our young people no longer speak the Gaelic and have even forgotten our traditions.” His chest started swelling again. “As Robert the Bruce’s grandson, I see it as a personal responsibility to ensure that our culture is upheld.”

  He reached to help her with her coat. “But tell me, what will you be doing with yourself? Are you intending to return to the States? Or are you thinking of staying on here?”

  She’d give anything to stay!

  The words screamed in her head, so loud and strong she almost feared she’d spoken aloud.

  “I’ll be going back to my work. The airlines.” She hitched her bag onto her shoulder, speaking the inevitable.

  Never had flying seemed less appealing. The thought of returning to her onetime dream job weighed down on her like a ton of bricks. She didn’t even want to think about faceless buildings of glass and steel or express-ways crowded with rush-hour traffic.

  Her chest tightened and she suddenly found it very difficult to swallow.

  She had fallen in love with Scotland.

  But she wasn’t about to stay on without Bran.

  She couldn’t bear it now.

  Chapter 14

  Mindy let herself out of the Islesman’s Pride only to step straight into a blast of cold air. The afternoon had turned chillier, and thick mist hovered over the bay and rolled silently down the village road. Cottage lights glimmered, but did little to break the darkness. She started on her way, realizing it was much later than she’d thought.

  She’d spent hours in the pub.

  But it’d been worth every minute to learn so much about the sword that—she was sure—belonged to the man who, with neck nuzzles and wicked, smoldering smiles, had thawed all the ice that had been inside her and already taught her so much about passion and need.

  She wouldn’t think of specifics.

  The thigh incident was too fresh a wound to jab.

  It was enough—and surely more than many people ever experience—that they’d enjoyed a few moments of incredible bliss. The kind of total, take-your-breath-away, sensual exhilaration she never would have believed existed outside romance novels.

  Bran of Barra had shown her the truth.

  She knew she loved him.

  She loved his home, too. His wasn’t a steely, impersonal world of glass and concrete. Teeming cities with people who looked like their faces would crack if they smiled. Or suburbs filled with cookie-cutter sixties bungalows, each one the same and all without character.

  Bran’s world was a place where the past walked hand in hand with the present, and tradition mattered. Showing her the wonder of Barra and the whole magnificent sweep of his Hebrides—opening her eyes so she could truly see—was just one more gift he’d given her.

  And she wanted to give him so much more.

  The Gaelic heritage center was just the beginning. She knew it would please him to see his home used in such a good way, benefiting the community. Owned and run by the people of Barra instead of a large national organization like the National Trust for Scotland.

  Even worse would have been her original plans—to see the castle turned into a hotel or youth hostel.

  Margo’s suggestion, to open a parapsychology study center, would have been a complete disaster. Though she knew her sister would have pleaded otherwise if she’d been able to fly over as planned.

  Mindy’s heart squeezed. She did miss her sister and truly had hoped to see her.

  Sadly, Margo’s boss, Patience Peasgood, had slipped while jumping on her grandchildren’s trampoline, injuring her knee so badly that she’d required surgery. Her absence left Ye Olde Pagan Times firmly in Margo’s hands.

  Mindy walked faster.

  She did wish that Margo could have seen the tower’s restoration. And she’d hoped, loving Scotland as Margo did, that she’d come around and agree that the Gaelic heritage center was the best solution. Bran’s tower would belong to Barra. And she’d make sure that would never change. Ideas were coming fast and furiously now. Jock MacGugan would be keen to help run such a center. And if not, he surely knew someone equally qualified. His friend Sandy Budge, who took care of the island finances, could set up the trust. It would all be wonderful. And she wanted to tell Bran, see the pride and pleasure light his eyes when he heard the news.

  Not that she could, not now.

  The kitchen encounter had been good-bye.

  And she didn’t think so because she hadn’t seen him since then. Or even because of the things he’d said before he’d disappeared. She knew it with a sudden, fierce pain that ripped her heart and made her ache so badly she was surprised she was still upright, walking down the road.

  She felt like she was breaking.

  “Damn!” She kicked a pebble and reached to turn up her jacket collar.

  It was glacial.

  Icy wind shrieked down from the hills that rose behind the village, the strong gusts howling round the eaves of the cottages and echoing across the water. The sound was lonely and keening, and made her shiver.

  “Yeah, right.” She hunched her shoulders against the cold and kept marching home to the Anchor. She didn’t fool herself for a moment.

  She was shaking because of Bran.

  Not the weird howl of the wind.

  It was Bran, all about him. She missed the warm intimacy of his embrace. The thrill of feeling his powerful arms tighten around her, drawing her close. How one intense look or just breathing in his scent could melt her. Or what it did to her when she felt the soft brush of his beard. Even the lightest touch of his lips against hers sent her spiraling into ecstasy. No one had ever excited her more.

  Not like he did.

  And that was only a fraction of it.

  She ached for the taste and feel of him. The pulse-pounding excitement that swept her each time he appeared. She yearned to see his twinkling blue eyes take on a gleam and hear him say Mindy-lass. Let his rich laughter wash over her, and catch how it rumbled deep in his chest. She wanted all of that. Especially to relive how just being near him could make the air around them thicken with crackling desire and—she had to say it—a sense of rightness.

  As if they were indeed destined to mate.

  “Oh, Bran . . .” She whispered his name, ignoring how her voice hitched as she kicked another pebble.

  Speaking to Wee Hughie about the Heartbreaker had set her spirits soaring. Something had told her the sword was the key to it all. Yet when she’d left the Islesman’s Pride, the road had stretched empty.

  It’d been a void that hit her harder than the cold.

  She bit her lip and drew her jacket closer about her. She wished she’d dressed in layers, or worn thermal underwear. But in her heart, she doubted such measures would have made a difference.

  If Bran continued to stay away from her—and she feared he would—she’d never be truly warm again.

  Determined to wrench herself into a better mind-set, she glanced at the bay, trying to imagine the tower as a Gaelic heritage center. She couldn’t see the castle—too much billowing mist stretched between the shore and th
e islet—but she did spot Jock’s boat tied to a bollard.

  It was empty, the fisherman nowhere in sight.

  But a movement on the water caught her eye and she thought she saw the square sail of the Long Gallery Threesome’s galley speeding across the waves. Yet when she blinked and looked again, it was only a patch of low, fast-moving clouds, blown by the wind.

  Even so, her heart raced.

  She was sure someone was watching her.

  Whipping around, she peered through the mist, looking back the way she’d come. She half expected—no, she hoped—to see Bran striding toward her, his face lit with a smile and his arms opened wide.

  But, of course, he wasn’t there.

  Nothing was, except the fog and encroaching darkness.

  Even so, when she started on her way again, the sense of being observed intensified with each step. It prickled her nape and sent chills tripping along her skin. She resisted the urge to toss another glance over her shoulder.

  She did quicken her pace. And it was then, as she neared the Village Hall, that she realized where the odd feeling was coming from.

  Someone was staring at her.

  It was the dog from the pub.

  It was Gibbie. She’d known it was him!

  Now he was sitting in the shelter of the glass doors of the closed community center, waiting for her. And—she had to knuckle her eyes, swipe the dampness from her cheeks—she hadn’t heard the keening of the wind.

  The pitiful noise had been the old dog’s howls.

  As if to prove it, he tipped back his head and gave a long, piercing yeeowwwl. It was a sound to split ear-drums, attract attention, and break the heart of anyone who loved dogs.

  Mindy did.

  And she was especially fond of this dog.

  “Gibbie!” She started toward him. But he leapt up and bolted away, charging past her to dash down the road in the direction of the harbor. Her breath caught and she began to shake all over again.