Must Love Kilts

by Allie Mackay

  They’d also been free with their torches. Every cothouse, byre, and fishing shed stood ablaze. The smoke was denser here, great billowing clouds that filled the cove with an ominous, suffocating stench.

  Magnus’s men ran about, shouting and battling the Magnus’s men ran about, shouting and battling the flames. Many had stripped naked and were using their plaids to beat at the fires.

  Magnus ran, too, ripping off his own plaid and swatting at the leaping flames as he dashed from one sprawled and broken body to the next, searching for his bride.

  He was almost to her father’s cottage—now a soaring wall of fire—when one of his men pounded up to him, red-faced and panting.

  “Magnus!” The man clutched at him, breathing hard.

  “We’ve found one still alive! It’s Liana’s grandmother and—”

  “Liana?” Magnus’s hope flared. He stared at his kinsman, willing the answer he wanted to hear. “What of her? Has anyone seen—”

  “She’s with the old woman.” The man’s tone made the world go black. “They’re there”—he pointed to a rocky outcrop at the edge of the cove—“together, both of them. The grandmother doesn’t have much longer.

  She’s been grievously set upon. Liana ... your bride . .

  . I’m sorry, Magnus. She is—”

  “Dead.” Magnus’s heart stopped on the word. He couldn’t breathe or move. He went rigid, his entire length freezing to icy-hard stone even as agony hollowed him, leaving him emptied of all but searing denial.

  He saw Liana now, her lifeless body there on the sand, beside the rocks. Several of his men knelt around her, their heads respectfully bent. One of them cradled the old woman, leaning down to catch whatever last words came from her blood-drained lips.

  A great cry burned in Magnus’s throat, but he couldn’t tell if he was yelling or if the terrible, earsplitting sound was the thunder of his blood.

  Then, somehow, he was at Liana’s side. He flung himself to his knees, pulling her into his arms, holding her limp form against him. She looked only asleep, for her body wasn’t broken and mangled like the others.

  Her fair hair was unsullied and shone bright as always, spilling around her shoulders. But her eyes were closed, her lashes still against the whiteness of her cheeks.

  “No-o-o!” He tightened his arms around her, burying his face in her hair, still so cool and silken. Just as her skin was yet smooth and warm, almost alive.

  He heard footsteps then and looked up to see one of his men approaching, pity in his eyes. The man set a hand on Magnus’s shoulder, gripping hard. Magnus glared up him, grief and rage turning him feral.

  “She isn’t dead, see you?” He raised a fist, shaking it at the heavens. “She’s only stunned, I say you. She’ll waken soon and—”

  He broke off, staring at the blood on his hand.

  Bright red and fresh, it colored his fingers and the whole of his palm, hideous rivulets trickling down his arm.

  Liana’s blood.

  “Nae!” He held her from him, his heart splitting when her head lolled to the side. He stared at her, looking closely, seeing what he’d missed before.

  There was a large crimson stain at her middle, dark, glistening wet, and deadly.

  It was then that the madness seized him.

  He threw back his head and roared, allowing the pain to rush in. Blackness filled him and his vision blurred to a burning, red haze. But he kept his hands steady as he lowered her onto the plaid that someone had spread out for her beside the old woman, who—he saw at once—had also taken her last agonizing breath.

  Soon, he would see them buried. He’d put them, and all the others, to peace as best as possible in such a fouled and heinous place.

  But for now, he gave in to his rage and leapt to his feet, a beast unchained. He ran to the water’s edge, where he whipped out his sword and plunged it deep into the wet sand beneath the cold and swirling surf.

  He clenched his hands, glaring through the smoke to the now-empty horizon. “Sword Breaker, hear me!” he bellowed, yelling with all his lung power. “There is no rock large enough to hide you! No shadows black enough to keep you and yours safe from me, Magnus MacBride!”

  He strode into the water, shouting the same words again and again as he glared out to sea. He shook his fists at the rolling waves, ranting until several of his men came for him. They took him by the arms, dragging him back to shore.

  Back to a life that was forever changed.

  The Magnus MacBride who stood on the strand—his heart turned to stone and his blood boiling with rage—was a different man from the one who’d wakened that morn, eager and joyful to ride out and fetch his bride.

  From this day on, he would live only for vengeance.

  Chapter 1

  Ye Olde Pagan Times

  New Hope, Pennsylvania

  The present

  Margo Menlove was born loving Scotland.

  She lived, breathed, and dreamed in plaid. At the ripe 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 hometown 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, Ye Olde Pagan Times, 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 Sometimes when one of those Glasgow-bound travelers consulted her, she’d surprise 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 tartan 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. Instead of ballet, she’d taken Scottish country dance classes as a child and could dance a mean Highland fling before she’d entered kindergarten. 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.

  She loved Scotland that much.

  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 nearly always—in a mini tartan skirt 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, curling hair shone bright in the late-autumn sunlight slanting in through the shop windows. She was also wearing a very smug smile and that could only mean trouble.

  Sure of it, Margo shifted on her stool behind her Luna Harmony station and reached to rearrange the little blue and silver jars and bottles of organic beauty products that shop owner, Patience Peasgood, urged her to sell to those seeking celestial answers. With names like Foaming Sea bath crystals or 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 so many of the Lunarian Organic products cluttered her counter. If she appeared busy, fussing with their 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 around the aisles, her chin tilted as she peered at sparkling glass bowls filled with pink and clear quartz crystals. She also examined the scented oils and reed diffusers, and then drifted away to study the large selection of herbal teas and cures.

  Willing her to leave the shop, Margo eyed her progress from beneath her lashes.

  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 Peasgood 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 lifted on her nape—she was certain someone was watching her.

  Margo shivered. She wondered if it was her—Dina Greed did ride her last nerve—or if a shadow had passed over the sun. Either way, the whole atmosphere in the shop suddenly felt a shade darker.

  It was a creepy, unsettling kind of dark.

  Margo knew that Patience, a self-taught white witch, had been experimenting with new spells in recent days. Watching the shopkeeper now, Margo hoped her employer hadn’t unwittingly unleashed something sinister. It wouldn’t be the first time Patience’s well-meant magic backfired and caused more trouble than good.

  “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 Ye Olde Pagan Times’

  Madame Zelda of Bulgaria each morning when she stepped through the shop door.

  “Geesh.” 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 two 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 blond 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 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 ever 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 Margo wanted to move to into giving her the last available apartment, even though Margo had already made a deposit.

  Now she was also going to Scotland.

  It was beyond bearing.

  “So it is true.” Margo looked at her friend, feeling bleak. She 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 was coming 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 bitten 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 typed 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.” She twinkled at Margo, well aware that the medieval hero 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. “Are you looking for some good cosmetics for your trip?” She tapped the Ocean of Storms shower gel. “All the Lunarian products come in travel sizes.”

  “No, thanks, but that’s close.” Dina held out a hand, wriggling 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.

  “They aren’t very strong and”—she gave Margo another sugar-infused smile—“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.

  “If you do that, they’ll stay hard, resistant to breakage, and never give you any problems.”

  Margo smiled.

  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. It’s been lovely seeing you. But”—she was already halfway across the shop—“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 left when she did, as she might have exploded otherwise. She could maintain her always-be-gracious-to-customers demeanor 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 most times 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 icy cold.

  Of course—she saw now—rain was beginning to beat against the windows and the afternoon sky had gone ominously dark. Autumn in Bucks County was known for the night drawing in rather early.

  Still...

  This wasn’t that kind of chill.

  Margo sat frozen on her stool. She wanted to call out to Patience or even Marta, sequestered in her back room, but her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth. She glanced over to the bookshelves, seeking the reassurance of Patience’s familiar presence.

  Instead, she found her palms and her brow dampening.

  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 out near Valley Forge. 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, sorting the new books. And—Margo stared, her stomach clenching—whatever it was, it oozed an ancient malevolence.

  It wasn’t a ghost.

  She knew that unquestionably.

  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 Scotland trip get to her so much that she mistook a shadow cast by a construction truck for a gloom-bearing hell demon.