Marcail scrabbled at the hem of his T-shirt and had begun to lift it when another noise penetrated into her foggy brain.
Talk about an arousal douser.
The creaking noise was the one the bottom tread of the main staircase made when someone stood on it. Marcail’s heart missed a beat as she stopped what she was doing and batted Paden’s hands away.
“Shoot. Move. Now,” she whispered. “Someone’s coming. Main stairs. What do we do?”
Paden blinked as if he were coming out of a trance then his eyes cleared. He tugged his T-shirt into place and adjusted the hem of her top. “Drink our wine and talk about something innocuous.”
Innocuous. What the hell was innocuous? Easier said than done. Marcail nodded, tried to gather her scattered thoughts into one logical and sensible one and slow her rapid breathing. The heightened colour she bet she had she could do nothing about, and would have to hope whoever it was put it down to the warmth of the kitchen—or the wine. With that in mind she opened the lid of the Aga and put the kettle on the hot plate. The increased gush of heat might make her sweat but it was in a good cause. That of explaining her heated cheeks.
Footsteps sounded on the flagged hall floor. Paden took a deep breath and picked his wine glass up. “Can’t beat a full-bodied red, can you?” He turned the glass round in his hand and winked as the door opened. The contents sparkled in the light. “I remember a bottle someone gave me years ago. It looked lovely, smelt like vinegar. I used it for cooking just once, and you’d have thought I actually had cooked in vinegar. Mind you, it cleaned the sink beautifully.”
Marcail giggled just as her father came into the room. “Dad? What’s up?”
Ruari Drummond blinked. “You two, it seems. I saw the light shining on the lawn when I went to the loo. I thought I’d forgotten to turn it off.”
Does he appear shifty?
“Turn the loo off?” Marcail said and sniggered. “That’s a new one on me.”
“Smarty-pants,” her dad said. “What’s that you’ve got?”
Marcail showed him the bottle. “I couldn’t sleep. Met Paden in the hall. He couldn’t sleep. So we thought wine and chocolate. Or I did, he was probably after coffee and cake.”
“Tea and toast,” Ruari said. “Taken upstairs to share with your mum. You’ve made me hungry now.”
Marcail moved the kettle onto the hob, warmed a teapot and made a brew whilst her dad put bread in the toaster.
Five minutes later Ruari had made his way upstairs, and Marcail and Paden were alone once more.
Paden glanced at Marcail and rolled his eyes. “That was a phew, saved by the creak moment, eh? I take it as a don’t rush, wait until it’s time hint.” He drained his glass and stood up. “I’m a great believer in taking hints. So, mo ghaol, I’ll not love you, just leave you and go back to my cold, lonely bed.”
Marcail stood up as well. “The lonely I can’t do anything about, but I can offer you a hot water bottle for the cold.”
He laughed. “I’ll pass. A cold bed will do instead of a cold shower. See you in the morning. Dream of me?”
“I don’t dream.”
“Liar.” He kissed her cheek. “Not long to wait.”
However long was too long, Marcail decided as she tidied up, switched off the light and made her way back to bed.
Chapter Five
Marcail spent the following day alone, reconnecting, as her dad had tactfully said, with the island and her heritage. He still wasn’t happy, but when Marcail questioned him, he sighed.
“I’ve been overruled. For once, grudgingly, I’ll do as I was told. But remember, I didn’t agree and still don’t. Love you though.”
Which told her precisely nothing except that someone had insisted her dad didn’t share his knowledge of what was about to happen. Or was that not happen?
Clear as mud. Marcail walked on, skirted an outcrop of rock covered in bracken, took some photos and decided to try to not think about the future, but enjoy the day.
It wasn’t until lunchtime, when at the tip of the island, where over the centuries a steep cliff had provided safety from invaders, she sat behind a hedge to keep out of the wind and opened the food pack her mum had given her, that she was ready to think about things.
As she looked out over the choppy water, at the grey lowering sky that hinted of rain or more, she acknowledged her parents were right and she needed to re-establish those links to the island, her heritage. Or, if she were being totally honest, establish some of them in the first place. Other things, such as her proposed trip, what Paden had to do with her, and just why she’d been so wrong with Roddy, could wait.
Marcail poured some soup into a mug and sipped it slowly as she let her mind wander over her life. When had she become so intransigent and unwilling to even accept that while she was certain there were no such things as levitating, time travel, witches and seers, others thought differently? Why was she adamantly opposed to them? The expression, ‘but how do you know’ circled round in her mind. She didn’t know, and that might be half the problem.
She was never happy being kept in the dark.
Perhaps she’d been a witch in a previous life and burned at the stake? Or harangued for trying to warn people of things to come? Even though she didn’t believe in having a previous life and couldn’t sense things now. Marcail remembered all the reports she’d read about remote viewers and how different governments had tried to use people to discover what was happening in various places by asking them to concentrate on said place. Eventually the trials had been discontinued due to lack of evidence. But…what if…?
“Start to believe it, mo ghaol.”
One more thing to ponder over.
Engrossed with looking at the water, she didn’t know anyone was around until a polite cough interrupted her reverie.
Marcail looked up, and into the twinkling deep blue eyes of a white-haired, elderly lady.
She blinked as the woman smiled—a smile that lit up her face with welcome—and dipped her head by way of greeting.
Those eyes reminded her of the sheep she’d seen on the way north. Piercing, all-seeing, old and wise.
“I don’t think she’d want to be compared to a sheep, mo ghaol.”
Marcail ignored that and addressed the lady. “Hello, I didn’t see you, sorry.”
How on earth had she turned up there?
“By magic, Marcail. Do you not recognise your previous self?”
Marcail dropped her mug, and watched in a detached way as it rolled slowly down the slope to the edge of the cliff, leaving a trail of homemade tomato and basil soup in its wake, before it bounced twice and disappeared over the edge.
“How for twenty-eight years and ten months or so did I live a happy uncomplicated life, with no weird happenings, no unwelcome intrusions into my mind, and then it all go topsy-turvy?” she said aloud, not really knowing if she was asking herself or the elderly lady. “I accepted I had a voice in my head, that others might sense things and I couldn’t, and I was okay-ish with that. Then I accepted I had other voices at times. Now, though? I have no idea what the he-heck is going on. What have I done to deserve it?”
“Apart from wasting months with that idiot who was using you?” the lady asked. “I tell you, I thought you’d have learned your lesson last time.”
“Last time?” Marcail had no idea who else in her not-so-rich love life had used her. None of the relationships had lasted long enough for either of them to get to that stage, surely?
The lady laughed. “Around the time I, as in you, were ready to go to London and petition the government to allow us the tartan. Although the visit never materialised because the law banning it was repealed first. Saved me a long journey but left me too close to a skiving, conniving, sneaky wee bugger called Callum Crathes. He thought to use me…you. Ach, this me you is getting awfy complicated. Can ye no accept your earlier sel?”
“It’s a bit far-fetched.”
“Aye, if you’re thinking so
.” She sat down beside Marcail and drew her faded plaids around her. “You’ll change as need be. It’s a wee bitty chilly, eh? Is snow coming?”
Marcail sniffed the air. “Not for a while yet, I don’t think. Maybe later today or early tomorrow.”
The woman nodded. “So you can sense that, Marcail Morven, but you’ll not open yourself to other things, will you?”
Marcail sighed. “I just don’t know what’s what. What is next?”
“Our birthday is part of the what’s next. Will you promise me one thing, Marcail? That you drop any prejudice and listen to what is told to you? I beg you. For if you don’t, someone we both love will never get the chance to properly be. Will you?”
Marcail looked into the woman’s deep, mesmeric eyes. It all sounded double Dutch to her. Totally unintelligible. However, something in the woman’s tone appealed to her. “If I say yes, will you tell me who you really are? Your name?”
“Will you promise me?”
Slowly Marcail nodded and because she felt it had to be vocalised, spoke out loud. “I promise.”
The sun broke through the ever-increasing clouds and sent a halo of warmth and brightness around the two of them.
“Bless you. So will he.” The old lady appeared to shimmer and fade.
“Your name,” Marcail said urgently. “Your name.”
“Marcail…” The word faded as the woman disappeared. “We came from Morven. I’m Marcail…”
Marcail shivered and looked at her watch.
How had three hours passed? The air was more than chilly, and the sky had a browny-grey tint to it that she knew so well. Had she dozed off? It wasn’t like her, she would normally never sleep during the day, but then, what was normal? That was a question she seemed to be asking a lot lately.
Whatever had happened, it was time to make a move. Marcail opened the flask and sniffed. As she’d thought, the contents were barely lukewarm, but she put the lip of the flask to her mouth anyway and swallowed some soup. It would do until she arrived home. Once she’d had enough, she screwed the lid back on, gathered her things together and wondered about the mug. A sticky trail showed its path to the cliff edge, and a quick glance confirmed it hadn’t caught on a tussock of grass or an outcrop of rock. Lost forever. At least it was an old tin one her dad had used when he went fishing, and not one of the newer ones her mum loved. No one would miss a battered, chipped tin mug.
“I would.”
“Well tough,” she muttered. “It’s gone over the edge and I don’t intend to do so as well. Let the fishes have it.”
“Or the kelpies?”
She smiled. “Trust you, Cyril. Or the kelpies then.”
Paden stood in front of her. “Mermaids, monsters, selkies, imps, elves and banshees?”
Marcail jumped, startled by his sudden appearance, and punched him lightly on the arm. “Don’t push your luck. What are you doing here?”
He rubbed his arm. “Cruel woman. You called for me, I came.”
“I what?” She’d not mentioned him, or, she realised, thought of him for a while. “I did not.”
“Well, you wanted to,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “And I wanted you to. I kept away like I was told, but hell, Marcail, you’ve been gone all day, it’s almost dark, going to snow, and you need to get back before you freeze. I need to get back before I freeze. I’m not used to crap weather these days. Not Scottish crap weather anyway. I’m not equipped for it.”
Marcail shoved all her belongings into the backpack she’d brought out with her and passed it to Paden when he held his hand out for it. “No?” she queried. “What are you used to then?”
He waggled one finger at her before in single file they began to retrace Marcail’s steps from earlier that day. She had intended to circumnavigate the island, but the western coastline was not the place to be as it got dark.
“You’ll find out, tomorrow. If you want to.”
“Why would I not want to?” Marcail asked as a few snowflakes began to swirl and lazily fall to the ground. “You seem to have invaded my life and mind and… Bloody hell.” She stopped walking and swung around to face Paden. “What do you know?” What have we supposed to have done?
Paden closed his eyes for a second. “What do you mean?” he asked warily.
“Don’t give me that.” Marcail wiped snow from her lashes and poked him angrily. “You know damned well what I mean. You are that sodding voice, we agreed on that. But why and for how long?”
“I told you I was,” he said in an injured tone. “I can’t say any more, you’ve got to wait.”
“Why, it’s not fair,” Marcail almost shouted, then calmed down. “Shit, I sound like a three-year-old. Bloody-minded and obstreperous and I hate it. Can you answer me one thing?”
“I can try,” Paden said slowly. “I can’t promise though.”
Marcail supposed that was fair enough. “Was the decision not to let my dad tell me whatever he wanted yours? And why is Bonnie so suspicious of you?”
“That’s two things,” Paden pointed out.
She stamped her cold feet and shook her head. “Bollocks.” Grief, her language had deteriorated at a rate of knots. Had he been part of her erotic night? “Never mind. I’m sick of it all,” she said wearily as she willed herself not to cry. “Just let me go back to the castle. I’ll leave tomorrow.”
“You can’t leave, you need to discover your destiny.”
Who the hell was that? It wasn’t her own voice and it certainly wasn’t Paden’s.
Paden gripped her arm. “At this rate we’ll be lucky to find the castle,” he said as he indicated the now thick and settling snow. “Let alone you leave it. This is serious stuff. Come on, let’s hurry.”
Marcail blinked. Somehow as they’d argued the weather had taken a sudden, worrying turn for the worse. That was all they needed. She looked about as best she could. “Can’t hurry down here, not unless you want to risk one or both of us breaking a leg. The path twists and goes near the edge of a cliff a couple of times. Did you not notice on your way here?”
He shook his head. “I was concentrating on other things.”
“That’s sheer stupidity,” she exploded. “Men. Of all the… Argh. Words fail me. Come on and follow me. We’re not going to make it home straight away. We’ll need to wait the worst out.” Even as she spoke, the snow strengthened into a full-on blizzard and the increasing wind was creating deep flurries and drifts. She’d never known the weather to get so bad so fast. “There’s an old lambing bothy not far away.” Or there had been the last time she’d checked. That had been a couple of years previously when she’d toyed with the idea of moving home and setting up a creative business of some sort. However, she’d met Roddy and the idea had been shelved. “If it’s still standing. If not, get ready to crawl. How are you at digging snow holes?”
“Wouldn’t know where to start these days. Lead on.” Paden didn’t waste time querying her words. “I’m on your heels.”
She nodded, narrowed her eyes as she visualised the way they needed to go, and headed down the rough track once more. Several times she looked behind to check Paden was with her. With snow on his eyebrows and hair he was beginning to look like Jack Frost—or Old Father Time.
“Gee thanks.”
She didn’t waste her breath or her concentration answering.
A hundred yards or so farther on they turned off into the trees, where once out of the wind the snow was neither so deep, nor seemed to fall so fast.
“Whew.” Marcail blew her hair from her forehead and turned to Paden. “Okay? The bothy is only a few hundred yards away from here if I’ve remembered my way around the island as well as I hope I have, and a lot easier to get to than anywhere else. Home would take us too long, and, I’m not sure how confident I’d feel in places. The bothy might be rough and ready, hell it might not even have a roof, but it should give us some shelter until the worst passes. You’ll hopefully see it in a minute.”
Paden grinned
. “Lead on again, Sherpa Marcail. I’m freezing my extremities off and it’s not a nice sensation. I’d be no good living in Iceland. If I’m not at home, Skye is far enough for me.”
There was Skye mentioned again. Marcail didn’t bother to answer, as she began plodding through the snow. She’d think about everything, including him, Skye and where his home was, once they got to the bothy, if it gave enough shelter. Otherwise it would be a ten-minute breather and head off and pray.
Thank goodness she’d put her walking boots on. She’d almost shoved her feet into trainers before she’d remembered the unevenness of parts of her route and decided on boots instead. A lucky decision, as it happened.
The outline of a low building came into view and she whistled in relief. The roof might leak, but at least there appeared to be one. Now to pray the door wasn’t locked. She tapped Paden on the arm and pointed.
“There it is. Door in the left-hand side wall.”
He nodded as they angled in that direction.
Now they were so close it was as if the weather decided to give them one last violent reminder of its power. As they crossed ten or so yards of open space, where the trees had been cleared years before, the wind increased and howled like a banshee as it gusted around them. The snow fell faster, and the dim light turned to darkness just like someone had flicked a switch.
Marcail almost fell against the building as one vicious gust pushed her forwards. She cussed under her breath and fumbled for the door handle.
Thank goodness she found it straightaway. It turned with ease and she was able to inch the door open.
“Ready?” she asked. “I want to shut the door again as fast as we can.”
“More than.” Paden breathed the words into her ear.
“Then on three. One, two…” She opened the door wide. “Three.”
Marcail almost tumbled into the room, with Paden close on her heels. He shoved the door closed with a backwards kick of his foot and slammed a rusty and screeching bolt over.
Marcail breathed heavily as she looked around.
Love by the Stroke of Midnight Page 6
