by Allie Mackay
“I’ve heard of him.” Mindy eyed the heavyset Scotsman on the book cover. She recognized him because he’d reminded her of a kilted teddy bear. “His books were in my room back at Oban, at Ravenscraig Castle.”
The man waved the book importantly. “Wee Hughie is known and respected throughout the Highlands. Even the visitor centres at Culloden and Glencoe carry his work.
“And” – he leaned close, lowering his voice – “if he uses my story in More Hearthside Tales, I intend to write my own book. My family has a Selkie ancestress and I can trace my lineage directly to her.”
He stepped back, chin lifting. “There’d be lots of folk what would be keen to hear my tale.”
“I’m sure.” Mindy tried to edge past him.
He gripped her arm, leaning in again. “I’m hoping MacSporran will introduce me to his editor.”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.” Mindy broke free and almost sprinted for the reception.
“I have a room,” she lifted her voice, trying to catch the eye of a harried-looking woman in a blue cardigan sweater with a red Hebridean House crest. “Mindy Menlove. I reserved by email.”
“Menlove?” The woman turned to face her. “I don’t recall such a name.”
“I have a confirmation.” Mindy began rummaging in her bag. “Here it is.” She pulled out the crumpled email, placing it on the desk. “You can read it.”
“H’mmm.” The woman snatched the paper. “This is from us, to be sure,” she said, her brow wrinkling. “But I still don’t think we have you booked. There must be some error-”
“There can’t be.” Mindy grabbed the email, pointing at the date. “It says right here-”
“Och, I can see that, right enough.” The woman edged her glasses up her nose. “It’s just” – she cast a glance at the people thronging the lobby and the sitting room beyond – “things have been a bit confused lately.
“We’re quite full, you see.” She looked back at Mindy, shrugging. “If you don’t have a reservation...” She let the words trail off meaningfully.
“But I do.”
The woman raised a doubtful brow. “I’d remember a name like Menlove.”
“Can you at least check?” Mindy could feel her face heating. “I’m sure I’m in your computer.”
The woman’s lips thinned. “Lassie, since thon writer announced his event” – she glanced at a poster on the wall behind her desk; it was the same one as on the door – “everyone in the Outer and Inner Hebrides has made a booking with us.
“Some folk have even come so far as from Loch Ness.” She adjusted her glasses again. “Family that claims Nessie swims past their back garden wall each third full moon. Like everyone else, they’re keen to have their tale told, get in a book, and become famous.”
“I’m not here to find fame.” Mindy was getting angry now. “I just want a room.”
“Ah, well.” The woman went to the far side of the reception desk and reached for a thick red ledger. “I still dinnae see your name,” she said, flipping through pages covered with illegible scribbles.
Mindy tucked her hair behind an ear. “Can you please check your computer?”
The woman gave Mindy an over-her-glasses look and closed the ledger. Without a word, she moved to stand before the computer keyboard, her fingers clacking with tap-tapping efficiency across the keys.
“H’mmm.” She glanced at Mindy again. “I’m afraid I still don’t have you.”
Mindy stared at her and then at the people standing about in small groups in the lobby. The sitting room looked as jammed as a sardine can.
She turned back to woman. “I came all the way from America. I’ve brought stones from a castle and-”
“Och!” The woman’s face lit up. “So you’re that American? Well, then!” She stepped back, smoothing her hands on her cardigan. “That does change things.”
“You have a room?” Mindy hoped.
“Michty me, I do be wishing I did.” She worried her lip, considering. “But...” She stared into space, tapping her chin with a finger.
“I don’t need anything fancy.” Mindy was getting desperate. “I’m so tired I could sleep in a broom closet. As long as the bed’s clean and there’s a bath.”
A private bath was essential.
She really didn’t want to share a down-the-hall bathroom with countless want-to-be-in-a-book, fame-seeking Scots. The look the woman gave her said she might not have a choice.
“So you don’t have anything?” Mindy hitched up her bag, which was beginning to slide off her shoulder. “Not even a small room with a sink?”
“Och, there is something. And there is a bath.” The woman hesitated. “It’s just-”
“Just what?”
“It’s not here.”
Mindy blinked. “What do you mean it isn’t here?”
“Exactly that, my dear.” The woman looked embarrassed. “We really are booked up. So many people here to meet the author,” she said, her voice apologetic. “The other hotels and inns are all full, too. Even the smaller bed-and-breakfasts.
“But there is a small self-catering cottage down on the other side of the village.” The woman began tapping her chin again. “It’s called the Anchor and is just past an old stone jetty that no one uses anymore.”
“I’ll take it.”
“It hasn’t been cleaned or aired.”
“I don’t care.” She did, but she also wasn’t going to sleep in her car.
“Well...” The woman threw a look at the door. “I think Jock, the owner, is over in the Herring Catcher tonight. I’ll just go make sure he hasn’t promised the cottage to someone else.”
She came around the desk, all brisk business again. “If he says it’s fine, you’ll find the key above the door.” She smiled. “The Anchor may well be unlocked. We don’t much worry about such things on Barra.”
“I’m sure.” Mindy leaned against the desk, looking after the woman as she strode across the reception and out the hotel door.
It was then that she saw him.
Bran of Barra.
He stood near the hearth on the other side of the reception, looking as if he were there to enjoy the fire’s cheery warmth. But there was nothing casual about the way he leaned against the door to the nearby sitting room, his arms folded and his gaze burning into her.
His big, shaggy dog sat beside him. Gibbie also stared at her. But the dog’s expression was friendly. He even looked as though he were grinning.
His tail swished, seeming to prove his delight in seeing her.
Bran of Barra was clearly pleased, too.
But the heat in his eyes indicated a very different kind of pleasure than that of his canine companion.
Mindy swallowed.
Everyone filing in and out of the Hebridean House’s busy lobby seemed to fade away. Even the noise lessened, until the only sound she heard was the thumping of her heart and the rush of her pulse.
Bran of Barra’s lips twitched.
He also wasn’t wearing his kilt.
Mindy blinked, unable not to stare. Never would she have believed that worn corduroy trousers and a bulky fisherman’s sweater could be so sexy. But the rough-edged, windblown look suited him. With his hair in a ponytail and his beard neatly trimmed, the effect was devastating.
Nor did it hurt that he stood heads and shoulders above every other man in the room. Tall men, especially big, brawny ones, had always been her weakness.
Mindy pressed a hand to her breast, sure she couldn’t breathe.
Bran of Barra’s lip twitch spread into a grin.
Gibbie’s tail wagged faster.
When the dog barked – loudly – and no one else in the reception noticed, Mindy realized that, again, she was the only the one who saw either of them.
Not that it mattered.
He was there just for her and his appearance couldn’t have been more effective if a high-paid Hollywood publicist had styled and posed him.
N
o, that was wrong.
Bran of Barra was the kind of man who’d laugh in the face of any such staged artifice. It was his incredible earthiness, the way his gaze fixed – and stayed - on her, that was making her feel so hot inside.
He knocked her sideways.
Before she even knew she’d crossed the room, she found herself standing before him.
“Why are you dressed like that?” She looked up at him, feeling silly because that was the only thing she could think to say.
“You disapprove?”
“No, I-”
“Mindy-lass.” He straightened and reached for her hand. “You are in the Outer Hebrides. There are folk here who” – he glanced about – “despite your modern times, still see things others can’t, including ghosts. So I chose to appear in a manner that won’t attract too much attention.”
Mindy almost choked.
She also couldn’t think clearly because his hand felt so warm and calloused. His grip was strong, firm, and masculine, in a way that went through her like a bolt of high-watt electricity.
The intensity of his gaze was worse.
She fought the urge to squirm. “You’re joking, right?”
“How so?” He flashed that crooked smile again.
“Only that I’m sure you know that you just have to breathe to draw attention.”
His eyes crinkled with pleasure. “I’m glad you think so.” He lifted her hand, kissing the tips of her fingers. “But I didn’t come here to impress you. No’ just at the moment, anyhow.”
Mindy blinked, disappointed. “Oh, I thought-”
“That I’m here to unnerve you?” He released her hand, but leaned close to give her a hard, swift kiss on the cheek. “I told you, sweetness, when I set about making your toes curl, there’ll be no mistaking my purpose.”
“So what is it?” Mindy glanced at the hotel entrance, not wanting the proprietress to return and catch her talking to thin air.
Thankfully, no one else seemed aware of her.
She turned back at Bran, her heart flipping to see that his smile had gone from crooked to smoldering.
“Must you do that?” She shot another look at the door, nervous.
“Do what?”
“Smile at me like-”
“Like I’m ready to eat you?” His grin turned wicked hot. “Och, lassie, did you no’ hear me? This isnae the time or place for-”
“Then why are you here?” She wasn’t about to let him finish such a loaded sentence.
He put his hands on his hips. “I’m here because this is Barra. My Barra.” Pride rang in his voice. “I also want to thank you for returning my stones. I know the tower was gone and now-”
“They should never have been taken away.” The words came from somewhere deep inside Mindy.
It was a thought that had never before crossed her mind.
But it was there now.
She wouldn’t have believed it, but some of Bran’s love for his home started welling in her breast. An unexpected and unaccustomed feeling, it was an odd, fluttering awareness that made her suddenly glad she was doing what she was, even if she’d started on this venture for very different reasons.
She almost said so, but just then she felt a paw prod her thigh. Gibbie. The dog had pushed to his feet and lumbered over to her, paw-prods and wet-nosed nudges letting her know he didn’t want to be excluded.
He tilted his head at her, his dark eyes expectant.
“I don’t have anything for him.” Mindy looked down at the dog, then back at Bran.
He, too, was watching the dog. “A few ear scratches will please him.” The look on his face and the softening of his voice as he spoke about his dog melted her. “That’s all he’s asking of you.”
“Well, then…” Mindy stretched out a hand, let her fingers touch Gibbie’s shoulders. His coat was coarse and shaggy, but she could feel his warmth through the fur. Encouraged, she rubbed him a bit and then – greatly daring – even fondled his ears.
Gibbie’s tail went into overdrive.
Mindy’s heart split wide.
“How can he be so real?” She curled her fingers into the dog’s thick fur. “I mean, both of you are not-” She broke off, embarrassed.
“No’ of this world?” Bran of Barra didn’t appear at all offended. “No’ as you’d expect ghosts to look?”
“I meant-”
“I know fine what you meant.” Smiling, he took her hand again, bending low to kiss the air above her knuckles. “I assure you we are real. We only dwell in a different place.” He shrugged. “We’re among you always, just behind the veil that divides us.
“Some, like me, cross back and forth as the mood strikes us. We all have the ability.” Releasing her, he clicked his fingers to produce an oatcake, which he gave to Gibbie. “Others ne’er make use of such magic.
“Myself, I enjoy my ghostdom.” He stepped back, dusting his hands as Gibbie crunched his treat.
“But you’re both solid.”
“Aye.”
“I always thought ghosts were thin and wispy.” Mindy looked down, nudging the tartan-patterned carpet. “You know – insubstantial. See-through.”
Bran of Barra reached to cup her chin, lifting her face. “Tell me, lass.” His blue gaze held hers, piercing. “Do I look like the kind of man who’d enjoy floating about like a waft of mist?”
Mindy flushed. “No, but-”
He laughed. “There you have it! I enjoyed life too much to spend my afterlife drifting on a cloud.”
“And now...” Mindy couldn’t finish. It bothered her to think about his present. It disturbed her even more that it bothered her.
It shouldn’t.
Especially not in a crowded hotel reception area, where, sooner or later, someone would notice her and see that she was having a conversation with a ghost, regardless of how solid he might or not be.
You’re in deep, Menlove.
Sane people don’t stand around conversing with ghosts.
She started to say so, but just then a tall, heavyset man in a kilt came out of the sitting room. His tweed Argyll jacket was slung over one shoulder and he wore a white, open-necked ghillie shirt. The shirt’s old-fashioned Jacobite styling and his fur-covered, three-tasseled sporran made excellent foils for his brisk, confident stride.
Only his paunch and thinning red hair detracted from the image of Highland magnificence.
And – Mindy noted - perhaps, the glint of arrogance in his small, light blue eyes.
“Bluidy windbag.” Beside her, Bran of Barra drew his sword, holding it menacingly.
Mindy blinked.
She was sure he hadn’t been wearing it a moment before. His clothes were, and still appeared, totally modern. Except, and her heart began to race, for the low-slung sword belt now circling his hips and the great, gleaming length of steel he held in his hand.
“Who is that?” She watched a crowd gather around the newcomer, some people ooh’ing and ahh’ing, as he drew to a halt.
“A botheration, no more.” Bran of Barra frowned, his gaze on the other man.
The newcomer put back his shoulders, nodding regally as people fawned over him. Then, someone moved and light from a wall sconce shown fully on his face and Mindy gasped, recognition hitting her like a bucket of ice water.
She should have known.
The pseudo Jacobite was the author.
Wee Hughie MacSporran.
And if the sound – almost a furious growl – coming from deep inside Bran’s chest was any indication, her brawny Hebridean chieftain didn’t think much of the man who styled himself the Highland Storyweaver.
“You don’t like him, do you?” She glanced at Bran, only to find herself staring into the dark eyes of a big, bulky man with a shock of curly black hair and a weather-beaten, seaman’s kind of face.
Bran of Barra – and his dog – had vanished yet again.
Mindy swallowed her gasp, not wanting the fisherman to think she was nuts. She hitched the should
er strap of her bag and then smoothed her hair, trying to look normal.
“Thon windbag?” The man jerked his dark head in the author’s direction, his use of Bran of Barra’s title for the writer making him instantly sympathetic.
She also couldn’t stand braggarts.
“Nae, I dinnae like him.” The man looked as if he’d spit on the carpet – were they standing anywhere but in the finely decorated reception of the Hebridean House.
“He’s no’ come here to put people in books.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt, keeping his gaze pinned on Wee Hughie. “It’s all show, I say you.”
“Show?” Mindy’s attention, too, was fixed on the writer.
It was clear that he was a performer.
“Aye, that’s what he’s about, that one.” The fisherman’s tone was cynical. “He’s here hoping he’ll find the Barra sword, he is. That’s what he’d put in his book!” He glanced at Mindy, still looking so ready to spit that she almost jumped backward. “After he’s made a fool out of all these good, trusting people.
“Then he’ll sell the sword to some museum down London way and have a fine laugh at us all.”
“Sorry, I’m not following you.” Mindy didn’t want to be rude, but she couldn’t stop looking past the man, half expecting Bran and Gibbie to reappear.
And she didn’t understand what he meant about a sword.
Until...
She went hot and cold, grabbing the fisherman’s arm when he started to move away. “What’s this about a Barra sword? I just got here and haven’t heard anything about-”
“That’s because there hasn’t been a sword here for centuries.” The man turned, but his gaze kept flashing to the writer. “No one except a historian or archeologist would know it was ever said to exist.
“If it even did,” he added, lowering his voice. “The sword belonged to the old Barra MacNeils and was half-mythic. Had strange powers, it did.
“Sword done went and vanished in the mists o’ time, like so much from the auld days. But” – his eyes glinted – “there’s some who believe it might be hidden in with all the stones some rich American has brought back to Barra.”
