Must Love Kilts

by Allie Mackay

  She didn’t even believe in demons.

  Ghosts, you bet. She’d even seen a few of them and had no doubts whatsoever.

  She was a believer.

  But demons . . .

  They 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 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 Ye Olde Pagan Times’ 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.

  Every spell gone bad that Patience had ever done flashed through her mind. Once, Patience tried to cast protection over migrating frogs she’d heard about on the news. She didn’t like thinking of the amphibians crossing busy roads. Within minutes, Ye Olde Pagan Times had been overrun with hopping, green-skinned frogs.

  Another time, she’d tried to spell the air conditioner into working better and frost suddenly appeared on every surface in the shop. Icicles even grew from the ceiling and hung like frozen swords in the windows.

  Lately, she’d been trying to gain the power to see true history by murmuring spell words over the white spaces between lines in books. Patience wanted to examine a few specialized books on early witchcraft to learn the truth behind medieval witch hunts and trials.

  Margo shuddered to think her employer might have summoned a foul-tempered warlock.

  Or something worse.

  Very slowly, Margo turned. She half expected to see the shadow again.

  There was nothing.

  No ghosts, demons, or other beasties crept along the bookshelf aisles.

  She certainly didn’t see a warlock.

  But a book had fallen, lying 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 the shelf. It was from Patience’s new shipment and the title jumped 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, leaving 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 underscoring why she really needed to heed her instincts.

  Could Patience’s spell-casting pursuits have thrown magic on the books, rather than on Patience herself?

  Had her employer enchanted the merchandise?

  Margo was sure she didn’t want to know.

  But she’d had enough—enough of everything—and she 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 the book had opened to a two-page color illustration of a Viking warship off the coast of Scotland.

  Margo 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 dreamed 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 magnificent, he’d been painted raising a sword high over his head and yelling. He was staring out to sea, glaring at the departing Vikings, and his outrage was so well drawn and palpable 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 be.

  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 smelling of burnt ash and terrible things.

  Somehow—in the space of an eye blink—the illustration had come alive. Margo suspected Patience’s magic had gone awry again. Not that it mattered why she was seeing what she was. At the moment, it seemed real. Leaping flames were everywhere, raging up behind the enraged Highlander and even consuming the pages, the heat scalding her fingers.

  “That’s it!” Margo flung the book aside.

  She pressed both hands to her cheeks and stood, breathing hard. She would not accept the crazy spiral of madness whirling inside her.

  She didn’t care how many demon-shadows lurked in the aisles between the bookshelves or how often a painted Highlander chose to stride into the surf in his own illustration. She especially didn’t want to consider how drawn she’d felt to the hot-eyed chieftain. She’d not just felt the fires burning around him; she’d also experienced a flare of pure molten heat all through her body.

  And she was having none of such nonsense.

  Patience’s skills weren’t that formidable. And her mistakes brought on visitations from frogs, frost, and suchlike. Sexy, hot-eyed Highlanders with swords were not in Patience’s range of talent.

  Margo knew what ailed her.

  She simply had a vivid imagination. And, today, she’d also had a lethal dose of Dina Greed-itis.

  But she was okay now.

  The rain was lessening and already she could hear the muffled voices of people passing along the sidewalk, and the swish of car wheels on the road’s wet pavement. It was a perfectly ordinary October afternoon and even the shop seemed warm and welcoming again.

  Feeling better, she gave herself a shake and went to fetch the Viking book. It’d landed near a tiered display of tinkling tabletop fountains. And when she picked it up this time, nothing happened.

  No tingly thunderbolts burst into her fingers.

  The light didn’t dim and the floor stayed steady beneath her feet.

  Even so, before she returned the book to the shelf, she thumbed through its pages. It wouldn’t hurt to take one last peek at the illustration. She wasn’t surprised when she didn’t find it. In fact, there wasn’t anything even similar to what she’d seen.

  Margo let her fingers slide down the book’s spine.

  Its glossy-smooth cover felt so normal. Cool and smooth to the touch.

  She really had imagined everything.

  Too bad she was sure that the fearsome Highland warrior and the wild and rugged seaward coast where he’d stood would haunt her forever.

  And wasn’t that the story of her life?

  She might know Scotland better than anyone else.

  And her heart was certainly in the Highlands. But she only ever went there in her dreams.

  Now they’d never be enough again.

  She wanted that Highlander on the shore.

  A man the illustration’s caption had called Magnus MacBride, Viking Slayer.

  Chapter 2

  Badcall Bay, the Northwest Highlands

  A chill autumn day, 1255

&n
bsp; “Did you know, Greer, that Norsemen say fate is inescapable?”

  Magnus MacBride, famed as the Viking Slayer, glanced at the big man standing near him at the water’s edge. Built like an ox and with a huge red beard, Godred Greer couldn’t know the fury coursing through Magnus’s veins. Though if the traitor had looked close, he might’ve seen a muscle twitch in Magnus’s jaw. Or the murder in Magnus’s eyes when he turned his gaze back to the dark blue line that marked the edge of the sea.

  As it was, Godred merely spat onto the sand. “I make my own path.”

  Magnus nodded. “So men say.”

  He stepped closer to the surf, pretending to watch the waves rolling in. In truth, the bloodlust was on him.

  Soon he’d do what he did so well, take vengeance and right terrible wrongs. Eager to begin, he opened and closed his fists and let his lips curve in a smile that would’ve shriveled Godred’s gizzard if the bastard could have seen his face.

  But he kept his back turned, his eyes on the sea, for this scene of carnage held the power to scald his innards, even after five long years.

  No ribbons of flame or thick plumes of smoke fouled the air, black, ominous, and reeking. And no dragon ships could be seen beating for the open sea.

  But the crescent-shaped strand was a place of graves, and the wind whistling past its craggy cliffs still echoed with the cries of innocents. Many of the rocks along the shore remained blackened, and within the charred and rotting ruins of cothouses, the dark-stained hearthstones lay cold.

  It was a meet place for purging evil.

  And now that he was here, Godred the betrayer only a sword swipe away, Magnus reached to pull the leather tie from his hair, letting it swing loose about his shoulders. That, too, he’d learned from the Vikings.

  They killed with unbound hair.

  Beside him, Godred seemed unaware of his approaching demise. “You chose an ill site to counsel, MacBride.” He joined Magnus at the surf’s edge. “This place is no better than a corpse hall.” His words made Magnus’s anger surge.

  Taking a tight breath, he glanced down the shore to where Godred’s sister, Donata, walked near the remnants of a burned fisherman’s hovel. A small but shapely woman, she had bold eyes and a mass of dark curling hair that glistened like a raven’s wing. Her cloak was also black and she wore jangling bands of silver and jet around her neck, wrists, and ankles. Her exotic scent drifted on the sea wind and her presence only riled Magnus the more.

  Not because she tempted him.

  No woman had done that since Liana, God rest her soul.

  But no female—even the sister of a foe—should witness what he meant to do to Greer. Though he knew why the man had brought her.

  Donata Greer was rumored a witch.

  Just now, Magnus would swear she was weaving some dark magic over him. Her lips moved in a chant he couldn’t hear and each glance she flashed his way held poison. Whatever she was about, it boded ill.

  Magnus steeled his spine.

  He feared nothing. But he wouldn’t sleep well with such a female beneath his roof.

  Godred Greer didn’t go anywhere without her. She advised his every move. Or so the prattle-mongers claimed. A shame, for Greer, that she hadn’t warned him to ignore Magnus’s summons to Badcall Bay.

  A pity, too, that the gutted fisherman’s cottage where Donata now stood was so close to where Liana had been found, dead on the sand.

  The memory sent white-hot pain spearing through Magnus’s chest. A wave of anger crashed over him, but he fought the red haze. He needed his wits, even if he could hardly wait to fill the air with the stench of Godred’s blood. That glory would come soon enough.

  For now ...

  “You speak true.” He turned back to the miscreant.

  “This strand is a burying ground. It’s tainted, blood drenched, and unholy. But where else could we be sure no Norsemen might observe our tryst?” He swept out an arm, indicating the devastation.

  “There’s nothing here to attract them.” He could scarce keep the outrage from his voice. “They ply waters where they’re assured of rich plunder. And they seek places where they’ll meet little resistance.”

  “We all know that.” Godred looked to the cliff path and then back to Magnus. “I didnae come here to waste breath o’er pagan raiders. Your man said you wished the strength of my swords.” He frowned, glancing again at the cliffs, where several of Magnus’s guards were making their way down to the strand. “I was told you’re offering land and wealth for a score of good fighting men?”

  Magnus smiled openly now. The men on the cliff were a signal, letting him know they’d dispatched Godred’s own guards who’d been waiting above.

  “I will make you a rich man, that’s true.” Magnus just didn’t say he’d do so by sending the craven to Valhalla, where he could enjoy the splendors of Odin’s feasting hall. “But first I’d hear why the pagan raiders haven’t ravaged your stretch of this coast.”

  “They know better.” Godred swelled his chest. “My men’s prowess is known, even to those thieving bastards. What I’d hear”—his eyes glinted suspiciously—“is why you’d dare to ask.”

  “Sigurd Sword Breaker has returned.” Magnus’s tone hardened. “Word is he seeks to settle here. He craves a good haven and boat strand for his dragon ships and sweet grazing for cattle.” Magnus watched Godred carefully. “He wouldn’t leave such ripe lands as yours untouched, no matter the fierceness of your men.”

  Godred spat again, this time into the surf. “Who am I to know that devil’s mind?”

  Magnus shook his head, letting the wind toss his hair. “Do you know much of Norse gods? Perhaps that Odin gave up one of his eyes for the gift of a golden tongue? Could it be that you’ve allied yourself with a deep-pursed, land-hungry Norse warlord? That you’ve surrendered your loyalty to this land for the promise of Viking silver?”

  “You snake!” Godred’s eyes bulged. His face turned purple. “I’ve ne’er heard such lies!”

  “You’re the liar.” Magnus stepped forward and threw back Godred’s cloak to reveal the bastard’s rows of silver and gold arm rings. “Vikings use such baubles to reward men who serve them well. Including fools who believe empty promises made to them. Such men have arms bright with the rings that bought their loyalty. They—”

  “Cur!” Godred jerked his cloak from Magnus’s grasp. “You wear no less. All men speak of your arm rings. See them now, glittering on your—”

  “My arm rings mind me of each sword Viking I’ve slain.” Magnus flexed his muscles, proud of the rings.

  “I wear different ones each day and have taken them all myself, one silver or gold ring from each dead Norseman. They aren’t gifts from a Norse warlord. I bear them openly and ne’er hidden beneath a dark mantle.

  “Nor”—he yanked the silver chain from Godred’s neck—“do I wear one of these!”

  Magnus clenched his fist around the Thor’s hammer charm and then flung the necklace into the sea.

  “You dinnae need such an amulet to feel close to Viking gods.” He slapped his sword hilt. “I mean to speed you into their presence.”

  “Odin’s arse, you will,” Godred snarled, reaching for his own brand. But before he could unsheathe it, Donata ran between them, flinging herself at Magnus.

  “Touch him and you’re damned!” She beat his chest with her fists, her dark eyes wild. “You and yours will burn in your god’s hell. Your children and theirs and all the offspring to come after them will be cursed on this earth and in every world beyond.”

  “Hah!” Magnus hardly felt her blows. “Your words are wasted. I dinnae have children. And I’ll no’ be making any, either.”

  “You’ll soon wish you could.” She lifted a hand to slash her cheek, flicking the blood from her talonlike fingernails into Magnus’s face. “I curse you to want a woman so badly that you won’t be able to breathe, eat, or even take a step without burning for her.” Magnus swiped the blood off his face. “I desire no woman.”
>
  “You will.” Donata’s eyes narrowed, glittering madly.

  “She’ll be a woman you can never have. She’ll haunt your dreams and you’ll see her everywhere, but she’ll remain as distant as the stars.”

  “The woman I loved is far away.” Magnus wiped his fingers on his plaid, unmoved. “She’s dead.”

  “Another woman lives. And you’ll want her with a fever that will scorch your veins. You’ll chase after her, never catching more than air.” Donata tossed her head, her voice rising. “You’ll lose your reason, wishing yourself dead. That is my curse on you!” Magnus laughed and seized her arms, lifting her off the ground. “I live in hell. You cannae curse a man already damned.”

  “Nae, but I can kill you.” Godred drew his sword, flashing it from side to side.

  “You’ll have your chance.” Magnus smiled, relishing the fight.

  “No chance, your death.” Godred glared at him.

  “Release my sister.”

  “Och, I shall.” Magnus broadened his smile. The cold smile men came to fear these last bloodred years.

  Knowing Godred wouldn’t strike so long as he held Donata, he threw a glance to where his guardsmen stood near the bottom of the cliff path. They were six, all clad in mail and well armed. Two clutched bulging leather sacks.

  “Ewan! Come take her back up the cliff. And”—he ignored Donata’s flailing legs and clawing fingers—“dinnae let the lady scratch you.”

  “I will nae.” Ewan, a strapping lad and Magnus’s youngest warrior, came sprinting up to them. Without glancing at Godred, he scooped Donata into his arms and carried her away, across the strand.

  She fought Ewan’s grasp, still hurling curses at Magnus, her voice shrill.

  Just before Ewan reached the cliff path, he looked back over his shoulder. “I like ’em with spirit! She’s no bother whatever.”

  “No foolery, lad.” Magnus whipped out his sword as he spoke, his eye on Godred’s glinting blade. “We dinnae make war on women. She’s to go to a nunnery, along with Greer’s other ladies.”

  “My women are no’ your concern.” Godred swept his steel in an arc that would’ve slit Magnus’s gut if he hadn’t leapt aside fast enough.