“Well, she has it now, so I’m for leaving.” Roderick folded his arms.
“And you?” Silvanus turned to Geordie.
The other ghost examined the end of his walking stick, not meeting Silvanus’s eyes. “I am rather home-sick, aye.”
“Then let us be away.” Silvanus clapped a hand on both their shoulders, knowing they’d instantly sift themselves back to Barra.
And they did, much to his relief.
He didn’t want them to see him take one last peek through the shop window. He’d once made a vow that he’d do a good turn for Mindy and now that he had, he wanted to make sure he hadn’t failed.
So he took a deep breath, put back his shoulders, and strode to the window. He looked just in time to see Mindy’s sister reverently wrapping the little black box in a soft blue cloth.
She was still smiling.
And when she pressed the cloth- wrapped box to her breast and sighed, looking most content, Silvanus knew that he, too, could go home.
But first he gave a little leap in the air.
It’d been a long time since he’d made a fetching lassie so happy. And it felt good.
Very good, indeed.
Read on for a preview of Allie Mackay’s
next exciting Scottish paranormal
romance,
Must Love Kilts
Available from Signet Eclipse
in January 2011
Ye Olde Pagan Times
New Hope, Pennsylvania
Margo Menlove lived, breathed, and dreamed in plaid. At the age of sixteen she’d single-handedly convinced nearly all the girls in her high school—and even a few of the female teachers—that there was no man sexier than a Highlander. In those heady days, she’d even founded the now-defunct Bucks County Kilt Appreciation Society.
Now, more than ten years later, locals in her home-town of New Hope, Pennsylvania, considered her an authority on all things Scottish.
And although she was officially employed as a “luna harmonist” at the town’s premier New Age shop, advising clients according to the natural cycle and rhythm of the moon, many customers sought her assistance when they wished to plan a trip to Scotland. Sometimes when one of those Glasgow-bound travelers consulted her, she’d surprise even herself with how well she knew the land of her dreams—she really was an expert.
She knew each clan’s history and could recognize their tartans at a hundred paces. She prided herself on being able to recite all the must-see hot spots in the Highlands in a single breath. Her heart squeezed each time she heard bagpipes. She could dance a mean Highland fling before she’d learned to walk. Unlike most non-Scots, she even loved haggis. And although she didn’t wish to test her theory, she was pretty sure that if someone cut her, she’d bleed tartan.
Her only problem was that she’d never set foot on Scottish soil.
And just now—she tried not to glare—a problem of a very different sort was breezing through the door of Ye Olde Pagan Times.
Dina Greed.
Margo’s greatest rival in all things Scottish. So petite that Margo secretly thought of her as Minnie Mouse, she was dressed—as she nearly always was—in a tartan miniskirt and incredibly high-heeled black boots that added a few inches to her diminutive but shapely form. The deeply cut V neckline of her clinging blue cashmere top drew attention to her annoyingly full breasts. And her cloud of dark curly hair shone bright in the late-autumn sunlight that slanted in through the shop windows. She was also wearing a very smug smile and that could only mean trouble.
Margo shifted on her stool behind her Luna Harmony station and reached to rearrange the little blue and silver jars of organic beauty products that the shop’s owner, Patience Peasgood, urged her to sell to those seeking celestial answers. With names like Foaming Sea Bath Crystals and Sea of Serenity Night Cream, all inspired by lunar seas, the cosmetics made people smile—even if most Ye Olde Pagan Times regulars found the prices too steep. Margo secretly agreed. No one loved a bargain more than her.
But just now she was grateful that so many Lunarian Organic products cluttered her counter. If she appeared busy, fussing with the display, Dina Greed might not sail over to needle her.
At the moment, the pint-sized brunette—who never failed to make Margo feel like a clunky blond amazon—was browsing the aisles, her chin tilted as she peered at sparkling glass bowls filled with pink and colorless quartz crystals. She then drifted to study the large selection of herbal teas. Margo eyed her progress from beneath her lashes, willing her to leave the shop.
Instead she stopped before a display of white pillar candles arranged in trays of small, river-polished pebbles, then moved on to the bookshelves set against the shop’s back wall, where she stood watching Patience carefully unpack a box of newly delivered books on medieval magic and Celtic and Norse mythology.
Neither woman looked in Margo’s direction.
Yet the fine hairs that lifted on her nape made her certain someone was watching her.
Margo shivered. The whole atmosphere of the shop suddenly felt a shade darker. She wondered whether it was Dina—the woman did ride her last nerve—or whether a shadow had passed over the sun.
Either way, it was a creepy, unsettling kind of dark.
“She’s going to Scotland, you know.”
“Gah!” Margo knocked over a bottle of Sea of Nectar Body Lotion. Whipping around on her stool, she came face-to-face with Marta Lopez, the Puerto Rican fortune-teller who became Madame Zelda of Bulgaria each morning when she stepped through the shop door.
“Jeesh.” Margo pressed a hand to her breast as she stared at her friend. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s not nice to sneak up on people?”
Instead of backing away, Marta stepped closer, lowering her voice. “I thought you’d want to know before she ruins your day. That’s why she’s here.” She flashed a narrow-eyed glance at Dina Greed’s back. “She wants to make you jealous.”
She is. The words screamed through Margo’s Scotland-loving soul, turning her heart pea green and making her pulse race with annoyance.
“How do you know?” Margo tucked her chin- length hair behind an ear, hoping Marta wouldn’t notice the flush she could feel flaming up her neck. “Are you sure? Or”—she could only hope—“is it just gossip?”
Dina Greed had been making noise about going to Scotland forever. So far she’d never gotten any closer than watching Braveheart.
But the way Marta was shaking her head told Margo that this time her rival’s plans were real.
“You should know I only speak the truth.” Marta smoothed the shimmering purple and gold folds of her caftan. “One of my cousins”—she straightened, assuming an air of importance—“works at First-Class Luggage and Travel Shoppe. She told me Dina was in there two days ago, buying up a storm and bragging that she was about to leave on a three-week trip to the Highlands.
“She even has a passport.” Marta imparted this bit of info with authority. “My cousin saw it when Dina insisted on making sure it fit easily into the tartan-covered passport holder she bought.”
Margo’s heart sank. “She bought a tartan-covered passport holder?”
“Not just that.” Marta’s eyes snapped. “She walked out with an entire set of matching tartan luggage. It’s a new line First-Class just started carrying. I think my cousin said it’s called Highland Mist.”
Highland mist.
The two words, usually the stuff of Margo’s sweetest dreams, now just made her feel sick inside. As long as she could remember, Dina Greed had deliberately targeted and snatched every one of Margo’s boyfriends.
Three years ago she’d also somehow sweet-talked the manager of a really lovely apartment complex—where Margo wanted to move—into giving her the last available apartment, even though Margo had already put down a deposit.
Now she was also going to see Scotland.
It was beyond bearing.
“So it is true.” Margo looked at her friend, feeling miserable. Sh
e also felt the beginnings of a throbbing headache. “Minnie Mouse wins again.”
Marta shot Dina a malice-laden glance. “Maybe she’ll fall off a cliff or disappear into a peat bog.”
“With her luck”—Margo knew this to be true—“some hunky Highlander would rescue her.”
“Leave it to me.” Marta winked. “I have lots of cousins and one of them practices voodoo. I’ll just put a bug in her ear and have her—”
“Margo!” Dina Greed came up to the Luna Harmony station, her dark eyes sparkling. “I was hoping you’d be here today. I need your advice about—”
“Scotland?” Margo could’ve bit her tongue, but the word just slipped out.
“You’ve heard?” Dina’s brows winged upward in her pretty, heart-shaped face. “It’s true. I’m really going. In fact, I’m leaving”—she smiled sweetly—“in three days. But that’s not why I’m here.”
She set her tasseled sporran-cum-handbag on the counter and unsnapped the clasp, withdrawing several sheets of paper. “This is my itinerary, if you’d like to see it. I’m doing a self-drive tour and will be concentrating on all the places connected to Robert the Bruce.” Her eyes twinkled at Margo, as Dina was well aware that the medieval king was one of Margo’s greatest heroes. “I’ve been planning this trip for years, as you know.” She clutched the itinerary as if it were made of gold and diamonds. “I don’t need your help with Scotland.”
Margo forced a tight smile. “I didn’t think so.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Marta swishing away, making for the back room, where she did her tarot readings. Margo hoped she’d also use the privacy to call her voodoo expert cousin.
She looked back at her rival, wishing she had the nerve to throttle her.
“So, what can I do for you?” She hated having to be nice.
Dina held out a hand, wiggling her fingers. “I’m on my way to have these nails removed”—she glanced down at the diva- length red talons, clearly fake—“and someone mentioned you might have a tip for keeping my real nails from breaking. I’ll be exploring so many castle ruins and whatnot, you know? I’d hate to damage them when I’m off in the wilds of nowhere.”
“Oh, that’s easy.” Margo felt a spurt of triumph. “Just be sure you always file them on a Saturday,” she lied, knowing that was the worst possible day for nail care. Friday after sunset was when the moon’s magic worked on nails.
“My fingernails thank you.” Dina tucked her itinerary into her furry sporran purse. “I really must go. I need to pack. I’ll stop by when I’m back and tell you about my trip.”
“I’m sure you will,” Margo muttered when the shop bell jangled as Dina swept out the door.
Free at last, she released a long breath. It was good that her nemesis had left when she did. Margo could maintain her always-be-gracious-to-customers demeanor for only so long. Dina had pushed her close to her limits. A white- hot volcano of anger, envy, and frustration was seething inside her.
On the trail of Robert the Bruce.
Highland Mist luggage.
Margo frowned. She wouldn’t be surprised if the other woman wore plaid underwear. She had left her mean-spirited residue in the usually tranquil shop. Sensitive to such things, Margo shivered and rubbed her arms. They were covered with gooseflesh. And the odd dimness she’d noticed earlier had returned. Only now, the little shop wasn’t just full of shadows; it’d turned ice-cold.
Of course—she saw now—that rain was beginning to beat against the windows and the afternoon sky had gone ominously dark. In autumn the night drew in rather early in Bucks County.
Still . . . this wasn’t that kind of chill.
Margo sat frozen on her stool. She wanted to call out to Patience or even to Marta, but her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth. She felt her palms and her brow dampening.
And her ill ease only increased when the door jangled again and she caught the backs of Patience and Marta as they dashed out into the rain. The door swung shut behind them, leaving her alone.
She’d forgotten it was Marta’s half day.
And Patience had told her that morning that she’d be leaving early to join friends for high tea at the Cabbage Rose Gift Emporium and Tea Room. Margo had agreed to close the shop on her own.
It was an unavoidable situation, but she regretted it all the same.
Especially when—oh, no!—she saw the shadow by the bookshelves.
Tall, blacker than black, and definitely sinister, the darkness hovered near where Patience had stood earlier. And—Margo sensed as she stared, her stomach clenching—whatever it was, it oozed an ancient malevolence.
It wasn’t a ghost.
This was more a portent of doom.
Then there was a loud rumbling noise outside and, as a quick glance at the windows revealed, a large cement mixer that had been stopped in front of the shop lumbered noisily down the road, allowing the gray afternoon light to pour back into the shop.
The shadow vanished at once.
And Margo had never felt more foolish.
She wiped the back of her hand across her brow and took a few deep, calming breaths. She shouldn’t have allowed Dina Greed and her upcoming trip to get to her so much that she mistook a shadow cast by a construction truck for a gloom-bearing hell demon.
She didn’t even believe in demons. Ghosts, you bet. She’d even seen a few of them and had no doubts whatsoever.
But demons belonged in the same pot as vampires and werewolves. They just weren’t her cuppa. And she was very happy to keep it that way.
She was also in dire need of tea.
Knowing that a good steaming cup of Earl Grey Cream would soothe her nerves, she pushed to her feet and started for Marta’s tarot-reading room, a corner of which served as the shop’s makeshift kitchen.
She was almost there when she heard a thump near the bookshelves.
“Oh, God!” She jerked to a halt, her hand still reaching for the back room door. The floor tilted crazily, and she was sure she could feel a thousand hidden eyes glaring at her from behind the bundles of dried herbs and glass witch balls that hung from the ceiling.
Very slowly, she turned. She half expected to see the shadow again.
There was nothing.
But a book had fallen, and it lay open and facedown on the polished hardwood floor. Margo went to retrieve it, glad to know the source of the noise and intending to return the book to its shelf. It was from Patience’s new shipment, and the title jumped out at her.
Myths and Legends of the Viking Age.
For some inexplicable reason, just seeing the words—red and gold lettering on a brownish background—sent a jolt through her. It was so strong and forbidding that she almost walked away and left the book where it was on the floor.
Stubbornness made her snatch it up; the painful shock that sped through her fingers and up her arm as soon as she touched the book underscored why she should have heeded her instincts.
But she’d had enough—enough of everything—and wasn’t going to let a book get the better of her. So she ignored the burning tingles racing along her skin and peered down. She immediately wished she hadn’t, for it’d opened to a two-page color illustration of a Viking warship off the coast of Scotland.
She could have groaned.
She didn’t care about the fierce- looking Norse dragon ship.
But the oh-so-romantic landscape was a kick to the shins.
Beautiful as a master painting, the illustration showed a rocky shoreline with steep, jagged cliffs soaring up around a crescent-shaped cove. The sky above boiled with dark clouds and looked as wild and turbulent as the churning sea. Margo’s heart responded, beating hard and slow. It was such places that called to her soul. In fact, she often dreamt of just such a Highland coast.
She brought the book nearer to her face and strained her eyes to see because the light in the shop seemed to be fading again.
Now, looking more closely, she saw a man on the golden-sanded strand.
He stood at the water’s edge, his long dark hair tossed by the wind. Clearly a Highland warrior, he could’ve been ripped from her hottest fantasies. Big, strapping, and with a plaid slung boldly over one shoulder, he’d been depicted to raise a sword high over his head and yell. He was staring out to sea, glaring at the departing Vikings, and his outrage was so well drawn and palpable that she could almost hear his shouts.
Margo shivered, feeling chilled again.
She glanced at the windows, but this time there weren’t any big trucks blocking the afternoon light.
Everything was at it should have been.
Except when she looked back at the illustration, the man had moved and was now actually in the water, with the foamy surf splashing about his legs.
“What?” Her eyes rounded. Waves of disbelief shot through her entire body. Worse, she could hear the rush of the wind and the crash of the sea. She also felt the scorching heat of flames all around her; the air even smelled of burnt ash and terrible things.
Somehow, in the space of an eyeblink, the illustration had come alive.
Some Like It Kilted Page 29
