“Makes no difference, fate is preordained. Our fate. What will be will be…” She was certain she heard a sigh. “As long as you are willing of course.”
She was not going to answer that or ask willing to do what. She had enough going on in her life without any more complications.
Nevertheless, the tone of the…the what, unwanted thought maybe, unnerved her.
Marcail sighed as she surveyed the contents of the car boot. What did she really need with her and what could stay put for now?
When she’d filled the car, she’d put what she thought of as the essentials for her everyday life in it, plus the necessities for her trip. The rest, including her furniture, was in storage until such time as she decided what to do with it all, but really? What was necessary? After all, she was going to be home with the family, no need to stand on ceremony. Just one special dress for her birthday dinner and that was it. The rest of the time she’d dress for warmth, not elegance. Then of course, it would be summer down under, and as Roddy had disapproved of her ‘showing too much skin’ as he put it, she had few skimpies. Those she would buy when she got to New Zealand.
“Or Skye.”
“I am not going to Skye at this time of the year,” she said out loud, and surprised a bird in a nearby tree, which flew off with an indignant squawk. “I am going to do what I want, wear what I want and sod anyone who tells me I can’t.”
Like Roddy had. Why on earth had she been so stupid as to pay attention to his petty ways? No more!
The clapping she heard was a balm to her bruised soul. And if that wasn’t fanciful she didn’t know what was.
Nevertheless, how she hated that sensation of disenchantment her attitude had given her. Why did she feel something was missing?
“You’re waiting for me.”
Now that was crazy. She was off men for the duration.
“Not off me, not ever, wait and see.”
Marcail rolled her eyes. If he thought so he had another think coming.
“Harsh, mo ghaol, very harsh.”
She ignored that.
Her siblings seemed to be content, so why wasn’t she? Baird, her brother, worked as a teacher in a tiny village school in the Highlands, and said little about what was going on in his life, except it was right for him. He didn’t want to go out of his beloved Scotland he’d insisted, but somewhere different, where he was needed and not just as a son and brother. As much as he’d loved living on the island, he needed more.
Marcail understood that. So had she.
“I still do,” she said firmly. Which was why in a month—give or take a few days—she was heading to New Zealand. First though, she needed to snap out of her miserable mood, and appreciate the time with the family. Celebrate her birthday, enjoy the chance to breathe fresh air, recharge her batteries and prepare for the trip of a lifetime. From that moment she was going to be positive.
“That’s my girl.”
“Bog off.”
The laughter that swirled around her made her grin. Maybe talking to yourself did have some perks after all. You could answer back how you liked. Tell yourself to shut up, bog off and take a hike.
“You’re talking to me, not yourself.”
“You can still bog off.”
Sweating a little—it was unseasonably mild—Marcail started to unload her car and transfer the few bits and bobs she had brought with her to the boat. The note on the tiny cabin door made her laugh. ‘Wait for me, I’ll be there by three, off to buy something nice for tea, lots of love…’ Bonnie, she guessed. She was the one who enjoyed scribing silly little notes that the others loved to receive, and she’d promise to meet Marcail.
Bonnie, the youngest Drummond child, was the only one of them still living on the island, albeit in her own house.
Bonnie with her uncanny sense of knowing when something was wrong, and accepting that sometimes she should wait and do nothing, at other times wade right in. It couldn’t be coincidence that within ten minutes of Marcail watching Roddy depart from her life, Bonnie had phoned to ask if everything was okay, and why not come home for her birthday.
Bonnie’s intuition—Marcail refused to call it second sight—always struck Marcail as a bit weird, even though the rest of the family took it for granted. As they also accepted Marcail’s voices, she supposed she shouldn’t wonder too much. They were all a bit peculiar. Idly she wondered if her brother had some strange thing he insisted was perfectly natural and normal.
We’re strange.
“Define strange.”
“You. And stop eavesdropping, it’s rude.”
The laughter made her jump. It was so loud she half expected to see someone sitting in the passenger seat.
Sometimes Marcail envied Bonnie for her serenity, her acceptance of what she was, and for her tranquillity and contentment living on the island. However, deep down she knew that permanent island life wasn’t for her. If only she knew what was.
“One day soon.”
Marcail ignored that and remembered Bonnie’s note. Half an hour to wait wasn’t too long. Marcail locked her car, pocketed the keys and swung onto the boat. There was coffee left in the flask she’d filled at the last comfort stop, a few chocolate biscuits in a box and her Kindle to keep her company.
“And me, of course. I’ll always be here for you…my Pearl.”
“Oh of course,” she said under her breath. “The bloody voice in my head calls me Pearl. Just what I need—not.” Pearl, the anglicised version of her name, was one she rarely used. When it was, it sent shivers down her spine and she had no idea why. The last person who had regularly called her that had been her Granny Pearl. A tiny, white-haired old lady, said by many to have the second sight. Marcail didn’t believe in such stuff. It was great in books, impossible in real life.
“Not impossible. She did have it, so do you if you care to use it. You accept me, why not that?”
“One step too far.”
“Wait and see.”
“Oh shut up, you’re beginning to annoy me.”
Could you have a huffy silence inside your mind? If so, she’d got it in spades.
The sun had almost gone down when the roar of a motorbike heralded Bonnie’s arrival.
On a motorbike? That’s new. As far as Marcail knew, Bonnie drove an old Mini she called Petal and refused to change it for anything else.
Marcail emptied the dregs of her coffee over the side of the boat, dusted biscuit crumbs into a bag and stood up, eager to see her sister again.
The rider revved the engine and switched it off.
The silence was absolute until somewhere nearby a buzzard called and was answered. Marcail watched as the rider dismounted and took off a jazzy helmet.
She blinked.
The rider couldn’t be her sister. Not unless she’d gained six inches, a stone or two and changed sex.
This rider was all male. A challenging, sexy and bloody scary male. Where was the pepper spray when you needed it?
Carefully, Marcail bent and fumbled under the seat, opened the box there and found a spanner.
The bloke who stood next to the bike kicked the rest into place so it didn’t fall over and held his hands up in the air. “Whoa, careful, I come in peace. Bonnie asked me to meet you.”
Do I know that voice?
“Bonnie?” She made sure it sounded like a question.
He grinned. Hot, teasing and wicked enough to send every sense she had into meltdown. The sort of expression to curl your hair and make you hold your stomach in. Wish you hadn’t eaten those last three calorie-filled biscuits and hope your last night’s curry hadn’t lingered on your breath. Find it hard to ignore tight nipples and damp thighs and try to concentrate on what was going on.
Just in case. She wasn’t going to go into in case of what.
“Clever girl,” he said in an admiring way. “Your sister, Bonnie. You know? Around five foot and don’t forget the half inch, writer of fantasy, sister, Bonnie. She would have come herself, b
ut in her words, her sodding hero wants to go and do heroic things she doesn’t want him to do, and the dragons are rebelling. Your ma is busy baking up a storm, your brother is coming tomorrow after school—er, I’ll add I know he’s a teacher not a pupil—and he’s requested black bun and clootie dumpling. She, your ma, has a birthday cake to make and ice and someone’s been pinching the hundreds and thousands for the top and it wasn’t me. I don’t even know what they are.”
“Tiny bits of multicoloured sugar and I guess starch,” Marcail answered absently. Why were they having a conversation about mini balls of sugar, for heaven’s sake? And why was his voice familiar? She was damn sure she’d never met him before. “They go on cakes and trifles and, if my dad is around, in his mouth as they come. Why didn’t he pick me up?”
“Ah, well evidently, according to your ma, your pa has got his intermittent bad leg. Too much sugar?”
She laughed despite herself. Her dad’s bad leg was a convenient excuse when he didn’t want to do something and concentrate on his greenhouses instead. They always came first. “Maybe. Plus, he hates driving at dusk. So, you are?”
“I’m the visitor to the rescue. Paden MacDonald, from Skye, amongst other places, currently residing at Castle Bearradh. Hale, hearty and all my own teeth. Plus a filling or two.”
Not Skye again.
“Inevitable.”
“Damn it, stop already.”
It sounded plausible, however. “How come I’ve not been told we have visitors?” Her father insisted he was allergic to them.
“Probably thought it would scare you away.” Paden MacDonald raised his shoulders and let them drop. “I’ve been told that although you might not live there, you’re very protective of your island. Not a lot of people get to visit, let alone stay. I’m guessing to have family time there is even more important to you now, when you’ll be going away again soon and so far away at that.”
How the hell did he know? She’d told no one her plans. “Really? What makes you think that?”
He tapped the side of his nose. “I know that’s what you think you’ll be doing, but never fear, I’ll not clype on you whether you do or not. When you do it will be what’s needed.”
“There’s nothing to tell.” Marcail shrugged, somewhat incensed at his indication she might not go. Of course she was going, and it would be because she wanted to, not for any other reason. “Why are you stopping on the island?”
“I’ve a wee job to do there. My ancestors and yours have a history. One that needs to be sorted. It was now or never, but I’ve promised to stay out of your family celebrations, unless welcome by all.”
That statement, said so matter–of-factly, made her feel rotten. Surely she, or any one of them, wasn’t so miserable as to insist he stayed in his room or whatever? Especially as it was Samhain, and important.
“You do know it’s Samhain, don’t you?” she asked as he put a rucksack on his back, pushed the bike into the tiny, almost unnoticeable lean-to next to a clump of trees and jumped up onto the boat. If he understood and celebrated, she couldn’t refuse to let him join in, could she?
“Of course. I’ll do my honouring in private, don’t worry.” He shot her a swift grin. “Ready to head over? Happy I’m not a serial killer or a burglar?”
“Ready to head over, yes. I’ll reserve judgement on the rest.” And hang on to the spanner.
“Fair enough. By the way, there’s a hammer under the back thwart. Might do more damage than the spanner.”
“I didn’t say that.”
He raised one eyebrow and laughed. “You thought it though.”
Where had she heard that laugh before?
Chapter Two
Whatever else Paden MacDonald from Skye was, or was not, he was a quick worker and a competent helmsman. Within minutes he’d stashed her belongings in the cabin, passed her a life jacket and donned one himself, started the frequently temperamental engine, cast off and headed the boat in the direction of the island.
“So, Marcail Drummond,” he shouted to be heard above the noise of the engine, “what ails you?”
What…? “Nothing ails me, thank you,” she said firmly. “I’m on my way home to see my family for a while. I’m looking forward to spending time with them.”
“And you’d rather I wasn’t here? I understand that.”
“Well,” she said lamely. “It’s unusual.” It wouldn’t be polite to retort, yeah, you said it, not me. “Ma and Pa aren’t social animals, not really. Nor is Bonnie.” Bonnie in fact was the most likely to be antagonistic. She valued her—and the island’s—privacy above most other things. “It could be difficult for you.”
“If you say so. Remember though, I’m here for you, not other people. If you need me, just holler.” He flashed her a heart-stopping, hot, sexy grin. “Out loud or inside. I’ll hear you well enough for now. Later, maybe, I’ll need a wee bit of help. When you’re all those miles away.”
The words ‘if you go’ seemed to hover in the air, unspoken, but there nevertheless.
What had he heard? More to the point, how had he heard? She went over that question again and came up with no feasible answer.
“If you say so.” A pathetic response, but the best she could think of. “Oh, is that a buzzard?” Daft statement, she knew fine well it was.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “So be it. You’ll sort out things in your mind when you give yourself time to think about them. Decide what you ought do, what you want to do and then what you’re going to do. Which is as it should be.” He turned away, letting her take her fill of the scenery without having to pay attention to him.
Something she appreciated, because every time she came home, Marcail’s heart gave a lurch as the outline of the castle showed stark against the sky.
Her heart missed a beat, then sped up. Castle Bearradh. For centuries there had been a castle on that site. Rebuilt, and restored over the centuries, it still reminded people that at one time the distance from shore and enemies had been a necessity. The sole landing area was tight and only those who needed to know were taught how to line up the three trees to essay a safe entrance. She guessed Paden was now one of the chosen few.
It irked her. Why? He’d been nothing but kind, accepted he was an interloper, explained why and…and she somehow understood there was more to it all. More than he appeared to be prepared to share with her.
Marcail turned towards Paden, her red-as-carrots hair flying in the wind and hitting her cheeks as it escaped its confines.
The words she’d been going to utter disappeared, forgotten as she stared, dry mouthed, and…and wondered just who he was.
He stood, legs apart, braced ready for any bump or jolt. His long-fingered hands were sure as he caressed the wheel like a lover. She could imagine him as a pirate, a brigand or a buccaneer almost home with his plunder. Even more, she could imagine those hands on her. Stroking, arousing…
Like last night? Stop it now, not him, nothing to do with him. She had enough to think about without adding how to jump his bones to the mix.
“No, do go on.”
“Sod off.”
Laughter echoed in her mind. She’d heard that tone before.
Paden grinned and waved one hand in the direction of the distant mountains and took her mind off sexy laughs. “Grand, eh?”
Pity his voice gave her erotic thoughts of sexiness. She’d be a quivering wreck if she were around him for long. The timbre was arousing, made her wonder what if and…
“Don’t you just love it?” she said impulsively. “That sense of coming home. Where nothing can harm you, where you’re safe with your loved ones. It’s like a comfort blanket, ready and waiting…” She stopped speaking, aware of how maudlin she might sound. “Anyway, it’s good to be home.”
“Even if it’s only for a few weeks?”
“Will you stop saying that?” she said indignantly, all her soppy sentimentality vanishing. “What makes you think so?”
“Ah, mo ghaol, you and
I know so, but if it pleases you to deny it to me, so be it.”
“Men,” Marcail muttered, as something dawned on her. Mo ghaol. “I am not your love.”
“If you choose to think that, far be it for me to dissuade you.”
The word ‘yet’ hovered between them. Marcail ignored it. She’d had enough of his knowing attitude. A pity, because she’d be the first to admit he was sex on legs, hot as Hades, one hundred percent full-bodied male.
“We both know the truth, mo ghaol, however much you want to deny it.”
She firmed her lips and counted to ten to stop herself voicing the hasty words she knew she would immediately rue. “I think we better agree to disagree and change the subject before one of us utters something we may regret.” Or not. “At this moment in time, you are annoying me. And yes, I also know that to tell you that is bloody rude, and for once I do not care.” She turned away again and narrowed her eyes. On the bank, next to a red-painted landing stage two females stood, waving.
Her mum—Margaret—and her sister, at that distance indistinguishable.
As the boat drew closer, they morphed into individuals. One she knew to be in her sixties, but by the way she was jumping up and down you’d never have guessed it.
Her mum, always on the go. Her red curly hair, no different from Marcail’s, streamed out from her head like a spiralling halo. Long legs encased in a flapping multi-tiered skirt, and what looked like Marcail’s old Uggs, at that distance she could have passed for Marcail’s twin. On closer inspection, perhaps a slightly older sister.
The other, smaller, more slender and waving in great big semaphore sweeps, was Bonnie. Pint-sized and with spiky brown hair and big grey eyes. “My wee sister by six years,” Marcail murmured. “And by five inches in height and three round the waist.”
Paden overheard and laughed. “She bemoans the fact you’re five inches taller but not a bean pole. She wants your curves. Are we ever satisfied, I wonder?”
Marcail shrugged. “I was.”
He slowed the boat in preparation for landing. “Lie to yourself if you want, Marcail, but not to me. You’ve not been happy in a year at least. Why do you think I’m here, now?”
Love by the Stroke of Midnight Page 2
