“God o’ mercy!” Bran of Barra scrubbed his hands over his face. “How could a man of my own blood commit such a travesty?” He lowered his hands, shaking his head. “If he loved this isle, our good and bonny Scotland, why didn’t he just come back here himself?”
Mindy looked down and plucked at a loose thread on her sleeve.
No way was she going to tell him that his New Hope descendant, however savvy in business, had been driven by pomp and greed. His head turned by the luxuries and conveniences of the New World. And, Mindy suspected, the oohs and aahs he hoped to hear when people saw his Scottish castle on a Bucks County hill.
Some people craved grandeur and attention.
Mindy shuddered, distaste and memories of Hunter making her stomach clench.
Bran crossed the little room and grabbed her arms, peering down at her intently. “Why are you so pale? Were you—I mean, are you of this man’s line?”
She blinked.
It took her a moment to grasp what he was asking. She couldn’t think when he stood so close, his big, strong hands holding her tight.
“No, I don’t have a drop of MacNeil blood.” She was so glad she didn’t.
“That’s good, then.” He let go of her and stepped back, ran a hand through his hair again. “But I’d still hear how you’re associated with us.
“Why”—he was eyeing her closely—“my three cousins put it to you to sort this for us.”
“They . . . Their names are Silvanus, Roderick, and Geordie,” she began, hedging. “They—”
“Good old Scots names.” Bran nodded sagely. “They’ll be fine men, then.”
“I know they mean well.” Mindy tried not to squirm. “As for why they chose me, I suppose they knew I had the money to see the deed done.” She forced herself to hold his gaze. “They figured I disliked MacNeils enough to do whatever they wanted. They knew I wouldn’t want them haunting me for the rest of my life.”
“Pah!” Bran of Barra shook his head. “That can’t be. There’s never been a female born who isn’t fond of MacNeils, especially Barra MacNeils.”
“Exactly.” Mindy gave him her brightest smile. The reminder of the wicked appeal of MacNeil men brought her back to her senses.
“You’ve hit on the very reason I had problems with them.” She set her hands on her hips. “Too many women are crazy about the men of your clan and—”
“By the rood!” Bran slapped his forehead. “I’ve been a newt-brained gowk. But now I understand!” He looked at her, his eyes flashing. “A skirt-chasing MacNeil caught your fancy and then the lout stomped on your heart.
“Och, lassie.” He hooked his thumbs in his sword belt and rocked back on his heels. “It grieves me to say so, but all clans have their scoundrels, even MacNe—”
“Can we please not talk about it?” Mindy glanced aside, not wanting to see the fire in his eye. Although hearing him refer to Hunter as a lout and a scoundrel was sweet balm to her soul.
His indignation on her behalf was dangerous.
She’d already pegged him as the kind of man a woman could depend on. A man of deep integrity, full of love for his land, his heritage, and those he cared about. He’d always have a ready shoulder and would glare daggers at anyone who looked cross-eyed at his lady. He’d use his sword if need be and—she was breathless to think it—he’d kiss a woman until her toes curled.
What he’d do naked, his woman caught up in those powerfully muscled arms, didn’t bear imagining.
She gulped, her pulse running riot.
It’d be so easy to go to him, slide her arms around his very real-feeling, masculine girth, and lean into him, telling him that, yes, she did desire him.
Yes, she wanted—no, craved—his kisses.
Fortunately, she had enough wits to know that giving in to such a passion would scald her in a worse way than Hunter could have done in a thousand years. In fact, she couldn’t even remember what the bastard looked like.
But she’d never forget Bran.
Not even wanting to think about what that meant in terms of consequence and logistics, she pressed a hand to the small of her back—it ached suddenly, hurting almost as much as the throbbing at her temples—and tried to think of a way to banish Bran before he crossed the room again and reached for her.
That he might was certain.
She saw it in his eyes. She felt the passion building inside him. Any moment he’d come for her. And if she let him, life as she’d known it until now would end.
She could fall in love.
And that would lead to madness.
Blessedly, her good sense rode to the rescue, and she suddenly knew just how to steer him in a very different direction.
“What’s with you and the author at Hebridean House?” She spoke quickly. “Wee Hughie MacSporran. I saw your face when he came out of the sitting room, heard you call him a—”
“A bluidy windbag?”
“I think that was it, yes.”
“You remember rightly.” Bran glanced at her, his eyes startlingly blue. “The bastard has more hot air in him than a peasant forced to exist on a diet o’ beans.”
Mindy laughed.
But she caught herself at once. She couldn’t recall the last time a man had made her laugh. And she knew instinctively that Bran of Barra, if they were a pair, would fill their days, not just with blinding, white- hot passion and meaning, but with humor and fun the likes of which she knew would delight her all her days.
“I’ll tell you this.” His voice hardened. “The man thinks too highly of himself. He—”
“He did seem a bit arrogant.”
“Arrogant?” His brows shot upward. “He’s a preening peacock!”
“Is that why you drew your sword?” Mindy’s heart hammered. This was about so much more than medieval weapons. “I’m curious. Did men in your day punish conceit with a swift swing of cold, hard steel?”
He jutted his chin. “I meant only to give him a fright.”
“But why?”
“Because.”
Mindy frowned. “That’s not an answer.”
“I know that fine.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “If you’d hear the truth, the puff-chested ox simply annoys me. He’s irritating like a pebble in my shoe.”
He folded his arms, his mouth set in a firm, hard line.
Under different circumstances, Mindy would have laughed. Bran of Barra wasn’t exactly a modest man himself. As if he’d read her mind, he suddenly took a step forward, wagging a finger at her.
“Hear this, Mindy- lass.” He kept up the finger wagging. “When I walk through Edinburgh, Glasgow, or where’er, men stand aside, clearing the way. They do so because I am Barra, no’ because I waved them away or because someone blasted a fanfare on a trumpet, warning folk to leap out of my path.
“MacSporran is a trumpet blaster.” The finger wagging stopped. “Such braggarts go against everything a Highlander believes. If you’ve ne’er heard the saying”—he grinned—“ ’tis the shallowest burn that makes the most noise.
“We, the true men of Barra, live by that!”
Looking pleased, he dusted his hands. “Next time I see the Highland Storyweaver, I might just jab him in the belly! Rid him of some excess wind.”
He winked.
Mindy found herself laughing.
She couldn’t help it. Mercy, but she could lose her heart to this man.
“For now,” he was saying, still looking righteous, “I’m thinking you need to learn the measure of a true Barrach.” His voice turned all deep and Scottishy again, the smooth, rich tones chasing the laughter right out of her.
She started backing away.
He grinned and angled his head, the heat in his eyes making her short of breath.
“We’re no’ all like the blackguard who treated you poorly, Mindy-lass.”
“I didn’t say that.” She scooted into the kitchen, wishing it were larger than two square feet, tops.
Bran of Barra stayed where he
was, but he was looking at her with incredible intensity.
“You don’t have to say the words. They’re writ all o’er you, plain as day.
“When they’re gone, or at least a bit faded, I’ll show you that I’m different. Till then”—he glanced at his dog and clicked his fingers, nodding once when Gibbie sprang down off the sofa and trotted over to him—“we’ll leave you to your night’s rest.”
“No, wait. . . .” Mindy started forward, expecting them both to vanish in a blink.
But this time, Bran of Barra simply turned and walked to the door, letting himself and his dog out into the cold, damp night just as a real, flesh-and-blood man would do.
And he’d looked so real as he went about it that her heart broke.
Wishing he were real, she ran to the window, hoping to see him standing on the road, waiting for her to come out and invite him back in.
Perhaps—if there was such a thing as Highland magic—he’d be out there, just as she imagined.
But when she looked, he was gone.
The narrow road was empty.
And the broken jetty across from the Anchor sloped down into the dark water. In the moonlight, she could see that its stones were crusted with limpet shells and glistening seaweed. But of a big, brawny man and his dog, there was no sign.
Damn it anyway.
What Mindy didn’t see was the tiny black-garbed woman standing near the deserted Village Hall just a short way down the road from the Anchor.
Unaccustomed to modern trappings, the old woman adjusted her heavy jacket against the biting wind and then stooped to retie one of the red plaid laces on her sturdy black walking boots.
When she straightened, she rubbed her knotty hands together and crossed the road to better peer across the bay at the dark little islet that had seen such a stir of activity in recent days.
Seeing the piles of stone there made her cackle with glee.
It was good to see folk undoing some of the ills that the Highlands had suffered now and then.
Her own beloved Hebrides were most especially deserving!
As was the young American lassie, she knew.
She was fond of Bran of Barra, too.
He might bluster a bit, and, despite his claims, there wasn’t a modest bone in his great, hulking body. His heart was in the right place, though, and that was something she honored above all else.
But helping them just might prove beyond even her powerful magic.
Hoping it wouldn’t be so, the old woman patted her frizzled white hair and glanced again at the red tartan laces on her boots.
The laces were a fine touch, if she did say so herself.
Even a crone like her enjoyed a bit o’ spiff.
Pleased, she lifted her chin to the wind and returned her gaze to the little island in the bay. Soon there’d be more than just stout castle walls and cobbled baileys gracing the isle’s long-empty shores.
It was time love and happiness reigned there, as well.
If she had any say in the matter, her magic would help it happen.
Chapter 11
Mindy was in Hawaii.
She could hear the pounding of the surf and the rattling of palm fronds in a tropical breeze. The sun’s toasty rays were a caress, warming her from head to toe, and her supersized hibiscus-print beach towel was the softest, most comfortable she’d ever lain on. Best of all, she could smell fresh-roasted Kona coffee, the delicious aroma wafting on the air, tempting her. . . .
Calling her from the sweetest of dreams.
But she wasn’t yet ready to waken.
Sleep was good.
And early-morning z’s were her idea of heaven. Whoever prided himself on being a lark had never tasted the pleasures of life as an owl.
So she flipped onto her stomach, content to enjoy the sun-drenched splendor of Kauai’s Poipu Beach just a few minutes longer.
Too bad the soothing rattle of the palm fronds was beginning to sound like the patter of rain. And although she remained nice and warm, the sun’s baking heat was starting to feel suspiciously like too many layers of wool blankets and an extremely thick duvet.
Mindy frowned.
She was sure she was sweating.
She cracked an eye to peer at her hibiscus beach towel and see if she’d somehow become tangled in its oversized length, but instead of tropical red flowers, she was treated to a glimpse of red plaid.
Mindy woke with a start. She sat bolt upright in her bed in the Anchor’s tiny bedroom, seeing immediately that she’d swathed herself in a cocoon of red-tartaned bedding. And although there was a pleasing trace of roasted something wafting about and making her nose twitch, it wasn’t the aroma of her much-loved Kona coffee.
It was the lingering scent of wood ash on the chill morning air.
And now that she’d thrown off the covers, it was cold.
More than that, the little room was subzero, frost-a-witch’s-bottom freezing.
It was all she could do to keep her teeth from chattering. The still-dark morning outside her window looked wet and chilly and—she angled her ear at the ceiling—the sound of rattling palm fronds really had been the pitter-patter of rain on the Anchor’s iron corrugated roof.
She groaned and considered rewrapping herself in the red plaid bedcovers.
But . . .
She could also hear the wild roar of the sea—that sound, at least, having been real—and as always, the crashing thunder of surf exhilarated her.
Even so, the warm comfort of her bed had her pulling the covers back up to her chin. Unfortunately, just as she rolled onto her side and lifted a hand to punch the pillows into shape, she heard a noise that wasn’t at all pleasing.
Someone was knocking on the door.
Mindy’s eyes snapped open. A quick glance at her travel alarm said it wasn’t even eight a.m. She sat up again, hoping the clock was wrong.
But the frightful hour wasn’t a mistake.
Nor had she imagined the rapping on the cottage’s front door.
She could hear it still, loud and persistent.
“Oh, man.” She stumbled from the bed and glanced around for her clothes, scowling. Who would have expected company—this early in the morning—in a teeny, end-of-the-road cottage in an equally tiny village by the sea?
Not her, for sure.
She considered not answering. After all, no one knew she was here. And even if somebody did, she didn’t know anyone who’d wish to speak to her. The only person she’d like seeing wouldn’t stand in the rain banging on her door.
He’d appear out of thin air, hands on his hips, and dazzling her with a smile.
So it wasn’t Bran.
It could be the village constable. Given the wild tossing of the sea—she could just see a wedge of it from the bedroom window—and the rain, it wouldn’t surprise her if the tide had risen and swept away her car.
She’d left it practically standing in the road, beside the tumbledown jetty.
Concerned, she dashed about, quickly pulling on her discarded clothes, albeit a bit haphazardly. Bending, she jammed her feet into her woolly slipper-socks, not wanting to take time to retrieve her hill-walking boots from the bath. Nor was she awake enough to fuss with lacing them.
She ignored her hair except to run her fingers through the tangles.
As for makeup, whoever disturbed her before ten a.m. deserved to see her as nature intended, naked faced and without mascara, though she did pop into the icy bathroom to gurgle a capful of mouthwash.
Thus prepared, she sprinted through the lounge and flung open the door.
It wasn’t the village bobby standing there.
It was the big, barrel-chested fisherman from the Hebridean House Hotel. The one with the shock of curly black hair who’d spoken to her in the hotel lobby, claiming that Wee Hughie MacSporran had come to Barra to search for the MacNeils’ mythic sword.
“Jock MacGugan.” He bobbed his dark head. “I hope I’m not waking you?”
Mindy
blinked. The way he was scrunching the cap he held respectfully in his hands said he knew very well that he’d caught her still in bed.
“Ehhh . . .” She blinked again. She was so not a morning person and sometimes—like now—her voice just wouldn’t work right at such ungodly hours.
She secretly suspected that her vocal cords enjoyed their sleep even more than she did and that, wise as they were, they refused to perform until they’d had due rest.
“I mean, no—er, ah . . . yes, I was sleeping,” she finally managed, seeing no point in denying what he could plainly see by looking at her. “What can I do for you?”
“This is my cottage.” He thrust out his right hand, then, realizing he clutched his cap, switched it to his left hand and gripped hers in a firm shake. “I thought to make sure you felt at home. . . .”
“I do.” Mindy glanced behind her at the darkened lounge.
Even now, the little cottage had an air of coziness that charmed her.
Scotland’s pull, as Margo would call it, was indeed a force to be reckoned with.
Go figure.
Jock shuffled his feet. “I know the cottage is small—”
“It’s perfect.” She smiled, meaning it. “Would you like to come in?”
She made to step aside, but the fisherman—Jock—moved first, reaching to fetch a large, waterproof satchel he’d set beside the door stoop.
Unzipping it, he produced a box of groceries, which he handed her. “There wasn’t time to stock the kitchen for you last night, so the wife sent along some eggs and streaky bacon, mushrooms, and tomatoes. There’s also Irish butter, a bottle of milk, and”—he patted a cloth-wrapped packet—“some of her homemade breakfast scones, with bramble jam.”
He looked up at her. “The scones are still warm.”
Mindy felt her jaw slip. When he’d bent down, cold, gusty wind had caught her in the face and she’d needed only that quick glimpse of the road to see that the morning was even more damp and dark than she’d thought.
Yet now—given his kindness and the delicious smell of his wife’s fresh-baked scones—the day seemed brighter and more welcoming.
“This is so kind of you.” She put the food box on a little table just inside the door. “I don’t know what to say. Please tell your wife how much I appreciate—”
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