The Ravenscraig Legacy Collection: A World of Magical Highland Romance

by Allie Mackay

  Highland Scots were the worst!

  They should be outlawed.

  Mindy swiped a hand across her brow, certain the dampness there had nothing to do with the flying spray that had been blowing along the ferry’s outer deck.

  Hunter the cad’s seven-hundred-year old ancestor had gotten to her.

  His promises – about kisses, no less – conjured a whirl of images that set her entire body tingling.

  She could hardly stand for the hot rush of sensation whirling through her. She didn’t need curled toes to add to her misery. The last thing she wanted was to be kissed by Bran of Barra.

  He didn’t need to convince her of his seduction skills.

  That he had them was a given.

  Just remembering the feel of his soft, warm breath against her skin – his hand gripping her shoulder so firmly, the other tangled in her hair, his fingers caressing the back of her neck – ignited everything feminine inside her, sweeping her with fierce, undeniable desire.

  She was on the road to madness.

  And she didn’t need him making the earth tremble beneath her.

  It already did.

  Determined to do something about that shaking, she pulled herself together and pushed away from the wall before someone mistook her limp-noodled posture for a bad case of mal de mer. Or, worse, an over indulgence in drams.

  She hadn’t touched a drop of fine Highland single malt, but now seemed like a very good time.

  Especially when, upon entering the nearest lounge, she found that the men crowding the bar now stood only two deep rather than four. Unfortunately, all the seats still seemed to be taken, and now that they’d been underway for a while, the whole dimly lit area smelled strongly of fish and chips fat, damp waxed jackets and woolens, and spilled ale.

  But the ferry cafeteria had looked even more crowded and no way was she venturing on deck again.

  She didn’t want to give Bran of Barra another chance to catch her alone.

  The risk of running into the strange old woman from Doon again – wherever Doon might be – was just another reason to treat herself to a brisk swig of Scotland’s most famed libation.

  Somehow she didn’t think Bran of Barra or the Goodwife of Doon would accost her in the busy pub.

  So she put back her shoulders and tried to pretend that the people thronging the lounge weren’t Scots on a ferry to Barra, many of them giving her sidelong, how-do-you-fit-in-here looks. Instead, she imagined they were airline passengers and on one of her flights.

  It was a trick that worked.

  Feeling better, she threaded her way through the crowd and even managed to get close enough to the bar to order a ‘Jacket Potato with Bangers ‘n’ Beans.’ Thank goodness she’d had enough UK layovers to know that bangers were sausages.

  As for her single malt…

  There were so many bottles lining the glass shelves behind the bar!

  But one – Laphroaig - jumped out at her. Margo’s favorite, and pronounced La-froyg, it was the only one she recognized, remembering that her sister insisted that although the whisky was an acquired taste, no other was as smooth and peaty, almost tasting like a smoky turf fire.

  Mindy eyed the bottle, hesitating.

  She was wet and cold from being on the promenade. Her heavy waxed jacket, against all advertising claims, had let the damp seep through to chill her. And despite her sturdy, equally high-dollared hill-walking boots, her socks felt waterlogged and her toes were frozen. She didn’t care to acknowledge that her hair was soaked and plastered to her head, her bangs dripping. As for what her make-up might look like…

  She tried not to think about it.

  She could use a dram.

  She recalled Margo’s sighs of rapture whenever she spoke of her favorite whisky. Too bad anything peat-flavored and smacking of turf fires might be just a touch too Highland-y for her taste.

  “Dinnae ken your whisky?” The many-earringed, pony-tailed barkeep flickered an eyebrow at her. “Most Americans order Glenlivet or Famous Grouse.” He smiled, already reaching for the latter. “You’ll like-”

  “I’ll have Laphroaig.” She looked him straight in the eye. “I appreciate its smoky flavor.”

  He glanced at her with new respect. “Not many tourists ask for that one, much less” – he turned away to take the bottle from the shelf – “pronounce its name correctly.”

  Mindy tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled, watching as he poured her a generous measure.

  He flashed a look at her, a much warmer one this time. “Water or soda?”

  “Neat.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “I prefer it as is, thanks.” Mindy paid and found a seat against the windows. She took a sip of her Laphroaig, feeling extraordinarily proud of herself. It felt good to have put a crimp in the barkeep’s opinion of Americans, even if she’d had to borrow Margo’s Scotophile knowledge to do so.

  The result was gratifying.

  Even the Scots in the lounge had stopped giving her sideways, narrow-eyed looks. And the mist blowing past the bar’s large windows had thickened into what she knew the locals called sea haar. The consistency of pea soup, the fog now blocked all views of the rolling Hebridean Sea and the dark, picturesque isles that kept looming up out of nowhere.

  Mindy shifted in her seat, pleased.

  She didn’t want to do scenic.

  Impenetrable fog suited her better. Enough quivers had run through her when she’d gone out on the deck. Her whole safe world, everything she felt – or, better said, didn’t want to feel - about Scotland, tumbled down around her when she’d walked into that wild, romantic seascape.

  And that was before Bran of Barra made an appearance.

  His arrival only worsened things.

  He’d looked so perfect, so right, against the rugged backdrop of churning, rough-watered seas and all those soaring, black-glistening cliffs. The deeply-indented bays with sweet little stretches of gleaming sand beaches. Hauntingly atmospheric places where she was sure few, if any, men had ever set foot.

  Off the map, unfrequented places where Bran of Barra could stand with his legs braced apart and his hands on his hips, his plaid snapping in the wind, and no one - not one living soul - would dare challenge his right to be there.

  He was that kind of man.

  He wore remoteness well.

  Seeing him as she had, on the ferry deck, yet still in his untamed, almost legendary surroundings, had stirred her attraction to him so fiercely that she wondered she hadn’t gone up in flames.

  She shivered.

  She could still see him, feel his gaze locking with hers. How easily he’d seduced her with one look, sweeping her up into his bold, larger-than-life passion and undoing her resistance with promises of toe-curling kisses.

  Kisses she knew would only lead to…

  “Agggh….” The sigh escaped her before she could stop it.

  She glanced around, but no one seemed to have heard her. Grateful, she snuggled deeper into her jacket, welcoming the dense sea haar that blotted his world from view. It was easier here, in the crowded ferry lounge, to just drift and think of other things.

  So she leaned back and quietly sipped her Laphroaig until the empty dram glass slipped from her fingers to land with a little clack on the table, roll across its polished surface, and drop to the floor.

  Mindy started, and then blinked to notice that the lounge was nearly empty. Only a few other ferry passengers remained, and from the looks of them, they were dozing. The ponytailed barkeep stood with his back to her, busying himself polishing ale glasses over a sink of steaming water.

  It was very quiet.

  A glance at her watch proved what she wouldn’t have believed otherwise: she’d fallen asleep.

  They’d soon be arriving at Barra.

  And, she recognized with alarm, it hadn’t been dropping her dram glass that wakened her. It’d been a strange gonglike noise she could still hear, beating steadily, even though the other pa
ssengers and the glass-polishing barkeep didn’t seem to notice.

  A chill rippled down her spine.

  Her nape prickled.

  She didn’t want to hear noises that no one else did.

  It was bad enough being attracted to a ghost and having conversations with little old ladies in black who, if not exactly ghostly, weren’t your run-of-the-mill grandmother next door, either.

  “Oh, man.” Very carefully, she leaned down to retrieve the fallen dram glass. When she straightened, something caught her attention from the corner of her eye.

  It was something outside the windows.

  And it was terrifying.

  Mindy’s heart stopped. Disbelief slammed into her as a high-prowed medieval galley shot past the slower-moving ferry. The ghost galley’s flashing oars sent up clouds of spume as it sped into the mist only to whip around and race by the windows again.

  “O-o-oh, no...” Mindy stared, her blood icing.

  That it was a ghost ship was beyond doubt.

  Roderick, Silvanus, and Geordie, stood beaming at the stern, their arms raised in proud salute, basking in their flamboyant display.

  Mindy also recognized the gong-beating helmsman. He was one of the ancestrals from the Folly’s long gallery. As were the oarsmen who so tirelessly kept the galley flying back and forth beside the ferry.

  On their fourth pass, Silvanus grabbed Geordie’s walking stick and thrust it high, using the cane to make great, sweeping circles in the air above his head. Some of the ghosties whooped, their cries rising above the rhythmic drumming of the helmsman’s gong.

  Mindy’s blood began to roar in her ears. She knew what they were doing.

  They were welcoming her to Barra.

  And, as always, only she saw them.

  She swallowed.

  The twinkle in Silvanus’s eyes almost got to her. As did the excitement, and pride, that shone on the faces of the other ghosties. If the gong beater swelled his chest even the slightest bit more, he’d surely explode.

  He looked that victorious.

  They all did.

  And she should turn away from the window, rest her hands flat against the solidity of the table, and take deep breaths as she imagined how wonderful it would be to soon slip into her bed at the inn. How, once there, she’d pull the covers up to her chin, forgetting the Long Gallery Threesome and their zealous friends.

  Instead, she kept staring at them and had to struggle against returning their waves.

  Their enthusiasm was infectious.

  And she had the strangest feeling that it wasn’t just that. Scotland – or, at least, the Hebrides – seemed to have a behavioral and mind-altering effect on her.

  She should be horror-stricken.

  She was appalled.

  But what infuriated her was to find that she was watching the ghosties – otherworldly beings, for heaven’s sake - as if their performance was commonplace.

  Mindy shivered. There was nothing at all ordinary about being greeted by a band of medieval Highland warriors in a ghost galley beating up and down past the windows of a modern day ferry.

  The sight should send her fleeing.

  It was every bit as bizarre as if little green men in a round, silver saucer had suddenly appeared outside the plane windows on one of her work flights.

  There wasn’t that big a stretch between Martians and ghosts.

  Yet…

  She leaned closer to the window, pressing her forehead against the cold glass to see better through the fog. She shouldn’t want to see the ghost galley more clearly. But something had happened to her somewhere between landing in Glasgow and driving left onto a Barra-bound ferry.

  Something indefinable.

  And now, watching the Folly ancestrals having such fun with their flourish, as Margo would call their antics, only reminded her that Bran also planned to give her a special welcome-to-Barra greeting.

  Mindy’s breath caught. Her pulse skittered just remembering his words. How his eyes had smoldered and his grin had turned so wicked as he’d spoken his warning.

  His next kiss wouldn’t be innocent. It would be nothing like the first one, a light and fleeting, brush of his lips across hers.

  He’d appear out of nowhere, grab and crush her in a breath-stealing, big-burly-man bear hug, kissing her passionately. And then, like the rogue that he was, he’d set about proving his prowess.

  And she’d be in deep trouble.

  Because she strongly suspected she wouldn’t be able to resist him.

  Chapter Nine

  The mist swirled thicker than ever when Mindy finally drove off the CalMac ferry at Barra’s Castlebay pier. In fact, the mist – no, sea haar – was so impenetrable that she hadn’t even been able to catch a glimpse of Bran’s stony islet as the ferry passed the castle site on its way to the dock. Lights did flicker dimly along the waterfront, but whether the yellow-glowing pinpricks belonged to cottages, shops, or even a fleet of fishing boats was something she couldn’t tell at this point.

  She did know that everyone leaving the ferry seemed to be going to the same place.

  And when she considered how small Barra was, and the very explicit directions she’d received, it appeared as if that place was her destination.

  The Hebridean House Hotel.

  A family-run four star country house hotel only a few minutes above the main village of Castlebay. According to Mindy’s source – a Scotland-loving airline friend who, unlike Margo, actually had been to Scotland and even made frequent return visits – Hebridean House was the best place to stay on Barra.

  The rooms were spacious and comfortable, fireplaces were kept lit, the food was excellent, and the views divine, or so Mindy’s ex-colleague enthused. There was also a pub with great real ale where locals often held impromptu music sessions.

  Best of all, the bathrooms were modern. Mindy had been assured she wouldn’t have to worry about learning how to operate fiddly, next-to-impossible to get just-the-right-temperature showers.

  She’d fall in love with Hebridean House.

  But now, as she inched her way through the cold, wet night, following a long string of red taillights through the tiny seaside village and up the hill to the large and rambling hotel, she had serious doubts.

  With the exception of ghosts, Mindy had expected Barra to be a wild and empty place. The kind of grandiose nowhere that looks haunting in oil, but where, in real life, she’d find nothing stirring but the ripple of wind on the sea, and, maybe, the occasional bark of a dog.

  Far from it, the isle struck her as Grand Central Station of the Hebrides.

  Barra hopped.

  And she hadn’t been mistaken. Everyone was headed to her hotel.

  Mindy blew out a breath and gripped the steering wheel tighter. At least she doubted Silvanus, Roderick, Geordie, and the others would abandon their galley to waylay her in the lobby of an overcrowded Victorian-era country house hotel. She hadn’t seen them since the ferry had slowed its engines and made for the Castlebay pier.

  Bran was a huge question mark.

  She couldn’t be sure, but she might have caught glimpses of a huge, shaggy dog loping alongside the road next to her slow-moving rental car.

  If so, the dog could be Gibbie.

  Mindy narrowed her eyes and tried to peer deeper into the rolling mist. She’d almost swear that, when the fog thinned a bit in places, she’d spotted the large, burly figure of a man walking swiftly a few yards behind the dog. Even more telling, she’d also seen at least one or two strange bursts of brilliant blue light, each odd flare coming from near the striding man’s hip.

  Bran of Barra’s sword had a gemstone that glowed. She’d seen the blade’s pommel stone shoot blue flames more than once.

  He could be following her.

  The possibility made her heart pound. Although she would have guessed that, like the ancestrals from the Folly, he’d choose to avoid confronting her in a place as jam-packed as the Hebridean House appeared to be.

&nbs
p; Not especially pleased about the crowd herself, she pulled into the hotel’s car park – a surprisingly large one - and began what she feared would be a fruitless search for an empty parking space.

  People were everywhere.

  Circling cars, many from the ferry, cruised slowly past, going round and round, as drivers and passengers kept an eye out for a place to park. Finally, after turning and heading a bit back down the narrow, twisting road, she found a semi-sheltered spot near a drystone wall.

  Gusty wind nearly blew her off her feet when she climbed out of the car, but the damp and darkness gave her energy she didn’t know she had. Feeling recharged, she marched up the road, reaching the car park with what seemed like only a few quick steps.

  She ignored the hotel bar, located to the side of the building and indicated by a hand-painted sign over its red door, reading The Herring Catcher, Est. 1878. Though surely reeking atmosphere and age, the pub looked – and sounded - filled to bursting.

  Not surprised, she made for the Hebridean’s main entrance, where even more people were streaming across the threshold.

  When she got there, she saw why.

  A poster was tacked to the door: Do you have a tale to tell? If so, the Highland Storyweaver wants to put you in his next book!

  Mindy stopped to read the smaller print near the bottom of the advert. A quick scan explained that Wee Hughie MacSporran, Highland historian and author, was staying at the hotel to give readings, do signings, and – the surefire reason for the mob – he was searching for ‘tall tales’ to include in his upcoming book, More Hearthside Tales: A Highlander’s Look at Clan Legend and Lore.

  “He’s writing a history of local family tradition and myth.” A little man appeared at Mindy’s elbow. He had tufted ginger hair and was sporting a Harris tweed jacket that smelled of mothballs. “The book is a follow-up to his bestseller Hearthside Tales: A Highlander’s Look at Scottish Myth and Legend.

  “That’s this one.” He held out the volume for Mindy’s inspection. “It was such a hit that he’s expanding the new book with tales from the Hebrides. That’s why we’re all here.” The man glanced around, his cheeks glowing as he surveyed the milling crowd. “We’re come to share our family legends. And, we hope, to have him put our stories in the book.”