by Allie Mackay
On the thought, her pulse skittered. Before she could flush any redder, she hitched her bag onto her shoulder and hastened to the steps, hurrying up them as fast as her wobbly legs would carry her.
She would have a dram.
In fact, she might have two.
But when she finally located a lounge, it was to discover that the entire carpeted, large-windowed area was jammed. Men stood four deep at the bar and although there were quite a few sofas and little round tables, each one boasting at least four chairs, there wasn’t an empty seat anywhere to be seen.
The cafeteria was worse.
Even from the door, she could see that every table was occupied. And the line snaking past the serve-yourself buffet-style offerings looked so long she doubted she’d get through it before the ferry reached Barra.
Mindy sighed.
Who would have guessed so many people would want to visit a tiny island in the Outer Hebrides?
You’d think they were giving away something.
Sure she didn’t want any of it, whatever it might be, she pulled a scarf out of her jacket pocket, tied it around her neck and went in search of exit stairs to the outside promenades. It was clear that most of the passengers were Scots, not tourists. And they seemed keen on staying inside rather than facing the cold wind on the decks.
As she wasn’t feeling very sociable, that was where she supposed she should be.
So she elbowed her way through the ferry passengers thronging the corridors until she found the nearest exit to the outer decks. Escape in sight, she shot a last frown at the teeming ship’s lounge, then wrenched open the door and stepped out into icy, biting wind.
It was a grave mistake.
Not because the gusting wind threw freezing spray at her. Nor did it bother her that within two seconds of stepping outside, her eyes were tearing and her fingers felt like popsicles.
What stopped her in her tracks – and stole her breath - was the shock of exhilaration.
It hit her full force.
And it was so unexpected, so unwelcome, that she could only lurch across the pitching, rolling deck, grab the rail, and look about her, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.
They hadn’t even left Oban Bay – fishing boats bobbed everywhere and she could still see the town and the headlights of cars moving along the coast roads – but already she felt a prickly kind of freedom that caught her totally unawares. Cold, windy, and gray, especially when wet, just wasn’t her idea of happiness.
And yet…
The choppy, whitecapped water, so roughened by the fast-moving current, and the many seabirds screeching and wheeling above, even the chilling spray driving into her face, it was all just so wild.
As if time as she knew it hadn’t yet happened.
And – she couldn’t believe the thought crossed her mind – as if the brash, modern world she knew and had always loved, didn’t matter here.
The dark cliffs crowding the bay, swells surging against them, said as much. High above, a crescent moon was just beginning to cast its glimmer on the blue-black water, adding to the entrancement. It was a lonely, sea-washed world that wasn’t supposed to affect her.
She wasn’t her Scotophile sister.
The Hebrides, especially, should repel her.
Instead, her heart thundered and her grip on the rail turned white-knuckled. She sensed a strange power – a fierce, stark beauty - in the elements around her. Whatever it was, it pierced her so deeply that she felt slightly faint.
Breathless.
These churning seas, rocky headlands, and the empty shores they were passing had nothing to do with the Hebrides of song. The celebrated gem-like isles Margo could wax poetic over for hours, getting misty-eyed about sparkling turquoise and amethyst water, white cockle-shell strands, and glittering bays.
Margo would no doubt also mention Bonnie Prince Charlie, Culloden, and the anguish of Scottish exiles scattered the world over, ever yearning to return.
Mindy huddled deeper into her heavy waxed jacket, certain she wasn’t looking out at her sister’s romanticized Scotland. A sentimental, tartan-draped wonderland she’d put together from watching Braveheart and reading romance novels.
This before her was the real deal.
It was Bran of Barra’s world.
A vast, rapturous place of tides, cliffs, and reefs that gave meaning to the old adage that you are where you live. Each soul ever born, hewn and molded by-
“‘Tis a wide open, edge of the world place, eh?” a reedy voice trilled behind Mindy.
Starting, she spun around.
She wished she hadn’t when she saw the tiny old woman peering up at her. Birdlike and with a piercing blue gaze, she was dressed in black, the wizened woman had a whir of frizzled white hair. She could have been the witch in Hansel and Gretel. At the very least, she might easily belong in another time.
Mindy blinked, feeling a flutter of unease.
But the woman’s eyes were bright, twinkling even, and she was smiling.
“I’m most partial to the Hebrides,” she announced, joining Mindy at the rail.
A move that quickly revealed that although she did look like a crone straight out of a rather grim fairytale, her black cloak was nothing more sinister than a dark-hued waxed jacket. And her boots weren’t old-fashioned or wicked witchy-ish at all. They were simply sensible footgear, thick-soled, high-ankled, and tied with red plaid laces.
Mindy’s first glance assessment had been erroneous.
Even so…
There was something about the woman.
Mindy shivered and narrowed her eyes, trying as surreptitiously as possible to discover if she could see through her.
She couldn’t.
But relief didn’t sweep her.
It remained odd that the woman appeared just when Mindy was feeling as if she’d entered into a bold, new world. A place that had captivated her as soon as she’d stepped on deck, and – her heart skittered – she wasn’t sure what to make of her sudden, inexplicable enchantment.
The old woman tutted. “These isle-strewn waters” – she made a grand gesture, taking in the tossing waves and the dark smudges of islands – “formed the men who rule here.”
Mindy blinked. “Rule?”
She could have bitten her tongue, giving the strange woman the perfect in to pursue what was turning into a very bizarre encounter.
“Hold sway, my dear.” The woman glanced at her. “The Lords of the Isles and all the lesser chieftains, each one a living like a king in his own wee realm.” She turned back to the rail, her expression almost proprietorial. “Only men strengthened by cold seas, high wind, and long, dark winters could be so grand.
“There be none like ‘em anywhere.” The crone nodded smugly. “Nowhere worth being, that is!”
“You’re from here?” Mindy could feel her ill ease returning, a growing urge to inch away from the woman and dash back inside the crowded ferry. “I can see the Hebrides are a quite an impressive place.”
And you’re starting to scare the heebie-jeebies out of me.
“Ach!” The woman cackled. “My home is Doon. But all these isles have their charm, they do.” She gave a little sigh, pressed a knotty hand to her breast. “Wait until you see them on a fine summer’s day. That’s when-”
“I won’t be here in summer.”
“Nae?”
“No.” Mindy folded her arms on the rail. “I won’t even be here in the spring. I’m traveling on business and will be leaving as soon as possible.”
With luck, I’ll be sipping Mai Tais in Maui before you can say Brigadoon. Or maybe I’ll walk a Florida Gulf coast beach at sunset, hoping to see the green flash.
I won’t be hanging around here.
“Is that so?” The woman raised a scraggly brow. “You’re for leaving that quickly?”
Mindy nodded.
“Then you won’t be seeing thon water when it turns all clear and amethyst. Or” – the crone gave her a mysterious smile – “ho
w the sun can gleam on our white cockleshell strands and set our bays aglitter?
“The Hebrides of song and legend-”
“Are you a mind reader?” Mindy blurted the words before she could catch herself.
It was too weird that the woman repeated her thoughts about Margo’s Hebrides almost verbatim.
The crone only laughed delightedly. “I’m but an auld woman who loves her home. It pleases me when these isles are appreciated.” She turned a benevolent gaze on the water. “Most Americans come here in search of-”
“I’m not here as a tourist.” Mindy eyed her again, half certain that if she stared hard enough, this time she’d be able to see through her.
Of course, she couldn’t.
“I know many Americans dream about visiting Scotland.” Mindy kept her tone neutral, not wanting to offend. “I’m not one of them. And I’m not looking for anything.”
“Perhaps you should be?”
“I-”
Mindy’s breath left her in a rush. The old woman wasn’t transparent, but there was a man at the rail a few yards behind her.
A kilted man.
And she was certain he hadn’t been there before.
He stood in shadow, his chin lifted proudly and his gaze on the sea. He didn’t need to be looking Mindy’s way for her to recognize him.
He was Bran of Barra.
And here – in his element, his powerful silhouette limned against the rolling sea and dark clouds – he was magnificent. Glorious in a way no modern man could rival. Wind lifted his hair and tore at his plaid, but he stood tall and unbending, as if the gusting spray and damp didn’t even faze him.
She surely looked like a bedraggled wet hen.
He was breathtaking.
And he wasn’t just hewn of this wild, watery world. He was its master and wasn’t shy about proclaiming his supremacy. It thrummed through every brawny inch of him and shimmered in the air around him, leaving no doubt that he ruled these dominions. That he loved them with a fierceness that almost fringed on unholy.
Mindy swallowed, her heart thumping madly.
When he turned his head and looked at her, she almost choked. She did flush. A great wave of heat swept her, starting at the roots of her hair and tingling through her, clear to her toes.
“So-o-o, Mindy-lass, tell me true.” He didn’t move, but his voice came as close as if his lips had brushed her ear. “Are you awed yet?”
“I think… I mean…” She spluttered, horrified that she’d almost called him a rogue.
This was the twenty-first century, after all.
Come on, does it matter? He defines the word, though wild, bold, and magnificent, suit him just as well.
You can’t deny it, Menlove.
It’s true.
Mindy shot a look at the old woman, but she was staring out to sea, her gaze fixed on the sheer, black cliffs of an island off to their left.
She didn’t seem to notice Bran of Barra’s presence.
Mindy was all too aware of him.
Trembling, she started toward him, but the ferry pitched then, the violent dip and slide knocking her hard against the rail.
“I thought I dreamed you.” She clutched the slippery railing, fighting for balance. “And, no, you don’t awe me,” she denied, hoping he couldn’t tell. “I think you’re-”
“Oh-ho, what’s this?” He held up his hands. “I didn’t mean my own self. I wanted to know” – his blue eyes sparkled and he flashed one of his crooked smiles – “if you’ve fallen under the spell of my isles?”
“I don’t believe in spells.”
“But you trust in dreams.”
“I never said that.”
“Ah, but you didn’t have to.” He took a step forward, his smile turning wicked. “I saw it in your eyes when you spoke of our kiss.”
“I didn’t say anything about that!” Mindy felt her face flame. She had meant the kiss when she’d said she’d thought she’d dreamt him. “Anyway, it wasn’t a real-”
She broke off at the sound of a titter behind her.
She’d forgotten the strange old woman.
Wheeling around, she started to tell the crone from Doon to mind her own business, but the rail where she’d been standing was empty. There was nothing there except shadows and flying sea spray. Equally alarming, if the old woman had tottered back inside, she’d have had to pass Mindy on her way to the exit door.
And, of course, she hadn’t.
“Oh, God!” Mindy clapped a hand to her cheek. “She really was a witch! Or a ghost-”
“A ghost? Where…?” A tall, lanky youth stood staring her, slack-jawed.
His friends – a cluster of teens, similarly agog – crowded in the open exit doorway, gaping at her with startled, round eyes, though one, a spiky-haired youth with a stud in his nose, was most definitely smirking.
The girl next to him, a tiny redhead dressed in black and with her eyes heavily kohled, jabbed him in the ribs. “I didn’t see a ghost, but I did see the Goodwife of Doon! She travels about working spells and doing good, like in olden times.
“I know because my mum knew someone who begged her assistance once when their wean was doing poorly.” The girl clutched at the edge of the exit door, her arm bangles clinking. “No doctors could help. She did. Folk in our village believe her magic is real.”
“Pah!” The lanky lad didn’t agree.
“Say what you will, I saw her just now.” The girl tucked her hair behind an ear, her chin jutting in challenge. “I recognized her because I saw her leaving my mum’s friend’s cottage.”
“More like you were nipping in your da’s whisky if you’re telling me you just saw an old woman who wasn’t there!” The spiky-haired youth swaggered to the rail, laughing.
The girl followed, clearly bent on arguing.
Mindy ignored them and whirled back to Bran. But like the crone, whoever she had been, he, too, had vanished.
Or so she thought until she summoned her best I-am-above-this mien, crossed the deck, and pushed through the gawking teens to reenter the ferry, only to feel a strong, familiar, and entirely invisible, hand clamp down on her shoulder.
When she also felt Bran of Barra’s - likewise incorporeal but oh-so-sexy - beard tickle her neck, the world began to spin in a way that had nothing to do with the rolls and plunges of the ferry.
She froze.
Who knew that the mere touch of a seven-hundred-year old beard could turn a girl’s knees to water and make her tummy flutter?
As if he was well aware, Bran of Barra chuckled.
He came closer, the heat of him against her back, sending shivers all through her. She drew a quick breath and tried to scoot away, but her efforts only caused him to slip his other hand into her hair and lean down, brushing his lips along her jaw.
“You shouldn’t have said our kiss wasn’t real, Mindy-lass.” His breath feathered across her cheek, electrifying her. “You leave me no choice but to prove to you that it was.” His tone dropped meaningfully. “And to show you that such a soft kiss as I gave you was only a prelude to deeper, much more passionate kisses.”
He stepped around before her, looking as big, strapping, and solid as ever.
Mindy gulped.
He flashed his crooked smile.
“You’re a bonnie lass, you are.” He locked his gaze on hers and then rubbed his thumb across her lower lip. Before she could gasp, he took her face in his hands. They were big, warm, and strong against her cheeks. Then his mouth slanted across hers, his lips cool, firm, and determined. Her heart slammed against her chest – the kiss felt so real, so delicious – but when he tightened his grip on her face and started teasing her with his tongue, seeking to deepen the intimacy, she knew she was in danger.
“Stop!” She pulled away. “I don’t want your kisses.”
“Ah, but you will.”
“Oh, no, I won’t.” She frowned at him.
“You’ll do more than want them, Mindy-lass. I say you’ll c
rave them.”
The supreme confidence in his disturbingly Scottish voice made her heart race. “Never,” she snapped before remembering no one else could see him.
And, worse, that everyone could see and hear her.
People were staring.
Mindy took a deep breath to settle nerves that were beginning to unravel. She’d always prided herself on being grounded, a no-nonsense sort unlike her sister who saw faeries, ghosts, and magic everywhere. She knew better. Or so she would’ve said until recently. As things stood, she straightened her back and tugged at the front of her jacket, adjusted the scarf she’d knotted around her neck.
Anything to achieve a sense of balance.
“See here,” she spoke as low as she could. Indeed, she would have poked Bran of Barra in the chest if she didn’t want to risk looking even sillier. “I don’t think-”
He disappeared.
“Oh!” Mindy’s eyes rounded. Every inch of her knew he was still in her personal space.
He chuckled, proving it. “Never fear, sweetness.” The words came close to her ear again, though this time he wasn’t touching her. “I know fine that this isn’t place for us to enjoy ourselves.
“We’ll meet on Barra.” He did touch her then, reaching to smooth a hand over her hair. “And when we do, you’ll never again doubt my amorous capabilities. I’ll kiss you until the earth shakes beneath your feet. Or” – he chuckled again – “at least until your toes curl.
“Be sure of it!” Leaning in, he gave her a hard, fast kiss on the cheek.
She knew instinctively that he bowed slightly when he stepped away from her. She was also sure there’d be a wickedly annoying smile twitching about his lips. And that his dancing blue eyes would show that he knew he dazzled her. Then, as quickly as he’d appeared, he was gone, taking his devilry and laughter with him.
Mindy leaned back against the wall, breathless.
Kiss her until her toes curled! The man – no, ghost – was an unmitigated, arrogant, and insufferable scoundrel. But his teasing blue eyes and that deep, buttery-rich burr made him beyond dangerous.
Mindy bit her lip. Had she really believed she could remain immune to a Scottish accent?
There wasn’t a woman alive who could!
Even now, those soft, lilting tones echoed in her mind, seducing her with each deliciously rolled r and all that honeyed richness that made Scotsmen temptation walking.